by Lee Goldberg
"So for all you know, the blood still hadn't clotted yet and he was distracting you until he was certain that it had?"
"Objection!" Karen said, practically yelling it out.
"Sustained," Judge Rojas said, not even waiting for her to make an argument. "Mr. Tyrell, save your theorizing for your inevitable press conference on the courthouse steps."
Tyrell acknowledged the comment with a curt nod, then confronted Amanda again.
"You testified that you found rohypnol in the bodies and learned that traces of the drug were found in the champagne bottle," Tyrell said. "Do you know when the drug was put in the champagne bottle?"
"I assume before Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler opened it," she replied.
"You assume," he repeated. "But you don't know for certain, do you?"
"It could have been introduced into the bottle after they were dead, couldn't it?"
"Yes," she said reluctantly, knowing exactly what the lawyer was implying: that Mark might have tampered with the bottle while he was alone in the house. But she couldn't figure out what Tyrell was hoping to prove. Did he honestly think that anyone would believe that Mark had killed Kershaw and Butler? What possible motive could Mark have?
"You also can't say for certain how the rohypnol entered the bodies, can you?"
"I didn't find any needle marks on their bodies or—"
Tyrell interrupted before she could finish her reply. "Yes or no, Dr. Bentley?"
Tyrell nodded and paced in front of the witness stand for a moment. Amanda looked at the defendants, mostly be cause she couldn't bear to look at Mark—not with what she was doing to him. Lacey and Moira had thin smiles on their faces, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
"Where is the adjunct county medical examiner's office?" Tyrell asked.
"It's in the pathology lab at Community General Hospital."
"Isn't that the same hospital where you practice as a pathologist and where Dr. Sloan serves as chief of internal medicine?"
"Yes."
Tyrell looked at Mark, then back at Amanda. "Is that where you took the victims for autopsy?"
"Yes."
It was clear to her, of course, where Tyrell was going with this line of questioning and where it would end. There was nothing she could do to stop him. She was forced by the law to be an unwilling accomplice in the character assassination of Mark Sloan. If that wasn't painful enough, she was also committing professional suicide for the amusement of a live television audience.
"Dr. Sloan was instrumental in convincing the city to establish the adjunct county medical examiner's office in your hospital, wasn't he?" Tyrell asked pointedly.
"We worked together on it," Amanda said. "But it was my idea."
"So you would say the two of you are very close?"
"Yes."
Tyrell nodded. "As chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital, and as your close personal friend, Dr. Sloan can come visit you in the lab any time he wants, can't he?"
"Yes," she said flatly, resigned to her fate now. It was inevitable.
"And if you're not there, he can still visit the lab when ever he wants, day or night, and even examine the bodies, isn't that true?"
"Yes."
"The fact is, he has examined the bodies of murder victims with and without you present on many occasions over the years, hasn't he?"
"Yes."
"Does Dr. Sloan have access at Community General to rohypnol?"
"Yes."
"So it's possible that Dr. Sloan could have introduced the rohypnol into the bodies, or into the blood and tissue samples at any stage of the testing without your knowledge, is it not?"
Karen Cross immediately objected and was just as quickly overruled by the judge. The prosecutor sat down, shoulders sagging with defeat.
"The witness will answer the question," the Judge said to Amanda. "Yes or no, Dr. Bentley?"
She looked out at Mark, her friend and mentor, and saw nothing but sympathy and understanding on his face.
"Yes," she said softly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When the hearing recessed for lunch, Karen Cross went directly to the private meeting room she'd reserved in the courthouse. She wasn't surprised to find the chief Masters and the district attorney Burnside waiting for her. They acknowledged her with a nod but didn't say a word. She took a seat beside them and waited.
A few moments later Mark and Steve walked in, looking like two condemned men. As soon as the door was closed, Karen spoke, addressing herself to Steve.
"You never told me that Dr. Sloan was arrested," she said. "It never appeared in the police reports, either."
"I didn't think it was relevant," Steve said.
"Well obviously it was!" she shouted. "You should have recused yourself from the investigation the moment you saw him in handcuffs."
"He didn't commit a crime," Steve said. "We wouldn't have a case if it wasn't for him."
"That's exactly what Arthur Tyrell hopes to prove," Burnside said. "It's clear he's trying to establish a police conspiracy, mounted by you and your father, to frame Lacey McClure for murder."
"That's absurd," Steve said.
"Not to anyone who has heard the testimony so far," Burnside said. "What's absurd is that Dr. Sloan reported the shooting, Dr. Sloan discovered the bodies, Dr. Sloan performed an autopsy at the scene, and Dr. Sloan controlled the laboratory that analyzed the evidence."
"You're taking the facts out of context," Steve said.
"Tyrell established the context," Karen argued. "And he's reinforced it with every question."
"My father has investigated hundreds of homicides," Steve said. "His presence at a crime scene has never been questioned before. And his association with Amanda and the adjunct county medical examiner's office is old news."
"Not to the fifty million people watching television today it's not," Burnside said.
"It's what the judge thinks that matters," Steve said.
"Grow up, Lieutenant," Burnside said with disgust.
"My father isn't the one on trial here," Steve said. "It's Lacey McClure. She's the one who killed two people, remember?"
"Did she?" Burnside asked. "Or did you and your father manufacture this entire case?"
"Don't tell me you believe that," Steve said.
"It's not a question of what I believe, Lieutenant, it's a question of what the evidence proves," Burnside said. "And right now, thanks to your inept handling of the investigation, the evidence isn't quite as convincing."
During the exchange, Chief Masters sat quietly in his chair studying Mark, who seemed lost in thought.
"You've remained unusually quiet, Dr. Sloan," Masters said.
Mark looked up at him. "I've been thinking about the testimony I've heard and the testimony to come."
"Have you reached any conclusions?" the chief asked.
Mark nodded. "I think the district attorney is right: The case is in jeopardy and my actions are to blame."
Steve was shocked. "You have nothing to apologize for, Dad. You saw through Lacey McClure's tricks, took apart her alibi, and proved she was a murderer. She would have gotten away with double homicide if it wasn't for you."
"She still might, Steve," Mark sighed. "We've underestimated her again."
"This is only a preliminary hearing," Karen said. "It's the murder trial we need to worry about. Perhaps we should be thankful that Tyrell has shown us where we're vulnerable, even if he has poisoned the jury pool in the process."
"I'll be sure to send him a gift basket," Burnside said. "How did Tyrell get his hands on the SID video?"
"Tyrell clearly has sources within the department—someone with an agenda, debts they can't pay, or a weakness for celebrities," Chief Masters said. "I'll find the leak and seal it. My immediate concern is how to repair the damage that's already been caused in the courtroom and keep it from spreading."
"We can't," Karen said. "If I address his charges in my questioning, I add credibility to the
m and reinforce them. We have to present our case as originally planned, but be careful not to provide him with any new ammunition."
The chief rose from his seat and strode towards the door. Somehow, he looked even taller now to Steve, or perhaps Steve just felt smaller.
Masters paused at the door and turned to face the room.
"Considering Dr. Bentley's testimony today, I'm going to demand that she be immediately removed as a county medical examiner and that an investigation be launched into her questionable conduct," the chief said. "I'll also urge the board of supervisors to shut down the adjunct medical examiner's office at Community General Hospital."
"I think that's wise," Burnside said. "We'll look like we're proactive, rather than responding to the public uproar."
"There hasn't been any," Steve said.
"There will be," Karen said. "I'll lead it myself."
The chief glared at Steve. "Regardless of the outcome of this case, your career as a homicide detective is over. You can resign or be fired. I'll leave the choice up to you."
"He's not responsible for what has happened," Mark said, rising from his seat. "I am."
"You're right," the chief said and walked out.
There are people in this world who actually buy underarm deodorant by the gallon. This was a little-known fact that Dr. Jesse Travis learned by visiting the Buy Bulk Club Warehouse Superstore in Westlake Village, California, a suburb of Los Angeles.
He couldn't imagine buying a one-gallon jug of deodorant, no matter how much cheaper it might be in the long-run than buying those little roll-ons. Nor could he envision buying a five-hundred-yard roll of dental floss, a five-pound box of Cap'n Crunch, or a package of thirty-six pairs of underwear.
But now Jesse finally understood why there were so many SUVs on the road, and why all the new tract homes in the suburbs had four-car garages. It was so people could transport and store their gallons of Listerine, pounds of Cheetos, and pallets of brassieres.
The wide aisles of the vast warehouse were gridlocked with customers, their gigantic carts overflowing with bulk goods. The people appeared to be stocking up for some kind of looming disaster, like an earthquake, hurricane, or a pro longed siege by invading alien hordes. If any of those things were scheduled for the coming weeks, someone must have forgotten to copy Jesse on the memo.
But Jesse wasn't at the Buy Bulk Club to go shopping, but to talk with Horace Beckler, the owner of the store and a former graduate school roommate of Noah Dent.
They sat eating extra-long hot dogs and drinking extra-large Cokes at one of the indoor picnic tables under a patio umbrella that gave them shade from the massive fluorescent lights.
Horace was only in his early thirties, but had already resorted to the desperate art of the comb-over, attempting to use a few long strands of hair from one side of his head to hide the ever-expanding baldness on top. But the comb-over was the least of Horace's appearance challenges. He had the build of a man who not only sold in bulk, but consumed in bulk as well.
"A few months before I graduated from business school, I walked into a McDonald's on Wilshire Boulevard and had an epiphany," Horace said. "The woman behind the counter asked me if I wanted to super-size my meal for just a few cents more. Imagine that, Dr. Travis. Super-sizing."
"It boggles the mind," Jesse agreed.
Horace shook his head at the wonder of it all. "I foresaw in that instant the future of American consumer culture. The era of super-sizing, going large, and the Big Gulp. Not just in food, but all things, including homes, cars, electronics, clothes, and breasts. I shared this vision with Noah, but he couldn't see it."
"He was more interested in hospital management," Jesse said. "Which is why we love him."
"I tried to explain to him that he should think big like I was, but he was fixated on taking over a hospital someday," Horace said. "Now look around today and what do you see?"
Jesse saw an old woman wrestling a six-pound box of instant mashed potatoes out of her cart and onto the conveyer belt at the cash registers. He saw two children helping their mother drag an enormous sack of diapers. He saw a man clutching a jug of peanut butter under one arm, and a quart of hair gel under the other.
"Women with thirty-six-inch busts are driving Humvees into their McMansions, where they have 500 channels on their sixty-five-inch TVs," Horace said. "Big is a growth industry that's only going to get bigger. Noah could have been part of this."
"But he was driven by a passion for Community General instead," Jesse said. "If the tribute I'm organizing in his honor is going to succeed, we need to understand how that passion was born."
"So ask him," Horace said.
"We want this tribute to be a surprise," Jesse said. "That's why I'm quietly going to his friends to find out more about him."
"Well, when you find out, will you let me know? Because it never made any sense to me. Hospital administration is something you end up with, not something you strive for," Horace said. "But whatever the reason is, it's got to go way back. It was already on his mind when I met him."
"How do you know?"
"He was always cutting out articles about the hospital and the doctors, sticking them into this big file," Horace said.
"Any doctors in particular?"
"I wasn't paying that much attention," Horace said. "I was looking into the future. And it was big."
"What do you know about Noah's family?" Jesse asked.
"What does his family have to do with it?"
"Maybe one of them was born at Community General, or founded the hospital, or was a doctor there," Jesse said, though he'd already checked out those possibilities. He and Susan had spent the last few days exploring Mark's past as both an investigator and a doctor, looking for any point where his life might have intersected with Noah Dent's. They didn't find one.
"He's from Toronto, came here to go to graduate school. I think he mentioned once that his dad sold insurance and that his parents were divorced," Horace said. "Have you lined up a caterer for the event?"
"Not yet," Jesse said.
"Keep us in mind." Horace reached into his coat and handed Jesse a brochure. "We do party platters of all kinds. We'll give you a discount."
"Will you super-size our order for a few dollars more?" Jesse asked.
"Of course," Horace replied.
Jesse thanked Horace, swore him to secrecy about their meeting, and was on his way out of the store when he saw the crowd gathered around the big-screen TVs. He stopped to take a look, expecting to see a clip from the latest block buster action movie.
What he saw was a live broadcast of the preliminary hearing of Lacey McClure. He only had to listen for a few moments to the play-by-play from the commentators, which included a prosecutor from the O. J. Simpson trial, to realize he wasn't actually watching a dry legal proceeding.
It was an execution.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lacey McClure wasn't the only actress in the courtroom. Assistant District Attorney Karen Cross was doing a remarkable job of acting like a confident prosecutor in complete control of the evidence she was presenting. Nothing about her expression betrayed her belief that her case was disintegrating in front of her eyes, or her nearly uncontrollable desire to leap into the witness stand and strangle Steve Sloan to death.
Instead, she calmly led Steve through the facts of the case against Lacey McClure in chronological order, from his initial interview with the movie star and on through the key deductions that led to her arrest for murder.
Along the way, Karen introduced the major items of evidence: the results of Lacey's gunshot-residue test, the magazine interviews referring to her cancer surgery, the love scene from Sting of the Scorpion, private detective Nick Stryker's illicit video of Lacey's rendezvous with Titus Carville, the CD recording of gunshots recovered from Cleve Kershaw's beach house, and the infamous home video of Lacey and Cleve making love.
Karen stuck to the script she and Steve had agreed on days before the prelimin
ary hearing began. She didn't change her strategy or her questions to counter points Arthur Tyrell raised in his aggressive cross-examinations. The last thing she wanted to do was add credence to Tyrell's implications of official misconduct by acknowledging them.
Steve concluded his testimony for the prosecution by summarizing the case: that Lacey staged the rendezvous at the Slumberland Motel to establish a false alibi for herself while she murdered Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler, who'd already been rendered helpless by the rohypnol she'd injected into their champagne bottle. Lacey intended for the murder to be blamed on organized crime and for the revelations to give a massive publicity boost to her new movie, which revolved around a Mob theme.
Karen didn't want to give up her witness, to sit down and let Tyrell begin his attack, but there was no point in trying to delay the inevitable. She returned to her seat behind the prosecution table and braced herself for the bloodbath to come.
Steve did much the same thing, taking a sip of water and wishing it was something stronger. Although he knew exactly what Tyrell hoped to prove, and how the attorney would do it, it didn't lessen Steve's anxiety. For Steve, it was like visiting the dentist to have a few cavities filled.
So he focused his attention on Lacey McClure, reminding himself why he was here and what she had done, drawing strength from the certainty of her crimes and the necessity for justice. Something in the intensity of his gaze unsettled Lacey, who looked away, almost guiltily.
Tyrell saw this and walked to the front of the table, intentionally blocking Steve's view of his client. "Lt. Sloan, when the report of the shooting came in, were you the detective in line to respond to the next case that came in?"
"No, Lt. Sam Rykus was."
"So how was it that you were the one who responded to the call?" Tyrell asked.
"I asked Rykus if I could take it," Steve said.
"Because it involved a powerful producer who was the husband of an internationally famous movie star?"