Dark Moon, page 24
She had not asked many questions about Jim and Sarah’s visit with her children. The details would have been too painful to hear. And she had hated listening to them argue about whether Meggie and Sam should be called to testify. As their mother, she had to put their well being first. And being witnesses in their mother’s murder trial was not putting them first.
It wasn’t surprising that Michael had kept a key to her car or had taken her gun. Nothing in her life had been safe from him or truly hers from the moment she’d married him. The control he’d exercised over her during their marriage had been more bearable than the control the court had given him over her and the children through the divorce.
Jim. His kind voice and gentle smile floated in the darkness behind her eyes. She looked forward the evenings they spent together. Going back to jail held many horrors, not the least of which was never sitting here on the sofa with him again, listening to him talk about Cody and how much he missed his boy. Alexa tried to reconcile herself to what she knew was inevitable. The best Sarah could do would be to convince the jury she killed Michael and Brigman in a blinding moment of post traumatic stress, and she would go to prison. Even with a manslaughter verdict, Meggie and Sam would be grown up by the time she was released.
But more likely the jury would believe she murdered Michael and Ronald Brigman. Her blood ran cold at the thought. Still, the state couldn’t execute her for as much as twenty years; and she was, after all, an exceptional attorney. She could work from prison to try to clear her name, and there were Innocence Projects at a number of law schools that might be interested in helping a former clerk to a United States Supreme Court justice. She tried to make herself believe all was not lost and maybe she could make another life for herself some day, maybe even with someone like Jim. But nothing could change the fact Meggie and Sam would grow up without her.
TRIAL
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Second Sunday in December, 2013, La Jolla Shores
At midnight, Sarah sat in her living room, drinking a good bottle of red zinfandel and going over her notes. Tomorrow was the first day of Alexa’s trial. They would begin jury selection in the morning. Because it involved the death penalty, it would take weeks to pick a jury.
“I never wanted this case,” she reminded the Universe aloud as if breaking the silence would relieve her of the responsibility for Alexa’s life that overwhelmed her.
“No, but it’s yours.” The voice was unrelenting.
“Why me?”
“You know why. I’ve told you before. It’s your only chance at redemption.”
“Then why drag me into this mess and give me nothing to work with? I could win if I had a defense.”
“I gave you Jim Mitchell.”
Sarah closed her eyes and tried to get the voice out of her head. As if on cue, her phone began to ring. “Hello?”
“Sarah, it’s Jim. I’m outside. I didn’t want to knock without warning you it was me. We need to talk.”
* * *
He hurried into the living room and looked for a place to put down a folder he was carrying. Sarah had covered every open spot with the juror questionnaires she was studying.
Jim frowned and laid his papers on top of the littered coffee table. He was wearing jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, and Sarah wondered if he’d just come from making a late supper for himself and Alexa. She willed her jealousy demon to be still.
“I thought you might have company,” he said.
“Company as in trial preparation,” Sarah gestured toward the papers as she poured some wine into the glass she had brought back from the kitchen for him.
“Thanks.”
“How is Alexa?”
“You should call her and ask.”
“Haven’t you been by tonight?”
He shook his head. “She wanted to be alone. She said it would help her get ready for tomorrow.”
“Is leaving her alone a good idea?”
“She doesn’t need to be on suicide watch, if that’s what you mean. She just said she wanted some time by herself.”
Sarah watched his eyes as he talked about Alexa; his feelings were obvious.
“She’s very brave,” Sarah observed. “She knows we don’t have much going for us.”
Suddenly Jim brightened up. “But I think that’s all changed as of tonight! I found something in Michael Reed’s credit card statements.”
“What do you mean?”
He tossed back half his glass of wine excitedly and opened the folder he’d brought.
“Come sit here beside me, and I’ll show you.”
Sarah left the chair opposite and took the place next to him on the sofa, willing herself not to be dazzled by his proximity. “Okay, what have you found?”
“Look at this charge on June 2.”
“Elite Call Girls, one thousand dollars.”
“Don’t you see? The ‘girlfriend’ the children described was someone from this escort service!”
“But I thought Meggie said he paid his girlfriends directly in cash.”
“He did. The thousand is the fee the service charged for setting up the date. Then the girlfriends pay a percentage of their individual take to Maria Chavez, the owner, who calls herself the ‘Executive Director.’”
“How do you know?”
He frowned. “Oldest investigative technique in the world. I called and posed as a potential client.”
“But how are you going to get the name of the girl who was with Michael? You know agencies won’t reveal names because they don’t want their employees prosecuted.”
“I persuaded the ‘Executive Director’ to meet with me at a coffee shop near my place on Saturday morning. She obviously operates out of her house and doesn’t want me to know where she lives. I’m going to tell her I won’t make any trouble for her if she gives me the name of Michael’s ‘date’ on June 2.”
“I’m still not sure why you came over after midnight to tell me all this. You know as well as I do, you may not get the name of this girl.”
“I came because I wanted you to know we’re going to have a case after all, and because you’ll need to ask for a continuance tomorrow.”
“But Judge Tomlinson is not going to continue this trial.”
“What do you mean?” He spoke sharply.
“I mean exactly that. He warned us when he put Alexa on house arrest. He wants all of this to be over.” Her finger spun faster and faster over the scar on her cheek as she spoke.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Show off your scar that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you’re upset, you play with the scar with your finger. And you keep your hair short to make sure everyone notices it. Hasn’t your boyfriend told you a plastic surgeon could erase all that in a few hours?”
“Tom Barrett isn’t my boyfriend!”
“Isn’t he?”
“My social life is none of your business.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Show off that scar?”
“Because it’s mine!” Sarah drained her wine glass and set it next to his on the coffee table. “And I want you to leave!”
“Fine. I want to go. But you have to promise you’ll get a continuance tomorrow.”
“No. I won’t. Even if I asked for it–and I’m not going to–the request wouldn’t be granted. Now please, leave!”
Why did I say that, Sarah asked herself. She felt tears well up, and she fought them back hard.
“Why are you about to cry?”
“I’m not. I never cry.”
“Then you need to.”
“You have no right to say that!”
He caught her lightly by the left wrist so that she had to turn and face him on the sofa. She felt as if the bottom were dropping out of her stomach, and her heart was racing.
“Yes, I do.” He spoke each word, slowly and deliberately like an insult.
She glared at him. “Let me go.”
“Okay.” He pulled his hand away. “But I have a right to say that you can’t hold in grief forever.”
“And what would you know about that?” she demanded.
“Enough,” he said. “Enough.”
* * *
Jim spent the week watching Sarah and Preston Barton argue over prospective jurors while he did his best to provide support for Alexa. At ten on Saturday morning, he pulled on jeans and his gray hooded sweatshirt and walked the few blocks from his house to Café Aroma on Cass Street. The sun was lingering behind the morning-gray clouds, and the ocean-scented breeze was cool and sharp against his cheeks.
He chose a table as far from the others as possible but with a view of the door, so he could see Maria Chavez when she arrived. If she arrived. He ordered a café Americano and a scrambled egg sandwich, then settled back to wait. The soft yellow walls warmed up the cool gray sun streaming in through the deep blue curtains that framed the plate glass windows.
Fifteen minutes past ten. Then twenty minutes. As the time ticked away, Jim’s heart sank second by second. He could make trouble for her if she didn’t show, but the trouble he could make would involve the police and then he would never get the information he needed.
Finally at ten thirty-five, just as he’d finished his sandwich and was about to pay the bill, the door opened and a five-foot-six blonde in an expensive brown leather jacket and skin tight jeans and boots with six-inch heels walked in. She was carrying an oversized black leather purse, and Jim could see the corner of a black notebook protruding. Maria Chavez had promised to bring her records, and she appeared to have kept that promise.
Jim stood up, and she walked over to his table.
“Mr. Mitchell?”
He nodded.
The woman offered her beautifully manicured hand for him to shake. “Maria.”
As she drew up a chair and ordered a latte, Jim studied her face. She had a slightly square jaw, making her look formidable, but her large brown eyes softened her otherwise unsympathetic face. He guessed she’d been in the United States for sometime because she had only a faint trace of a Mexican accent left. She was wearing a light, floral perfume that must be very expensive, but he didn’t like it as well as Sarah’s gardenia scent.
“Sorry to be late. It is a weekend, and I have many dates to arrange this morning. Remind me again. You are not police, but you used to be?”
“Former FBI agent. Now a private investigator.”
“But you have connections that will shut me down, if I don’t cooperate?”
“I would hate to do that. I’d far rather have the name of the call girl who was with Michael Reed on the night of June 2 this year.”
Maria took a sip of her latte and made a face. Jim wondered if she was reacting to the coffee or his threat or both. “I have a policy not to give out my girl’s names.”
“But Alexa Reed’s life depends on my contacting your girl–as I explained.”
Maria sipped her coffee and shrugged. “Too bad for her. Maybe she killed the ex. You say he was a bad man. And even if I give you her name, she may not help you. In fact, I doubt she will. I can’t force her to talk. You know that.”
“I do.”
“So all I have to do is give you the name, right? You won’t report me to the cops if she refuses to see you?”
“As long as you don’t influence her not to cooperate.”
Maria waved her hand impatiently. “I have no reason to do that. Talking to you is up to her.”
“Then give me her name.”
“Elaina Morales. Michael Reed liked her quite a bit. He regularly asked for her.”
“What did she think of him?”
“Elaina never gets involved with clients. She does her job and goes home. Like you, I bet.” She gave him a flirtatious grin that he immediately decided to ignore.
“And where can I find Elaina?”
“She lives in Tijuana. She works for me on both sides of the border. I’ve brought you a phone number.” Maria handed him her business card with a phone number written on the back.
“How about a picture?”
“I thought you’d ask, so I brought the book.” Maria took the large black notebook out of her bag and turned to a pre-marked page. “This is Elaina.” She was pointing to the pictures in the top row as she handed the book to him.
Without realizing it, Jim sucked in his breath audibly.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Maria gave him a conspiratorial smile. “You can see why Michael Reed called her for many dates.”
Jim studied the row of photographs as he imagined how often Maria met men in coffee shops to let them choose a “date.” In the first picture, Elaina was wearing a bright red dress that highlighted her well endowed cleavage. In the second, a white bikini set off her creamy, caramel skin. Finally in the third, Elaina sat on the edge of a swimming pool, her back to the camera, looking flirtatiously over her shoulder, wearing nothing at all. The last photo highlighted her large dark eyes, provocative smile, and masses of thick dark curls cascading around her shoulders.
Jim closed the book firmly and handed it back. “I need an address, too.”
Maria frowned. “That I don’t have. It’s too dangerous for my girls if I ever get raided. I have only phone numbers.”
“But if I call, she might not answer.”
“True, but I’m afraid that’s a risk you are going to have to take.” Maria took her last sip of coffee and grew thoughtful. “Tell me something, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Okay.”
“Do you like me?”
“Like you?”
“Do you find me attractive? I ask because sometimes for very especial clients, I am the escort for the evening. Would you be interested?”
“I couldn’t afford you.”
Maria leaned over and placed one slender, beautifully manicured hand on his arm. “For especial clients, I offer especial discount.”
“Even with that, I’m sure you’re out of my price range. I still need a physical address for Elaina Morales.”
Maria leaned away, obviously disappointed. “Tell you what, I’ll check her schedule and text you the address of her next appointment on this side of the border. And I’ll let her know who you are and why you need to see her. How’s that?”
“Thanks.”
Maria leaned back and studied him for a few seconds. Then she said, “What about a date with me–no charge? I’ve fallen in love with your eyes.”
Jim was caught off guard and realized he must look as uncomfortable as he felt. “I’m sorry, Miss Chavez–”
“No, it’s ok. You have the air of a man who has a great love in his life with someone whose soul connects to your soul. You are very lucky, Mr. Jim Mitchell, to find someone so especial. I wish I had been that one. But I am not; so now, I must go. I feel that you are a man of your word and that I can trust you. Good luck with Elaina. I bet she, too, will fall in love with your eyes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Third Sunday in December, 2013, La Jolla Shores
By Sunday night, Sarah was a ball of frayed nerves. Jim had been scrupulously polite to her in court all week, but it was obvious their relationship was strained. His failure to call her to report the outcome of his meeting with the director of Elite Call Girls was a clear sign they were seriously at odds. It also didn’t help that she felt overwhelmingly guilty about having to rely on Jordan Stewart and Battered Women’s Syndrome as Alexa’s defense.
She allowed herself only two glasses of wine that night, knowing she couldn’t be dealing with the effects of a hangover in the morning. At midnight, she was finishing the second and trying to concentrate on a boring late-night movie, when her phone finally rang. She switched off the television and grabbed the receiver, relieved Jim had finally called.
Only he hadn’t.
“Good evening, Ms. Knight.” Coleman Reed had obviously been drinking. “Thought I’d see how jury selection is going for the defense.”
“I have nothing to say to you, Justice Reed. You should not be making these calls.”
Coleman Reed laughed so loudly Sarah had to hold the phone away from her ear.
“Don’t like to hear from me, huh? That means you are worried about tomorrow.”
“I’m always well-prepared. You know that, Justice Reed. I’ve been in your courtroom.”
“That you have. But up until now, you’ve always had a case to prepare.”
“We have a case for Alexa.” Sarah kept her voice emotionless and even. She felt like an old West gunslinger staring down her opponent at high noon.
He laughed again. “Jordan Stewart is your case. I read your file.”
“I’m not going to discuss this with you.”
“Fine. I didn’t call for a discussion. I called to offer you one last chance to save your career. I’ll up my offer to twenty million in an off-shore account and partnership at Warrick, Thompson, if you’ll make sure you don’t win this one. It’s too late for you to withdraw as counsel, but you can do the minimum and put Alexa on death row where she belongs.”
“Why throw your money away? According to you, we have no defense.”
“If it were anyone but you, Ms. Knight, I wouldn’t be worried. But you’ve been known to do miracles in a courtroom.”
“I’m not accepting any bribes, Justice Reed.”
“It’s not a bribe,” his drunken voice mocked her. “It’s a fee for a legal service rendered. All lawyers charge fees, Ms. Knight. You know that.”
