“That’s where I’m going, too,” she said, pressing the button. The elevator made a whisper sound and reached the eighth floor without interruption. The doors opened.
Ted didn’t notice the rows of gray cubicles that extended from one end of the floor to the other. He didn’t see the side walls of sliding steel doors leading to private offices. He was watching the brunette walk away.
The deputies watched with him.
“This way,” one of the deputies said finally. He led Ted to the last steel door along the right side wall. A tiny green light glowed on the doorjamb. Without knocking, the deputy grasped a bracket on the door and slid it open.
A weathered Hispanic man of about fifty-five was seated at a glass desk. “Come in, Mr. Braden,” he said in a deep voice. Ted looked apprehensively through the doorway at the small office, just a desk, three unoccupied armchairs and some computer equipment pushed up against a glass corner of floor-to-ceiling windows. He stepped inside.
“Thanks, fellas.” The man dismissed the deputies with a wave. The door slid closed, silencing the hum of voices from the cubicles.
“Mr. Braden, I’m Carl Gonzales, Deputy District Attorney for Los Angeles County. Please, sit down.”
Ted sat in the armchair closest to the door.
“I’m sorry about the escort,” Gonzales said. “We’re operating under expedited procedures in this case and sometimes people aren’t as cooperative as we need them to be.”
A tapping knock rattled the door. Gonzales flipped a toggle switch on a flat metal box on top of his desk. The door slid open and a slender man in a dark suit walked in.
“Hi, Merritt,” Gonzales said. “This is Mr. Braden. Mr. Braden, Assistant District Attorney Merritt Logan. He’s the lead prosecutor in this case.” Logan shook Ted’s hand. “I’ll bet this is the last place you wanted to be today,” Logan said with an excessively understanding smile. Ted stood up to let the lawyer squeeze past him to a chair. “Don’t worry,” Logan continued, “This won’t take long.”
Gonzales moved a stack of papers to one side and looked through the surface of his glass desk at a blue video screen underneath it. He clicked another toggle switch on the metal box. “Testing, testing, Mary had a little lamb,” he said in a clear voice. He watched his words scroll in bold white text on the screen. “Good news,” he said. “The transcriber is working. Let’s get started.”
Before he could reach for his legal pad, the phone rang. Gonzales picked up the privacy handset. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “What? Where did she pop up? That’s outstanding. Absolutely. Of course we will. Bring her over right now. Absolutely. Thanks, Cal.” Without hanging up the phone, he pressed a series of buttons. “Gracie,” he said, “Would you call Jordan and ask her to come to my office, please?”
Ted saw Merritt Logan tense up.
“Detective Whitfield is bringing someone over,” Gonzales told Logan. “I think you ought to go talk to them and I’ll get Rainsborough in here to chat with Mr. Braden.”
“That’s not necessary,” Logan said quickly. “If Detective Whitfield can wait a little bit, I’ll be able to do both.”
“No, no,” Gonzales said casually. “It’s no problem. You go and meet with Detective Whitfield. That’s our first priority here.”
“Perhaps Mr. Braden could wait...” Logan began.
“No,” Gonzales said. “I don’t have time for this. You talk to Detective Whitfield and Rainsborough will be responsible for Mr. Braden.”
Merritt Logan appeared to swallow a sentence. He stood up, squeezed past Ted and slid open the office door. Standing there, framed like a portrait by the stainless steel doorway, was the stunning woman from the elevator.
“Merritt,” she said with a bright smile, “What a nice surprise.”
“Yes,” he said tersely. “For me, too.” He stepped briskly past her and disappeared between two rows of cubicles.
“Come in, Jordan,” Gonzales said. “This is Mr. Ted Braden. Mr. Braden, Assistant District Attorney Jordan Rainsborough. She’ll be one of the prosecutors in this case.”
“Hello,” Jordan said, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
Ted’s tongue felt frozen in his mouth. He shook her hand, as soft as the white cashmere she was wearing, and nodded silently.
Jordan’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Mr. Braden’s name is on the witness list Rand’s lawyer sent over this morning,” Gonzales said as Jordan slipped past Ted’s chair and took a seat next to him.
“Yes, I know,” Jordan said. “I read the file.”
“That was quick,” Gonzales said. Jordan smiled sweetly. Ted was beginning to understand what had made Merritt Logan so tense.
“All right, then.” Gonzales leafed through a few pages on his legal pad. “Mr. Braden, we’ll be asking you some questions to help us understand the facts of this case. It’s the policy of this office to conduct interviews of this type under oath. Would you raise your right hand, please.”
Ted did.
“Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” Ted said quickly.
“All right, then. Jordan, why don’t you begin the questioning.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said with another sweet smile. “Mr. Braden, would you state your name and address for the record, please?”
Ted cleared his throat. “Theodore David Braden, B-R-A-D-E-N, 6505 Whitley Avenue, Hollywood, California.”
“Oh, it’s beautiful up there,” Gonzales interrupted. “I used to live in the Hollywood Hills. Gorgeous at night, all the lights. You must love it.”
Ted nodded.
“Yeah, my ex-wife has the house now. Are you married?”
Ted shook his head.
“Smart. NEVER get married in California. That’s my legal advice to you, no charge. I’m sorry, Jordan, go ahead.”
Jordan shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. The white cashmere skirt rode up her thigh just slightly. “Mr. Braden,” she said, “Where were you on the night of February 21st?”
CHAPTER 3
The questioning entered its third hour. Ted shifted uncomfortably in the stiff armchair.
“Do you need a break?” Gonzales asked.
“No, no,” Ted lied. “I’m fine.”
Ted was tired of thinking about the Lakers game on February 21st. The prosecutors had asked him what time he arrived, what time he left, if he had looked at a wristwatch or the scoreboard clock. They had asked him if he ever drank alcohol at the games, and if he remembered drinking that night. They asked him how many times he had left his seat.
“It was months ago,” Ted told them. “I don’t remember how many times I left my seat.”
“It’s very important that you try to remember, Mr. Braden,” Jordan Rainsborough said. “Robert Rand claims he was there at the start of that game the night the murder was committed. Do you recall if he was in his seat when you arrived at the game?”
Ted tried to think. “I know he was at every game,” he said, “because I noticed that he wasn’t there for the game last night. He’s always there.”
Jordan wrote something down on her legal pad. “Are you at every game?” she asked.
“Well, no, not every game,” Ted said. “Sometimes I give my tickets away to clients.”
“Who was with you at the game on February 21st?” Jordan asked.
“I don’t recall,” Ted said, feeling a little silly. I’m headed for a career in politics, he thought.
Jordan looked directly at Ted. He caught her studying his eyes an instant before the sweet smile returned to her face. “I know it’s a while ago,” she said. “Maybe if you gave us the names of some of the people you might typically bring to the games, it would refresh your memory.”
Ted’s mind jumped at the thought of the agency’s top clients receiving an unannounced visit from the sheriff’s deputies.
“I bring friends,” he said. For the first time, he wondered if he needed a lawyer himself.
“Now, when you’ve brought friends to the games, did any of them ever have any conversations with Robert Rand?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Have you personally ever had any contact or conversations with Robert Rand other than at the Lakers games?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had any conversations about Robert Rand with anyone?”
Ted thought about his conversation with his daughter. “Just with my girlfriend,” he answered. “Last night I took her to the game and, like I said, I noticed that Rob wasn’t there. So, you know, we talked about it.”
Jordan was watching him, still smiling pleasantly, her eyes locked on him like lasers. “And what’s her name?” she asked.
“You’re not going to send the deputies for her, are you?”
“Mr. Braden,” Carl Gonzales rumbled, “This is a serious matter. We have charged Robert Rand with the murders of Maria Sanders and LAPD officer William Szafara. However, we have both an obligation and a responsibility to seek and consider all evidence that might tend to exonerate him. You may not be aware that we have the power to compel the testimony of witnesses, even to the point of locking them up in county jail if they don’t cooperate.”
“It’s because of the Public Safety Act,” Jordan explained apologetically. “Violent crimes in California are tried under what are called ‘expedited procedures.’ That means we have to move things along.”
“If you have to talk to her, I’ll bring her in,” Ted said. He could imagine the deputies coming to RCN Data Systems and asking the horrified human resources director to take them to Julia. He could see Julia losing her security rating, then her job, then her house, and demanding to move in with him.
“Well, for now,” Jordan said, “All I need is her name and a few facts.”
“Julia Thomsen.”
“And where does she work?”
“Can I just give you her home address?”
“All right.”
Ted gave Jordan the address on Hobart Place.
“Where does she work?” The question came from Carl Gonzales.
Ted hesitated.
“We can easily find out,” Jordan said. “We found you.”
“RCN Data Systems,” Ted said quietly.
Gonzales’ face looked blank, as if he had expected a name he recognized. He glanced at the golf ball-shaped crystal clock on his desk. “Perhaps it would help refresh your memory to read a newspaper account of the game that night,” he said. He clicked his keyboard for what seemed a long time. Finally the printer behind his desk made a humming sound and ejected a sheet of paper. Gonzales grabbed the page and handed it to Ted.
A story from the February 22 Los Angeles Times was printed neatly in two columns. The headline read: Lakers Scale Matterhorns, 115-93. “Oh, yeah,” Ted said, “I was definitely at that game. I wouldn’t have missed a game against Anaheim.”
Jordan looked up from her notes. “You wouldn’t have?” she asked, “Or you didn’t?”
“I didn’t,” Ted answered. “I was definitely at that game.”
“And did you notice if Mr. Rand was there?”
“He would not have missed that game.”
“But do you specifically recall that he was there?”
“I would have noticed if he wasn’t.”
Jordan made a note. Gonzales tapped a few keys on his keyboard and frowned at the screen. “Turkey or tuna?” he asked Ted. “I don’t recommend the tuna.”
Ted was lost.
“Lunch,” said Gonzales. “We’re bringing in sandwiches. Turkey or tuna? They have roast beef but it doesn’t make a good first impression.”
“Turkey it is,” Ted said.
“Jordan? Turkey or tuna?”
“Pizza,” she said.
The pizza and Merritt Logan arrived in Gonzales’ office at the same time.
“How’d you get pizza?” Logan asked from outside the open door, which was blocked by an office intern and his delivery cart, “My e-mail said it was sub sandwiches today.”
Gonzales shrugged. “Jordan wanted pizza,” he said. “You know how it is.”
“Yes,” Logan said. “I’m starting to.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Gonzales offered.
“No time,” Logan said. “Just stopped by to tell you I got your message and I’m on my way to do it right now.”
“Okay, thanks,” Gonzales said, waving him off.
“You’re welcome,” Logan snapped. He disappeared again.
Jordan had taken her jacket off to reveal an ice blue knit top that left her arms bare to the shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said to Gonzales. “I don’t want to get pizza sauce on my sleeve.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” Gonzales said, “Be comfortable.”
Jordan’s jacket suddenly rang.
“You just have to think about eating,” she said, “and it makes the phone ring.” Jordan reached over to her jacket, which she had draped over the arm of the empty chair next to the window, and retrieved a thin wireless from the folds of white cashmere. “Jordan Rainsborough,” she answered crisply. “Yes.... Yes.... I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself? Hold on.”
Jordan turned to face Ted and extended the wireless to him. Ted, still seated, saw only an erotic silhouette framed by a halo of light from the afternoon sun. “It’s Robert Rand’s attorney,” she said.
Ted was dimly aware that she was speaking to him. “Hmm?” he asked.
“Robert Rand’s attorney,” Jordan repeated. “He has to meet with you and wants to know if you can do it today.”
“Today?” Ted took the wireless. “Hullo?” he said cautiously.
“Mr. Braden? This is John Morley Jackson. I represent Robert Rand. How are you today, sir?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Good, good. Mr. Braden, I’d very much like to have a few minutes of your time today, perhaps as soon as you’re finished with those very nice people in the district attorney’s office.”
“Mr. Jackson, I’ve really got to be getting back to work.”
“Well, as it happens, Mr. Braden,” Jackson said, “In trying to locate you earlier today I called over to your offices and spoke to several of the upper management people there. They were quite understanding when I explained the urgent nature of the situation.”
Wonderful, Ted thought. Something new for my job description. Alibi witness.
“We’ll send a car for you,” Jackson said. “I’ll just have the driver wait out front until you’re available. To save time, we’ll be meeting in the offices of Mr. Rand’s appellate attorney, C. Dobson Howe.”
Ted was startled. He knew that name. “Okay,” he said.
“Great,” Jackson answered. “See you then.” There was a click on the line.
Ted handed the wireless back to Jordan. “I’m going to meet C. Dobson Howe,” he told her.
“Dobson Howe took this case?” Jordan exclaimed. She looked over at Gonzales. “Did you know that?”
“No,” Gonzales said, shaking his head. “Must have just happened.”
“Why would he want to get involved with something like this?” Jordan asked. “There’s no chance at all....” She stopped herself in mid-sentence.
“Maybe he’s got a new book coming out,” Gonzales shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. He would only be handling appellate issues and I think we know how that’s going to end up.”
“Well, that’s true,” Jordan agreed. “How about some pizza?”
It was nearly seven o’clock when the car brought Ted to the front entrance of the downtown building where C. Dobson Howe had his offices. The driver opened Ted’s door for him. “The office is on the 23rd floor,” he said. An LAPD officer standing outside the automatic doors nodded politely to Ted as he walked inside.
The lobby could have belonged to the most expensive hotel in any city. The floo
r and the walls were seamlessly tiled in creamy beige marble, softly glowing in the light from amber ceiling fixtures. A wide walkway of beige and sparkling gold carpet ran from the front doors to the back wall, where a mahogany table held an oversized arrangement of fresh flowers. To the left, leather armchairs and small sofas were grouped into conversation areas. To the right, a long wall of solid gold was actually a well-camouflaged bank of elevators. Ted pressed the etched outline of an arrow pointing up and an elevator door directly in front of him slid silently open. He rode it to the 23rd floor and stepped out into a darkened reception area.
No one was around. Ted saw a high circular desk made of dark gray granite in front of a wall of windows. To the left, a glass door leading to a long corridor had been propped open with a book. Ted took this to be an invitation.
At the end of the corridor Ted saw light coming from the last office on the right. He tapped lightly on the door. “Come in!” a voice boomed. Ted opened the door.
“Mr. Braden.” C. Dobson Howe was on his feet, crossing the room to shake Ted’s hand.
Corey Dobson Howe was close to seventy-seven years old but looked no older than sixty-five. He wore a lightweight black suit, expertly tailored to fit his big frame without a stray crease or fold, a cream-colored shirt and a cadet blue silk tie. A blue silk pocket square looked like a military decoration on his broad chest. He was taller than he appeared on television, at least six-foot-four. His hair was gray and his hairline had receded an inch or so back from his wide brown forehead, but his face was unlined and his dark eyes were clear.
“Thank you for coming,” Howe said warmly, as if Ted had volunteered to drop by. “Allow me to introduce Mr. John Morley Jackson. I believe you spoke to him on the telephone earlier.”
Jackson took a quick sip from what appeared to be Scotch and soda, set the glass down on the granite coffee table and rose to shake Ted’s hand. He was about sixty and dressed in a conservative dark blue suit, yet something about him made Ted think he played in a band on weekends. “Nice to meet you,” Jackson said. “Thanks for coming.”
“Please sit down,” Howe said. “Would you like a drink?”
The 37th Amendment: A Novel Page 4