The Disappearance

by J. F. Freedman

  He can’t stop himself. He drives ninety miles in the middle of the night, sneaks onto his own properly, goes into her room to confront her. And sees two other girls sleeping there. He has to get her out of there. And then something tragic happens.

  One thing Luke knows. He knew it from his first day on the job as a deputy D.A. almost two decades ago. Rage, in its uncontrollable-ness, is the biggest reason (outside of alcohol, and the two often go hand in hand) that people kill, rape, maim. And there is a great amount of rage around here. Someone directed it at him, and could have killed him. And someone directed it at Emma Lancaster, and killed her. If it wasn’t Joe Allison, the killer is one and the same. And he’s still out there, waiting.

  There’s one line Luke has not allowed himself to cross. But now, with the trial looming, he has to. It goes like this:

  Doug Lancaster abducted his own daughter. And then he killed her. Because he had been in an incestuous relationship with her, and when she found out she was pregnant she couldn’t handle it anymore. She was going to blow the whistle on him.

  It’s a disgusting, brutal thought, but he has to think it now. This is the way it could have happened.

  Think the unthinkable.

  The guest house is musty, hot, dark, the windows closed, the curtains and blinds drawn. He pulls the blinds on the front windows and opens them, feeling a rush of air.

  It’s an attractive little place, nicely furnished. Glenna Lancaster brought a personal touch that fits Joe Allison. It’s spare; the house is modified Mission-style, which lends itself to simplicity and lack of clutter.

  A cleaning crew came in to straighten things up, some time ago. Nothing since. Luke runs a finger along a thin row of dust on a bookshelf. It isn’t bad—a couple of hours of elbow grease and you could move in right now.

  He has a copy of the original search warrant with him, as well as a description of what was removed by the sheriff’s search party led by Detective Sterling, and where each item was found. The condoms and the running shoes. Later they came back with another warrant, but didn’t find anything else incriminating.

  The pink condoms were in the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet over the sink, bottom shelf. He goes in there, opens the cabinet. Shaving gel, twin-blade disposable razor, roll-on antiperspirant, Dr. Scholl’s foot powder, aftershave lotion from Caswell Massey in New York, scissors, tweezers, nail clippers, dental floss. The scissors, tweezers, clippers, and floss are on the bottom shelf, where the condoms were also found. It’s a crowded shelf, although orderly, even with the box of condoms gone. He looks at the evidence list. There were two three-packs of condoms, half a box. If Allison was using that brand with Glenna, then Allison and she were getting it on hot and heavy, more than Allison copped to—which is a good assumption. You don’t buy rubbers by the dozen if you’re only going to use a couple.

  He can tell one thing about Joe Allison from looking at his medicine cabinet—the guy’s a neatness freak. Everything is lined up just so, nothing pushing anything out of the way. No spillage. If a box of contraceptives had been on that bottom shelf, it would have crowded everything. A neatness freak wouldn’t have put them there.

  Think, man, think. Allison wouldn’t have them there at all. His girlfriend was here all the time, she stayed over. She would have occasion to use the medicine cabinet, it’s right over the sink.

  Luke can imagine the scene:

  “Honey, could you come in here a second?” This being Nicole, fresh from her shower. She’s gone into the cabinet for foot powder or deodorant—and there they would be. “Where did these come from?”

  Allison would reply, “Oh, I use them when I’m fucking the wife of the man I work for. For some kinky reason, pink turns her on.”

  That explosion Luke hears in his brain is the crash and burn of Allison’s relationship with Nicole. No way! If Allison was careful enough to never have Nicole around when he was with Glenna, is he careless enough to leave incriminating evidence in plain sight, where his girlfriend would find it?

  It doesn’t fit. Not even loosely.

  Allison keeps his shoes in his clothes closet. He has several pairs, arranged by style and color. Dress loafers, dress laceups, running shoes, basketball shoes, beach thongs. Each category separated from the others by a wooden divider. On the rods above, suits, sports coats, slacks, jeans, shirts. All in categories, the formal stuff he wears in front of the camera in one space, his casual stuff in another. Several items are still in their plastic bags fresh from the cleaners.

  Allison had someone come in and arrange his closet, one of those outfits that maximize space. And he was assiduous about maintaining the order.

  Luke scans the police report again. Where were the shoes found?

  Stuffed in a laundry bag that had been shoved under the bed. There’s no mention of what laundry was in the bag.

  He squats down and looks under the bed. Nothing is there, only a thin layer of dust. He makes a mental note to have the cleaning crew in again, to keep the place from becoming an allergy incubator.

  Back to Allison’s closet. In one corner, a hamper. He lifts the lid—a few items to be washed, all darks.

  There’s a small service porch off the kitchen, in back. A washer and dryer are situated against the wall. Luke opens the washer lid. It’s empty. Then the door to the dryer.

  A load of whites. That have been sitting there for almost six months.

  So here’s another nagging question, a series of them: If Allison had left the incriminating running shoes under his bed, in a laundry bag, mightn’t there be others under the bed as well? Had he been out running earlier that day and left them there, to be moved later to their rightful spot in the closet?

  But why in a laundry bag? Under the bed? From the look of things, the man didn’t use a laundry bag, he threw his stuff in a hamper. He had no need for a laundry bag. He had his own washer and dryer.

  Allison has steadfastly maintained that the shoes were lost before the kidnapping, a year earlier. Standing in the man’s bedroom, Luke is forced to believe him.

  The trial starts tomorrow. There will be a bunch of preliminary stuff, motions and so forth, and then they’ll get into picking the jury, and that will take time, a lot of it.

  All of that is to come. Tonight is to live, to be alive. He’s grateful to be alive, he’s come too close to not being. He appreciates what he has, more than he ever did. It’s a revelation, a good one.

  He takes Riva to The Bistro, a new, small restaurant tucked away on a quiet lane in Montecito. He’s calm—she’s the one with the pretrial jitters.

  “How do you feel?” she asks, sipping some water. He’ll allow himself one more drink, a glass of wine with dinner. He wants to be supersharp tomorrow morning.

  “Okay. Qué sera, sera, or whatever.”

  “How can you be so calm?” she asks. “I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight.”

  He smiles. “I’ve been doing this all my life. It’s all the other stuff that gets me nervous.”

  “Like waiting for it to start?”

  “Yes, that. And other things. Look,” he says, “the shooting is in the past. I’m here. I’m a survivor. I’m stronger than ever. And because all that crap happened to me, I met you, and that’s been the best thing in my life in years. So let’s celebrate tonight.”

  She smiles. “I’ll drink to that. And your case.” Her smile to him has an almost Mona Lisa quality, a hidden contentment. Like she knows secrets he doesn’t. “You’re going to win,” she asserts. “When it’s all over, you’re going to be the last man standing, Luke.”

  They lie in bed. The midnight hour chimed long ago.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispers, knowing without looking that he isn’t.

  “No. Are you?”

  She laughs without making a sound. Her hand goes to his thigh.

  He’s enjoying the touch. He never sleeps much the night before the show begins. He isn’t lying in bed awake with worry, but with anticipation. Thi
s is what he does, what he lives for. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  He isn’t completely here with her; he’s in the courtroom, making his opening statement. He hears the sounds resonating in his head. It’s like playing air guitar in front of your bedroom mirror and the next second you’re on stage at the Rose Bowl and a hundred thousand maniacs are going out of their minds because of you.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she says. “This isn’t the time.”

  He turns on his side, looks at her. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “Because you’re starting the trial tomorrow and you don’t need any more distractions than you already have.”

  He touches her face. “Now I’m really curious. Come on, tell me. Whatever it is, it won’t distract me. I could use a distraction, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’ve been waiting for the right moment,” she says, clearly procrastinating, “but there isn’t one.”

  He takes her hand in his. “What?” he says, not really here, his mind still racing with courtroom anticipation. Jokingly, he says, “You’re going to tell me you’re pregnant, is that it?” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury …

  “Yes.”

  He isn’t in the courtroom anymore. He’s here, in bed, with her. Long after midnight, when all the world is asleep, except for them. And maybe Joe Allison and Ray Logan and a few others. “You are?” His voice is a mixture of disbelief, awe, surprise, shock. “Pregnant? You’re pregnant?”

  “From the night I didn’t use the diaphragm.” She hesitates. “The night you didn’t let me.”

  “This is—this is—whoa!”

  She exhales, as if she’s been holding her breath for weeks. “God, I’ve been worrying about this—the timing—you’re about to start the trial, that’s where all your energy and thought should be,” she’s almost stammering, the words are racing so fast out of her mouth, “when you have a kid, things are different—”

  “Riva.” He squeezes her hand. “Slow down.”

  She sits up. In the moonlight her figure looks like something out of a perfect Botticelli etching. “Do you want to have this baby?” she asks.

  He feels a shock through his body. “Yes.”

  “You want to, you’re not just going to tolerate it, go along with it.”

  “I want to,” he says. “I do.” He pulls her to him, cradling her, cuddling her, holding her. “We have a life, Riva. This is proof.”

  “Is the prosecution ready?”

  Ray Logan stands. “We are, Your Honor.”

  “Is the defense ready?”

  Luke stands, buttoning his coat, touching Allison lightly on the shoulder, for reassurance. Allison’s all spiffed up for his court appearance—freshly pressed suit, crisp white shirt, rep tie. He’s had a haircut by his own barber, who went into the jail to do the work. He even got a manicure, to smooth out his bitten cuticles.

  “Your Honor, the defense is ready.”

  Judge Ewing nods to both men. “The case of the People versus Joseph B. Allison will commence. Before I bring the first group of jury candidates in, do you have any motions?” He looks at the prosecution table, where Ray Logan sits. Accompanying him are two assistant D.A.’s, his jury consultant, and an executive assistant. Seated in the row behind them are more members of his staff, paralegals, detectives from his office (Lovett prominent among them), Sheriff Williams, and other establishment heavies.

  Ewing swings his look over to Luke. “Mr. Garrison?”

  Luke stands tall. “Yes, Your Honor, we do.”

  Logan’s head jerks at this unexpected development.

  Luke picks up a manila folder that is on the table in front of him. “We have recently discovered a key piece of evidence that the prosecution has been withholding from us, Your Honor,” he says gravely. “It casts tremendous doubt on the entire validity of the initial search and seizure of Mr. Allison’s car on the night he was arrested, and thus on the entire legal underpinning of the prosecution’s case. We ask that you examine this and then declare the search of Mr. Allison’s car to have been illegal, pursuant to the California penal code, section 1538.5, and that any and all evidence discovered as a result of that search and any subsequent events be inadmissible at trial.”

  “Your Honor—” Logan begins.

  Ewing puts up a hand for the prosecutor to be silent. “You already filed an Information on this issue, Mr. Garrison,” the judge says sternly. “It was not accepted. Why are you attempting to revisit it now?”

  “Because, as I just said, Your Honor, new evidence has come to light which we did not know existed, and which should have been given to us as part of discovery. It was not.” He brandishes the file in his hand, then drops it with a thud on the table. “In addition, Your Honor, an attempt was recently made on my life, which you may be aware of.”

  “Of course I am,” the judge replies.

  “It follows logically that whoever tried to kill me had a motive,” Luke asserts. “The motive possibly being that whoever it was doesn’t want me on this case. That person might be afraid that in the course of my defense of Mr. Allison, I might simultaneously uncover exculpatory evidence that not only will exonerate my client but point the finger in the direction of Emma Lancaster’s real killer.”

  A buzz goes up in the courtroom. Ewing’s mouth sets in a hard line. “In my chambers, gentlemen.” He gets up and marches off the bench. Logan, following, sidles by Luke. “What are you trying to pull?” he hisses. “This is the worst kind of showboating.”

  Luke wiggles the folder that he’s holding. “Let’s see,” he replies. “Let’s let the judge decide. In case you’ve forgotten, Ray, you’re not the judge.” A pause for effect. “And you sure as hell ain’t the jury, either.”

  Judge Ewing looks up from the pages he’s just read. “When did you physically take possession of this?” he asks Luke.

  “Three days ago, Your Honor.”

  “When did you find out about it?”

  “Earlier that same day.”

  Ewing looks at Logan. “Why wasn’t this turned over to the defense at the proper time?” he demands. “Why are we having these eleventh hour shenanigans? Good God, this isn’t the eleventh hour,” he fumes, “we’re technically in trial.”

  “I didn’t know about this, Your Honor,” Logan says, red-faced. “This is the first I’ve heard or known of this document’s existence.” Luke has given him a copy, which he read while the judge read his.

  Ewing regards Luke’s successor with a baleful eye. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s the truth, I swear it. I don’t like being surprised any more than you do,” Logan says.

  Ewing drums his fingers on his desk. “I’m going to have to sleep on this,” he says after some time thinking about it, which both lawyers sweat out. “And the linkage between the shooting of you, Mr. Garrison, and this trial. I’ll render my decision in the morning.”

  Until then, everything’s in limbo.

  Back in the courtroom, barely 10:30 A.M. The trial’s adjourned for the day. The confused members of the jury pool, who were expecting to be on hold all day long, are released until tomorrow morning.

  Luke sits at the defense table with his client. The deputy sheriff who will accompany Allison back to the jail hovers impatiently nearby. “We fired our first shot across their bow,” Luke tells Allison, “and the first juror hasn’t been impanelled yet.”

  “That’s good, I take it?” Allison asks optimistically. As for anyone caught in the jaws of the system, especially for those who “don’t belong,” for whom it’s an unending maze of fear, confusion, and misguided hope, every small “victory” magnifies in importance.

  “Yeah,” Luke reassures him. “We’re on the attack now, and they’re on the defensive. Hopefully, that’s how it’s going to go the entire trial.” He scoops his papers into his briefcase. “See you mañana. Keep the faith.”

  Sheriff Williams and Ray Logan meet in Logan’s office. Logan’s beyond being ups
et; he’s enraged. And he’s worried, because things are happening that he should know about and doesn’t. Williams may be the senior member of this law-enforcement team by longevity, but Ray Logan is the prosecutor who has to conduct the trial and get a conviction in the highest-profile trial in the county in a decade. And right out of the box he discovers there might be an obstruction of justice emanating from the sheriff’s office.

  “I feel like an asshole,” he bitches. “How come Luke Garrison knows about this phone call to the police dispatcher and I don’t?”

  “It didn’t seem important,” Williams answers. It was a mistake on his department’s part, a bad mistake. They had all been so damned excited to have a bona fide suspect in the Emma Lancaster kidnap-murder that specific details were disregarded. “It still doesn’t,” he maintains.

  “It was important enough for Ewing to send everyone home so he could study it,” Logan counters hotly. “And that’s only half the point, Sheriff.” He occasionally uses Williams’s first name, Bob, but only when they’re comfortable together, which is definitely not the case now. “I have to know everything, and I have to know it up front. It’s like the way you handled the parents. You virtually granted them immunity before my office even spoke to them. Now we can’t pursue any of the shit that’s built up around Doug Lancaster, like where the fuck was he, for example.”

  Williams nods. He hates conflict, especially with his own people. Logan and he are partners, joined at the hip; the success or failure of this trail will reflect on both of them, for good or ill. But he also knows that in the long run the small stuff is forgotten. Jurors look at the big picture, the key evidence. The rest is shoe polish.

  “No superior court judge in the country would rule against the police on something like this,” he Dutch-uncles Logan. “They’d be run out of town on a rail.”

  Logan forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down. “That’s not the point, any one or two specific details. I can’t be operating in the dark. What Luke brought up, that’s not going to derail us—I hope. But somewhere down the line, he could find something critical that we’ve overlooked.” He steeples his fingers, thinking. “I’m going to have one of my assistants go over every inch of this, all your procedures, everything. Let’s make sure we haven’t overlooked anything else.”