Justice (25 page)

Another bad night’s sleep
coupled with a nagging piece of evidence brought Decker into work around seven. He had sneaked out of the house before Rina had arisen. He hadn’t wanted to deal with another one of her lectures. Especially because he knew she was right. His first appointment was a court case at ten.

He glanced around.

Davidson hadn’t checked in yet. Decker took out his notebook and pulled out the Diggs file, sorting through the now familiar pages with practiced speed. Within moments, he found what he was looking for. He clicked a ballpoint pen and copied down the phone numbers of the three identified black males who had been in the Grenada West End the night of the murder. He also took out Whitman’s sketch of Henry Trupp and copied down the night clerk’s address and phone number.

Scott Oliver got off the horn and managed to get his body upright. He trudged over to Decker’s desk, his feet shuffling against the linoleum floor. “Tell me you had a fight with your young lady. Make me feel better.”

“Leave me alone, Scotty,” Decker barked. “I’m not in the mood.”

Immediately Oliver backed off. “What are you working on, Rabbi?”

“Diggs. I can’t shake those unaccounted-for pubic hairs. I’ve got to know where they came from.”

“Maybe they came from Whitman,” Oliver said. “Maybe he screwed a black female before he got to Cheryl and transferred them onto her.”

“They’re male hairs.”

“He was dead drunk. Who said the black had to be female? Why don’t you ask him about it right now? He’s waiting for you.”

“Whitman’s here? Christ, what the hell does he want?”

“Maybe mercy from his arresting officer.” Oliver clasped his hands. “‘Please don’t fry me. I’m so young and have so much to offer. I’m a musician, I’m an artist, and I’m an expert in knot tying.’”

Decker rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

“It’s in the script,” Oliver said. “Kid’s out by the front desk.”

Decker plopped his hands on his desktop and pushed himself up. He went through the secretary’s office, passing the assignment board. Yes, it was true. Marge was still on vacation. He thought of her tanning in Hawaii, feeling a twinge of envy. Then he remembered he never tanned anyway, only burned, UV rays being the bane of a redhead’s existence. Plus, Decker hated sand, which always settled in his crotch. Furthermore, he detested poi and papaya.

He came into the front station. Officers Gerrard and Belding were manning the desk today. They peeked at Whitman, then gave Decker an inquiring look. Decker returned their silent questions with a shrug.

Whitman had parked himself next to the candy machine. He wore a starched white shirt tucked into black jeans, a black wool blazer, and black leather high-tops. His posture seemed tense, his eyes were unreadable. He stood when he saw Decker, but remained fixed to the spot. Decker loped over to him, looked him in the eye.

“What’s up, Chris?”

Whitman maintained eye contact. “I thought we had a deal. A trade—evidence for evidence.”

“News to me.”

Whitman’s eyes went dead. “I talked to the girls last night. They told me they talked to you.” He lowered his voice until he was whispering. “They said they told you everything. From the blow-jobs to the binds. You know they’re telling the truth. Because you got to them before I did.”

Decker said nothing.

Whitman said, “You’ve got sworn statements, Decker. Their testimonies are far more damaging to me than a couple of stupid sketches. I came through. Now you do the right thing, Decker, and let her go.”

“It’s not up to me, Chris.”

“That’s bullshit!” Whitman blurted out.

Gerrard and Belding picked up their heads. Belding said loudly, “Everything okay, Sergeant?”

“We’re fine.” To Whitman, Decker whispered, “You’re cruising for a bruising, son. Keep your temper in check.”

Whitman opened and closed his eyes. “Are you telling me that your input has no influence on how the State handles this case?”

“Whitman, the sketches have already been entered as material evidence—”

“So
unenter
them, dammit!”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

Whitman clenched his jaw and made tight fists with his long fingers. “Why does the State need drawings when they have more incriminating statements?”

“Statements made by hookers—”

“
Sworn
statement by hookers.” A desperation rose in the kid’s voice. “You
know
they’re telling it true. You got to them before I did. You got good shit against me without the drawings. Why bring Terry down when you don’t need her?”

“The State needs the sketches, Chris.”

“Aw,
c’mon
!” Whitman did a half turn and swung back. “You can’t actually
believe
that crock of shit?!”

“You never heard that a picture’s worth a thousand words?”

Whitman glared at Decker, nostrils flaring, blood vessels pulsating in his neck. “You
met
her. I can’t believe you’re gonna waste her just like that.”

Decker was quiet. His silence only increased Whitman’s frustration. “You’re washing your hands in her blood. You feel good about that?”

Decker’s eyes bored into the teen. “Chris, you’re arched like a cornered cat. Go take a walk and blow off steam.”

Whitman threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. Then he flashed Decker an eerie smile. “Man, I don’t know what I was thinking when I gave you those names.”

“Get a grip on it, kid. Take a walk
now
!”

And even though Decker had anticipated it, even though he saw it coming, Whitman was still too fast. The best Decker could do was take a giant hop backward so the punch failed to make full contact. But there was enough impact in the solar plexus and Decker doubled over. He gasped for air and told himself that
if
he breathed normally, the sparkling mobile of stars and tweeting birds behind his eyes would go away.

By the time he recovered his vision, Decker could make out Whitman subdued on the floor, his hands behind his back, a pile of uniformed and plainclothes officers cuffing and clamping him. Watching the melee put on by LAPD were the civilians—a Latina with a tattooed arm holding a drooling baby, two acned, overweight, busty biker ladies wearing bustiers and torn jeans, and lastly, two teenagers, one black and pregnant in cutoff shorts and Rastafarian curls, the other white and
very
pregnant in cutoff shorts and Rastafarian curls.

Decker was not only surprised he could speak but also shocked that his voice could carry. “Let him go,” he shouted.

The officers looked up in amazement.

Decker stood up straight. Man, it hurt bad. “Get off of him,” he ordered. “I can handle the bastard myself.”

Nobody moved.

“Get off of him!”

Slowly, layers of blue began to peel off and Whitman came into view. When there was enough clearance, Decker went in, grabbed the kid’s jacket, and jerked him to his feet. One ankle was dangling chains, the other ankle was metal-free.

Decker said, “Who has the keys to the leg press?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The sharp, jabbing sensation had turned dull and throbbing. “Take the chains off his feet, but keep the handcuffs on.”

As soon as Whitman’s ankles were liberated, Decker twisted Whitman’s collar, dragged him into the squad room, then threw him inside one of the interview rooms, banging the kid against the wall.

“Sit!” he commanded, slamming the door.

Whitman obeyed.

“Well, that was real smart, Chris. Now you’re in a heap of shit.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Decker paced as he spoke. “You think an apology’s going to prevent me from hauling your sorry ass into jail? You think an apology is going to sit well with your bondsman? Or with your uncle after he just forfeited fifty grand worth of bail money? Let me tell you something, Whitman. Sorry doesn’t cut it. I thought you were smart. I thought you were clever. Now I realize I’m dealing with a garden variety dumbshit.”

Whitman said nothing, as quiet as a chastened puppy.

Decker stopped treading the floor and ran his hands through his hair. “I
told
you no promises. If you heard different, you heard
wrong
! Your girl is going down and it’s your own damn fault! Stop looking for villains. Instead, look in the mirror.”

“You gonna arrest me for assault?”

“Hell, yeah, I’m going to arrest you for assault. And,
buddy, that’s a charge that’ll stick like tar.”

Whitman’s eyes darted about the room. “Call up the prosecution. Get them down here. I want to cut a deal.”

“Cut a deal?” Decker was incredulous. “Cut a
deal
?! Whitman, you got rocks between your ears? You’ve got
nothing
to deal with.”

Whitman tried to make eye contact, but couldn’t sustain it. He blinked again. “I…I want to…confess. Get the State down here. I want to plea-bargain.”

Decker paused, unsure if he had heard right. His ears were still buzzing from his whack in the stomach. His head was pounding. He lowered his voice. “Did you just say you wanted to confess?”

Whitman nodded. “Yes.”

“Confess to what, Chris?”

“To Cheryl…” Whitman bounced his leg up and down. “To Cheryl Diggs’s murder.”

“All right.” Decker felt himself panting and reminded himself to breathe normally. “All right, that’s fine with me. I did hear you right. You said you wanted to confess to the Diggs murder. Am I correct?”

Whitman licked his lips and ran his hand over his face. “I want to plea-bargain. If I get what I want, you’ll get what you want.”

Decker said, “Okay, Chris. I’ll set it up as fast as I can. You want to call your attorney?”

Whitman shook his head. “He wouldn’t let me go through with it. He…my uncle…no. No, I don’t want my attorney.”

“You’re waiving your rights to an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll sign a waiver card?”

Again, Whitman nodded.

“Okay, Chris,” Decker said. “Just hold that thought until I can get everything arranged.”

“You’re still going to book me on assault?”

“Yes,” Decker said softly. “Yes, I have to do that. But who knows what kind of a deal you can cut? Maybe
we can get the assault thrown out. But no promises, okay?”

“Okay,” Whitman whispered.

Decker said, “I’m going to take you downstairs to booking until I can get everything squared away. I’ll bring you back up just as soon as I do.”

He nodded.

“You’re not fucking around on me, are you?” Decker said. “Because if you are, I’m going to be pissed.”

Whitman shook his head mechanically. “I’m not fucking around. I want to deal. I want…I’ll give you what you want. Just as long as I get what I want.”

“That’s what cutting a deal is all about,” Decker said. “I’m going to bring you down now. No more stunts, okay?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“S’ right. No harm done.”

“If it’s any consolation, my hand hurts.”

Decker clamped his hand on Whitman’s arm and helped the kid to his feet. “Chris, it is no consolation for me whatsoever.”

Since the Diggs case had made the news as well as the papers, Prosecution was not just Erica Berringer but also her boss, Morton Weller. He was a rail-thin man in his fifties with over two decades of experience with the DA’s office. White tufts of hair sat atop his long face, which held a beak nose and deep-set eyes. A birdlike neck housed a big, bobbing Adam’s apple. Weller had a deep voice.

State had brought a video camera. Decker put the DAs in a small interview room, giving Weller and Berringer time to set up. Davidson joined them a few minutes later. He had caught wind of the action and had demanded inclusion. As long as Davidson was going to be there, Decker figured Scott Oliver also had a right to know what was going on.

By the time everyone was ready, the once barren room was filled to capacity. Decker hoped the crowd wouldn’t scare Whitman off. He brought him from holding, and after making the introductions, he asked Whitman if he still wanted to forgo his rights to an attorney. Whitman nodded and signed a waiver card.

Decker said, “I’m going to turn on a tape recorder, Chris. We also want to videotape this interview. Any objections?”

“No,” Whitman said. “But there won’t be anything worth taping unless I get what I want.”

“Which is?” Davidson broke in.

Weller said in an undertone, “Lieutenant, we can’t afford to rush. Please.” He looked at Erica Berringer. “Are you all set?”

Erica made final adjustments with the camera controls. She turned on the switch and peered through a viewfinder. “We’re rolling.”

Decker turned on his tape recorder and stated the identification of all the parties involved. Finally, Weller sat back in his chair. He said, “Tell me what you have in mind, Mr. Whitman.”

“I’ll plead guilty to Man Two, three to six. In exchange, I want the assault charge dropped, plus I want suppression of any and all evidence found during Sergeant Decker’s search of my apartment.”

The room went quiet. Weller flashed him a hard look. “You’ve thought about this, have you, Mr. Whitman?”

“Very much.”

Weller looked Whitman in the eye. “Sir, I don’t know where you’ve learned the legalese…I suspect it’s from the electronic school of TV law…but something or someone has steered you in the wrong direction. Because I know the evidence against you. And I know what I can do with it. Manslaughter is out of the question.”

Whitman said, “Mr. Weller, if we go to trial, and if I’m convicted, the
most
I’ll get is Involuntary Manslaughter.”

“You think so?” Davidson blurted out.

“Lieutenant, I know so. With time served in jail prior to trial, I won’t do a day in prison. And that’s
if
I get convicted, which is a big question mark. I’m offering a break not only to
you
but also to the taxpayers of LA.”

Weller and Berringer passed a sidelong glance to Decker. He tried to make his shrug invisible.

Weller said, “And what’s your proposed defense, sir? Abuse or Diminished Capacity?”