Blood Defense (3 page)

FOUR

B
ut I couldn’t stop following
the coverage of the “Canyon Killer” case, as the press had dubbed it. So far, the only new announcement was that the girls had been stabbed to death with the same weapon—a carving knife that was missing from the butcher block on the kitchen counter. The police media liaison said it was too soon to speculate about who’d done it or why. But the usual pundits disagreed. They immediately pronounced that the use of the carving knife showed the murders weren’t premeditated, that the girls had probably walked in on a burglar. When their apartment was burglarized two months before, the perp had gotten in through an open sliding glass door. That same door was found open after the police discovered the bodies.

Predictably, most of the coverage was devoted to Chloe Monahan. The tabloids in particular were feeding nonstop off the tragedy of a young actress who’d managed to pull herself out of a drug-infused abyss and climb her way back to the brink of superstardom only to have her life brutally cut short.

To top it off, they’d dug up a whole new, heart-grabbing wrinkle. Though no one knew it at the time, when she was a child star, Chloe had been the sole support for her family, which included a younger sister, an absentee father, and an abusive mother. The makeup artists, who now felt the truth must be told (but only to a tabloid that was notorious for checkbook journalism), said they’d kept special concealer on hand to cover the bruises. Those stories probably explained why Chloe’s mother hadn’t surfaced to suck up some of the limelight.

But her roommate, Paige Avner, got almost no ink. Pretty but not glamorous, Paige had been a part-time print-ad model and waitress. Nothing to be ashamed of, but not the stuff of fairy tales, either. Her story was largely eclipsed by the searing drama of Chloe’s life. What little press she did get was centered on the fact that she and Chloe had met when they were kids on the set of
All of Us
, where Paige’s mother had been the on-set tutor. Apparently, they’d remained friends ever since. Paige’s mother, Nina, gave a brief, heartrending statement about the loss of her only child—all that was left of their little family. Paige’s father had died of cancer years ago.

So the victims were about as blameless as it gets, their only crime being that they were unlucky enough to be home when some asshole decided to rip them off.

There was no suspect in custody, so the sharks hadn’t started to circle yet. But they would—the moment there was an arrest. It had all the makings of a media circus, and the bigger the circus, the better it is for business.

But big enough to be worth sitting next to the animal who’d done it? I wasn’t sure. I had friends in the public defender’s office who were true believers, who didn’t care how many victims their clients had disemboweled, who thought they were all just poor, misunderstood unfortunates. And some are, though more often they’re just schlemiels who don’t think past the next five minutes—which is largely why they get caught. But there’s a small percentage who are nothing but born predators. And for them, no amount of good parenting, quality schooling, or therapy sessions will ever make a bit of difference. That doesn’t mean I don’t fight for them just as hard. I fight like hell. It just means I never forget who they are. Or that justice really should prevail, though too often, it doesn’t.

I didn’t mind the fact that the Canyon Killer would be the most hated guy in the country. I knew going into this business that I wasn’t going to score a lot of Valentine’s cards. Being troll-bait for haters is part of the gig.

And I don’t have to love the client. I don’t even have to
like
the client. Sometimes, I really
hate
the client. Doesn’t matter. I’m there to take care of society’s refuse, the ones nobody wants—or ever wanted. And if I have to slash and burn to do it, so be it. When I walk into court, I’m not concerned about justice, the rule of law, or making sure it’s a fair fight. Fuck fair. I’m there to protect my client. That’s where my duty begins and ends.

But Chloe—and by association, her best friend, Paige—felt too real, too close to me. And whoever murdered them was likely a real monster. The idea of sitting next to the douche bag who’d done it made me sick. So I didn’t ask Michelle to monitor the case, I didn’t ask the courthouse reporters for the inside skinny, and I didn’t call my producer buddies for media scoop.

It’d been a grind of a week, and by Friday afternoon I was dragging like a dog on its way to the groomer. My last appearance of the day was a misdemeanor vandalism case. My client, Naille Tarickman, an eighteen-year-old “street artist,” had been busted for “enhancing” the side of a liquor store. I wouldn’t ordinarily have taken a case that picayune, but his mother, Harriet (we call her Hank), was one of the few—okay, the
only—
cop I actually liked, and she’d asked me to step in. She’d insisted on paying my retainer, but I planned to tear up the check when I finished the case.

I’d managed to get declarations from the store owner and a couple of neighbors saying they’d pay Naille to paint the whole ’hood if they could—and they’d be glad to come in and testify. When I showed them to the prosecutor, he folded like a cheap card table and dismissed the case.

Naille took off to celebrate with his friends, and Hank and I talked in the hallway for a few minutes. I asked her if they were zeroing in on the burglar who killed Chloe and Paige yet.

Hank looked around, then leaned in. “Don’t say anything, okay?” I nodded. “It wasn’t the burglar.”

“Then who?”

“A cop. A detective in the Hollywood Division.”

I’ve got to admit, I did not see that coming.

I wasn’t necessarily any more interested in taking the case, but the sheer oddity of a detective being the bad guy got my attention. All day Saturday I kept an ear tuned to the news while I ran the million errands and chores that’d piled up all week.

Michelle had called in the morning and left me a message saying, “Call me back, we have to talk,” but I didn’t have time until almost eight o’clock that night. Doing laundry at the local Fluff ’n’ Fold takes forever on a Saturday. Between that, grocery shopping, the dry cleaners, and giving Beulah a bath, my whole day had been shot. And now I was starving. I hoped Michy might be, too. “Hey, sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. I’ve been running my ass off all—”

“We’ve got to talk.”

“But first we’ve got to eat.”

I told her to meet me at Barney’s Beanery, kind of a roadhouse diner. It’s close, cheap, and funky. And I love the history. It’s where famous rockers like Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison used to go. It also used to be a redneck haven. Less so now that it’s situated in the heart of Boys’ Town, AKA West Hollywood.

When I got there, I found Michy already seated near the window, with a basket of fries and chicken fingers on the table in front of her. I barely had a chance to sit down before she leaned in and spoke, her voice low but intense. “You heard about the Canyon Killer being that cop, Dale Pearson, right?” I nodded. “You ever run into him in court?”

“Nope. Pretty weird that it’s a cop.”

“They’re saying he was well respected.”

I rolled my eyes. “They always say that when a cop gets busted.”

Michelle snorted. “No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do. Anyway, he was supposedly dating Chloe—”

Michelle nodded. “I heard they met when he showed up to handle her burglary.”

I finished off a chicken finger and wiped my mouth. “Kind of creepy, him dating a crime victim, don’t you think?”

Michelle stared at me. “I’d think that would happen all the time. Cops, firemen, they come in and save you and—”

“It doesn’t happen all the time.”

“Whatever. And, so what? It’s not like he was married. Where else is he supposed to meet women?”

I reached for another chicken finger. “At a bar. Where he can get drunk and use bad judgment like the rest of us.”

Michy deadpanned me and moved on. “They’re saying he stabbed Chloe in the chest, and Paige in the back. Some neighbors heard him fighting with Chloe that night, so the police figure he stabbed Chloe in the heat of the argument, then had to get rid of Paige.”

“You wouldn’t think a cop would be that sloppy—”

“It was a fight, not a planned hit.”

I shrugged. “I guess. Their building have a surveillance camera?”

Michelle popped a fry in her mouth. “I doubt it. From what I saw on the news, it’s just a dumpy little place. Exterior hallways, an open carport.”

In short, a lot like mine.

Michelle glanced around the restaurant, then leaned forward, both hands on the table in front of her. “You’ve got to go for it. This is the case we’ve been waiting for, Sam. It’ll get us a ton of publicity, put us in the big leagues. And it’ll bring in some decent money—”

“Cops don’t have money, and his buddies on the force aren’t going to take up a collection for a guy who murdered his girlfriend.”

“I bet he’ll have enough money to hire
you
. And when he taps out, the court’s gonna have to appoint you. Come on, Sam. It’s a no-brainer. Win-win.”

I’d thought of all that. But there was just one fly in the ointment. “No way he’d hire me. Everyone knows how much I hate cops—”

“That’s exactly why he
should
want you. Gives him more credibility.”

I wasn’t so sure he’d see it that way, and to be honest, I still wasn’t sure I wanted the case. I shook my head. “He’ll never go for it—”

“He might. You’ve got a solid rep around the courthouse. He’s bound to have heard of you.”

“Exactly my point. Why pick a cop hater—”

Michelle grabbed my forearm. “Sam, you haven’t paid me in two months, they’re about to turn off the electricity, and we’re behind on the rent.”

I sighed. She was right. I picked up the last of the fries as I nodded, very reluctantly. “I’ll give it a try. But don’t go paying any unnecessary bills. This is a long shot at best.”

“Good.” Michelle sat back. “Besides, it’s possible he’s not guilty.”

I laughed so hard I had to put down my fries.

I went to bed that night still conflicted about whether I wanted to try and get Pearson’s case. If it’d gone down the way the news reports said, the jury was going to shred this guy so hard there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury.

And even if I did go for the case, how would I pitch myself to Dale Pearson? As I drove to work Monday morning, I tried to come up with an intro. But all the lines sounded like bad come-ons for a hookup: “I know I’ve got a rep for hating cops, but it’s different with you . . .” Or like phony ass-kissing: “You’ve probably heard I’m not a big cop lover, but I’m actually a big fan; you’re one of the good guys . . .” And I’d know that . . . how? I was still trying to come up with a line I could deliver without laughing—or gagging—when I got to the office.

But the minute I walked in the door, Michelle waved me over to her computer. “Never mind about Pearson. He’s hitched.” She pointed to the news clip.

I read over her shoulder. “Dale Pearson, 51, a veteran LAPD detective who has been declared a ‘person of interest’ in the double homicide of Chloe Monahan and Paige Avner, has reportedly met with attorney and former police officer Errol Messinger. Messinger has made the representation of police officers a specialty since leaving the force in 2002. Stuart Holmes, a Los Angeles attorney who has worked with Messinger in the past, said, ‘This case is Errol’s bread and butter. He’s the perfect lawyer for Dale Pearson.’ District Attorney Skip Whitmer has said his office is reviewing the evidence and that a decision as to what charges will be filed will be made by the end of this week.”

Messinger. It figured. He was the go-to guy for naughty cops. And of course, Stuart Holmes, his bun boy, was there to cheer him on—in the hopes of getting on the case as his second chair. “How did Holmes manage to get Messinger’s dick out of his mouth long enough to give that statement?”

Michelle gave a short laugh. “According to certain ‘celebutantes,’ it just takes a little practice.” She sighed. “So much for our shot at the bigs.”

I shrugged. “Probably for the best.”

FIVE

O
ther than finding out that
someone else had snagged the Canyon Killer case, it was a day like any other. But for some reason, by the time I got home, I was so tired I barely had the energy to heat up a can of chicken noodle soup before falling into bed. So I thought I had a shot at making it through the night without having the damn nightmare again. No such luck.

In my dream, I’m plunging the carving knife into his chest again and again and again, grunting with each blow until my clothes, my face, and my arms are covered in blood. I stand back to let him fall, the handle of the knife slick and wet in my hand. But he doesn’t fall. He smiles. That sick leer of a smile that always made my insides freeze. I’m paralyzed for a moment, but then the hot rage surges through me again, and I lunge forward to slash his throat with a swift backhand motion. Blood gushes from his neck. But he’s still smiling. Frustrated, furious, I sob as I bury the knife in his stomach. Once, twice, three times, heaving with the effort of each thrust. Finally, I yank out the knife and stand back. Still he doesn’t fall. Exhausted, gulping for air, I raise the knife again, but suddenly, I can’t reach him. He’s a giant. I stare up at him, terrified. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my arms, lifts me up, and pins me against the wall. His hands feel like steel clamps. I fight to break free, my heels kicking against the wall. As I twist my head back and forth, I feel a blast of hot, fetid air. His mouth opens wide—a huge, cavernous black hole—and I feel the darkness begin to engulf me. Trapped, terrified, I scream and scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic little whisper.

I woke up to the choked gurgle of my own voice, my heart pounding, my throat raw. I rolled over on my back still gasping for air. I used to believe the dreams would go away over time, once the memory of the living nightmare faded. But it’s been years now, and the dreams still come almost every night. The only thing that ever changes is the weapon. I’ve used a gun, a piano wire, a machete—even an ax. Doesn’t matter. It always ends the same way, with his hands clamped around my arms, and me, paralyzed, terrified . . . doomed.

Now, I curled up and shivered under the covers. My favorite sleeping T-shirt, the one with a smiling Janis Joplin, was soaked with sweat. I looked at the soft glow of sunlight that peeked through the gap in the curtains of my bedroom window—a reassuring slice of reality that reminded me that the monster was out of my life. I might not be able to get to him, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t dare—try to get to me. Except in my dreams.

I stumbled out of bed the next morning, tired and groggy. I had a headache that felt like someone had pounded a spike through my forehead. It took three cups of coffee to get my brain clear. By the time I left for the office, it was nine thirty. I hate being late.

I ran downstairs, jumped into my car, and jammed the key into the ignition. Beulah slowly groaned to life. Dealing with her on days like this made me want to scream. I needed to fly—or at least make it from zero to sixty in less than five minutes. But that just wasn’t Beulah’s way. I was turning onto Beverly Glen Boulevard to head over the canyon when Michelle called. “You almost here?”

“Almost,” I lied.

“Just left home, huh?” Michelle knows me way too well. “Good. Because you need to get downtown. Your jury came back.”

It’d been three days since the jury had gone out on Harold Ringer’s case. It wasn’t the longest I’d ever had a jury stay out, but it was close. “Sure took their time.”

“Yeah. And I hope they hammered your guy. That scum-sucking pig. No offense.”

“None taken. My guess is you’ll get your wish.”

It’d taken hours of coaching to make Ringer come off halfway decent on the witness stand. “Okay, I’m heading to court.”

Happy at the prospect of not having to see him again after today, I dialed up a Steely Dan album on my phone and sang along to “Don’t Take Me Alive.” When I got to court, I saw that the victim, Aidan Mandy, was sitting in the audience with a victim-witness counselor from the DA’s office. He looked frail, vulnerable, his skinny frame hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap. It hurt to look at him. I signaled to Jimmy, the bailiff, to let me into the holding tank.

Ringer was pacing in his cell. His square face, normally ruddy, was pale, and I noticed a film of sweat on his forehead. As I approached the cell, I saw that his hands were shaking and he was swallowing hard, his breath coming in shallow gulps. Prison was going to be a rough ride for him, and he knew it. He moved up and gripped the bars. “What do you think?”

Now that I was closer, his body odor, sharp and rancid, made me turn my head. I shrugged. “You never know with a jury. But we did all we could—”

The bailiff poked his head in. “Wrap it up. Judge says we’re ready to roll.”

Five minutes later, Ringer was seated next to me at counsel table as the judge called for the jury. I watched their faces as they came out. The foreman glanced at me, then hurriedly looked away. A bad sign. I studied the judge’s expression as he checked the verdict forms, but he was stone-faced. He handed the folder to the clerk and said, “Will the defendant please rise?”

I stood and helped Ringer up. He was shaking so badly now, I could hear the chains on his ankles rattling.

The clerk read the verdict in a quavering voice. “We, the jury in the above-entitled cause, find the defendant, Harold Ringer . . . not guilty.”

The courtroom went dead silent. I blinked for a moment, then stared at the clerk. I couldn’t have heard that right. But then a cry came from the audience. “No! You can’t! You’re wrong!”

I turned to see Aidan standing, red-faced, as he clutched the back of the bench seat in front of him. Tears began to roll down his face as he stared at the jury in disbelief. A stab of pain shot through my heart. The judge called for order, and the victim advocate put an arm around Aidan’s shoulders. He sank back onto the bench and put his face in his hands. I turned away and glanced at the jury. Some of the jurors looked shame-faced; others looked sad. The judge thanked the jury without much enthusiasm and told them they were discharged. A few minutes later, the show over, the courtroom emptied out.

Ringer had been subdued, but now he snapped back to his old obnoxious self like a rubber band. He fist-pumped the air. “I
knew
it! I knew they’d never believe that little faggot!”

I glared at him. “You didn’t know it ten minutes ago.”

“I was just nervous. But I
killed
up on that stand. I was a fucking rock star!”

Disgusted, I started to pack up my briefcase.

Jimmy, the bailiff, gave me a look of sympathy as he came over to escort Ringer back into lockup. “I’ve got his court clothes. They his? Or yours?”

I sometimes had to provide a decent-looking shirt and pants for clients so the jury wouldn’t see them in their orange jumpsuits. But Ringer had brought his own. He wasn’t wearing them now because once the jury has a verdict, there’s no point in bothering. “They’re his. You got them in lockup?” Jimmy nodded. I thought for a moment. “Give ’em to me. I’ll take them over to Twin Towers, put them with the rest of his stuff. Is he going to process out today?”

“Yeah. Should be out by five o’clock or so.”

Jimmy took Ringer by the arm. I picked up my briefcase and nodded to my client. “I’m taking off. Good luck.” Ordinarily, I’d make arrangements to get him a ride home, but as far as I was concerned, this jerk could walk.

Ringer gave me his old, snotty smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

A few minutes later, Jimmy emerged from lockup with a dress shirt and a pair of slacks on a hanger. I took them and headed out to the Twin Towers jail.

When I got down to the property room, I handed the clothes to the custodian. She took them and sighed. “I need to check these?”

“Nope. Bailiff cleared everything. They’re good to go.” She turned to get a plastic bag to store them in. I held up a hand. “Don’t bother. He’ll be down here any minute. He’s going home.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations. I guess.”

“Yeah. I guess.”