The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  “Before we talk about the past, Ms. Hill,” he says. “I need to know where you were tonight. Please.”

  “I was at a yoga class.”

  “What time did you leave the class?”

  “Right around five thirty. But then I got my nails done. The nail salon is right next to the yoga studio.”

  “Okay. Let’s assume you have someone who can confirm you leaving at that time …”

  “Ms. Yeagher, her neighbor, has already confirmed it,” Carolyn cuts in. “She was there. She left literally five minutes later.”

  “Okay. Then Ms. Hill, let me ask you, do you have any reason to suspect that someone wanted to kill your husband?”

  Beth looks down. When she doesn’t say anything, Billings decides he’d better step in.

  “Ms. Hill,” he says, “what Detective Madden means is, is there anything your husband may have said to you in the last few days that may have indicated any concern on his part? Did he mention anything to you?”

  Beth rubs her eyes with her fingers and shakes her head.

  “There was no friction in his life?” Billings continues in a quiet voice, his eyes filling with sympathy. “No arguments with business associates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, there was friction,” she says.

  “What kind?”

  “Just day-to-day stuff. I don’t know. There were some heated arguments over the direction of the company. But nothing you’d think would cause something like this.”

  Madden: “If you don’t mind my asking. Where were you married? I didn’t see an announcement.”

  She looks up at him, then over at Carolyn. She doesn’t seem to know quite what to make of the question. But Carolyn gives an assuring nod, telling her it’s okay to answer.

  “Out in Napa,” she says. “Almost four years ago.”

  “And you were previously engaged to his friend Richie?”

  Another glace at Carolyn, who again gives her the green light. “Yes. But as you know, the accident altered things.” She takes a sip of water from a glass that’s sitting on the sand-colored marble-topped coffee table, next to where Harry Yeagher had placed two white pills on a napkin. She picks one up, but Madden stops her before she can place the pill in her mouth. He asks if she wouldn’t mind refraining from taking any medication until they’re through questioning her. He makes the request calmly enough, but his emotion still shows through. He’s furious that this doctor, this neighbor, has given her anything. Goddamn arrogant bastard, he thinks.

  Beth puts the pill back on the napkin and says, “You were hard on him, Mr. Madden.”

  “If it were your daughter who was killed, you’d probably say I was easy on him.”

  “You’re right,” she says. “Well, you were hard on Richie, Mr. Madden. You broke him.”

  “I was hard on both of them.”

  Beth smiles. It’s an odd, self-knowing smile. “Mark cracked,” she says. “But he didn’t break. Richie broke.”

  Now it’s Billings’s turn to get politely blunt.

  “Mr. McGregor was previously married, was he not? At the time of the accident, he was married, wasn’t he? I seem to remember that.”

  “No. He had a girlfriend.”

  “I find something a little curious,” Madden says. “When your call came in, you were listed as B. Hill. Did you keep your maiden name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any reason?”

  She shrugs. “It’s just not something I believe in. I was Beth Hill. I will always be Beth Hill. I just couldn’t see taking another name. It’s also a pain to do. Maybe I’m just lazy.”

  Somehow Madden doubts that—the lazy part anyway.

  “And when did you and Mark get closer, so to speak?”

  “I left the Bay Area for a couple of years. After Richie went to prison, I went back East. To New York. That’s where I’m from originally. Upstate.”

  She explains that Mark called her one day. He was in Manhattan for a tech conference and asked her if she’d consider having a drink with him. He told her he’d broken up with his girlfriend. Beth wasn’t going to meet him at first, but he said he wanted to tell her something and needed to say it in person. That’s how it started, she said.

  “What did he tell you?”

  She smiles again, seeming to relive the memory fondly in her mind. “He just wanted to apologize for ruining my life.”

  “He felt responsible?”

  “There wasn’t supposed to be a bachelor party. I didn’t care, but Richie didn’t want one. And then Mark and some buddies sprung it on him. It wasn’t supposed to be that big a deal. Some sushi and karaoke, like they usually did. Richie had a good voice. He could sing really well. He’d taken lessons when he was younger. He’d been in some school plays. They had this group of guys who met up in the city once a month. Sushioke, they called it.”

  “And you accepted his apology?”

  “Not really. Not then. But he kept calling.”

  He began by checking in every few weeks. And he sent her some gifts. Nothing serious. A box of apples, for example, because she’d once told him about an orchard she’d visited in Oregon that had the most delicious apples she’d ever tasted. He sent the kind of gifts that were more thoughtful than expensive. Then one day she called him. They hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks, and she wondered why he hadn’t called. It was bothering her, which she found kind of surprising. So she picked up the phone and called. And that was really the turning point. She just became more open to the relationship. There wasn’t really anyone who understood what she’d been through, she said. She was having a hard time with guys. She was pretty closed off.

  “Mark understood where I was,” she explains, “and frankly, used it to his advantage. He really wanted to make my life whole again. Well, really our lives, because it was as much about him as it was me.”

  Madden isn’t all that concerned at the moment about how Mark McGregor felt or how he wanted to make ruined lives whole. He’s more preoccupied with how Richie Forman felt.

  “Beth,” he says, using her first name for the first time, “do you know where Richie is now?”

  “He’s up in the city.”

  “When did he get out of prison?”

  “Well over a year ago. But he was in Sacramento for some months. He told me he was working in a restaurant.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  “Yes. A few times.”

  The way Carolyn looks at her, this seems to be new information.

  “What’d he say?” Billings asks.

  “He called to let me know that he’d heard that I’d gotten married to Mark. I hadn’t spoken with him in three years.”

  Madden: “And his tone, was it threatening?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What does that mean, not exactly?”

  “He asked me whether I loved Mark.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said I was sorry but I did. I wasn’t sure how it had happened but it had.”

  Madden looks at Carolyn. It’s hard to fathom. The Beth Hill he knew from all those years ago had seemed resolutely loyal, even when all the details of the evening had emerged. Of course, five years was a long time to wait for somebody. A lot could happen in five years. But this?

  If Carolyn feels the same way, she doesn’t let on. She gives him a little shrug with her eyes, then looks back at Beth, who seems lost in her own thoughts.

  “And what was his reaction?” Madden asks.

  “He said he was profoundly disappointed in me. Understandably.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well no, but that was the gist of the conversation. Frankly, the whole thing was rather awkward. I think we both seemed like strangers to each other. He’d changed in prison. He used to be a very buoyant person, someone who really enjoyed life. And then he became sullen. I guess that’s the word. Not exactly bitter. Whenever I visited him, his eyes just had this p
iercing look to them that wasn’t there before. He was always seething.”

  Madden: “Did you tell your husband you spoke to him?”

  “Yes. He was concerned. I mean, we’d heard he was getting out. He served his full sentence and then some because he’d had a tough time the first year or so. He’d been involved in a few altercations. One very serious. He stabbed someone. Or rather, slashed him badly with a razor. The guy lost a lot of blood. He had a stroke.”

  “Hank,” Carolyn says, “I think we can cut to the chase here. Your ten minutes is going to be up pretty quickly. The fact is Ms. Hill isn’t aware of any explicit threats that Richie Forman may have made to her or her husband since his release from prison.”

  “How about before that? I know there was a lot of resentment. Did he ever express a desire to get back at Mark?”

  “He was certainly very bitter,” Beth says. “But I can’t tell you exactly how he felt these last years. I stopped visiting him about eighteen months after he went to prison. As I said, he had a rough time. He changed. He became very remote. We had arguments. He accused me of cheating on him, of being unfaithful.”

  “And then you were.”

  “Look, Hank,” Carolyn interjects again, “we can go over this in more detail tomorrow. Mr. Forman is obviously a person of interest—”

  “Miss Dupuy, don’t tell me how to run my investigation.”

  “I’m not, Sergeant,” she says, returning the formality. “I’m just acceding to my client’s wish to keep this short. Her husband has been murdered. She found his body. She’s distressed. And right now it’s closing in on midnight and I need to discuss some matters with her before she tries to get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a very difficult day. But I assure you she fully intends to cooperate. We have the list of staff that you requested and will be putting together a longer list of people we think you should question.”

  Madden looks at Beth Hill to get confirmation of those intentions, but she again seems lost in her own thoughts. He wonders if she’s trying to sort out for herself whether Forman killed her husband.

  “I don’t know whether Richie still hated Mark or not,” she says. “I assume he did. But he could have hated me just as much. Why wouldn’t he have killed me?”

  Good question, Madden thinks.

  “You were at the trial, Detective,” she goes on. “It wasn’t as black and white as you’re trying to make it out to be. Richie was convinced he wasn’t driving that car. Everybody else, including you, thought he was. So he felt betrayed by a lot of people. It’s easy to say he hated Mark, but it was more complicated than that. Hate can have its nuances.”

  Madden looks at her, a little perplexed by her tone.

  “And did you believe Richie?”

  “I tried to.”

  “You mean you wanted to?”

  They all look at Billings, the poser of the question. Usually he was very good with his timing and phrasing. But this question, delivered just a decibel too loud, a tad too forceful, belly flops. Instead of drawing her out, it shuts her down. Her hands come up over her face. The curtain closes.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m talking about this. My God. I thought it was over.”

  Carolyn lays a hand gently on her back.

  “Who did this?” Beth mutters. Then, her voice growing louder: “Tell me, who could have done such a thing? He didn’t deserve this.”

  Just then they hear a little knock on the door, and Burns, the lone black detective in their crew, pokes his head into the room. He’s been out canvassing the neighbors, hoping to find a witness who saw something. He motions for Madden to step away.

  “Nothing from the neighbors,” he says in a low voice when he approaches. “But they’ve got something just outside the garage you might want to check out.”

  “What?”

  “Shoe print. Appears freshly made. Didn’t belong to the deceased.”

  Madden nods.

  “They size it?”

  “About a ten,” he says. “Male.”

  “Okay, give us a minute. In the meantime, get SFPD on the horn, and let ’em know what’s up, and that we may be heading their way shortly.”

  “Okay if I stay down here, work this end, Hank?” Burns asks.

  Madden looks at him, trying to gauge his motivation for the request. Seeing his consternation, Burns adds, “Got a bit of stomach bug. Wouldn’t mind staying near a john.”

  Madden smiles. “You had me worried there for a second. Thought you wanted to keep out of trouble.”

  “That, too,” Burns says.

  Madden starts to walk away, but Burns stops him.

  “Hank.”

  “What?”

  “We’re gonna need some help here.”

  “I know.”

  “Everybody’s going to want a piece.”

  “I’m good at sharing.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you told me to.”

  With that, Madden turns around and walks back into the den, where he notices Billings scribbling something in his notebook. Beth is quietly weeping, her face still buried in her hands. Madden wishes they could get her down to the station house. Moments like these are what you want to get on video, not only to retain a record of her emotions but also to capture something for experts—and maybe a jury—to look at and analyze down the road.

  “Thank you for your help, Ms. Hill,” he says. “Again, we know how difficult this is. One last thing: Can you remember what size shoe Richie wore?”

  Beth looks up, suddenly more alert—and seeming more alarmed.

  “I’m not sure. Not huge but not small. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  8/ A PARADOX

  ON THE MONDAY THAT MARKED THE END OF HIS TWO-WEEK VOLunteer period, Lourdes Hinojosa called Richie into her office.

  “I said I’d talk to you at the end of two weeks,” she said.

  Actually, she hadn’t—he’d been the one to suggest the two-week time frame in their initial meeting, but nothing had been said about it since he started. But he didn’t contradict her. He just nodded, sensing from the tone of her voice and body language that the news wasn’t good.

  “You’ve done an excellent job, Rick. You’re hard working, courteous, insightful, in short, everything you said you’d be.”

  She paused, a foreboding, overly sympathetic look coming into her eyes. She took a deep breath, and he noticed the reading glasses hanging from her neck, mingling with a small gold cross, rise a little with her bosom.

  “But …” he prompted her, trying to make her job a little easier.

  “Some issues have arisen concerning your time behind bars.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “We’ve hired ex-cons in the past, but they tend to be folks who’ve been exonerated of their crimes or are recovering drug addicts. So-called nonviolent offenders. And truthfully, I’d like to hire you but my superiors at the national office in New York who have final approval have raised some concerns.”

  “Let me guess. They’re not so worried about what initially landed me in prison, but what happened there, what cost me three years.”

  She nodded, almost embarrassed. “The violent nature of the incident raised a red flag.”

  It was the third time she’d said “raised”—or some derivative of it—and he wished she’d find another word. He asked her whether her superiors in New York were aware that there were bad people in prison and that some of them might want to do bad things to you.

  “We’re quite cognizant of that, Rick. And the truth is we’re generally very liberal in our thinking, but legally we need to protect ourselves.”

  Oh yes, he forgot, they were a law firm.

  “Look, I’m working on a compromise,” she said.

  She explained there was now some question whether they had enough money to fully fund the position. They’d budgeted for it, but sentiments had changed. The foundation relied on donation
s and grants, and while it had enough funds to meet its current budget, questions had arisen (again, that word, he thought) about how generous some backers would be in the coming year.

  “A few days ago they froze the position,” she said optimistically.

  Last he checked his labor vernacular, freeze had a negative connotation. So why’d she seem pumped? Because it turned out her superiors were amenable to opening the kitty for some part-time help. However, even as she outlined her plan to employ him in some capacity, he thought he detected a hint of reticence in her voice.

  “What’s the catch?” he asked.

  “No catch. It’s just, well, we’ve asked the people in the office to sign a waiver declaring they’re aware of your background and that they’re okay with it—and you.”

  “Indemnification,” he said.

  “Something like that. But I just wanted to give you a heads-up and let you know what’s going on. I understand you had some trouble over the weekend.”

  “Who told you that?” he asked, knowing damn well who told her.

  “Ashley said you had a little run-in.”

  “Did she?”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “To report what?”

  “That you’d been attacked.”

  “I wasn’t attacked.”

  “It sure sounded that way.”

  “Well, Ashley might have exaggerated the situation.”

  “You should file a report.”

  “As you might imagine, I’m not too keen on interacting with the police.”

  “Take the day off, Rick,” she said.

  “Look, I hope that nothing Ashley said factored into your decision regarding my potential employment here. She really shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

  “Oh no,” she said a little too defensively. “As I said, this has been in the works the last few days. That said, I’d prefer it if you didn’t place her in harm’s way.”

  “The woman’s at San Quentin every few weeks. I think she can handle herself just fine. It was nothing. Believe me.”