“Welcome to the club.”
“So I don’t know. I was thinking maybe we should set up a schedule, you know? Like make it a regular thing. She could even stay overnight sometimes—I mean, if she wanted.”
“Are you sure about all of that? This is new from you.”
“It’s new because I didn’t know about it before. When she was smaller and I couldn’t really communicate with her, I didn’t really know what to do with her. I felt awkward. Now I don’t. I like talking to her. Being with her. I learn more from her than she does from me, that’s for sure.”
I suddenly felt her hand on my leg under the table.
“This is great,” she said. “I am so happy to hear you say that. But let’s move slow. You haven’t been around her much for four years and I am not going to let her build up her hopes only to have you pull a disappearing act.”
“I understand. We can take it any way you want. I’m just telling you I am going to be there. I promise.”
She smiled, wanting to believe. And I made the same promise I just made to her to myself.
“Well, great,” she said. “I’m really glad you want to do this. Let’s get a calendar and work out some dates and see how it goes.”
She took her hand away and we continued eating in silence until we both had almost finished. Then Maggie surprised me once again.
“I don’t think I can drive my car tonight,” she said.
I nodded.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“You seem all right. You only had half a pint at —”
“No, I mean I was thinking the same thing about you. But don’t worry, I’ll drive you home.”
“Thank you.”
Then she reached across the table and put her hand on my wrist.
“And will you take me back to get my car in the morning?”
She smiled sweetly at me. I looked at her, trying to read this woman who had told me to hit the road four years before. The woman I had never been able to get by or get over, whose rejection sent me reeling into a relationship I knew from the beginning couldn’t go the distance.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll take you.”
Friday, March 18
SEVENTEEN
I n the morning I awoke to find my eight-year-old daughter sleeping between me and my ex-wife. Light was leaking in from a cathedral window high up on the wall. When I had lived here that window had always bothered me because it let in too much light too early in the mornings. Looking up at the pattern it threw on the inclined ceiling, I reviewed what had happened the night before and remembered that I had ended up drinking all but one glass of the bottle of wine at the restaurant. I remembered taking Maggie home to the apartment and coming in to find our daughter had already fallen asleep for the night—in her own bed.
After the babysitter had been released, Maggie opened another bottle of wine. When we finished it she took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom we had shared for four years, but not in four years. What bothered me now was that my memory had absorbed all the wine and I could not remember whether it had been a triumphant return to the bedroom or a failure. I also could not remember what words had been spoken, what promises had possibly been made.
“This is not fair to her.”
I turned my head on the pillow. Maggie was awake. She was looking at our sleeping daughter’s angelic face.
“What isn’t fair?”
“Her waking up and finding you here. She might get her hopes up or just get the wrong idea.”
“How’d she get in here?”
“I carried her in. She had a nightmare.”
“How often does she have nightmares?”
“Usually, when she sleeps alone. In her room.”
“So she sleeps in here all the time?”
Something about my tone bothered her.
“Don’t start. You have no idea what it’s like to raise a child by yourself.”
“I know. I’m not saying anything. So what do you want me to do, leave before she wakes up? I could get dressed and act like I just came by to get you and drive you back to your car.”
“I don’t know. Get dressed for now. Try not to wake her up.”
I slipped out of the bed, grabbed my clothes and went down the hall to the guest bathroom. I was confused by how much Maggie’s demeanor toward me had changed overnight. Alcohol, I decided. Or maybe something I did or said after we’d gotten back to the apartment. I quickly got dressed and went back up the hallway to the bedroom and peeked in.
Hayley was still asleep. With her arms spread across two pillows she looked like an angel with wings. Maggie was pulling a long-sleeve T-shirt over an old pair of sweats she’d had since back when we were married. I walked in and stepped over to her.
“I’m going to go and come back,” I whispered.
“What?” she said with annoyance. “I thought we were going to get the car.”
“But I thought you didn’t want her to wake up and see me. So let me go and I’ll have some coffee or something and be back in an hour. We can all go together and get your car and then I’ll take Hayley to school. I’ll even pick her up later if you want. My calendar’s clear today.”
“Just like that? You’re going to start driving her to school?”
“She’s my daughter. Don’t you remember anything I told you last night?”
She shifted the line of her jaw and I knew from experience that this was when the heavy artillery came out. I was missing something. Maggie had shifted gears.
“Well, yes, but I thought you were just saying that,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I just thought you were trying to get into my head on your case or just plain get me into bed. I don’t know.”
I laughed and shook my head. Any fantasies about us that I’d had the night before were vanishing quickly.
“I wasn’t the one who led the other up the steps to the bedroom,” I said.
“Oh, so it was really about the case. You wanted what I knew about your case.”
I just stared at her for a long moment.
“I can’t win with you, can I?”
“Not when you’re underhanded, when you act like a criminal defense attorney.”
She was always the better of the two of us when it came to verbal knife throwing. The truth was, I was thankful we had a built-in conflict of interest and I would never have to face her in trial. Over the years some people—mostly defense pros who suffered at her hands—had gone so far as to say that was the reason I had married her. To avoid her professionally.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll be back in an hour. If you want a ride to the car that you were too drunk to drive last night, be ready and have her ready.”
“It’s okay. We’ll take a cab.”
“I will drive you.”
“No, we’ll take a cab. And keep your voice down.”
I looked over at my daughter, still asleep despite her parents’ verbal sparring.
“What about her? Do you want me to take her tomorrow or Sunday?”
“I don’t know. Call me tomorrow.”
“Fine. Good-bye.”
I left her there in the bedroom. Outside the apartment building I walked a block and a half down Dickens before finding the Lincoln parked awkwardly against the curb. There was a ticket on the windshield citing me for parking next to a fire hydrant. I got in the car and threw it into the backseat. I’d deal with it the next time I was riding back there. I wouldn’t be like Louis Roulet, letting my tickets go to warrant. There was a county full of cops out there who would love to book me on a warrant.
Fighting always made me hungry and I realized I was starved. I worked my way back to Ventura and headed toward Studio City. It was early, especially for the morning after St. Patrick’s Day, and I got to the DuPar’s by Laurel Canyon Boulevard before it was crowded. I got a booth in the back and ordered a short stack of pancakes and coffee. I tried to forget about Maggie McFierce by
opening up my briefcase and pulling out a legal pad and the Roulet files.
Before diving into the files I made a call to Raul Levin, waking him up at his home in Glendale.
“I’ve got something for you to do,” I said.
“Can’t this wait till Monday? I just got home a couple hours ago. I was going to start the weekend today.”
“No, it can’t wait and you owe me one after yesterday. Besides, you’re not even Irish. I need you to background somebody.”
“All right, wait a minute.”
I heard him put down the phone while he probably grabbed pen and paper to take notes.
“Okay, go ahead.”
“There’s a guy named Corliss who was arraigned right after Roulet back on the seventh. He was in the first group out and they were in the holding pen at the same time. He’s now trying to snitch Roulet off and I want to know everything there is to know about the guy so I can put his dick in the dirt.”
“Got a first name?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know what he’s in there for?”
“No, and I don’t even know if he is still in there.”
“Thanks for the help. What’s he saying Roulet told him?”
“That he beat up some bitch who had it coming. Words to that effect.”
“Okay, what else you got?”
“That’s it other than I got a tip that he’s a repeat snitch. Find out who he’s crapped on in the past and there might be something there I can use. Go back as far as you can go with this guy. The DA’s people usually don’t. They’re afraid of what they might find. They’d rather be ignorant.”
“Okay, I’ll get on it.”
“Let me know when you know.”
I closed the phone just as my pancakes arrived. I doused them liberally with maple syrup and started eating while looking through the file containing the state’s discovery.
The weapon report remained the only surprise. Everything else in the file, except the color photos, I had already seen in Levin’s file.
I moved on to that. As expected with a contract investigator, Levin had larded the file with everything found in the net he had cast. He even had copies of the parking tickets and speeding citations Roulet had accumulated and failed to pay in recent years. It annoyed me at first because there was so much to weed through to get to what was going to be germane to Roulet’s defense.
I was nearly through it all when the waitress swung by my booth with a coffee pot, looking to refill my mug. She recoiled when she saw the battered face of Reggie Campo in one of the color photos I had put to the side of the files.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
I covered the photo with one of the files and signaled her back. The waitress came back hesitantly and poured the coffee.
“It’s work,” I said in feeble explanation. “I didn’t mean to do that to you.”
“All I can say is I hope you get the bastard that did that to her.”
I nodded. She thought I was a cop. Probably because I hadn’t shaved in twenty-four hours.
“I’m working on it,” I said.
She went away and I went back to the file. As I slid the photo of Reggie Campo out from underneath it I saw the undamaged side of her face first. The left side. Something struck me and I held the file in position so that I was only looking at the good half of her face. The wave of familiarity came over me again. But again I could not place its origin. I knew this woman looked like another woman I knew or was at least familiar with. But who?
I also knew it was going to bother me until I figured it out. I thought about it for a long time, sipping my coffee and drumming my fingers on the table, and then decided to try something. I took the face shot of Campo and folded it lengthwise down the middle so that one side of the crease showed the damaged right side of her face and the other showed the unblemished left side. I then slipped the folded photo into the inside pocket of my jacket and got up from the booth.
There was no one in the restroom. I quickly went to the sink and took out the folded photo. I leaned over the sink and held the crease of the photo against the mirror with the undamaged side of Reggie Campo’s face on display. The mirror reflected the image, creating a full and undamaged face. I stared at it for a long time and then finally realized why the face was familiar.
“Martha Renteria,” I said.
The door to the restroom suddenly burst open and two teenagers stormed in, their hands already tugging on their zippers. I quickly pulled the photo back from the mirror and shoved it inside my jacket. I turned and walked toward the door. I heard them burst into laughter as I left. I couldn’t imagine what it was they thought I was doing.
Back at the booth I gathered my files and photos and put them all back into my briefcase. I left a more than adequate amount of cash on the table for tab and tip and left the restaurant in a hurry. I felt like I was having a strange food reaction. My face felt flushed and I was hot under the collar. I thought I could hear my heart pounding beneath my shirt.
Fifteen minutes later I was parked in front of my storage warehouse on Oxnard Avenue in North Hollywood. I have a fifteen-hundred-square-foot space behind a double-wide garage door. The place is owned by a man whose son I defended on a possession case, getting him out of jail and into pretrial intervention. In lieu of a fee, the father gave me the warehouse rent-free for a year. But his son the drug addict kept getting into trouble and I kept getting free years of warehouse rent.
I keep the boxes of files from dead cases in the warehouse as well as two other Lincoln Town Cars. Last year when I was flush I bought four Lincolns at once so I could get a fleet rate. The plan was to use each one until it hit sixty thousand on the odometer and then dump it on a limousine service to be used to ferry travelers to and from the airport. The plan was working out so far. I was on the second Lincoln and it would soon be time for the third.
Once I got one of the garage doors up I went to the archival area, where the file boxes were arranged by year on industrial shelving. I found the section of shelves for boxes from two years earlier and ran my finger down the list of client names written on the side of each box until I found the name Jesus Menendez.
I pulled the box off the shelf and squatted down and opened it on the floor. The Menendez case had been short-lived. He took a plea early, before the DA pulled it back off the table. So there were only four files and these mostly contained copies of the documents relating to the police investigation. I paged through the files looking for photographs and finally saw what I was looking for in the third file.
Martha Renteria was the woman Jesus Menendez had pleaded guilty to murdering. She was a twenty-four-year-old dancer who had a dark beauty and a smile of big white teeth. She had been found stabbed to death in her Panorama City apartment. She had been beaten before she was stabbed and her facial injuries were to the left side of her face, the opposite of Reggie Campo. I found the close-up shot of her face contained in the autopsy report. Once more I folded the photo lengthwise, one side of her face damaged, one side untouched.
On the floor I took the two folded photographs, one of Reggie and one of Martha, and fitted them together along the fold lines. Putting aside the fact that one woman was dead and one wasn’t, the half faces damn near formed a perfect match. The two women looked so much alike they could have passed for sisters.
EIGHTEEN
J esus Menendez was serving a life sentence in San Quentin because he had wiped his penis on a bathroom towel. No matter how you looked at it, that is what it really came down to. That towel had been his biggest mistake.
Sitting spread-legged on the concrete floor of my warehouse, the contents of Menendez files fanned out around me, I was reacquainting myself with the facts of the case I had worked two years before. Menendez was convicted of killing Martha Renteria after following her home to Panorama City from a strip club in East Hollywood called The Cobra Room. He raped her and then stabbed her more than fifty times, causing so much blood to leave he
r body that it seeped through the bed and formed a puddle on the wood floor below it. In another day it seeped through cracks in the floor and formed a drip from the ceiling in the apartment below. That is when the police were called.
The case against Menendez was formidable but circumstantial. He had also hurt himself by admitting to police—before I was on the case—that he had been in her apartment on the night of the murder. But it was the DNA on the fluffy pink towel in the victim’s bathroom that ultimately did him in. It couldn’t be neutralized. It was a spinning plate that couldn’t be knocked down. Defense pros call a piece of evidence like this the iceberg because it is the evidence that sinks the ship.
I had taken on the Menendez murder case as what I would call a “loss leader.” Menendez had no money to pay for the kind of time and effort it would take to mount a thorough defense but the case had garnered substantial publicity and I was willing to trade my time and work for the free advertising. Menendez had come to me because just a few months before his arrest I had successfully defended his older brother Fernando in a heroin case. At least in my opinion I had been successful. I had gotten a possession and sales charge knocked down to a simple possession. He got probation instead of prison.
Those good efforts resulted in Fernando calling me on the night Jesus was arrested for the murder of Martha Renteria. Jesus had gone to the Van Nuys Division to voluntarily talk to detectives. A drawing of his face had been shown on every television channel in the city and was getting heavy rotation in particular on the Spanish channels. He had told his family that he would go to the detectives to straighten things out and be back. But he never came back, so his brother called me. I told the brother that the lesson to be learned was never to go to the detectives to straighten things out until after you’ve consulted an attorney.
I had already seen numerous television news reports on the murder of the exotic dancer, as Renteria had been labeled, when Menendez’s brother called me. The reports had included the police artist’s drawing of the Latin male believed to have followed her from the club. I knew that the pre-arrest media interest meant the case would likely be carried forward in the public consciousness by the television news and I might be able to get a good ride out of it. I agreed to take the case on the come line. For free. Pro bono. For the good of the system. Besides, murder cases are few and far between. I take them when I can get them. Menendez was the twelfth accused murderer I had defended. The first eleven were still in prison but none of them were on death row. I considered that a good record.