Women's Murder Club [08] The 8th Confession

by James Patterson

  Yuki felt light-headed and a little sick.

  First, Carly Phelan had lied by omission during voir dire. If she’d said she had a daughter in jail, she would have been excused because one could logically infer that she’d be prejudiced against the prosecution.

  The DA’s office was trying to put her daughter away!

  Second, and worse, Lallie Phelan was carrying news about the defendant to her mother. If Carly Phelan gossiped to anyone on the panel, the whole jury would be tainted.

  “You’re declaring a mistrial?” Hoffman asked.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Then I move for a mistrial, Your Honor. I have to preserve my client’s rights,” Hoffman countered, singing a different tune from the week before.

  Duffy waved his hand dismissively. “I’m going to dump juror number two and substitute an alternate.”

  “I have to object, Your Honor,” Hoffman said. “This conversation took place last night. Phelan could have poisoned the whole jury by now. Her daughter told her that my client has a handgun.”

  “Your Honor, I’m with you,” said Yuki. “The sooner you get Phelan off the jury, the better. The alternates are ready to go.”

  “So noted. All right,” said Duffy. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Chapter 42

  HOFFMAN AND YUKI walked out of the judge’s chamber and down the buff-painted hallway toward the courtroom, Yuki stepping double time to keep up with the lanky opposing counsel.

  Hoffman raked his hair back with his fingers, said, “The jury is going to spit blood when they hear this.”

  Yuki looked up at Hoffman, wondering if he thought she was green or stupid or both.

  The jury would be pissed, all right. A new juror meant that they had to put aside all their earlier deliberations and start fresh, comb through the evidence all over again, beginning at day one as if it were all new.

  Yuki’s fantastic closing argument would be lost in the mists of time, and all that the jurors would be thinking about was how to vote so they could get out of that hotel.

  Yuki knew that Hoffman was laughing inside.

  He’d had a secret weapon all along in Carly Phelan and hadn’t even known it. If Phelan had tainted the jury, it would have been in favor of the defense.

  “Give me a break, Phil.”

  “Yuki, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Like hell.”

  What they both knew was that if the jury voted to convict, Hoffman would appeal. Just the fact that Carly Phelan had lied during voir dire was enough to get the conviction reversed.

  On the other hand, if the jury hung again, and it very well could, the judge would have to declare a mistrial.

  Judge Duffy didn’t want a mistrial. He wanted this case over and done with.

  He needn’t worry, Yuki thought. It would take a year or two to mount a second trial, and by then the DA would weigh the cost and likely say, “Drop it. We’re done with Glenn.”

  Of course, the jury could always vote to acquit. Either way, young Stacey would be just as free.

  Yuki thought, My damned losing streak is still going strong. Win, lose, or draw, odds were that Stacey Glenn, that heinous frickin’ father-killer, was about to walk.

  Chapter 43

  CINDY STOOD in front of the chain-link fence outside the Caltrain yard the next morning, put the hot new Metro section down on the sidewalk, weighted it with a couple of candles.

  The headline over her story was big and bold: $25,000 REWARD.

  Underneath the headline, the lead paragraph read, “The San Francisco Chronicle is offering a $25,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of whoever killed the man known as ‘Bagman Jesus.’ ”

  There was a tug on Cindy’s arm. She pulled back, spun around, was a whisper away from a woman of about thirty with stringy hair, a blotchy complexion, a short black coat, and clothes reeking faintly of urine.

  “I knew Bagman. You don’t have to look at me like that. I may be strung out, but I know what I’m talking about.”

  “That’s great,” Cindy said. “I’m Cindy Thomas.”

  “Flora Gold.”

  “Hi, Flora. You have some information for me?”

  The woman looked both ways at the stream of foot traffic, commuters coming from the white-bread suburbs to their offices in big software companies, Ms. Gold seeming by contrast like a troll who’d crawled up out of a manhole.

  She turned her jittery gaze back to Cindy.

  “I just wanted to say that he was a good person. He took care of me.”

  “How do you mean, ‘took care of me’?”

  “In every way. And he gave me this.”

  The woman opened her coat, dragged down the neckline of her sweater, showed Cindy a tattoo above her breast. It was done in black ink, the lettering having an Asian cast. Looked to Cindy like it had been etched by an amateur, but the message was clear.

  SAVED BY JESUS & I LOVED IT!

  “He’s the only one who ever gave a crap about me,” said Flora. “He looked out for me after I left home last year.”

  Cindy tried not to show her shock: Flora had been living at home until last year?

  “Yeah. I’m seventeen,” said Flora. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m doing what I want with my life.”

  “You’re using meth, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. It’s like heaven. Sex on ‘ice’ gives you orgasms that take your head off and last for a week. You can’t imagine. No, you should try it.”

  “It’s going to kill you!”

  “Not your problem,” Flora said, snapping her coat closed. “I just wanted to speak up for Bagman.”

  Flora turned away from Cindy and started a fast, loping walk up Townsend.

  Cindy ran after her, called her name until Flora stopped, turned around, and said, “What?”

  “How can I find you again?”

  “You want my pager?” the teenager sneered. “Maybe I should give you my e-mail address?”

  Cindy watched Flora Gold stride away until she dissolved into the distance. Flora Gold. She got it now. It was the name of a product used to keep flowers fresh longer.

  And what about that tattoo?

  SAVED BY JESUS & I LOVED IT!

  Cindy tried to make sense of it. How had Bagman saved Flora? She was a meth head. An addict. She was going to die.

  Flora had said that Bagman Jesus had given her the tattoo, yet the wording was strange, sexual. It almost seemed like a brand claiming ownership.

  What kind of saint branded a devotee?

  Chapter 44

  A SECURITY GUARD knocked on the conference room door. Cindy looked up, as did everyone else in the editorial meeting.

  “Miss Thomas, there’s a vagrant standing outside. A lady. Says she has to talk to you and won’t leave. Causing a real scene down there.”

  “Well, this was bound to happen,” said Cindy’s editor, Therese Stanford. “Post a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward…”

  “Can you just take her name or something?”

  The guard said, “Says her name is Flora and that you want to talk to her.”

  Cindy told the group that she’d be back in five minutes and took the elevator down to the lobby, then walked through the revolving door and out to the street.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Flora Gold said without preamble.

  “About the reward?”

  “Yeah. What does it mean, ‘leading to the arrest and conviction’?”

  “If you tell me something that the police can use to arrest Bagman’s killer, and if the killer goes to court and is found guilty, then you get the reward.”

  Flora pulled at her tangled hair, thinking.

  Cindy asked, “Do you know who killed him, Flora?”

  The young woman shook her head no. “But I do know something. Maybe it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

  “Tell me,” Cindy said. “I’ll be fair, I promise.”

  “Bagman Jesus loved me. And I kn
ow his name.”

  Flora handed Cindy a metal tag with a name stamped in raised letters. Cindy stared. Thinking about Flora Gold’s pseudonym and yesterday’s street-person hustle, she asked, “Is this true?”

  “As the sky is blue.”

  Cindy pulled her checkbook out of her handbag.

  “I don’t have a bank account.”

  “Oh. Okay. No problem.”

  Cindy walked with Flora to the ATM on the corner, withdrew a hundred dollars, and gave fifty to Flora.

  “You get the other fifty if this lead pans out.”

  Cindy watched Flora count the bills, then roll them up and tuck them in the top of her boot.

  Cindy said, “Give me a couple of days and then find me, okay? Like you did today.”

  Gold nodded, gave Cindy a tight smile, mouth open just enough for Cindy to see that her front teeth were gone. Then the reporter headed back to the Chronicle Building.

  Editorial meeting forgotten, Cindy went directly to her office and wheeled her chair up close to her desk. She called up Google and typed, “Rodney Booker.”

  Less than a second later, information rolled up on the screen. Cindy sat back in her chair, watching her story crack wide open. It was a miracle. A miracle she’d earned.

  Bagman Jesus had been decoded.

  He had a name. He had a past.

  And he had a family living in Santa Rosa.

  Chapter 45

  CINDY SAT IN the comfortable sunroom of a million-dollar Craftsman-style house in Santa Rosa, feeling anything but comfortable. Had she been rash? Yes.

  Intrusive? Absolutely.

  Thoughtless? She ought to get an award for blinding insensitivity.

  What had she been thinking? Of course, that was the problem. She’d been thinking about her story, not about real people, so she’d launched herself into the Bookers’ lives like a live hand grenade.

  And the moment Lee-Ann Booker opened her front door, her sweet, momsy face shining with anticipation, Cindy realized it was too late to unpull the pin.

  They were all in the sunroom now.

  Lee-Ann Booker, a fair Clairol blonde in her midsixties, clutched a charm necklace of crosses and semiprecious stones and Mexican good-luck charms. She sat beside Cindy on the rattan sofa, sobbing into tissues, hiccuping and sobbing again.

  Her husband, Billy Booker, brought Cindy a mug of coffee.

  “You sure you don’t want something stronger?” he asked. It sounded like a threat.

  Booker was black, also in his sixties, with a military bearing and the lean body of a dedicated runner.

  “No thanks, I’m good,” Cindy said.

  But she wasn’t.

  She couldn’t remember any time in her life when she’d caused anyone so much pain. And she was also very afraid.

  Booker took the chair opposite the sofa, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and scowled at Cindy.

  “What makes you think that this ‘Bagman Jesus’ is our son?”

  “A woman saying she was his close friend gave me this,” Cindy said. She dug in her purse, pulled out the tin ID tag stamped RODNEY BOOKER on one side, PEACE CORPS on the other. She handed it to Booker, saw a spasm of fear cross his face.

  “Is this supposed to prove something? Mother and I want to see his body.”

  “No one claimed him, Mr. Booker. He’s at the ME’s office. Uh, they don’t show bodies there, but I can make a call —”

  Booker sprang out of his chair and kicked a rattan footstool across the room, spun back around to face Cindy.

  “He’s in a freezer like a dead fish, that’s what you’re saying? Who tried to find us? No one. If Rodney was white, we would have been notified.”

  “To be fair, Mr. Booker, this man’s face was beaten beyond recognition. He had no ID. I’ve been working hard to learn his identity.”

  “Good for you, Miss Thomas. Good for you. His face was busted up and he had no ID, so I’m asking again, how do you know that dead man was our son?”

  Cindy said, “If I could have a good, clear photo of Rodney, I think I could clear this up fast. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Lee-Ann Booker eased a photo out from the clinging plastic leaves of an album and passed it to Cindy, saying, “This was taken about five years ago.”

  In the picture, Rodney Booker was sitting on the same rattan love seat Cindy sat on now. He was handsome, light-skinned, broad-shouldered, had close-cropped hair and a beautiful smile.

  Cindy strained to find a resemblance to Bagman Jesus in Rodney’s build and skin color, but when she’d seen Bagman’s remains, he’d barely looked human.

  “You’ve been to Rodney’s house?” Billy Booker asked.

  “Rodney has a house?”

  “Well, damn it, girl. My son could be home right now watching a ball game while you’re out here scaring us to death.”

  Lee-Ann Booker wailed, and Cindy’s mind scrambled again. House? Bagman Jesus was homeless, wasn’t he? How could he have a house? What if Rodney Booker was alive and well — and she was totally wrong?

  Billy Booker snatched a pen and notepad from the coffee table, scratched his son’s cell phone number and address on the top sheet, ripped it off and handed it to Cindy.

  “I get his voice mail when I call. Maybe you’ll do better. So what’s your plan, Miss Thomas? Tell me that. Then I’ll know what I’m going to do.”

  Cindy left the Bookers’ house, sure that her well-intentioned pop-in visit had not only blown up but shown all the signs of becoming a scandal.

  Chapter 46

  AS SHE DROVE BACK from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, Cindy obsessed. She’d promised the Bookers she’d let them know tomorrow whether or not Bagman Jesus was their son.

  How was she going to do that? How? And yet she would have to do it or die trying.

  She stirred the contents of her purse with her right hand, found her cell phone, and speed-dialed Lindsay’s office number. A man’s voice answered, “Conklin.”

  “Rich, it’s Cindy. Is Lindsay there?”

  “She’s out, but I’ll tell her —”

  “Wait, Rich. I’ve got a solid lead on Bagman Jesus. I think his name is Rodney Booker.”

  “You doing police work now, Cindy?”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”

  “Take it easy? I just walked in on this unsuspecting old couple, told them their son was dead —”

  “You did what?”

  “I had his name, Rich, or thought I did, so I went to interview Bagman’s parents, logical if you think about it —”

  “Oh man. How’d that go over?”

  “Like a bomb, like a freaking bomb. Billy Booker, the father? He’s a Vietnam vet, former sergeant major in the marines. He’s saying the police are racist, that’s why they didn’t work the case.”

  “Bagman Jesus was black?”

  “Booker has Al Sharpton’s home number and he’s threatening to use it. What I’m saying is, I’ve got to get ahead of this story before I become the story. Before we become the story.”

  “We, huh?”

  “Yeah. The SFPD and me. And I’m the one who feels the moral obligation. Rich, listen. Rodney Booker has a house.”

  “You’re losing me, Cindy. Wasn’t Bagman homeless?”

  “Look him up. Please.”

  “Entering ‘Rodney Booker.’ Here ya go. Huh. Cole Street. That’s off Haight. Nice neighborhood.”

  It wasn’t.

  It was the badlands, the turf of small-time drug dealers.

  And that made sense.

  If Bagman Jesus wasn’t lying when he told Flora Gold that his real name was Rodney Booker, and if Flora wasn’t lying to Cindy, then the house on Cole could turn out to be where Rodney Booker, aka Bagman Jesus, had hung his bag.

  Cindy said to Conklin, “Can you check it out, Rich? Because if you won’t, I’ve got to.”

  “Stand down, Cindy. My shift is over in twenty minutes. I’ll run over an
d take a look.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Cindy. “Wait for me.”

  “No, Cindy. I’m the cop. You wait for me.”

  Chapter 47

  THE HOUSE ON COLE was painted roadkill gray, one in a block of distressed Victorian homes, this particular residence having boarded-up bay windows, trash-littered front steps, and an air of melancholy that had not lifted since the end of the ’60s.

  “It’s condemned,” Conklin said to Cindy, tilting his chin toward the notice nailed to the door.

  “The lot alone is worth some dough. If this house belonged to Bagman, what made him homeless?”

  “That’s rhetorical, right?”

  “Yeah,” Cindy said. “I’m thinking out loud.”

  Cindy stood behind Conklin as he knocked on the door, touched the butt of his gun, then knocked again, this time louder and with meaning.

  Cindy’s hands were shaking as she cupped them and peered through a sidelight. Then, before Conklin could stop her, she pushed in the door.

  A startled cry came from inside, and piles of rags rose up from the floor, ran toward the back of the house. A door slammed.

  “This is a crash pad,” Conklin said. “Those were squatters, crackheads. It’s not safe, Cindy. We’re not going in.”

  Cindy rushed past and headed for the staircase, ignoring Conklin, who was yelling her name.

  She’d made a promise.

  The air was damp and cold, smelling of mildew and smoke and rotting garbage. Cindy ran up the stairs, calling, “Rodney Booker? Are you here?”

  No one stirred, not even a mouse.

  The top floor was brighter and more open than the floors below. The windows were bare, and sunlight lit up the one large bedroom.

  A brass bed was centered on one wall, the mattress covered with dark-blue sheets. Books were scattered everywhere. A crack pipe was on the top of a scarred dresser.