Try Fear Page 24

  Father Bob put his hand on my arm. “And remember, we’re your people now.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  I shook my head doubtfully. “You’re my friends. Good friends. I don’t know about my people.”

  “Explain.”

  I sat back in the chair. “Your religion mystifies me. It’s the heart of everything you do. But it’s beyond me. And here I am tearing down Sister Mary’s standing with the Almighty. I have no right to do that. She’s lying there with a bullet wound because of me.”

  “Ty, servants of God have suffered much worse.”

  “Martyrs, you mean? But that was for the faith. She took a hit because of a lawyer. Scrounging around looking for a witness. Isn’t she supposed to be praying and looking out for the poor and all that?”

  Father Bob was silent for a long moment. Then, “I consider you a friend, too, Ty. More than that. What you’ve done for me, for our community. It’s forged bonds.”

  “But I’m not part of you. There’s something between us that doesn’t mix.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Jesus ate with tax collectors and even a lawyer or two.”

  “What was he thinking?”

  “He was thinking of you,” Father Bob said.

  “I didn’t get the memo,” I said.

  “It’s written on your heart.”

  “Lawyers don’t have hearts, haven’t you heard?”

  He smiled. “Augustine said God made us for Himself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Him.”

  “Well, I have a feeling I’m going to stay restless, unless I find my witness.” I stood. “Tell Sister Mary I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  As I was driving away from the hospital, I got a call from Sid.

  “Update time,” he said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Earlier today the guy sent an e-mail from a computer terminal at a branch of the L.A. Public Library. Over in Sylmar. I was able to do a little hacking—just promise you won’t tell anybody, okay?”

  “Lips. Sealed.”

  “Okay, so here’s what happened. You reserve a computer with a library card. Every library card has a number, and this one is fourteen digits. I was able to get to a name. The name associated with the card. Somebody named Douglas Aycock. That mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t think so, because he’s from Oklahoma.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

  Sid went on. “Last time we talked you mentioned this Oklahoma theory that Sister Mary had. Pretty good theory, turns out. I checked. And I did find a guy with that name out of Oklahoma City. I found it in a newspaper account.”

  “And?”

  “Here is the seriously strange part. This guy, Douglas Aycock, went to the same high school as your nun friend and moved to L.A. sometime after graduating. Also—”

  “What?”

  “That’s just the strange part. I said there was a seriously strange part, and here it is. This guy has been missing for five years. They think he was kidnapped, and they presume him to be dead.”

  Too many thoughts were buzzing around in my mind now. I wanted to swat them. “So a dead guy comes back to cyberstalk? Then why is he using the L.A. library system with his name attached? And he’d have to have an established residency.”

  “You kidding? That can be faked easier than those Social Security cards they sell down at MacArthur Park. Plus, this could be somebody else using this guy’s name.”

  “But why do that? Why take on some dead kid’s name, then risk being caught by using it to get a library card and all that?”

  “Like I said, he’s a gamer. I think he thinks this is fun.”

  134

  I GOT BACK to St. Monica’s as it was getting dark. As I walked toward my trailer, I saw the glow of the little alcove, or whatever they call it, that has lighted candles. I went to it and did something I’ve never done before in my life. I took a long match, lit it by the flame of a candle, and then lit one that wasn’t already going. Out loud I said, “This is for Sister Mary Veritas, who deserves to be completely okay, okay? So there you have it.”

  I blew out the match, wondering if there you have it had the same punch as Amen.

  I walked across the grounds, over the basketball court, back to my trailer. I went inside and lay down on the bed and tried to think about the next day.

  But I kept thinking about Sister Mary.

  135

  NEXT MORNING I went to court alone. I didn’t like it. It felt like there was a big hole underneath my feet, covered by thin wood, and I could fall in at any time. I had come to depend on Sister Mary not only for her insight, but for her very presence.

  Because I didn’t have any witness to put on the stand, I asked the judge in chambers if we could pack it in and come back Monday.

  “I don’t want this jury waiting around,” Judge Hughes said. “I’m sorry to hear about your assistant. But I have to think you have some evidence to present that’s been in the wings.”

  “If I could just have the weekend,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Ty. I’m not going to do that. When can I expect you to have a witness on the stand today?”

  I looked at my watch, purely as a fake-out. “How about eleven?”

  “How about ten-thirty?”

  Radavich leaned against the door with his arms folded, saying nothing.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  “See that you do,” the judge said.

  136

  I WENT OUTSIDE to the back of the courthouse and put in a call to my forensic guy, Dr. Harold Whitney. He knew he was possibly going to testify this week, and I told him I’d give him at least a day’s notice. Now it was an hour. I left a message.

  I leaned against a low wall by the parking lot and tried to figure out what to do next. Maybe I could call in the parking attendant and have him testify about parking lots in general. And I’d figure out a way to make it relevant.

  In other words, I was desperate.

  And wasn’t expecting the tap on the shoulder I got next. I turned and looked into a familiar face. It took me a second to remember where I’d seen him. It was at Addie Qs, the bar on Sunset.

  “How you doin’?” the Sopranos extra said.

  “I’m just peachy,” I said.

  “There’s somebody wants to talk to you.”

  Now this was really sounding like the show. “Who?”

  “You’ll be interested.” He pointed to the parking lot. “He’s in the black Caddy, with the tinted windows.”

  I looked and saw the car. It stuck out like a Secret Service agent at a kid’s birthday party.

  “Mr. Bacon is waiting,” Sopranos said. “He’s not alone.”

  137

  INDEED HE WASN’T. Through the open passenger window I saw Turk Bacon behind the wheel. Behind him was a woman with long, silky black hair, a striking amount of which cascaded over her shoulders. She had olive skin and deep brown eyes.

  “Get in, Mr. Buchanan,” Bacon said.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  Sopranos, who was behind me, opened the door. I looked at him. “Why don’t you just open the trunk and be done with it?”

  He didn’t laugh. “Get in,” he said.

  “Back off, Vito,” I said.

  “His name is not Vito,” Turk said. “It’s all right, Mike. Go have a smoke.”

  Sopranos looked disappointed. He turned and walked away.

  I waited a couple of seconds, then got in.

  “I don’t understand,” Bacon said. “Why are you getting in?”

  “Now it’s my idea,” I said. “So what’s this about?”

  The woman looked nervous. Bacon said, “This is Mr. Buchanan. He’s the lawyer I told you about. You can tell him now.”

  She looked at Bacon, then back at me. “He was with me that night. Your client. We were at a motel in Long Beach. I have the receipt.” She reached into her po
cket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I looked at it. It was a receipt for the Lavender Motel in Long Beach, with a stamp indicating 9:02 p.m. on Friday, January 30.

  “You kept the receipt?” I said.

  “This is a business,” she said.

  I almost laughed. “How long was he with you?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Exactly?”

  “Exactly. We bill by the quarter hour.”

  “You’re just like lawyers.”

  Turk Bacon said, “More honest.”

  “That’s a lot of time with one client,” I said.

  “It’s what he wanted,” she said. “It’s his dime. He wanted to talk. Some clients do. They have trouble at home, whatever. It’s not just about sex.”

  “You did have sex, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I said, “The prosecution is going to tear into you.”

  “I can handle myself,” she said. “I’ve been doing it ever since I was twelve.”

  I looked into her eyes. They were sincere. But I had questions.

  “Why did you happen to pick this time to come forward?” I said.

  She looked at Bacon, who said, “She wants to do the right thing.”

  That sounded about as convincing as I didn’t inhale. “This is very convenient, you coming along like this,” I said. “At just the right time. After a key witness goes missing.”

  “Key witness?” Bacon said.

  “I’m sure you’re completely in the dark.”

  “I don’t know who you think I am,” he said. “Or what magical powers I possess. But right now you have a fact before you, a proven fact. The truth, in other words.”

  “Why’d you hold her back, then?”

  “What makes you think I held her back? She came to me.”

  I said, “It just smells like something’s going on that you’re not telling me about.”

  “Your sense of smell is not, so far as I can see, relevant. All you need to know, Mr. Buchanan, is that the witness who can set your client free is sitting here with you right now, and she’s quite ready to testify. You want her to or not?”

  Want her to? This was the bombshell, the hand grenade, the TV moment that never happens in real life. A surprise witness turning up just before the commercial break.

  Which was exactly what I didn’t like about it. Too scripted. But there was the receipt. There was the fact. And I knew I’d put her on, because not to would be legal malpractice.

  I said to her, “Have you made any deals, or even talked with anyone, from a tabloid or television show, about telling your story?”

  Bacon again answered for her. “I can assure you nothing like that has taken place. And if Leilana is asked anything along those lines, she can truthfully say no deals have been made.”

  “Leilana?”

  “Leilana Salgado,” Bacon said.

  “What about after the trial?” I said.

  Bacon shrugged.

  “So that’s it, huh?” I said. “Timing. You make a big splash, now that the media’s covering this thing. Leilana here gets her face splashed all over. Fame. Because it doesn’t matter anymore what you’re famous for, right?”

  “I did not make American popular culture what it is today,” Bacon said. “I merely enjoy its fruits. Remember what I told you about being able to bloom in any kind of soil?”

  “I’ll never forget it,” I said.

  Bacon smiled. “So do you want us in the courtroom?”

  “Not you. Just her.”

  Bacon shrugged.

  138

  I WENT UP to the lockup to talk to Eric. He was not looking well. His face was almost translucent.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” he said.

  “Listen,” I said. “The escort you were with that night. Describe her to me.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.”

  “She was sort of Mexican looking. She had real long hair. I mean, how much detail do you want?”

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  “Enough for what?”

  “She’s here.”

  Eric leaned against the lockup door. “What do you mean, here?”

  “She’s going to testify. She’s your alibi.”

  “Wait, wait!”

  “Wait for what?”

  “I don’t know if I want you to.”

  “Eric, this is the single most important evidence we can put on. What do you mean wait?”

  “Why not let me take the stand?”

  “That is a bad idea, Eric. I don’t think Radavich has met his burden, and now our key witness is sitting right outside the courthouse.”

  “What’s this gonna do to Mom? And my wife?”

  “Listen carefully. I don’t know about you and your wife. She doesn’t even bother to come to court. You have enough trouble there that this isn’t going to be any major setback. And as far as your mom, what she wants is you out of here. What good is it to hang onto some sort of pride and get stuck in the slam for something you didn’t do? How is that going to help your mother?”

  Eric sighed, closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a long moment. Then he nodded, turned, and went to sit on the bench.

  139

  THE FUN PART was going to be telling the judge and the deputy district attorney exactly what I was about to do.

  In chambers, fifteen minutes late, I faced an impatient Judge Hughes and an indifferent Tom Radavich. I was about to make him different.

  “Are we ready to go now?” the judge said.

  “I am prepared to put on a witness,” I said. “This witness has just this moment become known to me. I want to put this witness on the stand today. Because the last time I noticed a witness to the prosecution, he disappeared. Oh yeah, and my investigator got shot. I don’t want that happening again.”

  Radavich now looked interested.

  I went on. “This is a key witness. This is an alibi witness. This is the woman who will testify she was with my client on the night of the murder. She has corroborating evidence. I will tell you right now it is a motel receipt, and I will make sure that Mr. Radavich has a copy. I’m sure they will want to spend the next night and day checking out her story. But I want her on the stand before something happens to her, like a DA investigator showing up on her doorstep and then she disappears, like Keyser Soze.”

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Buchanan?” Judge Hughes said. “Who is Keyser Soze?”

  “The Usual Suspects. Poof. He’s gone. Like my witness, Nick Molina, who was talking to somebody Mr. Radavich sent around.”

  “What is this about?” the judge said to Radavich.

  “We sent an investigator to question Mr. Molina, yes,” Radavich said. “Mr. Molina was not responsive. He said he would not talk without his lawyer present. Our investigator left, and that was that.”

  “So where is this Mr. Molina?” the judge said.

  “Poof,” I said.

  “You mean you don’t have contact with him?”

  “No, but I know how to get in his house and get shot at. You just show up.”

  Judge Hughes looked at the ceiling. “I don’t want to delay this trial any more. I’m going to let Mr. Buchanan put on his wintess.”

  Radavich said, “We object, of course. This is the second surprise witness Mr. Buchanan has suddenly tossed our way. I don’t know how many more Mr. Buchanan is going to buy before he finally gets—”

  “Now, now,” the judge said. “Let’s think about this a moment. We all know that discovery these days tends to favor the prosecution.”

  Radavich’s cheeks started to pinken.

  “Oh, don’t bother to deny it, Tom. You spring this stuff all the time. I’m going to let this one happen. When I first started trying cases, you had to be able to think on your feet and deal with surprises. A little of that won’t hurt you. So we’re going to go out there and I’m going to allow Mr. Buchanan to put his witness on the stand and we’re going to see what
happens. And I’ll give you a chance to recall the witness later, if you find anything out.”

  Before I could look too smug, the judge said to me, “And this better be a credible, reliable, truthful witness. Because if I find out that you are manufacturing anything, or allowing frivolous testimony, I’m going to be, you know, very upset. And then you know what will happen to your career?”

  I shook my head.

  “Poof,” Judge Hughes said.

  140

  AND SO I called Leilana Salgado to the stand. She looked ready.

  “Ms. Salgado,” I said, “please tell the jury what you do for a living.”

  “I’m an escort.”

  “Do you work for an escort service?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means that clients will go through the service, and arrange for a price to spend time with you, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That includes sexual favors as well?”

  “No, that is not part of the service. If it happens, it is considered optional with each one of us.”

  I had to be up front with the jury. “Some people would call you a hooker or a prostitute, isn’t that correct?”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things.”

  “In fact,” I said, “by testifying here today, you are putting yourself in legal jeopardy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The foundation was set. It’s powerful evidence of credibility when what you say in court could hurt you. The jury was ready to listen.

  “On January thirty of this year, were your services retained by the defendant, Eric Richess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell the jury when and where you arranged to meet.”

  Like a seasoned pro, Leilana turned toward the jury. “He wanted to meet me in Long Beach, so I gave him a price for the time. He wanted me to select a location. Our escort service has a database of acceptable places. I chose one and had him meet me there.”

  So far, so good. She sounded certain and credible and somewhat humble. No chip on the shoulder. The jury would like that. Some of them, anyway.

  “What time did he meet you?” I said.