Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 08

by Justice

  Whitman said nothing, as quiet as a chastened puppy.

  Decker stopped treading the floor and ran his hands through his hair. “I told you no promises. If you heard different, you heard wrong! Your girl is going down and it’s your own damn fault! Stop looking for villains. Instead, look in the mirror.”

  “You gonna arrest me for assault?”

  “Hell, yeah, I’m going to arrest you for assault. And, buddy, that’s a charge that’ll stick like tar.”

  Whitman’s eyes darted about the room. “Call up the prosecution. Get them down here. I want to cut a deal.”

  “Cut a deal?” Decker was incredulous. “Cut a deal?! Whitman, you got rocks between your ears? You’ve got nothing to deal with.”

  Whitman tried to make eye contact, but couldn’t sustain it. He blinked again. “I…I want to…confess. Get the State down here. I want to plea-bargain.”

  Decker paused, unsure if he had heard right. His ears were still buzzing from his whack in the stomach. His head was pounding. He lowered his voice. “Did you just say you wanted to confess?”

  Whitman nodded. “Yes.”

  “Confess to what, Chris?”

  “To Cheryl…” Whitman bounced his leg up and down. “To Cheryl Diggs’s murder.”

  “All right.” Decker felt himself panting and reminded himself to breathe normally. “All right, that’s fine with me. I did hear you right. You said you wanted to confess to the Diggs murder. Am I correct?”

  Whitman licked his lips and ran his hand over his face. “I want to plea-bargain. If I get what I want, you’ll get what you want.”

  Decker said, “Okay, Chris. I’ll set it up as fast as I can. You want to call your attorney?”

  Whitman shook his head. “He wouldn’t let me go through with it. He…my uncle…no. No, I don’t want my attorney.”

  “You’re waiving your rights to an attorney?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll sign a waiver card?”

  Again, Whitman nodded.

  “Okay, Chris,” Decker said. “Just hold that thought until I can get everything arranged.”

  “You’re still going to book me on assault?”

  “Yes,” Decker said softly. “Yes, I have to do that. But who knows what kind of a deal you can cut? Maybe we can get the assault thrown out. But no promises, okay?”

  “Okay,” Whitman whispered.

  Decker said, “I’m going to take you downstairs to booking until I can get everything squared away. I’ll bring you back up just as soon as I do.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re not fucking around on me, are you?” Decker said. “Because if you are, I’m going to be pissed.”

  Whitman shook his head mechanically. “I’m not fucking around. I want to deal. I want…I’ll give you what you want. Just as long as I get what I want.”

  “That’s what cutting a deal is all about,” Decker said. “I’m going to bring you down now. No more stunts, okay?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “S’ right. No harm done.”

  “If it’s any consolation, my hand hurts.”

  Decker clamped his hand on Whitman’s arm and helped the kid to his feet. “Chris, it is no consolation for me whatsoever.”

  Since the Diggs case had made the news as well as the papers, Prosecution was not just Erica Berringer but also her boss, Morton Weller. He was a rail-thin man in his fifties with over two decades of experience with the DA’s office. White tufts of hair sat atop his long face, which held a beak nose and deep-set eyes. A birdlike neck housed a big, bobbing Adam’s apple. Weller had a deep voice.

  State had brought a video camera. Decker put the DAs in a small interview room, giving Weller and Berringer time to set up. Davidson joined them a few minutes later. He had caught wind of the action and had demanded inclusion. As long as Davidson was going to be there, Decker figured Scott Oliver also had a right to know what was going on.

  By the time everyone was ready, the once barren room was filled to capacity. Decker hoped the crowd wouldn’t scare Whitman off. He brought him from holding, and after making the introductions, he asked Whitman if he still wanted to forgo his rights to an attorney. Whitman nodded and signed a waiver card.

  Decker said, “I’m going to turn on a tape recorder, Chris. We also want to videotape this interview. Any objections?”

  “No,” Whitman said. “But there won’t be anything worth taping unless I get what I want.”

  “Which is?” Davidson broke in.

  Weller said in an undertone, “Lieutenant, we can’t afford to rush. Please.” He looked at Erica Berringer. “Are you all set?”

  Erica made final adjustments with the camera controls. She turned on the switch and peered through a viewfinder. “We’re rolling.”

  Decker turned on his tape recorder and stated the identification of all the parties involved. Finally, Weller sat back in his chair. He said, “Tell me what you have in mind, Mr. Whitman.”

  “I’ll plead guilty to Man Two, three to six. In exchange, I want the assault charge dropped, plus I want suppression of any and all evidence found during Sergeant Decker’s search of my apartment.”

  The room went quiet. Weller flashed him a hard look. “You’ve thought about this, have you, Mr. Whitman?”

  “Very much.”

  Weller looked Whitman in the eye. “Sir, I don’t know where you’ve learned the legalese…I suspect it’s from the electronic school of TV law…but something or someone has steered you in the wrong direction. Because I know the evidence against you. And I know what I can do with it. Manslaughter is out of the question.”

  Whitman said, “Mr. Weller, if we go to trial, and if I’m convicted, the most I’ll get is Involuntary Manslaughter.”

  “You think so?” Davidson blurted out.

  “Lieutenant, I know so. With time served in jail prior to trial, I won’t do a day in prison. And that’s if I get convicted, which is a big question mark. I’m offering a break not only to you but also to the taxpayers of LA.”

  Weller and Berringer passed a sidelong glance to Decker. He tried to make his shrug invisible.

  Weller said, “And what’s your proposed defense, sir? Abuse or Diminished Capacity?”

  “Either/Or.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Erica said. “A little birdie told you to strangle her.”

  “Not a birdie, just the voices in my head. And believe me, Counselor, it’ll fly. Because unlike certain rich-kid brothers in this city who almost got away with murder based on nothing, I’ve got documentation—a solid, psychiatric history of mental illness prior to Cheryl Diggs’s murder.”

  Weller glanced at Berringer, then at Decker.

  “Why are you looking at Sergeant Decker, Counselor?” Whitman seemed annoyed. “He doesn’t know anything. Because it’s not the kind of stuff that one advertises. But I will if I have to.”

  Again the room went silent. Oliver broke it. “This defense save you from being shitcanned in the past, Whitman?”

  “Well, it won’t work now,” Davidson said.

  “My record’s squeaky clean.” Whitman looked at his hands. “What you have is an abused kid with mental problems, and no prior record of antisocial behavior.” He looked up and grinned. “I guess I just snapped.”

  Everyone waited a beat. Then Decker said, “Tell me your history, Chris.”

  “Pick a condition, Sergeant…one from column A, one from column B. You want verification of my voices, I’ll send you my files from the Northfolk County Psychiatric Hospital. I was an inpatient there for three months when I was twelve.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Whitman said, “Or how about depression and despair? I’ll give you the dates of my two suicide attempts as well as the names of each mental hospital where I was subsequently committed. A month in each.”

  Davidson said, “Kid’s a nutcase!”

  Whitman flashed him rage from hot blue eyes. “You said it, Lieutenant! And I
’m betting a jury’ll feel the same way.” He looked at Erica. “Are you getting all this on tape, Counselor?”

  She said nothing.

  Whitman said, “As long as we’re doing true confessions, I might as well tell you about my prior drug and alcohol condition. Six-week inpatient stay at the Clinic Care Hospice in upstate. I voluntarily checked in right before I came out to Los Angeles. Unfortunately, I’ve had relapses. People saw me drinking the night Cheryl was murdered. Of course, I don’t remember too much.”

  “I’ll bet,” Davidson muttered.

  “How much of a wager, Lieutenant?” Whitman retorted. “You short on cash, I’ll take a marker.”

  “Shut up, Whitman,” Decker snapped.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Again, the room went dead.

  Whitman said, “Out there are lots of notes about my mental state. The picture isn’t pretty. Looks like I’m never going to run for office. Unless mental illness suddenly becomes PC.”

  Decker said, “Is that all, Chris?”

  Whitman’s eyes went dead. “It isn’t enough for you, Decker?”

  Decker rolled his eyes. “Whitman, I’m just trying to get a total picture.”

  The teen seemed mollified. “You want to hear about the abuse?”

  Decker was impassive. “Yes, I do.”

  “The usual. Cigarette burns in the back and butt along with scars from some slashing across my lower back and thighs. Now, the missing spleen. That’s a good one. Courtesy of a sucker punch from my old man when I was eight. Nice emergency surgery done at Lenox Hill in Manhattan. I’m sure they keep excellent records. My father did time for it. I was taken away, put in foster care for a couple of months. Then my old man swore he had reformed. I was sent back home and…what can I tell you? Old habits are hard to break.”

  Whitman sat back in his chair and blew out air. But his expression was anything but smug. Decker realized he’d been tensing, even cringing as the kid told his tale. And if this was the gut reaction of a seasoned cop of twenty-odd years, he could only imagine how the boy’s story would play to civilian jurors.

  “You said I’m nuts, Lieutenant? You’re absolutely right.”

  Again, there was silence.

  “Matter of fact, I’m about this close…” Whitman measured out a tiny space of air between his erect thumb and forefinger. “About this close to a breakdown. I can feel this…this buzz in my brain that keeps getting louder and louder and louder…I mean I’ve been there before. The only reason I’m maintaining is because someone else is involved. So do we deal or what?”

  Weller was quiet.

  “Speak to me, Counselor,” Whitman said. “I’m getting very uptight.”

  Weller said, “Any deal we cut is predicated on your telling the truth. And that’s a big if since you’re a known pathological liar.”

  “Fine,” Whitman said. “Check it out. I’m not worried. I accept your conditions. So let’s talk about pleas. You heard my offer. Are we done?”

  Weller said, “If you’re telling the truth—and that’s a big if—”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Weller.”

  The DA said, “On a confession and a plea of guilty, I’ll give you Man One, six to twelve. Best I can do, Whitman.”

  “That’s shit.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “That’s shit.”

  “Now who’s repeating himself?”

  Whitman buried his hands in his face, then looked up. “Let’s see. Even if I should receive max…with prison crowding and time off for good behavior, I should be out in what? Around six, seven years?” He looked at Decker. “That sound about right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll be twenty-five….” He nodded. “I can truck with that. But you’ve got to drop the assault charge. And most important, I want my drawings back before I get shitcanned.”

  To Weller, Decker said, “If you have the plea, State doesn’t need the drawings.”

  Davidson said, “Whose side are you on?”

  Decker said, “What difference do the sketches make once we’ve settled on a plea? You want to hear what I care about? I care about Cheryl Diggs. Before you bargain, I want to hear his story.”

  Whitman said, “Too bad. Because I’m not going to confess anything until I’ve got a deal.”

  “How can we deal until we hear what happened?” Decker said.

  “That’s your problem,” Whitman said. “And even when I talk, I want it off the record.”

  “What good does something off the record do?” Davidson said.

  “It gives me a sense of completion,” Decker said. “How about this, Counselor? We hear Whitman’s story off the record. If it sounds plausible, we deal. If not, I send Whitman back to jail, we go back to what we already have. No harm, no foul.”

  “Not a chance,” Whitman said. “Bargain first, confession later.”

  The room turned silent. For a moment, the only sound was the whirring of the video camera.

  Weller tapped his foot. “I like Decker’s solution. We hear you off the record first. You don’t talk, we don’t deal.”

  Whitman banged the table with his fist. “I don’t believe this shit!”

  “Believe it!” Davidson said.

  “Oh, fuck—”

  Decker said, “Chris—”

  “Fuck you, too!”

  Davidson said, “Send him back. We’re through.”

  “I’m not through,” Decker said.

  Davidson said, “You bucking me, Decker?”

  “Looks that way,” Whitman said.

  “Whitman, shut your fucking mouth!”

  The teen went quiet. Decker took a seat next to him. He leaned into the kid’s face and spoke softly. “You want your friend dragged into your mess, Chris?”

  Whitman was quiet.

  Decker spoke in the kid’s ear. “You can save her, guy. But first you’ve got to tell me your story. Just the two of us, okay?”

  “You and me and the rest of the vultures looking through the one-way mirror.”

  “No. Just me and you and the video camera, all right?”

  Whitman was silent.

  “We talk in privacy,” Decker said aloud. “Later, I play it back for Mr. Weller and for Ms. Berringer.”

  “Then what?”

  Decker looked at Weller. “How about this, Morton? If we like the story…and if the kid’s history checks out…if he passes both tests…you’ll agree to Man One, six to twelve, no assault, no drawings.”

  Weller swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like an erratic thermometer. “All right.”

  “Whitman?” Decker said.

  The kid buried his head in his hands, then looked up. “Why should I trust you?”

  “So who are you going to trust, Chris?” Decker smiled. “You want to trust your lawyer? You want to trust your uncle? Tell me what you want.”

  The teen blew out air and nodded.

  “That’s a yes?” Decker asked.

  “It’s a yes.” Whitman shook his head. “You like what I say, we deal. Let’s get this over with.”

  Davidson said, “It better be good, Whitman.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It’ll be good. Because it’ll be the truth.”

  29

  Erica said, “You push this button here when you’re ready. This red light should go on. That means it’s recording.”

  Decker said, “I think I can handle that.”

  Erica glanced at the blanket hanging over the one-way mirror. Decker knew that the crew on the other side would be straining to see or hear something. They’d get their opportunity later on.

  The young DA left the interview room and closed the door. Decker made final adjustments through the viewfinder, then pushed the record button. He pulled up a seat opposite Whitman, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one of the smokes, and handed it to him. The kid inhaled deeply.

  “Thanks.”

  Decker poured him a glass of
water. “Anything else?”

  Whitman shook his head.

  Decker waited.

  Whitman leaned his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, placing his forehead on his knuckles. Wisps of smoke swirled to the ceiling, hairspraying the room. “In order to get with the program, you’ve got to know the history.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Right before I came out here, I was six weeks in detox for drug and alcohol abuse.”

  “What drugs do you do?”

  “Did. Past tense. I did lots—reed, coke…popped a little scag. Also, I had lots of legal drugs—imipramine, Prozac, Xanax, Haldol. But mainly, it was booze. Like all boozehounds, I’ve got a really high tolerance for drinking. It takes a lot before I feel a buzz. I don’t have a good stop mechanism until I’m blitzed out.”

  Decker kept his face flat. “You just can’t help yourself. It’s an illness.”

  Whitman looked up, cigarette between his fingers, and broke into a smile. “Yeah, these hospitals aren’t too big on personal responsibility. They say the lines—gotta pull yourself up and take charge—but not too loud. Because if being self-indulgent isn’t an illness, they don’t get their insurance money.”

  Decker waited.

  “It’s all pretty irrelevant,” Whitman said. “All I’m saying is, when I’m drunk, I’m basically comatose. Which means I don’t remember anything.”

  “You ever get DTs?”

  “Couple of times. But that was right before I was committed to County for hearing voices. So I don’t know which caused which—the psychosis or the booze.”

  “What did your voices say?”

  “I don’t remember much, but I don’t recall anything violent. Stupid, repetitive things. ‘Tie your shoes, tie your shoes, tie your shoes’…over and over. But it was a real pain in the ass because I listened to them. You have any idea how miserable it is to tie your shoes a million times a day?”

  “Do you remember your official diagnosis at County?”

  “Something like Acute Episodic Self-Limiting Paranoid Schizophrenia—Adolescent Onset. I might have gotten a couple of words out of order. Anyway, the voices went away after I took medication. Eventually, I was weaned away from the Thorazine and that was that. But even after I was discharged, I still drank.”