Long Knives

by Charles Rosenberg

  “Will you represent me on the civil end, too? The two things are obviously connected.”

  “I don’t do civil stuff anymore. No longer know how.”

  “But it’s a perfect fit. Since there’s really no discovery to speak of in criminal matters, we can use the discovery in the civil case to find out what’s going on on the criminal side.”

  “Yeah, that can work sometimes, but I’m not your guy for that.”

  “Who would you recommend?”

  “You must know a zillion civil lawyers, Jenna, and, like I said, the insurance company will probably appoint someone to represent you.”

  “I want my own lawyer, too.”

  “Ask Robert to do it. He needs to get out from under that Tess woman for a while.”

  “I’m reluctant to do that.”

  “Are you and Robert on the outs?”

  “Kind of. He was pissed when I left the firm. Didn’t even invite me to his retirement party.”

  “I wondered why you weren’t there.”

  “Now you know.”

  “I asked after you, Jenna, when I was in Paris visiting Robert, and he explained that he was angry at you, not just because you left the firm but because you sneaked around about it and ended up cratering the new department he was trying to set up—one that I was going to join and you were going to run, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Why did you do that? Sneak around about it?”

  “Because I was afraid if I told Robert about wanting to go teach, he’d talk me out of it, using brilliant, persuasive arguments. Probably presented on flip charts.”

  “Oh, okay. Knowing you and knowing him, that makes some sense. Well, in any case he’s perfect for advising you about the civil suit. Since he’s retired he might do it for free. I suggest you two make up.”

  “Maybe that’s already happened. When I talked to him to get your number, he said he was willing to help if he could do it from there. And although he didn’t ask me to, I’m going to fax him a copy of the complaint.”

  “Good. I think he’s just the right person for it, but he’ll have to come back. I sensed he’d like to be in the States for a while anyway. Now, let me give you some additional guidance on the criminal end of it. First, don’t talk to the police.”

  “Oscar, I can’t decline to talk to them. The guy was a student in this law school. And he died. I can’t refuse to participate in the investigation and hope to keep my job.”

  “All right. I take your point. But say as little as possible.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. In the meantime, buy yourself a computer that UCLA hasn’t paid for, stop sending e-mail about this stuff via the university’s servers or Wi-Fi, even if it’s through your own private e-mail account and use a cell phone that you paid for and with monthly charges that aren’t paid for or reimbursed by anyone else.”

  “Is the new stuff to have some restricted use?”

  “Yes. Use only that new cell phone to call me or your other lawyers. Don’t give anyone else the number and don’t call anyone else on it. Use the new computer to write up any notes related to this matter and put ‘prepared in anticipation of litigation/attorney client privilege’ at the top of every page. Don’t type anything else on it. Use the new computer to set up a new e-mail address, and use that e-mail only to communicate with your lawyers. Put the same heading on every e-mail.”

  “Wow. You’re really up on your technology these days.”

  “Pandy made me go to an introduction to the Internet class, and I could immediately see that all of this stuff is a prosecutor’s dream.”

  I laughed out loud. “I see.”

  “I don’t see what’s so funny about it. But once you get clean equipment, write up the details of all of this and send it to me. Did Robert give you my e-mail address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, good-bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  After we clicked off, I tossed the folded paper into my purse so as not to leave it behind in my office. Aldous had come in one day and noticed fifteen or twenty folded papers in the wastebasket. He’d been teasing me ever since about being OCD. There was no point in leaving him further evidence to support his diagnosis.

  CHAPTER 25

  After the call with Oscar, I spent a few minutes in my office trying to work on the added footnotes Stanford had requested for my law review article. It was no use; I was just staring out of the window. I needed to get out of there or I was going to start folding paper again.

  I locked up my office, walked to my car and headed for Best Buy. The nearest one was about fifteen minutes away. When I got there, I bought a notebook computer and a cell phone. I registered the cell to Verizon because my old one was with AT&T. I also bought a new coffeepot for my office.

  As I exited the store, lugging my haul, I almost bumped into Julie Gattner, the student from my Sunken Treasure seminar. As usual, she was well dressed, in this case wearing black wool slacks and a standing-collar red blouse, covered by a jet-black knit wool sweater. And topped off with a jaunty red beret.

  “Oh, hi, Professor.”

  “Hi, Julie.”

  “I’m glad I ran into you, Professor. Do you have a few minutes? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Something about your research paper for the seminar?”

  “No. Just some information I have that might be of use to you.”

  “Oh. Shall we find a place where we can grab a cup of coffee? We can’t just stand here in the entryway to Best Buy.”

  “I’m kind of in a rush. What if we just sat down over there?” Julie pointed to a nearby green bench that was bolted to the sidewalk.

  “Sure.”

  We walked over to the bench and sat down, and I unloaded my bundles beside me.

  “Well,” Julie said, “this gets a bit personal, but here goes. I want you to know that I dated Primo for several months and I know some things.”

  I was immediately wary. Relationships between professors and students, once they went outside the normal realm and got into students’ personal lives, even if volunteered, were problematic. There were so many rules about confidentiality and privacy and a host of other things, and it sounded as if Julie might be about to cross some line.

  “Julie, I’d like to hear what you have to say, but I want to make sure you aren’t about to violate anyone’s confidences or invade anyone’s privacy.”

  She paused for a moment, clearly thinking about it. “I don’t think so. And also, once someone’s dead, they don’t have any privacy rights anymore, isn’t that right?”

  “Well, that’s not my field, but I think that’s generally correct, as long as you’re not violating some statute or reg.”

  “Well, I never had any confidentiality obligations to Primo to start with, did I? I mean, I’m not a government or a university he attended or a company he worked for.”

  “I guess that’s right. Although if you contractually obligated yourself not to disclose something…”

  “Yeah, I see. But, whatever, I’m going to risk it. Stop me if you think I’m getting into areas I shouldn’t.”

  “Okay.” I have to admit that I very much wanted to hear what she was about to say, while I was, at the same time, distressed at the legal dance we’d just performed. In essence, I’d given Julie legal advice without learning all of the facts and ignoring whatever conflicts I might have.

  “Like I said, Professor, Primo was my boyfriend. We dated for about three months, and we broke up about six weeks ago.”

  “Maybe this is too personal, Julie, but what do you mean by ‘dated’? That covers a wide range of, uh, activities.”

  “Until we broke up, we were living together. In an apartment in Santa Monica. The inexpensive part of Santa Monica, south of Colorado and inland from the ocean.”

  “And?”

  “The lease was in his name, so I had to find another place. When I heard yesterday that he had died, I we
nt back to the apartment because I still had a few things there and I wanted to get them. I still had a key. I waited until I was sure no one else was there. When I was looking around for my stuff, I opened a drawer and came upon his diary under some shirts, and—I guess I’m still angry—I took it.”

  “How do you know it was his?”

  “It’s his handwriting, and it mentions some things only he and I could know about.”

  “So you read it.”

  “Yes.” She turned bright red. “I shouldn’t have, but it was, you know, almost irresistible.” She paused. “Okay, it was irresistible, obviously.”

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “It says he was planning to show you a copy of a map so he could get you involved in a project involving sunken treasure. I think he wanted to ask for your help with the legal aspects of recovering the treasure.”

  “Uh-huh” was all I said. It seemed best not to volunteer anything, at least until I got a better sense of where this all was going.

  “I thought you’d maybe be interested in seeing it.”

  “For the Sunken Treasure seminar? Is that why you thought I’d be interested in the diary?”

  “No, something else. The diary says that his brother—his name is Quinto—didn’t want him to approach you about the project. He was threatening to kill him if he did. Or, you know, at least that’s what it says.”

  “Does it say why?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything else in the diary that, uh, pertains to Primo’s death?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think you should turn it over to the police?”

  “Part of me does, but part of me says you should see it first.”

  “Why?”

  We were sitting side by side on the bench, our heads turned toward one another. Julie leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “Professor, people are saying you killed him. And the diary exonerates you. If I give it to the police, and it disappears, it won’t do you any good.”

  So the rumor had spread. Now I had to decide whether to acknowledge it or act surprised and offended. I chose a middle ground. “Julie, I heard from another person that that rumor was going around. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s spread even more widely. It would be really helpful to me to know where it’s coming from. If I might ask, who told you that?”

  “You know, I’d really rather not say exactly who told me. At least one professor and one student. Plus, you know, there was a reporter from the Daily Bruin snooping around the law school, asking questions.”

  “Are they saying how I killed him?”

  “Uh, poisoned coffee.”

  “Do you believe that, Julie?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You know, if you think the rumor is false, don’t you think the right thing to do would be to tell me who’s spreading it?”

  “I just don’t want to get involved, Professor. Beyond telling you about it, which I’ve done.”

  I didn’t say anything in response. After a moment Julie said, “Uh, Professor, I really have to go. Do you want the diary or not?”

  “Yes, I guess I do. But why don’t you just make me a copy?”

  “I don’t want to copy it. I just want to get rid of it, frankly.”

  “All right, then. Just leave it in my box at the law school. In a plain envelope.”

  “If I do that, someone might take it.”

  “That’s true. Why don’t you just slip it under my office door?”

  “That sounds risky, too.”

  I sighed. “So what do you suggest?”

  “Do you know where the botanical garden is at UCLA?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about this? I’ll walk up the steep main path there at 9:15 A.M. That’s right after it opens. You walk down the path at the same time, and I’ll hand the diary to you as I go by.”

  “Isn’t that a little too much like a spy novel?”

  “Yes, maybe. But I’m nervous about the whole thing.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll see you there. And thanks, Julie, for letting me know about this.”

  “No worries, Professor. And, uh, again, I know you didn’t do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  She got up and walked away. I watched her saunter slowly over to her car, which was in the parking lot, and get in. After she drove away, I realized there were all kind of things I should have asked but hadn’t. Well, there was always tomorrow. After I got a look at what was, in essence, a stolen diary.

  CHAPTER 26

  Week 1—Wednesday

  I tossed and turned all night. At 5:00 A.M. I finally gave up trying to sleep, got up, reheated a leftover cup of coffee in the microwave and drank it down. Then I got dressed and walked into Westwood. It was only five or six blocks, and the walk in the chilly morning air helped drive away my sleepless night. It was still dark when I got to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. The only other people there were various Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center workers—the med center was only two blocks away—in their various-colored uniforms, tossing down final cups of coffee before their shifts started.

  I bought a super large double latte, along with two blueberry muffins, and plunked myself down at one of the little round tables. Which was when Dr. Nightingale walked in. Unfortunately, he saw me before I could scoop up my coffee and muffins and depart. He came directly over to my table. “Mind if I join you, Professor?”

  “Suit yourself,” I said.

  “That’s not very friendly,” he said as he tossed his iPad down on the table, marking his spot.

  “Well, why should it be? My student was in your ER, dying, and you were trying to pick me up.”

  “That’s not what happened. Let me get a cup of coffee and then I’ll set you straight.”

  I watched him standing in line and ordering, not exactly looking forward to being set straight but not seeing any easy escape. After a few minutes, he came back over, pulled out a chair, set his coffee cup next to his iPad and sat down.

  “So now you’re going to set me straight, Doctor?”

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t a great way to put it. Can we just start over?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Look, when I came back to the ER waiting room with your coffee, I had no idea your student was at risk of dying. We had rehydrated him and he had regained full consciousness. He was chatting happily away with us, and his vital signs—heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen level—had all returned to normal. Not long after that, his vital signs began to head back downhill. We stabilized him and decided to admit him to the hospital. An hour or so after that, he crashed.”

  “Crashed?”

  “His heart stopped. And we couldn’t restart it. Ten of us tried everything we could think of for almost an hour.”

  “What caused it?”

  “We have no idea. All of our tests and X-rays were negative. We assumed when he recovered so quickly with hydration that he’d had too much to drink the night before, although there was no alcohol on his breath. Or we thought it was maybe a mild overdose of prescription meds.”

  “The lab tests didn’t show anything at all?”

  “I shouldn’t be talking about that at all, really.”

  “How about just a little?”

  “All right. Let me speak hypothetically. When you’re brought in like that, unconscious, very shocky, with no obvious trauma, the blood tests and imaging we run on the spot only tell us in more detail what kind of shape you’re in. But unless it’s a heart problem or some lung-related condition like an embolism, they probably won’t tell us right away exactly what’s causing your symptoms. There are some exceptions, but they weren’t applicable to him. And the tox screen we do for drugs and some other chemicals doesn’t come back instantly.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  I realized this was like taking someone’s deposition. He clearly realized it, too, because he took a long sip of his coffee before answering, which
is what witnesses in depositions often do when they want a little extra time to think.

  “For example, maybe your potassium is really low. But if we’ve ruled out the likely causes—especially if you’re young and otherwise healthy seeming—the tests won’t usually tell us, or at least won’t tell us quickly, why your potassium is low. Instead, we might just try to bring it back up rapidly. Maybe we push potassium into you.”

  “Push?”

  “Inject.”

  “I see.”

  “Can I steal a little piece of your muffin?” he asked.

  I picked up the one muffin I hadn’t yet attacked and handed him the whole thing.

  “Wow. Thanks. Is that a peace offering?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  I took a bite out of my remaining muffin and chewed for a moment before continuing. It sometimes helps to slow down the pace when you’re questioning someone. If they feel at ease, they may open up more.

  “What did your preliminary tests show you?”

  “Nothing of importance about the underlying cause of death. None of the tests we ran predicted he was about to die, and none of them told us anything about why he did. It was as much a surprise to us as to you.”

  “What will it take to find out?”

  “The autopsy will tell a tale, and the tox reports the coroner will run from blood samples and tissue will likely tell a fuller tale. An educated guess would be that he ingested something unusual that did him in.”

  “There’s no quick way to find out?”

  “No, and in addition to the autopsy, there will be a police investigation, and there will likely be a coroner’s investigation, too. If you know, where did he collapse?”

  “In my office.”

  “I probably knew that at one point, but I’d forgotten it. I’m surprised the coroner hasn’t already sent an investigator to check out your office.”

  “For all I know, maybe they have. My office seems no longer to need my presence for people to wander in and out.”

  “Well,” he said, “I need to get going.” He paused. “Given that we agreed to start all over again, will you take my phone call?”

  “Sure. What will you be calling about?”