I is for Innocent (14 page)

“Talk to your attorney. He got you off a
murder
rap . . . so far, at any rate. I wouldn't mess with success if I were you.”

“Could you meet with me . . . just briefly?”

“No, I can't meet with you!”

“Lady, I'm begging you. Five minutes is all I ask.”

“I'm going to hang up, Mr. Barney. This is inappropriate.”

“I need help.”

“Then hire some. My services are taken.”

I put the phone down and jerked my hand back. Was the man nuts? I'd never heard of a defendant trying to enlist
the sympathies of the opposition. Suppose, in desperation, the guy came after me? I snatched up the phone again and buzzed Ida Ruth.

“Yessum?”

“The guy who just called. Did you give him my name?”

“Of course not. I'd never do such a thing,” she said.

“Oh, shit. I just remembered. I gave it to him myself.”

 

 

 

 

I
picked up the phone again and placed a call to Sergeant Cordero in Homicide. She was out, but Lieutenant Becker picked up. “Hi, this is Kinsey. I need some information and I was hoping Sheri could help.”

“She won't be back until after three, but maybe I can help. What's the scoop?”

“I was going to ask her to call the county jail and have someone check the jail release forms for a fellow named Curtis McIntyre.”

“Wait a minute. Let me grab a pencil. That was McIntyre?”

“Right. He's an informant set to testify on a case for Lonnie Kingman. I need to know if he was incarcerated on May twenty-first, five years ago, which is when he claimed he talked to the defendant. I can get the information by subpoena, but it's probably just a wild-goose chase and I hate to go to all the trouble.”

“Shouldn't be hard to check. I'll call you back when
I've got it, but it may take a while. I hope you're not in any crashing hurry.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Ain't that always the way?” Lieutenant Becker said.

Once I hung up the phone, I sat and thought about the situation, wondering if there was a quicker means of verifying the information. I could certainly wait until mid-afternoon, but it would prey on my mind. David Barney's call had left me feeling restless and out of sorts. I was reluctant to waste time checking out what was probably pure fabrication on his part. On the other hand, Lonnie was counting on Curtis McIntyre's testimony. If Curtis McIntyre was lying, we were sunk, especially with Morley's investigation coming unraveled at the same time. This was my first job for Lonnie. I could hardly afford to get fired again.

In my head, I reran the conversation I'd had with Curtis at the jail. In his account, he'd intercepted David Barney in the corridor just outside the courtroom on the day he was acquitted. I didn't think I could count on Barney's attorney, Herb Foss, to corroborate Curtis's claim, but could there have been another witness to their encounter? Just the countless reporters with their Minicams and mikes.

I grabbed the jacket and my shoulder bag. I left the office and dogtrotted the two blocks to the side street where I'd finally managed to squeeze my car into a bare stretch of curb. I took Capilla Boulevard across town, through the heart of the commercial district, and headed up the big hill on the far side of the freeway.

KEST-TV was located just this side of the summit.
From the bluff where the station sat, there was a 180-degree living mural of the city of Santa Teresa: mountains on one side, the Pacific Ocean on the other. There was parking for about fifty cars and I pulled into a spot designated for visitors. I got out of the car and paused for a moment to take in the view. The wind was buffeting the dry grasses along the hill. In the distance, the pale ocean stretched to the horizon, looking flat and oddly shallow.

I remembered the story I'd once heard from a marine archaeologist. He told me there was evidence of primitive offshore villages, underwater now, located at the mouths of ancient sloughs or arroyos. Over the years, the sea had offered up broken vessels, mortars, abalone spangles, and other artifacts, probably eroding from former cemeteries and middens along the now-submerged beach. In legend, the Chumash Indians recount a time when the sea subsided and remained that way for hours. A house was exposed at the far reaches of the low tide . . . a mile out, or two miles . . . this miraculous shanty. People gathered on the beaches, murmuring with amazement. The waters receded further and a second house appeared, but the witnesses were too frightened to approach. Gradually the waters returned and the two structures vanished, covered by the slow swell of the incoming tide.

There was something eerie about the tale, Holocene ghosts offering up this momentary vision of a tribal site lost from view. Sometimes I wondered if I'd have dared venture out across that stretch of exposed channel. Perhaps half a mile out, it plunged downward like the sides of a mountain, underwater cliffs tumbling ever deeper to
the canyon below. I pictured the sediment on the ocean bottom, glistening, dead gray from the lack of light, cobbled and pockmarked with all its blunt and stony treasures. Time covers the truth, leaving scarcely a ripple on the surface to suggest all the plains and valleys that lie below. Even now, dealing with a six-year-old murder, much was hidden, much submerged. I was left to gather artifacts washed up like rubble on the shores of the present, uneasy about the treasures, undiscovered, lying just out of reach.

I turned and went into the station. The building itself was a one-story stucco structure, painted a plain sand color, bristling with assorted antennae. I went into the lobby with its pale blue carpeting, furnished with the kind of “Danish Modern” furniture an affluent college student might rent for a semester. Christmas decorations were just going up: an artificial tree in one corner, boxes of ornaments stacked in a chair. On the wall to my right, numerous broadcast awards were mounted like bowling trophies. A color television was tuned to a morning game show, the gist of which seemed to be identifying a series of celebrities whose first names were Andy.

The receptionist was a pretty girl with long dark hair and vivid makeup. The name on the placard read Tanya Alvarez. “Rooney!” she called, her eyes pinned to the set. I turned and looked at the picture. “Andy Rooney” was correct and the audience was applauding. The next clue came up and she said, “Oh, shoot, who is that? What's-his-face? Andy Warhol!” Right again, and she flushed with pleasure. She looked over at me. “I could make a fortune
on that show, except probably the day I got on it'd be some category I never heard of. Blowfish, or exotic plants. Can I help you?”

“I'm not sure. I'd like to look at some five-year-old news footage, if you have it.”

“Something we taped?”

“That's what I'm assuming. This was the verdict on a local murder trial and I'm pretty sure you'd have covered it.”

“Hang on a minute and I'll see if somebody back there can help you.” She rang through to “somebody” in the bowels of the building, briefly describing the nature of my quest. “Leland'll be out in five minutes,” she said.

I thanked her and spent the mandatory waiting period wandering from the front entrance, which looked out onto the parking lot, to the sliding glass doors on the far side of the reception area, which looked out onto a wide concrete patio furnished with molded white plastic chairs. A three-dimensional view of the city wrapped around the patio like a screen. I could imagine the station employees having lunch out in the hot sun—women with cotton skirts discreetly pulled up, men without shirts. A big dish antenna dominated the view. The air looked hazy from up here. . . .

“I'm Leland. What can I do for you?”

The fellow who'd appeared through the doorway behind me was in his late twenties and had to be a hundred pounds overweight. He had a mop of curly brown hair surrounding a baby face, with wire-rimmed glasses, clear blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and no facial hair. With a name like Leland, he was doomed. He looked like the kind of kid who'd been tormented by his schoolmates since the
first day of school, too bright and too big to avoid the involuntary cruelties of other middle-class children.

I introduced myself and we shook hands. I explained the situation as succinctly as possible. “What occurred to me was that with local reporters present on the day Barney was acquitted, there were probably Minicams rolling as he emerged from the courtroom.”

“Okay,” he said.

“ ‘Okay' wasn't really the response I was looking for, Leland. I was hoping you had a way to go back and check the old news tapes.”

Leland gave me a blank look. I wish a P.I.'s job were half as easy as they make it look on television. I've never opened a dead bolt with a pass of my credit card. I can't even force mine into a doorjamb without breaking it off. And what's it supposed to do once you slide it in there? Most of the latch bolts I've seen, the slanted angle is on the
inside
so it's not as though you could slip a credit card along the face of it and force the latch to move back. And where the angle faces the outside, the strike plate resists the insertion of even the most flexible object. Leland seemed to be taking the same implacable position.

“What's the matter? Don't you keep that stuff?”

“It's not that. I'm sure there's a copy of the footage you're looking for. The master tapes are cata logued by subject matter and date, cross-referenced and cross-filed on three-by-five index cards.”

“You don't have it on computer?”

He shook his head, with just a hint of satisfaction. “The logistics of the system don't really matter much because I
can't let you see the master tape without a properly executed subpoena.”

“I'm working for an attorney. I can get a subpoena. This is no big deal.”

“Go ahead then. I can wait.”

“Yeah, well, I can't. I need the information as soon as possible.”

“In that case, you got a problem. I can't let you see the master tape unless you have a subpoena.”

“But if I could get it eventually, what difference does it make? I'm entitled to the information. That's the bottom line, isn't it?”

“No tickee, no washee. That's the bottom line,” he said.

I was beginning to see why his imaginary classmates liked to torture him. “Could we try this?” I pulled out a mug shot of Curtis McIntyre. “Why don't you look at the tape and tell me if he's on it. That's all I want to know.”

He stared at me with that blank look all petty bureaucrats assume while they calculate the probabilities of getting fired if they say yes. “Why do you want to know? I really wasn't listening before.”

“This fellow claims he had a conversation with the defendant in a murder trial shortly after he was acquitted. He says the cameras were rolling as the guy left the courtroom, so if what he says is true, he ought to be clearly visible on the tape, right?”

“Yeeess,” he said slowly. I could tell he thought there was some kind of trick to it.

“This isn't a violation of anybody's civil rights,” I said reasonably. “Could you just look?”

He held his hand out. I gave him Curtis's mug shot. He continued to hold his hand out.

I stared for a moment. “Oh,” I said. I opened my handbag and took out my wallet. I peeled off a twenty and put it in his palm. His expression didn't actually change, but I knew he was insulted. I'm sure it's the same look you'd get from a New York taxi driver if you tipped him a dime.

I peeled off another twenty. No reaction. I said, “I really hate corruption in someone so young.”

“It's disgusting, isn't it?” he replied.

I added a third.

His hand closed. “Come with me.”

He turned and headed back through the doorway and into a narrow corridor. I followed without a word. Offices opened up on either side of us. Occasionally, we passed other station employees wearing jeans and Reeboks, but no one was doing much. The spaces seemed cramped and irregular, with too much knotty pine veneer paneling and too many cheaply framed photographs and certificates. The whole interior of the building had been done up with the sort of do-it-yourself home improvements that later make a house impossible to sell.

At the rear, we passed into a tiny concrete cul-de-sac with a wood-and-metal stairway leading up to an attic. Just to the right was an old-fashioned wooden file cabinet, with a smaller wooden file sitting on top. He opened the drawer for the year we wanted and began to sort through the index cards, starting with the name Barney. “We won't have the actual field tapes,” he remarked while he looked.

“What's a field tape?”

“That would be like the whole twenty minutes of tape
the guy shot. We keep the ninety seconds to two minutes of edited footage that actually goes on the air.”

“Oh. Well, even that would help.”

“Unless the guy you're looking for stepped up and spoke to your suspect after the cameras finished rolling.”

“True enough,” I said.

“Nope. Nothing,” he said. “Well, let's see here. What else could it be under?” He tried “Murder,” “Trials,” and “Courtroom Cases,” but there was no reference to Isabelle Barney.

“Try ‘Homicides,' ” I suggested.

“Oh, good one.” He shifted to the
H
's. There it was, with a numerical designation that apparently referred to the number of the tape on file. We went up the narrow stairs and through a door so low we were forced to duck our heads. Inside, there was a warren of tiny rooms with six-foot ceilings, lined with videocassette containers, neatly labeled and filed upright. Leland located and retrieved the cassette we were looking for and then led me downstairs again and around to the right where there were four stations set up with monitoring equipment. He flipped on the first machine and inserted the tape. The first segment appeared on the screen in front of us. He pressed Fast Forward. I watched the news for that year whiz by like the history of civilization in two minutes flat, everybody very animated and jerky. I spotted a still of Isabelle Barney. “There she is,” I yelped.