At Moss Landing, he had to set the wipers on Intermittent to clear the thick fog from the windshield, but the sun broke through two miles later when he jogged east and merged onto U.S. 101 south.
At the outskirts of Salinas, he punched KTOM country-music radio into his stereo, set the cruise control to seventy-five, and watched the sun-bathed Gabilan Mountains roll by on the east. To the west, the craggy peaks of the Santa Lucias, still shrouded in morning fog, slipped past like apparitions.
A dozen miles later, Granz crossed the highwayand stopped at the Soledad State Penitentiary parking-lot entrance and presented his ID. The corrections officer in the heavily fortified kiosk inspected it carefully, checked it against his daily visitor list, and logged Granz in with a semimilitary salute.
The prison’s visitor entrance opened to a small peagreen room with a waist-high Formica counter, several file cabinets, and a couple of beat-up metal desks.
A black corrections officer named R. Robinson reinspected Granz’ ID.
“Visitor list says you’re here to see Jeremiah Randall.”
“That’s right.”
He slid a clipboard across the counter. “Sign here, sir.”
Granz scribbled his name above a line that read, “The Department of Corrections does not recognize hostages for purposes of bargaining with inmates.”
Robinson handed Granz a temporary clip-on badge. “You been here before?”
“Yes.”
“Figured. Follow me.”
They passed through a heavy security gate and metal detector, then walked down a narrow hallway flanked by the prison gift shop and visitor commissary. At the end, a second metal door clanged open to admit the two men into an outdoor covered cage that looked, smelled, and felt like a dog run.
The second door slammed shut, then a third security door at the opposite end opened to a gravel courtyard that was surrounded by a fifteen-feet-high razor-wire fence.
“You ever interview Randall before?” Robinson asked.
Granz shook his head. “Never had the pleasure.”
“Lucky you. He’s a hard case, but smart. Aryan Brotherhood. Big bastard. Meaner’n my mother-inlaw, too. We won’t be much help if he decides to kick your ass, so I’ll put you in a glass-shielded cubicle.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Robinson opened the door to a tiny institutionalgreen room and pointed at the single chair slid up close to a glass partition. There was a four-inch-diameter, mouth-high hole cut through the thick glass, and a narrow wooden ledge underneath it on both sides.
“Have a seat, they’ll bring Randall in a minute. You have any trouble, or when you’re finished, press that buzzer.” Robinson slammed the door shut and disappeared.
Adoor opened on the far wall of the prisoner side of the glass. A huge white inmate glanced around, dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the glass, and sneered.
“I’m Randall.”
“That’s what I figured.”
He was uglier than Granz remembered. He had shaved his beet-red, pockmarked face, and his head was now shaved and shined, but his gut still flopped over the top of his denim trousers. He sported a new double-lightning-bolt white-power tattoo on his forehead, and half of his left ear was missing.
Randall leaned close to the talk hole. “You’re the motherfucker from the plane.” His voice was highpitched and surprisingly soft.
Granz smelled his foul breath. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Fuck you.”
“You help me, maybe I’ll help you.”
“Who needs your help?”
“How old are you?”
“You tell me.”
“Rap sheet says forty-seven.”
“Sounds about right. So what?”
“Give me a hard time, you’ll never get out of the joint.”
“You’re scarin’ me. I got less than a year left on my parole violation. The Feds’ll probably drop the charges against me. Even if they don’t, they ain’t gonna tack much time on for no chicken-shit FAAbeef or a cocaine charge.”
“Maybe, but if the San Francisco DA files against you, this is your third strike. You’ll go down for the rest of your life. I can work on it.”
“You ain’t got the juice to pull that off, man.”
Granz slid his chair away and stood. “Don’t bet on it.”
“Wait a fuckin’ minute.” Randall’s voice rose to a shout.
The door opened behind him. Acorrections officer stuck his head in, then withdrew when Granz motioned that everything was okay.
Randall laughed. His teeth were big and yellow. “Whaddaya want to talk about?”
Granz sat down. “What went down on the plane.”
“I got drunk and snorted some dope. Big deal.”
“Right when Simmons gets killed? Too convenient.”
“Maybe you’re smarter’n you look.”
“Who put you up to it?”
Randall leaned forward, elbows on the ledge in front of the glass. “I ain’t givin’ you what you want until I’ve got a deal.”
Granz pushed back his chair again. “Maybe we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“You’re bluffin’ and you’d make a lousy poker player.” Randall laughed. “You’re fuckin’ the cunt DAthat’s goin’ down for killin’ the dude on the plane and you wanna get her off, right?”
Granz’ face flushed.
“Even in the joint we see the news.”
“Who I fuck’s none of your business.”
“The hell it ain’t. I can exonerate her.”
Granz’ heart raced. He sat down. “I’m listening.”
“Here’s what I want in return. First, leave my case with the Feds.”
Granz shrugged.
“Second, get me transferred to Terminal Island until I’m released. Medium security and the food’s better.”
“I don’t know how much clout I’ve got with the Feds.”
“That’s your problem, work it out.”
“You forgot the cocaine.”
Randall flipped his hand. “A dozen people used that lavatory before I did. Third, when my testimony springs Mackay, the Morrissey hearing that’s pending against me goes away, and my parole gets reinstated.”
“I’m listening, but how do I know you’re not blowing smoke up my butt? You’ve gotta give me something now.”
Randall thought. “If I give you that black judge Tucker’s killer, do we have a deal?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Before I was paroled, my cell mate was Eduardo Berroa. Ring a bell?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe my ass. I arranged for the little spic to escape, for a fee, of course, the day before Tucker got whacked.”
“Doesn’t prove he killed her.”
“He bragged to me he fucked her in the ass, then cut her throat. Run the DNA from the semen in her butt against the convicted offender DNA database.”
“Did that early in the investigation. There was no match.”
“There’s a lag time in that database. Run it again.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I’m in the joint, for chrissake, not outer space. They’re taking samples and submitting DNA profiles to the database every day. Inmates close to being released get done first. Berroa’s parole date was comin’ up. They took his blood and saliva a few days before he split. Probably hadn’t caught up with the database yet.”
“I’ll run it again. If it matches, my deputy’ll pick you up Sunday and drive you up to Santa Rita to testify on Monday.”
“Deal.”
“If it doesn’t match, you won’t hear from me again and you can rot in here.”
“I’ll pack tonight.”
CHAPTER
* * *
64
“THIS ISN ’T THE WAY TO THE— ” In almost two months since her mother’s arrest, Emma hadn’t used the word jail . “To Mom’s.”
“I’ve got a speci
al surprise,” Dave teased.
“Daave! What is it?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
He drove slowly through town, past the Esplanade where Saturday beachgoers were loading up to head home, across the old concrete Stockton Avenue Bridge, turned onto Wharf Road, and pulled into a parking lot.
“The Shadowbrook?” Emma asked.
They climbed out and Dave locked the car doors. “I ordered takeout.”
They crossed the narrow, tree-lined street. “Wanta ride the cable car?”
“Of course.”
He punched the button. “Why did I know you’d say that?”
While they waited for the bright red car to struggle up from the restaurant entrance, he gazed at the beautifully landscaped grounds, Soquel Creek, the picturesque Village, and the beach beyond.
She put her arms around his waist and buried her head against his chest. “Do you think me and you and Mom’ll ever come here together again?”
“A week ago, I’d’ve said ‘no,’ but now I think there’s a chance.”
She pulled back and looked at him. “Really?”
“I’d never lie to you.”
“Something good happened, huh?”
“What makes you think so?”
“Whenever we visit Mom, you act happy, but I can tell you’re just trying to make me feel good. This weekend’s different.”
“Different how?”
“Last night after I went to bed I heard you laughing at the TV. This morning when we took Sam for a walk, you whistled. And you called him Buddy like you used to.”
“You’re pretty observant for a twelve-year-old.”
“I’m almost thirteen.”
“Sorry.”
“Is it Mom’s trial?”
The cable car clacked onto the landing and disgorged three laughing couples. Dave held the door while Emma climbed aboard, then punched the Down button.
“You never asked about the trial before.”
“I was scared to, you and Mom’re always so grim.”
“Grim’s a strange word for you, Emma.”
“Learned it from Mom. Last night when I talked to Mom on the phone, she sounded happy, too. Tell me what happened.”
The car lurched, then started its slow descent along the Garden Path, which meandered through the manicured landscape, passed the Hillside Waterfall, stopped at the main entrance landing, then continued down the slope to intersect the footpath along the creek.
“We can’t get our hopes up too much, Em. I’m not sure what it means yet.”
“C’mon, Dave!”
“I’d rather let your mom talk to you about it.”
The cable car screeched to a halt and the door slid open automatically. Dave grabbed Emma’s elbow and escorted her to the main entry.
They stepped out of the cold onto a beige Persian rug spread out over a spacious, polished hardwood floor. The foyer was paneled entirely in native coastal redwood. The front desk was crafted from matching solid heart redwood. Dave stopped and waited.
When the young hostess appeared from the owner’s private, reserved dining room in her short black silk dress, Emma punched Dave on the arm.
“I wanta be a Shadowbrook hostess.”
“You and every other teenage girl in Santa Rita. Dream on.”
“You and Mom know the owner, can’t you put in a good word for me?”
“I would if I could think of one.”
She punched his shoulder playfully.
“Good evening,” the hostess greeted them. “Do you have reservations?”
“We’re picking up a take-out order,” Dave told her. “Granz and Mackay.”
The hostess checked her list. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes. If you’d like to have a drink in the Rock Room Lounge, I can take your order.”
“Sure,” Emma said before Dave could answer. “May I see a drink menu, please?”
The hostess looked confused, but handed Emma a stiff parchment bar menu.
“I’ll have a Shirley Temple and my dad wants a Roy Rogers.” Emma paused, then added, “Better make them doubles, we’re celebrating.”
The hostess smiled. “Celebrating what?”
“I don’t know yet, he won’t tell me.”
“Have a seat in the lounge, I’ll get your drinks.”
When they found an empty table, Emma folded a napkin carefully on her lap. “Calling you Dad’s easier than explaining.”
Dave swallowed a lump. “Where are those drinks?”
CHAPTER
* * *
65
EMMA CLEARED LIEUTENANT ALDRIDGE ’S DESK and started opening steaming containers.
“Boy, that smells good.” Kathryn inspected one of the containers. “The Shadowbrook!”
“It was Dave’s idea.”
“What did you get us?”
Emma spread out the plates and silverware. “For appetizers, Pacific Rim prawns and Gilroy garlic fries.”
“Garlic fries! People will smell you coming even if they don’t see you.”
Emma giggled. “Dave and Sam don’t mind.”
Kathryn helped herself to a prawn and a garlic fry while Emma finished setting the table. “Umm, good.”
“The main course is your favorite—swordfish with pesto crust.”
She uncovered another container. “I got penne with smoked chicken.”
“Good choice,” Kathryn observed, then picked up another container.
Kathryn ate another prawn and three more garlic fries.
“They’ll smell you coming,” Emma scolded.
“Touché.”
“Can we talk before dinner, Mom?”
“What about?”
“Dave said something good happened, that’s why him and you are so happy, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”
“Emma, that’s terrible grammar.”
“I don’t care, I want to know what happened.”
Kathryn thought about it. “I’m afraid of getting your hopes up, then disappointing you if it doesn’t work out.”
“That’s what Dave said. And he said I have to be strong for you, so I don’t ask about it or cry when I come to see you. But sometimes I cry when Dave and I go home, ’cause it’s hard for me, too. So if there’s good news, I have a right to know.”
“Yes, you do. I cry, too, Em, for all of us. And you’ve stuck by me, so you do have a right to know. There’s a man who says he knows I didn’t murder Simmons.”
“How does he know?”
“He says he knows who did.”
“Then how come you’re still in jail?”
“He has to tell Judge Keefe what he knows in court Monday.”
“Then they’ll let you out?”
“I don’t know. The man is in prison and might be trying to get out by lying. That’s why we can’t get our hopes up too much.”
CHAPTER
* * *
66
“NO WAY !” Kathryn clamped her jaws, crossed her right leg over her left knee, and bounced her foot furiously, then folded her arms over her chest and gripped each biceps in the opposite hand.
“Don’t be so rigid.”
“What makes you think I’m being rigid?”
“Your fingers are turning white. When your mind’s made up, you cross your arms and defy anyone to disagree. The last time I let you tell me how to do my job, it cost you. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“I’m a lawyer, too, and I think it’s a bad idea.”
“You aren’t your lawyer, I am.”
“If you lay out the deal Randall got in exchange for his testimony before the jury hears what he has to say, they’ll never believe him.”
“You’d rather I wait and let McCaskill bring it up? Have you seen Randall?”
She nodded. “On the airplane.”
“He looks a lot worse now—a skinhead cross between Charles Manson and Adolph Hitler, with a swastika tattooed on his forehead for good measure.”
>
“So?”
“If I don’t bring up the deal, McCaskill will, and it’ll look like we covered it up.”
“I’m not suggesting you cover anything up, just wait till the jurors have had a chance to hear him out before you bring up the deal.”
“How ’bout I let Keefe rehabilitate him. Judges have more clout with juries than defense attorneys.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t worry? Easy for you to say, it’s my life on the line.”
“I’m your lawyer, Kathryn, you have to trust me.”
Judge Reginald Keefe surveyed the packed courtroom, ignored Kathryn Mackay, acknowledged her attorney, Roger Griffith, with a nod, greeted District Attorney Neal McCaskill, then ordered his bailiff to bring in the jury.
When they were seated, Keefe said, “Call the next witness, Mr. Griffith, if you have one.”
Griffith stood. “The defense calls Jeremiah Randall.”
McCaskill scanned the index to the defense investigative reports. “The defense didn’t give me any discovery on Randall, nor is he on their witness list.”
“I didn’t know Randall was a material witness until Andrea Lain testified last Thursday, Judge,”Griffith answered. “We located him this past weekend.”
Griffith looked around and raised his voice to make sure everyone heard. “And considering McCaskill concealed Ms. Lain, the defense expects some latitude on this.”
“Judge—”
Keefe held both hands out toward McCaskill to stop him, then turned toward the defense table. “No speeches, Mr. Griffith. How long will this take?”
“We won’t take up too much of the Court’s time.”
Keefe sighed. “Very well, call your witness, but let’s make this quick as possible. I want the jury to hear closing arguments this afternoon.”
Granz and his deputy had removed Randall’s handcuffs and leg irons in the hall, but he limped noticeably because of the two braces under his orange jail jumpsuit. He looked like he had at Soledad: big, ugly, surly, and mean. He swore to tell the truth, dropped into the witness chair, leaned back, extended his stiff legs over the edge of the stand, and crossed his ankles.
Until the Final Verdict Page 19