“I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life,” Carrie answered. “Your mother wasn’t much older than you when I left home. I abandoned her, Tracy. It wasn’t right to leave her alone with our mother. I knew what was going on, how bad Mother’s drinking problem had become. I only thought of myself.” She cranked the ignition and pulled away from the curb. “Let me give you a piece of advice. You can never escape from a problem. You may think you’ve escaped, but until you confront it and do the right thing, that problem will always be lurking in the shadows.”
Tracy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you,” she said. “I think it would be wonderful if you lived with us.”
Because Rachel was a police officer, she was placed in a cell by herself in the protective custody wing of the jail. By the time the booking process was complete, it was past six and dinner had already been served. “I can see if I can get you a sandwich from the kitchen,” the female jailer told her.
“It’s all right,” Rachel said, dropping down on a comer of the bare mattress. “I’m not hungry.”
The Ventura County Jail had been erected in the early eighties. When it had opened for business, the new jail had been a model of sophisticated technology, one of the first correctional facilities in the United States operated solely by computer. The regular cells were located in quads, opening up into a large room containing a television and several stainless steel tables. During the day, inmates in the quads were allowed to wander in and out of their individual cells and congregate in the activity room. Even though the men’s section was showing wear and tear, the women’s wing was still in excellent condition. It even had an aerobics room, and several times a week an instructor came in to teach classes.
Rachel collapsed on the thin mattress, pulling the coarse blanket over her body. She balled up the lumpy pillow, then placed it under her head, the plastic cover making a crunching sound. Curled up on her side, she inhaled the stagnant jailhouse air as she stared through the metal bars into the corridor.
Visiting hours started at eight o’clock. Not long after, Rachel was led to the common room and took a seat inside a small partition facing a wall of glass. She picked up the phone to speak to her daughter. “Did you come by yourself? Where’s Carrie?”
“She’s working on your case,” Tracy said. “I got a ride down here with a friend.”
“What friend?” Rachel asked, puzzled. “You keep talking about getting rides, Tracy, but you’ve never told me which one of your friends has a driver’s license.”
“I met a boy,” she said timidly. “His name is Matt, and he’s really nice. He’s the person who gave me a ride home from Sheila’s house that morning.”
“How long have you known this boy?” Rachel asked, wondering why Tracy had never mentioned him before.
“About a month,” Tracy told her. “I met him at the arcade by our house. He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”
“Have the police tried to talk to you again?”
“No,” Tracy said. “But don’t worry, Mom, I’ve taken care of everything.” Matt was waiting outside in his car. She had promised to have sex with him after she concluded her visit with her mother. She wanted to make certain the boy would support her mother’s alibi before she told the police he had given her a ride home the day of the shooting.
“You have to tell them the truth,” her mother said. “Promise me you won’t lie.”
“Why?” Tracy said. “Carrie thought what I did was really smart. She said not many girls my age could think on their feet the way I did.”
“I forbid you to lie,” Rachel said. “You’re only fourteen. Perjury is a serious crime. Please don’t let Carrie talk you into doing this. If you do, you’ll live with it the rest of your life.”
“I’m doing it for you. Mom,” she said. “If I don’t tell them you were with me, they’ll send you to prison.”
“Forget the alibi,” Rachel said. “As soon as you leave, I’m going to call Sergeant Miller and tell him the truth, that I was alone inside the house when Grant Cummings was shot. It’s over, Tracy. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
Tracy shook her head in frustration. “Why did you have to go on TV and say all these things about the police department?” she said. “I see dope deals going down at my school all the time, but I don’t go running straight to the principal. Everyone knows what happens when you snitch. If I snitched off a drug dealer, he’d probably come back and shoot me.” She glared at her mother. “Is that what you want me to do, Mom? Isn’t that the same as what you’re doing? If I don’t report things I know are wrong, does that make me a bad person?”
“Let me explain something,” Rachel said. “If you decided you wanted to carry a gun for your own protection, the police could arrest you and charge you with a felony. Is that right?”
“I guess,” she said.
“When you drive over the speed limit,” Rachel continued, “can the police stop you and give you a ticket?”
“If I had a driver’s license,” Tracy said, having no idea where her mother was going.
Rachel pressed on. “Police officers have the right to handcuff you, take away your freedom, have you brought up on criminal charges. Don’t you understand, Tracy? Along with the authority a police officer is given comes responsibility. And it’s far greater than that of an average citizen.” She sucked in another breath. “When a police officer breaks the law, or fails to perform his duties in the community, it has an enormous impact on society.”
“I understand,” Tracy said. “I know someone should speak out about what those police officers did. I just don’t understand why that person has to be my mother.”
Rachel decided to change the subject. “How’s Joe?”
“He misses you,” her daughter said. “He doesn’t know where you went. I told him you were on a vacation. I don’t know if he believes me or not. I’m not sure he knows what a vacation is since we’ve never gone on one.
Rachel overlooked the veiled barb. “What happened with the cheerleading try outs?”
Tracy’s face brightened. “I made it. Mom. But you haven’t heard the best part. Carrie’s going to move in with us. Friday morning after the court hearing, she’s going to fly to San Francisco to get some of her stuff and put her apartment up for sale.”
“You and Joe could stay with her in San Francisco,” Rachel said, surprised at this new development. “Why would she leave her job?”
“Carrie’s tired of living in San Francisco,” Tracy told her. “She’s going to get another job here. She says we can get a bigger house if we all live together. She doesn’t want me to have to change schools now that I made cheerleader.”
Rachel saw the look of excitement in her daughter’s eyes. Placing a palm against the glass, she said, “I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. I’ve been thinking about Joe. You were right, honey. It wasn’t fair for me to get pregnant when your father was dying. It was a selfish thing your father and I did. We didn’t think about the future, that the responsibility of caring for Joe might fall on your shoulders. I wanted to give your father a son. I thought if we shared the joy of bringing a new life into the world, his death might seem less frightening.”
At the mention of her father’s death, Tracy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How could a baby have anything to do with Dad’s death?”
“It’s part of the cycle of life,” Rachel told her. “You’re born. You live. You die. We’re terrified of death because it represents the unknown. Death is a natural process, even though it sometimes doesn’t appear that way. In many ways, birth is similar to death. Maybe if we believed we were going on to a new life, we’d celebrate death in the same way we celebrate birth.”
“I’d rather be born than die,” Tracy said, bitterness sparking behind her eyes. “Besides, there wasn’t anything natural about what happened to Dad. I was there, remember?”
“Everyone eventually dies,” her mother said. “No one escapes, Tracy. The only difference
is how long you have on earth, and what you manage to accomplish with the time you are given.”
“Whatever,” Tracy said, frowning.
Rachel realized she should have had this conversation with her daughter years ago. The buzzer sounded, signaling that visiting hours were over. A voice came out over the loudspeaker issuing the five minute, warning, and Rachel panicked. Everything she had wanted to do as a mother was slipping away from her. She remembered the day Tracy had been born, holding her in her arms for the first time, all the promises she had made. How many of them had she broken? She had vowed that she would never disgrace her child, never hurt her, never abandon her. She would teach her daughter values, have long discussions with her, provide a role model she could emulate. Here she was sitting in jail, surrounded by criminals.
She had broken every vow.
Rachel thought of her own mother. Were they really that different? Had Frances set out on the road to motherhood with the same lofty aspirations? She remembered her mother taking them to church every Easter Sunday, buying them pretty clothes to wear. When she led her daughters into the church, people had whispered and stared. Frances had accepted their scorn because she wanted her daughters to have a normal life. Before the kidnapping, the house had been filled with music and laughter. She realized Carrie had been right. Her mother had not always been a monster.
Rachel saw the guard motioning to her. “I love you,” she said. “I’m so proud that you made cheerleader. I’m going to come to every game. I promise, baby. Once we get through this, we’ll know we can survive anything.”
“I love you too,” Tracy answered. As her mother stood to leave, she traced the outline of a heart on the glass.
“How did it go?” Matt asked when Tracy opened the passenger door to his Datsun.
“Fine,” she said, getting in and fastening her seat belt. “Where are we going to do it? There’s no one at my house right now, but my next-door neighbor might I see us. The last thing I need right now is for my mother to find out. She told me she was going to call the police and tell them the truth about what time I got home, but I don’t think she was serious.”
Matt’s eyes flashed with excitement. “There’s an abandoned shack not far from my house. A few of my friends have gone there with their girlfriends. They say it’s a little spooky, but we won’t have to worry about anyone spying on us.”
Tracy curled up by the window as Matt cranked the ignition and took off. When he pulled into a dark, wooded area and parked, she saw a rundown building about the size of a tool shed. The windows were boarded up, and the roof was made of tar paper. “Maybe we should just do it in the car,” she said, fiddling with the buttons on her blouse. “There could be rats in that place.”
Matt yanked his T-shirt over his head. “Anywhere is fine with me.”
“I bet,” Tracy said, giving him a harsh look. “You’re going to do what you promised, right? If you go back on your word, I’ll tell the cops you raped me.”
“I won’t go back on my word,” he said, scooting over beside her.
“Did you bring a rubber?”
“Of course,” Matt said, patting his jeans’ pocket. He leaned over to kiss her. Instead of connecting with her mouth, his lips touched the end of her nose. “You’ve got a runny nose,” he said, pulling back. “Do you have a cold?” A few moments later, he realized she was crying. “Damn,” he said, slapping the steering wheel with his good hand, “I knew this was going to happen.”
“It’s okay,” Tracy said, wiping her nose with the edge of her shirt. “It’s not about your hand. Matt. I’m worried about my mother.” She paused, knowing it was more than that. “I always said I wouldn’t have sex until I got married. I guess that’s silly, huh? Nobody waits until they’re married anymore.”
Matt pulled her into his arms, feeling how badly she was shaking. For a long time, he just held her. “It’s not such a terrible thing to wait until you’re married,” he said, stroking her hair. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get married some day. My mom was only sixteen when she met my dad.”
“Right,” she said, looking up at him. “Once we have sex, you’ll probably never see me again. I know how it works. Guys are real sweet until they get what they want, then they dump you and tell everyone you’re a tramp.”
“I have an idea,” Matt said, smiling. “Give me a kiss and we’re even. But it has to be a really big kiss, not just a little peck on the lips. We’re talking tongues and everything.”
“And you’ll still tell the police you left me at the house before seven?” she asked, straightening up in her seat.
“Yep,” he said.
“You promise?”
“Scout’s honor,” he said. “Do we have a deal?”
“Kiss ahead,” Tracy said, closing her eyes and giggling.
A wine bottle sat on Rachel’s dining room table, along with two half-empty glasses and several open law books. Mike Atwater was reading through the lab report on evidence found in the police locker room while Carrie finished preparing her discovery motion. It was after ten, and Tracy and Joe were in bed.
“Can I take a look at that report?” Carrie said, her leg brushing accidentally against Atwater’s under the table. They both flinched, but when she looked up he was smiling.
“Not until you file your discovery motion,” he told her, turning the report face down on the table. “If Blake Reynolds finds out I’m helping you, he’ll run straight to Ringwald.”
“Look,” Carrie argued, “I’m going to get the report in the next few days anyway. Don’t you want to help Rachel? What does it say?”
“Not much,” Atwater said, stretching his arms over his head. “You’re a lot like Rachel, you know.”
“Oh, really?” Carrie said, taking a sip of her wine. “Come on, Mike, what does the report say?”
“I’m not going to let you read it,” Atwater said, scratching the side of his face. “But there is one thing I find peculiar.”
“Shoot,” she said.
“The lab didn’t find Rachel’s fingerprints inside the locker room.”
“Of course they didn’t find her prints,” Carrie said, scowling. “She was never inside the men’s locker room. You don’t believe she actually shot this man, do you?”
“No,” Atwater said. “The evidence is pretty compelling, though.”
“She didn’t shoot him,” Carrie said, her voice escalating. “I know my sister, Mike. She would never shoot a man in the back.”
“Okay,” he continued, placing his palms on the table. “There’s something else I find intriguing. This man they call Ratso—”
“Frederick Ramone,” Carrie said, tapping her pen against her teeth. “What about him?”
“His assigned locker is number 489, but the lab found his fingerprints inside locker 212.”
“What does that mean?”
“Locker 212 is directly adjacent to Grant’s locker. If you will recall, he was standing in front of his locker at the time he was shot.”
“Ah,” Carrie said, her eyes lighting up as she considered the ramifications of what he was saying. “Rachel accused Ramone of brutalizing one of the boys involved in the Majestic Theater incident. He was also one of the men on the beach. But why would Ramone shoot Grant Cummings? From what I understand, Cummings and this man were bosom buddies.”
“I interviewed an officer this afternoon by the name of Chris Lowenberg,” Atwater said. “He said Ramone was basically the whipping boy for the graveyard shift. Cummings was constantly belittling him.”
Carrie’s eyes roamed around the room. “Do you think Ramone could have shot Cummings so he could implicate Rachel?”
“Possibly,” he said. “Fred Ramone is the only plausible suspect I can think of besides Jimmy Townsend. Townsend has a partial alibi, though. His wife and kids swear he arrived at his house only minutes after the shooting went down.”
“What about Nick Miller?”
“That might work,” Atwater said. “Miller claims
he was in his office at the time of the shooting, but no one saw him there.”
“What do we know about Ramone?”
“Not much,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m a step ahead of you. After I left you this afternoon, I put in a call to Internal Affairs and asked them to check Ramone out.”
“Good,” Carrie said. In her exhaustion she rubbed her hands over her face. A few moments later, she leaned back in her chair. “Why doesn’t your agency dump this stupid case against Rachel and concentrate on convicting these corrupt cops?”
“Hey,” Atwater said, “I’m all for it. Even Ringwald would like to dismiss the charges against Rachel. As long as the PD continues to pressure us, however, we don’t have a choice. A crime was committed, and there appears to be ample evidence that Rachel committed it. Of course,” he said, a sly look on his face, “I think you can manage to discredit this eyewitness without a problem. The first thing I’d ask him is why his prints were found in the wrong locker.”
Carrie wanted him to clarify his statement, but she knew to remain silent. The attorney had just leaked important information. If Fred Ramone was the state’s star witness, as Atwater had just implied, then he was the person who had reported seeing Rachel with the gun in her hand inside the men’s locker room. Because Ramone had been implicated in the attempted rape at the beach, Carrie knew his testimony would be tainted. If she pressed hard enough, she might be able to impeach this man and by doing so, create reasonable doubt in the eyes of the jury. “Could this locker have been assigned to Ramone at an earlier date?”
“Not according to the information the police department provided,” Atwater told her. “Locker 212 hasn’t been used in almost a year. Since the recent budget cutbacks, the department has been downsizing.”
“Hot damn,” Carrie exclaimed. “Where exactly did the lab lift the prints from? Were they on the door itself or inside the locker?”
“Inside the locker,” Atwater said, standing to leave. “Two full sets were lifted from the right interior walls.”
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