Motion to Dismiss (A Kali O'Brien Legal Mystery)

by Jacobs, Jonnie

  “I thought she was staying at a house in the hills.”

  “Well, yes. She took long-term house-sitting jobs whenever she could, but when she needed someplace to stay in between, she came here. Not that I minded. Deirdre’s liveliness was a nice change of pace.” Sheila paused, then added a bit wistfully, “I’ve often wished I had a bit more of it myself.”

  “My sister and I are very different, too,” I said. “I think we’d both have been better off if the genes had been mixed a little more evenly.”

  “So you know what I’m talking about. Deirdre could certainly have used some of my sensible nature. I encouraged her to go to school, get some job training, start saving for her future, but that didn’t interest her.”

  “What did interest her?”

  “Having fun.” Sheila sighed. “When our father died, he left us each a small inheritance. I banked mine, eventually bought this house. I still have some saved for a rainy day. Deirdre went through her money in a year. Travel, clothes, a new car—you name it. I could never convince her she ought to think beyond the pleasures of the moment.”

  “Was her husband that way as well?”

  Sheila shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, it was a point of contention between them.”

  “It must have been hard on her when he died.”

  Something I couldn’t interpret flickered in Sheila’s eyes. “Yes, very hard.” She paused. “It’s been hard on Adrianna too, although she was too young when he died to actually miss him.”

  I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a seven-year-old child to have lost both parents. “What will happen to Adrianna now?” I asked.

  “I’m seeking permanent custody. Eventually I’ll adopt her. There isn’t anyone else in the family except my mother’s brother, whom we haven’t seen in years.” Sheila brushed her bangs with the back of her hand. “Adrianna is comfortable with me. I’ve been a part of her life from the day she was born. Yet you wouldn’t believe the red tape. You’d think they could use common sense and save their precious policies and procedures for cases that warrant it.”

  “Dealing with bureaucracies is always frustrating.”

  She nodded emphatically. “It’s one more reason I’d like to see this matter settled without a trial.”

  There we were again, the hidden agenda brought to the fore.

  “I’m not insensitive to your concerns,” I said, setting my mug on the coffee table. “But I think Grady Barrett has a good chance of beating this. He would walk away a free man.”

  “If he doesn’t, though, he could be in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “It’s a gamble, I admit. But I don’t think the prosecution has a strong case. They’re hanging a lot on the testimony of a seven- year-old child.”

  Sheila reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “There’s other evidence as well.”

  I nodded. “Nothing that can’t be explained away though.”

  Sheila exhaled a lungful of smoke and then waved a hand in the air to clear it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if you minded.”

  “It’s your house, but to be honest, I’d prefer if you waited until I left.”

  “Deirdre was the same way.” Sheila took another drag on the cigarette and then crushed it out. She fiddled with the ashtray for a moment, then looked at me. “I heard him threaten her,” she said quietly.

  “Grady?”

  “He left a message on Deirdre’s answering machine. Said that if she didn’t withdraw the rape complaint, she’d live to regret it. But not for long. Those were his exact words.”

  A death threat. One that sounded as though it came straight out of Hollywood. The jury would love it. “Do you have the tape?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “It was Deirdre’s. I doubt she saved it.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of days before she died.”

  About the time Grady had told me not to worry about the rape charges, that he had things under control. I felt uneasiness rising in my chest.

  “You inferred earlier that you thought Grady was a decent man. That he’d given in to the heat of the moment. How could you think that after hearing the tape?”

  Sheila took a breath. “I think he was probably scared. Decent isn’t the same as perfect. And all I said was that it’s possible he didn’t mean to kill her.”

  I regarded Sheila Barlow for a moment in silence. She struck me as a straightforward woman. One who felt intensely about things that were dear to her and didn’t let herself be sidetracked by irrelevant emotion. But to see her sister’s killer get off with a minimal sentence− How could she find that acceptable?

  “You’ve told the police about the tape?” I asked.

  Sheila nodded. “But I have yet to give a formal statement to Ms. Rivera. If the case goes to trial, I’ll testify as to what I heard. If it doesn’t . . .” She shrugged. “Then what I heard doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ll relay your concerns to my client,” I told her.

  And I’d definitely have to have another heart-to-heart with Grady.

  Chapter 25

  Monday brought rain, further dampening my already sodden spirits. Rain is fine in the winter, and even in the fall, but once the trees have begun to blossom and the scent of spring is in the air, I’m ready to be done with it.

  The day also brought reams of paper, delivered in response to our request for discovery. I was now slowly working my way through it. Single sheets, stapled sheets, misaligned sheets—pages upon pages of unlabeled—and sometimes unreadable—photocopies. The prospect of fashioning some sort of order from the chaos did little to brighten my mood.

  I made myself a cup of tea, added a hefty dose of artificial sweetener, and picked up the sheets listing Deirdre’s phone records for the week leading up to her death. Grady’s private number jumped out at me immediately. An eight-minute call early on the evening she was killed. Scanning the list, I noted that she’d called him two days earlier, as well.

  Deirdre’s last call was to her sister at seven thirty-eight the evening of her death. They’d talked for less than four minutes. A quick question, or perhaps a simple reminder—the sort of everyday routine that passes without note. And now they would never talk again.

  There was another call to the same number early the next morning. Adrianna’s call to her aunt for help. It gave me a funny feeling to be tailing the course of personal tragedy through something as mundane as phone numbers.

  I felt again a wash of sadness for a woman I’d barely known, and for her young daughter who would face the remainder of her life without a mother’s love. Then I shook the ghosts from my mind and turned my attention once again to the phone log. Each number was followed by a name. Some had been annotated, the words “dentist” or “pharmacy” scrawled in the margin by someone in the D.A.’s office; others had not.

  Aside from Grady and Sheila Barlow, the only name I recognized was Judith Powers, the friend from ComTec who’d invited Deirdre to the party where she’d first met Grady. It appeared, from phone records at any rate, that the two women were good friends. They’d talked several times during the week, including the afternoon of Deirdre’s death. Pulling my memo pad from the drawer, I added Judith Powers to the list of people I wanted to speak with. I went through the remaining names and numbers another time, and wondered if it was worth the effort to have Hal check them. Probably, although I thought it unlikely we’d turn up anything.

  Setting the phone list aside, I moved on to the photographs of the crime scene. I forced myself to look at the close-ups of the body, but it was the broader views of the site that I concentrated on, hoping to understand what might have happened the night of Deirdre’s murder.

  Nothing jumped out at me. The house looked pretty much as it had when I’d visited the crime scene myself, except that a few of the photos had caught the case detectives at work. I noted one particularly flattering image of Madeleine Rivera’s friend, Steve Henshaw, and wondered if she’d pull
a copy for herself. It was a petty thought and I gave myself a quick scolding.

  There was nothing that struck me from the preliminary lab or toxicology reports. Deirdre’s body had shown no indication of alcohol or drugs. Analysis of her stomach contents revealed that she’d eaten dinner—a grilled cheese sandwich and salad— anywhere between two and four hours prior to her death.

  I’d started separating the papers into piles—the first step of an organization plan—when I heard voices coming from the reception area.

  A moment later Hal appeared, knocking and pushing open my door at the same time. He was dressed in his customary dark cords and blue denim shirt. And, as usual, he was eating.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asked, offering me a Lifesaver from the pack in his hand.

  “Nothing that doesn’t beg for interruption anyway.” I popped a lime Lifesaver into my mouth, leaned back in my chair, and gestured toward the mess on my desk. “The most recent round of discovery. I’m trying to organize it, and then I’ll see about making sense of it.”

  He scratched his cheek, feigning puzzlement. “You mean it doesn’t arrive in your office already tabbed and bound in those neat little folders?” It was an old joke arising from a particularly convoluted piece of litigation we’d worked on together at Goldman & Latham.

  I tossed an eraser at him. “Did you come by to help or gloat?”

  “Neither, actually. I came by to report. Marc around?”

  “He’s spending the day at ComTec. Damage control.”

  Hal ignored the soft-cushioned visitor’s chair across the desk from me and instead pulled up the plastic one that sometimes served as coat rack and in-box, and when I was really desperate, coffee stand. He straddled it so that his arms rested across the back.

  “You want the good news first or the bad?” he asked.

  “Let’s try the good.”

  “Tony Rodale rides a motorcycle.”

  I laughed. “Okay, tell me the punch line.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then tell me the joke.”

  “No joke. Neighbors saw the guy’s car parked at his place the night Deirdre was killed, right? The cops, bless their pointy little heads, seem to take this as proof he couldn’t have done the deed. But that car isn’t Tony’s only means of transportation. He owns a Kawasaki 750 as well. Rides it regularly.”

  I held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Are you suggesting he left his car in the driveway and rode the bike to Deirdre’s, where he killed her?”

  “I’m saying that’s a possibility.”

  But not much on which to base a defense. “If that’s your idea of good news, I’m not sure I want to hear the bad.”

  “The guy gives off ugly vibes, Kali. Sometimes you gotta trust your gut, or at least give it a little slack.”

  “Fine. But how the hell am I supposed to argue that to the jury?”

  “I’m working on it. Got a few angles I want to explore.” Hal took a pack of cinnamon chewing gum from his pocket. “You want some?”

  Cinnamon and lime seemed like a lousy combination. I shook my head.

  “Besides, there’s more.” He popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Deirdre’s not the only one to file charges against Tony. The guy was married once. His ex claims he hit her and kicked her on numerous occasions. Even knocked out a front tooth.”

  “You’ve talked to her?”

  “Briefly. She says Tony has a temper, especially around women. And”—Hal paused for dramatic effect—”he wears a size ten shoe.”

  The same size the police had found at the crime scene.

  “Okay,” I said begrudgingly. “It’s good, at least for now. I’d like to be able to make a case for Grady’s innocence, but if we can’t do that, this will certainly help.” When you’re trying to convince the jury that your guy didn’t do it, it’s best if you can put a face on the real killer.

  Hal grinned. “You’re welcome.” He pinched the chewing gum wrapper into a tight little ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. “How’s it going for our client?”

  “Casewise, I don’t know yet. We’re just beginning to see what we’ve got. But for Grady himself, not so well. Last I talked to him he was understandably glum.”

  “Maybe this stuff about Rodale will cheer him up.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than that.” I rolled my pen between my palms. “You want to give me the bad news now?”

  Hal rocked back, stretched his arms straight. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up about this Xavier fellow if I were you. I managed to track down the mother of the girl he was seeing. A woman by the name of Bryant. Marsha Bryant.” He allowed a flicker of a smile. “No relation to Anita.”

  “You asked?”

  “I’m sure I wasn’t the first. Anyway, she hasn’t seen Xavier in a couple of months. Hasn’t seen much of her daughter either, but that’s another story. According to Marsha Bryant, Xavier isn’t the most reliable sort of guy. In fact, I got the impression that on a scale of one to ten, he’d be down in the decimal range. Something like .02.”

  “She’s not likely to be his staunchest defender.”

  “True.” Hal rubbed the back of his neck. “I left my number, and yours. She said she’d pass them on to her daughter when she saw her.’’

  “Then the daughter’s not with Xavier?”

  “She’s at some private youth camp. The mother had her locked up for being incorrigible.”

  When Hal left, I went back to sorting the papers on my desk. The record of telephone calls was on top of one of the stacks I’d made. I picked it up and examined it again. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I focused on the day of Deirdre’s death. Four calls. Grady Barrett, Sheila Barlow, Judith Powers, and the mother of one of Adrianna’s friends. I could imagine what Madeleine Rivera would do with that. The dutiful mother and loving sister on the last afternoon of her life. It made a heartrending picture.

  Out of curiosity, I picked up the receiver and punched the number listed in the phone log as Grady’s private line at ComTec. If he hadn’t received Deirdre’s call, maybe it was because the police had misidentified the number.

  A male voice picked up after two rings, catching me off guard.

  “Who’s calling?” he asked.

  “Marc?” I thought I recognized his voice, but in my amazement at having the phone answered, I wasn’t sure. “It’s me, Kali.”

  “Hey, surprise. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?”

  A soft chuckle. “I think about you a lot lately. How’d you know to try this number?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know you’d answer. I was going through the calls Deirdre Nichols made the day she was killed. We got a sizable package of discovery material from the D.A.’s office today, including phone records.”

  “Any bombshells?”

  “Not that I’ve seen so far. How’s the damage control going at ComTec?”

  He gave a snort of disgust. “The offering is on hold. Technically anyway. In truth, it’s dead. The investors are nervous, the employees are walking on eggshells, and the business press is having a field day. But the company hasn’t managed to self-destruct yet, so that’s something.”

  “I’m heading out to Santa Rita in a bit to see Grady. You want to come along?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Sorry. I’d love your company, but I’ve got too much to do here. Tell Grady we’re working to keep it together. I’ll bring him up-to-date as soon as I can.”

  I heard a voice in the background. Marc turned away from the phone and said, “Tell him to hold, I’ll be there in a sec.” Then he was back to me. “You going to be at the office later?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll be by about six. I’ll help you go through the stuff from the D.A. Maybe we can get takeout and make an evening of it.”

  “Wow, the good life.” The funny thing was, I found myself looking forward to it.

  Chapter 26

  The drive
to the county jail at Santa Rita, where Grady had been moved following his arraignment, took me past mile upon mile of business parks and housing developments—all of which had sprung up in what ten years ago had been open pasture. Whole towns created anew, almost overnight.

  The jail, once located in the hinterlands of the county, now sat on prime real estate. Not that it helped the prisoners any.

  The rain had stopped but the sky was still gray and dark, casting the afternoon in a somber light. Water puddled in the parking lot, and I stepped carefully to avoid getting my feet soaked.

  I checked in, then made my way down the long, airless corridor through a succession of double doors. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I found the journey just as unnerving as I had on previous occasions.

  At each junction, I slowed as I waited for the automatic doors to swing open, then felt my stomach clench as they shut tight behind me. The metallic click of the lock sliding into place echoed in my ears. Despite the cameras that were mounted overhead, monitoring my progress, I felt utterly alone, afraid that I’d never find my way out again. It was frightening to be so much at the mercy of a faceless monolith.

  Finally, I reached the interview room, then waited while the guard brought Grady through the door on the other side of the glass partition. The room was warm, almost steamy, and smelled of an unpleasantly heavy aftershave, but I imagined the odors on Grady’s side were far worse.

  Grady entered with his eyes lowered and took a seat. His face showed signs of fatigue, and his shoulders slumped forward like an old man’s. The orange jump suit made him appear both ridiculous and pathetic. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to ask for a contact room where I might at least have been able to offer the assurance of a touch.

  I picked up the telephone, which was our sole means of communication. It was an uncomfortable way to relate to another human being, especially one who appeared so obviously in need of solace.