Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  “Mrs. Richess, if I could—”

  “I don’t go by Richess. My last name is Scarborough.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  Long pause. Then: “All right, fine, you want to talk to me, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

  She told me where she lived and I got there in half an hour.

  54

  IT WAS A townhouse complex in the Warner Center area of Woodland Hills. Eric’s unit was on the second floor.

  Nicely done up, and I wouldn’t have guessed that. Eric didn’t seem the type for a place like this. He was a sports-bar guy. The way the home was decorated had the unmistakable woman’s touch.

  Fayette Scarborough was the woman.

  She was about thirty, with wheat-colored hair and gray eyes. The eyes were big and round. Owlish, which is probably why I felt like a field mouse. She didn’t smile or offer any pleasantries. It was like she was daring me to talk.

  So I didn’t. I looked the place over until she said, “So is he guilty?”

  “The prosecution thinks he is.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I can’t help but observe, Ms. Scarborough, that you don’t seem all that broken up about Eric being in the clink.”

  “I don’t think he killed his brother, if that helps. I don’t think he’s that low.”

  “Do you think he’s somewhat low?”

  “I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Frost crackled out of those wide eyes. “What exactly are you here for? What was so important?”

  “Let’s sit down.”

  “I don’t want to. Just tell me.”

  “All right. Eric was with another woman when Carl died.”

  She took a long breath. “Who is she?”

  “A prostitute, apparently.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful.” She turned and faced the french doors that looked out on the balcony and had a view of Warner Center Park.

  I said, “I’m sorry there wasn’t an easier way to tell you.”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault. And it’s not surprising. I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

  “So why’d you marry him?”

  She turned on me. “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Gay?”

  “It’s been nice chatting with you.”

  “It’s all right to be gay.”

  “Ms. Scarborough, my sexual orientation has got exactly nothing to do with anything.”

  “I’m asking, because you don’t seem to understand what goes into being married these days. It’s all a crap shoot. It’s not like fifty years ago, when you got married and you stayed faithful and you had two and a half kids. It’s not that way anymore. Men have no qualms about going out about town, as the saying used to be.”

  “Adultery’s always been around,” I said.

  “But it used to be frowned upon, even if one was indulging in it.”

  “Why did you marry Eric, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Now you may sit,” she said. I parked myself on a white sofa while she took a soft leather recliner.

  “I thought I was in love,” she said. “I should have listened to my parents. They didn’t think Eric was up to their standards.”

  “Their standards?”

  “It’s called breeding by some, class by others. But it exists. My parents believe I married down. Eric was different than these metrosexuals my parents wanted to fix me up with. Maybe part of it was I wanted to stick it to my parents, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not a good way to start a marriage, though.”

  “But I worked at it. I did all the heavy lifting. I can’t say Eric did the same.”

  “Why didn’t you divorce him?”

  “I’m stubborn, I guess. I wanted to make it work. I don’t want a divorce hanging over me. It’s like a failure. And Scarboroughs are not into failure.”

  She sat back and closed her eyes. Maybe Scarboroughs weren’t into failure, but they could get discouraged.

  “Again, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I guess I want to know if you’re going to be with Eric or against him.”

  “If I thought there was any hope for us, maybe I’d be more open to it. I’m not going to cause any problems, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “How about bailing him out after he’s arraigned?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “In jail he can’t get into any more trouble, can he?”

  “I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil on you, Ms. Scarborough, but I would think it’s better to work things out face-to-face, instead of through Plexiglas.”

  “What you think isn’t any concern of mine. Is that all?”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Carl dead?”

  “Oh, who knows? I don’t know anything about his life. I never talked to him. He wasn’t particularly pleasant toward me.”

  What a surprise, I thought.

  “All the same,” I said, “think about bailing Eric out. I don’t think his mother should have to do it.”

  “Why not? She’s the mother hen. That’s what she likes.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

  “She overdoes it.”

  “She’s a mother,” I said. “With one son dead and another in jail. She deserves some slack.”

  Fayette Scarborough just stared at me as if I were a burn mark in her rug. “I think we’re through here,” she said.

  I was more than happy to get out of that love nest.

  I put a jazz station on in the car as I drove back to St. Monica’s, taking Topanga all the way, trying to sort through what Fayette would mean to the trial, if anything. The marital-trouble angle would support Eric’s story about being with another woman, but wouldn’t do anything to establish time or place for an alibi.

  Besides, the jury probably wouldn’t like her, and you don’t want them disliking your wits. Bad for the overall case.

  I thought about Eric’s marriage. Why had it gone sour? Was it inevitable?

  I wondered what I’d be like right now if everything had gone according to plan, and I’d married Jacqueline. I’d still be at Gunther, McDonough pulling down hefty bucks. I’d be a different person, too.

  So who was I now? Somebody who’d gotten knocked around by some bad people. I knew I was not going to let that happen again. I would strike first and ask questions later. I liked my head in one piece.

  Would I keep it that way up at St. Monica’s?

  Something told me I wasn’t going to last up there much longer.

  55

  THURSDAY MORNING, ERIC Richess was arraigned in Division 30, the felony arraignment court, fifth floor of the Foltz Building downtown. Sister Mary and I arrived at 8:35 and I showed her around the place.

  It used to be called the Criminal Courts Building, or CCB, and many of the lawyers who practice down here still call it that. The city had renamed it for Clara Shortridge Foltz, the first woman admitted to the practice of law in California.

  I wondered what Clara would have thought of Kimberly Pincus.

  Then we went up to Division 30 for the festivities.

  Kate Richess was waiting on a wood bench outside the courtroom. She looked like the rest of the multi-cultured family members scattered around the hall. Tense. Uncertain. Half suspecting the wheels of justice to be more like the Jaws of Life—cutting, crushing, grinding.

  She stood and greeted us each with an embrace. Sister Mary took her by the arm and sat down with her. It looked like they were going to pray.

  So I went inside to wait.

  I knew the courtroom well. I had been arraigned myself here once. I knew what it was like to be stuck in the box where Eric now sat in his prison jumper.

  They knew me here, too. The same commissioner was on th
e bench. Commissioner K, as he was known. Kenneth Khachatoorian. He still looked like he should be playing second clarinet in the high school band.

  Kate and Sister Mary came in and sat in the back row. I nodded at them and waited as the arraignment calendar meandered along.

  When K finally called Eric’s case and I stated my appearance, he smiled. “Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t the celebrity.”

  Of course, when he said that, all the other activity stopped at the DA and PD tables, where the churning of files was going on.

  “Nice to see you again, Commissioner,” I said. “Under better circumstances.”

  “How right you are. You’re doing criminal now?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I guess you can relate to your clients, huh?”

  Some chuckles from the DA side.

  “Right you are,” I said. “Speaking of which, my client is right over there, Mr. Eric Richess. We waive a reading of the complaint and statement of rights. Ready to plead.”

  Commissioner K looked at Eric, who was standing in the box. “Mr. Richess, has your lawyer explained the charges against you?”

  “Yeah,” Eric said.

  “Do you understand your constitutional rights?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did your lawyer explain them to you?”

  “I think so.”

  I winced. Commissioner K winced, too. We were like synchronized swimmers.

  “Let’s not think so, shall we?” Commissioner K said. “You are presumed to be innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have the right to a speedy trial. You have the right to a preliminary hearing ten court days from now. If you are held to answer, any information must be filed within fifteen days, and a trial sixty days after it is so filed, unless you agree to waive time. Do you understand those rights?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you ready to enter a plea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re charged with violation of Penal Code Section 187, one count of murder. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty,” Eric said.

  “All right, let’s set this for preliminary hearing.”

  I looked at the arraignment deputy for the DA’s office. He was looking at his PDA.

  “We are not going to waive time,” I said, and watched the DDA’s face go into spasm.

  “Well then,” Commissioner K said, “since I just told your client about his rights, we’ve got ten court days. Bail is five hundred thousand.”

  Outside the courtroom, I explained the bail situation to Kate. There was no way she was going to be able to come up with fifty grand, the amount of a bond. I told her I’d front her the money, but she refused. Said she’d come up with it if she could. I told her she didn’t have to, but she insisted, saying it was a matter of principle with her. She hugged me and I hugged her back. I wanted to win for this woman more than any other case I’d ever handled.

  56

  WHEN WE GOT back to St. Monica’s, Sister Hildegarde was shuffling outside the office, as if she was waiting for us.

  “Top of the day to you, Sister,” I said.

  She did not crack a smile. Her face was like a concrete overpass. “You may report to the kitchen,” Sister Hildegarde said to Sister Mary. Dutifully, Sister Mary nodded and went off without a word. I had to admire her for that. I would have snapped off a few one-liners.

  I don’t think I’d make a good nun.

  “Mr. Buchanan,” Sister Hildegarde said, “I fear you are distracting Sister Mary from her duties.”

  “Actually, she’s been helping me pursue justice, and I—”

  “Please, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “You have one of the best examples of Christian charity in Sister Mary,” I said. “And you—”

  “We have had this discussion before, Mr. Buchanan. You are not of our faith. You cannot possibly understand what goes on here.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with you. Fairness is fairness no matter where you are. And character is character. I’ve seen enough religion to know that it doesn’t always translate into someone’s daily life. Sister Mary’s does. You should be glad she’s part of this place.”

  “I am glad for every member of the community, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “Would that include me?”

  “And I’m glad that you brought that up. I’ve been wanting to talk to you again about how long you plan on staying.”

  “I sort of hope I’ve been an asset here. You might call me the legal arm of St. Monica’s. Here you have the fruitcake arm, the prayer arm, the ministry-to-the-poor arm, and me, the arm of the law.”

  “I appreciate your helping those in our parish. But I also have to be concerned for what happens within these walls. It is what I have been given charge of. I would ask that you’d consider setting a goal for when you might leave us. Will you think about that, Mr. Buchanan?”

  This was her joint, as it were. I didn’t need to be a jerk. “Yes I will, Sister. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  She gave me a quick nod and headed back toward her office.

  I headed back to my trailer, which I was sort of getting to like.

  I told myself not to get to like this place, or anybody in it, too much. I sensed that I was setting myself up for a fall.

  57

  I WAS REPRESENTING a man on a charge of murder. It was time to get serious about trial preparation. I ensconced myself in my trailer and started exercising my head.

  Lawyers vary in their approach to trial prep. But the best trial lawyer I ever saw—Art Goldstein, who was my mentor at Gunther, McDonough—showed me how to do it his way. I have never varied from it.

  “You start with the closing argument,” Art said. “A trial is a story. Doesn’t matter if it’s murder or shoplifting, insider trading or a dispute about the back fence with your neighbor. The jury wants to know what the story is, and your closing argument is the story. Everything you do up to that point is material for the story. You need to know where you’re going before you can get there.”

  I opened up a new file on my Mac laptop. Back at the firm I had assistants, associates, and various worker bees to do a lot of this work for me. Now it was just me and a computer, and organizing a trial notebook.

  The first document I titled Theory of the Case. That’s basically the core of what Art told me, the theory—or story—of what happened. It has to be logical, understandable, likely, and persuasive. It must be supported by the evidence. This would become my ongoing story document, subject to change as discovery came in and facts were elicited at trial. But the goal is always to keep the story from changing too much. The template was going to be as permanent as possible.

  I would take an aggressive approach. Too many lawyers wait for discovery from the other side to determine their opening moves. That’s giving too much power to the opponent. I’d start to form up my theory and then go out and look for the facts supporting it.

  I opened other documents titled Opening Statement, Voir Dire, Law & Motions, Witnesses, Jury Instructions, Exhibits, Memoranda, and Closing Argument.

  I would go over these documents every day, brainstorming, adding things that were relevant to each area, depending on what my investigation turned up.

  In my Theory of the Case document I wrote the following:

  1. Eric did it.

  2. Eric didn’t do it.

  Under number 1, I put the following subheadings:

  a. With malice aforethought

  b. In the heat of passion

  c. By accident

  d. In self-defense

  e. With mental impairment

  Under number 2, I wrote:

  a. Has alibi

  b. No alibi, but misidentified

  c. Carl committed suicide.

  d. Somebody else killed Carl.

  Now, with every fact I discovered, I would determine the most likely place it
would go. I had to know the prosecution’s case as well as my own. At this point I had a minimum of prosecutorial discovery—police reports, the autopsy report, some crime-scene photos, and a few witness statements. I had the distinct feeling they were holding something back, to be revealed at the prelim. For now I had to try to anticipate what they would present at both prelim and trial. “Half of all trial work,” Art used to say, “is heading them off at the pass.”

  I spent about an hour jotting random thoughts and thinking about the case, getting my mind in the right frame for a trial. I guess that’s how the old gladiators of Rome would do it, before heading into the arena. They were trial lawyers, all of them. There just wasn’t enough legal work to go around, so they went into the Coliseum and beat the caesar salad out of each other.

  One thing was odd about the facts as I knew them. How could a big man like Eric get into the apartment building, then Carl’s apartment, shoot him, and get out without being seen? That would be a good thing to argue to the jury. Like the dog that didn’t bark in the Sherlock Holmes story.

  When I looked up from my work I saw it was an orange-sky night. People have this idea L.A. is nothing but a smog blanket with citizens underneath, hacking and wheezing.

  The air’s actually not as bad as it was fifty years ago, so they tell me. Back then dirt and fog would sit in the bowl they call the Los Angeles basin and it could get so thick you could walk across town on it. Kids, swimming during hot summers, would get out of pools coughing like they were three-pack-a-day smokers.

  Sure, there’s stuff in the air, but there’s one benefit. As if the universe couldn’t stand leaving us in the muck without a little compensation. The benefit is how the sun, dropping into the Pacific horizon, gives a bright, burnt-orange hue to the sky. And a deep purple just before night.

  On nights like this I think of Jacqueline, and how she loved driving down to Paradise Cove, off Pacific Coast Highway, to catch a sunset.