Panther's Prey (16 page)

Chen cut in. “So what you're telling us is you helped cover up a murder?”

I tried to answer them both. “For what it's worth, what happened at the house was self-defense. She forced me to go with her, not the other way around. I didn't feel right about not reporting it. On the other hand, she'd revealed that her husband was alive. It was him I'd hoped to find—alive not dead.”

“Now you're just trying to cover your ass,” Chen said.

“I was trying to do the best thing in a complex situation. Once Lydia told me her husband was alive, I knew all the guesses I'd made were probably correct. Jordan had been killed because she was planning to expose the fraud in the Kairos trial. Cho had faked his death.

“The night Jordan was killed, she'd received a text. I was there when it came, but didn't see what it said. At that point, she got us a cab and dropped me at home. Later, I located the cab driver, who said he'd taken her back to her apartment. When I spoke with Cho last night, he said the text had been from him. He met with her that night after I'd gone to my room.

“When Cho told Jordan about the fraud, she felt it was her duty to get to the bottom of it. But she was being watched by people who decided she needed to be stopped. They framed Randall Rodriguez for her murder, knowing he'd confess. They tracked me here, ambushed us, and murdered Gary Cho last night.”

“Then disposed of the car and the bodies and vanished without a trace,” Burke said from his chair against the wall. “It's a great mystery you've sprung on us.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate what you're saying?” Suarez asked.

“Jacob Mauldin is the owner of Kairos. Tom Benton is his attorney. They'll know what I'm telling you is true.

“First, though, you should talk to a man named Walter Hayes. He'll confirm that Kairos employs a private security squad, ostensibly to support the SFPD in clearing out undesirables from public housing projects slated for demolition. In reality, these ‘security guards' are mercenaries, ex-military. What they're
really
doing is shooting it out with gangbangers, provoking incidents that can be used to justify rewriting the city's mixed-income housing plan. Kairos's goal is to maximize the value of the new housing units for the well-to-do, presumably by relocating all the public housing into a ghetto-style high-rise.

“I'm confident the man who attacked Lydia Cho is one of these so-called security guards, paid off the books with money skimmed from other aspects of the project. These same individuals had to have been the ones who ambushed us last night. Start asking questions about them, and you'll get to the bottom of what happened here.”

“Let's assume Benton and Mauldin both deny there was any such conspiracy,” Suarez said with seemingly infinite patience. “What else can you tell me? I'm talking hard evidence here, stuff I can verify. If what you're saying is true, I'd like to help.”

“Check their phone records. I assume Detective Chen has pulled Jordan's by now. Did she call Benton that night?” In response Chen simply met my stare without saying a word, a man who wouldn't have given me a sip of water in the desert if I were dying of thirst.

“That's it?” Suarez asked with disappointment. “That's all you got?”

“My next step would have been to speak with Tom Benton.”

Suarez looked puzzled. “You figured he'd just break down and confess?”

“I planned to appeal to his conscience. To his grief over Jordan's death. And his guilt. Maybe bluff him a little, suggest Cho had given me something that would sway a judge.” I repeated what I'd expressed to Cho last night. “Whatever Benton had done, Jordan's murder couldn't have been part of his plan.”

“You know a lot of upscale cars are tracked with GPS units installed by the car manufacturer, right? As an antitheft measure?” Suarez studied me for a reaction. Behind him Chen had a knowing look.

My blood froze. I could only wait while they sprung their trap.

Chen spoke up. “Where do you think we found her? Take a guess.”

That couch had seemed comfortable at first, but it wasn't now. The cushions were too soft, the springs shot. Also, there was a smell,
one I now identified as sweat and fear. “You probably ought to Miranda me again if you're gonna start asking such tricky questions.”

A suitable silence passed, long enough to have encompassed the pointless exercise of reading that obsolete litany off a detective's pocket card if anyone had cared to bother. Apparently no one did.

“Where would you have put her, if you'd done it?” Chen said.

“Did you find her body or didn't you?” I countered, not letting myself be played like this.

Burke cleared his throat. Ignoring Chen's icy stare, he said, “Supposing she were still alive, wouldn't we be wasting precious time?”

Suarez took the handoff. “The way I see it, if we find her alive, that keeps you out of the injection chamber. You'll still do time if she's alive, but if you help us find her it'll be a lot less time than you'd otherwise serve. Plus, unlike a lot of folks we deal with, you'd go in knowing you could survive it. A lawyer like you would be useful inside. You'd be protected.”

“Lawrence Maxwell must still have plenty of buddies in the system,” Chen said, ignored by the other two. “Course he's bound to have enemies, too. And then there'll be guys that you'll lie awake at night wondering where you stand with them. Bo Wilder, for instance.”

I addressed Suarez. “So you haven't found the car.” I knew I should keep my mouth shut now but I'd never been much good at it.

“We were hoping you could help us there.”

“So you're telling me the GPS was deactivated?”

“How would a person even go about doing that?” Suarez asked.

Chen said, “I suppose you'd just Google it. Be right there in the search history.”

“You're welcome to mine,” I told Suarez. They had nothing, I realized. They were just fishing, killing time in the hope I'd offer an indication of guilt. Knowing this didn't make me happy. What they didn't know I also didn't know. But I did know I didn't want
to be on the run from men who could make a car and two bodies disappear out of a ravine in a remote wood overnight.

“Look, if there's anything I can tell you that might help you find her, ask it, because I want the same thing as you. I want Lydia Cho found, and I want her to be alive. Otherwise, why don't you show me where I'm sleeping tonight?”

Suarez glanced over his shoulder at Chen, whose expression mingled frustration and resignation. Sheriff Burke returned his chair to level and stood with a yawn, stretching his arms. “We have a cozy little jail here. You'll sleep like a baby tonight. I give you my money-back guarantee on that.”

In the morning, after a night spent restlessly tossing and turning despite my exhaustion, Suarez and I were on the road by seven. He was driving, with me loosely handcuffed in back. I'd spoken to Nina and learned I had a court appearance scheduled that afternoon in Redwood City, where the San Mateo County courthouse and jail were located.

Suarez's attitude was different today, less tolerant. More wary. I wondered whether he'd concluded I was the kind of nut no interviewer could crack in one session.

“Tell me about Detective Chen,” he said. “What'd you do to piss him off?”

I told him about the Rodriguez trial, me embarrassing Chen's colleague Harold Cole, and how Jordan's subsequent murder seemed to offer the SFPD a perfect opportunity for revenge. Suarez listened with an occasional dry laugh, his eyes on the road. Finally, he said, “He says that if we have to cut you loose on this case he wants you in San Francisco. Evidently they're getting ready to
charge you with the murder of that witness in your father's case. Russell Bell.”

“I never even wanted my father released from prison,” I said. “I certainly wouldn't have committed murder to keep him free.”

“If I were you, I'd shut my trap rather than to try to talk my way out of it without ever accounting for how the murder weapon ended up in your girlfriend's apartment.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Don't mention it. But don't worry on that score. I like you for Lydia Cho, at least until a better suspect comes along. You were the last one with her, and your story's way out there. So, for now, you're my man. Chen can wait his turn.”

“If I killed her, how'd I get rid of the car?”

“I don't know. But they're going to find her eventually, and when they do, I won't have to wonder where
you
are.”

I wasn't as confident as Suarez that the Chos would turn up. The body at the house in Portola Valley had disappeared. Both Gary and Lydia were unaccounted for. Then our adversaries had upped the ante by repeating the vanishing act with Lydia's BMW. Powerless to show I was telling the truth, I felt enormously depressed. I dozed the rest of the trip, waking each time in a cocoon of pain from my still-unhealed injuries.

At the end of the five-hour drive, Suarez delivered me into the custody of the deputies at the San Mateo County courthouse. Stripped of my belt and valuables, I was placed in a holding cell with a bunch of jittery guys evidently in the early stages of detox. One by one, the others were called by a deputy and led out. At last, late in the afternoon, it was my turn.

In the courtroom I found Nina talking to the DA at the prosecutor's table, an unpleasant expression of shock and disbelief on her face. The judge wasn't on the bench, and the gallery was empty. Seeing me, she came over. “They just got around to telling me that Lydia Cho turned up at her house this morning. She won't talk to
the police, claims never to have met you. They asked her about her husband, about the supposed dead guy in the hot tub, and she blew them off, then lawyered up. Long story short, San Mateo has to cut you loose. So you're bound for the big city, courtesy of the SFPD.”

“Who's her lawyer?” I asked. But I'd already guessed.

“A guy called Tom Benton.”

Three days, three different jail cells. This time, I was the guest of the city and county of San Francisco. It wasn't my first visit to County Jail Number 5 downtown, but familiarity hadn't improved my view of the place. Once again, I was being charged as an accessory in the murder of Russell Bell.

“They want you to roll over on your father,” Nina said when she came to see me the third morning of my jailing. “They're offering a bullshit deal. You testify against Lawrence, detail his role in Bell's murder, and the DA will recommend probation for you.”

I started to respond with indignation, but she held up a hand. “I can't go any further,” she said. “Remember, I represented your father. I have a conflict of interest.”

I should have seen this coming, but after three nearly sleepless nights, the blow hit me hard. For a moment, I couldn't speak. I felt like we'd lost the case, and I realized how much I'd counted on having Nina as my lawyer, fighting for me with the same grit and fire with which she'd handled my father's defense.

“At least pretend you're not relieved,” I said.

“I
am
relieved. Because a conflict of interest, a
real
one like this, isn't fun. I don't know who killed Bell. It's never looked good to me, and I've always sensed the three of you—you, your father, and Teddy—haven't told the whole story. That was probably for the best, and so is this. The upside of not being your lawyer means I get to be your friend.”

“You could still represent me with my father's and my consent.”

“But not without mine,” she made clear. “Your arraignment's tomorrow. Maybe the PD's office can help you. You still work for them, right?”

In fact, the boss herself showed up to represent me. Unlike Nina, Gabriela was willing to look past such a small thing as a conflict of interest. “I'm not going to fire you based on anything you confide in me,” she promised, though this wasn't stated on the waiver form she had me sign.

She held a press conference that afternoon. “Our justice system can't function if defense lawyers are viewed by the police and prosecutors as indistinguishable from the criminals they represent … “ This was all I heard, however, before another inmate demanded to change the channel. I was still in jail, you see. For all her skill, Gabriela had been unsuccessful in arguing I should be released on my own recognizance.

During this time, Rodriguez pleaded guilty to Jordan's murder and was sentenced to life in prison without parole. I wondered whether, if I'd been out of jail, I'd have gone to the hearing, sat there mute and powerless while “justice” was done.

The morning after my arraignment, my father and brother came to visit me. “This should blow over in a few days,” Lawrence promised, after arguing I should let him post my bond. I'd refused, guessing the money would come from Bo Wilder.

“If ‘blow over' means what I think it means, I'd rather stay in here.” I knew we couldn't speak freely. Given that the police wanted to use the charges against me as leverage to return my father to prison, our conversation was almost certainly recorded. Any mention of Bo Wilder's name in this context would be damning to all of us.

A few mornings later, Gabriela brought a glow of satisfaction with her into the attorney consultation room at the jail. “A witness has come forward,” she said when we'd sat down. “He'll testify that
on the night of Jordan's murder, he was detained by two undercover officers in the TL with a vial of crack. There's no report because they never arrested him. Harold Cole showed up on the scene, handed the guy a key, and told him he wanted him to plant a gun in your room in the Seward.”

“He's not called Roland McEwan, is he?” I asked. Gabriela shook her head, offering me a different name.

“Then he's lying,” I told her. “I got that gun from a former client.”

She didn't want to hear it. “This is your ticket out. You could be back trying cases next week.” She paused. “Look, maybe our guy switched guns on you. I don't doubt he'd say that, if I put the question to him. I'd rather not, and I don't think I'll have to. There are more interested parties to the situation than you know. You and I are aware that Cole's lazy and doesn't like doing his job. Turns out there's a reason. I've been told in confidence he has a problem with prescription drugs. The Rodriguez case isn't the first investigation he's screwed up, and the DA's office would like to wash their hands of him. This witness gives them the political cover they need to do that.”

“It's dirty,” I insisted. “The guy's lying and I don't want to accept the benefit of that.”

“If our situations were reversed, and you were the lawyer and I the client, what would you do?”

I just shook my head. If the guy were credible, even though his story seemed too good to be true, I knew what my obligation would be. Though told a witness must be lying, an attorney must be able to envision scenarios in which he isn't. Gabriela was toeing the ethical line, as any good defense lawyer must, but her feet were planted on the correct side. One good shove would do it. All I had to do was tell her my father had gone to Bo Wilder and Bo had procured this witness, just as he'd put my former client up to delivering me the weapon in the first place—all with the intent
of drawing us into an ever-tighter web of obligation and corruption. But saying that would mean the end of my career, the end of everything good in my life. Gabriela and the PD's office would wash their hands of me, and I still needed the safety net of this job.

“You can't put the guy on the witness stand,” I said, with a feeling of sliding past a boundary I hadn't crossed before: the willingness to avoid personal injustice by inflicting injustice on someone else.

“Like I said, I very much doubt I'll have to,” Gabriela said. “Leave the details to me.”

Three days later, I was out of jail and Detective Cole was out of a job, temporarily suspended while the district attorney's office investigated the accusations of Gabriela's “witness.”

I ought to have been relieved but I was filled with dread, wondering what my father had promised Bo Wilder as the price for my get-out-of-jail-free card.

The Saturday after my release from jail, Teddy and Tamara invited me to their house for dinner. I rode the commuter train over. Normally I'd have walked the rest of the way, a half-mile stroll that usually succeeded in clearing my head. Today, however, still suffering from numerous injuries that made walking painful, I took a cab.

For me, that little bungalow had come to represent an ideal of domestic life that comforted me all the more because I didn't want it for myself and knew I probably could never achieve it if I did. Today, however, my headache began the moment I strode down the piss-scented stairs of the Civic Center station. The pain was like a chisel between my eyes by the time the cab turned onto my brother's street from Martin Luther King Jr. Way and I saw the twin Harleys parked out front.

Dot and Tamara were in the front room, supervising Carly at the easel, newspapers spread on the floor at their feet. The door was
open, the family's fat yellow Lab lying across the wide threshold. It was eight months since I'd last seen Dot. Today was hot, and she was wearing a sleeveless top and jeans, her leather jacket and chaps lying discarded over the arm of the couch. When I stepped over the dog and said hello, each woman looked away, as if I'd brought shame on the family. In many households the source of their coldness would have been my recent stay in jail. In ours, it was how I'd gotten out.

Dot gathered herself, and rose for a brief embrace. “I'm sure you're glad to be back,” I said as she stepped away. She'd lost weight, and her hair was cut shorter and had, I imagined, more gray in it. But on her face was still the same no-nonsense expression I remembered from the first time we'd met, a look that promised woe to any man who crossed her.

She stepped back, sizing me up and apparently not liking what she saw. “Yes and no. If I'd guessed the kind of trouble you were in, I'd have kept Lawrence as far away as possible.” I nodded. She'd provided an alibi for Lawrence in the trial, but I'd sensed it was a lie. Bell had been a sadistic, unrepentant rapist, a true psychopath, and had sought to cover his own crimes by offering himself as a snitch against my father. No man deserves to die, but his death hadn't added to the world's sorrows.

“Whatever Lawrence has done, I didn't want or ask for it,” I said. But that was no excuse. He was my father and I was his son. He'd make any sacrifice for me and she knew it.

Her face seemed to harden in response and she turned back to Carly and Tamara. Carly wiped her hands and ran to me. I hugged her, touched her mother's arm with silent acknowledgment, then went out through the kitchen to the backyard, where I found Teddy and Lawrence in plastic Adirondack chairs by the lemon tree, drinking from sweating bottles of Red Tail.