The Death of Friends (20 page)

His was a bastion of male privilege in which women functioned mainly as decoration. It was true that his firm had a small number of women partners, but they were window dressing. I knew this not from Chris but from Bay, who had all her life felt discounted by her father because she was female. She once told me that it seemed her entire purpose had been to marry and bring a son into the family.

Sometime in the last decade, I remembered, Kimball’s wife had died and he’d remarried a woman twenty years his junior. There was the obligatory silver-framed photograph of her on the credenza behind his desk, along with others of Bay and Joey, but none of Chris. The new wife was pictured in jodhpurs on a chestnut horse, riding crop in hand. Her smile was slightly impatient and a little forced. His, as he offered me coffee, was one of practiced sincerity.

“Yes,” I said. “Black, please.”

“Good man,” he replied, picked up the phone and requested two cups.

A moment later, a thirtyish ash-blonde in a yellow cashmere cable-knit sweater and cream-colored slacks brought in a tray with the coffee poured into fragile bone china. She set them down before us and asked, “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all,” he said, smiling at her with a sexual warmth. She basked in that smile. I wondered if the jodhpured wife knew.

I sipped his excellent coffee, thanked him for making time to see me, and added, “Also, I wanted to express my sympathy to you on Chris’s death.”

His expression curdled. “Yes, it was a shock,” he said. “But you didn’t come here for condolences.”

“No,” I said. “I came here to talk about Joey. You know I’m defending Zack Bowen, the man accused of killing Chris.”

“Bowen,” he said, “I went to school with someone by that name.”

“I doubt it’s the same family,” I replied. “The preliminary hearing’s set for next week. I’ve made a motion to suppress certain evidence and unless I prevail on it, I imagine he’ll be held to answer and a trial date set.”

“I do know something about criminal procedure,” he said a bit impatiently.

“My client is innocent,” I said, forging on. “He had no reason to kill Chris, but your grandson did.”

He sat back in his chair, the leather yielding to his imposing frame. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“Mr. Kimball, I’m not the police and I’m not the prosecutor. It’s not my job to bring Chris’s killer to justice, whatever that may mean in this situation. My job is to get my client off and I’ll do it any way I can, but I’d rather not implicate Joey in the process.”

He stared at me with chilly displeasure. It was as if a cloud was passing over the sun. “Do you have evidence of this absurd claim against my grandson?”

“I do,” I said.

“What is it?”

“You know I can’t answer that,” I said, “but the evidence does exist. I will say at this point it’s not strong enough to convict, but that’s not my problem. All I have to do is create a reasonable doubt that Zack Bowen killed Chris. The evidence of Joey’s involvement is strong enough for that purpose.”

Kimball regarded me with something like amusement and said, “So you think you can get your client acquitted by resorting to the character assassination of a twenty-year-old boy who’s just lost his father? That won’t get you very far.”

“Joey was seen entering the courthouse garage on the night Chris was murdered,” I said, bluffing.

“Seen by whom?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realized his mistake and said, with suave certainty, “He couldn’t have been seen by anyone, because he wasn’t there.”

“My witness will testify to it,” I replied.

I could see him considering his possible responses, searching for the least incriminating one.

“Your witness is mistaken,” he said, with the same smooth tone.

“Joey will have to get on the stand and say so,” I replied. “And then it won’t be my investigator questioning him, it’ll be me.”

He changed gears and said, “If you’re so sure it was my grandson who killed Chandler, why haven’t you gone to the police with your evidence?”

“I told you,” I replied, “that’s not my job.”

“But it is your job to exonerate your client,” he said, “and if you can do that by revealing the real culprit, why not go to the authorities?”

“Is that really what you want me to do?”

“What else did you have in mind?”

“With the proper groundwork, Joey could get off fairly lightly if he came forward on his own.”

“What do you mean, with the proper groundwork?”

“Chris’s murder was a crime of passion,” I replied. “A good lawyer and a persuasive psychiatrist could get Joey off with manslaughter and he’d be out in three years. Maybe it needn’t even go that far if the D.A. was willing to cut a deal.”

He listened intently, but when I finished, he said, “Tell me about this suppression motion. What are you after there?”

Without going into specifics, I explained that I had pretty good evidence to impeach McBeth’s claim in her affidavit that she’d been directed to Zack’s apartment by an anonymous tip.

“And who’s the judge that’s going to hear this?” Kimball asked.

“Torres-Jones,” I said.

“I don’t think I know him,” he said.

“Her,” I replied.

“Her,” he repeated. “And if you suppress this evidence, the case against your client falls apart.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky at your hearing,” he said, dismissively. “You’ll have to excuse me, now. I have another appointment.”

I got up and said, “Thank you for your time.”

“Good luck,” he smiled.

I stood for a moment in the hall outside of his office, just long enough to hear him pick up his phone and say, “Hi, it’s grandad. Is your mother home?”

I would’ve stood there longer, but the woman in the yellow sweater appeared in the corridor and I made my exit.

I didn’t know exactly what to make of my conversation with Joe Kimball but one thing was clear, Joey didn’t have an alibi for the night of Chris’s murder. If he had, Kimball would have laid it out and shown me to the door. Instead, what I got from him was an ambivalent mixture of indignation and calculation, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to intimidate me or cut a deal. I could see his dilemma. Legally, there was nothing he could do to prevent me from implicating Joey in Chris’s murder because Joey wasn’t a party to the case. Therefore, if I had evidence against Joey, he couldn’t prevent its admission or challenge its veracity in court. His only possible solution was to persuade me not to use the evidence. He hadn’t succeeded in scaring me off, but I was pretty sure I’d be hearing from him or Bay again.

T
HE BAILIFF, A SKINNY
, red-headed boy, on hearing the buzzer that indicated the judge was about to enter the court, said, “Please rise, Division Twenty-four of the Municipal Court of Los Angeles is now in session, Judge Torres-Jones presiding.”

I nudged Zack and we got to our feet. Torres-Jones was taller than I thought she’d be, but otherwise as benign in the flesh as she was in her photograph and she wore her authority with an easy self-confidence.

“Good morning,” she said. “Please be seated.”

I glanced back to the rows of benches behind the railing where witnesses and spectators sat, to see if the last of my witnesses, Karen Holman, had appeared yet. Don Ward was whispering something to his wife, Donna, who nodded agreement. Ben Harper sat apart, his arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed. Darlene Sawyer smiled at me from the back of the room. There were maybe a dozen other people in the room, some from the press, the others, prosecution witnesses for the prelim. No Karen Holman.

I was sitting at counsel table with Zack, who was wearing a coat and tie for the occasion. At the other end of the table, the D.A., an intense, curly-haired woman named Laura Lang, conferred with Yolanda McBeth, both of them in dark suits. McBeth glanced over at me, then quickly looked away.

The judge was saying, “People versus Bowen. The defendant is present in court. Will the parties state their appearances for the record.”

“Henry Rios for the defendant,” I said.

“Laura Lang for the People.”

“Thank you,” the judge said. “We’re here this morning for the preliminary hearing and also for a fifteen-thirty-eight-point-five motion. Shall we take the motion first?”

“That would be the defense’s preference, Your Honor,” I said.

She looked at Lang, “People?”

“That’s fine,” she said.

“All right, let’s proceed. Mr. Rios, it’s your motion. Proceed.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, getting to my feet. “Unlike most suppression hearings, there is a search warrant in this case. We are seeking to have the warrant quashed on the grounds that the supporting affidavit contains either deliberate falsehoods or was made with a reckless disregard for the truth. We want to suppress all evidence gathered as a result of the search, particularly the object identified by the warrant as the potential murder weapon and articles of clothing, all of them taken from my client’s apartment.”

The court reporter tapped away, recording my boilerplate.

“What exactly is the object you’re talking about?” the judge asked.

“It’s a marble obelisk,” I said, “about a foot tall.”

She jotted a note. “And the clothes?”

“Pants and a shirt,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “Now what are the statements you allege are false, Mr. Rios?”

“Your Honor,” I said, “the warrant was issued on the basis of an anonymous telephone call supposedly made by a tenant of the building where my client lived and received by the affiant, Detective McBeth. We intend to prove there was no such call, that, in fact, the description given by the putative caller of what he saw from where he saw it is physically impossible.”

“I see,” she said. “Let me take a look at the warrant.” She opened her file and flipped through it. “Here it is. I’m going to take a minute to read it.”

I heard the door to the courtroom open and looked back, hoping to see Holman. Instead, Bay Chandler quietly entered the room and took a seat at the back, near Harper. Her face tightened when she saw me. I turned my attention back to the judge.

When she finished reading the warrant, Torres-Jones said, “Will the People be calling any witnesses, Ms. Lang, or do you plan to stand on the warrant?”

Lang said, “The motion is frivolous, Your Honor. I’ll submit on the warrant.”

“All right, Mr. Rios,” the judge said. “Call your first witness.”

I said, “Your Honor, I’d like to call Detective McBeth under Evidence Code section seven seven six.”

The judge looked over to the prosecution side of the table and asked, “You’re Detective McBeth, I assume?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Rios is calling you as a hostile witness, Detective,” she said. “But don’t take the word hostile literally.”

McBeth said, “I won’t, Your Honor.”

“All right, take the witness stand, Detective.”

After McBeth was sworn, I went up to the lectern and began my questioning. I could see from the way she held herself and the tension in her face that she was expecting me to come out slugging. I smiled at her and in my friendliest tone said, “Good morning, Detective.”

She smiled back and managed a pleasant, “Good morning.”

“Detective, are you the investigating officer on this case?”

From behind me, Lang said, “The People will stipulate that Detective McBeth is the investigating officer.”

“So stipulated,” I said. “I hope everything goes this smoothly.”

“Both of us, counsel,” the judge said.

“Now, Detective McBeth, you began your investigation of Judge Chandler’s murder on October eighth of this year, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And according to your affidavit, you received this anonymous call the same day?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“And this call directed you to my client’s apartment, which you searched on the tenth, is that right?”

“Your Honor,” Lang said, “that’s all in the warrant.”

“Counsel,” the judge admonished, “in this court, you make objections, not observations. Answer the question, Detective.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Now isn’t it true that LAPD was working on this case around the clock?”

“Yes.”

“But other than this anonymous call, had your investigation developed any evidence connecting my client to Judge Chandler’s murder?”

In her best police procedural monotone, she said, “I learned that your client was a beneficiary of the judge’s will.”

“And that was evidence that he might have killed the judge?”

“Objection, argumentative.”

“No, I’ll overrule it. Please answer.”

“It was unusual because he wasn’t a family member,” McBeth said, “and he’d been added to the will only a couple of weeks before the judge was killed.”

“Where did you get this information about the will?”

“From the Chandler family,” she said.

“Who, specifically?” I pressed.

“Mrs. Chandler.”

“Did Mrs. Chandler also tell you that she and the judge were separated because of Judge Chandler’s romantic involvement with my client?”

“Yes, she told me that.”

“And isn’t it true that you considered my client’s involvement with Judge Chandler to be evidence of my client’s guilt?”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied.

I flipped through her affidavit. “Detective,” I said, “isn’t it true that on page five of your affidavit you stated, and I quote, ‘the suspect had a homosexual relationship with the decedent’ to show the anonymous tip you received was accurate?”

Lang got to her feet. “Objection, best evidence.”

Torres-Jones said, “Overruled. Answer the question, Detective.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And what is it about a homosexual relationship that makes it likelier that someone will commit murder than a heterosexual relationship?” I asked.

“Objection, argumentative.”

“Sustained,” Torres-Jones said. “Anyway, you’ve made your point, Counsel. Ask another question.”

“Did you also consider the other beneficiaries of Judge Chandler’s will to be potential suspects?”

She glanced past me, at counsel table. Lang said, “Your Honor, I’m going to object on relevance grounds. This is completely peripheral to whether the warrant is valid.”