Murder on the Down Low (6 page)

Finally, she detected a glint of interest in Sam’s eyes. “But you don’t know anything about wrongful death law.”

“It’s not rocket science. Anyway, my friend Jamal is going to help me on a
pro bono
basis. You’ve met him. He works upstairs at Russana & Rowles. He went to law school with me and Maya.”

Sam frowned. “Isn’t that guy gay?”

“Yeah, and what about it?”

“Isn’t he going to take some flack for handling a case like this?”

“Frankly, I think it might add a little credibility to the case to have a sharp gay black man like Jamal on the defense team. He wants to do this for Maya, too.”

Sam finally examined the papers Nichelle had given him. “When are you going to find the time to do the legal research, draft the complaint, and—”

“The complaint’s already written.” She pulled two copies from her folder and handed them to her law partners. “And here’s the press release I’m planning to send to the media.”

Russell quickly perused both documents. “I like it. It’ll get the firm’s name out there.”

Sam took his time reading the materials, then looked up at her. “Fine, but you just better make sure you know what you’re doing. I don’t want this firm getting hit with a malpractice lawsuit.”

“That won’t happen.” Nichelle was smiling inside and out.

She had just swayed the toughest jury of her career. Who said she wasn’t a litigator?

V
ernetta checked the fuel gauge of her Land Cruiser and cringed at the orange light signaling that she was about to run out of gas.

She zoomed down the 405 Freeway, trying to make it to Irvine in time for an important meeting. She’d overslept, a rare occurrence since Jefferson was usually around to wake her up. But he had an early appointment and left the house before five.

If she stopped to fill up, she would definitely be late. With less than five miles to go, she prayed that she would make it.

The dog and pony show Vernetta was rushing off to was something clients were making law firms do more and more of these days. Even law firms with a reputation like O’Reilly & Finney’s. Instead of handing over a new case based on an existing relationship, companies were requiring firms to compete for the work. Whoever made the best pitch won the case.

She pulled into the parking lot of Vista Electronics at a much faster rate of speed than the posted five-mile-an-hour limit and swerved into the only open stall, which was marked “car pool.” Grabbing her briefcase and purse from the passenger seat, she ran all the way to the lobby entrance, then slowed to a forced stroll the minute she stepped inside.

Haley and O’Reilly were sitting in the north corner of the lobby.
Thank God.
The meeting hadn’t started yet.

“Good morning.” Vernetta concentrated on replenishing her air supply.

Haley checked her watch, then smiled up at her. “You certainly cut it close.” Haley had striking looks—high cheekbones and those pouty, model lips that a lot of women paid for. Men routinely salivated when Haley entered a room.

“It’s hard to predict the traffic on the 405.” Vernetta took a seat next to O’Reilly and opposite Haley.

“You’ve got that right. That’s why I always add at least thirty minutes to any trip that involves the 405.”

Vernetta fought the twinge of annoyance that seemed to surface whenever she was in Haley’s presence for more than five seconds. A sexual harassment case that they had jointly litigated had not been a pleasant experience. After Haley’s backstabbing ways had been exposed, she apologized and extended an olive branch of friendship. Vernetta’s instincts told her not to trust the girl and her gut had been right. Within weeks of Haley’s sympathetic overture, she was up to her old treacherous tricks again.

“You guys ready to wow ’em?” O’Reilly stretched his arm along the back of the couch. He looked as cool and confident as he always did. “This wage and hour lawsuit could be an important case for the firm. It’ll involve more than twenty-five Vista facilities across the country.”

In other words, they could bill the heck out of the client.

An African-American woman in a dark suit greeted them and handed out visitor’s badges. Vernetta pegged the woman to be in her mid-thirties. “I’m Sheryl Milton, Director of Human Resources.”

She led the way to a conference room where the Assistant General Counsel for the Labor and Employment Group and two staff attorneys were waiting. The AGC began by briefly describing a lawsuit they expected to be served with any day.

When he was done, O’Reilly handed out a summary of cases O’Reilly & Finney had successfully litigated for Vista Electronics in the past, then described his extensive experience with wage and hour lawsuits. “And here with me,” he said, pinning his gaze solely on Haley, “are two of our firm’s brightest associates, Haley Prescott and Vernetta Henderson.”

“I’d like to hear your strategy for litigating the case,” one of the staff attorneys said. The question was directed at Vernetta, but Haley snatched the ball and ran with it.

“Being able to coordinate a large amount of information is crucial in a wage and hour matter,” Haley began. “As the junior associate and the cheapest attorney in the room, most of that grunt work will fall into my lap.” Haley smiled and everybody chuckled. Except Vernetta. Haley was using her feminine appeal to the hilt. Her clothes were professional, but acceptably sexy. A pink silk blouse accented her charcoal grey suit. A long pendant fell right at the crest of her cleavage.

“It’s crucial to get in as soon as possible to conduct interviews with the employees to tie them down on the number of overtime hours they claimed to have worked.” She leaned forward, planting her forearms on the table. The move revealed just a glimpse of a lacy pink bra. “If the plaintiffs’ attorney gets to them first, they’re going to exaggerate their hours. So the first thing we would do is interview everyone in the proposed class as soon as possible.”

“Sounds good,” the Assistant General Counsel said.

“There’s a new case out of the Ninth Circuit that should be a big help in fighting class certification.” Haley went on to explain an incredibly complicated decision. Vernetta hated to admit it, but even she was impressed.

The Assistant General Counsel smiled at Haley like he wanted to screw her. So far Vernetta had yet to say a word. That wasn’t good. She needed to get her foot in the door.

Just as she was trying to figure out the right place to insert herself, the HR Director threw her a lifeline. “Ms. Henderson,” she said, “tell us a little bit about your wage and hour experience.”

“I’ve had quite a bit.” Vernetta was about to describe a case where she had obtained a dismissal when her cell phone started ringing. And ringing and ringing and ringing. As everybody waited, staring at her, she fumbled around inside her purse, desperate to find the thing and turn it off.

She finally spotted it buried beneath her makeup bag. The second she turned it off, her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember the last thing she had said or what question had been posed. Just as the silence threatened to blow up the room, O’Reilly opened his mouth to speak, but once again, Haley took charge.

“Vernetta and I have worked pretty well as a team,” she lied. Haley clasped her hands and leaned forward again, giving the men another glimpse of her fancy pink bra. “Maybe I can tell you something about my colleague’s experience.”

J
.C.’s eyes burned with fatigue. For the last three hours, she had been pouring over the files from the shootings of Dr. Quentin Banks and Marcus Patterson, the engineer gunned down days earlier outside the Ramada Inn.

People who complained about doctors’ handwriting had never tried to read a handwritten crime scene report, J.C. thought. At least doctors could spell. After examining all of the evidence, she still wasn’t buying the crime scene tech’s theory that the two murders were connected. But she also wasn’t ready to dismiss the possibility either. Both men were shot in broad daylight with a small caliber gun. Both appeared to have been ambushed and both were successful family men with no financial problems, no history of drug abuse, no known enemies and no run-ins with police.

Wolfing down the remainder of the steak sandwich she’d picked up at the Quiznos a block from the station, she hurriedly drank the last few drops of her Sprite. She had a three o’clock appointment at the home of Dr. Banks and needed to leave right away if she expected to make it on time.

Thirty minutes later, she turned off Slauson onto Corning Street and hopped out of her Range Rover. J.C. had only knocked once before the door opened and she was invited in. Gospel music played softly in the background and a dozen or so people milled about the living room.

The teenager who greeted her apparently assumed that J.C. was there to pay her respects. “Come in,” the girl said, not bothering to ask her name.

J.C. stepped just inside the doorway, but did not go any further. “I’m here to see Mrs. Banks? I’m Detective Sparks. With the LAPD.”

The girl’s numb expression came to life. “My aunt’s in the den.”

An even larger group occupied couches, stools, and folding chairs in a room the size of a small banquet hall. The girl introduced her and Diana Banks rose from the couch, shook J.C.’s hand, then led the way to her husband’s study. Her sister, Patricia, followed.

“You have a beautiful home,” J.C. said once they were behind closed doors.

Diana managed a weak smile. “We just finished remodeling the kitchen three weeks ago. Quentin was very proud of this place.”

Mrs. Banks had the graceful presence of a kept woman. Every strand of her dark brown hair was in place. Her French manicure looked freshly done and she’d taken the time to put on lipstick. She was wearing blue jeans and a simple white blouse.

J.C. settled into a chair that felt like sitting on a bed of cotton. Diana and Patricia sat across from her behind a small oak coffee table.

“First, let me apologize for having to bother you at a time like this,” J.C. said, “but I need to talk to you while everything’s still fresh in your mind.”

Diana nodded.

“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

“About five minutes before he was killed.” Diana’s voice quivered. “I called to tell him I was going to a movie.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her jeans and wiped the corner of her eye.

Patricia reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand.

“Was he at the office when you spoke to him?”

“I called him on his cell. It sounded like he was in the car. But I didn’t ask.”

“What time was it?”

“It was exactly one-twenty-one,” she said. “I remember because I had a nail appointment at two and I checked the time before calling him.”

“Did he tell you where he was headed?”

“No, but his office manager later told me he was returning from lunch.”

“Any idea where he had lunch?”

Diana inhaled. “No.”

“Were there any friends he regularly met for lunch?”

“I don’t think so. He often came home, except on Saturdays.”

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill your husband?”

Tears fell from Diana’s eyes. “My husband didn’t have an enemy in the world. You couldn’t find a man with more integrity.”

Something in her sister’s body language said she disagreed with that characterization of her brother-in-law. J.C. would follow up with her later. She had been a cop long enough to know that spouses rarely knew everything they thought they did about their mates. “I hate to ask this next question, but did your husband use drugs?”

Diana chuckled. “No. He wasn’t even much of a drinker. When we socialized, he’d have a single glass of wine or brandy and that was it.”

J.C. covered a few more questions then asked for a picture of the doctor. Diana opened a built-in cabinet and pulled out a heavy photo album with the words
My Family
embossed in gold across the front.

“They’re some nice close-up shots on both of these pages,” she said, handing the open album to J.C. “You can pick out one you like.”

J.C. felt a pang of sadness as she scanned the photos. There was nothing but pride on Dr. Banks’ face. What a storybook life they had led. She selected a photograph taken last summer during a family vacation in Cancun.

J.C. closed the album. “Do you mind if I attend your husband’s funeral service?”

Diana hunched her shoulders. “Not at all.”

Patricia spoke for the first time. “You don’t think the killer would show up there, do you?” Except for their differing hair styles, the two women could have been twins.

“It’s been known to happen, but you shouldn’t be concerned.” J.C. stood up. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you think of anything helpful.”

“Why don’t you go back into the den,” Patricia said to her sister. “I’ll show Detective Sparks out.”

When they reached the front door, instead of saying goodbye, Patricia stepped outside and escorted J.C. down the walkway.

“I’d like one of your cards, too,” she whispered.

J.C. pulled out a business card and handed it to her. She’d been right. Patricia knew something. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Patricia shot a worried glance over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said hesitantly, “but we can’t talk now.”

J.C. started to speak, but Patricia raised a finger to her lips.

“I’ll give you a call.” She turned and disappeared through the front door.

S
pecial entered Eddie Chin’s studio apartment on McCarthy Street, just north of the USC campus, and plunked down her laptop on one of the four card tables scattered about the room.

At work, Eddie usually dressed in slacks and short-sleeve shirts. Special was surprised to see him in an oversized white T-shirt and sagging jeans. From the neck down, he looked like a pint-sized rapper.

“Okay, let’s get to it.” Special looked around for a place to sit. The stuffy little apartment was a jumble of squares and rectangles in bright orange, pea-green, and sunshine yellow. Vintage Ikea. There were five or six metal folding chairs, but each one held stacks of books and magazines. Eddie could afford three desktop computers and two laptops, but no couch.