by Michael Nava
“I see,” she said. “Let me take a look at the warrant.” She opened her file and flipped through it. “Here it is. I’m going to take a minute to read it.”
I heard the door to the courtroom open and looked back, hoping to see Holman. Instead, Bay Chandler quietly entered the room and took a seat at the back, near Harper. Her face tightened when she saw me. I turned my attention back to the judge.
When she finished reading the warrant, Torres-Jones said, “Will the People be calling any witnesses, Ms. Lang, or do you plan to stand on the warrant?”
Lang said, “The motion is frivolous, Your Honor. I’ll submit on the warrant.”
“All right, Mr. Rios,” the judge said. “Call your first witness.”
I said, “Your Honor, I’d like to call Detective McBeth under Evidence Code section seven seven six.”
The judge looked over to the prosecution side of the table and asked, “You’re Detective McBeth, I assume?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Rios is calling you as a hostile witness, Detective,” she said. “But don’t take the word hostile literally.”
McBeth said, “I won’t, Your Honor.”
“All right, take the witness stand, Detective.”
After McBeth was sworn, I went up to the lectern and began my questioning. I could see from the way she held herself and the tension in her face that she was expecting me to come out slugging. I smiled at her and in my friendliest tone said, “Good morning, Detective.”
She smiled back and managed a pleasant, “Good morning.”
“Detective, are you the investigating officer on this case?”
From behind me, Lang said, “The People will stipulate that Detective McBeth is the investigating officer.”
“So stipulated,” I said. “I hope everything goes this smoothly.”
“Both of us, counsel,” the judge said.
“Now, Detective McBeth, you began your investigation of Judge Chandler’s murder on October eighth of this year, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And according to your affidavit, you received this anonymous call the same day?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“And this call directed you to my client’s apartment, which you searched on the tenth, is that right?”
“Your Honor,” Lang said, “that’s all in the warrant.”
“Counsel,” the judge admonished, “in this court, you make objections, not observations. Answer the question, Detective.”
“Yes, it did.”
“Now isn’t it true that LAPD was working on this case around the clock?”
“Yes.”
“But other than this anonymous call, had your investigation developed any evidence connecting my client to Judge Chandler’s murder?”
In her best police procedural monotone, she said, “I learned that your client was a beneficiary of the judge’s will.”
“And that was evidence that he might have killed the judge?”
“Objection, argumentative.”
“No, I’ll overrule it. Please answer.”
“It was unusual because he wasn’t a family member,” McBeth said, “and he’d been added to the will only a couple of weeks before the judge was killed.”
“Where did you get this information about the will?”
“From the Chandler family,” she said.
“Who, specifically?” I pressed.
“Mrs. Chandler.”
“Did Mrs. Chandler also tell you that she and the judge were separated because of Judge Chandler’s romantic involvement with my client?”
“Yes, she told me that.”
“And isn’t it true that you considered my client’s involvement with Judge Chandler to be evidence of my client’s guilt?”
“No, I didn’t,” she replied.
I flipped through her affidavit. “Detective,” I said, “isn’t it true that on page five of your affidavit you stated, and I quote, ‘the suspect had a homosexual relationship with the decedent’ to show the anonymous tip you received was accurate?”
Lang got to her feet. “Objection, best evidence.”
Torres-Jones said, “Overruled. Answer the question, Detective.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And what is it about a homosexual relationship that makes it likelier that someone will commit murder than a heterosexual relationship?” I asked.
“Objection, argumentative.”
“Sustained,” Torres-Jones said. “Anyway, you’ve made your point, Counsel. Ask another question.”
“Did you also consider the other beneficiaries of Judge Chandler’s will to be potential suspects?”
She glanced past me, at counsel table. Lang said, “Your Honor, I’m going to object on relevance grounds. This is completely peripheral to whether the warrant is valid.”
Torres-Jones looked back and forth between us and said, “Counsel, approach the bench.” We went up to the sidebar and she said, “Tell me where you’re going with this, Mr. Rios.”
“Judge, the validity of the search warrant depends completely on this witness’s credibility. Why she chose to focus on my client as a suspect is relevant to the credibility issue.”
“Your Honor,” Lang said, “I see where Mr. Rios is going with this. He hopes to show that Detective McBeth is biased against homosexuals, but how is that relevant to the anonymous tip? It’s not.”
“Unless the tip was manufactured,” I said.
Lang snorted. “That doesn’t explain how the murder weapon or the bloody clothes got into the defendant’s apartment.”
“That does seem to be the problem with your motion,” the judge said. “Unless you’re suggesting that Detective McBeth planted the evidence.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I said, “the question in this hearing isn’t how the evidence came to be in my client’s apartment, but whether Detective McBeth was being truthful about how she came to learn of it.”
“Well, yes,” the judge said, grudgingly. “I just don’t see how you plan to answer the one question without getting into the other.”
“Judge, the defense believes either that Detective McBeth lied in her affidavit about receiving a call or, if she did receive it, she failed to sufficiently corroborate it before she obtained the search warrant. Either her character is at issue or her competence is. I’m entitled to ask about both.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lang said. “Detective McBeth is not on trial here.”
“Well, in a sense she is,” the judge said, “because she did sign her name to the affidavit under penalty of perjury. Still, Mr. Rios, if it’s the affidavit you’re interested in, why don’t you get to it?”
“I will,” I said, “but I still think I’m entitled to probe McBeth’s general credibility.”
“I’ll give you a few more minutes on this line of questioning,” Torres-Jones said, “and then I’m going to cut you off.”
“Thank you, judge,” I said.
As Lang and I headed back to our respective places, I noticed that Karen Holman had finally arrived. Teddy was with her. I went back to the lectern and asked the reporter to reread my last question.
“No,” McBeth said, “I didn’t necessarily consider the other beneficiaries to be suspects.”
“But that was enough to make you suspect my client,” I said.
“Objection, argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
“Now, Detective McBeth, other than the will, what other evidence did you have that made you suspect my client?”
“I want to correct myself,” she said. “I didn’t necessarily consider your client a suspect because of the will, but I did want to talk to him. Unfortunately, he had disappeared.”
“Well, let’s talk about that, Detective. Why do you say he disappeared?”
“Well, he wasn’t at his apartment and he didn’t show up for work.”
“Isn’t it true that his apartment building had bee
n evacuated because of the earthquake that occurred in the early morning hours of October eighth?”
“Yes,” she said, “but the other tenants let the manager know where to reach them.”
“But my client didn’t, so you assumed he quote disappeared unquote?”
“He also didn’t show up for work.”
“What was his job, Detective?”
“He worked as a waiter.”
I smiled at her and said, “Not exactly skilled labor, is it?”
“Objection, Counsel is testifying.”
“Sustained,” Torres-Jones said, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. “All right, Mr. Rios, I think you need to ask about the affidavit.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I appreciate the latitude you’ve given me so far.”
She smirked as if doubting my sincerity and said, “You’re quite welcome, now let’s move on.”
“Detective, do you have a copy of the search warrant with you?” I asked, politely.
“No, I don’t.”
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“Yes,” the judge said.
At the witness box, I handed McBeth a copy of the warrant, turned to her affidavit. I’d underlined parts of it in pink highlighter. I stepped to the side of the box so that we could both read it. She tried to move away from me a bit, but the box confined her; seeing her discomfort, I moved closer.
“Now,” I said, “looking at page two of the warrant, paragraph one, you identify the anonymous caller as a male. You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, it was a male,” she said.
“And according to your affidavit, he identified himself as a resident of the apartment complex where my client lived, right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And he lived on the second floor?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And you’re positive that’s what he said?”
“Yes,” she replied, casting a sideways glance at me.
“And,” I said, moving closer still, until my breath creased her cheek, “your anonymous male caller said he saw my client pass in front of the kitchen window of his second-floor apartment as he was seated at the kitchen table, right?”
She flinched and said, “Do you have to stand so close?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Detective,” I said, stepping away. “Is that better?”
“Your Honor,” Lang said, “Counsel is harassing the witness.”
“Just answer the question, Detective,” Torres-Jones said.
“Yes,” McBeth said, “that’s what he said.”
“And you’re sure about that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Now, Detective, you also say that after you received this call, you interviewed some of the tenants of the apartment building, right?”
“That’s right, Counsel.”
“Did you interview all the tenants?”
“No,” she said. “I got the names and phone numbers of as many of the tenants as I could from the manager, Ms. Holman, and interviewed them.”
“Did you ask specifically for the second-floor tenants or just make a general request?”
“I asked her for everyone she had numbers for.”
“I see,” I said. “And where did these interviews take place?”
“Over the phone,” she said.
“Did you interview anyone at the apartment building itself?”
“No, it had been evacuated.”
“And how did you reach Ms. Holman?”
“I located the owner of the building through the assessor’s rolls and he put me in touch with Ms. Holman.”
“So, prior to conducting the search, you never actually went to the apartment building, is that right?”
She hesitated, just for a second. “That’s right.”
“Wasn’t it important to see the layout of the building to determine if it matched the anonymous caller’s story of how he’d come to see my client?” I asked, wondering about that slight hesitation.
“I was concerned that the evidence might be removed, so I had to act quickly,” she said. “There wasn’t time to see the building.”
It was plausible, but didn’t explain that split-second pause, so I decided to work it a bit. “So your testimony is that the first time you went to the apartment building was on October tenth, when you carried out the search?”
“That’s right,” she said, more confidently.
“So you had no idea of whether there was even a second story on the building?”
“I confirmed that with the manager,” she replied.
“I see,” I said. I’d worked my way back to the lectern, and now I shuffled through some papers to buy a moment to think about what might have discombobulated her when I asked whether she’d been to the building before the search, but nothing obvious came to mind, so I asked, “Were you able to interview all the tenants whose phone numbers you got from Ms. Holman?”
“No,” she said, “not all of them.”
“Did you talk to Don Ward?”
“I’d have to look at my notes,” she said.
“What about Ben Harper?”
“Harper, that name’s familiar, but I’d have to look at my notes,” she said.
“Darlene Sawyer?”
“Again, Counsel, I’d have to look at my notes.”
“Do you have your notes with you, Detective?”
She smiled faintly as she said, “No, I don’t.”
“But you can obtain them?”
“I’d be happy to,” she said.
“When you talked to the tenants, did you ask them whether they had made the anonymous call to you?”
“No,” she said, “I was more indirect. I asked them general questions about what they might have seen the night of the murder.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to see if I could identify the voice before I asked them about the call.”
“I see,” I said. “Was there anything particularly distinctive about the caller’s voice that you thought would help you identify it if you heard it again?”
“I have a good ear,” she said. “I was pretty sure I’d be able to identify it.”
“And did any of the tenants you talked to match the voice of your anonymous caller?”
“No,” she said.
Before court had begun, I’d had the bailiff bring an easel into the courtroom, where I’d propped up blowups of photographs of the apartment building. Now I directed McBeth’s attention to the first photograph, which showed the second floor, looking toward Zack’s apartment from the east stairwell.
“Do you recognize the building in this photograph, Detective?”
She took her time before answering. “Yes, it looks like the second floor of the defendant’s apartment complex.”
“Could you approach the photograph and identify my client’s apartment in this photograph?”
She stepped down from the witness stand and again took her time as she studied the photograph. “There,” she said, pointing to Zack’s apartment at the end of the hall.
I handed her a black marker. “Could you mark it with an X, please?”
After she marked it, she looked at me. I smiled and said, “Nothing more of this witness at the moment, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Lang, do you wish to examine the witness?”
“I have just a few questions,” the D.A. said.
Her questions carried us past noon. She gave McBeth ample opportunity to expand her claim that she was concerned about the removal or destruction of the evidence as the reason she had conducted an abbreviated investigation to determine the anonymous caller’s identity. It was the usual cop boilerplate to explain away shoddy work and Torres-Jones seemed unimpressed by it, but even if she found that McBeth should’ve done more to corroborate the tip, police negligence was not a ground to invalidate the warrant.
Just as the session ended, my pager went off. Freeman Vidor was trying to reach me. I had my witn
esses ordered back and then ducked them, as I rushed to find a phone to return his call.
22
“YOU WERE RIGHT,” FREEMAN said. I was at a phone booth IN the hall outside the courtroom. Darlene Sawyer drifted by and waved, followed by Ben Harper, who glared angrily at me for having had him ordered back. I turned away from him.
“Right about what?”
“The judge had dinner at the Epicenter the night he was killed,” Freeman said. “It’s that restaurant on Second Street in that Japanese hotel. The waiter remembered him because he had a lot of drinks while he was waiting for the guy he ate with.”
I felt a surge of excitement. “Does he remember who Chris’s dinner companion was?”
“Yeah,” Freeman said. “It was some young kid. The waiter says they got into an argument and the kid left without ordering.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“He wasn’t close enough to hear,” Freeman replied. “But the kid knocked his chair over getting up.”
“What time was it?”
“Waiter says it was halfway through his shift. About eight, eight-thirty.”
“Can he describe the boy?” I asked him.
“That’s the best part,” Freeman replied. “Said the kid was a pumped-up, littler version of the judge.”
“Joey,” I said. “I want to talk to this waiter tonight. Set up a meeting, would you?”
“How’s the hearing going?”
“It’s early yet,” I said. “Call me later.” “Will do,” Freeman said, and hung up.
My guess about Chris having eaten dinner with someone the night he was killed was based on the medical examiner’s report that indicated he had eaten shortly before he died and consumed enough alcohol to get him drunk. Based on those facts, it was a reasonable guess, but just as likely wrong as right. So much of my work was looking down blind alleys, that when a hunch actually paid off, it gave me a rush. Now my thoughts were coming so fast, they spilled over each other. I had no doubt that it was Joey who’d met Chris for dinner that night. This, in turn, explained why Kimball hadn’t laughed me out of his office the day before and even why Bay had showed up at the suppression hearing. The next step would be to talk to the waiter, then start issuing subpoenas. On my way to grab something to eat, I had to remind myself to slow down. There was still the suppression hearing to get through.