“Is it important?” asks Tod.
“It could be. I’d like you to look for the gun. If you find it, don’t touch it. There may be prints. Just call me.”
I think Talia’s right on this point. It is a virtual certainty the cops didn’t find the gun the day they searched the house. It hasn’t shown up on the inventory of evidence held in the police locker. Under the circumstances a missing gun is as good as one in the hand, as far as the state is concerned. The minute bullet fragment found in Ben is unlikely to be sufficient for any serious ballistics analysis. Given its size and the damage sustained by what is left of the round, a match to the gun would be next to impossible. But it may be enough to show that the fragment was indeed part of a small-caliber bullet. That, coupled with proof of registration showing that either Ben or Talia possessed such a weapon, fills an important gap in their case. It leaves us in the position of dealing with a double negative, that the bullet fired into Ben’s head didn’t come from a gun Talia can’t find. It is from just such deficits that jurors form damning conclusions.
“We’ll look for it,” says Tod. “I’ll help her.” There’s a genuineness in his tone. Tod is one of those souls who is either very slick or naive in the extreme. It’s difficult to tell.
“I assume that this gun is important or you wouldn’t be looking for it,” he says. “But …”
“But what?”
“Mr. Potter wasn’t shot with a handgun,” he says.
“You know that for a fact?”
He’s perceptive enough not to say the obvious-that it was in all the newspapers. “You have evidence showing that a handgun was used?”
The man is not naive, I decide. “Let’s just say that there may be some conflicting evidence. Right now we’re exploring a number of different leads, which takes me to the next point-an alibi. We need more information on your whereabouts the day of the killing. I know we’ve been through this before. But one more time.”
Talia’s getting a little testy on this. We have been over it so many times, but she humors me. “Well, as I’ve said, I was down in Vacaville, looking at property. I didn’t get home until around ten. The police were here at the house waiting for me when I arrived.”
There are knowing looks exchanged here, between Talia and Tod, the kind that make normal people paranoid and lawyers nervous. I tell myself it may be simply that they have realized the obvious. The absence of any plausible evidence confirming an alibi makes Talia the perfect defendant.
I gamble a little and press. “No, no. None of this,” I say. I look somewhat bug-eyed at them, exaggerating their glances. There’s more than a little aggression in my tone, and the message is clear: Don’t waste my time with lies. “Either you tell me the truth, all of it now, or I can’t help you.”
“We are,” she says. “I mean I am. I’m telling you all I know.”
“Well, then it’s just not good enough,” I say. It’s a delicate line, attempting to draw out a client, getting her to help herself without suborning perjury. “There must be something you’ve forgotten. Somebody you talked to. A stop along the way that’s slipped your mind. Think.”
There comes a long moment of pained silence as she racks her memory. I’ve already taken signed consent forms from Talia and sent them to all of the companies from which she holds credit cards on the off chance that she made a credit purchase that day, a transaction she’s forgotten about.
“I’m sorry.” She can read the frustration in my expression. “It’s that bad?”
I nod. “You can tell ’em you heard it here first-Tony and Cheetam.” Seeing how Cheetam’s been glossing it with her, I am here in part to let her know the truth. “We could try to cut a deal with the DA.” I’m breaking new ground now. No one has yet dared to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain with Talia.
“You aren’t serious?” Tod plants both feet on the floor. He’s now leaning forward in his chair, looking at me incredulously.
“I do mean it. I couldn’t be more serious. We’re looking at the gas chamber,” I say. To Tod these words may be chilling, but still, for him, it is an abstraction. I wish I could say the same. I have been waking in a cold sweat at night, behind the crystal vision of Brian Danley twisting under the straps in that chair, his voice howling for mercy. I wonder after all these months why it is now that these thoughts are visiting me. But after viewing the state’s evidence it is no longer a quantum leap to envision Talia’s softer, feline, terror-stricken eyes in that place. I can tell by the look on Talia’s face that this thought is now finally beginning to settle on her.
“I know what Cheetam’s been telling you,” I say. I wait for a moment, to make my point stand out. “A lot of pixie dust and happy thoughts I’ve checked him out. He wins one in ten, publicizes the shit out of it until it makes him bigger than life itself.” My inquiries into Cheetam have confirmed my worst fears. “On the civil side it’s bad enough. Some poor slob with a leg off has to spend his life sitting on a littered street corner with a can of pencils.”
Talia’s expression turns hard. I know that to her such a scene makes her own situation appear merciful. She would always choose a quick death over poverty.
“To Gilbert Cheetam this is just one more case,” I say. “An opportunity to fill a few more pages in his scrapbook When it’s over he’ll go on to the next case, and then the one after that. Sure he’d like to win. But the Cheetams of this world don’t look back, or cry over lost causes. They forget them as quickly as possible. They remember only their victories, and they tell their publicists to do the same thing.” I can’t tell if I’m getting through to her.
“Did you know that he’s already sold book rights to the story of your case?”
This snaps Talia’s head in my direction.
“No, I didn’t,” she says.
I nod. “It’s true.”
Tod laughs. “Well, there it is,” he says. “He wouldn’t sell a book on a case he thought he was going to lose. The man would have to be a fool.”
“You think so?” I say. “Whether Talia wins or loses, you can be sure of one thing. Gilbert Cheetam will win the hearts and minds of any reader who pokes his nose between the covers of that book. He will offer her up as a sacrifice to justice, and himself as its high priest. There’s an old saw, Charlie”-I am looking directly at Tod now-“ ‘It doesn’t matter what they say about you as long as they spell your name right.’ And you can be sure that the biggest thing in that book will be Cheetam’s name on its cover. And inside, it will be repeated more times than there are periods.”
“I disagree,” he says. “The man must have confidence in the case or he wouldn’t …”
“Tod, shut up.” Talia’s heard enough.
I have the stage. “This brings us to the sorry fact that the chances of beating this thing in the preliminary are slim and none. I’ve seen their best evidence.” I hesitate a moment before dropping the hammer. “If you want my assessment, you will be bound over for trial on a charge of first-degree murder.”
Talia appears shaken, not so much by the news as by the blunt manner in which it is delivered. “I didn’t do it,” she says.
“It pains me to tell you this, but that doesn’t matter. The evidence says you did. And in the prelim, all they have to show is criminal agency, that Ben died at the hands of another, and that there is a reasonable basis to believe that you’re guilty of the crime.” I focus all the urgency possible in my voice, the clarity of my words. “Believe me, unless you can give me something more, they’re certain to make their case in the prelim.”
“Could they convict me?” she asks.
To this I don’t give an answer, except for the arching of eyebrows and a slight tilt of my head, like the odds-makers are still out.
Both of them are astounded. It appears that they’re heavily invested in Cheetam’s fairy tale of exoneration at an early stage.
Talia, it seems, is on the verge of taking offense, as if I am saying these things only because I do
not believe her protestations of innocence. She vents her spleen, then closes. “You’re just a bundle of confidence,” she says.
Tod is more subdued, his gaze cast down into the brandy snifter cradled in his hands. I can see gyrations of liquid in the glass, like little temblors on a seismograph. Reality is beginning to settle on him.
He looks at her. “Talia, maybe we should …”
“No,” she says.
I think maybe he is counseling a deal with the DA.
Talia calms herself finally and takes me on a mental tour, her trip to Vacaville the day Ben died. What I hear is the same rendition of no alibi, a journey that began and ended alone. She tells me about the realtor’s lockbox key she used to let herself into what she describes as a mansion out in the country. Talia says she spent more man two hours going through the house, examining not only the rooms, but the glitzy furnishings. It seems the former owner had had a taste for modern decor. The owner had died without heirs. The house and its contents were being sold by the county administrator. It was one of those properties usually bought by the forty thieves, real estate speculators who traffic in good buys from the probate courts and public administrators, a circle in which Talia does not usually travel. How she was clued into this one I do not know. She returned to the city without making further stops for meals or gas. She claims she saw and spoke to no one.
“Great,” I say.
“Talia, listen to me.” Tod’s trying to reason with her. “Can we have a minute alone?”
I’m not anxious to allow Tod to talk to her alone, but from the signs of intimacy here, whatever damage may be done has probably already occurred-long before my arrival.
“Sure,” I say. “Talk.”
I get up, leaving my briefcase and note pad on the chair, and exit the room. I wander across the entry and through the open door to Ben’s old study. I turn on the desk lamp so that I’m not in the dark.
I can hear a lot of naysaying from Talia in the other room. Tod is not having much success at persuasion.
The study is like a living museum. There are pages on the desk written in Ben’s hand. A book is open under the lamp, as if he’s about to return at any moment to pick up his place in the text. I look at the cover. It’s a volume of West’s Digest, the firm’s name stamped across the ends of the pages, library style. There is probably some sorry associate running around the office wondering what has happened to it, I think.
There is a loud and final “No” from Talia in the other room, followed by much silence. My cue to return.
I leave the light on in the study and walk slowly toward the living room. As I enter the room Tod has his back to me, and looks out the window across an acre of closely clipped lawn toward the pool house.
“Paul,” she says. “Your professional opinion What are my chances?” Talia is now all business.
“A lot can happen between now and trial. A lot can happen during the trial. We’ll know more after we see their witnesses in the prelim,” I say. “But if I had to guess, right now, no better than fifty-fifty.” I am myself now putting a little gloss on it.
She thinks for a moment, then speaks. ‘There won’t be any deals. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.” Talia’s showing more sand than I would have expected.
She rises from the couch and leaves the room. It seems that our meeting is over.
I stand near the door with Tod. Talia’s not seeing me out. Before he can open it, I turn and look at him.
‘Tell me something,” I say. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to.”
“If I can,” he says.
“Where were you the day Ben was killed?”
This brings a flush to his cheeks, like I’ve caught him flat-footed.
“We are getting direct, aren’t we?” he says.
“I don’t have much choice. I’m running out of time. You do understand the perilous position you’re in?” I say.
“Me?” He says this in a tone almost incredulous.
“Yes. You’re here in this house. The cops are looking for an accomplice. Someone strong enough to have helped Talia with the body To get it from wherever Ben was killed to the office. Right now you look real convenient. You could use a little more discretion,” I say.
“Perhaps,” he says. “But I’m a friend. I was raised with the notion that friends don’t cut and run.” I think that this is a little shot at me, the fact that I have been at best distant from Talia during these, her days of need. Our relationship is now pure business.
“Noble,” I say.
“No,” he says. “Just trying to do the right thing”
“But it doesn’t answer my question. Where were you the day Ben was killed?”
“At the club. Playing tennis All afternoon.” He doesn’t flinch or bat an eye as he says this. “I had dinner there, with friends. Didn’t leave until after nine o’clock.” He looks over his shoulder to see whether Talia is within earshot. “You can check it out.”
“How lucky for you.”
“Yes,” he says, as he reaches for the door. “Good night.”
CHAPTER 16
We are now four days to the preliminary hearing and I am counting the hours as if they slip away on a doomsday clock. I’ve tracked Cheetam like a shadow, trying to prep him on the evidence. Between phone calls I tell him about the theory of the monster pellet-the second shot. He waves me off. Cheetam, it seems, does not have the time.
He lives with a telephone receiver growing out of his ear. He spends his days hustling information on other cases from the far-flung reaches of the state and beyond, talking to his office in Los Angeles, his stockbroker in New York, faxing interrogatories to a half-dozen other states where minions labor under him like some multinational franchise. For Gilbert Cheetam, it seems, if it isn’t reported on a telephone, it hasn’t happened. I’ve tried reducing my thoughts to writing in hopes that our situation with Talia’s case would come home to him. But my unread memos languish with piles of other correspondence yellowing in a basket on the desk mat he is using at P amp;S.
It is zero hour minus three days when I finally corner him for lunch. I lead him to a back table of this place, a dreary little restaurant away from the downtown crowd. No one of note has darkened the door in this place in a decade. I have picked it for that reason-a place where we cannot be found or interrupted.
“How’s the veal?” he asks.
“Everything’s excellent,” I lie.
“Good, I’ll have the veal.”
We order, and I begin to talk. Seconds in, there is a high-pitched electronic tone, barely audible. It emanates from under the table.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says.
He pops the lid on his briefcase and produces a small telephone receiver. I should have expected-Cheetam’s cellular fix.
I gnaw on celery sticks and nibble around the edges of my salad as he carries on a conference call that ranges across the northern hemisphere.
We are into the entree. He’s picking at his veal with a fork, the phone still to his ear, when suddenly he’s on hold with L.A. His dream, he tells me, is a portable fax for his car, to go with his cellular phone. I smile politely. The man’s an electronics junkie.
Over coffee he pulls the receiver away from his ear long enough to tell the waitress, “I’ll take the check.” Then we are off in his car, the phone still glued to his ear.
At an intersection he finishes business and puts the receiver beside him on the seat.
I seize the moment. “We should start preparing for trial,” I say. “How do you want to handle it?” Circling the wagons for a defense in the prelim, I tell him, is a waste of time.
“You give up too easily,” he says. “Why don’t we wait until after the preliminary hearing before we start talking trial.”
“Do me a favor,” I say. “If you’ve got a magic bullet, something that’s gonna end this thing in the prelim, let me in on it now. But don’t give me the mushroom treatment.”
‘Turn on the lights and end with the bullshit,” I say. “Don’t waste my time. This isn’t Talia. I’m not your client. I’ve seen the evidence. And from everything I’ve seen, we are going to eat it in the preliminary hearing.” I bite off my words, precise and clipped, as if to emphasize the certainty of this matter.
“Really.” He looks over at me. And for a fleeting instant I think he is shining me on. I don’t know whether to argue with him or take the lead that his demeanor is part of a well-meaning inside joke, that in fact he has mastered the realities of our case long before this moment.
From his inside vest pocket he pulls a leather container and slides the cover off, exposing five long panatelas in shiny cellophane wrappers. He offers me one.
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t mind if I do?”
“It’s your car,” I say.
“You’re entirely too pessimistic,” he says. “But I agree, it’s a tough case. Still, I think we have a chance here.”
The man’s a dreamer.
He chews through the wrapper and slips one of the long slender things into his mouth. He uses a wooden match and the car begins to fill with a thick blue haze. I open my window a few inches.
“Tough case.” I say it like this is the understatement of the year. “As judicial process goes, the preliminary hearing is a prosecutorial exhibition bout.”
It’s true. The only purpose is to weed out groundless felony complaints, to spare wrongly accused defendants the embarrassment and cost of a full trial in the superior court.
“For starters,” I say, “the state faces a minimal burden. It’s not proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Not here. We’re not even talking a preponderance. All they have to show is probable cause. You know what that is in this state?”
From the look on his face, through a fog of smoke, I can tell he does not.
“It means a suspicion-a bare suspicion.” I say it as if these words summon up something sinister, a vestige from some howling star chamber.
“All the judge needs to send our client to the superior court on a charge of first-degree murder,” I tell him, “is a reasonable suspicion that Potter was murdered, and that Talia did it.”
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