“That was really excellent stuff you just said, Sergeant. Who do you think should play you in the movie?”
He was screwing with me.
I left Twilly’s suite feeling as though I’d been smacked in the face with a shit pie — and I’d done it to myself. Damn it to hell. Maybe I’d jammed myself up, and maybe I was wrong to cuff him, but it didn’t mean that Jason Twilly wasn’t crazy.
And it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
Chapter 82
JOE AND I had a takeout dinner from Le Soleil and were in bed by ten. My eyes flew open at exactly 3:04, the digits projected on the ceiling keeping track of the time as my sickening night thoughts churned.
An image of Twilly’s sneer had awakened me, but his face dissolved, and in its place I saw the burned and twisted corpses on Claire’s table. And I remembered the dulled eyes of a young girl who’d been orphaned by a nameless teenage boy who might now be lying awake in his bed, planning another horror show.
How many more people would die before we found him?
Or would he beat us at this sick game?
I thought of the fire that had consumed my home, my possessions, my sense of security. And I thought about Joe, how much I loved Joe. I’d wanted him to move to San Francisco so that we could make a life together — and we were doing it through thick and thin. Why couldn’t I take him up on that big Italian wedding he’d proposed and maybe start a family?
I would be thirty-nine in a few months.
What was I waiting for?
I listened to Joe’s breathing, and in a while my rapid nightmare heart thuds slowed and I started drifting off. I turned away from Joe, gripped a pillow in my arms — and the mattress shifted as Joe turned toward me. He enfolded me in his arms, tucked his knees up behind mine.
“Bad dream?” he asked me.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I forget the dream, but when I woke up, I thought about a lot of dead people.”
“Dead people in general? Or real dead people?”
“Real ones,” I said.
“Want to talk about it?”
“I would — but they’ve slunk back to the pit they came from. Hey, I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s okay. Try to sleep.”
It took a second to understand that that was a dare.
Joe moved my hair away from the back of my neck and kissed me there. I gasped, shocked at the charge that his soft kiss sent through my body.
I hadn’t expected to feel this tonight.
I rolled over, looked into Joe’s face, saw the glint of his smile by the soft blue light of the clock. I put my hands on his face and kissed him hard, searching for an answer I couldn’t find inside myself. He reached his arms around me, but I pushed them away.
“No,” I said. “Let me.”
I put all of my tormenting thoughts aside. I tugged off Joe’s boxers, interlaced my fingers through his, pressed his hands against the pillows. He moaned as I lowered myself onto him and then I eased off, kissed him until he went crazy. Then I rode him, rode him, rode him, until he couldn’t wait another second — and neither could I. There was the undeniable pull of the undertow, before I was released by great cascading waves of pleasure.
I collapsed onto Joe’s chest, my knees still on either side of his body, my cheek resting over his pounding heart. He stroked my back and I told him I loved him. I remember him kissing my forehead, pulling the blanket up over my shoulders as I drifted off with him still inside me.
Oh, my God.
It was just so good with Joe.
Chapter 83
YUKI STUDIED JUNIE MOON as she was sworn in by the bailiff.
Defendants weren’t required to testify. It couldn’t be held against them if they didn’t, and it rarely helped when they did. So it was very risky to put your client on the stand. No matter how well rehearsed, there was no way to know if your client was going to go rogue, or get flustered, or laugh at the wrong time, or in some unique way prejudice the jury against her.
But Davis was putting Junie Moon on the stand. And the citizens of San Francisco and trial watchers across the country were dying to hear what she would say. Junie’s white blouse hung from her shoulders and her plain blue skirt billowed around her calves. She’d lost weight in jail — a lot of it — and when Junie raised her right hand to take the oath, Yuki saw vivid bruising on her forearm.
Spectators gasped and murmured. And now Yuki understood why Davis had risked everything she’d gained to have her client testify. Junie looked nothing like a whore and a ghoul.
She looked like a victim.
Junie swore to tell the truth, stepped up to the witness stand, and sat with her hands in her lap, smiling trustingly as Davis approached.
“How are you doing?” Davis asked.
“In jail, you mean?”
“Yes. Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine.”
Davis nodded, said, “Good. And how old are you, Junie?”
“I’ll be twenty-three next month.”
“And when did you start turning tricks?” Davis asked.
“When I was fourteen,” Junie said softly.
“And how did that come about?”
“My stepdad turned me out.”
“Do you mean that your stepfather prostituted you? That he was your pimp?”
“I guess you could call him that. He was having sex with me from the time I was about twelve. Later on, he brought his friends over and they had sex with me, too.”
“Did you ever report your stepfather for rape or child abuse, anything like that?”
“No, ma’am. He said it was how I paid my rent.”
“Is your stepfather here today?”
“No. He died three years ago.”
“And your mother? Where is she?”
“She’s doing time. For dealing.”
“I see,” Davis said. “So, Junie, you’re a bright enough girl. Did you really have to be a prostitute? Couldn’t you have gotten a job in a restaurant or a department store? Maybe worked in an office?”
Junie cleared her throat, said quietly, “Doing sex is the only thing I’ve ever known, and I don’t really mind. It’s like, for a little time every day, I feel close to someone.”
“Having sex with strangers makes you feel close?”
Junie smiled. “I know it’s not real, but it makes me feel good for a while.”
Davis paused to let the tragedy of the vulnerable young woman’s story wash over the jury. Then she said, “Junie, please tell the jury: Did you ever have sex with Michael Campion?”
“No, I did not. Absolutely never!”
“So why did you tell the police that you did?”
“I guess I wanted to please them, so I told them what they wanted to hear. I . . . that’s the kind of person I am.”
“Thank you, Junie. Your witness,” Davis said.
Chapter 84
YUKI HAD A THOUGHT. It was stark, simple, irrefutable.
When Junie took the stand in her own defense, she had come across so frail and so helpless, it would be best for Yuki to say, “I have no questions,” get the woman off the stand. Then tear her apart in summation.
Nicky Gaines passed Yuki a note from Red Dog. She read it as Judge Bendinger snapped the rubber band on his wrist impatiently, then said, “Ms. Castellano? Are you planning to cross?”
Parisi’s note was short. Three words. “Go get her.”
Yuki shook her head no, whispered across Gaines to Parisi, “We should take a pass.”
Parisi scowled, said, “Want me to do it?”
So much for irrefutable. Red Dog had spoken. Yuki stood, picked up the photocopy of the acknowledgment of rights form, and walked toward the witness stand.
“Ms. Moon,” Yuki said without preamble, “this is an acknowledgment of rights form. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“And you can read and write, can’t you?”
/> “Yes, I can.”
“Okay, then. This form was presented to you by Sergeant Lindsay Boxer and Inspector Richard Conklin when you were interviewed at the police station on April nineteenth.
“It says here, ‘Before we ask you any questions you must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’ And here’s a set of initials. Are they yours?”
Junie peered at the document, said, “Yes.”
Yuki read the entire form, stopping at each point to fire the question at Junie: “Did you understand this? Are these your initials?” Bang, bang, bang.
And after each question, Junie scrutinized the paper and said, “Yes.”
“And here at the bottom is a waiver of rights. It says that you understand your rights, that you don’t want a lawyer, that no threats have been made against you, that you weren’t coerced. Did you sign this?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“And did you tell the police that Michael Campion died in your house and that you disposed of his body?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel tricked or intimidated by the police?”
“No.”
Yuki walked to the prosecution table, put down the form, collected a nod from Parisi, and turned back to the defendant.
“Why did you make this confession?”
“I wanted to help the police.”
“I’m confused, Ms. Moon. You wanted to help them. So first you said you never met Mr. Campion. Then you said he died in your arms. Then you said you left his body parts in a Dumpster. Then you said you made up the story to please the police — because that’s the kind of person you are.
“Ms. Moon. Which lie do you want us to believe?”
Junie shot a startled look to her attorney, then stared at Yuki, stuttered incoherently, her lips quivering, tears sliding down her pale face, before choking out, “I’m sorry. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to say.”
A woman’s voice sounded out from the gallery, directly behind the defense table. “STOP!”
Yuki turned toward the voice, as did every other person in the courtroom. The speaker was Valentina Campion, wife of the former governor, mother of the dead boy. She was standing, resting a hand on her husband’s shoulder for support.
Yuki felt her blood drain to her feet.
“I can’t stand what she’s doing to that poor child,” Valentina Campion said to her husband. Then she edged past him to the aisle, and as two hundred people swiveled in their seats to watch her, Mrs. Campion exited the courtroom.
Chapter 85
YUKI HAD SPENT THE NIGHT flopping like a beached tuna, and she was still sweating this morning, thinking how first she’d been sandbagged by her fricking boss. And then Valentina Campion had thrown her under an eighteen-wheeler!
People bond during trials, Yuki knew that, and strange attachments were made. But Mrs. Campion protecting the defendant? That was crazy! Didn’t she realize that Yuki was on her side? That she was trying to do the right thing by her son?
Now the buzz in the courtroom grew as spectators and reporters watched L. Diana Davis take her seat. Davis looked smug, Yuki thinking that her opponent must’ve gotten drunk last night on self-congratulation.
Junie Moon was escorted into the courtroom. Davis stood, sat when her client sat, and immediately after they were both seated, the bailiff called out, “All rise.”
There was a muffled whoosh of people standing as the judge limped to the bench. The jury filed in, dropped their bags, settled into their seats. Judge Bendinger spoke to the jury, reminded them of his instructions. Then he asked Yuki if she was ready to give her summation, and she said that she was.
But she wasn’t sure.
She gathered her notes, stood tall in her Jimmy Choos, and walked to the lectern. She put her notes in front of her and blocked out everyone but the jury. She ignored Parisi’s placid bulk, Twilly’s mocking smile, Davis’s hauteur, and the defendant’s pathetic fragility. She even looked past Cindy, who gave her a thumbs-up from the back row.
Yuki stood a poster-sized photo of Michael Campion on the easel, turned it so it faced the jury. She paused to let everyone see the face of the boy who was so beloved that citizens of the world included him in their prayers at night.
Yuki wanted to be sure the jury understood that this trial was about Michael Campion’s death, not the sad story of the prostitute who’d let him die.
Yuki put her hands on the sides of the lectern and began to speak from her heart.
Chapter 86
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Junie Moon is a prostitute,” Yuki said. “She’s in violation of the law every time she works, and her clientele is made up largely of schoolboys below the age of consent. But we don’t hold the defendant less credible because of what she does for a living. Ms. Moon has her reasons — and that doesn’t make her guilty of the charges against her.
“So, please judge her as you would anybody else. We’re all equal under the law. That’s the way our system works.
“Ms. Moon is charged with tampering with evidence and with murder in the second degree.
“In my opening statement, I told you that in order to prove murder, we have to prove malice. That is, that the person acted in such a way as we can construe them to have had ‘an abandoned and malignant heart.’
“What does an abandoned and malignant heart look like?
“Ms. Moon told the police that she ignored Michael Campion’s pleas for help, she let him die, and then she covered up this crime by dismembering and disposing of that young man’s body.
“Could any of you cut up a person’s body?” Yuki asked. “Can you imagine what’s involved in dismembering a human being? I have a hard time cutting up a chicken. What would it take to dismember a person who was living and breathing and speaking only hours before — someone who was sharing your bed?
“What kind of soul, what kind of character, what kind of person, what kind of heart, would it take to do that?
“Wouldn’t that behavior define an abandoned and malignant heart?
“The defendant made this confession when she thought she was off the record and in the clear. But Junie Moon got it wrong. A confession is a confession, ladies and gentlemen, on tape or off. It’s as simple as that. She made an admission of guilt, and we’re holding her to it.
“Now, the People have the burden of proving our case beyond a reasonable doubt. So if you can’t answer every question in your mind, that’s normal. That’s human. That’s why your charge is to find the defendant guilty beyond reasonable doubt — but not beyond all doubt.”
Yuki’s voice was throbbing in her throat when she said, “We don’t know where Michael Campion’s body is. All we know is the last person to see him is sitting in that chair.
“Junie Moon confessed again and again and again.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all you need to find her guilty and to give justice to Michael Campion and his family.”
Chapter 87
NO ONE HAD YET DISCOVERED what the L. stood for in L. Diana Davis. Some said it was something exotic; Lorelei or Letitia. Some said that Davis had stuck the initial in front of her name to add mystique.
Yuki guessed the L. stood for “lethal.”
Davis was wearing Chanel for her closing argument: a pink suit with black trim, calling up memories of Jackie Kennedy, although there was nothing of the former president’s wife in Davis’s strident voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen. You remember what I asked in my opening statement,” she demanded rather than asked. “Where’s the beef? And that’s the bottom line here. Where’s the body? Where’s the DNA? Where’s the confession? Where’s the proof in this case?
“The prosecution is trying to convince us that a person confesses to a crime and the police have her in custody and they don’t record her confession — and that doesn’t mean anything? They say that there’s no blood evidence and no body — a
nd that doesn’t mean anything either?
“I’m sorry, folks, but something is wrong here,” Davis said, her hands on the railing of the jury box.
“Something is very wrong.
“Dr. Paige, a distinguished psychiatrist, got on the stand and said that in her opinion, Junie Moon falsely confessed because her self-esteem is so low it’s off the charts, and that Ms. Moon wanted to please the police. She also said that in her opinion, Ms. Moon feels guilty about being a prostitute and so she confessed to discharge some of that guilt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you the dirty little secret about false confessions. Every time a major crime is committed, false confessions pour into the hotlines. Hundreds of people confessed to the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. Dozens of people told police they killed the Black Dahlia. Maybe you remember when John Mark Karr caused an international brouhaha by confessing to the murder of JonBenet Ramsey ten years after her death.
“He didn’t do it.
“People confess to crimes when they’ve been cleared by DNA evidence. Go figure. People confess for reasons you and I would find hard to understand, but it’s the role of a good investigator to separate false confessions from real ones.
“Junie Moon’s confession was false.
“The absence of evidence in this case is remarkable. If the name of the so-called victim was Joe Blow, there probably wouldn’t have been an indictment, let alone a trial. But Michael Campion is a political celebrity and Ms. Moon is at the bottom of the social totem pole.
“It’s showtime!
“But this isn’t Showbiz Tonight, ladies and gentlemen. This is a court of lawwww,” Davis trumpeted. “So we’re asking you to use your common sense as well as the facts in evidence. If you do that, you can only find Junie Moon not guilty of the charges against her, period.”
Chapter 88
IT WAS AFTER SEVEN when I got to Susie’s. The patrons at the bar had achieved a high degree of merriment. I didn’t recognize the plinky tune the steel band was playing, but it was all about sun and the sparkly Caribbean Sea.