In My Dark Dreams (25 page)

I ride the elevator straight to the nineteenth floor and go directly to Pakula’s office. As befitting his status, he has his own secretary, Maude Lomax, a fixture in the department going back to the Coolidge administration, according to office lore. A matriarch of her church, the First AME Church of Compton, she is always attired in a dress, a girdle, support hose, and fashionable heels, even though, at her weight of close to three hundred pounds, her feet must be killing her in those shoes.

She greets me with a grandmotherly smile. “Nice to see you again, Jessica.” Thousands of lawyers and staff have passed by her desk, and she remembers each of them, which is one of the reasons she’ll have her job until they carry her out on a litter. “They are waiting for you.” She opens the door without knocking and ushers me in, closing the door behind her.

Pakula, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit befitting his status, is standing behind his desk. Joe, rumpled in shirtsleeves, is to the side. “Have a seat, Jessica,” Pakula says by way of greeting. He indicates a captain’s chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Joe tells me you ran a marathon yesterday.”

“Yes, I did.” I try not to sound too full of myself.

“How’d you do?”

“Good. Finished, ran a respectable time, especially for my first one.” I hate it when people brag about themselves, but I can’t help doing it now. “I was in the top ten percent of women.” Shut up, you twit, I admonish myself, as I add, “Top three percent in my age group.”

“Very impressive. Was it hard?”

I’m not going to lie. “Yes.”

“Well, congratulations. You’re a better man than I am.” He smiles; then he abruptly drops the chummy camaraderie. “You defended a man named Roberto Salazar last month.” He picks up a file that I recognize. It’s Salazar’s case file.

“Yes, sir.”

“You won. Even though, so I’m told, the evidence was against you. Pretty good evidence.”

“Yes. I did win. Sometimes there’s more to a case than factual evidence, as you know better than me,” I say deferentially.

“I do know that,” he agrees. “The man was a pillar in his community, had great character references, and so forth. Which carried the day, as I understand it.”

“That was what did it,” I confirm. “Some of the jurors even told me so, afterward. They felt that one mistake shouldn’t ruin a good life, so they gave him a break. Which, in my opinion, he deserved. He’s a good man, and he learned his lesson. I can vouch for that.”

Pakula looks at me strangely as I say that. He’s always reminding us not to get emotionally attached to clients. That can drain the life out of you, as I know, which is why I almost never do it. Roberto was the exception that proves the rule.

“You have a winning style, Jessica,” he compliments me. “You’re going to do well in this office, if you stick with us.”

“Thank you, sir.” I sit patiently, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The chief public defender didn’t call me into his office on my day off to congratulate me on what, in the grand scheme of things, was a minor victory.

“There was another Full Moon Murder.”

I slump. “Oh, God, no. When?”

“Last night.”

I look at Joe. He is more upset than I’ve ever seen him. “Is that why you didn’t want me to listen to the news?”

“Yes,” he says heavily. “The police have it tightly under wraps, but rumors are flying around like a swarm of hornets.”

Now I understand why I felt that sense of tension and expectation when I came into the building.

“There’s going to be a press conference in a couple of hours,” Pakula says. “It will rock this city.”

I shudder. This is beyond awful.

“But that’s only half of the story.” He hesitates for a second, as if to gird himself. “The police have made an arrest. Which is also being kept secret, until they are absolutely certain. We’re getting our information secondhand from friends in the D.A.’s office, but it sounds as if they have their man.”

“That’s great!” I exude. “I mean, it’s terrible there was another murder, but at least the police have the killer.”

Something in both their faces, almost a mournfulness, brings me up short. “Isn’t it?” I ask. “Great?”

Pakula takes Salazar’s picture out of his file and shoves it in my face. “The man they arrested is your client.”

You would think the pope, the Dalai Lama, or Bill Clinton were standing on the steps of City Hall, the crowd is so big. I’m there, too. I rudely elbowed my way almost to the front. I’m sure my breath is rank, because as soon as I left Pakula’s office, I threw up last night’s dinner. God’s punishment for my gluttony. I couldn’t care less about how I look or smell. All I care about is having my worst fear officially confirmed.

It’s two-thirty. The press conference is being held now to make sure the story hits the prime television news audience. Not only local, but national. Violence in Los Angeles is a spectator sport, like the WWE, meant to be entertaining not only to us, but to the entire country. Because the newest victim and the suspect were found in the city’s jurisdiction, Chief Bratton gets to be the bearer of these great tidings. Sheriff Baca stands so close to him they could be Siamese twins. Mayor Villaraigosa is with the two top cops—he’s not going to let them have the spotlight to themselves. Sharing the stage with them are the five members of the county board of supervisors, all fifteen of the city council men and women, Steve Cooley, the D.A., and a bunch of others I don’t recognize, but who have enough juice to horn in.

I spot Cordova way in the back of the crowd, buried behind the dignitaries. He looks tired, but he also looks relieved. I don’t stare at him; I don’t want him to see me.

Bratton has his game face on: grim and in charge. A well-tuned political animal (both his present and former wife have been TV court reporters), he checks to make sure all the cameras are ready to roll, then steps to the cluster of microphones.

“Early this morning, the Full Moon Killer claimed another victim,” he begins.

Immediately, the hue and cry rises up. Bratton waits for the hullabaloo to fade out, then continues. “Her family has been notified, and the entire city mourns their loss. Every time there is a murder in this city, it’s a dark day,” he declares. “But today, there is also some good news. A few hours after the latest victim was discovered, a special task force of detectives from the LAPD and the county sheriff’s department, which Sheriff Baca and I created to investigate these murders, arrested a suspect, who is now in custody. The evidence we have against him has convinced us, with a strong degree of certainty, that he is the Full Moon Killer.”

The clamor, almost deafening when the announcement of the murder was made, now verges on hysteria. Reporters shriek questions at Bratton and the other luminaries. “Who is the killer?” “How did you find him?” “Where is he now?” This crowd is fast becoming an unruly rabble. I can feel its pulse, its raging heart. This is how a lynch mob forms, I think as I stand trapped among them, feeling the collective tension and anger.

“We are in the process of securing a lawyer for this suspect, so we can legally interrogate him,” Bratton says. “Once he has legal representation, we will release his name and whatever other information we have.”

Someone cries out: “How soon?”

“As soon as we can,” the chief promises.

All along Spring Street the television reporters and their crews are jockeying for position, to have the money shot of City Hall in the background behind them while they do their live stand-ups. I don’t pay attention to them as I drag myself back to my office. I’m emotionally wasted. I thought I was tapped out yesterday after I finished the marathon, but that was nothing compared to how I feel now. How could this have happened? Salazar is a poster boy for upward mobility in the barrio. That he has killed these women doesn’t compute. But if Luis Cordova arrested him, he must have very solid evidence. This case is too big, important, visible, to play games with. And Cordova is an honest cop—I’d bet the farm on that.

I really thought I had a handle on my former client, but now it’s obvious that I didn’t. Was his story about helping out his friend a sham after all? He had me completely convinced he was telling the truth. But I have to admit, as much as I don’t want to, that there are holes I’m only now seeing. We never found the mysterious and elusive Armando Gonzalez—couldn’t even prove he actually existed. On the night Salazar was arrested, a woman was found murdered no more than a couple of miles away. His excuse for being in that location—he had to go to the bathroom—seems flimsy now, contrived.

This is the price you pay for getting emotionally involved with a client—you lose your objectivity. I’m still proud I got Salazar off—that was my job, and I did it well. But I went beyond that. I gave him a piece of my heart. Now I understand Pakula’s unhappiness. Not that he isn’t pleased whenever we win a case. Lord knows, we don’t have many victories, so we savor every one of them. But you prefer to win a case on the merits. Playing the emotional card is a double-edged sword. I won; but now, it seems, I didn’t.

This is going to bite our department in the ass, big time. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid; meaning, don’t buy into your own hype. A lesson that has to be relearned, over and over again.

The elevators in the main hallway seem to be in gridlock; I stand in front of them, waiting impatiently. I’ve had enough angst in my life over the past twenty-four hours to fill Dodger Stadium. I’ll run up to my office, check my messages, and get out of here. Everyone I look at seems to be shimmering. It’s as if we were all hit by a bolt of lightning. Or maybe I’m projecting my own feelings of guilt onto a bunch of people who don’t have a clue.

“Are you happy now?” The scream comes from behind me.

I know that voice, too damn well. I turn and face Wayne Dixant, who is standing behind me. His face is so crimson with rage I’m scared he could rupture an artery. That’s what I need to complete the trifecta—be the cause for this asshole to actually blow out his brains.

It feels as if the whole world is watching him tear the flesh from my bones. They recoil from us like the parting of the Red Sea.

“Are you happy now, Thompson?” Dixant rants. “A woman was murdered because of you. That poor girl would be alive today if you hadn’t gotten that bastard off!” He points a biblical prophet’s damning finger at me. “I hope you’re proud of yourself today. Because her blood is on your hands.”

Too late now, an elevator arrives. I rush in. Behind me, no one moves—it’s as if I have typhoid. I stand there, utterly alone, until the doors slide to a close, sealing me inside, a wounded animal seeking refuge in the deepest recess of a cave.

T
HE DOCTOR’S OFFICE IS
in Toluca Lake, which is near Warner Bros. Studios, off the Cahuenga Pass. I can jump on the 101 a block from my office, drive over the hill into the Valley, and be there in twenty minutes (avoiding rush hour, of course). It’s my lunch hour. This is my first visit.

Dr. Schwartzman is about ten years older than I am. She wears rings, engagement and wedding. Pictures of two healthy-looking teenagers adorn her desk, in Tiffany frames. She is direct, professionally friendly. Although she did flinch at the old bullet-wound scar when she examined me.

Dr. Schwartzman isn’t my regular ob-gyn, so she doesn’t know my history. I got her name from a coworker, in casual conversation. Everything will change now, including my doctor, because I want to start a fresh, clean slate.

“Have you ever been pregnant before?” she asks.

“No. I didn’t think I could.”

“Because of being shot? You thought that prevented your ability to conceive?”

“Yes.” This conversation is uncomfortable, but of course, she has to ask. “I never have been, so at some point I assumed I couldn’t.”

“So you don’t use birth control?” She’s making notes on a form.

“No.”

“Does the father know you are pregnant?”

I look up at the ceiling. It’s covered with those ugly foam panels that dampen the soul, and the spirit, which you see in every doctor’s office.

“Not yet,” I tell her. “He’s been out of town, on business.”

“It’s important for him to know, as soon as possible,” she counsels me.

“I know. I’m going to.”

What will Jeremy’s reaction be, I wonder? We’ve never talked about having a family. Will he be happy? Will he feel trapped? Both those things, probably. And other strong emotions as well.

This is uncharted territory for me. I have no model for family, for relationships. I’m sailing in unknown waters. No map, no compass, no life preserver.

I stand up. Inexplicably, I feel heavier. I know that’s idiotic; if the fetus just beginning to form inside of me has any weight, it’s a few ounces, barely registering. But I’m an entirely different person now.

My pheromones are overpowering tonight. If I stepped outside, I’d cause a twenty-car pileup. I’m wearing a black silk Chinese sheath that has a slit all the way up the thigh. Fuck-me Jimmy Choo strappy sandals with four-inch heels. When you have long legs, flaunt them. My hair is in a braid coiled up on my head—Jeremy’s favorite style—to show off my slender neck, another one of my better features. A touch too much eye shadow, but I’m going for seductiveness, not subtlety. I even dabbed perfume behind my ears, Chanel No. 5. If it was good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it’s good enough for me.

The dinner that I’m preparing is going to be an all-out assault on Jeremy’s emotions. Flowers, candles, French champagne. Coltrane on the Bose, the ballads album with Johnny Hartman. We’ll dance while sipping from our champagne flutes. Then, his favorite meal: oysters on the half shell (I shuck my own), vichyssoise, lobster, wild rice, grilled asparagus. Brewer-Clifton Pinot Noir from the Santa Ynez Valley. Heart-attack-inducing brownies from Sweet Lady Jane’s for dessert. A modest meal at home for two that will cost me three hundred dollars, but it will be worth every penny, because by the time we’ve finished this decadence and I drop my bombshell, Jeremy will be so overwhelmed with love and emotion he’ll sweep me in his arms, proclaim his undying love to me and our unborn child and the other one we’ll have (hopefully) in three years, and we’ll adjourn to the bedroom, where I will melt the marrow from his bones.