Corrupt Practices (43 page)

“He didn’t mean it that way, Kathleen,” Lovely says. “He’s just—”

“That’s exactly what I meant.”

Kathleen slumps down in her seat and turns away so I can see only the side of her face. She fans her eyes with her hand in a futile attempt to stave off tears.

Jonathan stands. “Fuck this, man. You’ve lost it. Kathleen wouldn’t do anything like that.” He takes her hand. “Come on, Kath.”

“Mr. Borzo, I suggest you—”

“I don’t give a damn what you suggest. This isn’t a class, it’s a circus. And we’re done with your trial. Optional, right? You’ve fucked it up anyway. You aren’t qualified to teach us anything.”

I watch as he helps her gather up her things. All the while, Lovely has this disappointed yet detached look of a lab worker who’s just witnessed a botched experiment. Jonathan leads Kathleen out of the classroom, making sure to slam the door hard behind him. Shaken, I lean back against the wall.

Lovely rests her chin in her hands and closes her eyes as if I’ve exhausted her. “I absolutely don’t believe that Kathleen did what you accused her of. Do you know how hard she and Jonathan have been working? And she’s right, you know. This stuff about McCarthy is definitely intriguing, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

I bow my head and use my thumbs to rub my temples in what I know will be a futile attempt to stave off a raging headache. “OK. You’re right. Kathleen was right. All of you are a thousand percent right. I’m an asshole.” I look at her, really look at her, for the first time since I watched that video. With her hair pulled back in that high ponytail, she looks, not sexy or brazen, but young and fresh, like one of the ingénues in the G-rated movies I acted in as a kid. “Why didn’t you leave with Kathleen and Jonathan?”

She removes the scrunchie holding her ponytail and lets her hair down, which she pulls back to make a tighter ponytail. “You know, I probably
should
leave. But my father taught me never to abandon the people you love.”

Though Deanna’s dayshift manager, Romulo, is trying to keep the place open, I won’t set foot in there until Deanna’s memorial service. Her parents won’t schedule one until they get the final autopsy results, and that could take weeks. So I spend this Sunday morning sequestered in my condo, rereading the documents that Harriet gave me and trying to think of a way to use them in court. Kathleen’s right—McCarthy’s itinerary and the payment to Bennett don’t prove anything conclusive. I don’t even have admissible evidence that McCarthy was the signatory on the account from which the payment was made. Yet, the documents are all I have, so I’ll use them and see if I can blow enough smoke to raise doubt in the jury’s mind about Rich’s guilt.

I grope around for a fresh approach, something that might lead some of the jurors to question Frantz’s pat version of the case. My only chance is to convince at least four of them to hang the jury, which at this point would be a victory. I leave the condo and take a run down Venice beach, passing the skate park and the street vendors and the tattoo emporiums and the pot shops, dodging the rollerblading daredevils and the slow-moving cyclists. I find myself focusing, not on the trial, but on the loved ones I’ve lost. Soon, I’m running past a throng of people with tears streaming down my face.

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.”