“We are talking about a very brief moment,” Ballard said. “Those were my thoughts initially, but then I heard the garage door and knew that Trent was back and that he most likely had another victim with him, because he had told me he was going to abduct his ex-wife.”
“But your initial answer indicates you had no idea where you were.”
“Well, I certainly assumed I was in Trent’s house, and I knew where he lived because I had backgrounded him when he became a person of interest in my investigation.”
“Had you ever previously been in that house?”
There it was. Feltzer had information he hadn’t had when he’d questioned her the day before.
“No, I had never been inside that house,” Ballard said.
She had to assume that the two North Hollywood patrol officers she had met on Wrightwood on Friday night had come forward.
“Had you ever been on the premises of Thomas Trent’s home?” Feltzer asked.
“Yes, I had been on the premises,” Ballard answered without hesitation.
Towson leaned slightly forward. He was now flying blind. Ballard had not discussed at breakfast her attempt to ghost Trent’s house, because she’d had no idea it would come up. Towson now had to trust that Ballard knew how to navigate this set of questions.
“How so, Detective Ballard?” Feltzer asked.
“On Friday evening I confirmed that Trent was at his job at the car dealership and I went to his house to look around,” Ballard said. “My victim had described being taken to an upside-down house. I felt it was important to see if Trent’s home matched that description.”
“Detective, did you call in a false report of a prowler on Wrightwood Drive in order to facilitate this ‘look around’?”
Towson put his hand on Ballard’s arm to stop her from responding.
“She’s not going to answer that,” he said. “This is a use-of-force investigation. We are not going to discuss unrelated matters.”
“It is related,” Feltzer said. “My information is that Detective Ballard on Friday night was on the porch outside the room where she was later allegedly held captive and where she killed Thomas Trent. She said in her statement that she didn’t know where she was and couldn’t escape. That is in conflict with the facts I’ve accumulated.”
“Being outside a room and being inside a room are completely different,” Towson countered. “My client had been assaulted, drugged, and possibly raped—all of which affected her perceptions.”
“The curtains were closed,” Ballard added. “I didn’t know I was in the room off that porch.”
Towson waved a hand in a dismissive manner.
“This doesn’t fly, Lieutenant,” he said. “You are wasting our time. There is clearly an agenda here. You are attempting to build a case to dismiss Detective Ballard for reasons that don’t exist. She didn’t escape. She stayed back and risked her life to save another. Are you seriously trying to make this count against her? Where does this come from?”
“There is no agenda here,” Feltzer said. “And I strenuously object to your characterization of this investigation. You are completely out of line.”
“You want to talk about what’s out of line?” Towson said. “This is what’s out of line.”
The lawyer opened his briefcase, took out the folded A section of that morning’s Los Angeles Times, and dropped it on the desk. The story on the Trent killing had caught the bottom corner of the front page. The story was bylined with Jerry Castor’s name.
“I have nothing to do with what the media reports,” Feltzer said. “I have no say in how complete or incomplete the story is.”
“Bullshit,” Ballard said.
“This story includes details that go far beyond the official press release put out yesterday by the department,” Towson said. “Not only that, but the release of selective details and the omission of others puts my client in an unfavorable light. It’s a hit piece.”
“We will look into how the Times came to have their information,” Feltzer said.
“That’s hardly reassuring when the investigator is probably the one who leaked it,” Towson said.
“I warn you, sir,” Feltzer said angrily. “I will put up with a lot from you, but I’m not going to allow you to assault my reputation. I play by the rules here.”
Feltzer’s face grew red with anger. He was putting on a credible show. He was also playing directly into Ballard and Towson’s hands.
“Your anger indicates that you would agree that the leaking of details outside the agreed-upon press release is a violation of Detective Ballard’s privacy rights under the law and the policy of this department,” Towson said.
“I told you, we are going to look into the leak,” Feltzer said.
“Why?” Towson asked. “Was it illegal or just not fair?”
“It was against the law, okay?” Feltzer said. “We will investigate.”
Towson pointed toward Feltzer’s computer screen.
“Well, Lieutenant, we’d like to help with that investigation,” he said. “Let me give you a link to pull up.”
“What are you talking about?” Feltzer said. “What link?”
“It’s a website that we will be directing LAPD command staff and local media to at a press conference later today,” Towson said. “It’s Jerry and Joe dot com. Pull up your server and check it out.”
Feltzer’s computer screen was on a side extension to his desk so that it would not be a visible barrier between him and anyone sitting across the main desk from him. He turned now and activated the screen. He pulled up his server and started typing in the website address.
“Jerry with a J,” Ballard said. “As in Jerry Castor.”
Feltzer paused for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“It’s okay, Lieutenant,” Towson said. “It’s just a website.”
Feltzer typed. The website opened on his screen. It was a single page with a nine-second video playing in a loop: a downward view of Feltzer meeting with Jerry Castor at the Last Bookstore the night before. Towson had hatched the idea for the site at breakfast and had bought the domain and set it up while he and Ballard were eating.
Feltzer watched the video in stunned silence. After the third loop, he killed the screen. He was turned away from Ballard and Towson, so neither one of them could fully see the look on his face. But his head bowed as he obviously considered his predicament. In seconds he determined that the time-stamped video spoke for itself and that his situation was untenable. Like the political animal the video revealed him to be, he slowly turned back to Ballard and Towson, a look on his face that was somewhere between panic and acceptance of dire consequences.
“So what do you want?” he said.
Ballard was elated. Their plan to corner Feltzer had worked flawlessly.
“We want this obvious effort to drive Detective Ballard from the department to stop right here,” Towson said.
He waited and Feltzer nodded once, almost unnoticeably.
“And we want another story on the Times website by six p.m. tonight and in the hard copy tomorrow morning,” Towson continued. “We want fuller details leaked to your friend Jerry Castor, details that put Detective Ballard in the positive light she deserves. I want to see words like hero and in policy and justified in the story.”
“I can’t control how they write,” Feltzer protested. “You know that.”
“Try, Lieutenant,” Towson said. “Your friend Castor has just as much reason as you to set the record straight. He won’t look good if this comes out in some of the media around town. He’ll look like the shill for LAPD management that he is, and I don’t think the editors across the street will like that.”
“Okay, okay,” Feltzer said. “That it?”
“No, not even close,” Ballard said. “I want access to Trent’s house and access to all evidence your team took out of there. There’s still an investigation to conduct and close. I want to see if there is any indication tha
t Trent did this to other victims.”
Feltzer nodded.
“Done,” he said.
“And another thing,” Ballard said. “I go from here to BSU to get my psych exam. I want my return-to-duty slip expedited.”
“You can’t expect me to reach into BSU and—”
“Actually, we do expect it,” Towson said, cutting Feltzer off. “You tell them you are under pressure from the chief’s office to wrap this up and get Ballard back on the job because the chief wants hero cops back on the street.”
“Okay, okay,” Feltzer said. “I’ll make it all happen. But I’ll need you to take that link down. Somebody could stumble across it.”
“It will go down when you make good on this agreement,” Towson said. “Only then.”
Towson looked at Ballard.
“We good?” he asked. “We covered everything?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Then let’s get out of here,” he said.
Towson said it in a tone that made his disgust clear. He stood up and looked down at Feltzer. The detective lieutenant was pale, like he had just seen his life flash in front of his eyes. Or his career, at least.
“In a previous life, I worked J-SID cases at the D.A.’s Office,” Towson said. “I’ve still got friends over there, and they’re always looking to take down guys like you, guys who let ego and power go to their heads. Don’t give me a reason to pick up a phone and get reacquainted.”
Feltzer simply nodded. Towson and Ballard left the office and closed the door.
32
In the courtyard in front of the PAB, Ballard thanked Towson for saving her career. He said she had done that herself. “You following the reporter last night—that was genius,” he said. “That’s all we needed, and the beauty of it is, it will keep Feltzer in line. As long as you have that, you’re in good shape.”
Ballard turned back to look up at the PAB. The tower of City Hall was reflected in the glass facade.
“My partner on the late show, he says PAB stands for Politics and Bullshit,” she said. “This is one of the days I think he’s right.”
“You take care, Renée,” Towson said. “Call if you need anything.”
“You’re going to invoice me, right?”
“I’ll think about that. This is a situation where the accomplishment is its own reward. The look on Feltzer’s face after he saw the loop? That was worth a million dollars.”
“I’m not a pro bono case, Counselor. Send me a bill—just not for a million dollars.”
“All right. I will.”
The mention of money reminded Ballard of something.
“By the way, do you have a business card?” she asked. “I’m going to recommend you to someone.”
“Sure do,” Towson replied.
He dug into his suit coat pocket and gave her a short stack of cards.
“Take a few,” he said. “They’re free.”
She smiled and thanked him.
“You know, I forgot to ask: Has anyone from the Dancers case come to talk to you about Fabian?”
“I assume I have you to thank for that. Yes, I was interviewed.”
“Who came?”
“A detective named Carr.”
Ballard nodded.
“You tell him anything you didn’t already tell me?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Towson said. “As I recall, you were quite thorough.”
Ballard smiled again and they headed their separate ways, Towson across the courtyard toward the federal courthouse a block away, and Ballard to the steps that were to the east side of the PAB. She was pleased to hear that Carr had followed up with Towson. Maybe that meant he also was finally buying into her suggestion that a cop was involved in the shooting.
At the top of the stairs, Ballard turned right and went to the Memorial for Fallen Officers. It was a contemporary sculpture in which the names of officers killed in the line of duty were etched on brass plates and attached to a cagelike wooden edifice. Most of the brass plates had weathered over time, leaving those marking recent deaths brighter than the others. It was easy for her to pick out the brightest and shiniest plate. She stepped up and saw that it had the name Ken Chastain on it.
She stood there somberly for a few moments, until her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her back pocket. It was Rob Compton.
“Renée, I just heard! What the fuck! Are you okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Why didn’t you call me, baby? I just read about this in the fricking paper.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you read. That’s not the whole story, and it’s going to get fixed. I didn’t call you yesterday because I didn’t have my phone most of the day. I finally got to it last night. What’s the story with the ATF?”
“Never mind, that can wait. I just want to make sure you’re okay. When can we get together?”
“I don’t want the ATF to wait, Robby. I need to stay busy. What’ve you got?”
She started walking down the steps and back to the courtyard. Her rental car was still in a lot behind the Times Building and she headed that way.
“Well, an agent from over there called me on the weapon search we put in,” Compton said. “His name is John Welborne. You know him?”
“I can count on one finger the number of ATF agents I know,” Ballard said. “I don’t know him.”
“Do you know it’s now called the ATFE? They added Explosives.”
“Nobody calls it that. Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Okay, well, this guy Welborne called about the stolen Glock that Nettles had. It’s got a big-time flag on it. It was taken off a Brinks guard during an armored-car takedown two years ago in Dallas. I don’t remember the case, but the guard it was taken from? He was executed with it. Same with his partner.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. So at first they were thinking we had the guy—you know, Nettles. But Nettles was in prison at the time of this thing in Dallas. So the gun had to have been stolen a second time in one of the burglaries he committed.”
“And probably a caper that went unreported. Because if you had a gun stolen that was used in a double murder armored-car job, you wouldn’t call the cops and report a burglary. You’d lie low and hope that gun disappeared.”
“Right. So here’s the thing. These feds, they wouldn’t normally stop to ask a parole agent shit. They’d just blow on by me. But we put these guns into the computer before we knew what was what—you know, like which house they were stolen from. So Welborne’s calling me up, chomping at the bit, wanting to move on this.”
“But he can’t.”
“Nope, he’s stuck, waiting on me.”
“Where is Nettles? Did he get sent back up yet?”
“Not yet. He’s still in County and scheduled to go in front of the judge tomorrow.”
Ballard was quiet as she thought through the situation. She was technically relieved of duty pending the psych exam and the FID case. She wondered if she could move her BSU appointment up and get it out of the way. She would really be counting on Feltzer to come through with the forced agreement to streamline everything.
“I’m supposed to be riding the pine because of this other thing,” she said. “But I’m hoping it clears today.”
“No way they clear you that quick,” he said. “Not with what’s in the paper today.”
“I’ve got somebody working on that. We’ll see.”
“So then, what do you want to do?”
“How much discretion do you have with Nettles?”
“Some, yeah. It’s the weapons: felon with a firearm. That’s the play.”
“Well, I’m downtown right now. I have an appointment with Behavioral and then I could clear. We could go see Nettles at County and find out if he wants to help himself by telling us where he got the Glock. When he finds out it was used in a two-bagger, he’ll probably be more than happy to disown it and tell us where
it came from.”
“Okay, I need a couple hours myself. I have something unrelated going and I need to clear a move like this. I don’t think it will be a problem, but I just have to follow protocol and talk to the boss about trading with Nettles. How about we meet at Men’s Central at twelve? That’ll be lunch and they should be able to grab him up for us.”
“See you then.”
As Ballard headed to her car, she called Lieutenant McAdams at Hollywood Detectives.
“L-T, I’m not sure when or if I’ll make it in today,” she said.
“Ballard, you’re supposed to be on the bench till this FID thing clears,” McAdams said.
“I know. I’m down here at FID right now.”
“What’s going on?”
“I got called in for more questions. And after this, I go to BSU for the psych exam. I don’t know how long this will take.”
“Did you see the Times today? More importantly, did FID see it?”
“Yeah, everybody’s seen the Times and it’s bullshit.”
“Then where the fuck did it come from?”
“Good question, L-T.”
“Ballard, a word to the wise, watch your ass.”
“Roger that.”
The Behavioral Science Unit was located in Chinatown. Ballard’s appointment wasn’t until 10:30, so she called to see if she could get it bumped up by a half hour or more. The phone receptionist almost laughed before telling her the request could not be accommodated.
With time to kill, Ballard got her car out of the pay lot and drove over to County-USC. She found that Ramona was no longer in the acute-care ward. She had been upgraded to fair condition, and with that came a change of rooms. She was now sharing a room with another patient. She was conscious and alert. The swelling around her eyes was way down and the bruising had moved to the yellow-green stage. The stitches had been removed from her lower lip as well. Ballard entered the room and smiled at her, but there didn’t seem to be any recognition.