The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  “How much do they have on Forman, Marty? What’s got you so worried?”

  If someone had asked her the same question, she’d have let him or her have it. Sent the bulldozer in. But Lowenstein just cracks a smile. He seems to like her bluster.

  “I’m the DNA Dude, right?” he says. “That’s what I’m known as.”

  She looks at him quizzically, wondering whether it’s a rhetorical question or whether she’s supposed to answer it. Before she can, he goes on:

  “We come in and we analyze how labs and the police handle evidence usually months or even years after a crime has taken place. DNA’s great, but it’s slow, and today’s cases are starting to be increasingly decided by digital, not biological DNA. It’s your digital trail—emails, texts, location-based tracking from your cell phone—that’s telling the story. And that information is being obtained increasingly quickly by the police.”

  “That can be good, though,” she says. “That can be exculpatory.”

  “Absolutely. But it also doesn’t look good when the evidence shows the defendant may have paid a visit to the victim’s home, then turned his cell phone off during the time the crime he’s alleged to have committed took place.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Where does he say he was?”

  Lowenstein turns to his right and looks up the road. He points in the direction of the freeway and Woodside.

  “Up there somewhere. On his bike.”

  As if on queue, a group of five or six cyclists coasts down Sand Hill toward them, returning from their morning ride, which could have taken them all the way to the ocean and back. They go by in a blur of colors, shaved legs, and high-tech gear. After they pass, Lowenstein says:

  “If you needed someone to identify a lone rider coming down this road at dusk, you might be a little concerned, too.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t on this road,” she says.

  “That, too. But let’s not go there yet. One way or another, I’m getting him out on Monday.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. Just the power of positive thinking.”

  24/ THE ISSUE OF CUSTODY

  “WHEN THEY READ THE CHARGES, YOU DON’T SMILE, YOU DON’T look sad, you don’t let any emotion cross your face. You just give a little shake of your head. Not the whole time. Just for a couple of seconds. And that’s it. Nothing else, understand?”

  Those are Lowenstein’s instructions. Standing in the courtroom on Monday morning for his arraignment Richie does his best to follow them to a T, even if every bone in his body is aching to show defiance. Sinatra would have sneered at the judge, mugged for the cameras, and maybe given a little wink to the cute Hispanic stenographer transcribing the proceedings. But stoic with a dash of disdain is what Lowenstein wants, so stoic with a dash of disdain is what he gets.

  The charge is murder in the second degree. After he enters a plea of not guilty, Judge Marta Jones, a heavyset light-skinned black woman with an attractive face and tightly cropped afro, turns to Crowley, the DA, and says, “On the issue of custody?”

  Lowenstein warned him that the odds were stacked against his making bail. Judges, he said, even so-called liberal ones, are inherently conservative and averse to risk. Given the choice between keeping an accused killer locked up or allowing him to roam free and possibly committing another crime, it was in their best interest—and the public’s—to go with the safer option. So it didn’t matter whether he was a flight risk or not. What mattered was how she felt about the prosecution’s case.

  Crowley’s argument comes as no surprise: “The defendant should be remanded back to prison due to the seriousness of the offense and the fact that he presents a flight risk.”

  Lowenstein respectfully disagrees. “Your Honor, this case is very circumstantial at best. Notice the prosecution makes a very general bail application because they know their evidence is flimsy. Based on my understanding of these facts, there’s no way they’re proving this case against my client.”

  Every time he moves a little or raises a hand to gesticulate, the sound of camera shutters firing in rapid succession permeates the courtroom. Only two photographers have been allowed into the room, but it sounds like red carpet at the Golden Globes. Fucking locusts, Richie thinks. He’s always hated that sound.

  “Well, Mr. Crowley,” the judge says, “what shows that this case is provable?”

  “Your Honor, we have a lighter that was found just ten feet from the victim’s body. A fingerprint on it matches this defendant, who’s a prior felon.”

  Lighter? Richie thinks. Did he say lighter? But I—

  “We also have a second fingerprint on the outside buzzer panel showing that the defendant was at the residence,” Crowley goes on. “In addition, there was a past relationship between the defendant and the victim and the defendant blamed the victim for his being convicted of a crime. And I would further submit to the court that it was no coincidence the victim ended up marrying the defendant’s former fiancé. The defendant was clearly angered by that because in the past he spoke of killing the victim.”

  Just as Lowenstein’s about to respond, Richie leans over and whispers in his ear: “I gave the lighter to Beth. She had the lighter, not me.”

  Lowenstein gives a little nod and Richie expects him to pass his comment on to the judge but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Your Honor, the felony the prosecutor mentioned was a nonviolent offense and the fact that they found a lighter proves nothing. And so does a fingerprint on a door buzzer. They have nothing. They have no blood, they have no weapon. And what they do have doesn’t prove anything. There’s nothing that directly ties the defendant to this crime. The prosecution’s assertion of a possible motive is speculative at best. Once again, he’s not pointing to any direct proof but is rather casting a general aspersion. Your Honor, under these circumstances, bail is appropriate.”

  The judge doesn’t say anything to Lowenstein. Instead, she turns to Crowley and asks, “Counsel, is there anything else you want to add?”

  Crowley stands there impassively, staring at her. “That’s what we have to share at this time, Your Honor.”

  Again, Judge Jones doesn’t respond right away. But her deliberation is short. “I tend to agree with the defense,” she says after a moment. “Based upon your representation to the court, it appears you may have an uphill battle proving this case. If you’re able to indict this defendant, you’ll have a second opportunity to address the issue of custody at that time. Therefore I find that bail is appropriate and I am setting bail in the sum of two million dollars bond or one million dollars cash.”

  Crowley knows he’s beat, but he fights back anyway in an attempt to eke out a victory, even a token one.

  “Your Honor, in light of the fact the court has not remanded the defendant I would ask that the court require the defendant to wear an ankle bracelet to monitor his whereabouts.”

  “So ordered,” she says without hesitation. And suddenly, that’s it. Lowenstein isn’t given an opportunity to respond. They’re done and the next thing Richie knows he’s being taken into custody. He doesn’t have a chance to say anything to Lowenstein at the table, but the two are able to catch up for a moment in the courthouse cell.

  “Why didn’t you say anything to them about the lighter?” Richie whispers to him. “I told you I returned it to Beth that day. She must have dropped it.”

  “Or planted it,” Lowenstein says.

  “Either way, I didn’t drop it. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “That would have been a rookie mistake,” Lowenstein explains. “You want to save information like that. You never draw early if you don’t have to. You tuck something like that away, it’s your ace in the hole. I wasn’t there to argue the case. I was there to argue for your bail. Be happy. You got lucky.”

  He doesn’t feel that lucky.

  “Two hundred K for the bond, Marty. Tell me you’ve got that kind of coin lying around. I’m good for it.”

  “I don’t,” he wh
ispers back. “But I’m working on it.”

  The officers are on either side of Richie now. One takes him by his left arm, the other by his right. His wrists are cuffed to his waist in front of him.

  “If I had someone for you to call, I’d tell you,” he says.

  “I know,” Lowenstein says. “Hang in there a little longer.”

  Richie smiles. “Get me out and I’ll buy you another mitt.”

  “I like my mitt.”

  “Yeah, but I wanna play catch for real. With a ball.”

  “You will,” he says. “Just hang in there.”

  PART 3

  25/ THE GOLDEN ARCHES

  RIGHT AROUND ONE IN THE AFTERNOON, HE HEARS KEYS AT THE DOOR, and a moment later it opens. Madden is standing there with a white paper bag in his hand, which looks a lot like the same bag Richie’s breakfast came in.

  “Congrats, Forman, you made bail.”

  “No shit,” he says getting up from the bench.

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I was expecting lunch. This is better.”

  Madden sets the bag down on the bench. “We got it for you. You might as well take it to go.”

  Madden uncuffs him, then leads him down the hall, where a small group of officers and detectives is mingling around a common area, waiting for him while trying not to look like they’re waiting for him. The commander, Pastorini, who he spoke to briefly yesterday, is among the officers.

  “Getting the royal send-off, am I?” Richie says, addressing the group. “You’ll be happy to know I filled out the feedback form in the cell. Personable staff. Firm mattress. Clean sheets. You need to work on your interrogation techniques, but other than that, five stars all around.”

  Pastorini smiles. “You think this is all a joke, Mr. Forman?”

  “It’d be awfully depressing if it wasn’t, wouldn’t it, Commander?”

  Richie peeks into the slit of the window of a nearby cell, checking to see if it’s occupied.

  “Where’s the big fella?” he asks.

  “We let him go,” Pastorini says.

  “How ’bout his friend? You pick him up yet?”

  “Found his phone. Not him. But we will.”

  Carlyle hands him a large brown paper bag with a sticker on it that has his name and some numbers on it. “Check that everything’s there,” he says. “We’ve got some papers for you to sign and then we’ll just fit you up with your ankle bracelet and you’ll be good to go.”

  Richie opens the bag. His jacket is there along with a separate Ziploc plastic bag that contains his watch, wallet, and the rest of what was in his pockets, including the ring case, his iPod, and a pack of gum. He flips open the ring case and sees that the ring is inside, still ensconced in its slot. You little fucker, he thinks, and snaps the case shut.

  “All here,” he says.

  Once he’s done signing the release forms, he sits down in a chair, lifts his pant leg, and watches as Carlyle clamps the bracelet on. He looks around, expecting Lowenstein to appear. But he’s not anywhere to be seen.

  “You need to test this thing?” he asks, standing up.

  “We did,” Carlyle says.

  “Where’s my attorney?”

  He nods in the direction of Madden, who’s standing on the other side of the room with his cell phone to his head. “He’s talking to him,” he says.

  Shortly, Madden comes over and hands the phone to Richie. Lowenstein tells him that the media’s still crawling all over the station. As a favor, he’s asked the detectives to slip him out to a nearby meeting point, which they’ve agreed to. Apparently, there’s a little good will going around now that they’re about to lose custody of him. Lowenstein says he thinks they’re also a little embarrassed he was granted bail and would prefer that he slip out quietly.

  Moments later he finds himself exiting the back of the building and diving into the back of Madden’s SUV, which is parked practically next to the door. Someone shuts the door behind him and he lies down on the seat, face up, keeping low, his lunch bag on his stomach.

  “You boys aren’t thinking of dumping me off the Dumbarton or anything like that, are you?” he says to Madden, who’s driving. Burns is in the passenger seat. “That stuff I said about you being washed up, I wasn’t serious about that. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’re a piece of work, Forman,” Madden says. “Shut up or I’ll consider it.”

  The ride lasts a little more than a minute. Madden makes a few turns, then a sharp right into what feels like a driveway. From his horizontal position Richie catches a glimpse of a familiar site: the golden arches. He realizes then that they’re in the McDonald’s parking lot on the corner of El Camino and Santa Cruz Avenue.

  Madden pulls the car to a stop, and looking into the rearview mirror, he says, “You’re free to go. You know where to reach us if you have anything you want to talk about.”

  “Will do,” Richie says, and gets out on Madden’s side.

  When the car pulls away, he looks over to see Lowenstein and Ashley standing in an open parking space between two cars. He goes over and shakes Lowenstein’s hand and gets a full hug from Ashley, who’s brought him a small duffel bag that’s filled with clean clothes, his toiletry kit, and a pair of running shoes from his apartment. Lots of smiles all around, and for a brief instant, Richie gets a whiff of what it must feel like for one of Lowenstein’s clients to be exonerated. Then he remembers he’s not off the hook and there’s potentially a big debt to settle.

  “Who put up the money?” he asks. “The foundation?”

  Lowenstein shakes his head, his smile disappearing. He glances over at Ashley, who doesn’t give him any help. She looks down, averting her eyes.

  “Who, Marty?” he asks again.

  “I had to make a little deal,” he explains.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I had to sell you.”

  “Sell me?”

  “Just for a little while. It’ll be all right. I worked out the terms. Might actually help us.”

  “What are you talking about? Who the hell did you sell me to?”

  Lowenstein nods at someone or something over Richie’s shoulder. Then he says: “To that guy.”

  Richie turns around. Emerging from the McDonald’s is a small man in a T-shirt and jeans carrying a cardboard tray that has a bag in the middle of it and a couple of drinks stuck in its corner cup holders. The guy plucks a couple of french fries out of the bag and stuffs them in his mouth as he walks toward them. As he gets closer, he starts to look more familiar but Richie can’t quite place him. Then it hits him.

  “Hey, killer,” Tom Bender says. “Got you a shake. Nothing tastes like freedom more than a Mickey D’s vanilla shake. Am I right?”

  26/ YOU SAY GRAIL, I SAY FAIL

  LOWENSTEIN WASN’T KIDDING WHEN HE SAID HE’D SOLD HIM. IN exchange for putting up $200,000 for a bail bond, plus his house as collateral, Bender bought himself two days of Richie Forman. He said he wanted five, but in the end he got two, and Richie’s now his for the next forty-eight hours, with a few hefty strings attached.

  Bender has his exclusive all right, but he also has to adhere to strict guidelines over what he can post and when; everything has to be approved by Lowenstein before it goes up online. Lowenstein has worked the contract so that Richie will benefit mightily—and monetarily—should Bender fail to live up to his end of the bargain. But despite Lowenstein’s assurances that there’s more upside than down to the unusual arrangement—and their best option given the circumstances —Richie still thinks that once again he’s drawn the short end of the stick.

  Their first stop is Bender’s gym, the Equinox just off the El Camino in Palo Alto on Portage Road, where his newfound benefactor says he can get “cleaned up and recharged.”

  After being locked in an austere, windowless room for more than two days, it’s something of a culture shock to be suddenly among the Lululemon set in an old warehouse that’s been transformed into a
hip, modern gym and tagged with the “industrial chic” label. Wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt, and baseball cap plucked from Bender’s swag-filled car trunk, Richie walks around in a bit of a daze, doing a set here and there on various weight machines until settling in on a treadmill for twenty minutes. He then heads upstairs to the roof, where there’s a small lap pool.

  It’s bright and sunny outside, though a little cool, in the midsixties. Only a couple of swimmers are in the pool, and when he retires to one of the chaise longue chairs surrounding it, he notices someone’s left a copy of that day’s San Francisco Chronicle under it. There, on the bottom of the front page, is a story about the murder, with a picture of McGregor and him from the old days, when they were friends.

  The Chronicle had run the same picture years ago during his trial and the story is really just a rehash of the trial and the accident, though after the jump, he comes across a jarringly large picture of him doing his Sinatra routine. It seems oddly out of place, if only because it would seem more at home in the Sunday Datebook section.

  There’s something surreal about sitting there by the pool, reading the article. While he knows it’s about him, at times he feels like he’s reading about someone else, a total stranger. He knows the story through and through, but he has nothing to do with it, which is probably why he’s less concerned now than when he first walked into the joint that someone will recognize him or notice the tracer bracelet.

  Yeah, I’m Richie Forman, he thinks. But so fucking what? Who fucking cares?

  Before dumping the paper he peruses the sports section, then heads back down to the locker room, stopping along the way to catch a bit of Bender’s manic workout, which involves jumping from a stationary bike to a treadmill to an elliptical machine and engaging in a furious two-minute sprint on each machine before taking a gasping forty-five-second break, then repeating the process.