Corrupt Practices (39 page)

“I don’t know for a fact, but I assume so. It’s a crowded jail.”

“Richard Baxter was just a bit under five feet eight inches in height and, at the time of his death, weighed one hundred and thirty-three pounds?”

He refers to his report. “That’s correct.”

“So it’s possible that one of these powerful inmates of the Metropolitan Detention Center could lift a man the size of Richard Baxter into a noose?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“You also mentioned that you noticed a wound on the back of Richard Baxter’s skull?”

“Yes.”

“You think it came from the cell door?”

“I do.”

“But that wound was also consistent with someone sneaking up on him and hitting him in the head with a blunt object, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, although I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“You don’t think, but you don’t really know, do you?”

“No. I can only give my opinion.”

“If the wound occurred while Mr. Baxter was still alive, was the blow to the head severe enough to have knocked him unconscious?”

He hesitates and then checks his report, flipping through pages.

“You won’t find the answer in your report,” I say.

He shrugs. “I guess I don’t know the answer to your question, then.”

“Wouldn’t that have been relevant to your opinion?”

“Not really.”

I glance at the jury. While during direct they clearly liked him, now they don’t seem so sure. He’s much too blasé about death, even for a pathologist.

“Well, if someone snuck up behind Richard Baxter and hit him in the head and knocked him unconscious, it would have been much easier for one of those powerful inmates to hang him from a noose, wouldn’t it?”

“If that had happened, you’re correct.”

“There are ways to strangle a man without leaving a ligature furrow, correct Dr. Vakil?”

“I think . . . possibly.”

“Certain martial arts holds and military holds?”

“I believe so. I’ve . . . I’ve never encountered a case like that.”

For dramatic effect, I return to the defense table and pretend to consult with Lovely. Then I ask, “Richard Baxter had a fractured hyoid bone, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“And the hyoid bone is a small bone in the neck.”

“Yes.”

“And how old was he?”

“Thirty-eight years old.”

“Dr. Vakil, isn’t it Pathology 101 that when a decedent under the age of forty has a fractured hyoid, the default cause of death is homicide unless there’s strong proof to the contrary?”

“That’s generally true, but not in this case.”

Stunned by the answer, I forget the cardinal rule of cross-examination and ask a question I don’t know the answer to. “Why not?”

Only after the words are out of my mouth do I understand that Frantz has ambushed me and that Dr. Arun Vakil is his spring gun.

Vakil addresses the jury, not me—just as Frantz undoubtedly coached him to do. “It’s true that the hyoid bone is not usually fractured in a partial suspension suicide in younger people, people under forty. But Richard Baxter was found in the possession of methamphetamine, as I testified to earlier. Meth use causes severe weakening of bone structure. That’s why you see those horrible pictures of meth users with rotten teeth. In any case, Baxter’s meth use would make hyoid fracture likely, especially in a man of thirty-eight. That’s not that far away from forty, you know.”

I glance back at Lovely. She’s buried her face in her hands. She can’t do that. We have to act confident, even though our case has just disintegrated. I check my notes and wrack my brain for a face-saving question. I can’t think of one. Then Manny, holding a legal pad, leaves his seat in the gallery and comes to the podium.

“May I confer with Dean Mason, Your Honor?” I ask.

“You may, Mr. Stern. But be brief.”

Manny scribbles furiously on his legal pad. Then he tears out two pages and hands them to me. They’re follow-up areas for Vakil, just random ideas, conceived in less than five minutes. I’ll have to do my best to translate them into leading questions on the fly and hope that Vakil doesn’t burn me with an answer. This is one of those times where I’ll have to ignore the basic rules of cross and hope to get lucky.

“Nowhere in your report did you mention that Mr. Baxter’s hyoid was fractured because of drug use, did you?” I ask.

“No. I did not.”

“You didn’t consider the issue of the broken hyoid until Mr. Frantz, the Assembly’s counsel, told you there was a problem, correct?” I have no idea if this is true, but I have to take a shot.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know if it was Mr. Frantz or Nicholas Weir. But it was someone from his office.”

“Did the Assembly’s lawyers also tell you that meth use weakens bone?”

He crosses his arms and his legs at the same time. “They didn’t have to tell me that.”

“But they did tell you that, didn’t they?”

“I don’t recall, sir.”

“Nowhere in your autopsy report do you conclude that Mr. Baxter was using drugs, do you?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And that’s because the tox screens came back negative for drugs in Mr. Baxter’s system.”

“Yes, but—”

“You’ve answered the question.”

“I object,” Frantz says. “He interrupted the witness’ testimony. Dr. Vakil has the right to finish his answer.”

“Was there something you wanted to add, Dr. Vakil?” the judge asks.

“Yes, Your Honor. Just because the toxicology screens were negative doesn’t mean anything. The decedent was in jail long enough for any methamphetamine to have passed from his body. And as Mr. Stern pointed out, he was very thin. His medical records showed that the decedent was a bit overweight for most of his adult life. That’s further evidence of methamphetamine use.”

My next question isn’t on Manny’s list. “Couldn’t Mr. Baxter also have lost weight because he knew his life was in danger? Because he was thrown in jail for a crime he didn’t commit? Wouldn’t that cause a rational, healthy human being to lose weight?”

Frantz gets up to object, but before he does, the judge says, “That’s argumentative, counsel. I’m going to sustain my own objection. The witness will not answer that and the jury will disregard Mr. Stern’s questions. Now move on.”

“I’m finished with this guy,” I say, for effect tossing my notes on the table in disgust.

Schadlow peers at me from over her glasses, undoubtedly debating whether to admonish me for my rude conduct. She lets it go and turns toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, since this is Friday, we’ll adjourn early so you can have the afternoon off. We’ll reconvene Monday at nine o’clock.”

I have to bite the side of my cheek hard not to remind the judge that she wouldn’t give me more than a day to grieve over Deanna, but now she’s sending us home three hours early. It’s just as well. I need all the time I can get to find a way to recover from today’s debacle, though I doubt it’s possible.

As soon as we exit the courtroom, Raymond heads toward the elevator without acknowledging me.

“Thanks for the lifeline,” I say to Manny. “At least we were able to ask a few questions that made him look bad.”

He shakes his head in disgust. “That witness killed us. I have to get to school.” What’s left unsaid is that he warned me months ago—I shouldn’t have relied on a law student for a forensic analysis. He turns and hurries down the corridor.

When we’re alone, Lovely says, “I’m so sorry, Parker. When I talked to my pathologist friend, I didn’t mention the drugs. The report never . . . I should’ve told him about the drugs.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. This was my fault. I didn’t hire my own expert because I wanted to surprise Frantz at trial. I took a risk and it backfired. I should’ve known better. You’re going to be a great lawyer. I just wish you’d had a better teacher.”

An awkward moment passes between us, but before either of us can speak, Brandon Placek, the
Times
reporter, walks up. I’m about to say “no comment” when I realize that it’s not me he’s interested in.

“Ms. Diamond, we’re doing a story about you. You’re Shane Edmonds’s daughter, right? And you were a porn star yourself? Would you comment on how your background in adult films impacts on your defense of Tyler Daniels in her child pornography prosecution?”

I take a step toward Placek. “Listen, asshole—”

“Here’s my comment,” Lovely says. “First, I’m defending Tyler Daniels because she’s being oppressed by an overzealous prosecutor who wants to deprive her of her basic First Amendment right of free speech. And that’s the only reason I’m defending her. Second, I’m not ashamed of my past. But I’m not going to talk about it. All I’m focusing on is passing the bar exam and practicing as an attorney so I can fight against the type of injustice that Tyler is facing.”

He starts to ask another question, but I get between him and Lovely. “Who’s your source for this information?”

He holds up his hands. “You know I can’t—”

I crowd him, pushing him up against the wall. I dig my finger into his chest several times as I say, “Cut the First Amendment bullshit and tell me who gave you that information. Was it Frantz? McCarthy?”

Lovely grabs my arm. “Parker, please don’t.”

I hesitate, but step back when her grip tightens. Placek scurries away like the little weasel he is.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For trying to protect me.”

“I have to go.”

“Can’t we just—?”

“No. We can’t.”

When I get home, I immediately open the pantry and pour myself a shot of mastika, drink it down, and pour myself another. I go out onto the balcony and gaze out at the expanse of ocean. How long, I wonder, do drowning victims struggle to hold on, even as the body rebels and consumes the precious molecules of oxygen in the lungs? Do people fight to the end, or does there come a time of resignation, even acceptance, when they willingly succumb to the inevitable temptation to exhale that last breath of hope and actually welcome the flood of lethal seawater into their bodies? Are those who struggle until the bitter end the brave ones, or merely fools who trade a last chance at tranquility for futile self-torture?

I go back inside and grab my keys, get in my car, and drive over to the TCO building in Santa Monica. I check in at the front desk and ask to see Christopher McCarthy, not knowing whether he’s even coming in after court. The security guard tells me to wait. I take a seat on a hard marble bench off in a corner. A few minutes later, McCarthy hurtles out of an elevator and comes toward me.

“You really are insane,” he says. He sniffs the air. “And drunk. Get out or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. And I’m definitely going to have Lou Frantz report you to the state bar for trying to communicate with me without his consent.”

I stand up and look into his eyes, or more accurately, in the direction of his eyes, because all I can see is my own reflection in his sunglasses. “Do what you have to do. But I want you to arrange a meeting for me with Quiana.”

He jerks his head back. “What did you say?”

“I said I want to meet with Quiana Gottschalk. Immediately. And don’t tell me she doesn’t exist. We’re way beyond that.”

He lifts his arm and massages the back of his neck with his hand, a movement that causes his coat to fly open. Patches of sweat have stained his custom-made silk shirt. “You’re more warped than I thought. What in heaven’s name makes you think that she’d ever meet with you?”

“Because,” I say, “she’s my mother.”

Two hours later, McCarthy calls and confirms that the meeting with Quiana is on for tomorrow morning. He tries to sound curt and businesslike, but his tone contains an undercurrent of respect, as though he’s discovered that the lowliest peon has royal blood. I feel neither excitement nor fear, only the heady self-satisfaction lawyers feel when they one-up an adversary.

The next morning, I drive to a seedy shopping center in Mar Vista, a few miles from my condo. I park my car and lean against the hood, waiting. After fifteen minutes, a blue Mercedes drives up. Bradley Kelly insisted that Assembly staff drive only blue cars because blue is the color of the celestial angels’ wings. There are two men inside. The one in the passenger seat gets out. He’s dressed in the obligatory dark suit and red power tie. In that polite, emotionless voice typical of the Assembly functionary, he orders me into the back seat and then slides in next to me. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something out. The driver, from my vantage point just broad shoulders, brown hair, and sunglasses, gazes out the window without acknowledging me.