Code of Justice

by J J Miller

  When I put the stick into my laptop and open the file, my suspicions are confirmed — the only things in frame are half a sofa and a white wall with a large framed poster. “Keep calm and love Paris” the print reads over a black-and-white photo of the Eiffel Tower.

  I skim through the tape to see when Bobby and Lindy appear in the frame, making notes. But they mostly just walk across the shot — just about all their interaction happens off camera.

  I go back to the beginning. There’s always something uneasy about eavesdropping on two people’s conversation, but I need to find anything — no matter how minor — that will stand in Bobby’s favor.

  The more I listen, the more difficult Bobby’s case appears. He and Lindy spar rather than talk. They are drunk, and the conversation swings wildly from rating fast food joints to death and God. Twenty-one minutes into the recording, Lindy reminds Bobby that her computer is recording them. Bobby says he’s already told her he doesn’t care.

  The two regularly take time out to down tequila shots. It’s competitive drinking.

  Forty-nine minutes: They start to make out.

  Fifty-three minutes: All hell breaks loose. Lindy shouts, “Hey!”

  There’s a sound like Lindy slapping Bobby.

  “What the hell did you do that for?!”

  “You need to back off!”

  “Back off? I thought this was what you invited me here for!”

  It seems Bobby has somehow crossed the line. He is at first apologetic, but whatever he says only fires Lindy up more. She slaps him again. He becomes abusive.

  There are sounds like they are struggling. Throwing things. The aggression subsides, but then it flares up again. Finally, Bobby seems to make the right decision.

  At seventy-three minutes, he crosses the frame like he’s marching for the door. He’s yelling at Lindy, calling her a “crazy bitch.”

  Lindy follows right behind him, shouting back at him, denigrating him.

  “Go to hell, you creep!” she screams. There’s another struggle, a loud thud, and then the tape suddenly ends. This must be when the battery dies.

  I sink back in my chair and think about the powerful impact this tape will have on a jury. It’s a guilty verdict handed to them all gift-wrapped with a bow.

  I don’t know how I’m going to be able to combat this. More than ever, my marriage appears to be a lost cause.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Jack.

  “Got something that will help,” it reads. “Off to see neighbor.”

  3

  The biggest danger for anyone ending up in court is that the worst possible of image of yourself is presented to the jury and they buy it. Even with a small amount of dirt, a good prosecutor like Lawrence can make damn sure your character fits the crime.

  Lawrence will be out to paint Bobby as a rich kid with a bad temper and a malicious streak. I need to find out whatever scandals Lawrence will have to work with. That means vetting Bobby.

  I head to the bar where he and Lindy met up. It’s Dempsey’s — a downtown Irish pub popular with college students attracted by the Taco Tuesdays, two-dollar shots and drink-and-dine deals.

  It’s just past nine o’clock. Time enough for folks to be a few drinks in but too early to get messy. The carefree vibe is infectious. I feel fifteen years younger already. It’s the kind of place I loved in my later years at Berkeley. For me, an outdoors kid who spent my weekends skiing, hiking and fishing in the Idaho backcountry, it was a taste of city life before I took it on as a proper adult.

  I squeeze my way through to the bar. The bartender’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a goatee and black hollow discs in both ears. He looks at me, taking in my suit and tie like I’m lost. At the same time, he manages to be totally welcoming.

  “What can I get you, sir?”

  I show him a photo on my phone.

  “You seen this guy? Bobby Timmins.”

  The barman doesn’t hesitate.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him. I kicked him out.”

  “You sure?”

  “Totally. That’s the guy charged with Lindy Coleman’s murder, right?”

  I nod.

  “And you are?”

  “His lawyer. I’m doing background and want to know anything that could come back to bite him.”

  “Well, it was months ago when I threw him out. He was trashed and mouthing off. Being a total jerk. I asked him to tone it down and he took a swing at me. So I showed him the door. That’s when he busted my lip open with his head.”

  He touched his bottom lip before wiping the bar down in front of me.

  “He was allowed back, and after that he’s been good as gold. Beer under the bridge, and all that.”

  I pat a twenty onto the counter.

  “Thanks for your help. One more thing. Can you tell me if any of his friends are here?”

  “Over there.”

  He points to two guys standing at a table with eyes glued to the Lakers game on a huge TV screen. When I look back to the barman, he’s pouring a Talisker. He adds a few drops of water out of a straw.

  “Here. Take this.”

  Single malt. He’s got my drink spot on, though a Johnny Walker Black would do just fine. I grin and give him a respectful nod.

  “Us suits are all alike, eh?”

  “No. Just a calculated guess.”

  I don’t want to sidle up to those guys drink in hand, so I down my glass in one and head over.

  On the way I take in the score. The Timberwolves are up by six with ten to go.

  “They’re missing Duke — can’t seem to fire without him.”

  Both turn to me and nod in agreement.

  “He’s back next week, so the playoffs are still makeable,” one of them says.

  I introduce myself. They warily confirm they know Bobby, but I’m able to convince them that to help him I need to know where he’s vulnerable.

  It seems Bobby had gotten a bit obsessive about bodybuilding. He was taking all sorts of supplements and getting fanatical about his diet.

  “He even swore off the brewskies,” one of his friends chipped in.

  None of this particularly worries me. A young man looking after himself can play well in court. But how obsessive are we talking?

  “Tell him about the forum,” one says to the other, who hesitates before leaning towards me.

  “Check out shredded.com. Bobby got deep into the forums. It’s just a bunch of guys mouthing off, but Bobby could get a bit loose in there.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, bragging about pulling chicks, I don’t know. He’d kind of overshare and make up stuff. I couldn’t tell what truth there was to any of it, and I’m one of his closest buddies. Take a look for yourself. Tman — that’s his handle.”

  “Thanks for your time, gentlemen.”

  I lay twenty on the table. I’m becoming an ATM.

  “Next round’s on me.”

  They offer their hands. We shake, then I turn and go.

  Back at my Westwood apartment — a newish two-bedroom I’ve rented but barely furnished — I grab my laptop and sink into the sofa.

  Before long I’m scanning the forum topics for any posts by Tman. Eventually, I find them. And there are hundreds. But what surprises me is the detail. Bobby’s laid his love life out for all to see. Every date. Every girl he’s bedded or claims to have bedded.

  It’s a romantic history told through a string of one-night stands. But romance plays a very minor role in these encounters. A relationship is not the goal here. Just sex. To Bobby, getting laid and keeping score is what it’s all about.

  In his early posts he asks for pick-up lines and small talk tips. His hit rate improves over the course of several months, something he attributes to being “more aggressive” in his approach to girls.

  He talks about how his confidence is boosted after a successful night. Before long he boasts that he’s bedded a hundred women.

  Referring to the girls as “y
oung hoze”, he gives them a score out of ten based on looks and sexual performance.

  At times he posts screenshots of his Tinder chats with prospective hook-ups.

  The more I read, the more uncomfortable I feel. There’s no positive way to spin this. From my viewpoint, this is male insecurity writ large — Bobby’s fumbling, misguided path to try and become a man.

  But to the prosecution, this is the sordid record of a misogynist. A disturbed and angry psychopath to whom women are nothing more than sex objects.

  I close my laptop.

  Bobby is not making this easy for me. The deeper I go, the more this case looks like a lost cause.

  I call Jack.

  “You said you found something. What is it?”

  “The girl’s door.”

  “What about it?”

  “It doesn’t shut properly. It’s supposed to close and lock automatically, but hers is faulty. Even when the door is fully opened it doesn’t have enough momentum to close itself.”

  “So anyone can walk in if she forgets to close it manually?”

  “Exactly.”

  One sliver of hope. A very small one, but I’ll take it.

  “What about the neighbor, Cory Simpson?”

  “Total computer nerd. The guy’s in desperate need of some sun and a maid. I could see through the doorway that his flat was a mess. Deep into gaming, surprise, surprise. He had posters of Lara Croft everywhere.”

  “Lara Croft?”

  “Tomb Raider, dumb ass. It’s a video game. Huge. Angelina Jolie played her in the movie version.”

  “Right, so the guy’s kind of harmless.”

  “Not to Bobby, he’s not. He says Bobby killed that girl, and he can’t wait to tell the jury.”

  “He said that?”

  “Pretty much. ‘That son-of-a-bitch is gonna pay for murdering my Elsie.’”

  “Elsie. What’s with that?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Right, he’s our danger man. Do me a favor, get a thorough bead on this guy. I need to know if there’s anything we can use against him, even if it’s a goddamn parking ticket.”

  “No problem.”

  Then I remember something.

  “Jack. Another thing. Do you to think you can get a good look at Lindy’s laptop?”

  “Brad Madison. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  4

  All weekend long my mind keeps turning to Bobby’s case. I rack my brain and come at it from so many angles, desperate to latch onto a way to win. No eureka moment comes.

  I head to the cafe where I take coffee and breakfast most mornings. It’s an Italian joint Claire and I took a shine to because it reminded us of our trip to Rome. A two-week indulgence before I headed out on my first tour.

  As I walk in, sit and order, the case ticks over in my head.

  But it isn't just the case I dwell on. Bobby’s Tinder spree has me reflecting on my own situation. I'd caught a glimpse of a different world. Since Claire kicked me out, a couple of buddies have suggested I get back in the game. I baulked at regular online dating services. I wasn’t ready. But this Tinder thing is a world I barely knew existed. It’s tempting, but my aim isn't just to get laid. I want my wife back.

  Maybe if all goes well we can cut free of this crazy city. That’s what I keep telling myself. Head back home to Idaho, hang my shingle up in Boise and teach Bella how to ski and cast a fly on the weekends. Maybe even give her a baby brother or sister.

  A copy of the L.A. Times slapped down on the table snaps me out of my stupid daydream.

  “Your boy’s getting famous. Or should I say infamous?”

  I look up. It’s Jack. He takes a seat opposite and motions for a waitress.

  The story is front page. There had been a piece the day before with the basic details of the crime. But it ran a frame of video footage showing Bobby ordering a slice of pizza after he just, allegedly, choked Lindy to death. The subtext was clear — what kind of sick monster kills a young woman then trots off to eat pizza?

  Today’s piece takes the story into highly speculative, alarming territory. The hack quotes a justice department source saying Lindy’s murder is very similar to two other cases. Total baloney, but that's not the point. Who knows what kind of fanciful testimonies the DA’s office can round up to condemn Bobby.

  Jack orders coffee, sits back in his chair and stares at me, saying nothing.

  “What have you got?”

  “You know what the report said about the video?”

  “What about it?”

  “About how it stopped when the battery ran flat.”

  “That’s right. You don’t see anyone turn it off. And the cops said they found the laptop out of juice.”

  “That’s right. But that’s not why the recording ended.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone switched it off.”

  I stop chewing.

  “But if Lindy turned it off, you’d see her approach the computer on the tape. But she doesn’t.”

  “Not Lindy. Someone else. They cut it off remotely.”

  “How on earth do you know that?”

  “I checked the log files. The computer was set to run automatic backups. And it made one fifty-six minutes after the clip ended.”

  “So, it had enough power to run the backup. But if someone switched off the recording? Who would have done that? How?”

  “Like I said, remote access. But who? I don’t know.”

  Jack digs into his pocket then holds up a thumb drive, smiling.

  “But I’m going to find out. I’ve got everything from Lindy’s computer right here.”

  ✽✽✽

  As I head to my office, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  It’s a text from Claire: “Spoke to Ellen. Bobby’s been assaulted. Please get him out of there!”

  I feel an urgent compulsion to act. To take an axe to obstacles, to turn fog into clarity in an instant — one decisive act to indisputably prove Bobby’s innocence and see him walk free. To be the hero. Claire’s hero.

  My mind was working overtime before. Now it’s in overdrive. I start to regret that second coffee.

  There must be something more in the video. I pick up the pace, almost jogging the last block to my office.

  I tell Megan to hold all calls. At my desk I pull my headphones out of a drawer and replay the tape. I stare intensely at the screen, but it’s my ears that are hard at work.

  After two hours, I still have nothing. Then I reach the ending, where Lindy calls Bobby a creep.

  Just before Lindy says this, Bobby is shouting, matching Lindy’s rage. But underneath his voice I detect a faint sound.

  I rewind, turn the volume up even higher, and hit the play button.

  There it is again. It’s a tapping. No, someone is knocking on the door!

  I strain to listen even harder.

  There’s another voice. I swear it’s there, but it’s so hard to pick up, almost like it’s just something I want to believe.

  I grab my phone and call Aaron, my audio expert. As it rings, I bring up my email.

  “Brad, how you doin’?”

  “Hey Aaron, I need you to analyze a tape. You free?”

  “Just heading back to my desk. What is it?”

  “Should be in your inbox in a second. It’s a recording that could nail my client for homicide. But I think I’ve found something interesting.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it. Just give me a sec to load the file into the sound cleaner.”

  “The bit I need you to look at is right at the end. Where the guy’s talking, just before Lindy, the girl, says ‘Go to hell, you creep.’”

  “Bear with me. So how’s Claire?”

  The question catches me off guard. I remember I haven’t touched base with Aaron for about a year. A lot has happened since then. Not much of it good.

  “She’s great. She kicked me out.”

  “Always thought she was a clever girl.”
<
br />   I’m jolted, but after a second, I lighten up.

  “Yeah, who needs a…”

  “Hang on… just filtering out some static and background noise. Pulling back on Bobby’s voice… and let’s see.”

  All I hear now is Aaron breathing.

  “Someone’s knocking at the door,” he says.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. And they’re calling out.”

  My hopes shoot skyward. Maybe this person saw Bobby leave the apartment before Lindy was killed.

  “What are they saying?”

  “It’s a guy. He’s saying, what is it… Right… He’s says, ‘Elsie. Are you okay, Elsie?’”

  My heart sinks. It’s the dude from next door. The guy who’s eager to put Bobby behind bars.

  I shut the laptop and head to Los Angeles County Jail.

  5

  Bobby shuffles into the room and takes a seat. His left eye is bruised and his expression cold. The change in him over the space of a few days is shocking. His body looks shrunken, tightened. The weight of the world doesn’t sit on your shoulders in jail — it crushes you from all sides.

  He projects a quick-learned toughness. It’s a shield for a young man suddenly forced into desperate survival.

  I point to his eye.

  “You okay?”

  He half grins.

  “You should see the other guy.”

  “Bobby. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Just had a disagreement. That’s all.”

  His confidence is thin.

  “Hang in there, Bobby. You hear me?”

  He nods.

  I update him on what I know and what I think the prosecution knows. I tell him I’m worried about the forum posts and the supplements.

  “I quit taking gear months ago.”

  “Good. Bobby, have you had confrontations with any other dates? Did any others turn violent?”

  “No. Never.”

  “So they all ended — how should I put it? — happily?”

  “Well, some were not exactly happy I moved on so quick, but other than that, yes — it was all good mutual fun.”

  I change the subject and tell Bobby about the plea deal. It’s not easy to watch him process a choice between twenty years and life in prison.