by Robert Greer
“Because I'm thinking we'll very likely need your clients’ testimony to help convict Epps.”
“My, my, my, Sergeant. From what I hear, you and Sheriff Sabbott weren't nearly so friendly or cooperative yesterday,” CJ countered.
“We had a possible murder on our hands, Mr. Floyd.”
“Then why didn't you take the Eastland woman's story about what happened into account? According to my clients, she saw everything,” CJ said, his voice rising.
Julie smiled and tugged at CJ's vest. “Let me pull your coattails, CJ. The sergeant here, with the blessing of the prosecution, I'm sure, just might have his eyes on a bigger fish than Epps. You see, Connie Eastland's the kind of witness they can use to go after someone else. No need to ruffle her feathers over a mere shooting in the woods. Right, Sergeant? Just for the record, I've been told all about Asalon. And I've got a feeling that instead of asking Connie Eastland for an explanation of what really happened at that ranch, which would've saved my clients the indignity of a night in jail, you were buttering her up. Kissing up to her and hoping she'd be there in the future to roll on one of our state's biggest gaming connected mobsters for you.”
“So because of your little charade and what it has cost my son and Ms. Benson, I'm going to let you in on what I plan to do in rebuttal.” Julie flashed Townsend her best courtroom gotcha smile. “I'm going to have Mr. Floyd here run down everything you've ever done during your twenty-two years on the Glendale force. That's right. Twenty-two years. As you can see, Sergeant, I've already started. And he's going to find out everything about you. From whether you ever took as much as a free stick of gum from anyone for doing them an out-of-bounds favor to whether you've ever yelled at a neighbor's cat. Not to mention your antics yesterday concerning Ms. Eastland. And then I'm going to use what he finds out to make life unpleasant for you. It'll be the kind of unpleasantness that ensures you'll never make lieutenant, Sergeant.” Julie's grin broadened. “That is, unless you help me with a problem.”
“Which is?” Townsend said defiantly.
“I want you to talk with Sheriff Sabbott and see if you can get Damion's and Ms. Benson's records expunged.”
“They were only here on twenty-four-hour hold. There is no arrest record. What's the big deal?”
“You and I know that, Sergeant. But there's no telling what might turn up in some state board of medical examiners’ office years down the road. I don't want that risk hanging over Damion's head.”
“I'm afraid you'll have to talk to Sheriff Sabbott about that.”
“Nope,” CJ said, his tone insistent. “You'll have to talk to him.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a check. Unfolding the check, he showed it to Townsend. “The check you're looking at is made out to me from Ms. Madrid's law firm, and as you can see, it's for a thousand dollars. Know what that means, Sergeant? It means I'm being paid right this second to look at you through a microscope, and it means my trip into your little world, as private as you might think it is, is going to be real, real reportable and official. Makes you wanta squirm a little, doesn't it?”
“Don't threaten me, Floyd.”
“Oh, I wouldn't think of doing that. But since we're screwing around with careers and futures here, I thought you should know my position.”
Townsend stroked his chin and eyed Damion. “When do you start medical school, Madrid?”
“Ten days from now,” Damion said, feeling caught in the middle of something he didn't fully comprehend.
Townsend looked back at Julie. “I'll see what I can do.”
Julie flashed him an artificial smile. “Now, that's taking a positive look at things, Sergeant. And believe me, we all appreciate that.” Eyeing CJ, she said, “Everybody ready to blow this pop stand?”
“Whenever you are, counselor,” CJ said, ushering a very amused-looking Flora Jean and a slightly bewildered Damion toward the exit.
Chapter 29
A week after the first rash of newspaper stories appeared, calling the events at the Lazy 2 Lazy U Ranch a modern-day shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, police and prosecutors had assembled just about everything they needed to make what many believed would be a punishable-by-death case against Wordell Epps. They had the weapon that had been used to kill Shandell Bird and Paul Grimes, irrefutable ballistics evidence to support that claim, and Epps's fingerprints and DNA all over the weapon.
In addition, they had a commitment from Connie Eastland that she would testify against both Epps and Alicia Phillips. Prosecutors planned to name Phillips as an accessory to the attempted murder of Damion Madrid and Eastland, and to shore up their claim, they had the revenge-minded Epps willing to point to Phillips, in an attempt to save at least a piece of his hide, as the person who'd suggested he kill Connie Eastland. They had Flora Jean's and Connie Eastland's eyewitness accounts of Epps's attempt on Damion's life. But perhaps the best single piece of evidence they had going for them was the Grimes and Phillips manuscript, the very trigger for the first two killings and a document that prosecutors were claiming the scorned, irrational, marijuana-addicted, onetime Pulitzer Prize winner, who quite likely had intended to kill only Grimes, had seen as a vehicle capable of returning him to his journalistic glory days.
Alicia Phillips, in search of a plea-bargain deal, had willingly given Epps up, telling prosecutors she would gladly testify to the fact that when Epps had realized the career-resurrecting and moneymaking potential of Gladiators, he'd insinuated himself into the project and demanded to be made a coauthor. She said the fact that his longtime friend Paul Grimes had denied him that distinction, telling him he would receive only a brief acknowledgment, had sent an enraged Epps over the edge. That was the story the district attorney for the 18th Judicial District and Alicia Phillips were busy constructing, and they were sticking to it.
The rifle that had been used to kill Shandell and Grimes turned out to have been a gift presented to Grimes and Epps by a grateful Colorado cattle rancher whom they'd done a story about years earlier. The rancher had a five-thousand-acre near-century-old family spread outside Aspen that at the time had been suffering under the slings and arrows of heavy-handed ski resort encroachment. He had eventually sold the ranch and moved to Santa Barbara, California, but now he was another potential witness for the prosecution. It turned out he had saved not only newspaper clippings of the Grimes and Epps’ Rocky Mountain News piece that had told his David-against-Goliath story but also the story's sidebar photograph that showed him presenting the alleged murder weapon to Grimes and Epps. A portion of the incriminating caption below the photo read: And in further appreciation, Mr. Hicks plans to teach the two investigative reporters “how to shoot the dang thing.”
Whether Hicks had actually taught either Grimes or Epps how to handle the .30-06 was of little consequence to prosecutors, since behind closed doors they were chuckling that the story would not only make for good courtroom theater but also offered them the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to introduce into evidence a photograph of the ultimate smoking gun.
There was, however, something missing from the prosecutors’ story. Something that was more than simply a minor glitch in their near-perfect nail-’em-to-the-wall scenario. They had their man, the enraged, murderous, drugged-out, scorned best friend, and they expected corroborating testimony from police psychologists waiting in the wings. The psychologists would claim that Epps had very likely decided to take his vengeance not simply on Grimes but on Shan-dell as well.
There was only one thing missing from the prosecutors’ perfect score, and that was the fact that their smoking gun and ballistics data and eyewitness accounts of Epps's attempted murder of Damion Madrid, and the plea-bargain deals, and all the psychological posturing in the state couldn't explain the fact that the bullet that had killed Leon Bird hadn't come from Wordell Epps's rifle. That single inexplicable finding cast a very definite shadow on their otherwise perfect game. The prosecutors were relatively unconcerned, but the sha
dow had had “Self-Assured Perfectionist” Damion Madrid searching for answers for over a week.
Damion had spent his last few days before entering medical school, much to the consternation of Niki, his mother, Julie, Flora Jean, and even CJ, trying to tie up that one loose end, which Julie had gotten wind of in her capacity as a trial lawyer. And now, as he sat in CJ's office staring up from his chair at the soles of the run-over Luchesse boots firmly planted on CJ's desktop—boots that had gotten more than their share of stares in Hawaii—Damion found himself confused.
Still a shade darker than when he'd left for Hawaii, CJ continued puffing on his cheroot and blowing smoke rings in the air while he waited for a runner to bring him the paperwork he needed to clear a client's bail. Unable to contain himself any longer and concerned that he hadn't been able to bring the murder of his best friend to complete closure, Damion eyed CJ and said, “This thing's not over yet, CJ.”
“Damn, Blood. You're gonna work yourself up to the point that you won't be able to focus on crossing the street, much less get through the first year of medical school. I say leave it alone. For once the law may have got it right.”
Damion shook his head. “Mom claims maybe they don't. She says that when the DA and his minions waltz into court claiming they've got Epps dead to rights, the defense is going to pull out that ballistics report on the Leon Bird shooting and argue that another gunman with another rifle could've killed both Shandell and Grimes.”
“The DA's not that stupid, Damion. Besides, he's got more than enough to hang two murders on Epps. No need for a third.”
“You're right. According to Mom, he's not stupid, just arrogant. And she should know. She went to law school with him. He's up for reelection, and he's looking to score as many points with voters as he can. She says he's egotistical enough to let the ballistics report on the bullet that killed Leon get entered into evidence just to prove that his two bullets, the ones that killed Shandell and Grimes, are from the perfect smoking gun. One he supposedly has a two-decades-old photo of. Mom says he could screw this up, CJ. And like she's so fond of saying, there's nothing more unpredictable than a trial by jury.”
“Damn it, Blood. You're starting to sound more and more like some damn attorney and less and less like a doctor.”
“Gotta remember, CJ, both professions are analytical.”
“Yeah, and one's full of sharks, excluding Julie of course.”
“Oh, she can shark when she has to. We both know that.” Damion met CJ's acknowledging smile with one of his own.
CJ's smile quickly faded. “So since there seems to be no stopping you from pressing on, you might as well tell me where you're headed with this and I'll see if I can help.” CJ wagged an outstretched index finger at Damion. “But Damion, none of that charging-down-San-Juan-Hill-on-your-own shit that you pulled on Flora Jean. I'll thump your ass, you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Lay out what you're thinking.”
Elated that CJ was at least willing to listen, Damion gave a rapid-fire response: “The cops and the prosecutors have it right. The ballistics report on the bullet that killed Leon just might shore up their case against Epps, but that report also tells us where to look for the weapon that killed Leon.”
“How?”
“You're not gonna like this, CJ.”
“Try me.”
“We're gonna need to run over to Shandell's house and talk to Mrs. B.”
CJ frowned, and his eyes narrowed into a squint. “You're right, Damion. I don't like it one bit.”
“I said you wouldn't.” Damion rose from his chair. “But you promised to help.”
“So I did,” said CJ, slipping his feet off the desktop. “So I did.”
A knot of fallen leaves swirled down the middle of the street in the wind as CJ cruised east down Fourteenth Avenue with the top down on his ’57 drop-top Chevy Bel Air, headed for Welton Street and the straight shot that would take them to Five Points and Aretha Bird's house.
“Gonna be an early fall,” said CJ, watching the leaves dance up over the curb. “Hard to believe that for the first time in years, I won't be watching you play ball.”
Damion nodded, swallowed hard, and thought about Shandell. About all the years they'd been best friends, comrades in arms, and teammates. Smiling, he thought about the fact that they'd been actual oath-taking blood brothers—Blood and Blackbird against the world. As a sudden dryness filled the back of his throat, he found himself thinking that it would probably be there forever, whenever he thought about Shandell. Looking at CJ and feeling the warmth of the late-summer breeze on his face, he said, “Why do you think Shandell kept from telling me his secret all those years, CJ? I damn sure wouldn't have told anyone.”
“I'm not certain, Damion, and I'm sure no shrink, but I can tell you this. In that macho fishbowl of a sports world the two of you lived in most of your lives, there never was and there never will be room for gays.”
“But that's crazy. I can tell you for a fact that I played ball with guys whose sexual orientation I questioned from day one. Hell, I think some of them might've been sleeping with goats.”
“Better goats than other men, Damion. We both know that.”
“He just should've told me,” Damion said, shaking his head in frustration as CJ turned onto Welton Street.
“In some ways he did. And I'm thinking maybe that was Shan-dell's way of protecting you. His way of keeping you from being tarred with the same brush as him if people ever found out he was gay. It could be that manuscript of Grimes or Alicia Phillips or Epps, or whoever wrote the damn thing, said it best. They pegged Shandell pretty much right on in that psychological profile of theirs. Standoffish, fearful, close-mouthed, and dutifully efficient, as I recall from reading that copy your mama somehow pilfered. I'm thinking his behavior was designed in part to keep the spotlight off him and on you.”
“Me?”
“Damn right. Who else do you think they would've been pointing fingers at if it ever came out that Shandell was gay?”
“Get serious, CJ. Nobody's ever questioned my sexual orientation. Besides, I have Niki.”
“And Shandell had Connie.” CJ watched the expression on Damion's face become a blank stare.
Damion rubbed the cleft in his chin. “Come to think of it, CJ, you could be right. Shandell and I barely hugged during the cutting down of the nets at the Sweet Sixteen and the Elite Eight last year. It was almost as if he was avoiding me on purpose. I thought back then that it was because both of those times he'd had bad final games. But then again, his lack of emotion could've had something to do with the point-shaving issue.”
CJ shook his head. “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Bottom line is, we'll never know, Damion. I've given you my reason for his behavior.”
Damion fought back a rush of emotion that had his stomach suddenly churning. “Yeah, that would've been like him. Be humble and stoic—reflect the glory.”
Sensing that if the conversation continued in the same guilt-producing vein, whatever had kept Damion from falling apart emotionally for ten solid days might suddenly disappear, CJ said, “We're almost to Aretha's. Time to tell me what we're looking for, Blood.”
Without hesitation, Damion said, “We're looking for a rifle. A .30-06, to be exact.”
Following a round of hugs, some tears, and a few what-ifs, Damion and CJ settled on Aretha Bird's living room couch as Aretha sank into the room's lone overstuffed chair.
Looking over her reading glasses at Damion, Aretha said, “So, you ready for school, baby?”
“As ready as I'm going to be.”
“And CJ, what about you? You down from cloud nine now that you're hitched and back from your honeymoon?”
“Mavis tells me I am. And since I've written two bonds this morning and Mario Satoni called to tell me he sold a nine-hundred-dollar antique steamer trunk out of that virtual antique store he and I own together, I'd say it's starting to look like business as usual.”
A
fter a few moments of awkward silence, Aretha took a sip of the limeade that she'd insisted everyone have a glass of, eyed Damion, and said, “You're here for a reason, Damion Madrid. I watched you and Shandell searchin’ for wiggle room when you were up to some-thin’ for too many years. Might as well spit it out.”
Hesitating and clearing his throat, Damion glanced at the lengthy healing scar running down his left arm. A scar that he realized would always be there. Eyeing Aretha, he said, “I'm looking to finally bring some closure to a festering wound.”
“Might as well tell me about it, sweetie.”
Damion let out a lengthy sigh. “You remember that night Leon met you at the Satire Lounge? The night he was killed?”
“Couldn't forget it in a thousand years.”
“Well, I've talked to Mom about that night, and she says you told her Leon threatened to beat you.”
“He did. Where are you headed with this, Damion?”
“Somewhere I really don't want to go, Mrs. B. Believe me.” Damion gnawed briefly at his lower lip. “Who else was there when he made the threat?”
Aretha eyed Damion thoughtfully before looking at CJ to see whether she should answer the question.
“It's okay, Aretha. Go on and tell him,” CJ said.
Sitting up in her seat, Aretha said, “A bunch of customers, but I don't think they heard Leon when he made the threat—and Jo Jo Lawson, of course.”
“And when Leon threatened you, what did Jo Jo do?”
Frowning, Aretha said, “He nearly choked Leon to death.”
“Do you remember him doing anything else?”
“Not really.” Looking as if she'd forgotten something, she said, “Oh, he did say he'd get Johnny to help him with Leon if Leon didn't leave.”
“Johnny who?” asked Damion.
“Another bartender, I guess.”
Damion shook his head. “I don't think so. I've checked. There's no bartender named Johnny working at the Satire.”