Corrupt practices, p.31
Corrupt Practices, page 31
When I get back home, I go to the computer and locate a document that I haven’t thought about in months—an electronic version of disgraced private investigator Ray Guglielmi’s report arguing that Harmon Cherry was murdered. After I met with her last October, Layla Cherry e-mailed me a copy even though I’d refused to take her case against the insurance company. Maybe there’s something in the report I can use to raise questions in the jury’s mind.
Reading the document closely for the first time, I’m struck by how specific Guglielmi is in describing his theory about Harmon’s death. He believes that the killer had a second gun, which he or she used to subdue Harmon. The killer then took Harmon’s Glock out of the desk drawer, forced Harmon to hold it, covered Harmon’s hand with his or her own, and pulled the trigger. Or maybe the shooter fired and then put the gun in Harmon’s hand and fired a second shot out through the open French doors toward the deserted beach. This would have left the gunshot residue found on Harmon’s hand and would also explain the two sets of illegible latent prints, which the killer only somewhat successfully tried to wipe away. Guglielmi believes that Harmon had his back to the desk when he was killed—a position that would give the murderer more room to maneuver—and that after the shooting, the killer swiveled Harmon’s chair to face the desk. This would account for the shell casing being found to the right of Harmon’s body, even though the gun was found to the left. In a rare example of objectivity, Guglielmi admits that the blood spatter evidence is inconclusive on Harmon’s position when he was shot. Guglielmi next hypothesizes that Harmon’s eyeglasses were found behind a planter some distance away because at some point he struggled with his assailant.
I should have studied this report earlier, should have given Guglielmi more credit, no matter how unsavory he is. I could have taken his deposition. It’s impossible to get him to come to trial—he’s locked up in federal prison.
I read on, stopping at a description of the Malibu beach house at the time of Harmon’s death. I actually smile when I read what Guglielmi says about the office—a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean, obscured by file cabinets and cartons of documents.
Then my fingers go slack, so slack that I can’t hold the mouse. I should’ve seen it months ago.
When I met with Layla Cherry last October, she told me that there weren’t any law firm files in her house. But I didn’t ask her about the beach house. I should’ve asked about the beach house.
She answers on the third ring, and I tell her why I’m calling. It’s a long shot, probably worse odds than that—she might have finally sold the place or just decided to clean out Harmon’s things. I hold out a sliver of hope only because he rarely threw a document away. When she says that she still hasn’t sold the beach house, I try not to sound too pleased at her misfortune.
A half hour later, I meet her at her house in Hancock Park. She hands me a set of keys and a piece of paper containing the security codes for the access gate and house alarm, and I set out for Malibu.
It’s usually overcast near the ocean in May, but today the sky is an azure color. I fantasize about walking into Harmon’s beach house, pulling open a file cabinet, and finding the elusive notes. Isn’t that our nature, to believe that that the pain will stop, that the disease will be cured, that justice will be done, that it’ll all work out in the end, even though logic and probability say it won’t? When I reach Malibu, I turn left on a narrow access road and drive towards the ocean. The road widens into a two-lane street divided by a median of Kikuyu grass and queen palms. Just before the beach, the road makes a sharp right and runs parallel to the coastline. I stop at a locked security gate and punch in the code that Layla Cherry gave me. The gate swings open, and I drive another two blocks to Harmon’s beachfront house.
I recognize the Mediterranean-style house by its adobe tile roof and garish tomato-soup red stucco exterior. It’s actually one of the more modest homes in the neighborhood. Layla told me that she and her broker have reduced the asking price to $6,650,000. That Harmon owned a huge house in Hancock Park is impressive, but not unusual for a successful lawyer. Few attorneys, however, can afford beachfront property in Malibu. Harmon inherited some money from his father, but not enough to live in this neighborhood. I have a sickening thought—what if Harmon himself ripped off clients?
I grab a pen and a legal pad from my backseat and cross the courtyard to the front door. I unlock the door, go inside, and disarm the security system. I take a deep breath and switch on the light. When I enter the office, I shudder—this was the room where Harmon was shot, the room where he last took a breath. His curly maple/mapa burl desk is still there. So is his ergonomic leather chair. The walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with storage boxes bearing our firm name, Macklin & Cherry. Looking through these boxes for Harmon’s notes could take days. I knew that Harmon compulsively hung on to documents, but I had no idea he was a hoarder.
Seized with the irrational hope that I’ll find the notes right away, I pull a box down from the nearest stack and remove the lid. Or maybe the documents inside will at least all be irrelevant and easy to exclude. Neither of those things happens. Documents concerning the Church of the Sanctified Assembly are interspersed with files from unrelated matters. I have no choice but to sit down on the couch and start reading. The house is so close to the shoreline that I can hear the crash of the waves on the sand.
Harmon scribbled notes on legal pads and in the margins of documents, his leaky pen bleeding ink over the pages. At the firm, I worked out a way of deciphering his handwriting, but in the two years that have elapsed since the firm folded, I’ve lost that ability. As I’m struggling to interpret some marginalia, the door creaks open. Standing there is a gaunt woman with long stringy hair. Her ill-fitting green cotton dress is so wrinkled that she must have slept in it. She has a tattoo on her ankle, a goddess petting a lion. She looks like she’s doing a bad impression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, but instead of laughing I say, “My God, Grace, put that knife down and tell me what’s going on.”
Grace Trimble draws the carving knife farther back behind her ear, though I’m at least twelve feet away. Her hand is shaking so violently it’s a wonder that she can hold on to the thing at all.
“Stay back.” Her voice is tremulous, feeble.
I hold my hands up in front of me. “I don’t have any intention of coming close to you, Grace.”
I already know one thing just from seeing her sunken cheeks and gray-tinged teeth. She was using the crystal meth that the feds found in Rich’s apartment, and since then she’s been using a lot more. She looks nothing like the fake call girl in the photos that Rich’s landlord took. Neither does she resemble the erratic genius with whom I once practiced law.
“You killed Deanna,” she says, slurring the words.
“Where did you come up with that bullshit?”
She lowers the knife and shakes her head vigorously, like a little girl on the verge of a tantrum. “You were coming to the shop. You—”
“I found her body lying there. I didn’t kill her.”
“You—”
“I, nothing. Tell me what happened that night.”
She brandishes the knife again. “It was you, Parker.”
“Cut the crazy act, Grace.” It’s a cruel thing to say. Also dangerous, because she’s tweaking.
She blinks her eyes as if trying to ward off the effects of a punch.
“You’re the one who has to explain,” I say. “The cops are looking for you, you know. I wasn’t with Deanna when she died, but you were. I had no reason to kill her, but you did. I know you sent Monica Baxter threatening e-mails. I cooperated with the police, but you ran. You had access to Rich’s computer, which means you could have hacked into the Assembly’s bank accounts and stolen that money. Did you do that, Grace?”
She blinks her eyes rapidly again, then shakes her head back and forth for a long time, not blinking at all. “I didn’t do any of that. I . . . I loved Rich. Deanna was my best friend.”
“What happened the night Deanna was killed?”
She touches her forehead with her free hand, revealing a large perspiration stain on her dress. She comes toward me. As she approaches, I avoid looking at the knife by keeping my gaze fixed on her. When she gets close, I detect a sour oniony odor. She hasn’t bathed in days.
“Deanna was so awesome,” she says. “A goddess like the one she was named for, the goddess of the hunt. Truthfully, you know how she found me? She found me through my tattoo artist. Yeah, she was able to find him because she was a hunter, she could hunt for people with tattoos. A couple of her friends own ink shops themselves, you know.” She coughs in my face. For a split second, I think it’s intentional, but then the cough persists, dry and hacking. When it finally stops, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Are you all right?” I say.
“I feel wonderful. How do you feel?”
“Tell me what happened that night.”
“I guess Deanna asked around until she found the guy who remembered drawing an ankle tattoo that looks like mine.” She half lifts her leg and gestures toward the drawing. “It stands for strength. It’s unique. I’m unique, you know.” She giggles weakly. “Truthfully, Deanna told me that she knew that once I got the first tattoo, I’d get more. She was right. She was so right. The tattoo guy I went to had my cell phone number.” She does a childish pirouette, grabs the hem of her dress, and lifts it to her waist. She’s wearing thong panties, a hideous lime green color probably intended to match her awful dress. The small triangular patch of cloth is badly frayed. On her scrawny right buttock is a cartoonish tattoo of a hooded woman with antlers growing out of her head. “Look. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I avert my eyes. “Cover up, Grace.”
She thrusts out her lower lip, then lets her dress fall back to her knees and smoothes it down roughly. “What the fuck, Parker. I just wanted to show you my Beiwe. She’s the Sami goddess of sanity. She’s on my ass, and I just wanted you to . . .” Her voice falters. She lowers her eyes, then tugs at her hair. She jumps forward, and with a roundhouse motion swipes at my chest with the knife. I twist sideways and lean back, but the point of the blade rips my shirt and slashes my arm. I grab for her, but she takes a step back, more agile than I anticipated. I should run or throw a punch, but I do neither. I still need to hear what she knows about Rich and Deanna.
We stare each other down. Finally, she lowers her eyes and gapes at her hand in wonderment, as if it belongs to someone else. Her fingers unclench, and the knife falls to the floor with a harmless clatter. Without taking my eyes off her, I reach down and snatch it up. I don’t really know what to do with it, except that I want to keep it close to me and far away from her. I slide it into the back waistband of my jeans, hoping I’ll remember not to bend or twist the wrong way and stab myself.
“Jesus, Grace.”
She gapes at me. Her jaw starts quivering. “Omigod, Parker. Omigod. Omigod.” She covers her face with her hands. After a while, she lowers her hands and shrugs helplessly. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles. “Please forgive me. It’s just that I’m so frightened. I didn’t really mean to . . . Please forgive me.” She points to my upper arm. “Omigod, you’re hurt. Please forgive me.”
The blood has soaked into my shirt. I roll up my sleeve and look at my arm. Luckily, it’s more of a scratch than a cut. “You want me to believe that you didn’t mean to hurt me? Tell me what happened the night Deanna was killed. Tell me what you know about the embezzlement scheme.”
“OK. OK. Yeah. I can do that.” She takes a deep breath, then another. “OK. I didn’t want to meet with you that night. I don’t . . . I didn’t trust you. But Deanna told me I should. She swore you’d help me.” She stifles another cough.
“I would’ve helped you. I’ll still help you if I can.”
“I wasn’t going to go into her store until I was sure, until I could sample your vibrations to see if they were crystalline.”
She’s using Assembly-speak, despite her excommunication. I wonder what she thinks of my vibrations at this moment.
“I hid behind the dumpster in the alley,” she continues. “I waited. Deanna said you would come through the back. I was supposed to follow. When I heard the shots, I ran away. I thought you killed her.”
“I didn’t get there until after she died. I would never hurt Deanna. You know how close Deanna and I were.”
“Yeah. The two of you had sex together sometimes, right?”
“Did you see anyone else go into The Barrista that night? Before Deanna was killed?”
“I didn’t see anyone come through the back.”
“What were you and Rich looking for?”
“Someone was embezzling the Assembly’s money. Millions had been funneled out of their accounts. I didn’t care. They kicked me out of their church. But Rich cared, and so I agreed to help him even though we both knew it was dangerous. I loved him, you know.”
“I know.”
“But he wouldn’t sleep with me like you and Deanna did together. He loved her.”
“Monica.”
She sneers at the mention of the name. “That woman. She stole him away from me.”
“Rich told me that he found some notes that Harmon wrote. Do you know anything about them?”
“Rich found them on a DVD. But someone got into the apartment and took it. You already know that. Anyway, they sabotaged Rich’s computer and framed him to make it look like he stole that money.”
“Someone from the Assembly? Christopher McCarthy, maybe?”
Her laugh sounds more like a shriek. “I don’t think that guy knows how to power a computer on.”
“Then who had access? That landlord? What was his name, Dale Garner?”
“That creep. Always trying to take photos up my skirt. But no, not him.”
“I came here to find Harmon’s notes.” I gesture at the boxes around the room. “Can you help me look through all this crap?”
“There’s no point.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve already found them.”
“Call your next witness, counsel.”
Frantz rises and mugs for the jury before saying, “Your Honor, having met its burden of proof, the plaintiff rests.”
This is gamesmanship. He could have said the same thing when we adjourned on Friday, but he wanted me to think he had more witnesses so I wouldn’t prepare my case-in-chief for this morning. Since I found Grace yesterday, I’ve done nothing else.
Judge Schadlow invites me to make my opening statement. I nod at Raymond. Lovely isn’t in court—she’s with Grace. We’re afraid if we leave her alone, she’ll run. Jonathan and Kathleen aren’t here. I’m sure they’re finished with me.
I walk to the lectern. Like Frantz, I work without notes. This is the first time since the trial started that I’m not on antianxiety medication. I’m not afraid, don’t even have butterflies. My clear-headedness is oddly disorienting, like breathing pure oxygen.
“Your Honor. Counsel. Members of the jury. You’ve just heard Mr. Frantz announce in open court that the Plaintiff has met its burden of proof. It’s not true. In our legal system, the plaintiff gets to go first. So far, you’ve only heard their side of the story. You, as jurors, can’t come to a fair and just decision until you’ve heard both sides. That’s not only the law, it’s what we teach our kids from the day they can reason—you always have to hear both sides of the story before you can make a fair decision. And when you hear our side, you’ll understand that the evidence doesn’t show what Mr. Frantz says it does. It shows the exact opposite.”
The jurors are attentive, even rapt, probably because I have some passion in my voice. I must have underestimated how much the Xanax–Valium cocktail suppressed my affect. Until now, I’ve probably sounded like I’ve been talking in my sleep.
I start by telling the jury who Rich Baxter was—a loving son, husband, and father, an amiable work colleague, a loyal friend. I talk about his representation of the Assembly, how he became the Assembly’s lawyer and devoted his career and then his entire existence to the Church. When I launch into a description of the Assembly’s peculiar beliefs, Frantz objects.
“Overruled,” Schadlow says. “Let’s hear the actual evidence, and we’ll decide its relevancy then.” Last week she would have sustained the objection. My resurrected courtroom abilities seem to have influenced her interpretation of the rules of evidence.
I go on to describe the Assembly’s belief in alternate universes, its view on suicide, its aggressive conversion techniques, its quest for political power not only in America, but worldwide. I tell the jury that this evidence will prove critical to exonerating Rich Baxter.
“In conclusion,” I say, “I’d like you to remember the testimony of Special Agent Holcomb, the FBI’s forensic accountant. She told you that the Assembly’s money went into a bank account in the name of a shell company called The Emery Group. But she didn’t tell you where that money went after that. It was paid out to someone, but she didn’t know to whom. Members of the jury, when we’re done with our case, you’ll know exactly where that money went. And it wasn’t paid to Rich Baxter. Rich wasn’t a criminal, he was the one trying to stop the crime. He was loyal to his client and his church, and in the end his loyalty cost him his life.”
Raymond Baxter is my first witness. On the stand, he looks tired and frail, a bereaved father forced to defend his child’s good name. He describes Rich’s childhood, college years, and legal career up until the religious conversion. By the time we’re done, he’s breathless. The jurors seem uncomfortable, but also sympathetic. When I pass the witness, I brace myself—Frantz tore Raymond apart in deposition.
