‘We planted a bug in the dashboard of Gus Miller’s van.’
‘And your plan was to follow Mr. Miller and Mr. Bunt to the target and intercept them?’
‘Yes. Tragically, we lost sight of the van in a thunderstorm. And we were staking out the wrong place. It cost a man his life. Two men, if you count Mad Dog Finkel.’ With tremendous dignity he adds, ‘I – I take responsibility for it. As an American, as a Californian, as a police officer, and as a human being, it weighs heavily on my conscience.’
‘Scumbag!’ mutters Goins. It’s his turn. His knuckles are white as he clenches the podium.
‘Isn’t it true,’ he cries, ‘that you obtained this recording because it was my client, Benjamin Bunt, who was wearing the wire on your behalf?’
Munoz looks genuinely perplexed. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Isn’t it true that my client was your snitch on this? That he’s merely playing a role on this tape that you assigned to him?’
‘Is that what he told you?’ Munoz looks at Goins pityingly. ‘I’d like to see some evidence of that. We’re dealing with a very cunning little conman here. A career hustler. In prior cases, it’s true, he has supplied information, though its reliability was always iffy. What makes him dangerous is he knows how to lie. He’ll weave his fabrications in among facts that can be verified. He knows the best way to hide a lie is between two truths.’
‘Isn’t it true,’ Goins trudges on, ‘that if you’d simply arrested Mr. Finkel immediately on learning of this alleged hit, none of this bloodshed would have happened? Isn’t it true that, but for your bungling, two people would still be alive?’
Munoz clenches his jaw. ‘We made a judgment call,’ he says.
‘In the interests of your own personal glory, isn’t that right, Detective?’
‘We needed to know – – ’
‘All to resurrect your fading career, correct? You were on your way out, thanks to a stack of use-of-force complaints, and this was your last gasp, wasn’t it?’
‘No, sir,’ Munoz says evenly. ‘Unless we knew the intended target, we would never be able to piece together who issued the contract.’
‘It turned into a complete and utter debacle, didn’t it?’
‘It bounced out of our control, sir. In hindsight – – ’
Goins is sputtering angrily, ‘And isn’t that why you are now blaming my client? As a smokescreen for your complete incompetence?’
‘We erred, sir.’
‘Isn’t it true that you actually supplied Mr. Bunt with a gun, with the promise that it was inoperative? Isn’t it true that you botched that, too?’
Munoz doesn’t reply, but his look says the question is too preposterous, too desperate, too stupid to answer. He glances at the judge, as if to say, ‘Am I supposed to take that one seriously?’ She looks at him sympathetically and darts her eyes away so suddenly I become convinced she is in love with him. And who wouldn’t be?
‘Well?’ demands Goins.
‘There’s another one,’ he says, ‘I’d like to see some evidence of. We would not give a dangerous weapon, under any circumstances, to a criminal.’
When Munoz steps down, the prosecutor stands beside me and jabs his finger in my direction some more.
‘Your honor, we believe the evidence plentifully demonstrates that this man conspired to commit the murder of Matt Nastahowsky, and was in the commission of this felony when his confederate, Mr. Gerry Finkel, a.k.a. Gus Miller, suffered fatal burns, which makes Mr. Bunt responsible for felony murder in that death. We believe the evidence is ample – more than ample – to bind Mr. Bunt over for trial in Superior Court.’
‘What says the defense?’
Goins stands at the podium, shifting from leg to leg as he gazes down at his notepad. ‘This is a conspiracy, your honor, perpetrated by rogue cops intent on whitewashing their role in a ghastly foul-up – – ’
‘Counselor,’ the judge cuts him off. ‘You are making an argument for which you have furnished no testimony, no evidence. Do you have any to give? Are you putting your client on the stand?’
Goins looks at me grimly. He shakes his head. ‘No, your honor.’
‘Okay,’ the judge says. ‘I’m binding it over. You will stand trial for murder in Superior Court, Mr. Bunt. You will get a fair one. Next case.’
When my attorney sits down beside me I say, ‘What the fuck, Goins? What the fuck?’
‘Buckhorn would have disemboweled you,’ he says hoarsely. ‘What you say here is admissible at trial, and I couldn’t risk it. If we want to have any shot before a jury, we have to get your story straight.’
‘My story’s straight as a ruler, man. You said so yourself.’
‘I thought so until today,’ he says. ‘Best way to tell a lie is to squeeze it between two truths, isn’t it, Benny?’
CHAPTER 29
The next day Goins comes into the jailhouse interview room and opens his briefcase without a hello.
‘Just got back from a tête-à-tête with the prosecutor,’ he says coldly. He writes on his notepad as he talks, his eyes never meeting mine. ‘Good news. They’re willing to take the death penalty off the table, if you cooperate.’
‘Cooperate?’
‘Plead guilty to all charges and offer your testimony against Helen Langley, explaining how she set this up.’
‘Cloe’s mom?’
‘She’s a fat cat, and happens to be a big contributor to the guy running against the Orange County DA in this year’s election, and they want her a lot more than they want you.’
‘But I never talked with the lady about . . .’
‘Lucky for us, gas stations use surveillance cameras, and some use digital, which means they keep them for months. Based on the dates you gave me, my investigator tracked down the tape of your encounter with Helen Langley at the PCH mini-mart. You’re shown in the parking lot having an animated conversation with her – an argument – which culminates in her slapping you. Now, there’s no audio, but it’s proof you’ve met. All you have to do is testify that she was talking about the murder.’
‘The thing is – – ’
‘I’m not suborning perjury here. I say if this happened, you testify to it. Otherwise, they put a needle in you. You want a needle in you?’
‘I thought you believed in me, Goins. I thought we were gonna fight this.’
Finally he looks at me, and in such a quietly ferocious way that I can’t look at him.
‘Finkel told Telly Grimes it was a fifty-grand contract,’ he says. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Gus blew everything up.’
‘How long does it take for symptoms of chocolate toxicosis to set in, Benny? Reach into your mansion-house memory and pluck that out for me.’
‘I don’t know. Who cares?’
‘I looked it up on the Net this morning. Three, four hours before a victim of chocolate poisoning will start showing symptoms. And yet in your version, Jesse James dies almost on the spot.’
‘He had a bad heart. It was cardiac arrhythmia, something like that.’
‘I’m asking myself, “Why is Benny lying to me about how that dog died?” I’m asking myself, “Who would falsely cop to a thing like murdering a dog? What bigger thing does it hide?”’
He lets his questions hang between us, until I start stammering helplessly.
‘Shut up,’ Goins says. ‘My investigator has been talking to people. One guy at the bar said the dog kicked off a couple days before you and Finkel left for the hit. Heard Finkel blubbering into his booze about burying him at the beach.’
‘I swear to you, Goins – that’s dead wrong. Because we took him into the mountains. I put him in the ground. Check my shoes, analyze the mud: I was there!’
‘I think you went up into the mountains, and I think you dug a hole. But I don’t think it was a canine carcass you put down there. You needed an explanation for why you went up there, because you believed someone might have seen your van. So you made yourself
a despicable dog murderer.’
‘You’re not even a real lawyer, Goins.’
He smiles humorlessly. ‘Well, maybe you can draw a map, send someone to fetch that fifty grand out of the dirt and hire yourself a bona fide private attorney you can try to bullshit.’ He crosses his arms and strokes his jaw, his face all sour victory. ‘The worms can’t spend it. I’m thinking you convinced Finkel to bury the money before heading out, for safety’s sake – just in case you got caught on the way. And when he took the fall for the hit, you would circle back and use the cash to start all over as John Romita. A whole new life. A snake shedding his skin.’
I start crying. ‘You think I meant for anyone to die?’
‘I don’t know. I believe you thought you could outsmart everyone. Maybe you were their snitch, and you just didn’t count on a real gun. Or maybe you were the guy with the murder contract all along, and things just bounced bad. I’ll tell you this – you read me pretty well. You had me going with the poor-schmuck-in-over-his-head thing. It’s the kind of story sentimental suckers like myself have a weakness for. A law- enforcement conspiracy that’s virtually vertical? In the light of day, well, it’s all just so wildly implausible that to risk it on a jury would be pretty stupid. And I was ready to do it, which is a measure of your imagination and my stupidity.’
‘I want another lawyer! A real lawyer! I’m firing you!’
‘I’m not here to blow sunshine up your ass. They’re going to kill you if you don’t tap-dance for them. Your record doesn’t help your credibility, Benny. If I can save your life, I can look in the mirror and say I’ve done my job.’
‘I’m not pleading to anything.’
‘It doesn’t really matter, legally speaking, whether it was you or Finkel who whacked Nastahowsky. Under the law you’re both principals. “When you run with the wolves, you share in the kill.” Jack London.’
I clasp my hands between my legs to stop their sudden violent shaking.
‘Occam’s razor,’ Goins says. ‘The old philosopher, Occam, who said, “Let’s cut the horse puckey. The true route between A and B is the straightest line between A and B, all else being equal.” Which is what Cal Buckhorn is going to tell the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, which is the more believable scenario? That these veteran law-enforcement officers, these decorated officers who risk their lives every day, have concocted this elaborate plot, have knowingly destroyed evidence, have railroaded an innocent man? Or, scenario two, that this low-life Benny Bunt got caught in a murder scheme and is trying to save himself by inventing, out of whole cloth, a ridiculous story meant to beshit the names of these sterling officers? Occam’s razor. Which story is so much cleaner?”’
‘Those pricks staged Munoz’s shooting so they could waste a drug dealer, and got me to lie to back it up. That’s sterling?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me you have some independent proof of that, right? Physical evidence? Videotape?’
When in response I offer nothing but silence, Goins shakes his head at me with an expression of weariness and disgust.
‘I can live with whatever you wanna do here. Fight this puppy? I’ll do it. You’re the client. You get the needle. Thanks to the ACLU and civil-liberties saps like me, it doesn’t even hurt much these days.’
I listen to the humming of the air vents in the interview room for a long time. After a while I start crying again and I listen to the snot sucking in and out of my nose. Finally, numb, depleted, I nod. Goins gives a small, tight smile.
‘Like I said, they want Helen Langley. In a sworn deposition, you’re going to describe how she propositioned you to whack Nastahowsky.’
‘Even if it’s not true?’
Goins frowns. ‘Sorry? I missed that. Come again?’
‘Even if it’s – – ’
‘I’m sorry, I keep missing that. Too many Grateful Dead concerts. I didn’t hear you.’
I take the message. ‘That’s the price for my life?’
‘You have a problem with that?’
‘Tell me something, Goins. You’re a smart dude. You know how the world works. What happened to you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re just a PD. You make pennies next to what other defense guys make. You drive a Honda or a Yugo. You look like shit. Your clients insult you. I’m betting you left law school wanting to be Clarence Darrow or Johnnie Cochran, and you’re not either. I mean, where’d you go wrong?’
He shrugs; he is not even offended; he will be rid of me soon. ‘That’s a funny thing to hear, from a man sitting where you are. You’re a bright one. Why didn’t you ever do anything with yourself?’
‘Society. Bad breaks. Nobody throwing a line. I don’t know.’
‘Sure. Everybody’s got a list.’ He packs his briefcase with a blank face. ‘I’ll be back with your plea papers.’ He rises and buzzes for the guard. ‘Who’s John Romita, anyway? Why that name?’
‘A guy I wanted to be, a long time ago,’ I say. ‘He drew Spider-Man.’
In his face: a flicker of pity. Yet as he stands waiting near the door, ungainly and stoop-shouldered, ridiculously I feel sorry for him, sorry for his raped hopes.
‘What was life gonna be like, as John Romita?’ he says. ‘You must have pictured it.’
‘Every day for months,’ I say. ‘Find a girl who was nice to me and treat her like gold. Never go into another bar or talk to another cop. Come home from some job, whatever it was, with clean hands and a clean conscience. Maybe Mexico or Canada or Florida – one of those places people disappear to.’
I’m about to tell him more when the guard opens the door. Goins jerks his head quickly in my direction, says, ‘Back tomorrow with your plea papers,’ and disappears.
CHAPTER 30
From the deposition of Dean W. Langley, taken at the office of the Inyo County District Attorney:
Q. So it was her idea?
A. From the beginning. It had been floating out there, kind of unsaid, before she came out with it.
Q. And what specifically did she say?
A. The word was ‘exterminate.’ Like a bug.
Q. What was your reaction?
A. I was appalled, naturally. This is a human life we’re talking about.
Q. Yes, it is.
A. So naturally I was appalled. I stood up to her. I said, ‘You’re a crazy woman, you’re insane.’
Q. She wanted you to find someone to kill Mr. Nastahowsky?
A. She kept pestering me. Day in, day out. All day, every day. Are you married?
Q. This isn’t about me.
A. That fat little harridan calls my office seven, eight times an afternoon. She pages me on the golf course, on the yacht. She stands over me while I’m trying to work my bowels. Even there!
Q. Relentlessness itself.
A. I was appalled all the way through it. I’m appalled now. Q. A Fury, you might even say.
A. What’s appalling is how I let her treat me all those years. She liked to tell people she kept my balls in a little mason jar on her nightstand. Do you understand?
Q. Let’s, uh, please continue with the chronology . . .
A. I mean, where does a man like me start looking for a killer? There’s no one like that in our social circle. Here we are, blessed with money. Envied. Active in the community. The Daily Pilot puts our New Year’s party in its society page. The American Dream. And yet – –
Q. No friends of that sort.
A. Who would want one? Well, Helen maybe.
Q. At some point you meet a man who called himself Gus Miller.
A. I found him on the road. When I hit him.
Q. The universe is so funny that way.
A. I’m coming home on PCH, and I guess I’m not looking, and I slam into this – I’m thinking it’s a bum. He’s reeking of booze, he’s covered with blood, his dog’s hurt, he’s threatening to tear out my pancreas and eat it.
Q. Describe him.
A. Big and grubby, big outlaw-looking type.
Beard. Tattoos that said, like, hardluck bastard and a bunch of war stuff. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, he just wants me to pay him, and I say, ‘Sure, let’s go to my ATM.’ Because I don’t want any trouble. And on the way he starts bawling.
Q. Crying?
A. But in a kind of weird, hostile way. Raving about the government, and how he had to do unspeakable things in Vietnam, and how fat cats like me were the American dream, but he was the American nightmare. How yogurt-eaters like me in our safe little worlds, in our Benzes, we didn’t want to acknowledge there were guys like him. So I give him five hundred dollars so he doesn’t sue me, and he calms down, and we go for donuts.
Q. Then what?
A. I threw some work his way. He was good with his hands. We needed our deck redone.
Q. Which is how he meets Helen.
A. I never should’ve – I mean, I felt sorry for the big old guy, okay? I had a friend whose uncle was in Vietnam, and my heart goes out. How am I supposed to know he’s a psychopath?
Q. They strike up a rapport.
A. You could call it that. She jumps right in with the questions. ‘You’re versed in the dark arts? How interesting! How do you use a garrote? When do you use piano wire? What cutting implements do you find preferable? In what circumstances is strychnine or oleander tea the best tack?’ It seems like he likes the attention.
Q. Were you a participant in these conversations?
A. No! I was appalled. I just listened. From the other room, listened. I didn’t know what I should do, I – I didn’t know – –
Q. So then?
A. So then she says, ‘I have this problem, and I’ve exhausted the usual remedies.’ She says, ‘I’m in the market for non traditional solutions. I’ll pay whatever. I’ll pay in advance.’ He says, ‘I’m on borrowed time, I wouldn’t know what to do with the money.’ I mean, he’s acting like this is going to be a lot of trouble for him.
Q. He expressed reluctance?
A. Almost like he’s throwing out excuses. So Helen starts bawling. She says, ‘I’m desperate. My daughter’s been kidnapped by a sociopath who calls himself a poet.’ Shows him Cloe’s picture and says, ‘This is what he took away from us.’ The big guy gets really emotional. She takes him up to Cloe’s room – what used to be Cloe’s room – which we haven’t changed – and shows him all her things. Yearbooks, music, stuffed animals. And explains how Cloe skipped college, to live with this, this creature. . .
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