I walked back to the office, feeling sorry for my client. I couldn’t imagine his predicament. Name the real killer and risk his life and his family’s; remain silent and spend a lifetime in prison. I snickered inwardly, realizing my assumption that Darnell was not the shooter. I couldn’t seem to make up my mind about this kid.
After a brief stop at the office, I drove home and went for a run in the bright afternoon sunshine. So far, by focusing on the Moore case, I’d managed not to worry too much about the third date with Eddy and all that would likely come with it. In a word, sex.
She did invite me over for dinner, after all. Since she was flying on Friday, she may have scheduled Wednesday in case I spent the night. Then again, she would probably schedule Wednesday whether or not I was spending the night because she would likely be busy the day before she travelled. But it was the third date. Wasn’t sex on the third date a thing? But she didn’t really strike me as a conformist, anyway. I pulled into my drive, shaking my head. “Glad you’re not overthinking it, Joe.”
Chapter Fourteen
You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. ―Harper Lee
Oakland, California 2006
Damon never forgot the night he lost his brother. Recently, Jesse had become more and more quiet, staring off into space for minutes at a time, almost unresponsive. Even the jokes that always worked to cheer him up were met with silence. He stared through his twin with hollow eyes.
One night, missing their late-night talks, Damon got up for a drink of water with thoughts of sneaking into Jesse’s room. A couple times, he tried tapping lightly on Jesse’s bedroom door, but his brother must have been asleep.
From the kitchen, he heard footsteps in the hallway and peered down into the darkness. Dumbass blocked the hallway, as his hands struggled with something. “Get your ass back to bed.”
Something told Damon not to retreat. Something, or someone was behind Dumbass, struggling to get past, blocked by the big man’s girth. Of course, deep down, he knew who it was, but his mind tried desperately to blur the image.
“Damon!”
His brother’s plaintive cry sprung him into action. Without thinking, he raced through the dark hallway toward Dumbass.
The blow to his head came out of nowhere, striking him on his left ear, sending him into the wall. Damon got to his feet and staggered onward, only to be pushed to the floor again, landing on his face. Rising up, he watched Dumbass shove Jesse into his bedroom, then go in after him.
Before the door closed, Jesse suddenly appeared in the gap, wedging his shoulders through the jamb, struggling like an animal to get out.
It was at this moment that Damon saw an image that would haunt him for the rest of his life—his brother’s delicate face etched in terror just before he was pulled back into the room. Damon rose to his feet and lunged for the door, but it slammed shut and locked as he arrived.
He pounded on the door, screaming until he collapsed, fists raw, his nose bleeding from the fall. He stayed there at the base of the door all night, listening to the awful grunts, bed squeaks, and whimpers of his twin.
Chapter Fifteen
It wasn’t that I doubted my sexual aptitude. I wasn’t going to author an addendum to the Kama Sutra, but I knew all the basics. And God knows when it was good, I enjoyed it as much as the next guy. For the most part, I had gotten over the giant chasm in our relative attractiveness. Couples like us were out there. Usually it was when a beautiful woman was with a super wealthy guy, but they were out there.
Still, the prospect of first-time sex had always made me anxious for fear of failure or rejection. Not that I had performance issues that required medication—not yet anyway. And while I was never thrilled with the appearance of my naked body, that wasn’t it either.
It was just that it was all so personal. For me, the actual nakedness was a metaphor for the absolute exposure of all things private. The first time involved sharing all of your most personal needs and peculiar preferences with someone who was usually a relative stranger. Enjoyable sex did, anyway. My stress was the reason why the term sexual encounter was descriptive. Sex shouldn’t be an encounter, like confronting a strange dog in your driveway.
And that was the dilemma. I felt like to succeed in the endeavor—to give and receive pleasure—meant exposing everything. And if we were not a good match—if she didn’t like the way we fit together or my scent or what I said, if I talked too much or kissed too much or hadn’t shaved enough of my body—then we would both know it. I’d be lying there, my failure naked and exposed.
So, it was with these thoughts bouncing around my brain that I climbed the hill in the charming Rockridge neighborhood and arrived at her townhouse, holding a bottle of Pinot Noir.
She greeted me with a kiss on the lips. “Hi there!”
“Hi. What a place,” I said, still looking at her smile. She wore an off-white top that sort of wrapped around her perfect breasts and hung vertically to a cool turquoise belt buckle and faded jeans. On second thought, I was far from getting past the gap in our looks.
“I feel like I need a decorator. Nothing really matches, but it’s comfortable.”
If this was just “comfortable,” I shuddered at the thought of her seeing my recliner. Her home was bright, with high ceilings, shiny parquet floors, and colorful artwork. There were comfortable looking overstuffed sofas on area rugs—real adult furniture.
“Wow, Carnegie Slopes,” she said taking the wine. “I love the winery. Have you been?”
“No, Sonoma?” I asked, following her to the spotless modern kitchen.
“Yes, it’s on the coast. It’s beautiful. In fact, look at this,” she said setting two stemless wine glasses on the counter that were emblazoned with Fort Carnegie Winery. “This is the winery that makes the wine. It’s a good sign for us.”
“Yes, well, you said you were making lasagna and I thought the notes of dried sage and orange peel would pair well.”
“Is that right?” she asked, laughing.
“Yeah, that and I liked the label.”
“So, I have something to ask you, Joe Turner?” she said, with a cautious smile, pausing to gage my reaction as she handed me a wine opener.
“Sounds serious, maybe I’d better pour the wine first.”
“Okay, good idea. Here’s to sage and orange peel,” she said after I had poured.
“So, what’s on your mind? Is this about my three children? My time in prison?” I asked, taking a seat opposite her on a kitchen stool.
“Well, here’s the thing. I’ve gotten to know you a little bit, now…”
“Yes,” I said filling up the pregnant pause.
“And I have a feeling that you might be a little nervous about tonight.” She smiled and paused again. “Being the third date and all?” she asked raising her eyebrows.
“Ah, yes. The third date and all of its various…accompaniments?”
“Accompaniments, exactly.”
“I’m assuming you’re referring to the tradition of the third date baking competition?”
“You goofball,” she laughed, pushing me playfully.
“Okay, seriously,” I said and took a healthy drink of the wine. “Yes, not to be presumptuous, but you’d be right to say that I may be a tad bit nervous about the expectations.”
“So, here’s what I think, Joe Turner.”
“Yes, Eddy Busier?”
“By the way, isn’t my name awful?”
“No, Busier is a great name.”
“Very funny. My dad was Ed and so was his dad.”
“Got it, but you were about to tell me something.”
“Okay, I think that I’m also nervous about it and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to just enjoy tonight without that pressure.” She took my hand in hers. “So maybe we could agree not to do it tonight but sometime soon when it’s right?” Her blue eyes looked at me hopefully.
>
“I think that is a fabulous idea,” I said, smiling.
She came off her stool and into my arms. “Really?”
“I do. Turns out you know me pretty well.”
“Oh, I promise I’m going to,” she whispered before our mouths met for a kiss that started soft and turned deep and passionate.
“You know what?” I said, still holding her close. “You can probably guess.”
She thought for a second before her blue eyes twinkled. “Yes! When it happens, I don’t think I’ll be nervous either.”
From there, the evening was a dream date. We drank wine, ate lasagna, and sat on her couch, filling the gaps in our knowledge of each other. I described the seminal childhood event of seeing my father murdered. She shared that she had an older sister who worked on the stock market in Los Angeles and a twin sister who was a therapist in Seattle.
“But don’t get any ideas.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought twins were every guy’s dream.”
“Not me. I can barely keep track of one body other than my own.”
“Good to know. More lasagna?”
“You know, my first instinct was no, but since you’re not going to see me naked, why not? It’s delicious.”
“See, another benefit to my decision, although I’m thinking maybe we should strip for each other now and get it over with?” she said with a gleam in her eye.
“And still not have sex? No, hard pass,” I said, laughing. Beauty, brains, and a slightly wicked streak. I liked so many things about her.
“How’s your friend, Darnell, doing?”
“It’s rough sledding.” I told her about Bedrossian’s identification at the preliminary hearing.
“So, he was in all likelihood at the scene, driving his car, had a motive because of the rival gang, and now there’s an ID? Yikes.”
“And owns a gun that shoots the same caliber of bullets that killed the victim.”
“Are those popular guns?”
“Apparently popular for killing humans, yes.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yeah, but for some reason I think I’m back to believing him.”
“Well, someone once told me you’re very good at spotting a liar. Oh, wait, that was you.”
“Very funny, Busier. I stand by my history of accurate truth detection with a few notable exceptions.”
“Have you made any progress with him trusting you?”
“Zero.”
“How about you, Joe?” she asked, turning to face me on the couch, putting both hands on mine. “Are you a trusting person?”
“Sometimes too trusting, I think.”
“Uh oh, sounds like some serious scar tissue, Turner. Karen said your last relationship ended badly.”
“It was a bit of a catastrophe.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
“I made the mistake of getting involved with someone who was related to one of my cases.”
“Eww. Sounds messy. Not the defendant, I hope?”
“God no, but it was a tire fire.” I poured the last of the wine in her glass.
“Well, I promise,” she said smiling, “I was nowhere near West Oakland at the time of the shooting.”
“Good to know. So how about you? Any serious relationships in your past?”
“Yeah, well, the trip to Australia wasn’t entirely career based.”
“I’m picturing a tall and tan professional sailor with an irresistible accent. I want to punch him.”
“Well, you’re right about the accent, but that’s it. And feel free to punch away.”
Our conversation was interrupted by periodic episodes of kissing and touching that made me question the no-sex mandate. Still, I knew it had been the right call. We were learning about each other, inside and out. Between the first kiss and tonight’s pronouncement, I had learned that she wasn’t afraid to make a decision. She possessed a rapier wit and great listening skills, recalling details of Darnell’s case. She also seemed to like it when I kissed her neck.
“So, I’m off to London on Friday for two weeks,” she said when it was time to walk me to her door.
“Do you go often?”
“A few times a year so far. That’s where our parent company is based. Have you ever been?”
“Yes, I did a semester abroad in college. It’s where I picked up the language.”
She laughed. “What am I going to do without you for two weeks?”
“Well, I know I’ll be thinking about what we’ll do when you get back.”
We kissed again, and I could have floated home.
****
The timing of Eddy’s trip, if she had to go, couldn’t have been better. Trial was not far off, and the Moore case needed my undivided attention. I had spent Thursday transcribing the interviews of Darnell and Bedrossian. I could have paid for them to be transcribed, but I had found that it helped me learn their content inside and out if I did it myself.
Now, in my quiet office I could think the case through. Ideally, rather than just telling the jury that Darnell wasn’t the murderer, I would have an alternative explanation for the jury. The time honored SOMDI defense. Some other mother did it. Of course, that would require actual evidence, which, in turn would require Darnell to point me in the right direction.
Barring that, I would divide and conquer. Taken together, the evidence against Darnell was strong. His vehicle was used in the shooting, and he had all but admitted being in the area. He had motive to kill, advertised as it was by his Kill Cashtown cap. He had been caught with a gun that matched the caliber of the murder weapon and had been identified by an eyewitness as the shooter.
I would have to attack each piece of evidence individually. Anyone could have driven Darnell’s car and committed the murder. In fact, what murderer in their right mind would use their own car? And while it was true that the Iceboyz had motive to kill Cashtowners, would the gang rely on Darnell, who hadn’t committed a violent act in his life? Or was it more likely that one of the other violent gang members with the popular forty-caliber handgun had committed the crime? That left Bedrossian, who had failed to describe even one attribute of the shooter only minutes after seeing the assailant speed through his field of vision while facing the opposite direction.
I called Chuck for an update. “Hey, any progress on getting the surveillance tape from inside the E&J?”
“Not yet. Bedrossian says there may have been a problem with the camera.”
“That sounds fishy.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Maybe see if we can get the D.A. interested?”
“Good idea. Also, don’t forget to contact the dime store Indian.”
“Okay, it’s on my list. At least we know where to find him.”
“Thanks. See ya.”
Chuck’s idea to see if Didery would subpoena the surveillance video from inside the E&J was a good one. While technically the defense had the power of subpoena, a District Attorney subpoena served by the police tended to get better results. First, though, I decided to call my new friend, Rocco, and ask him directly about the video.
“Rocco, if there’s something your dad doesn’t want seen, like selling alcohol to a minor, I understand. I’m willing to watch the video inside your store. I just need to do my due diligence.”
“I understand. I don’t think that’s it, but I’ll take a look at it. I think there’s a problem with the formatting. I’m sure it’s retrievable. Pops isn’t exactly a genius when it comes to technology.”
“Okay, thanks. And what do you know about the old guy who was sitting on the porch at your market when we visited?”
“Yeah, that’s Elijah Jakes. He’s sort of a fixture in the neighborhood. Actually used to own the E&J before he sold it to my dad.”
“Is that his usual spot?”
“He’s been there every day since I’ve been back. Good friends with my dad. He’s actually learning my dad’s language.”
/> “I wonder if he was on the porch when the shooting happened?”
“I would be surprised if he wasn’t. Want me to ask him?”
“That’s okay, thanks. I think Chuck’s going to speak to him.”
As I was saying goodbye, Andy wandered in holding his face in his hands.
“What’s new, partner?”
“I just got Ludlow’d,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples. “Lost a summary judgment motion. Case dismissed in a case where damages were going to be mid-six figures.”
“Ouch.”
Andy’s verb choice indicated his courtroom defeat had come at the hands of one Douglas Ludlow, renowned for his reputation as the least intelligent judge in the county. After managing to squeak by the bar exam on his third try, he had been hired by the District Attorney’s Office and then rapidly appointed to the bench based on his father’s considerable influence in California politics.
“Any chance to appeal?”
“Unlikely. Oh well. So much for early retirement,” he said, pausing on his way out. “How’s Eddy?”
“Out of the country for two weeks. Any feedback on my third date?”
“Besides your exceedingly small penis, no.”
“Nice try, Andy. Hey, what language is spoken in Armenia?”
“Armenian? Is that a language? Why?”
“I need a translator.”
A word-search showed the answer was Armenian and Russian. I found an Armenian interpreter through a translation service and sent them a copy of Bedrossian’s 911 call. I spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the more than a hundred color photos of the crime scene, trying to re-enact the shooting in my mind. While I still didn’t think Darnell killed Cleveland Barlow, there wasn’t a shred of evidence to the contrary.
At six-thirty p.m., I rubbed my tired eyes and clicked to the last photograph in the file. It was a booking photo of the defendant, taken soon after his arrest. He looked young and scared.
On the drive home, Chuck called. “No luck with Elijah Jakes. I would have had a better chance with an actual wooden Indian. He literally walked off the porch and disappeared into the store when he saw me coming, then snuck out the back and left.”
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