by Paul Heald
Stanley plowed on unaware that convincing someone to chance the death penalty might not be good advice. “Sure, Saint Paul and M.L.K. did some good writing when they were locked up, but they had a lot of support on the outside. The porn community is going to hang you out to dry if you confess. You’d be alone in there.” The director nodded but said nothing
Stanley insisted that Janet could carry on the investigation without him. She would do an excellent job. The prisoner should at least accept her help and not cave in to the police pressure so quickly.
“I’ll think about it,” Don replied without enthusiasm. “I’m glad she’s been a help.”
The conversation was suddenly over, but Stanley was stuck in his chair. He had received the prisoner’s blessing but still felt like a traitor. He despised himself for needing reassurance that his cowardice was acceptable. The man who would soon go back to his cell seemed calm; the man who would soon be walking free was in turmoil. He could think of nothing comforting to say, so he struck off wildly in a new direction. “Why didn’t you tell me about your visit to Deborah Spellerburg at the UCLA legal aid clinic?”
“How do you know about her?”
“I found her business card in your desk.” Don seemed more upset by the question than by the news he was losing his chief investigator. Stanley described the trip to UCLA and explained that he knew about the plan to get Jade a protective order. Don slumped in his chair, bereft of the confidence he had displayed just moments before. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? Right before the murder you were out trying to protect Jade from a violent boyfriend. It’s great evidence!”
The prisoner did not respond. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, struggling with some internal demon. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “It’s not as good evidence as you think.” He looked apologetically at his friend. “I did go to the lawyer because I was worried about Jade. Chance was becoming more and more violent, and it seemed to me that she had to get away. For her own safety, she needed to leave him. It tore me up every time a makeup artist told me about covering up her bruises.” He paused for a moment while he tried to compose himself. “I admit that I wanted her to myself, but you can’t blame me for wanting to get her away from him.”
Stanley didn’t understand why his friend was questioning his role in what seemed to be a wholly laudable attempt to protect the woman he loved. Johansson wrung his hands and struggle to continue.
“That’s what I wanted to tell her the night of the party . . . about talking to the lawyer, to explain how easy it would be to get a restraining order, how we could get her to a safe place.”
“So, you lied to me about why you met her in the office? Why? Getting her to Spellerburg makes you look like a good guy, not a killer.”
Don squeezed his eyes tightly together, as if he were in pain. He did not cry as Angela had done the night before, but his voice cracked and his breath was ragged as he tried to keep a flood of emotion at bay. “She told me that she didn’t want my help, that everything was just fine. She said that she was sick of me interfering in her life.”
There was an awkward silence. Stanley eventually broke it. “She was in denial, I suppose.”
“We argued,” he rocked forward slightly and whispered. “We said a lot of things, terrible things. I was fucked up on the pills and wine and said stuff that I didn’t mean . . . then we fought. I grabbed her; she slapped me . . .”
Stanley sat in horror, waiting for the inevitable confession, but it did not come. His friend just sat shaking his head and trying to stifle his tears. “What happened then?”
He replied with sudden vehemence and frustration, “I don’t know! I remember some pushing, and the next thing I know I’m waking up on the sofa surrounded by security guards.” He shook his head again. “I blacked out.”
Stanley wasn’t sure what to think. Over the years he had developed a fairly keen sense of who was telling him the truth and who was not. His friend’s emotions seemed genuine, but that did not mean he was innocent. Given his condition, he might not be able to remember killing Jade, and his distress could come from guilt just as easily as from frustration and grief. He suddenly understood why Don was considering the deal McCaffrey had offered: He really was not sure how Jade died. The prisoner gave a barely perceptible nod.
“I was angry.” His shoulders shook. “I don’t know what happened.”
Stanley felt the urge to put his arms around the lost man and comfort him, but he could see the guard watching them from the hall and touched Don’s hand briefly instead.
The sobbing slowly subsided and the man in the orange jump suit grew quiet. With one final squeeze, Stanley stood up to leave. “I’ll talk to Janet before I go,” he promised to the bowed head. “You need to know all of your options before you accept McCaffrey’s deal.” Don gave no acknowledgment that he heard his former investigator’s departing words. Stanley knocked on the door to be let out and walked as quickly as he could down the corridor and away from the bars and the guards and the despair.
When he entered the large foyer of the building, he called an excited Angela and informed her that his flight was leaving at noon Pacific time and would arrive in Illinois around 7:00 p.m. eastern time. It was early, but he decided to return the car to the airport immediately. His mood fit more with sitting in a generic departure lounge than wandering around downtown Los Angeles. He was heading out the door when a familiar voice stopped him.
“Professor Hopkins, do you have a moment?” Stuart McCaffrey stepped toward him with a wry smile on his face.
“Not really,” he replied. “I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“This will take just a moment.” The detective put an arm on his shoulder and led him back behind the reception desk. “There’s something that we need to talk about.”
“How did you know I was here?” Stanley followed the detective as he peered into the interview rooms that lined the hallway. McCaffrey found an empty one and waved the professor in.
“Whenever someone talks to my suspects, I have a friend who notifies me. It’s amazing what you can learn just from the visitors people get.” He grinned wickedly. “Now all we have to do is bug the interview rooms, and we’d really have ourselves a justice system.” He laughed. “Just kidding, Professor. I’m all about the Constitution.”
He could have told the detective that he was off the case, but he didn’t want to admit defeat in the face of such smugness. “Hurry up. I gotta get somewhere.”
“Two things, Professor; you have to decide for yourself if they’re related.” He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his the breast pocket of his jacket. “First, the medical examiner has sent hair samples from four individuals to the FBI lab for further DNA testing. I’ve written their names on the back of the last sheet here. You’ll note that one of them is your associate, Janet Stephens.” Stanley took the papers and stared at McCaffrey without looking at them. “Second, take some time and read through this stuff. We finally got the report back from the techies who’ve been going through Johansson’s computer. There’s wasn’t too much of interest there, but they did print out some correspondence between Ms. Stephens and your client. You might find it interesting.”
Stanley considered tossing the material back at him in a grand gesture of disdain and then leaving for the airport, but he could not resist a quick glance at the top page. The printed emails suggested that Janet considered herself more than just a friend to Don. He flipped to the second page and the next and the next and saw proof that she was in love with him, pursuing him with fervor that bordered on stalking. Judging from Don’s response, her romantic feelings for him were unrequited and her messages were spiked with frustration and anger. Throughout, she railed against “her” or “your lover” or “that bitch,” all of which might have been references to Jade, whom she clearly despised but never named. It was hard to reconcile the calm and rational woman who had been so helpful, with the personality on display in the email messages. He set dow
n the papers on the desk and looked at the detective.
This explained the plea deal offered to Don the day before. The new information posed problems for the prosecution. Stanley spoke first, “If the hair turns out to be Janet’s, a jury looking at the emails might consider her a suspect.” McCaffrey conceded the point with a grimace that quickly melted into his usual stoic expression. “Throw in a medical report that says Don’s black-out story is scientifically possible, and you start getting close to reasonable doubt.”
“There’s still no direct evidence of Stephens’ involvement, of course, but you’re right about the toxicology report. I’m not too happy about the way it’s written.”
“Detective McCaffrey,” he managed a brief smile at his foe, “you look almost human right now.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” the detective said as he pushed himself off the desk and he made his way to the door. “You can get the full transcript from my office, but given whom you’re partnering with, I thought you’d rather see these sooner than later.” He grunted as he left. “Don’t ever say I never did anything nice for you.”
Nice? Stanley asked himself as he stood in the empty room. The detective had just destroyed a partnership between the only two people working to exonerate his prime suspect. And he was perilously close to convincing a man to plead guilty to a crime he might not have committed. “Nice” was not quite the word that Stanley had in mind. A leaden weight of anxiety and guilt settled itself firmly on his shoulders, and he slumped onto a hard wooden chair in the corner of the room. Given the emails, he could easily imagine a scenario where Janet killed Jade and framed Don. Her absence from the dinner table the night of murder provided her with the opportunity, and McCaffrey’s revelations put a nasty spin on her mysterious double entrance to the party captured on the surveillance DVD. He thought back to her story of being locked out of the party during a cigarette break and visualized her smoking in the car while she calmly explained herself. Was she left-handed? Had she lit the cigarette with her left or right hand? Was he turning over responsibility for Don’s investigation to the most likely suspect?
* * *
Angela was never late for her period. Ever. Her sisters had warned her jokingly when she was a teenager that if she was ever a day late, then she’d know that she was pregnant for sure. And now it had happened. She was two days late and she thought something was different about her body. An undefinable something tickling her endocrine system whispered that she would be having a baby. She told herself that she was crazy, that you couldn’t be this sure, this soon. But cold reason lost the battle to warming hormones.
The timing for a pregnancy was not very good, but she dismissed the difficulties. Stanley would have an entire year to complete his book and find another job. He might not end up at a top school, but she had never met a starving Ph.D. She could work especially hard in the upcoming months to grow the cushion provided by their modest savings. Thankfully, her parents were comfortably well-off and would be happy to help if things were tight for a while. She walked through the house, making plans, unable to let go of the shiver that promised the advent of glorious noise and chaos.
She fingered the telephone, tempted to call her husband but decided that something so important, and possibly uncertain, should be conveyed in person. He was still depressed over his job situation and any discussion could keep until tonight. She looked at her watch. She had a condo showing in an hour, but the property was close by and she had just enough time to hit the grocery store and buy the ingredients for a nice dinner.
As she searched for her keys, the telephone rang in the kitchen. It was probably Stanley calling from the Los Angeles airport. Could she keep her secret? “Hey sweetie,” she asked breathlessly, “what time are you getting in?”
His voice was flat and tired. “I missed the flight.”
“What happened? Can the airline get you on the next one?” She needed him home. If she had to spend another night alone in the house, she was going to scream. She waited for a response, but the other end of the line seemed dead. “Stan? Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “I’m still here.” There was another long pause before he spoke again. “Look. I’m going to have to stay here for a little while longer. There’s just no way that I can leave right now. I was going to leave the investigation to Janet, but—”
“—but what!” She yelled into the phone, all her emotions coalescing into anger. “If you don’t come home today, you’ll lose your job for the next school year! Are you crazy? We were lucky that the university was willing to take you back under any conditions. You can’t screw this up, Stan!” She tried to say more, but her argument reduced itself to an enraged sputter.
“I know this sounds irresponsible, but Janet—”
“—I don’t give a flying FUCK about that slut!” she interrupted him again. “Get home today!” she shouted. “Now! GET ON A FUCKING PLANE NOW!” With the final admonition, she slammed down the receiver and kicked the refrigerator in frustration. A moment later the phone rang again. She silenced it by giving the cord a violent yank and pulling the jack out of the wall. For several minutes, she stalked about the kitchen like a caged tiger, then she screamed out one last obscenity, slumped down at the kitchen table, took a halting breath and started to cry.
XXIV.
MOONLIGHTING
Janet sat in the hotel room patting a young starlet on the back and rolling her eyes. Mimi LaRue was the youngest employee of Eden Studio, and it was clear why Don had put her on the interview list. She hadn’t started her career at one of the major studios, but had been scooped up at a modeling agency meet-and-greet by a pair of gonzo amateurs. Instead of finding herself on one of the lush sets on the Playboy Channel, she had been dumped at a filthy bungalow in Pasadena where two paunchy middle-aged men had taken turns with her while another had recorded the action on a cheap digital movie camera. She may have consented to the plan, but she hadn’t enjoyed the rough handling by either would-be stud. And she really hadn’t like being labeled “Our Newest Jizz Slut” on their website the next day.
How naïve can you get? Still, cash was cash, so she stuck with the bottom feeders of the industry for several months until she came to the attention of that epic collector of lame ducks, Donald Johansson.
Mimi wasn’t nearly as attractive as someone like Jade, but Don gave her a chance and she made the most of it. She could actually act, which counted for something with him, and when she seemed to (did?) have an orgasm on screen, she looked like a volcano about to erupt, earning her nickname “Screaming Mimi.” Her girlish looks probably boosted sales too. She had just been asked to attend her first DVD signing when Jade Delilah’s murder put an end to Eden Studio.
She was crying in Janet’s arms, partly for financial reasons and partly because the interview had dredged up unwanted memories of her first weeks in the business. Janet gave her one last perfunctory pat and then handed her a tissue. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” the slim blonde sniffed, “I’ll be alright. I’m thinking of starting my own website, ya know?”
“That’s a good idea,” Janet agreed. The little trollope just might survive if she cultivated that pragmatic streak. The veteran actress felt an uncharacteristic burst of pity. “Are you okay with people seeing the bit with you crying at the end? I could ask the professor to cut it out if you’d like.”
Mimi laughed for the first time that morning. “Right now, you can go online and see me giving two guys a blow job while I’m riding one of their buddies. I’m not worried about a few minutes of blubbing.” Mimi gave her eyes one last wipe and left the hotel room with a sniff and a flip of her hair.
Just a couple more days of interviews remained, and Janet had to admit it was kind of fun. Who said she had no retirement options? Ellen Degeneres needed competition from someone living in the real world.
Mimi had been talkative but she didn’t know anything about the murder. She’d heard about Don and Jade, and had witnessed
a quarrel between them, she but hadn’t attached any significance to it, even in retrospect. As with the other interviewees, not a word had been said about Janet’s own relationship with Don. The police must have sniffed out something, however, because a cop had called two days earlier asking for a second hair sample for DNA testing.
At least the first girl interviewed in the morning had told an interesting story about Chance Geary. Tiffany Imperial (she recalled an old advertisement: “Imperial Margarine: The Best Spread”) was a leggy, red-headed meth-fiend who admitted to calling Geary repeatedly the night of the murder looking to score some dope. His failure to answer was notable, according to Tiffany, because he was totally reliable. If he had no supply, he always had a friend who did. She was still pissed at him for not returning her calls, several of which had been placed within the time frame of the murder. Tiffany’s story proved nothing, but any bit of evidence that pointed in Geary’s direction was surely welcome.
* * *
Stanley trudged slowly down the steps of the jail and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for divine guidance. He saw the parking garage on his right. There was still time to hop in the car, drive to the airport and catch a flight home. A group of teenagers jostled him as they passed by, and a middle-aged man in a suit bumped him with his briefcase before turning up the jailhouse steps. This is not the best place to ponder his future, he decided, as another suit brushed past him. A quick glance across the street found a pastry shop offering freshly brewed cups of free trade coffee. He weaved quickly through the traffic, dimly aware that a sane person would have run to the rental car as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Hey, haven’t I seen you on television?” A perky young barista narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him.