The Attorney (25 page)

More on the floor. There's a fold-out sofa for a bed, no sheets, just a blanket that looks as though it hasn't been washed since it was purchased.

Magazines with pictures of nude women on the covers, most of them in obscene positions with strategic private parts blacked out, are strewn over the floor. There's a broken-down chair in one corner.

Murphy plops onto this.

"Oh shit." It's becoming Crow's mantra. He's doubled over on the mattress pulled out of the couch, lying on his side, cupping his crotch with one hand, making sure everything's still there, trying to make his other elbow bend again in the right direction.

His face is now regaining some of the color from the shades of deep blue I'd seen while he was on his knees on the front porch.

"What the FUCK?"

"I think the door got ya" says Murph. "Gotta watch out for those knobs."

"My car." It's like Crow's in a fog. Last thing he heard.

"Don't worry about it," says Murphy. "We chased 'em off. You are Jason Crow?"

"Who's asking?"

"The same Jason Crow dated Jessica Hale?" says Murphy.

"Ohhh." Too much pain to answer.

"Is that a yes?" Murphy's up out of the chair, moving toward Crow on the couch.

"Yesss." Murphy nods toward me, like my witness. Then strolls toward the window, all five-five of him, and peeks at the edge of the shade, out along the side of the house toward the street.

"Have you seen her recently?" I ask Crow.

"Who?"

"Jessica Hale."

"No. Why do you want to know?"

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"I don't know. Been a while."

"Try to remember," I tell him.

"Maybe I can help him," says Murphy.

"I haven't seen her in two years. Not since I went in."

"Prison?" I say.

He nods. He's probably lying.

"Bitch hung me out to dry. Gave the cops some of the stuff."

"Drugs."

"No. The stuff we took" He's talking about stolen property, the burglaries that sent him up. "She turned tail on me. When they caught her." Slowly rolling onto his back now, trying to stretch out, one leg then the other.

"Just stay down there," says Murphy. "Let's not get frisky."

"Do you know a man named Esteban Ontaveroz?" I ask.

Crow looks at me, beady eyes, deep set, a face that would grow a beard if it could, a few long straggly hairs on the chin. Hair on his head looks like it's been cut with a butcher knife.

"Do you know him?" He nods. "What do you want with him?"

"I'm told that Jessica lived with him a while back?"

"They knew each other."

"When was the last time you saw Ontaveroz?" He makes a face "Down in Mexico," he says. "I don't know.

Maybe three years ago."

"Was he with Jessica then?"

"Yeah. They had a place together. Outside La Paz. In the hills.

She told me about it. I never saw it. They used to skip over, spend time in Mazatlan together. Fuckin' skiing behind cigarette boats.

They'd pick up some blow. Do some business," he says.

"Cocaine?" He nods. "She'd carry it for him, then take a cut."

"Money?" He shakes his head. "She'd take it in drugs. Never had a fuckin' dime in her pocket. He had to give her tickets to get back.

She'd fly in, bring the shit with her in suitcases. That's what she told me, anyway."

"You never saw any of it?" He makes a face. "Once or twice," he says.

"But you saw Ontaveroz and Jessica together?" He nods. "Sure."

"You know any reason why Ontaveroz would want Jessica dead?" Suddenly his eyes go from me, over to Murphy and back again, all in a heartbeat.

"Is she dead?"

"Do you know why Ontaveroz might want to kill her? Why he might want to find her?"

"I heard stories," he says. "But I don't know."

"What kind of stories?"

"That she took some money. But it may be just rumors," he says.

"Who did you hear this from?"

"Some guy. Con up at Folsom," he says. "He knew her. Told me he met her in Mexico. But I don't know if he was tellin' me the truth."

"What was his name?"

"Eddie. Eddie something."

"Is he still inside?"

"Unless they're givin' out passes to lifers," he says. "He's still there."

"But you can't remember his last name?" He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "If I think about it maybe."

"If you remember it, write it down." He nods.

"You ever work for Ontaveroz?"

"Me? No. No way. Never dealt drugs," he says. Like his high sense of morals wouldn't permit it.

"He just let you hang around, is that it?"

"Sometimes," he says. "I did some things for him. But never drugs."

"Like what?"

"You know," he says.

"No, I don't."

"I'd sell him stuff. Cheap," he says. He looks over at Murphy, wondering how this guy, like a bull without legs, got the better of him, not sure he wants to find out again.

"What kind of stuff?"

"The good stuff. Televisions. Cameras. Four-foot Sorry. The big screens.

He liked those."

"And you, of course, found these in other people's homes?" He nods.

"How long did you know Jessica?"

"Few years," he says. "We met down in Florida. She was workin' a club."

"She ever roll over on Ontaveroz? Give him up, maybe to the feds?"

"I don't know nothin' about that." He's working his sore elbow with the other hand. His legs still propped up on the bed, bent at the knees.

"All I know's Ontaveroz had more to offer." I raise an eyebrow in question.

"Jessica was heavy into lines," says Crow. "Face was always bent over looking in somebody else's mirror with a straw up her nose.

Mexican had more snow than a fuckin' avalanche," he says. "She told me being' with him was like being' in a blizzard. Anytime she wanted it, it was there," he says. "We saw each other once in a while, but once she met Ontaveroz, got a taste of his blow, that was it."

"But you saw her when she came north? When she brought the drugs up?"

Now his eyes become little slits "I don't know," he says. "Like I say, I just saw her once or twice after that. But I don't know what she was into."

"Apparently she was into other people's houses with you," I tell him.

"That," he says. "That was just a sideline."

"For her, or for you?"

"Her. Jessie could be a fuckin' freak. Specially when she got high. She liked being on the edge. Takin' risks. For her it was just entertainment. Ya know what I mean?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"She wanted to do some places," he says. "You know, cat burglar shit.

Dark T-shirts and knives, break in at night, people still inside.

That's a good way to get shot," he says. "They think its wetbacks crossin' over to kill 'em in their beds."

"And instead it's just you and some hophead with butcher knives," I tell him.

"Yeah. She wanted to crawl around in the dark with the fuckin' owner snorin' in the sack. She got off on that kinda crap."

"She took some of the stuff, didn't she?" He looks at me as if he's not sure what I'm talking about.

"The stuff you stole."

"Sure. Some of it. Mostly the stuff hard to unload," he says.

"Clothes. Few computers. She liked the kinky shit. Give her a thong bikini with sequins, ya'd think she died and went to heaven. Be giddy for an hour."

"I'm hearing that some of the things she took had a high value," I say.

"Cops always overvalue that shit," he says. "So they can jam ya in the joint forever, piss off the judge when they catch ya. She got crap," he says.

"Then you went down on the burglaries?" He nods.

"She went away for drugs?"

"Yeah"

"And you haven't seen her since?"

"I told you. No."

"And you haven't seen Ontaveroz?"

"Why do you keep asking?"

"Just want to make sure you got your story straight," I tell him.

I look at Murphy and nod.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his sport coat, pulls out a folded piece of paper, walks over and slaps Crow on the shoulder with it.

"You've been served," says Murphy.

"With what?" Crow recoils from the folded paper, doesn't want to touch it.

"With a subpoena to appear in court, day after tomorrow," I tell him.

"Nine o'clock in the morning. Location's on the subpoena."

"What for?"

"Just be there," I tell him. "If you're not, we'll report it to your parole officer. It's a summons to appear. You don't show up, you'll get your ass picked up, thrown in the slammer. Do you understand?"

He nods.

"It's a lawful order of the court," I tell him. "You don't show up, your parole could be violated. And believe me, I'll make every effort."

Murphy flips a business card onto him on the bed. "You have any problems, you call me at that number," he says.

He picks it up, looks at it, then at me. "Who are you?"

"You don't need to know who I am. You just report to the courthouse every day, same time, nine o'clock, until you're called to testify. You understand?"

"I don't know nothin' about the drugs," he says.

"Do you understand?"

"Yeah." Beady eyes filled with resentment, but scared.

Crow's testimony may not be worth much, a convicted felon.

Ryan may have him for lunch. But he can make my case in an offer of proof, to put Jessica and Ontaveroz together, the first link in the chain that I need to build the Mexican into my defense.

Chapter twenty.

Having rain the medical Basis For suane's murder, and been burned in the process, Ryan now turns his attention to more solid ground, the evidence tending to tie Jonah to the killing.

The state seems to have regrouped, and learned a lesson: keep it simple and direct.

"Could you state your name for the record?" says Ryan.

"John Brower."

"And what is it you do for a living, Mr. Brower?"

"I'm an Investigator Three with the county of San Diego, Department of Children's Protective Services."

"And in that capacity could you describe generally your duties?"

"I supervise, or did until recently." He looks at me as he says this. "I do mostly field work now. Cases involving crimes against children.

Injury cases, some deaths. We respond to complaints of child abuse and neglect."

"So you're a sworn law enforcement officer with powers to arrest?"

"That's right." Brower puffs out his chest a little, looks over at the jury.

"Officer Brower ..."

"Investigator's my title," he says.

"Sorry. Investigator Brower, I want you to direct your attention to earlier this summer, late April, around the seventeenth. Did you have occasion on or about that date to visit the law offices of Paul Madriani, the defense attorney in this case?"

"Objection." I'm on my feet. "Anything this witness heard or saw in my office when I was consulting with my client is privileged."

"Not so," says Ryan. "The witness was invited to the office by Mr.

Madriani. Counsel made no objection to Mr. Brower's presence, nor did the defendant, Mr. Hale. In fact they wanted him there."

"Enough," says Peltro. "Not another word." The judge is shaking his head, angry at Ryan for getting into the details before the court's had a chance to determine whether it's something the jury should hear. He beckons us toward the bench. We have a brief conference, whispers off to the side at the edge of the bench farthest from the jury box. Finally he lifts his head, swivels toward the jury in his chair.

"I'm gonna excuse the jury," says Peltro. "Let you get some coffee."

They've been in the box a total of an hour, and now they're heading out for coffee. The second break this morning because of arguments and sessions in the judge's chambers with counsel. By the time we get to a verdict, they'll all have the jitters from caffeine, and the ones who smoke will be climbing the walls with nicotine withdrawal.

The bailiff clears the box. The door leading to the jury room closes.

"Now what's this all about?"

"What Mr. Ryan says is not true. I did not specifically ask for him or invite Mr. Brower to my office. I asked his boss to attend a meeting to pursue official matters pertaining to child-protective services. She brought him along." "She told us you asked for an investigator." I don't respond. I'm not going to allow Ryan to cross-examine me.

"I'll make an offer of proof," says Ryan, "if the court will allow the witness to explain how he came to be in Mr. Madriani's office."

"Any objection?" Peltro looks at me.

"I don't think it matters how he came to be there."

"If you and your client talked in front of him, waived the privilege, I might disagree," says the judge. He nods to Ryan. "Ask the witness your questions." Ryan's all smiles. "Investigator Brower, did you speak directly to Mr. Madriani before arriving at his office on April seventeenth?" "No. I was asked to attend the meeting by my boss."

"And who is that?"

"Susan McKay. She's the director of the Department of Children's Protective Services."

"And do you know whether Ms. McKay had spoken directly with Mr.

Madriani?" "She said she had. That he wanted her to attend a meeting at his office. She mentioned that he asked for an investigator, and that she wanted me to go with her."

"That's all hearsay," I tell Peltro.

"Maybe you'd like us to bring on Susan McKay?" says Ryan. He looks at me as if he's holding a cocked pistol. He'd love this, get into the fact that Susan and I are lovers, that she turned over the dirt on Suade's pistol and has been assisting the defense. Even if he can't get it all before the jury, he could work on poisoning the judge.

"Move along, Mr. Ryan."

"So you attended the meeting at Ms. McKay's request?" says Ryan.

"That's right," says Brower.

"And was Mr. Madriani told that you were a law enforcement officer?"

"He was."

"And was the defendant, Jonah Hale, in the office at the time?"

"He was."

"And he was told you were an investigator with the department?"