Good Morning, Killer ag-2

by April Smith

  “What happened?” she asked one night in the kitchen.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “I understand, but this is family.”

  “My lawyer would kill me. You know lawyers.”

  “If we’re not family,” squirting pink dishwashing liquid into a baking pan, “who is?”

  Devon had been adamant. “Don’t talk to anybody. If someone contacts you claiming to be a private detective, you say, Call my attorney. If it’s 60 Minutes on the phone, hang up. I’ve seen it time and time again. Many cases are won by the prosecution, not because of evidence they have at the beginning, but by what the defendant says to so-called friends and family.” A natural athlete, Rochelle looked great in nothing but sweat shorts and a little tank top. Her arms were shapely, and she liked her tight gold bracelets. She had an ankle tattoo from surfing days and was fussy about her long red nails — would never pry open a lid without using a gizmo, or wash the pots without big blue rubber gloves.

  “You know I’m grateful to be here.” I touched her hard freckled shoulder. “If you guys didn’t take me in, I don’t know where I’d be.”

  “Mike thinks the world of you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “He has total faith.”

  Bubbles were rising in the pan. The kitchen smelled like gardenias on a sugar high.

  “I’m glad, because it’s going to be a battle,” I said. “Being a woman FBI agent is bad news.”

  “You’d think it would be just the opposite.”

  “You and I would,” trying to seal a very watery bond. “But females on the jury will resent the fact that I’m—relatively—young and free, and sleeping with this hunky cop, and males will think I’m a ball buster.” Rochelle turned with an indignant pout. “He came after you.”

  “That’s true. I can say that much. Where does the spaghetti pot go?”

  She pointed with a dripping rubber finger. “Underneath.” Then, “I don’t see why women have to be so jealous of each other.”

  “Laws of the jungle.”

  “Look how many hours you and Mike spent together when you were partners — I didn’t have a problem with that.”

  There was an earsplitting crash as all the metal lids in the cabinet where I had been fumbling with the pot fell down, scattering like cymbals.

  “Sorry.”

  “And I work with men,” Rochelle went on. “My boss is a man, we’re together all day and after work for drinks with clients — I mean, get a grip.”

  “Well,” I said, on my knees, trying to fit the lids back into a special rack, “usually these jurors are older. Another generation.”

  “You may not even go to trial.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Berringer is a big strong guy. You’re pleading self-defense?”

  “I’ve got to go into Devon’s office and work that out.”

  “They would drop the charges if your boyfriend said forget it.”

  “Not with Mark Rauch running for mayor.”

  “Still.” Rochelle pulled off the gloves and slapped them in the dish drainer where the baking pan lay, gleaming and steaming. “What if Berringer stated it was a lovers’ quarrel, none of your business, over and out? Do you even know what your boyfriend thinks?” I closed the cabinet and stood. “I don’t know anything.”

  She was already making the boys’ lunches for the following day. A whole new meal had appeared on the counter: cheese, bologna, iceberg lettuce, plastic bags.

  “Can I help?”

  “I’ve got it. Years of practice,” she added, which made me feel annoyed.

  “Well, anyway”—I smiled—“it’s been great to hang out with you. Except for the circumstances.”

  “I agree.” She smiled back, whirling the cap off the mayonnaise. “When this is over, and you can talk—because talking is a prerequisite — you’ll have to join my book group. It’s a great group of girls, you’ll love it.” I realized she was afraid of me. Let’s face it, she had an unstable individual on her hands, awakening in the early hours, liable to get the dry heaves any hour of the day. When I wasn’t heaving I was crying, long emotionless jags in the hobby room. I was down to 104 pounds. Rochelle had shared some tranquilizers, which laid you down in a cradle of bliss for a while, then tossed you out on your ass.

  Hours before dawn, spaced on pills that were rejecting me, I would pace the empty kitchen muttering, “What do I do now?” desperate to call someone, but the whole country was asleep, even Donnato, asleep with his wife. Tenderness for him sometimes swelled so hard I had to close my eyes and bear down, but I was practiced at trammeling my feelings for Mike.

  Rochelle knew, and it made her afraid, but she sheltered me anyway, because Mike had given her no choice.

  Loyalty.

  Juliana called the cell phone one of those mornings. I did not tell her where I was nor, at first, what was going on.

  “Um, well, this is minor and stupid, but, my swim coach wants me back on the team. And I don’t want to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a joke. My times are so bad.”

  Although speaking to Juliana off the record during the investigation of her case had not exactly been kosher, talking to her now felt very not right.

  “The only reason,” she was going on, “is they’re all in a conspiracy to get me back to school.”

  “What conspiracy?”

  “My parents. The vice principal.”

  “Maybe it’s time.”

  How long could I stay on the phone without violating someone or something? With Devon’s constant haranguing all I could see was Mark Rauch subpoenaing the phone records and jumping on the fact I had been talking to a vulnerable young rape victim at four in the morning, after I was suspended from the Bureau. Who knew what he would make of that, but it would not be an ice cream soda.

  “I don’t want to go to school.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Kill myself,” Juliana said.

  I closed my eyes and went into hostage negotiator mode.

  “Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

  “Don’t trip.”

  “I have to trip.”

  “I didn’t call to get yelled at!”

  “I’m not yelling. Am I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I don’t mean to yell.”

  “You’re the only one who understands.”

  Is this what children do? Force you to see the excruciating difference between your real self and who you are pretending to be, you think, for them?

  “I—” My voice faltered, which was not hostage negotiator mode. “Juliana, I really, really care about you. Anything you say to me is all right. I’m here for you.”

  From the quality of the silence I could tell she was fighting tears.

  “When people talk about killing themselves, they very often mean it. I need to know what’s going on with you.”

  “It’s just an expression, for God’s sake! I’m not an idiot. I would never do anything like that. Don’t you think I know what everyone — my parents — went through just because of the rape? I would never do that. It has nothing to do with what I’m talking about!” “What?”

  “The swim team.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “Then what’s the problem with the swim team? The real problem?”

  “The blocks,” she admitted at last. “I would almost kind of do it … if they didn’t make me get up on the blocks. It never used to be a thing.”

  “But getting up there now, it bothers you?”

  “The water’s far away.”

  “I know it is.”

  “I’m afraid if I … I’m afraid I’ll be scared and they’ll laugh at me.”

  “Can you talk to your coach? Ask if it’s okay to start in the water. Hold on to the wall. You don’t have to race right away. You don’t have to start from the blocks,” I said, “just go for the practices, go down
the ladder, one step at a time, how would that be?”

  Later that morning, Devon County called. “Ana?” he said. “It’s time to come to Jesus.”

  Nineteen

  From the bronze-and-steel lobby to the unobstructed view of Beverly Hills, everything about County, Carr, Levinson and Grant said, We’re rich and really happy about it!

  The conditions of release on bail allowed for meetings with my attorney and I entered their swank offices as if having been let out of a cave. Maybe it was a design statement, but diamonds were everywhere — diamond patterns in the sage marble tile, diamonds etched on frosted glass, inlaid in maple cabinets, part of the ironwork coffee tables. The chairs in the waiting room were covered in silk, velvet pillows on the couch. If this was coming to Jesus, sign me up.

  The jewels of the kingdom were not shared with the help. A tired-looking young woman assistant in a tattered sweater and jeans led the way to a corner office where Devon sat behind a huge trestle table fit for a warlord. Since I had seen him during that predawn visit in jail, he had gone from ghetto to glitz, a vision of hip efficiency in crisp white shirtsleeves and buffed scalp. The table was loaded with expensive, highly detailed model cars. Cars lined the windowsills and cars rolled by, outside the windows, on Santa Monica Boulevard. There were too many cars in the world, anyway, and considering Devon had almost lost his life in a car, you had to wonder why he would surround himself with a fetishistic collection of reminders.

  I sat in a cockpit of an armchair made of soft Italian leather.

  “It’s a long way from the homicide desk, Detective.”

  Devon smiled. “Ten years ago you could have told me a mojito was a male prostitute.”

  “You mean a mojito is not a male prostitute?”

  “A mojito is a rum drink.”

  “Oh.”

  “Apple martinis are out. Mojitos are the new LA thing.”

  “You travel in the right circles, Devon.”

  His gaze drifted to the immediate view. Ten-million-dollar estates belonging to new Hollywood and old aerospace were deftly tucked between neat rows of palm trees adumbrating toward the hills.

  “You think as an investigator you’ve seen it all.” He shook his head. “You would not believe what I see.”

  “The level of greed?”

  “The fucking and sucking.”

  I guessed we were talking about the same thing.

  “The hardest part for you,” he continued, in one peculiar segue, “will be to see Detective Berringer for the first time in court. You need to prepare for that.”

  “What should I do? Stare at his picture and give myself electric shocks?”

  “I mean it, Ana.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  “You’re feeling defensive.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “I can tell from your body language.”

  I looked down and uncrossed my legs. In fact, the idea of seeing Andrew in court had made my stomach cramp.

  “Better?”

  “You’ve never been on the other side, is what I’m saying. Never sat at the defendant’s table. The DA is definitely going to call Andrew Berringer. And this man, who you know intimately, is going to basically accuse you in open court of attempted murder.” I reached for a water bottle left by the tired assistant and drank as if it could give me strength. In the soft field of Mediterranean daylight created by the large windows, Devon, with his white shirt and shining dome of a head, seemed hyperdefined, like a figure out of context in a dream. Those figures often appear bearing a message.

  “Whatever Detective Berringer says, you do not show emotion of any kind. It is very important,” Devon insisted, “if I am to defend your freedom, to know I’m not going to see you reacting in any way. I don’t want you looking at him with anger, or rolling your eyes when you don’t like something, or — doing like you’re doing right now — shaking your head like I’m a moron.” “I don’t think you’re a moron.”

  “I need you to do nothing except take notes on a pad. If there’s something you need to relate to me, write it down. I don’t want anyone who might be observing this hearing to assume that you have a bias either way.”

  “I’m shaking my head, Devon, because that’s impossible.”

  “What is?”

  “For me to sit there and listen to whatever bullshit the DA is going to come up with.”

  “Forget the DA. You know how that’s played. Let’s focus on Andrew. He’s the one who can push your buttons.”

  I said nothing.

  “Am I right?”

  “Well, he did. Apparently.”

  Devon took a breath to observe me in silence. Our eyes held, like infrared devices connecting and adjusting, sharing information. We were framing the relationship. Who was in charge? How far would the other yield?

  “If you can’t keep it together in the courtroom, the ramifications will be — well, let me remind you. Sometimes clients need to hear it again: Your life is on the line.”

  Devon let his thick lids fall in a slow, deliberate blink. He wanted me to sit with it, but instead everything I’d been holding back suddenly spurted out.

  “I’m pissed at him for getting me into this position, I’m upset with myself for going there, I feel guilty, upset, ashamed,” smacking a fist on the cockpit chair, “and I’m tripping, because on some level, I still love the guy! So, I don’t know! You tell me! What am I supposed to do?” “Put on your game face,” my attorney advised.

  That I understood. From years of interrogation, I understood.

  “All right,” I said, and took a moment to drop the emotionality, or at least stuff it back into its sack. “Game face on.”

  He nodded and picked up the pen.

  “Detective Berringer is a hundred pounds heavier than you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “At least seven inches taller?”

  “Nine inches taller.”

  “Have you seen him before in a state of rage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever have moments in your relationship when you feared for your safety?”

  “I have.”

  “Talk about those.”

  Having rendered all this easily, I suddenly discovered I did not wish to reveal more. If there was a pattern of impulsive violence in Andrew’s behavior, I had not seen it and certainly did not want to admit that failure now. Here in the corner office, in the uncompromising light of success, I had a deep, vital need to appear as competent and accomplished as Devon.

  So I smiled with professional accord and lied.

  “Andrew can be opinionated, but whatever minor incidents there might have been, they were nothing you would tag.”

  Devon was looking at my feet. Always position the suspects so you can see what they are doing with their feet. Often the feet will be dancing to a different tune than the one playing upstairs. Mine were pointing out the door — what does that tell you?

  “Give me an example,” Devon pressed, “of something minor.”

  “Driving fast,” was the first thing that came to mind. “A lot of people drive fast when they’re angry, even though we do our best to—”

  “Andrew drove fast when he was upset.”

  “Angry.”

  “How fast?”

  “I don’t know. Ninety? A hundred?”

  “This was where?”

  “On the Ten, out near Indio. We were coming back from riding dune buggies.”

  “What set him off?”

  “We had a fight.”

  “Can you recall what the fight was about?”

  “Girls. If we were going to still see other people. I wanted to get it clear. You know, where we were. He told me to stop nagging.”

  Devon’s blue-jeweled pen kept looping across the yellow pad.

  “What else?”

  “What else?” I spread my arms. “I was not dating some psychotic maniac.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “An
drew has a manifesto, in a frame on the wall. ‘The Homicide Investigator’s Oath,’ it says. ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill.’ This is a guy who truly believes he is working for God.”

  “Give me another minor incident.”

  “Once upon a time, Andrew shot a rattlesnake.”

  I folded my arms defensively, although I was giving Devon exactly what he wanted. Even through my resistance I could see he was one smart lawyer. The resistance came of my desire, even at this late hour, to protect the truth about who Andrew Berringer was — the poignant facts of his humanity that would not be evident in the skewed furniture in the Marina apartment, nor the broken scree of a mountain track.

  “We were hiking the San Bernardino Mountains. We see a rattlesnake lying across the trail. He, of course, has to poke it with a stick. I’m telling him not to, but he’s like a little boy, he just won’t quit, and then all of a sudden he takes out his weapon and shoots the damn thing.” “Was it attacking him?”

  “No. It was just lying there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him he was a fucking Neanderthal and turned around and started running down the trail.” I had been crying but did not share that with Devon. “He called after me, but I kept going and basically he chased me all the way down. It was not fun.” “Was he trying to catch you? Hurt you?”

  “I didn’t let him catch me. By the time we got down we were completely wiped and had nothing to say to each other. We broke up for about three weeks after that.”

  “When Andrew acted like this, what did you make of it?”

  I frowned, trying to sort it out, holding on to our most private moments, the way a child hides a clear glass marble in her hand, believing that it is not glass but crystal, powerful and made of magic.