Justice at Risk (9 page)

On Monday morning, I arrived at New Image Productions to find three boxes of labeled videocassettes waiting for me in the office I was to share with Peter Graff.

Graff detailed the drill.

“These are all three-quarter-inch dubs that you can view on your VCR at home if you’d like. The master tapes are all in the library on beta, which is half inch. Each tape is numbered. For example, Joffrien-l. That would be the first reel from the Oree Joffrien interview.

“When you view the tapes, you’ll see a time code burned in along the bottom, which tells you where you are within the tape, broken down by hour, minute, second, and split second. When you find a sound bite or section of footage you think you might use in your show, make a note of the tape number, along with the general beginning and end time, so we can find the bite later for transfer and digitizing purposes.”

I scanned the three boxes, calculating roughly a hundred videocassettes.

“I have a feeling I’m going to be watching a lot of television.”

He laughed.

“Viewing and selecting footage is a big part of the job. Could I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Look first at what Tommy already selected. He wasn’t too good at the writing part, but he had a great visual sense. You may find that a lot of what he’s already picked out is stuff you can use. Then you can start going through the rest of the tapes to see what else you might want, or make a wish list of things you feel you still need.”

“So I don’t just sit down and write the script first?”

“I don’t want to tell you how to work, Ben. You know a lot more about writing than me.”

“Peter, help me out here.”

“If it were me, I think I’d want to get a pretty good idea of what kind of visuals were available, or within our budget range, before I started writing. I think that’s what most of the writers do.”

There was a knock at the door. It was Denise, Chang’s assistant.

“Cecile wonders if you could stop by her office for a moment.”

“Both of us?”

She nodded, backed her wheelchair up, turned, and we followed her to the end of the hall. Chang sat on the edge of her desk, propped up on slim legs and high heels. Her face was solemn, almost ashen.

Sitting on the couch was a heavyset woman with messy blond hair that showed dark roots, and golden brown eyes that were moist and jumpy. She was wearing pale lavender warm-ups that looked as though they might be from Kmart, and a pair of walking shoes that needed washing. As we entered, she put her hands on her big thighs and heaved her body up, then tugged her warm-up top down around her broad hips.

Chang slipped off her desk and joined us.

“This is Melissa Zeigler. Miss Zeigler, Benjamin Justice, Peter Graff.”

Graff and I waited out a brief silence, while Chang grew uncharacteristically uneasy.

“I suppose I should just say it straightaway—there’s been another murder.”

“Connected to Tommy Callahan’s death?”

“Possibly. Melissa and the victim were engaged to be married. Melissa has some information—well, I’ll let her tell it. She came here asking to talk with anyone who knew Tommy.”

“That would be Peter, not me.”

“I thought you might be able to speak with her, Ben. Since you and Peter went together to the motel last Friday. We never did go into any details about what you might have found there.”

“Just a tossed room, Cecile, and some blood on a mattress.”

Her eyes never left my face.

“Nothing more than that? Nothing—out of the ordinary?”

“I didn’t see anything. Did you, Peter?”

“No, just what Ben said. Like we told the police.”

Chang smiled sympathetically.

“I told Melissa we’d do our best to answer her questions. She feels strongly that there’s a connection between Tommy’s murder and the death of her fiancé.”

I asked Melissa Zeigler what she thought that connection might be.

“Indirect, through Byron. My fiancé, Byron Mittelman. He and Mr. Callahan worked together once.” She blinked back sudden tears, got control of herself. “Byron was found shot to death Sunday morning, a week ago.”

“Do you mind if I ask how?”

“His brother found him. We were all going to temple together.”

“No—I meant, how had he been shot?”

She grimaced. “What the detectives called execution-style.”

“A single bullet to the head?”

“Yes!”

She blurted out the word, then the tears came in a rush. Graff led her back to the couch, urging her to sit. Chang went to her desk and came back with a box of tissues. Zeigler took one, while I stood looking on, feeling like a jerk.

“I’m sorry for being so blunt, Miss Zeigler. I was a crime reporter once. It can harden you. I guess I’d forgotten how much.”

She dabbed at her eyes.

“Yes, I know your background, Mr. Justice. I recognized your name when Miss Chang mentioned it. She confirmed it for me.”

She blew her nose, and Chang held out a waste can for the used tissue.

“I’m a social worker, Mr. Justice. You wrote a series for the
Times
in the late eighties on nursing home abuses. It got some regulations changed, made a difference for a lot of people.” She smiled, still sniffling. “I haven’t forgotten it.”

“Forgive me, but I’m not sure how I can help you now.”

“I’m not really sure myself. I’m searching for anything, anyone who might have some answers. The police don’t seem to be doing anything. I guess I’m feeling a bit desperate.”

Her words came at us rapid-fire, as her voice wound tighter and tighter. I asked Peter to get her some water. While he was gone, I sat at the other end of the sofa, while Chang leaned on the edge of her desk again, arms folded across her chest.

“Why don’t you start as far back as possible, Melissa, when Tommy and Byron worked together.”

“It was fourteen, fifteen years ago. On that show,
On Patrol
—the one about police officers. Cinema verité Byron called it. He doesn’t like the term reality show, except for the ones that use actors and reenactments. Anyway, Byron was a cameraman on the show the first year, and Mr. Callahan was one of the editors. Mr. Callahan was fired during the show’s second season, and Byron lost touch with him. Then, the week before last, Thursday I think, Mr. Callahan called Byron, warning him that he might be in danger.”

“Byron told you this?”

She nodded.

“All these years had gone by, and suddenly Callahan called him out of the blue. Byron was really upset by that call. He tried to pretend he wasn’t, but I could tell. I finally made him sit down and tell me what was going on.”

Graff returned, handed her a glass of water, and took one of the chairs next to Chang’s desk. Zeigler sipped some water and went on.

“Byron told me that during that first season, while he was out riding with an officer from the Hollywood division, he videotaped two other officers beating up a transvestite on a side street. Byron remembered the incident very clearly. He still had a lot of guilt about it—about what happened later.”

“Did he give you any details?”

“He said the incident took place in an alley off Hollywood Boulevard, near the old Egyptian Theater. The two officers who were beating up the cross-dresser were in an undercover car, which was parked nearby. Byron even remembered the date. April fourteenth, his mother’s birthday. He said that when the patrol car he was riding in turned into the alley, the other two officers had this man on the ground, kicking him. Byron said one of the cops was in a frenzy, like an attacking shark. Laughing, cursing, calling the man terrible names. Just kicking the hell out of this poor man.”

“And the officer Byron was riding with stopped it?”

“Yes, immediately. He told the other two cops to back off, and they did. Byron said the man on the ground was hysterical, begging them not to arrest him. He told them he was married, not a prostitute. That he dressed and made up as a woman in secret, and his family didn’t know.”

“Byron recorded all this with his camera?”

“Most of it, until the third officer, the one who intervened, told him to stop taping. He sent the other two cops away and called for an ambulance. Byron said the victim was very badly beaten. Basically, this third cop saved this poor guy’s life.”

“What happened to the videotape?”

“It was never shown on the air. Byron told me the police departments all have the right of final approval over each show’s content. The footage was locked away with other sensitive incidents that had been taped in different cities. You know, police officers harassing suspects, using foul language, racist behavior, that type of thing. Anything that cast the police in a negative light. Byron was young, it was his first good job in TV. So he went back to work and kept quiet about it.”

“That’s why he felt so guilty.”

“Yes. Because he hadn’t done anything to get those two bad cops off the street.”

“Where does Tommy Callahan fit in, Melissa?”

“He was fired about a year later, apparently for excessive drinking. Byron said he was furious about losing his job. He felt they should have given him another chance, the way they do executives who have drinking or drug problems. Before he left, he got into the vault where the outtakes were kept and stole the reel Byron had shot of the transvestite beating, along with some of the other censored material.

“Apparently, he kept it all these years, waiting for the right time to use it to his advantage. When he called Byron not quite two weeks ago, he said he’d been in contact with one of the cops who did the beating, trying to make some kind of deal. I don’t know what happened exactly, but Callahan was afraid for his life. He reminded Byron that he was the only eyewitness to the incident, except for the other officers involved. And, of course, the victim.”

“Let me see if I have this right, Melissa. Two cops in an undercover car trapped a transvestite in an alley and beat the hell out of him. A third cop intervened, and Byron, your fiancé, caught it all on tape. Callahan stole that tape, and fifteen years later tried to use it to pry some cash out of one of the cops who were involved. Only it backfired, and he got scared and tried to warn Byron to watch his back.”

“Yes, that’s pretty much what happened.”

“Do you know where Callahan was calling from?”

“A motel in Hollywood. That’s all he said.”

“What happened after that?”

“Byron heard a struggle at the other end of the phone. There was some kind of commotion, and he heard Mr. Callahan crying out. Then the line went dead. Byron told me about it on Saturday. He was killed that night or early the next morning, after we’d gone to the movies and he’d dropped me off at my apartment.”

“They broke into his place?”

“No.” Her chin trembled, and she wrung her hands. “No, they ambushed him outside his apartment. In the carport. That’s where his brother found him.”

“You read about Tommy Callahan’s murder in the paper?”

“I saw it on the news. It seemed obvious to me that Byron and Mr. Callahan had been murdered by the same people.”

“There’s more than a murder a day in Los Angeles, Melissa. Murders happen for all kinds of reasons.”

“Then why was Byron shot just once in the head like that? Nothing was stolen. He’s never been in any kind of trouble. He was just a sweet, hardworking man who wanted to get married and raise a family.”

She buried her face in her hands and began weeping again. Peter carried the box of tissues over, set it beside her on the couch, and went back to his chair, looking shell-shocked.

“Did you tell all this to the police, Melissa?”

She nodded and blotted her face with another tissue.

“Yes, just the way I’ve explained it to you. They took notes and seemed to act as if it was important. But since I first talked with them, another detective has taken over the case, and I haven’t heard another word about it. Sergeant Felix Montego, that’s his name. The original detectives told me Montego is handling Byron’s case, and also the Callahan murder, so there’s obviously a link. I’ve tried calling Montego, but I think he’s avoiding me.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a volatile story.”

“I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I’m a little scared myself.”

Cecile Chang slipped off the desk, came to the couch, and sat on the arm.

“You’re going through a terrible experience, Melissa. You should be grieving, and instead you have all these other matters troubling you.” She laid a comforting hand on Zeigler’s shoulder. “Maybe the thing to do is to let things lie for a bit. Until you’ve had a chance to let your emotions settle and begin to get some closure.”

Chang turned, casting her eyes over me, on their way to Graff.

“Maybe that’s the best thing for all of us. To let the police handle it for now, in their own way. By their very nature, police investigations can be slow, painstaking procedures. Isn’t that true, Mr. Justice?”

“So can police cover-ups.”