Sergeant Lane grabbed the mic in front of him. “Mia, this is Sergeant Lane, have you pulled over?”
“Yes. Soon as I saw it happen. One of the other witnesses called the police, and the paramedics are here now. But when your screener answered, I thought I’d stay on the line and tell you what I saw. People should know what’s going on.”
I pictured Mia huddled next to her car with the phone pressed against her ear for security.
“Did you get a description of the car?” Lane asked.
“No. No, I’m sorry. It all happened so fast.”
I pressed my headset closer to my head. “Mia, can you give me a location? Where are you?”
Mia explained she was on Santa Monica Boulevard across from the Wells Fargo building. She didn’t know the cross street, but there was a partially marked crosswalk in front of her where a young man had been hit. From her explanation, I got a location and description of the scene and relayed the information to our listeners while in the background I could hear the sound of police sirens.
The relay of events, everything from Mia calling the station to Sergeant Lane taking control of the call and making sure she had pulled over, was a live example of how the news and police could work together to keep the public informed during an emergency. Best of all, before we hung up with Mia, Lane was getting updated reports from the West Hollywood PD that the driver of the vehicle had been stopped and the victim was on his way to Cedars Sinai Hospital.
I was about to wrap things up when Matt said he had another caller on the line. A woman wanted to talk to Sergeant Lane about another accident she had witnessed and was insistent Matt put her on the air. He said she wouldn’t give her name, only that she was calling from West L.A.
Tyler nodded for Matt to put the caller through. Before I could welcome her to the show, she started to speak.
“I want to talk about the accident behind the Sky High Club two weeks ago. Where Ely Wade was killed. The man this morning’s paper identified as the Model Slayer.”
I put my hands on my headphones, the voice was Sam’s. I didn’t dare use her name for fear she’d hang up. But I knew why she was calling. She wanted to get her story out, and this was the only way she knew how to do it. I told her to go on.
“I was there the night Ely Wade was hit. And, Carol, I know you know my name, and I appreciate you keeping my identity a secret. You’ve saved my life. I’m sorry I haven’t called you back, but I don’t think there’s anything else you can do. So I’m calling the station to let people know.”
Lane interrupted. “Know what, Miss? If you know something about Ely Wade or the murders, you need to come forward.”
“Sorry, Sergeant, I can’t do that. You see, the woman who accidentally hit that murderous pervert was my friend. The Model Slayer’s fifth victim. I’m calling to tell you, and anyone else out there listening, that the police have the wrong man in custody. Pete Pompidou wasn’t Ely Wade’s accomplice. He’s not responsible for those girls’ murders. The only possible connection Pete has to those girls is because he’s a photographer.”
“The police arrested him twice.” Lane said, “Why do you think–”
“Because like I said, Sergeant, I was there. And if my friend hadn’t called the police to report the accident and they hadn’t come when they did, he would have killed her right then.”
“You saw him? You’re an eyewitness.”
“No. I didn’t see him, but I heard him. We both did. It was dark, and whoever he was, he came outside the club looking for Ely just after it happened. He must have been smoking because I remember seeing the glow of his cigarette in the dark. There’re no lights behind the club, but there was enough moonlight that when he saw Ely’s body, he dropped the cigarette. He would have come after Xstacy right then, except he heard the sirens and ran off. Xstacy was afraid he was following her, or us anyway. Which is why I won’t give you my name. If he knew who I was, he’d find me and kill me.”
Sergeant Lane put his hand on top of mine. “Miss, if you have information that’s pertinent to the investigation, I urge you to come forward, we can protect you.”
The phone line went dead. I turned to Sergeant Lane. “I’m afraid we’ve lost our caller. But if she’s still out there and can hear me, please call me.”
Soon as the show ended, I scooted out the door of the studio. I wanted to call Sam back. I had so many questions. So many things I wanted to ask her but couldn’t. Not on the air, and certainly not with the sergeant sitting next to me. I was halfway down the hall when I heard Sergeant Lane behind me.
“Carol, you got a minute?”
I stopped and closed my eyes. Dammit. I knew before I left the studio Lane wanted to talk to me. I could feel his eyes boring into my back, and with nowhere to escape, I turned around and smiled. “What’s up?”
“I think you know what’s up. You knew that last caller. Who is she?”
“A source,” I said.
“A source who knows something about the murders?” Lane asked.
“I don’t think she knows anything more about the murders than investigators already do,” I said.
“She knows Pete Pompidou,” Lane said.
“She does.”
“And she knew Stacy Minor,” Lane said.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Can’t or won’t, Ms. Childs? Because if you’re sitting on information vital to an investigation, I have to warn you–”
“She already knows, Sergeant. You’re wasting your time.” From behind Lane, Tyler approached. He and Papa Phil had been standing outside the studio, chatting and must have caught every word Sergeant Lane had said to me. Papa said goodbye and Tyler continued. “And I won’t have you harassing my reporters. Carol’s already been subpoenaed, and she’s due before a judge tomorrow. Until then, I’m sorry, but whatever that anonymous caller reported on the air is all you’re going to get.”
Lane took a step closer to me. So close I could smell the stench of stale coffee on his breath. “We’ll see how she feels about that after she’s been sitting in a jail cell for a week.” Then stepping back, he smiled, a cool, calculated parting of his lips, like a warning shot and said goodbye.
“You okay?” Tyler asked.
“I’m fine.” My stomach began to knot, and I felt like I was about to be sick. “I suppose the sergeant was just a precursor of what I might face tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid so.” Tyler tilted his head back towards the studio. “I take it that last caller was Sam?”
“Yeah.” I bit my lower lip. “I guess that was her way of trying to help Pete.”
“I don’t know, Carol. Sounded more to me like Sam wanted to remind you about your promise to Xstacy not to expose her.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Either way, she accomplished exactly what she wanted to do, and there’s not much I can do about that now.”
Tyler shook his head. “I wish I could be there for you tomorrow.”
“Hey, you got a station to run. I get that.”
“King will be there. I spoke with him this morning. He’ll help you through any legal issues you may have. But the decision, Carol, what you decide to do. It’s entirely up to you.”
“Thanks, Tyler.”
CHAPTER 31
I woke up Monday morning with a sense of dread. My life as I knew it–my kids, the house, my job, and friends–was about to come to a screeching halt, and there was nothing I could do about it. Last night, Chase had tried to convince me to go to dinner, one last night out before I’d be locked away in the slammer. But I couldn’t. Despite the fact my daughter wasn’t talking to me, I wanted to go home and spend the evening with Misty in hopes that Cate might change her mind and come out of her room. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Misty explained while I was at the station, Cate had gone back to her dad’s. Her part
ing message: “Mom’s made her choice. It’s time I made mine.”
Not a great thought to wake up with, and without a lot of time to think about it, I pushed myself out of bed. I showered and dressed quickly, choosing a pair of black linen pants and a plain white cotton T-shirt with the station’s logo blasted across the front of it and glanced in the mirror. I looked tired and washed-out. The circles beneath my eyes had shadows of their own from lack of sleep. I went back to my closet and grabbed the most expensive item I had in my wardrobe. A red peplum blazer with a black printed ruffled lapel and matching cuffs, a Bill Blass original Sheri had given me. As I pulled it off the hanger, I remembered Sheri quoting Blass, “When in Doubt, Wear Red.”
I checked myself in the mirror one more time. Blass was right. I may not have felt confident, but Sheri’s red power jacket hid a world of insecurity.
Downstairs, Misty had set the table, and the coffee maker was ready to go. When I walked into the kitchen, she asked if I’d like breakfast.
“I’m not hungry, Misty. But thanks.”
“You need to eat something, Carol. You don’t know how long this morning’s meeting may take or when you’ll eat again. How about I make you an omelet? Throw in some of my fresh veggies from the garden?”
I exhaled and squeezed my eyes shut to block the tears I could feel starting to build behind them. Was I really ready to say goodbye to all this? And for how long? And for what? To protect a girl who two weeks ago I didn’t know and who if I met on the street might not even say hello to me? Why was it up to me, some local news reporter at a small radio station most people in the country would never hear about, to hold up a reporter’s right to an unnamed source?
Misty sensed my angst and put her arms around me.
“Trust me, Carol, you’re going to be fine.”
A tear rolled down my cheek. “Prediction or wish, Misty?” I tried to laugh, and another tear escaped before I could wipe it away.
“Both.” Misty took a tissue from her apron and put it to my eyes. “Chase will be here in a minute, he’s going to drive us to the courthouse.”
“Us?”
“You don’t think I’m going to let you go alone? Besides, I want to give that judge a piece of my mind.”
I laughed and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. “He’s just doing his job, Misty. We all are.”
“Well, I don’t like him, just the same. And I don’t like this Detective Soto who arrested Pete, either, and I’m going to tell him so.”
The doorbell rang. Misty patted me on the shoulder and went to answer it. It was Chase, shaved and dressed in a sports coat with a tie. I took one look at him, and my stomach sank. This was really happening. I was going to jail. There was no way out.
“You ready?” Chase stood in the doorway and tried to smile.
“Yeah.” I finger brushed my hair behind my ear, then grabbed my bag off the kitchen counter. “Let’s get this over with.”
Misty sat in the back seat of Chase’s SUV, I took the passenger seat up front. Somewhere down the 101, Chase reached over and took my hand, and I didn’t let go.
“I like the red jacket by the way. Looks good on you.” Chase nodded to my jacket.
“Well, don’t get used to it. I understand orange is the new in color for inmates this season.”
Misty put her hand on the back of my seat and leaned forward. “I wish I could help, Carol. Couple years ago, I might have had a vision and been able to give the police a description of the man they’re looking for. I’ve done that before. You remember that missing coed?”
“I do.” I smiled and put my hand on top of Misty’s. I knew she was worried. About me. The kids. Herself. I had a houseful of people dependent upon me, and after today, I wasn’t going to be there. At least not until the judge decided to let me out. “Misty, there’s something you need to do. Charlie’s coming home today, and I need you to call Cate to pick him up.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage,” she said.
“And Sheri, I haven’t told her about any of this. She wanted us to come by for dinner and–”
“We’ve got it, Carol.” Chase squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry.”
Monday mornings, things around the L.A. County Court House are usually pretty quiet. Aside from the swarm of potential jurors waiting to be selected for jury duty, the early morning business of the court is done mostly from inside a judge’s solemn chambers or in one of the smaller courtrooms. Most court cases don’t start until after lunch or jury selection or later in the week, leaving judges to clear their Monday morning calendar for arraignments, the filing of appeals and special hearings like mine with Judge Hensley.
On the way to the courthouse, King texted me. Today’s proceedings were scheduled to take place in the courtroom versus the judge’s chamber. From the looks of things, the District Attorney hoped the ambiance of the court’s bench with its high ceilings, flags, and state seal might prove to intimidate me. My red power jacket was no match for the setting. I felt a cold chill slide down my back as we entered the courtroom.
The room was empty, save for the bailiff and a court reporter who sat quietly at a table to the side of the judge’s bench. Chase, Misty, and I took a seat in the general viewing area behind a short wooden partition where I had frequently sat as a journalist covering trials.
Chase leaned closer to me. “You okay?”
“I never believed it’d go this far. I mean the subpoena was kind of sobering, but I kept thinking at some point I’d have proof it wasn’t Pete. That it was Scarface or Brian Evans.”
Chase took my hand and squeezed it. “I did too.”
Misty leaned over to me and whispered, “I thought the station would provide you with an attorney?”
“Relax, Misty.” I might as well have been talking to myself. My eyes swept from a large clock above the judge’s bench to the double doors at the back of the courtroom. Mr. King had five minutes to show, or I was on my own.
“Well, did they?” Misty asked again, this time her voice laced with impatience.
“Tyler asked Mr. King to come. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. But it’s not like he’s going to be able to do anything. I’m afraid this is going to be pretty cut and dry.”
Misty folded her arms across her chest. “Well, just so you know, I still plan to give them a piece of mind.”
The back doors to the courtroom opened. Soto, with the District Attorney Mr. Allen, entered, followed by two plain-clothed detectives and Eric. I felt my chest tighten and wedged myself back between Chase and Misty. The five went directly to a small table reserved for the prosecution. I glanced as they settled themselves in front of us and noticed Eric made no attempt at eye contact.
“You okay?” Chase whispered.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Moments later, the big double doors behind us banged open, and King came through. He was out of breath and sweat ran down his brow. Holding a bulging briefcase against his chest, he waved his hand above his head. “I’m here. Damn L.A. traffic. Can’t get anywhere in this town.”
King spotted me in the gallery and motioned for me to join him at the defense table while he emptied his briefcase.
Before King had finished setting out his papers, the bailiff stood up from his chair in front of the judge’s chamber. “His honorable Judge Hensley, presiding. Please rise.”
Judge Hensley, dressed in a long black robe and carrying a copy of what I assumed was the summons, took the bench and asked us all to sit. For what felt like insufferably long, quiet moments where I could hear King’s heavy breathing next to me, Hensley looked at the summons. Then put it aside and asked us all to take a seat.
“I understand, Ms. Childs, that the District Attorney believes you have information pertinent to the investigation of the murders of five women, as well as the identity of a probable witness in the vehicular death o
f Ely Wade.”
I started to speak, but King put his hand out in front of me.
“And while given the opportunity to share this information with investigators you have refused, citing your rights as a reporter under the California Shield Law. Is this true?” Hensley looked down at me from the bench. “You may answer, Ms. Childs.”
King tilted his head in my direction, his eyes met mine. We had been through this before, he knew my answer.
“I have, Your Honor.”
“And has your attorney informed you that in refusing to share this information that I am within my rights to sentence you to jail?”
“He has, Your Honor.”
“Then, Ms. Childs, much as I appreciate the need for reporters to maintain their right to protect unnamed sources and confidential information, I am forced today to balance that need versus the need for police to have access to information they cannot get elsewhere. For this reason, I am ordering you today to divulge your source and any information you may have concerning the murders of the five young women to the police. And since this is an open investigation, I need you to do that right now, in this courtroom, or I will be forced to sentence you to jail until such time you agree to do so. Is that understood?”
“Your Honor, if I might?” The DA was on his feet. “I’d like to make one final offer to Ms. Childs before you proceed. Give us the name of the woman you’re protecting, who we believe was with Ms. Minor the night Ely Wade was killed, and you can go home.”
The judge looked at me. “Ms. Childs?”
I shook my head.
“You’ll need to answer verbally for the record,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, before she answers, I’d like to share with Ms. Childs some photos we uncovered from Ely’s home. You see our argument is not with Ms. Childs’ reporting. In fact, Ms. Childs has proven to be an excellent investigator. She was very helpful early on in our investigation. It was Ms. Childs who led Detective Soto to Ms. Minor’s car the day police found her body in Venice, which helped in IDing the body.”
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