“I felt him slide something down over my head and around my neck. I opened my eyes and he was tightening a necktie around my neck.”
She stopped and took another sip of water.
“Can you describe this necktie?”
“It had a pattern. It was blue diamonds on a field of purple. I remember it exactly.”
“What happened when the defendant pulled the tie tightly around your neck?”
“It was choking me!” Crowe replied shrilly, as if the question was stupid and the answer was obvious. “He was choking me. And he kept . . . moving in me . . . and I tried to fight him but he was too strong for me.”
“Did he say anything at this time?”
“He just kept saying, ‘I have to do this, I have to do this’ and he was breathing really hard and he kept on having sex with me. His teeth were clenched tight when he said it. I . . .”
She stopped again and this time single tears slid down both her cheeks, one slightly behind the other. Langwiser went to the prosecution table and took a box of tissues from her spot. She held them up and said, “Your Honor, may I?”
The judge allowed her to approach the witness with the tissues. Langwiser made the delivery and then went back to the lectern. The courtroom was silent save for the crying sounds of the witness. Langwiser broke the moment.
“Ms. Crowe, do you need a minute?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Did you pass out when the defendant choked you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember next?”
“I woke up in his bed.”
“Was he there?”
“No, but I could hear the shower running. In the bathroom next to the bedroom.”
“What did you do?”
“I got up to get dressed. I wanted to leave before he came out of the shower.”
“Were your clothes where you had left them?”
“No. I found them in a bag — like a grocery bag — by the bedroom door. I put on my underwear.”
“Did you have a purse with you that night?”
“Yes. That was in the bag, too. But it was opened. I looked inside and he had taken the keys out. I —”
Fowkkes objected, saying the answer assumed facts not in evidence and the judge sustained it.
“Did you see the defendant take your keys out of your purse?” Langwiser asked.
“Well, no. But they had been inside my purse. I didn’t take them out.”
“Okay, then someone — someone you didn’t see because you were unconscious on the bed — took your keys out, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, where did you find your keys after you realized they were not in your purse?”
“They were on his bureau next to his own keys.”
“Did you finish getting dressed and leave?”
“Actually, I was so scared I just grabbed my clothes and my keys and my purse and I ran out of there. I finished getting dressed when I got outside. I then ran down the street.”
“How did you get home?”
“I got tired of running and so I walked on Mulholland for a long time until I came to a fire station with a pay phone out front. I used it to call a cab, then I went home.”
“Did you call the police when you got home?”
“Um, I didn’t.”
“Why not, Ms. Crowe?”
“Well, two things. When I got home David was leaving a message on my machine and I picked up. He apologized and said he got carried away. He told me he thought that the choking was going to increase my satisfaction while we had sex.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I don’t know. I was confused.”
“Did you ask him why he had put your clothes in a bag?” “Yes. He said he thought he was going to have to take me to the hospital if I didn’t wake up by the time he was out of the shower.”
“Did you ask him why he thought he should take a shower before taking an unconscious woman in his bed to the hospital?”
“I didn’t ask that.”
“Did you ask him why he didn’t call for paramedics?”
“No, I didn’t think of that.”
“What was the other reason you did not call the police?”
The witness looked down at her hands, which were grasping each other in her lap.
“Well, I was embarrassed. After he called I wasn’t sure anymore what had happened. You know, whether he had tried to kill me or was . . . trying to satisfy me more. I don’t know. You always hear about Hollywood people and weird sex. I thought maybe I was . . . I don’t know, just being uncool and square about it.”
She kept her eyes down and two more tears went down the slopes of her cheeks. Bosch saw a drop hit the collar of her chiffon blouse and leave a wet mark. Langwiser continued in a very soft tone.
“When did you contact the police about what happened that night with you and the defendant?”
Annabelle Crowe responded in a softer tone.
“When I read about him being arrested for killing Jody Krementz the same way.”
“You talked to Detective Bosch then?”
She nodded.
“Yes. And I knew that if I’d . . . I’d called the police that night that maybe she’d still . . .”
She didn’t finish. She grabbed tissues out of the box and started a full force cry. Langwiser told the judge she was finished with her examination. Fowkkes said there would be a cross-examination but suggested that it should follow a break during which time the defendant could compose herself. Judge Houghton said that was a good idea and called a fifteen-minute break.
Bosch stayed in the courtroom watching over Annabelle Crowe as she went through the box of tissues. When she was done her face was no longer as beautiful. It was distorted and red, her eye sockets swollen. Bosch thought she had been convincing but he knew she hadn’t faced Fowkkes yet. How she fared during the cross would determine whether the jury believed anything she had said on direct.
When Langwiser came back in she told Bosch there was someone at the outer door of the courtroom who wanted to speak to him.
“Who is it?”
“I didn’t ask. I just overheard him talking to the deputies as I went in. They wouldn’t let him in.”
“Was he in a suit? A black guy?”
“No, street clothes. A windbreaker.”
“Keep an eye on Annabelle. And you better find another box of tissues.”
He got up and went to the courtroom doors, working his way past all of the people coming back in at the end of the break. At one point he came face-to-face with Rudy Tafero. Bosch moved to his right to go around him but Tafero moved to his left. They danced back and forth a couple times and Tafero smiled broadly. Bosch finally stopped and didn’t move until Tafero pushed by him.
In the hall he looked around but didn’t see anyone he recognized. Then Terry McCaleb walked out of the men’s room and they nodded to each other. Bosch walked over to the railing in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the plaza below. McCaleb walked up.
“I’ve got about two minutes, then I’ve got to get back in there.”
“I just want to know if we can talk after court today. Things are happening and I need some time with you.”
“I know things are happening. Two agents showed up here today.”
“What did you tell them?”
“To fuck off. It made them mad.”
“Federal agents don’t take that sort of language that well, you should know that, Bosch.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a slow learner.”
“What about after?”
“I’ll be around. Unless Fowkkes creams this wit. Then I don’t know, my team might have to retreat somewhere to lick our wounds.”
“All right, then I’ll hang out, watch it on TV.”
“Later.”
Bosch went back into the courtroom, wondering what McCaleb had come up with so quickly. The jury was back
and the judge was giving Fowkkes the go-ahead. The defense attorney waited politely as Bosch moved by him to get to the prosecution table. Then he began.
“Now Ms. Crowe, is acting your full-time occupation?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been acting here today?”
Langwiser immediately objected, angrily accusing Fowkkes of harassing the witness. Bosch thought her reaction was a bit extreme but knew she was sending a message to Fowkkes that she was going to defend her witness tooth and nail. The judge overruled the objection, saying Fowkkes was within bounds in cross-examining a witness hostile to his client.
“No, I am not acting,” Crowe answered forcefully.
Fowkkes nodded.
“You testified that you have been in Hollywood three years.”
“Yes.”
“I counted five paying jobs you spoke of. Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
Fowkkes nodded.
“Good to be hopeful. It’s very difficult to break in, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very difficult, very discouraging.”
“But you are on TV right now, aren’t you?”
She hesitated a moment, the realization that she had walked into a trap showing on her face.
“And so are you,” she said.
Bosch almost smiled. It was the best answer she could have given.
“Let’s talk about this . . . event that allegedly took place between you and Mr. Storey,” Fowkkes said. “This event is, in fact, something you concocted from newspaper stories following David Storey’s arrest, correct?”
“No, not correct. He tried to kill me.”
“So you say.”
Langwiser stood up to object but before she did the judge admonished Fowkkes to keep such editorial comments to himself. The defense lawyer moved on.
“Now, after Mr. Storey supposedly choked you to the point of unconsciousness, did you develop bruises on your neck?”
“Yes, I had a bruise for almost a week. I had to stay inside. I couldn’t go to auditions or anything.”
“And you took photographs of the bruise to document its existence, correct?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you showed the bruise to your agent and friends, did you not?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I didn’t think it would ever come to this, where I would have to try to prove what he did. I just wanted it to go away and I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“So we only have your word for the bruise, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just as we only have your word for the entire alleged incident, correct?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“And you testified that when you got home that evening David Storey happened at that very moment to be leaving a message on your phone machine, correct?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you picked that call up — a call from the man you say tried to kill you. Do I have that right?”
Fowkkes gestured as if grabbing a telephone. He held his hand up until she answered.
“Yes.”
“And you saved that message on that tape to document his words and what had happened to you, correct?”
“No, I taped over it. By mistake.”
“By mistake. You mean you left it in the machine and eventually taped over it?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to but I forgot and it got taped over.”
“You mean you forgot that someone tried to kill you and taped over it?”
“No, I didn’t forget that he tried to kill me. I’ll never forget that.”
“So as far as this tape goes, we only have your word for it, correct?”
“That’s right.”
There was a measure of defiance in her voice. But in a way it seemed pitiful to Bosch. It was like yelling, “Fuck You” into a jet engine. He sensed that she was about to be thrown into that jet engine and torn apart.
“Now, you testified that you are supported in part by your parents and that you have earned some monies as an actress. Is there any other source of income you haven’t told us about?”
“Well . . . , not really. My grandmother sends me money. But not too often.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Do you take money from men on occasion, Ms. Crowe?”
There was an objection from Langwiser and the judge called the lawyers to a sidebar. Bosch watched Annabelle Crowe the whole time the lawyers whispered. He studied her face. There was still a brush stroke of defiance but it was being crowded by fear. She knew something was coming. Bosch decided that Fowkkes had something legitimate that he was going after. It was something that was going to hurt her and thereby hurt the case.
When the sidebar broke up Kretzler and Langwiser returned to their seats at the prosecution table. Kretzler leaned over to Bosch.
“We’re fucked,” he whispered. “He’s got four men that will testify they paid her for sex. Why didn’t we know about this?”
Bosch didn’t answer. She had been assigned to him for vetting. He had questioned her at length about her personal life and had run her prints for an arrest record. Her answers and the computer run were clean. If she’d never been popped for prostitution and she denied any criminal activities to Bosch, there wasn’t much else he could have done.
Back at the lectern, Fowkkes rephrased the question.
“Ms. Crowe, have you ever taken money from men in exchange for sex?”
“No, absolutely not. That is a lie.”
“Do you know a man named Andre Snow?”
“Yes, I do.”
“If he were to testify under oath that he paid you for sexual relations, would he be lying?”
“Yes, he would.”
Fowkkes named three other men and they went through the same loop of Crowe acknowledging that she knew them but denying she had ever sold them sex.
“Then have you ever taken money from these men, but not for sex?” Fowkkes asked in a false tone of exasperation.
“Yes, on occasion. But it had nothing to do with whether we had sex or not.”
“Then what did it have to do with?”
“Them wanting to help me. I considered them friends.”
“Did you ever have sex with them?”
Annabelle Crowe looked down at her hands and shook her head.
“Are you saying no, Ms. Crowe?”
“I am saying that I didn’t have sex with them every time they gave me money. They didn’t give me money every time we had sex. One thing had nothing to do with the other. You are trying to make it look like something it’s not.”
“I’m just asking questions, Ms. Crowe. As it is my job to do. As it is your job to tell this jury the truth.”
After a long pause Fowkkes said he had no further questions.
Bosch realized that he had been gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white and had gone numb. He rubbed his hands together and tried to relax but he couldn’t. He knew that Fowkkes was a master, a cut-and-run artist. He was brief and to the point and as devastating as a stiletto. Bosch realized that his discomfort was not only for Annabelle Crowe’s helpless position and public humiliation. But for his own position. He knew the stiletto would be pointed at him next.
40
They settled into a booth at Nat’s after getting bottles of Rolling Rock from the bartender with the tattoo of the barbed-wire-wrapped heart. While she pulled the bottles from the cold case and opened them, the woman hadn’t said anything about McCaleb having come in the other night asking questions about the man he had now returned with. It was early and the place was empty except for groups of hard-cores at the bar and crowded into the booth all the way to the rear. Bruce Springsteen was on the jukebox singing, “There’s a darkness on the edge of town.”
McCaleb studied Bosch. He thought he looked preoccupied by something, probably the tri
al. The last witness had been a wash at best. Good on direct, bad on cross. The kind of witness you don’t use — if you have the choice.
A Darkness More Than Night (2000) Page 34