MD03 - Criminal Intent Page 13

  “Yeah, right,” Ward says. “Then he carefully moved her into the driver’s seat, put a bag of coke in the car and stashed the blood-splattered Oscar in the trunk.”

  “You’re the one who keeps saying you shouldn’t rule anything out,” Rosie says.

  Ward isn’t buying it. “If he had just committed the perfect crime and framed your client, why would he have killed himself?”

  Why, indeed? Rosie and I look at each other, but we remain silent.

  Ward’s tone becomes less strident. “Look,” she says, “putting aside the posturing, we have enough evidence to get your client’s case to trial.”

  I ask, “Would you mind telling us about it?”

  “We’ll have plenty of time after the arraignment.”

  “How about a preview?”

  “She was at the scene. We found the murder weapon in the trunk of her car. She tried to flee. You can connect the dots.”

  It’s enough for the arraignment. We’ll know more before the preliminary hearing in a couple of weeks. We debate for a few more minutes, then an intense young Asian woman with delicate features and short, jet-black hair walks into the room without knocking. At barely five feet tall and dressed in khaki pants and a beige sweater, Lisa Yee isn’t an imposing physical presence. However, she carries herself with supreme self-confidence. I’ve never heard her raise her voice. She wins with brains, not histrionics. She extends a delicate hand to me and seems genuinely apologetic when she says, “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Ward acknowledges her colleague and turns to us. “I’m sure you’ve met Lisa Yee,” she says. “I’ve assigned her to help me with this case.”

  More bad news. Yee has taken a half dozen murder cases to trial during her tenure as a prosecutor. She’s won every one of them. “Nice to see you again,” she lies.

  “Same here,” I say.

  She starts right in. “We got the fingerprint analysis on the Oscar.”

  That’s quick. The crime lab is putting in some overtime. More importantly, Yee’s appearance at this precise moment was undoubtedly carefully orchestrated.

  “What did you find?” Ward asks.

  Now I’m sure this has been rehearsed. Ward wouldn’t have asked the question if she didn’t already know the answer.

  “The victim’s fingerprints.”

  No surprise there.

  “And Angelina Chavez’s fingerprints.”

  “It doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Rosie says. “They lived in the same house. She could have handled that statue any time.”

  “She handled the murder weapon,” Ward replies. “How do you figure the statue found its way to her car?

  “That’s your job,” Rosie says.

  Ward doesn’t respond.

  I ask Yee, “Did you find any other prints on the Oscar?”

  Yee glances at Ward before she says, “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  “We don’t know yet. We haven’t been able to match them.”

  At least it may give us some other potential suspects. “How many others?” I ask.

  “At least four,” Yee replies. “Maybe more.”

  Rosie darts a judgmental glance at Ward and says, “That shows somebody could have planted the statue in the car. That’s four other suspects you’re choosing to ignore.”

  Ward gives us an incredulous look and says, “The murder weapon was found in the trunk of your client’s car.”

  “You don’t know how it got there.” Rosie replies.

  “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out.”

  I ask Yee, “Did you find any fingerprints on the trunk?”

  She squirms. “Just the victim’s,” she replies.

  At least they didn’t find Angel’s. “How do you figure my client put the Oscar in the trunk?”

  “She could have opened the trunk without leaving prints. Or she could have used the trunk release inside the car.”

  I ask if she found fingerprints on the trunk release.

  Her light complexion turns bright red. “No.”

  “Did you find any prints on the steering wheel?”

  “Yes,” Yee says. “We found prints from the victim and Angelina Chavez.”

  “Anybody else?”

  She glances at Ward and says in a subdued tone, “Martin Kent.”

  “Really?”

  “And we’re still trying to identify some smudged prints.”

  Rosie looks at Ward and says, “How do you suppose Kent’s prints got onto the steering wheel, Nicole?”

  She glares at Rosie without responding.

  Rosie adds, “There are many possibilities. You shouldn’t rule anything out.”

  Ward’s delicate cheeks turn crimson. “It’s staring you right in the face,” she insists.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” Rosie says.

  Ward turns back to Yee and asks her about the blood on the Oscar.

  “Type O,” he says. “It matches the victim’s blood type.”

  Ward is pleased. She turns to Rosie and asks, “How do you explain that?”

  “We’ll wait for the DNA tests. Millions of people have type O blood. I’m one of them.”

  I interject, “So am I.” Then I ask, “Did you find any blood on my client’s hands or clothes?”

  Ward hesitates for just an instant before she says, “No.”

  “How do you figure she was able to hit her husband with an Oscar without getting blood on her hands and her clothes?”

  “She washed her hands. She changed clothes.”

  “When?”

  “After she hit her husband, but before she got to the bridge.”

  Her tone isn’t convincing. “Have you found the bloody clothes?”

  Ward casts a helpless glance at Yee before she says in a quiet voice, “No.”

  It doesn’t exonerate Angel, but it’s a hole in their case. It inches us closer to reasonable doubt. We snipe at each other for a few more minutes, but Ward doesn’t give in.

  Rosie isn’t finished. “Why would she have killed her husband? He gave her a shot to be a movie star. Her first big film is coming out on Friday. What’s her motive?”

  Ward gives us a sardonic smile. “The oldest one in the world: money. There’s a million dollar life insurance policy. There was an iron-clad prenup. She would have gotten nothing if he divorced her. By killing him before he was able to divorce her, she’ll get half of his assets under the will, which overrides the prenup. He was going to divorce her.”

  Hell. I’d hoped they wouldn’t find out about all that yet. Fat chance. “Where did you get the information about the insurance and the prenup?” I ask.

  “MacArthur’s son.”

  At least we know where his loyalties lie. We ask her for copies.

  “Let me give you some friendly advice,” she says. “Person to person. Friend to friend.”

  Asshole to asshole.

  “Your client is in serious trouble. She has no plausible explanation. If she can’t come up with a better story, you’d better start talking to her about pleading.”

  The games begin.

  “It’s premature to talk about a plea bargain,” Rosie says. “You’re going to end up dropping the charges.”

  “No, we won’t,” Ward replies. “I’m a reasonable person. I’m only asking you to talk to her. Convince her to come clean.”

  She isn’t offering anything.

  “Off the record,” she continues, “I might be willing to go down to second degree if she cooperates. It would take the death penalty off the table.”

  It would also mean a minimum sentence of fifteen years. Rosie gives her an indignant look and asks, “You’re really thinking about the death penalty?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They stare at each other. They’re both posturing. Rosie says, “Is that an offer?”

  “No.” Ward hesitates for a moment and adds, “It’s a suggestion. Try it out on your client. Maybe it will encourage her to tell the trut
h. It would be good for her conscience.”

  It would also be good politics for Ward. She can take full credit for resolving the case if she can get a quick confession. If Angel doesn’t plead, it’s unlikely the case will be concluded before the election.

  “I’ll mention it to her,” Rosie says.

  “See you at the arraignment.”

  # # #

  Angel’s voice has a sound of desperation. “A plea bargain?” she says. We’re meeting with her in a consultation room in the Glamour Slammer. It isn’t going well.

  “I’m reporting on our discussion with the DA,” Rosie says. “I’m not recommending it.”

  “Good.” Angel glares at Rosie. “It’s out of the question.”

  “I was pretty sure you would say that.” Rosie asks Angel about her night.

  She tilts her head back and sighs. “Horrible.” Her lips form a tight ball. “My roommate is a drug dealer.”

  “Did something happen?” Rosie asks.

  Silence.

  “Angel?”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I couldn’t sleep. I was just lying on my bunk.”

  “And?”

  “When the guard was away, she attacked me.”

  Rosie takes her hand. “She hit you?”

  “Not exactly.” She closes her eyes. “She covered my face with her pillow. I tried to push her off, but she was too strong.” She glances around the gray room. “I thought I was going to die.”

  Rosie swallows hard. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

  “She said she’d kill me if I did.” Her voice is filled with palpable fear when she says, “You have to get me out of here.”

  Rosie puts her arm around her.

  Angel is shaking. “Everything’s falling apart,” she says.

  Rosie holds her for a moment and whispers, “They found Martin Kent.” She hesitates for an instant and adds, “He’s dead.”

  Angel covers her mouth with her hand. She starts to breathe heavily. In between gasps, she says, “They killed Marty, too?”

  Rosie is now holding Angel like a baby. “They found his body in the bay by Fort Point,” she tells her. “They think he may have jumped off the bridge.”

  Angel is silent for a moment. Tears well up in her eyes. Her head drops. “He was very decent,” she says. “He took care of his wife when she got sick. He was terribly upset when she died.”

  Rosie and I glance at each other. I ask, “Was he upset on Friday night?”

  Angel gives us a stern nod. “He was furious at Dick.”

  “Why?”

  “He thought Dick had cut corners on the movie. And he didn’t like the China Basin project from the start. He had put up a lot of his own money—probably millions. He thought Dick gave up too much to Ellis and Petrillo.”

  Rosie looks at me for an instant and then gives Angel a drink of water. “Honey,” she says, “we’d better take it from the top one more time.”

  *****

  Chapter 12

  “People Don’t Get to Hold Oscars Every Day”

  “This statue may not be sold, conveyed or otherwise transferred (other than pursuant to bequests) without first being offered to the academy. Manufactured under world rights granted by Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to R.S. Owens & Co., Inc., Chicago, Illinois 60630.”

  — Inscription on the base of Academy Award statue.

  Angel’s tone is flat as she adds little embellishment to the sketchy story she told us yesterday. There was a dinner and a screening at the house. She was there along with her husband and his son, Daniel Crown and his wife, Marty Kent, Dominic Petrillo and Carl Ellis. They drank champagne at twelve-thirty. Everybody was still there when Angel went upstairs at one.

  Rosie tries to slow her down as she begins probing for details. “Let’s rewind the tape a little,” she says. “What time did people start arriving?”

  “Around eight.”

  “How did everybody get there?”

  Angel says MacArthur’s son walked from his house. Kent came by car. Daniel Crown and Cheryl Springer drove in from Marin. Petrillo and Ellis were staying at the Ritz. Petrillo came in a limo and Ellis took a cab. The living room, dining room and kitchen are on the second, or middle, level of the house. The theater is on the lower level and the bedrooms are on the third floor. Dinner was served at eight-thirty. She gives us the name of the caterers, who arrived at six.

  Rosie asks, “What time did the caterers leave?”

  “During the movie. They left after they set up the champagne.” She confirms that they watched the movie in the theater and came back up to the living room for champagne.

  “And the deck is just off the living room?”

  “That’s right.”

  I ask whether anybody went outside.

  “Everybody did. Dick and Marty and Carl were smoking cigars.”

  I’ve started drawing a diagram of the house. We’ll want to inspect the interior as soon as the cops will let us.

  Rosie asks, “Was anybody else around? Your housekeeper? Security?”

  “No. We gave our housekeeper the night off. We have an alarm, but we didn’t hire a security guard. We live at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s a quiet neighborhood.”

  “Did you hire a valet parking service?”

  “No. It was a small gathering. There was room on the street.”

  They live on the only street in San Francisco where parking isn’t a problem. “Angel,” I say, “when I was at the house, I noticed an outside stairway from the deck to the beach.” I ask if somebody could have gotten to the deck without having gone through the house.

  She considers for a moment. She explains there is a locked gate down by the beach. Then she says, “Somebody could have climbed over the gate, but it’s covered with barbed wire. The stairs go all the way up to the gangway between our house and the Neilses’. The gangway leads to our driveway. Our property is enclosed by a fence. We have a locking gate on the driveway and at the entrance to the footpath at the front of the house.”

  My drawing is becoming more detailed. I show it to Angel and say, “But there’s just a short picket fence at the front of the house, right? And there’s no barbed wire there.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So if somebody climbed over the fence, they could have walked down to the deck.”

  “I suppose.”

  Rosie’s eyes open wide and she asks, “Did you leave the driveway gate open on Friday night to make it easier for the caterers and your guests?”

  Angel thinks about it for a moment and says, “Yes.”

  “So,” Rosie says, “somebody could have come in from the street and gone to the deck.”

  “It’s possible.”

  The flip side is also true. Somebody could have killed Big Dick and left the premises without ever going through the house. It may give us a little wiggle room to suggest various alternative scenarios to the police and the prosecutors.

  “Where was your car?” Rosie asks.

  “In the garage.” She says it was in the usual spot on the left side.

  “And Dick’s?”

  Angel tilts her head back and tries to remember. “In the driveway,” she says. “Behind my car.”

  Rosie asks her why his car wasn’t in the garage.

  “The caterers were using his side of the garage as a set up area. They parked their truck on his side of the driveway.”

  “Did anybody else park in the driveway?”

  “No.”

  This means Angel couldn’t have pulled her car out of the garage without having moved Dick’s car first.

  I ask her about Petrillo’s limo. “Was it parked in front of the house the entire time?”

  “No,” she says. “The driver went to get a bite to eat. Dominic would have called him when he was ready to leave.”

  “Do you know the name of the limo company?” I ask.

  “Allure. We use them all the time.” She says she doesn’t know the name of the
driver.