No Way Out

by David Kessler

  But Malcolm X had also become disillusioned with Elijah Mohamed personally, over the NOI leader’s sexual exploitation of teenage girls. The trouble was that in speaking out so frankly, Malcolm X created enemies. And in response to his outspoken criticism, Louis Farakhan, a loyal follower of Elijah Mohamed, made inflammatory statements about Malcolm X. Two months later, Malcolm X was assassinated by members of the Nation of Islam.

  But the well-dressed man in the audience was not going to be drawn into a debate about who killed Malcolm X. The Nation of Islam had subsequently re-adopted their former enemy and tried to distance themselves from his assassination.

  “You’re not like Brother Malcolm, Claymore, and you never will be! Brother Malcolm never did what you did.”

  There was wild applause at that one. Everyone knew that Elias Claymore was not quite as respectable as he had now become. But Claymore was prepared for this.

  “It’s precisely because of my own guilt that I must speak out,” said Claymore, casting a trained professional eye at the studio clock. “As a sinner, I have a duty not to remain silent. In the meantime, let’s all say a loud ‘thank God’ that we’re living in a country where no one has to be a slave unless he chooses to be. Thank you all, good afternoon and God Bless America.”

  There was thunderous applause. The show was over.

  As one of the cameras pulled back to let him pass, Claymore walked away, talking to various eager members of the audience and shaking hands with some of them.

  He left the set to be confronted by the two uniformed policemen and a female detective who couldn’t have been more than thirty, if that. But what frightened him most was the implacable look on their faces. He didn’t know what was going on, but sensed that it was something serious. The faces of the TV staff hovering around them looked tense. The detective stepped foreword and flashed her shield at Claymore.

  “Elias Claymore?”

  “Yes?” replied Claymore, slightly nervously.

  “Detective Riley. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “What for?

  “Rape.”

  Claymore shot a look of panic at the producer and swallowed.

  “Call Alex Sedaka! Now!”

  Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15:30

  “This is the best Chinese food I’ve tasted,” said Alex, expertly picking up a mouthful of Chicken Chow Mein with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

  “Best at this price,” said Martine, her voice still tense from the incident back at the snooker tournament. “Let’s not exaggerate.”

  They were eating at the Embassy Kitchen, just across the parking lot from the billiards club. Martine was right about the price – you could get a good meal there for seven dollars. But he felt he ought to stick to his guns about the quality. The only Chinese food that tasted better, to his moderately discerning palate, was that of his sister, who lived in Israel.

  The area itself seemed like a bit of a dump. But in his capacity as a criminal lawyer, Alex was used to slumming it. And he suspected that Martine was too, in her line of work.

  “Look, about what happened earlier.”

  He was nervous, sensing that Martine was still angry.

  “You don’t have to apologize. Just don’t do it again.”

  Alex felt deflated. He hadn’t been going to apologize. But he wanted to clear the air.

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of crap.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to get into fights to prove your masculinity! Okay! You fathered two children. You paid your dues in life. You win battles in court – which is the battleground where thinking men fight and win battles. I don’t need you to beat up some redneck to prove you yourself.”

  He was flattered that she said “beat up” not “get beaten up by.”

  “I wasn’t trying to prove anything. But the way he was going, I figured it was distracting to –”

  “Oh gimme a break! You think arguing with him made it less distracting? Come off it Alex, You wanted to play the he-man hero. You wanted to show me that you’re not the wimp lawyer in a suit but the tough guy who can take care of his lady – like I’m gonna be impressed by that macho bullshit. Like I haven’t seen it, done it and bought the T-shirt.”

  “All right maybe I over-reacted. And maybe I’m old fashioned.” He was leaning close to her now. “But then again, I think that it is a man’s duty to protect his lady.”

  “And maybe you’ve also got some unfinished issues.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re still thinking about another lady felt you should have been able to protect.”

  She saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I was out of line with that.”

  “No it’s true. You’re right. I wasn’t there for Melody.”

  “You couldn’t have been there for Melody. How were you to know that some looney-tunes with a Saturday night special was going to bush-whack her on the way home? Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  Alex’s wife Melody had been killed by a gang-banger in the parking structure of the hospital where she worked. Melody was a doctor who had been working in A & E when two gang bangers from opposite sides of town were brought in the same night. What she didn’t know was that the one she was treating had shot the other one. She saved the one on her operating table, but the other doctor lost his. After that, the dead man’s homeys couldn’t get at the guy who killed their brother, because by then he was in jail – in solitary. So they held a counsel of war and decided that Melody had to pay.

  By that stage, she probably knew she was in danger, but she refused to take it seriously. She even rejected an escort to her car, saying she was too old for a nanny.

  Call it arrogance, call it self-confidence – either way, she paid with her life.

  And Alex still blamed himself in some way.

  “I just wish I could…”

  He trailed off. But she knew what he was going to say. He wished he could turn the clock back. Just like everybody does.

  But as his son – the physicist – had once told him: time doesn’t run backwards.

  He tried to take his mind off it.

  “Tell me how you made that trick shot?”

  “You should get David to explain it. You see it’s all about Newtonian mechanics. If you hit the object ball quarter ball with pace, the cue ball moves off at an oblique angle, while –”

  Martine’s cell phone went off. She whipped it out and answered it with polished, professional speed.

  “Martine Yin.” For the next half minute, she appeared to be listening intently. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”

  She turned to Alex, looking acutely embarrassed.

  “I know,” he said. “Duty calls.”

  She thanked him for his understanding and left briskly. Seconds later, the roar of a car engine outside brought a wry smile to his lips as he realized that the predator in her might lay dormant but was far from extinct. She was still a news woman, poised to pursue a good story at a moment’s notice, just as he was a lawyer 24/7, even if he didn’t quite resort to ambulance chasing.

  He managed one more mouthful of food, before his own cell phone blared out the familiar musical phrase from the Allegro of Dvorak’s New World Symphony.

  “Hallo Mr. Sedaka?” said an almost desperate sounding male voice at the other end of the line.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m the producer of the Elias Claymore show. We’ve got a situation here and I was wondering if there’s any possibility of you coming to LA – ”

  “I’m in San Gabriel.”

  “Oh thank God for that! Mr. Claymore asked me to call you. He’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested? What’s the charge?”

  “It’s some kind of phony rape charge.”

  Alex knew in that moment why Martine had been obliged to leave in such a hurry.

  Friday, 5 June 2009 – 16:50

  “Okay, there
we are,” said the evidence technician, as they took the third buccal swab.

  Like Bethel, a few hours earlier, Claymore was giving a DNA sample from the lining of his mouth. They hadn’t told him that the rapist had worn a condom or that the victim had scratched the rapist’s arm. The less they told him, the better their chances of being able to get him to incriminate himself by making a statement revealing first-hand knowledge of the crime, now that he had waived the right to remain silent. But they did subject him to a full surface examination in which they had looked for signs of scratches and found several.

  Nevertheless this was not conclusive. The real test would be the DNA. They had several good samples from Bethel and now all they needed was a good match.

  After the samples had been taken, Alex sat with Claymore for twenty minutes, going through where Claymore had been at the time of the alleged rape. Claymore had been very clear about the fact that he had nothing to hide and wanted to answer police questions. Alex, as an experienced lawyer, was wary of this. Firstly he knew that even guilty people sometimes think they can get away with it by talking to the police. Secondly, no matter how idealistic and dedicated a cop may be, he still wants to close a case and get on with the next one, for the simple reason that the sheer volume of crime – and thus police work – is so great.

  To an innocent man, this latter can be a pitfall, Alex well knew. An accusation, a suspect with priors, and a high profile suspect at that! It would be all too tempting to use whatever they had to make sure that Claymore went down big time. And “all they had” apparently included a victim ID of the suspect. Of course that wasn’t definitive evidence like DNA. But it was strong and the cops seemed confident.

  And the fact that Claymore wanted to talk was not entirely re-assuring. He knew all about the naivety of the genuinely innocent man who thinks he has nothing to hide. Alex had known Elias for a few years now, every since he had represented him at the plea-bargain for unlawful escape, after he came back to the United States to face the music. Alex had been impressed at the time by Claymore’s sincerity and genuine sense of shame at his past. But that meant little now. If a man could change once, he could change again. The only thing it did mean was that Alex had a certain amount of influence with him.

  But lawyers take their instructions from clients; not the other way round. So when Claymore made it clear that he was determined to answer police questions, all Alex could do was say his piece and then step aside, while the interview took place. He would be present during the questioning and he’d step in if he felt he had to. Also, the mere fact that he had warned Claymore about the dangers, meant that his client would be wary of the tricks and traps that the cop might set.

  So now, Alex sat there in silence while Lieutenant Kropf, the very tall, thin man who headed up the investigation used his semi-aggressive rapid fire technique to try and trip up the suspect.

  “Okay so you admit that no one saw you at home at that time?” barked Kropf, at one point.

  Alex was about to tell the lieutenant to stop wasting time. He’d had his answer and was just repeating himself ad nauseum. But Claymore held out a restraining hand to silence his lawyer.

  “It’s not a question of admitting,” Claymore replied, trying to keep his voice level. I was alone. That’s a fact. It’s not a crime to be alone.”

  “No, but it helps to have an alibi.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” asked Claymore wryly.

  In the tense silence that followed, Claymore looked around. The room was stark and bare. The furniture was limited to a table and three chairs, one for the lieutenant and one each for Claymore and Alex. Light entered the room from a high window located very close to the ceiling.

  Another police officer, a detective, stood by the door but said nothing. He was there in case the suspect decided to get “physical”. He was also there to be a witness to protect the lieutenant from false accusations. Although the interrogation was being videotaped, with Claymore’s consent, and there was a technician on the other side of the one-way glass, there were times – on the way in and the way out – when the people were out of the watchful eye of the camera.

  Also, the video camera might break down or run out of tape. Having the extra detective present was an added precaution.

  “Can you think of anything else that might prove you were at home.”

  Kropf was in his persistent mood.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a phone-call. Did anyone call you? Did you call anyone?”

  Claymore shook his head. The monotonous drone of the air conditioning was beginning to take its toll. It was more irritating than the monotonous drone of Lieutenant Kropf’s voice as he kept up a steady stream of questions that carried with them more than a hint of quiet menace.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “If you called out from your phone then there’ll be a record on your phone bill. It’s all digital now so you should get an itemized bill.”

  Alex was making a note of the suggestion. He sensed that the lieutenant was actually trying to be helpful: like he almost didn’t believe that Claymore was guilty.

  “Okay,” Kropf continued. “If you’re confident on this one, we can get it now.”

  The lieutenant was looking at Alex when he said this.

  “How?” asked the lawyer.

  “We can go to a judge and file a joint motion for a subpoena on the phone company records.”

  “And you think the phone company’s going to haul ass tonight just ‘cause we wave a subpoena in their faces? Get real!”

  Alex knew well enough what the lieutenant was up to. He was testing to see how confident they were. It wasn’t a legally binding test of innocence. But it was a good way to know whether or not he was wasting his time on a sure-fire loser.

  “OK,” said Kropf, finally. “We’re not going to charge you client.” Claymore breathed a sigh of relief. “At least not right now. We’ll wait for the DNA results to come in and we’ll take it from there.”

  Alex smiled. It was beginning to look like the storm had blown itself out before it hit dry land. But he noticed that Kropf looked far from deflated – like he still had one more card up his sleeve.

  “Just one more question Mr. Claymore, what car do you drive?”

  “Well I’ve been using taxis for the past couple of days.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “My car was stolen.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?

  “I haven’t had the time.”

  “What make of vehicle was it?”

  “A Mercedes.”

  “What color?”

  “Blue.”

  “A blue Mercedes?”

  “Aquamarine if you want to get technical.”

  Friday, 5 June 2009 – 19:30

  “I’m beginning to think that nothing’s changed,” said Andi, bitterly.

  They were sitting on the porch of their new house, dining alfresco in the California evening sun: penne pasta with chicken and mushrooms

  “How d’you mean?” asked Gene, with measured sympathy. She wasn’t one to encourage self-pity, having seen – in the course of her work – what a self-destructive force it can be. Self-destructive and thoroughly seductive.

  Andi attacked her food with a fork displaying such ferocity that Gene was forced to smile. It meant that Andi wasn’t succumbing to the demon of surrender. She was in fighting spirits and that was surely a good sign. She’d be out of it in no time at all!

  “We uprooted ourselves from New York and relocated for what? It’s not a department. It’s just a meaningless title.”

  “Give ‘em a chance honey. I mean it’s only your first day. Let’s see what they let you do.”

  Gene was calmly re-assuring. She knew that Andi expected no less of her. It was a game they often played: Andi bitched about life and Gene pulled her back down to earth.

  “I can just feel the vibes from
the start,” Andi continued. “I’m supposed to be on the fast track for a partnership and yet I haven’t even got an office. They’ve stuck me in a glorified broom closet.”

  Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently.

  “I’m sure that’s only temporary.”

  They ate on in silence for a few seconds. Andi was still sulking. But Gene was content to leave her to it. If Andi preferred to sulk for a while longer, that was her business.

  I can’t be her mother all the time.

  In the end, it was Andi who broke the silence – with a change of subject.

  “So how was your first day?”

  She couldn’t understand why Gene looked so upset.

  “My first day? What? At the Center? Pretty hectic. I mean, I guess I should be used to it.”

  “Are you understaffed?” asked Andi.

  She knew perfectly well that they were understaffed. Rape crisis centers always suffered from a chronic shortage of employees, exacerbated by the low pay. They were the unwanted step-child of public expenditure in California, languishing even behind education. So when recession hit, the axe fell on their exposed and vulnerable necks. As a result of that, morale was low and the staff turnover rate was high. That’s how Gene got the job as soon as she applied, with nothing more than a four minute interview.

  Not that Gene lacked the experience or training for the job. She had headed a Center in Brooklyn and had very impressive resumé.

  “Not only under-staffed, but also under-appreciated,” Gene echoed. “Everyone rails and rages against crime, but they’re more concerned with punishing the perpetrator than helping the victim recover from the trauma. Who needs to help the victim when you can get revenge. That’s the American way.”