If You Really Loved Me (22 page)

David had insurance with Allstate. He insisted that he had reported the accident to his insurance agent at once, but the first record the Garden Grove office had about the "rear-ender" was when David made a claim more than four months later, on April 3, 1986. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, that office brought up David's auto insurance policy on the computer, and it showed that David had more than adequate medical coverage on his policy—$ 100,000.

Six months later, David brought a stack of medical bills in for payment—almost $25,000 worth. This was a bit of a jolt to Allstate. The police accident reports depicted an essentially minor collision. Most of the claims were for "soft tissue injury." Patti asked for $1,000 for pain-clinic visits. On many occasions, the bills noted several chiropractic visits on the same day. Nevertheless, Allstate eventually paid David $12,500 and Patti $10,500. A check with Farmers Insurance, the insurer of the driver of the other car, showed that Farmers had also paid—under the liability provision—to the tune of $38,500.

Insurance investigators are a suspicious breed by nature, and they began to work back through David Brown's insurance history. To them, $61,500 seemed an inordinately large payoff for a low-speed, rear-end collision that resulted in a few scratches, most of which, probers found, had been there when David bought the Nissan. Moreover, Patti's neck showed no lingering symptoms of soft-tissue or cervical-spine damage.

Allstate had other policies with David Brown; the house on Summitridge Lane (and later, the house on Chantilly). He had also attempted to insure Linda's jewelry with Allstate, but it was so valuable, the company declined.

A check of David's driving record in Orange County revealed several speeding tickets and showed accidents in 1970, 1972, 1978, two in 1980, and 1982.

After payment had been made on David's claims, Allstate's recheck of its computers for David Arnold Brown's car insurance brought a shocking revelation. Although agents swore that their initial computer check indicated that he had $ 100,000 medical coverage, it no longer showed on computer screens or printouts. Nor was it listed on any hard-copy documents on the auto policy.

Nor
could
it be there. Alístate
didn't
offer medical coverage on the kind of policy David had. But somehow—for a time—the computer printout had said David Brown was insured.

The only conclusion deductive reasoning could suggest was that someone had illegally accessed the company's computers, inserted the $100,000 coverage in David Brown's policy, and then, silently, erased it

Further, one Allstate investigator checked in the central file that lists all claims against the company, and against other companies, for another claim she knew David had collected on. It had to be listed in the computer files.

But it was gone.

Such computer wizardry could be accomplished only by someone with extremely sophisticated knowledge and skill regarding operating systems, programing, and data entry and retrieval. Someone who knew that illegal computer access can be accomplished in three ways, known in colorful computer lingo as "data diddling," "Trojan horse," and "superzapping."

No charges were ever filed, but with the realization that it had paid David Brown and Patti Bailey's medical claims of $23,000 on a policy that had never
had
any medical coverage, Allstate quietly beefed up its computer security.

18

W
ith all of David's new cars, it was difficult for Newell to keep track of him. It did little good to know what kind of car he drove; the next week, the next day, he might have a new one. He tired of the two Mercedes sedans quickly and sold them to invest in Fords.

Following another trail of his investigation, Newell tediously filled in all the gaps in David Brown's credit profile. He found out about federal tax liens on Brown's property in 1983 and saw they were paid off within a few months of filing. He even knew the credit cards Brown carried, and that they were paid to date. However, he detected a pattern of wobbly credit and money problems
before
Linda's murder, and emerging affluence and larger luxury purchases after.

"It was good to have that background, to know as much as I could about him," Newell would say later. "But the one thing I wanted most was to talk to David Arnold Brown."

It was galling to think that he had yet to meet the man's eyes, to exchange the most innocuous words. For Newell, a master at assessing nonverbal communication, a chance to observe Cinnamon's father close up might well answer the question that plagued him. Was David Brown really the childish, insensitive boob who had teasingly pulled his ex-wife's hair in the courtroom even as his daughter was being sentenced for murder? Or was he a brilliant manipulator who had somehow managed to pull off a murder and walk away with no particle of evidence clinging to him?

Where was all the money coming from? Was Brown's business truly as successful as he bragged it was? Investigators knew of one insurance policy payoff on Linda, but that would be long gone by now at the rate David spent money. Either there had been more policies, or Data Recovery
was
raking in the contracts from frantic corporations and government agencies. Perhaps both suppositions were true. All Newell needed was a face-to-face confrontation with Brown and he thought he could find out.

It shouldn't have been that difficult just to
talk
to a man. But David was like quicksilver. Although Newell called at the Brown household on Summitridge Lane at disparate times of the day and night, he was never able to penetrate the protective wall that surrounded David Brown.

Patti or Manuela or sometimes his father, Arthur, answered the door. They explained that David was at the doctor's or away on business, or in the bathroom or too ill to talk. They were polite, evasive, wary, and obviously well trained. Sometimes, they didn't even open the door, but talked
through
it; they told Newell that the alarm was activated, and they didn't know how to operate it. If they opened the door, the alarm would go off.

Newell knew that David Arnold Brown really
did
exist. He thought he knew the man as well as anyone could without ever talking to him. He had read the entire case file a couple of dozen times, reviewed the statements Brown had given, and seen him up close that one time at Cinnamon's sentencing, and even now, he frequently caught glimpses of David at a distance.

If Brown bothered Newell, the reverse was true—and double. Jay Newell had shocked Brown with the way he had managed to keep up with the family's moves. David didn't like people coming to his door, asking for him. If he had had any idea how many times Newell was only fifty feet away from him, he would have been outraged—and panicked.

But Newell had the advantage. David didn't know what Newell looked like. He knew his name all right; Newell had left enough cards to paper Brown's entry hall—but that was all. If he was truly concerned, he could have done some research and found a picture of Newell. But David never bothered.

Jay Newell had the definite impression that David Brown had no wish to see him or talk to him—ever. And there was no legal way to force such a conversation. Perhaps David's reluctance was born of some instinctual wariness. He knew he could routinely charm both clients and females with his voice and his repartee. He was good. He
had
to be good; the man had parlayed an eighth-grade education into a million-dollar business, and even though he was short, stout, and far from handsome, he never lacked for women. But a police detective was another matter. Here was a man who might cut through the bullshit and snare him.

If, indeed, there was any crime to snare him for.

And still, Newell kept up his quiet pursuit. He had to squeeze in time to spend monitoring David Brown; he was deep into myriad investigations of gang activity. And David Brown was officially old business.

"It sounds dull," Newell would say later. "I didn't do anything that dramatic. I just watched him and followed him and monitored public records. I'd see him leave the house, often with Patti Bailey, and I'd see him come home. I wanted to know
who
this man was—where he went and what he was doing. I was never far behind him, but I doubt if he realized that for months."

19

J
ay Newell knew far more about David's whereabouts and lifestyle than David's own daughter did. Cinnamon had no address for her father, and she had no telephone number. She didn't know where he lived or who lived with him.

But he did come to see her occasionally on the every-other-Saturday visitors' day at Ventura School. He explained to Cinny that his deteriorating health made it hard for him to make the drive often. If the weather was hot, he wouldn't be able to stand the long drive. He might hemorrhage. He might pass out.

She believed everything he said.

Every time he left after a visit, Cinnamon worried that she might never see him again, that he might really die as he always hinted he would. Her feelings were so mixed up about her father. For so long, he was the only magical person in her life. Her mother worried about even normal, everyday things. Her father just wanted to have fun. When he made her laugh—ever since she was little—they had so much fun. Even when he was sick, he took care of her, and of so many other people. He was smart and he was rich and people respected him.

When he
did
come to see her, he was still funny and made her laugh, but the visits seemed to be over before they even came close to talking about the things that worried her. There were certain subjects that spooked him, and he either ignored her questions or told her, "I'm working on it. I'm contacting lawyers—investigators. You'll be out of here soon."

She believed him.

Although David didn't come to see Cinny often, he did keep her commissary fund supplied with money, and she was allowed to order items by mail and charge them to his business accounts.

Cinnamon's first psychological screening tests at Ventura took place in November 1985. The diagnosis was as vague as it could possibly be: "unspecified mental disorder— nonpsychotic." In layman's terms, the examiner thought that there was probably something wrong with Cinnamon Brown, but she wasn't crazy. He went on to say she was not a danger to others, but that she
might
be dangerous to herself; that was unpredictable. Psychotherapy was recommended.

As always, there was little information for any examiner to go on. Cinnamon's memory was apparently lost in some abyss in her own mind.

The psychiatrist found Cinnamon to be a cooperative, friendly young woman who was adjusting well to being incarcerated. She was adamant that she was not interested in psychiatric help.

"Although subject has no memory of the events [of the crime], she somehow feels she is not guilty—and will eventually be proven innocent."

One thing was obvious; Cinnamon didn't want any psychologist or psychiatrist poking around in her subconscious, trying to bring up memories. She seemed almost alarmed at the thought of it.

Each year, near Christmas, Cinnamon would go before the parole board. She didn't really expect to be paroled that first year; she had only just got there. It was a mere formality when she went before the board on December 12, 1985.

Parole denied. The "ward" would be retained in the CYA system for treatment and training; "recommend psychiatric and psychological examinations and reports at each annual review."

Her parole date was tentatively set as September 1992. Seven years away.

Cinnamon had told the examiners on the board that she had no involvement in her stepmother's murder. She also told them that she remembered nothing of the early morning of March 19 or the days following.

There was a question in the examiners' minds about the possibility of conspiracy involving "other family members." They found Cinnamon to be "not criminally sophisticated" and noted that "she appears emotionally immature."

She was fifteen. It seemed a given.

They recommended therapy for an extended period of time. They gave her no "good time" at all.

On January 6, 1986, Cinnamon appeared once again for review. As in her first review with the parole board, the examiners felt that she was not dealing with her offense, and that she needed extended psychiatric treatment. The problem was that Cinnamon still absolutely refused treatment. She had a blank spot in her memory, and she wanted it left that way.

Cinnamon was only one of 1,100 boys and girls locked up in Ventura. The campus was green and dotted with trees. Cinnamon lived in a "cottage" called El Toyon. " 'E.T.,' " she explained. "It's for the younger girls, fourteen to eighteen. I had my own room at the end of the hall. Our cottage held fifty girls. I was trusted and placed at the end. ... I had my bed with my old beach towel across it. I had a desk and shelf across from my bed, and also a tall, thin locker and a sink and toilet.

"I've always been very neat—clean,
picky.
I guess everything was organized. I had a color TV, Walkman, and bear pictures on my wall, and frames with pictures of my family. I had a lot of things. ... I was very comfortable; I enjoyed my room. I had quality time alone. But the funny thing about my room—my things looked new because I took good care of them. I always had all the material things I needed. Staff would normally not allow such a thing, but because I was on good behavior, I was allowed to have the things I did and in the quantity I did.

"I also had pink curtains on my windows to cover up the bars. Eight bars down and three bars across. I could open a portion of the window myself. Our doors were always locked at night for security reasons. Mail was pushed through the door during the night."

Cinnamon did well in school, and in her cottage. During her first two years at Ventura, she was assigned to the kitchen and cooked and served food to the girls in E.T. cottage. Breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at five. She could go to canteen every two weeks, and have visitors twice a month. "Security" escorted all her movements inside the school.

School officials noted that Cinnamon did not align herself with any of the gangs at Ventura. The Caucasian girls urged her to come into the "White Car," their slang for the white girls' gang. She declined. She was something of a loner, doing her time, and waiting. She seemed always to have that air of waiting about her, as if she truly believed that someone—or something—was coming for her soon.

Cinnamon remained sweet, somewhat naive in manner, and was easy for prison officials to deal with. But she could not—or
would
not—remember the murder night. Until she did, prison officials thought she would not get well or move toward freedom.

In one sense, it almost seemed that Cinnamon felt safer in prison than she had on the outside. At least, she was no longer being bounced back and forth between her mother and father. She had her room, her private space, albeit with a locked door and a window with eight bars down and three bars across.