In My Dark Dreams (34 page)

He jumps right into the deep end. “This trial is a rush to judgment. No murder trial, not one that has the possibility of the death penalty, has gone from arrest to the courtroom this fast in more than twenty years. Not only in Los Angeles, anywhere in California. That’s because this trial is not about whether Roberto Salazar is guilty or not—he isn’t—but because this trial is about politics. The actual guilt or innocence of Mr. Salazar is a means to a greater end.” Quickly: “When I tell you that, I don’t mean it with any disrespect. Four young women were murdered. Whoever killed them should be brought to justice.

“What I mean,” Joe explains, “is that the reason this trial is happening so quickly is because of political pressure, not because of the pursuit of justice. Let me share something with you I learned recently. The average murder trial in California—I know this because I looked it up—takes three years from the time a suspect is arrested until the first day of jury selection. More than five times what this one is taking. Some take even longer.”

I looked it up.
Nice homey touch. The old warhorse is pulling out the stops. During our prep days he didn’t show this kind of engagement.

I swivel in my chair and look around. Joe has pulled off his first objective: he has the courtroom’s attention. Judge Suzuki stares down from his platform. The reporters and spectators, including Amanda Burgess and Salazar’s wife, who are in the first row of civilians behind us, are on the edges of their seats. Across the aisle, the prosecutors are paying closer attention than they normally do when the other side delivers their opening remarks. Loomis appears to be calm—he can weather any storm, that is one of the reasons he’s so good—but his associates are visibly aroused. If they expected this to be an easy smackdown, they have now been officially disabused of that notion.

Joe continues. “When Judge Suzuki questioned you to find out if you could serve on this jury fairly and impartially, some of you admitted that you had read or seen some publicity about this case, but had not formed an opinion. That’s all we ask, that you keep an open mind until you’ve heard all the testimony from both sides. The truth is, you would have had to have been living in a cave or on the moon if you had not known about this. It was all over the newspapers and radio and television for months. Everywhere on the Internet. This city was a captive to this case: the Full Moon Murders. Not many crimes rise to the level of notoriety where they get their own names. But this one did.”

He stops and glances at the notes he was taking while Loomis was delivering his opening statement. Running his finger down a page, he looks up and says, “I want to touch on something the prosecutor just told you. That the victims knew their killer. Well, maybe they did and maybe they didn’t. But if they did, this whole notion of a psychopathic killer looming out there, one who only kills during the full moon, goes out the window. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too, which is what the prosecution wants to do. The killer was a crazy nut who only killed during the full moon, because of some compulsion that the moon brought forth in him, but at the same time he was a calculating murderer who knew his victims, set them up, and then killed them. Folks,” he says, swaying back on his heels like a country preacher delivering a sermon, “that doesn’t make sense. And we will demonstrate, by the way, that Mr. Salazar is not a psychopath. He’s a regular guy.

“Let’s return to the theme I was exploring a minute earlier—pressure. The pressure to find a killer. Because of the intense notoriety of these crimes, the pressure to find the killer was tremendous, on everyone. Not just the police. The politicians were under fire, too, because they set themselves up to be. The mayor was on television every week, promising results. Members of the city council and board of supervisors—same thing. There was an extreme pressure to solve this crime, from all quarters.

“When that happens, who feels the pressure the most? The police, because they are on the front line, and finding murderers is their job. The word came down from on high—solve this crime. And solve it fast.”

I sense movement from our opponents across the aisle, and check them out. Loomis is whispering something to one of his subordinates, who scribbles furiously on his notepad. They have to keep their mouths shut during opening remarks, but they will hammer at us about this later. We expect that; we want them to. We want to engage them in battle, not only about facts and evidence, but over ego, and supremacy. Criminal lawyers on both sides of the aisle are rabid alpha animals. They have to be to be successful. Sometimes that hubris can bring them down. From what I have heard about Harry Loomis, he doesn’t succumb to that bait very often. But he is human, and this is a high-stakes trial. We’ll see.

“A special police task force was set up to find the Full Moon Killer,” Joe says. “Over a hundred cops were assigned to it.” He stabs a finger in the air for emphasis. “Over a hundred policemen and women were assigned to solve one case. That’s how important this was to the City and County of Los Angeles. O.J., Robert Blake, Phil Spector may have had more publicity—we are the entertainment capital of the world—but this case was more important, especially to the political elites whose careers depend on producing results.

“So what happened?” Joe asks the air. “Nothing. Zero. Nada. Over a hundred officers work on this for three months, and they come up blank. No arrests, no suspects, not even any leads. They’re getting desperate. The politicians from above, including their own brass, are hounding them day and night. Find the killer! Find a killer! Bring in a killer!

“But they didn’t, because they couldn’t. They couldn’t find him. And so, they were about to be disbanded.” Joe nods his head vigorously. “That’s right, my friends. If one more full moon had gone by without the killer’s being caught, that elite task force was going to be put out to pasture. Thanks for trying, now go away.” He leans forward. “Cops are people, just like you and me. They are not robots, they have feelings. Those feelings can get hurt. If your job is to solve crimes, and you don’t, you don’t feel good about yourself. Why do you think the suicide rate for policemen is one of the highest of any profession in the world? Because they have such incredible pressure on them to produce results, and when they don’t, usually through no fault of their own, they have a profound sense of shame. Being a policeman is emotionally and psychologically brutal, ladies and gentlemen. Unless you have walked in their shoes, you have no idea how traumatic their lives are, every single day.”

I love this approach. Your opponents are now your partners. We are all being manipulated by the system. Everyone can understand that, because everyone hates the man, even the man himself.

“Finally, on the last night of the full moon, with daylight only a few hours away, another victim is found. Another horrible tragedy. And man, if the pressure was intense before, it’s in the stratosphere now. They have to find that killer. No matter what, they have to find that killer.”

Joe turns away from the jury box and looks at our table. Salazar sits at attention like a marine guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, but I’m uncomfortable being restricted to one position. I want to squirm around to alleviate the pressure my added weight has put on my ass and hips and bones. I would like to slip my shoes off too, because my feet are swelling in them; another side effect of being pregnant. I’m even wearing pantyhose, to keep the swelling down; and I’m a woman who hates stockings. I almost never wear them, unless I’m trying to look sexy. I feel about as sexy now as an elephant on roller skates. But I force myself to sit still and keep my shoes on. If the jurors see me fidgeting, they’ll start fidgeting too, and Joe will lose their concentration.

Joe points at Salazar. “They found him. A man on his way to work. Not a blemish on his record, a solid citizen. The police had a vague description of someone who might have been with one of the earlier victims, so they rousted him. And they found a so-called piece of evidence that connected him to the crime. Later, we’ll break that down to show you how flimsy it was. For now, that’s all they had. And from that one piece of uncorroborated evidence, they arrested him and charged him with murder. And six months later, here we are.”

A pause to slacken his thirst, and give his audience—twelve men and women—time to breathe, because he’s moving fast.

“We do not have to prove that Roberto Salazar did not commit the crime he’s charged with. It’s the prosecution’s obligation to prove that he did, and they must reach a high standard to do that—a very high standard. Which they are not going to be able to do. Furthermore, we are going to be able to demonstrate why he could
not
have committed this crime, or the others that he may not be on trial for, but has been accused of by innuendo and association. We all understand that the same person committed all the Full Moon Murders. If Mr. Salazar didn’t do every one of them, he didn’t do any of them.

“As I told you in my opening, this trial is a viper with two heads, both lethal. One is about whether a man committed murder. The other is about a city sweeping its fears under the rug. If this city thinks that convicting my client will solve their problem, they are wrong. All they will do is put an innocent man in jail, but they will not kill that snake, because it will be out there, still alive and able to attack again.” He puts his hands together in a vaguely prayerful gesture and raises them to his lips, as if in contemplation. Subliminal, or calculated? I wonder. He may not know himself.

“Hopefully, that snake won’t strike again. The real killer, if he is as diabolical, clever, and elusive as he has proved to be, could seize upon Mr. Salazar’s conviction as an opportunity to steal away into the night and never be heard from again. There was a lull in the killings before, so we know his attacks can be random. If that were to happen, the city’s temperature would be lowered, at least temporarily, but justice will not have been served.”

He steps back. He has scored his points. It’s time to exit on a high note.

“That’s where you come in. Not to help this city get over their fright—that’s not your job. Our elected and paid officials will do that, we hope and trust. You twelve ladies and gentlemen are on this panel for one specific and important reason—to serve justice. The way you will do that will be to listen to all the witnesses and weigh their testimony. And when you do, you will come to the only conclusion that is right: that Roberto Salazar is not the Full Moon Killer, and must walk out of this courtroom a free man.”

R
ARELY DID I COOK,
even in the days when I was a lean, mean, marathon-training machine. Now, swollen all over, not just my belly but my ankles, feet, ass, even my earlobes, I can barely roust the energy to boil an egg, let alone grill a steak or roast a chicken. Except for salads, which I throw together with a slapdash randomness, chopping and mincing lettuce and other innocent raw vegetables and dousing them with store-bought dressing, I eat takeout. There is a Greek deli two blocks from my house that makes the kinds of food I crave now: stuffed grape leaves, noodle pudding with raisins, chicken tamales, hummus, tiramisu. It’s all good.

Amanda comes over to practice our birthing skills. Selecting her as my birth coach was a shot out of the blue. Actually, I didn’t choose her; she chose herself. When I told her I was pregnant, she lost her normal composure. She broke down, literally crying for joy. What could she do for me? Name it, and it’s yours. Cribs, clothes, hospital expenses, whatever. She was referring to material things, but there was an underlying desire, an emotional need to be part of this, that initially went unspoken; but when I told her I was fine, she gave up all pretense of detachment and spelled it out. “I will never be a grandmother, I will never have a grandchild. I never really had a child. I’ve missed all that. If you would let me be part of your birth and baby it would give me incredible joy, and I would support you any way you want. I know this is a huge favor to ask, and I’ll understand if you turn me down. But I want you to know that I would like to be there for you, any way I can.”

Talk about needy! It was as if she had opened a vein and was bleeding right in front of me. I stood there in shock, not knowing how to respond. “Thanks,” I finally said. “That’s incredibly gracious of you. But I don’t want to be beholden to you.” What I really meant was that I didn’t want to be under her control. She is a powerful force, much stronger than I am. I didn’t want to give up any autonomy, I’ve paid too much in dues to earn it.

Her answer to that was that I wouldn’t be beholden, that she would do as much or as little as I asked, and that she would butt out immediately if our bond, in whatever shape it turned out, wasn’t working.

I’m alone. I’m scared of the future. And she really seems to care about me. My mother fucked me over, and now Jeremy has. That’s two big rejections. Here was a chance for the opposite, a chance to be cared for, accepted, and loved.

“Okay,” I told her. “Let’s give it a try.”

She was overjoyed. So now we are practicing for the birth of my child—I as the mother, she as the coach, supporter, family member by proxy.

This is the first time she’s come to my place; I usually go to hers. She arrives driving a Jaguar XKR coupe; she’s a rakish woman, age be damned. She breezes in like a cyclone from the Wizard of Oz, says nothing, but lifts her eyebrows in alarm. Picking up the phone, she makes a call, and an hour later, as we’re finishing our session, a cleaning crew arrives on my doorstep. Two efficient Dominican ladies, laden with mops, vacuums, bottles of cleansers. Amanda takes me out to dinner, and two hours later, when we return to my humble abode, sated and blissed out from our meal, my house is spotless, glistening with the luster of hand-scrubbing. You could eat off the floors, the place is so pristine.

I don’t bother making a pretense of offering to pay; Amanda would be insulted. She has taken on the role of surrogate grandmother-to-be with a vengeance. A happy extreme, but formidable, like everything she gets involved with.