Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  “Approximately eight-thirty.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because we went to a bar and had a drink, and got back to the motel around nine o’clock. That’s when I paid for the room.”

  “You paid for the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that a common practice?”

  “Sometimes, if the client wishes to remain anonymous.”

  I went to the counsel table and got the receipt Leilana had given me. “Showing you now what has been marked Defense Exhibit Four for identification, can you tell me what that is?” I put it on the rail of the witness box.

  She picked it up, looked at it, put it down. “It’s the motel receipt.”

  “What time does it say on the receipt?”

  “9:02 p.m.”

  “Did you secure a room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without going into any detail, how long were you with Mr. Richess?”

  “I was with him until eleven p.m.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “That’s the time he paid for. He paid me for two hours. Then he left.”

  “And what did you do after he left?”

  “I watched TV. I watched the Tonight Show. I like Jay Leno.”

  A little laughter broke out in the courtroom. Most of the jury laughed, too. They were warming to her. There is something about witnesses completely open about what they do that juries appreciate. A witness who tries to hide things is the one you don’t trust.

  “After the Jay Leno show, what did you do?”

  “I checked out and went home.”

  “Ms. Salgado, is there any doubt whatsoever in your mind that you were with the defendant, Eric Richess, from approximately eight-thirty p.m. to a little after eleven p.m. on the night of January thirty?”

  “No doubt whatsoever.”

  “Why didn’t you agree to testify earlier?”

  “I was scared. When you do what I do, you don’t exactly want to be spreading the news in court.”

  “And why have you decided to come forward?”

  She looked at Eric. There was warmth in her eyes. “He was nice. He was one of the nicer men I’ve been with. I just couldn’t let him be convicted of something he didn’t do.”

  I paused. “Ms. Salgado. Have you contacted, or been contacted by, any tabloid newspaper, book publisher, Internet site, or any other media outlet whatsoever, in connection with your testimony here today?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Have you received any money, or the promise of any money, for your testimony?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to Radavich. “Your witness.”

  141

  TOM RADAVICH WASTED no time. He stood up, buttoned his suit coat and, without notes, tore into the witness.

  “You’re a hooker, is that what you said?” he said.

  Leilana’s eyes darkened. “I said I am an escort. I don’t walk the streets.”

  “You have sex for money, don’t you?”

  “Sex is optional.”

  “Please, madam, you don’t expect anyone in this courtroom to believe in a legal fiction, do you?”

  I objected. “I object to the use of the term madam. It’s argumentative and Mr. Radavich is just using loaded language for the jury.”

  Judge Hughes looked at me. “I’ve allowed your witness to take the stand, Mr. Buchanan. I’m going to allow the prosecutor wide latitude in his cross-examination. You may continue, Mr. Radavich.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. You have sex with the men you escort, don’t you, madam?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Always.”

  “Not always.”

  “And that’s because, for one reason or another, you call off the whole deal, isn’t it?”

  “That sometimes happens.”

  “Meaning you don’t get paid for your time.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Let me put it this way. Every time you get paid to escort someone, you have sex with him, isn’t that right?”

  “No. Sometimes the client opts not to.”

  “Oh, that must happen all the time, right? I mean, that’s why men use these escort services, just so they can enjoy some intellectual conversation.”

  “Objection,” I said.

  “Sustained.”

  “Let me rephrase the question,” Radavich said. “You are, to use an old English word, a whore.”

  “Objection!”

  The judge looked at Radavich. “Sustained.”

  Radavich didn’t miss a beat. “How many men have you had sexual relations with in the last year?”

  “I object,” I said. “A witness’s sexual history is inadmissible.”

  Judge Hughes shook his head. “This falls under 782 of the Evidence Code, and she is not a complaining witness. This goes to credibility. The witness has testified about her services, and Mr. Radavich may cross-examine her on it. Overruled. Answer the question, Ms. Salgado.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Too many to count?” Radavich said.

  Leilana flipped her hair back. “I don’t count.”

  “How about more than ten? Is it more than ten?”

  “I suppose.”

  “We don’t want any supposing here, madam.”

  Radavich was going to back her up into a dark, dank corner. And there was nothing I could do. The judge was going to allow everything short of Radavich slapping her around. I could keep objecting, but the jury gets annoyed with that, once they know the judge is not going to sustain you. I’d have to wait for an objection I could win.

  “Mr. Buchanan asked if you have received any offers regarding your story. You denied that, and denied seeking any offers, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of course nothing can stop you from shopping this around after you’re finished, right?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not interested.”

  “Are you telling us today that you will not sell your story, in any form whatsoever?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you, madam, expect anyone here to believe you?”

  She flashed anger. “I don’t care what anybody believes.”

  “Exactly,” Radavich said. “I have no further questions.”

  142

  ON RE-DIRECT, I had to rehab my witness but fast. I didn’t know if I could do it.

  Then it turned out my wit did it for me.

  “Ms. Salgado,” I said, “the prosecutor was pretty rough on you just now.”

  “It’s all right,” she said quietly.

  “When Mr. Radavich called you a whore, how did that make you feel?”

  She looked at Tom Radavich, then back at me. Her breathing got labored. Then tears pooled in her eyes. She fought them back. She opened her mouth to speak, and couldn’t.

  “Do we need to take a short break?” Judge Hughes said.

  Leilana shook her head. “I’m sorry. No. I can answer.”

  The clerk brought her a box of tissues. Leilana took one and touched her eyes. Then she said, “He didn’t say anything I haven’t heard before. Since I was twelve, that’s what I’ve been told I was. By my father, then my stepfather, then my brothers. You get to believe it after a while. And you hang on to anything that’ll keep you from killing yourself. Like this.”

  “This?” I said.

  “This trial. To tell the truth. To help somebody. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s all.”

  And then she was in tears again.

  For a moment the courtroom was silent. Then I said, “No more questions.”

  The judge said, “Anything further of this witness, Mr. Radavich?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Ms. Salgado, you are excused,” Hughes said. “But you are subject to recall if the prosecution so wishes. Do you understand that?”

  Leilana nodded. She left the witness box and crossed the courtroom, head dow
n, moving quickly. As she did, Hughes said, “You may call your next witness, Mr. Buchanan.”

  I paused until Leilana was out the courtroom doors.

  And had a sudden inspiration, the kind trial lawyers learn to trust. I decided not to put on my forensics guy. You can overtry a case, the way the prosecutors in O.J. did. I didn’t want the jury to think of the science any more than they already had. The whole thing was going to be about the alibi.

  I turned to the judge and said, “The defense rests.”

  143

  NOW RADAVICH WAS the one thrown off his game. It was 11:54 when I wrapped it up, and the judge wanted to know if Radavich would present anything on rebuttal. Radavich moaned and whined and said he would need the weekend and the judge gave it to him.

  After talking to Kate, and assuring her that things went about as well as they could, I told her to try to get some rest. She asked about Sister Mary and I told her I would see her in a little while.

  “Tell her God is being merciful to me,” Kate said. “I feel, for the first time, that I might possibly get my son back. The one son I have left.” And then she cried, and I held her.

  144

  SISTER MARY WAS still hooked up and in bed, but at least was able to read a book. She waved me over as soon as I showed my face.

  “Feeling better?” I said.

  “Never mind that. How’d it go in court today?”

  “You shouldn’t be thinking about that. You should be—”

  “Come on, give. I’ve been dying to know.”

  “You remember that alibi witness Eric wouldn’t talk about?”

  “The woman?”

  “She showed.”

  Sister Mary slapped the open book down on her knees. “And I wasn’t there.”

  “She’s credible,” I said. “At least the jury is going to think so. I’m pretty sure. It’s the best we can hope for. All the other evidence we have can be given an alternative explanation. But if the jury believes Eric was with this woman at the time of the murder, it’s over. He walks.”

  Sister Mary put her head back and looked at the ceiling.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “I didn’t expect to miss it so much. Being in court.”

  “You can always go into law. UCLA offers a nun discount.”

  She looked away, toward the window.

  “Does the name Douglas Aycock mean anything to you?” I said.

  She snapped back to me. “How do you know that name?”

  “Sid gave it to me. He got it by tracing one of the e-mails through the library system.”

  Sister Mary’s eyes got that faraway look. When she spoke, it was in the low tones of recounted memory. “I went to high school with him. Dated him a couple of times. And then later, after high school, I heard he died. How—”

  “Missing, actually, according to the reports.”

  “But we all figured he was dead.”

  “He wasn’t a serious boyfriend?”

  “He took me to a dance, a couple of movies. He wanted it to go further, but I didn’t.”

  “Why was that?”

  “We didn’t have the same interests. He was totally into the game world. He had this circle of friends and I found them a little weird. Role playing all the time. It started to cross over…” She looked at me with an astonished gaze. “He’s alive and sending me e-mails?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  She thought about it all for a moment, then lifted her book. It was Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander by Thomas Merton. “I was just reading something,” she said. “About that time in Louisville, remember? When Merton felt connected to all those people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He says here that he suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts.” She paused. “I had a very discomforting thought about that. For a moment, I didn’t know if I agreed with him. That he was seeing things through rose-colored glasses. And I didn’t like feeling that. And now this…”

  “You’ve just been shot. Naturally you’re not going to see all this beauty in people’s hearts.”

  She placed the book on the table next to the bed. She looked a little lost.

  I said, “How about I run my closing argument by you?”

  “Walk it by,” she said. “That’s about my speed right now.”

  145

  AFTER TWENTY MINUTES I could tell Sister Mary was tired or in pain, or both. So I went back to the kid’s room. There was no cop there this time, so I wondered if he was even in there. But he was, and I guessed Stein had talked to him and pulled the guard cop off.

  I said, “So, how you doing today?”

  He was a little more aware, and had a little more attitude. “Man, you back?”

  “I take it the police talked to you.”

  “I got nothing more to say.”

  “You do to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Guy who did this to you is still out there. Ever think he might want another shot at you?”

  “You think you gonna help me? You want something, you just mad.”

  “You’re just stupid. You got no idea what’s going on. No idea how big this could be.”

  “Man, who are you?”

  “Ty Buchanan, and I can help you. What’s your name?”

  “Daryl.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how you got beat up?”

  “Got jumped is all.”

  “How many?”

  “Just one, I think.”

  “You get a look at the guy?”

  Daryl shook his head. “He was on my back, all over me. Then I was out.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s take it a step at a time. Where were—”

  “I don’t want to take no steps or nothin’,” Daryl said. “I just want to get out of here.”

  “You got anybody to come get you?”

  He shook his head. Sadly, it seemed.

  “Where you at, Daryl?”

  “Why’m I talkin’ to you, man?”

  “Maybe I can get you out of here,” I said. “Get you looked at by a private doc.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to know what happened. Now, make me your lawyer. What you say I keep to myself, always. Got it?”

  He closed his eyes. Winced. “How much I got to pay you?”

  “Nothing. You pay me nothing.”

  “I got a record. I don’t need no trouble. I smoked me a blunt before I got jumped. They gonna get me for that?”

  “Daryl, my job is to keep trouble away for my clients.”

  He thought about it a second. “Plus I wasn’t even s’posed to be there.”

  “At the house?”

  “My mama owns it. Rents it. She won’t rent it to me. She don’t like me. She lives with her boyfriend in Monrovia. I got a key and take stuff.”

  “You rob your mother’s house?”

  “So?”

  “Who lives there?”

  “Nobody. I seen they ain’t nobody there, like from a week ago. Skipped out. Cleaned out. So I go to clean out what’s left, you know?”

  “And smoke a little weed?”

  “That’s it. I go in, find some stuff in the kitchen. I fire up, take a nap. Life’s good.”

  “Only you left the door open, right?”

  “Back door, yeah. I didn’t think nobody was gonna come in. There’s this kinda road in back, against a fence. Nobody usually uses it.”

  “So you’re taking a nap, then what?”

  “Then bam, back of the head. I get pulled to the floor, facedown. Bam again. That’s it.”

  “That’s the last thing you remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Daryl closed his eyes again. “Smell,” he said.

  “Smell?”

  He was concentrating. “Kinda sweet.”

  Sweet. That tipped over a jar in my brain. “Think you could ID the smell if you smelled it again?”

  “Like what, you know wh
o it was?”

  “Just a theory. You think you could ID it?”

  “I don’t know, man. Maybe. Hey…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I look as bad as I feel?”

  “You look rough hewn,” I said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Like you can take it and dish it out.”

  The bare hint of smile pushed on his face. “That ain’t bad.”

  “Think you can dress yourself, tough guy?”

  146

  I EXPLAINED TO the desk that I was now the young man’s lawyer, and that we were leaving. We had to do a little song and dance, then Daryl signed a waiver and out we walked into the fading sunshine.

  We got to my car and I angled for the freeway. “What’s your favorite food?” I said.

  “My favorite, or what I can eat?”

  “Your favorite.”

  “I had me this steak once, I don’t even know what it was, but it was like all melt in your mouth. But I don’t think I can chew nothin’.”

  “Can you suck through a straw?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  There’s a place on Alvarado that makes old-fashioned chocolate milk shakes. Family business since 1948. Started by one Frank Lonegger a few years after he came back from the war. One shop. None of that franchise surrender. The grandson runs it now.

  Daryl actually seemed excited when the shake with the whipped cream and cherry was put in front of him.

  “When’s the last time you had one of these?” I said.

  “I ain’t never had one of these.”

  “No way.”

  He shook his head. “Not like this.”

  “Dig in,” I said.

  He did.

  I called my doctor friend, George Mazzetti, a guy I used to use a lot back in my Gunther, McDonough days.

  “How’s the celebrity lawyer?” he asked.

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a favor and count on your professional discretion. A guy I’d like you to look at, who for certain reasons doesn’t want to be in the hospital. Would you mind, and then send me the bill?”

  “For you? Of course. You almost doubled my practice with that one accident case your firm handled. The school bus on Western.”

  “I remember it well. Thanks. Can I bring him over?”