He offered his hand. “You are Tyler Buchanan?”
“That’s me.” His grip was firm and assumed I’d give him my vote.
He smiled and looked out at the view. “I don’t get up here often enough,” he said. “It’s like people in New York who never go to the Empire State Building.”
He was wearing a gray suit with white shirt and red tie. A gold bracelet hung on his right wrist and a Rolex on his left. At least I think it was a Rolex. He seemed a Rolex kind of guy.
“Do you love this city the way I do, Mr. Buchanan?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Were you brought up here?”
“Miami. I came out here for law school.”
I turned my head and realized that Nielsen was no longer there.
“You’re lucky,” MacArthur said. “You’ve had the chance to experience the city the way it really is. This is a city of immigrants. People come here because it offers hope, new beginnings. You see things with fresh eyes. I like to remind myself to have a fresh look, too. The old and the new. I look over here, and see the old Hall of Justice, and then over here, the Disney Concert Hall. Isn’t it all magnificent? But my favorite is on the other side, where you can see Union Station.”
“I wonder how many politicians had to leave town from there?”
He looked at me. “Is that supposed to carry some meaning?”
“I did some reading once about the old days. Political corruption. You know, Mayor Shaw. I wonder if anything’s changed, or if it’s just gotten more sophisticated.”
He looked at his watch and said, “I’m a little pressed for time. I wanted to give you this meeting because it sounded urgent, and I know there is a tangential connection to the building project in my district.”
“I’m wondering how much you know about the way contracts have been handed out. And about money changing hands that shouldn’t have changed.”
“Does this have anything to do with your trial?”
“I’ve got a client up on a murder charge, and I need to know as much as I can about the circumstances surrounding the death of his brother, who was a contractor working on the project.”
“Are you honestly suggesting that someone connected with the building would have killed him, and tried to make it look like a suicide?”
“Sounds like you’re up on the details.”
“You’re front page of the Times. Which I read religiously.”
“Would you be willing to help out by letting my investigator look over the details of the building contracts?”
“You have to take my assurance that there is nothing that I know about, or anybody in my office knows about, that would have any bearing on this matter. I’m very sorry.”
“Do you know a man named Turk Bacon?”
He hesitated. “No. Should I?”
“He sounds like a man that people should know. Maybe your able-bodied aide knows him.”
MacArthur sighed. “My able-bodied aide, as you put it, is really talented, and handles my detail work. He also keeps watch over things. He has my political interests at heart, and he’s very loyal. He knows all the best lawyers in town, and—”
“Almost all,” I said.
“Sure. And he won’t tolerate rumors, innuendos, that sort of thing. I mean, in this age of Internet crazies you simply have to cut these things off early. And Regis holds a sharp blade.”
For a moment, Jamie MacArthur’s face was as cold as the granite exterior of City Hall itself. Then he flashed his famous pearlies and said, “I really have to be going now, Mr. Buchanan. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. Why don’t you stay up here and enjoy the view?”
119
I STAYED ONLY long enough to watch a pigeon plotz on the railing and decided it was an omen. I left before the bird could do anything to me.
I called Sister Mary and met her in the parking lot in back of the courthouse.
“He agreed,” she said.
“He’ll testify?”
“Tomorrow. He says it has to be tomorrow. Or he won’t do it.”
“Tomorrow then,” I said. “Did you take any notes?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Absolutely not. Let’s eat.”
After lunch, and before the jury was brought in, I dutifully informed the judge and Radavich there would be an addition to my witness list. I gave them Nick’s name. I said he was going to testify about the building project, and Carl’s connection to it, and that I could show a possible motive for someone other than Eric Richess to kill him.
Radavich asked for a written witness statement, and I said there was none.
Radavich said that was very convenient.
I said yes, it was.
Judge Hughes said get back in court.
120
CHRISTA CODY HAD arrived on time, looking like the star of a TV show about a gun-loving woman with tattoos. She had on a white, formfitting blouse over black pants and black stilettos.
Clearly ready for the cameras. There were none in the courtroom, but plenty outside, and I could just see her playing it up.
I spoke with her briefly in the hallway and asked her if she was relaxed, and she said she was born relaxed and was ready to kick butt on the stand.
I told her not to kick butt. I told her to calmly answer only the questions she was asked.
“You got it, boss,” she said.
I did not like the way she said it. But it was time to go in.
121
CHRISTA WAS SWORN, and I began my direct examination. “You work at the Flintridge Shooting Range, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said. “Going on six years.”
“Describe what your duties are there.”
“Oh, a little of everything. I check people in, I police the range, I give lessons, and I slap people around if they need it.”
Some laughter from the gallery. Christa smiled wide. Terrific. She was in performance mode.
Since I could not stop and wag my finger at her, or slap her myself, I stated my next question slowly. “When you say you check people in, you mean you’re in the office when people come up to do some shooting?”
“That’s right.”
“How does that work, when someone comes in to book a time?”
“They pay for time, they sign a sheet and show a picture ID, and I tell ’em where to go. And if they hassle me, I also tell ’em where to go.”
More laughter. I had to make this quick.
“How many people do you see a day, on average?”
“During the week, maybe twenty. About twice that on weekends.”
“All right, taking you back to January twenty-third of this year, were you working at the range?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And did two men of, shall we say, larger stature sign in?”
“Yes.”
“Is one of those men in the courtroom?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s right there.” She pointed to Eric.
“Let the record reflect the witness has pointed to Eric Richess.”
“It will so reflect,” Judge Hughes said. “Continue.”
“Do you know who the other man was, with Eric?”
“Yep. His name was Carl.”
“How do you know that?”
“I signed him in.”
I went to the table and got the copy of the sign-in sheet. “Showing you now Defense Exhibit Three for identification, can you tell me what this is?”
Christa took it and gave it a scan. “Yeah, that’s one of the sign-in sheets from January twenty-third. It shows Carl Richess signed in for two people.”
“And is that your handwriting?”
“Yep. Big boys, they were. A couple of trees.”
Some more laughs. I thought I’d better wrap this up. “Move that Defense Exhibit Three be admitted into evidence.”
“Without objection,” the judge said.
122
RADAVICH STOOD. “Ms. Cody, you signed th
ese two in, but you did not see them after that, did you?”
“Well, no. They went out to shoot.”
“You don’t know what they said or did on the range, do you?”
“They shot.”
“Listen carefully. You did not personally witness them shooting, did you?”
“Um, no, but you don’t come up there to play Donkey Kong.”
She waited for a laugh, but the courtroom was silent.
Radavich pounced. “This is not a show, Ms. Cody.”
I objected and the judge sustained me. But I could see some of the jurors shifting in their chairs.
“You did not,” Radavich said, “with your own eyes, see the two men you have identified as the Richess brothers, actually shooting on the range, did you?”
“No,” Christa said. She folded her arms.
“You don’t know what happened out there on that range then, do you?”
“No, but it doesn’t take a genius to—”
“Just answer the questions I put to you, Ms. Cody. I’ll make them real simple. At no time after they left the office did you go to the shooting range, did you?”
“All right, no.”
“They could have had a fight out there and you never would—”
“Objection,” I said. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained.”
Radavich didn’t care. He’d floated the words out for the jury. “And obviously you never saw the gun that was allegedly fired, correct?”
“That’d be correct, boss.” Christa looked out for some feedback, but now she was just annoying.
“Well, you’ve been oh so helpful, Ms. Cody. No more questions.”
I didn’t even look at her as she walked out of the courtroom. At least we had established the brothers were at the range a week before Carl’s death. And that could explain the blood on the gun.
If the jury would buy it. But they didn’t look in a buying mood.
123
“CALL YOUR NEXT witness,” Judge Hughes said.
I didn’t have a next witness. It was 2:30 p.m.
“I wonder if we might recess until tomorrow,” I said. As I spoke I saw Sister Mary looking at her cell phone. Like she had a call.
The judge didn’t look pleased. But he stroked his chin and said, “Well, in view of the fact that Mr. Radavich rested early, we’ll wrap up for today. But I want everyone ready to go tomorrow. Let’s finish the week strong.”
He admonished the jury not to talk about the case and we were through.
After the jury was out and Eric in the hands of the deputies, Sister Mary told me it looked like Nick had called.
“Call him back,” I said.
As she did, I went to the rail and met Kate and Babs there. “How do you think it’s going?” Kate said. She looked even more worried than usual.
“I think there are questions in the minds of some of the jurors,” I said. “They’re listening to both sides.”
“I suppose that’s all we can ask for,” Kate said.
“We can ask. We’re just getting started here. So try not to worry.” I took her hands in mine, and once more I thought of my own mother’s hands. It was strange, almost ghostly for a second. Like the hands were keys to a hidden memory knocking around a dark attic. I got the chills and let go.
“Are you all right, Ty?” Kate asked.
“Sure,” I said. “And I want you to try and have a good dinner tonight. See to it, will you, Babs?”
“I’ll try,” Babs said. And then she patted my hand and said, “God bless you.”
Okay. Yes. Sure. I could use it. We all could.
Kate and Babs headed for the courtroom door. Sister Mary tapped me on the shoulder and handed me her phone.
“Nick,” she said.
I took the phone. “Buchanan here.”
“There’s a guy here from the DA’s office,” he said in a frantic voice. “Wants to question me. What do I do?”
“Stay calm. I can be there in half an hour.”
“What if he don’t want to wait that long?”
“He’s got no choice. He can’t force you to talk. If he wants to wait, he can. If he wants to leave, he can.”
“He’s standing here giving me the eye right now. Hurry up, will you?”
I hurried. But L.A. traffic didn’t. There was an accident on the freeway and Sister Mary and I didn’t get to Nick’s for fifty-five minutes.
A little too late, it turned out.
124
NICK’S TRUCK WAS not in the driveway. There was no answer to our knocks on the front door.
“What do you suppose happened?” Sister Mary said.
“Cold feet,” I said. “Maybe our boy got scared.”
“Scared?”
“Maybe it wasn’t a DA investigator at all.”
I heard a shuffling sound and turned. An old woman was on the walkway, approaching. “Don’t think you’ll find anybody home,” she said. Her skin was rich ebony and she wore a silky blue wig, one that a blues singer in Paris might have worn in the 1920s. She was wrapped in a pink terrycloth robe and the snouts of fuzzy slippers showed underneath, one after the other, as she moved forward, slowly.
“Do you know Mr. Molina?” I said.
“That his name?” she said. “He didn’t go out much. New here. He’s renting. I know the owner, he lives in Downey. I can see through my window. I live next door, and watch my stories and Oprah. But I have to get up and walk around every fifteen minutes or so, so as not to have the blood clot in my legs. Don’t want to get the phlebitis, you know. Don’t want to lose my legs.”
She made tiny little piston motions with her arms as she walked.
“So I go to the window and I look out, just to see what’s happening in the neighborhood.” She reached us and stopped. Her wrinkles were deep creases in black drapes. “I kind of am the neighborhood watch, you might say. Nobody moves in or out of this neighborhood without me knowing about it. And if they try anything, I will get on the phone and call the police, yes I will.”
“About Mr. Molina, did you—”
“He stays up late and he drinks beer. He even came over to my house once and said would I drink a beer with him, and I said I didn’t want to. I don’t like beer. I prefer bourbon.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“Nothing happens in this neighborhood without me knowing about it. Now, that makes me want to know who you two are.”
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “And this is Sister Mary. She is my investigator.”
“My name is Mrs. April Rutherford, and this neighborhood can get pretty rough if you don’t look like you belong, and Sister, I don’t think you look like you belong. Nearest Catholic church is three miles. But I want you to know I went into a church once, about five years ago, and lit a candle. Does that work?”
Sister Mary said, “If it is done with the right faith. Do you belong to a church?”
“I’m a Baptist,” the woman said. “But I thought I’d cover all bases that day. My son died two years ago, and his kids, my grandkids, they live with their ma in Texas. Texas! I don’t get to see ’em. I’d like to see ’em again, but she never calls.”
“Mrs. Rutherford,” I said. “I’m starting to wonder if Nick might be inside the house, and unable to respond. Do you happen to have an emergency key or anything like that?”
“Not personally,” she said. “But I know how to get in that house. I been in this neighborhood forty years, and I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. I’ve seen kids break into that house. I once went over and tried to jimmy the side window, that was oh, about ten years ago, because I thought there was a strange smell coming out and I wanted to know—”
“Can we get a window open?” I said.
“Now I don’t know if I should help you anymore. I don’t really know who you are, I mean if you are who you say you are. I believe the sister here is a Sister, but I don’t know if you’re really a lawyer. Maybe you’re holding her hostage
or something.”
“I assure you he’s not,” Sister Mary said.
“Is he a religious man?” Mrs. Rutherford asked.
“I think so,” Sister Mary said. “Only he doesn’t know it.”
“Thank you very much, Sister,” I said. “Ma’am, there is a man on trial for murder, and Mr. Molina is a key witness. I just want to make sure nothing has happened to him. He could be lying inside this house, injured or something.”
“Murder you say?”
“Yes.”
“If you break in, you might get in some trouble.”
“I’ll take the chance, ma’am.”
“My, oh my. You have to be small to get through that window.” She looked at Sister Mary. So did I.
“Excuse me?” Sister Mary said.
125
A NUN DOES not look dignified crawling through a kitchen window. But Sister Mary Veritas did it, and didn’t squawk. Just after her derrière slipped through the window, her shoes disappeared, and we heard a loud thunk inside.
“I’m all right,” she shouted, a little anger in the tone. She opened the back door and I went in, followed by Mrs. April Rutherford.
“Nick?” I said. No answer. I did a little sweep of the place. I expected to find him. For some reason I expected to find him dead on the floor.
I didn’t. The place looked lived in, man messy, but there were no signs of foul play. And no sign of Nick.
To Mrs. Rutherford I said, “Did you see anybody come here within the last hour?”
“Now, let me see.” Mrs. Rutherford looked at the floor. “I was watching my story, my General Hospital. Do you watch the General Hospital?”
“I’m afraid I missed the last one.”
“Now you’re playing with me.” She smiled.
“So you didn’t see anybody come here?”
“No, I did not. Now, I watch Judge Judy right after the General Hospital. You like Judge Judy?”
“Maybe we better go outside now,” I said.
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