Reckless Disregard (33 page)

“Mr. Stern, your opening statement,” the judge says.

When I stand I experience a hiccup of fear, but then I glance at Lovely Diamond and gather myself. Though I’ve written out the first words of my argument in bold letters so I can read them if the fear muddles my speech center, I don’t have to use them, can actually move away from the lectern.

“Your Honor, the law is clear that Poniard’s video game
Abduction!
is a work of art entitled to full First Amendment protection, just like a book or a painting or a motion picture. Neither is there doubt that to win this libel case plaintiff William Bishop, a public figure, has a heavy burden of proof. He can’t win just by proving that Poniard made false statements about him. No, to prevail, Bishop must prove by clear and convincing evidence that Poniard made false and defamatory statements with reckless disregard for their truth or falsity.”

Unlike Frantz, who hammered home the facts, I rely on the law. Sure, I’d like to prove that Bishop kidnapped Felicity, but Bud Kreiss was my only potential witness on truth, and he’s dead. So I’ll have to chisel away at Bishop’s case by arguing that Poniard didn’t intentionally turn his back on the truth when he released
Abduction!

I outline only the evidence that my opponents know about—the correspondence between Felicity and Scotty mentioning Bishop as an insurance policy; Bishop’s unqualified denial that the letters are genuine; my document examiner’s unassailable conclusion that they’re real; Kreiss’s statements about homeless Boardwalk Freddy seeing Bishop driving away in a blue Mercedes with the goons who’d just abducted Felicity; the lost movie
The Boatman
. I don’t mention Clifton Stanley Gold, my surprise witness, who’ll testify that Bishop and McGrath knew each other.

I glance at Lovely, who’s still taking notes. After the trial I won’t see her again unless by some improbable quirk of litigation we’re again placed on opposite sides of some legal dispute. Harmon Cherry was right—no good comes out of making a lawsuit personal.

“Are you finished with your opening, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks.

Only then do I realize that I haven’t just been glancing at Lovely, I’ve been staring at her. “Yes . . . no, Your Honor,” I say. “I just want to conclude by saying that at the end of this trial, William Bishop will have failed to meet his burden of proving that Poniard acted with reckless disregard for the truth.”

“Very well,” the judge says. “Mr. Frantz, call your first witness.”

Captain Theodore Gorecki, Los Angeles Police Department (Retired), Frantz’s first witness, could be a villain in one of Poniard’s video games, but what kind? His white 1950s-flattop haircut, porcine head, and pug nose, assembled atop a massive barrel body cloaked in a tight gray polyester suit and extra-short red tie, label him a lug who’ll be easily vanquished on cross-examination. But his icy-blue grand inquisitor’s eyes leave no doubt he’s a dangerous level boss. His history with the police department bears that out—you don’t rise to the level of captain without being intelligent, competent, and politically astute. At age seventy-three, he still has the cop’s facility for answering every question in an official, commanding monotone that makes him sound objective and reasonable. Except that if you believe Bud Kreiss—and I do—Gorecki isn’t objective at all; he’s complicit in covering up William Bishop’s role in Paula Felicity McGrath’s disappearance.

Frantz asks Gorecki about his background, eliciting testimony about quick promotions and important commendations for bravery and service to the community. Gorecki testifies that he was the lead investigator in the disappearance of Felicity McGrath and that the LAPD couldn’t identify a suspect. He insists that William Bishop was never a person of interest. He expresses frustration and contrition for not being able to solve the crime. “Sometimes the bad guys get away,” he says, shaking his head sadly. All in all, it’s a convincing performance.

“In 1987 did you investigate whether William Bishop was involved in the disappearance of Paula Felicity McGrath?” Frantz asks.

“We looked into it,” Gorecki says.

“Why was that, Captain?”

“Herman Kreiss Jr., one of our detectives, reported that a source put William Bishop at the scene of the crime. We looked into the report, and it didn’t check out. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that Mr. Bishop had anything to do with McGrath’s disappearance.”

Then Frantz surprises me by announcing that he has no further questions. He knows I’m going to ask Gorecki about Luther “Boardwalk Freddy” Frederickson’s statement that Bishop was at the scene. Most lawyers would have tried to defuse my cross-examination about Boardwalk Freddy by asking Gorecki about it first. What kind of trap have Frantz and Diamond laid?

As soon as I stand, Gorecki gives me his cop’s iron stare and doesn’t break it. I’m sure Frantz told him about my stage fright. No problem—the fear doesn’t affect me when I’m interrogating a witness, maybe because I can hide behind the questions and make the witness the center of attention. I show Gorecki a copy of the 1987 McGrath police report and say, “Mr. Gorecki, you testified on direct examination that you investigated whether William Bishop played a role in Felicity McGrath’s disappearance, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s no reference to William Bishop in the police report, is there?”

“That’s correct, sir. We left it out because we didn’t think the information Kreiss provided was credible. The police report is a public document, and it wouldn’t have been fair to Mr. Bishop to mention it.”

“You were trying to protect Mr. Bishop’s reputation?”

“Absolutely.”

“Just like you’re trying to do now.”

“Objection, argumentative,” Franz says.

“Sustained,” the judge says.

“Would it surprise you if I told you that my side subpoenaed all the department’s case files for the McGrath disappearance and there wasn’t any reference to Mr. Bishop in any document, public or private?”

“After thirty years on the police force and many years in private security after that, nothing surprises me, sir.”

“Why wouldn’t any of the field notes refer to William Bishop?”

“The information wasn’t credible. Why ruin a man’s reputation?” It’s Gorecki’s first slip-up.

“So you did leave something out of the file to protect Mr. Bishop’s reputation?”

“I . . . as I said, Detective Kreiss’s information wasn’t credible.”

“Bud Kreiss was an experienced police detective, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’d headed up many murder and kidnapping investigations?”

“That’s correct.”

“Like you, he received commendations from the department.”

“Yes.”

“In fact, he received the Medal of Valor.”

“Yes.”

“The LAPD’s highest honor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Awarded for conspicuous bravery or heroism beyond the call of duty?”

“That’s accurate.”

“You never received the Medal of Valor, did you, sir?”

Gorecki’s metallic jaw slackens slightly, and he suddenly looks his age. “I did not, counselor.” One way of shaking a professional witness is to challenge his credentials, let his own pride undermine him.

“You agree that in 1987, Bud Kreiss was an experienced decorated cop?”

“I do agree with that.”

“Doesn’t the amount of detail a witness gives increase his credibility?”

“It might.”

“Detective Kreiss gave you a lot of detail about William Bishop’s involvement, didn’t he?”

“Not that I recall.”

“He told you that a man name Luther Frederickson—also known as Boardwalk Freddy—saw two men force Felicity McGrath into a Volkswagen?”

“Objection, hearsay,” Frantz says. “In fact it’s double hearsay—what Frederickson supposedly said to Kreiss and what Kreiss said to the witness.”

“Your Honor, it’s only hearsay if I were offering Detective Kreiss’s statement to prove the truth that any of what he said actually happened,” I say, making an argument Poniard would despise. “I’m not. I’m offering the testimony to show that if Frederickson did make the statement, it bears on whether my client acted with reckless disregard for the truth.”

Here it comes—Anita Grass will sustain the objection and keep out my strongest argument. And she does open her mouth to say
sustained
, aspirates the
s
, but there’s the sound of computer keys rippling in the media section, and she hesitates. “O . . . overruled,” she says.

Frantz falls back into his chair—she’s stolen victory from him. I think I know why. Anita Grass is ambitious and certainly not someone who’ll be satisfied with sitting on the Superior Court for the rest of her career. She might dislike me, but she also doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of the news media and, by extension, the people who elevate trial judges to the Court of Appeal. Still, from her pained expression, the need to swallow the word
sustained
has made her dyspeptic.

Before she can reverse herself, I ask, “Boardwalk Freddy said he saw two men force Felicity into a Volkswagen, correct?”

“So claimed Bud Kreiss,” Gorecki says.

“Freddy said the VW sped away toward the Santa Monica Pier, the same place where blood of McGrath’s type was found?”

“If you say so. It’s been twenty-seven years.”

“Would you have remembered better if you’d filed some notes on it, Mr. Gorecki?”

In my peripheral vision I see Frantz standing to object, but before he does the judge says, “That’s argumentative, Mr. Stern. I’m going to sustain my own objection.”

I hear Brenda sigh in disapproval, the high whooshing sound perilously close to the word “Jesus.” She cannot behave that way. If I can hear her, so can the judge.

“Well, according to Detective Kreiss, Boardwalk Freddy saw a blue Mercedes-Benz pick up the two men who’d abducted Felicity McGrath, correct?” I ask.

“I don’t recall, sir. I do know that Luther Frederickson—Boardwalk Freddy—suffered from chronic alcoholism and drug addiction, and was a transient who was prone to make up self-aggrandizing stories.”

“And I suppose you don’t recall Bud Kreiss telling you that the driver stepped out of the car and went into the backseat and that McGrath’s abductors got into his Mercedes?”

“You’re right, Mr. Stern, I do not recall that.” He’s trying to keep his cop-as-witness demeanor, but his right knee has started bouncing rhythmically.

I catch Judge Grass glancing at his moving leg. Let’s see if I can worsen the restless leg syndrome. “But you do recall that Boardwalk Freddy identified the driver of the blue Mercedes as the movie producer William Bishop?”

“It wasn’t credible information.”

I’m tempted to ask him why, but you almost never ask a
why
question on cross-examination because you’ll most likely get an answer you don’t want. So I ask, “If Boardwalk Freddy was right, William Bishop would’ve become a prime suspect in the abduction of Paula Felicity McGrath, correct?”

“Objection, calls for speculation,” Frantz says.

Judge Grass sustains the objection. Of course she does.

“Shortly after he reported Boardwalk Freddy’s sighting of William Bishop, Detective Kreiss was busted back down to patrolman, correct?” I say.

“He was demoted, yes.”

“Assigned to the graveyard shift?”

“As I recall.”

“To punish him for not covering up William Bishop’s role in Felicity McGrath’s abduction, correct?”

“Absolutely not, sir. Because we need patrol officers to work late night and early morning to protect our citizens. And Officer Kreiss had lost seniority, so we couldn’t very well require others to work those hours.”

“He was demoted because he wouldn’t go along with your cover-up of William Bishop’s role in the McGrath kidnapping, am I right?”

He shakes his head and lets out a mocking snort. “You’re not only wrong, sir, you’re rude and offensive.”

“Well, the pretext for demoting him was that he was having a romantic relationship with a newspaper reporter named Dalila Hernandez, whom he told that the LAPD was looking at a person of interest, correct?”

“It wasn’t a pretext,” Gorecki says, his lips twisted as if he’s fighting back a snarl. “Bud Kreiss had a conflict of interest that arose from his relationship with Hernandez, but that was a very small part of why he was demoted.”

When Brenda and I interviewed Kreiss, he claimed his alleged relationship with Hernandez was the
only
reason for his demotion. Again, as curious as I am about the actual facts, I don’t ask Gorecki what he means. Instead I ask, “Do you know where Dalila Hernandez is today, Captain Gorecki?” Brenda has spent months trying to find Hernandez.

“I have no idea.”

“She’s disappeared just like so many other witnesses in the McGrath investigation, hasn’t she?”

Judge Grass tosses her pen onto the bench. “Another argumentative question, Mr. Stern. No need to answer that, Captain Gorecki. But please answer this—you said the alleged affair was only a small part of the reason why Detective Kreiss was demoted? What was the primary reason?”

Again Brenda sighs, though Grass has asked a legitimate question that Frantz would’ve asked on redirect anyway.