The Kill Clause (49 page)

A THREE-DAY STINT
at the USC Medical Center Jail Ward got Tim’s leg back in working order. The bullet had missed all major vessels, which Tim had already surmised from the fact that he hadn’t bled out on Monument Hill. His right seventh and eighth ribs were bruised but not broken.

Since Robert’s and Mitchell’s deaths had taken place on Monument Hill, they charged him with crime committed on federal property to keep the case, murders and all, in their backyard rather than turning it over to the state courts. Plus, Tim’s confrontation with Bear at Yamashiro was filed as assaulting a federal employee, another federal hook. The appointed PD pled him not guilty at the postindictment arraignment; Tim watched the proceedings glumly from a wheelchair.

In the news Dumone’s name was mentioned only tangentially; evidently the “Vigilante Four” didn’t have the same ring. The nature of Tim’s involvement was kept under tight wraps, though that only seemed to whet the appetites of reporters and journalists.

Tim’s new temporary residence, the Metropolitan Detention Center, was an adjunct to the Roybal Building, part of the cluster of buildings where he used to report to work. A high-rise with slit windows like squinting eyes, the detention area was cold and harshly lit, the lowest loop of Tim’s inferno. Since he was a former law-enforcement officer, they celled him separately on Eight North, not leaving him to fend for himself in the general population. His ward in the Special Housing Unit, consecrated by the likes of Buford Furrow, who’d shot up the North Valley Jewish Community Center, and Topo, Mexican mafia godfather, was bare and clean. A single bed and an unlidded stainless-steel toilet. No hot water. The ceiling was low, so he soon acquired a stoop.

He wore a blue jumpsuit, a green windbreaker, and cheap plastic sandals that creaked. At 11:00
A
.
M
. he had an hour for exercise, during which he could throw some weights around in the tiny pen or play basketball. Solitary H-O-R-S-E was less than invigorating; he usually just lifted and rehabbed his injured leg.

The federal guideline for first-degree murder was life to death. Federal guidelines, as that drunken public defender had pointed out to Tim, were notoriously inflexible. By his own count, Tim was up on at least three counts of murder one and implicated in three other deaths, not to mention the laundry list of additional felonies he’d picked up along the way, including obstruction of justice, conspiracy to commit murder, assault of a federal agent—to wit, a United States deputy marshal—illegal possession of firearms, and illegal possession of explosives. Tim figured he’d better get used to his current lifestyle. Frozen 7-Eleven burritos twice a day for the rest of his life.

A trial date had been set, he was told, for May 2, which gave him seventy-eight days.

The second week the congenial corrections officer politely took Tim from his cell and led him to the visitor area. Dray was seated when he entered the room, regarding him through the shatterproof glass.

She picked up the phone, and Tim followed suit.

“The photos,” she said. “Those awful photos. Of Kindell. With Ginny. I turned them over to Delaney.”

Tim chewed the inside of his cheek. “They won’t be admissible. I obtained them illegally.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the peace officer, and I obtained them legally. From a civilian. You.”

Tim’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“The case is reopened. The arraignment was this morning. Prelim’s in five months—the PD’s scared, so he’s taking his time this go-around. Aging the case.”

Tim felt a tear swell at the brink of his eye. It fell, trailing down his cheek, dangling from the line of his jaw until he swiped it off with his shoulder.

They stared at each other for a moment through glass and embedded chicken wire.

“I forgive you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes were starting to water, too. She nodded, pressed a hand to the glass, and walked out.

•The COs offered him books and magazines, but Tim passed his days lying on his bed, reflecting quietly. They let him stretch his workout time in the exercise room to a few hours a day, which helped cut through some of his despondency. He ate poorly and slept well. He spent a lot of time thinking about his murdered daughter.

Lying on the cracked vinyl pad of the bench press one day, he finally had it—a single pure memory of Ginny, not of the loss of her, just her, untainted by rage or hurt or pain, laughing openmouthed. She’d gotten into a pomegranate; her chin was stained, and her happiness, even recollected, was contagious.

•The day before his pretrial motion, the corrections officer tapped gently on his door. “Rack, wake up, buddy. Your new lawyer needs to see you.”

Tim’s attorney, a weary man with droopy features, had gone on a fishing trip to Alaska and elected never to return. Another PD burnout to add to the ash heap.

“I don’t want to meet my lawyer.”

“You have to. Come on now, you’ll get me in trouble.”

Tim rose and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He splashed cold water over his face, smoothed down his hair, and brushed his teeth with a rubber-handled toothbrush. Pausing at the door, he regarded his blue jumpsuit. “How do I look, Bobby?”

The CO smiled. “I keep saying. It’s a good color for you.”

Tim was led down a hall into a dark conference room with no windows save a tiny square of shatterproof glass in the door. Bobby nodded reassuringly and opened the door for him.

Tannino was sitting at the head of the table, hands laced. In a neat row to his left sat Joel Post, the U.S. Attorney for the central district, Chance Andrews, the presiding federal district judge, and Dennis Reed, the Internal Affairs inspector who’d stuck up for Tim on his shooting review board. Bear stood shouldered up against the wall, one foot crossing his shin and pointing down into the concrete. Opposite them all sat Richard, the public defender Tim had protected from the bouncer that night in the club off Traction.

The door swung shut behind Tim. He made no move to the table.

“I hope one of you brought a cake with a file in it.”

Tannino unfolded his hands, then refolded them, his face maintaining its unamused cast.

“The thing is…” Bear shuffled a bit against the wall, not quite making eye contact. “The thing is, I forgot to read you your Miranda rights.”

Post leaned back in his chair, emitting a barely audible sigh.

Tim let out a short bark of a laugh. “I can give you my statement again.”

“As your new court-appointed defense attorney, I would strenuously advise against that,” Richard said.

“You’re my…?”

Richard nodded.

“This is ridiculous.” He raised his voice to talk over Richard’s objections. “I wasn’t even in official custody yet in Bear’s office—he didn’t have to read me my rights.”

Richard was standing, his face red and impassioned. “You were
clearly
in custody. There was a warrant out for you. You turned yourself in. You were not free to leave. They tape-recorded Deputy Jowalski’s intercom call to Marshal Tannino’s office claiming you were in custody, and when the marshal came over to take your account, he closed and locked the door. You were then held for questioning, even denied medical attention.”

Tannino regarded Richard as he might the remains of a cockroach smeared in the tread of his loafers.

“How about my conversation with Bear at Yamashiro?” Tim said. “That’s certainly fair game.”

“That conversation is covered under attorney-client privilege,” Richard said.

“Excuse me?”

“George Jowalski became a member of the bar in good standing on November 15 last year. In fact, Your Honor”—Richard nodded at Chance Andrews—“I believe you swore him in that day yourself.”

Andrews, an old-school justice with a leathery, venerable face, tugged uncomfortably at his cuffs. It occurred to Tim he’d never seen Andrews out of his robes.

Richard didn’t dare smile, but his face showed he was enjoying himself tremendously. “Mr. Jowalski confirmed for me in an interview that on the fifteenth of February he agreed to represent you if your shooting review board led to a criminal trial. All future dialogue that you had with Mr. Jowalski regarding criminal matters would be covered under attorney-client privilege, and therefore he cannot testify regarding your consultation in a court of law. Your discussion can’t be admitted. Anyone else’s knowledge of it from Mr. Jowalski is hearsay. Then, because of Mr. Jowalski’s status as a deputy marshal, we have fruit of a poisonous tree—”

“Attorney-client privilege,” Tannino muttered. “I don’t know how they dig up this stuff. Like pigs rooting for truffles.”

Richard gave a self-assured little nod.

It took a moment for Tim to speak through his shock. “Well, I’m willing to come clean again. Let’s do it now.”

Andrews cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, son.”

“What are you saying?”

Post pressed both hands on the table, palms down, as if readying to do a push-up. “What we’re saying is, we’re having a tough time finding independent evidence.”

“What?”

“We need independent corroboration of your account. Robert and Mitchell Masterson are dead, as are Eddie Davis, William Rayner, and Jenna Ananberg. The only accounts we have from potential victims Bowrick and Dobbins are of you acting in a protective capacity. Even the kid at the video store doesn’t want to press charges. He says you were polite, never pulled a gun on him, and he told you you could have the security videos. He’s a bit shaken up and just wants to put the episode behind him.”

“You certainly knew how to go about things to cover your ass,” Tannino said.

Post continued, “We have no witnesses to put you with any of the Vigilante Three before the Dobbins event and no direct evidence, no eyewitness testimony, no physical evidence, and no forensic evidence—ballistic or DNA—tying you to the Lane earpiece bomb or the
Debuffier assault. Hell, we can’t even link your gun to any bullets fired anywhere because the bore is blown apart. The files we recovered at Rayner’s office indicate you were being illegally spied on—that’s all.”

“Oh, come on,” Tim said. “Run some interrogations around KCOM—someone will be able to recognize me despite the disguise. Maybe the guard who frisked me by the loading dock—”

Richard was on his feet again, yelling. “You are
not
supposed to help build the case against yourself.”

“But we all know I’m telling the truth about my involvement.”

Post raised his hands, then let them fall into his lap. “It’s not what happened….”

Andrews cocked his head, somber eyes on Tim. “It’s what you can prove.”

“Even
with
evidence there’d be a good chance you’d skate on charges,” Post said. “Since Lane was planning to unleash sarin nerve gas after his interview, you could argue defense of others.”

“I didn’t have prior knowl—”

“My client has no comment on that matter,” Richard said.

“At Debuffier’s house you weren’t even the shooter, and that was
clear
defense of others,” Post said. “And you didn’t go through with Bowrick.”

“Fine. How about the Stork’s house? The Mastersons at Monument Hill? You have plenty of evidence. I had their blood all over my shirt.”

“Eddie Davis died of a heart attack.”

“You could argue the felony-murder rule.”

“Mr. Rackley,” Richard said. “Shut up, please.”

Andrews said, “Mitchell Masterson was clear self-defense, and Robert Masterson…well, even in my infinite legal wisdom, I don’t know if there’s a case to be filed for someone having a booby-trapped gun blow up while attempting to commit murder.”

Tim held up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait.”

“Plus, we’d have mitigating emotional circumstances to fall back on, due to your daughter’s death,” Richard said. “Maybe even post-traumatic stress disorder or temporary insanity.”

“No,”
Tim said. “Absolutely not. I knew what I was doing. I was just wrong.”

Tannino finally raised his dark brown eyes. “You are so goddamned stubborn, Rackley.”

“Plus,” Richard continued, “you’re a citizen in good standing, you turned yourself in and cooperated with authorities in helping alleviate the threat of the Vigilante Three.”

“Cooperated,” Tannino muttered. “Hardly.”

“Throw that on top of your daughter’s murder and the fact that several of the deceased
conspired
to kill your daughter, and our jury-sympathy factor is through the roof.”

Tim glanced at Reed. “And this is fine with you?”

“Just because I’m IA doesn’t mean I like to see the service get a black eye when it’s not necessary. The Rampart case set LAPD back ten years in the eyes of the public. We’re not covering something up—there’s just sparse legal ground to stand on here.”

“Hanging everything on the other members of the Commission doesn’t seem fair.”

“Don’t you fucking worry about fair,” Tannino said.

“The homicides are shit cases, son,” Andrews said. “Take it from me.”

“In light of insufficient evidence and a lack of independent corroboration, I have to decline to prosecute the homicides,” Post said. “I’m sorry.”

“We’d like to cut a deal,” Richard said.

“What deal?”

“Plead you out with a misdemeanor—1361, malicious mischief. They can prove
that.
” Richard recoiled a bit from Post’s glare.

“What’s the sentence?”

“Time served.”

Tim’s jaw literally dropped. “So I just go free?”

“It’s not like anyone’s concerned with recidivism here.”

Post said, “Despite the various levels of contempt in which we hold you—and they are various—we all do agree on one thing. You’re not worth the space in our prison system.”

“We’re not gonna make it easy for you and send you away for ninety years.” Andrews extended a knobby finger and pointed at the far wall, a gesture intended to indicate the awaiting world. “Out there, however, are hundreds of cameras representing international media organizations. The wolves. They want answers.”