Buch lesen: «No Way Out», Seite 2
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9.45
‘You’re kind of early, Alex.’
Alex Sedaka spun round to see a fifty-eight-year-old black man standing there with a beaming smile on his face. Elias Claymore was overdressed for SoCal at this time of year. But Alex knew that he was trying to avoid being recognized. Claymore didn’t usually like to draw so much attention to himself because then he’d find himself surrounded by autograph seekers.
‘I was at the front of the plane,’ said Alex, reciprocating the smile. ‘First one off.’
‘How are you doing, old buddy?’ asked Claymore, rejecting Alex’s outstretched hand in favor of a warm, brotherly embrace.
Alex returned the greeting and then followed as Claymore led the way.
‘What’s happening with the show?’ asked Alex as they walked towards one of the exits.
‘The network renewed the syndication deal.’
Elias Claymore was the next big thing in talk show hosts, after his California-based show had gone national last year. He was tipped by some to become the next Montel Williams. But others criticized this appellation in view of Claymore’s less than honorable past.
‘How’s the love life?’ Typical Elias, filling the silence with his cheeky humor.
‘You know I’m married to my work,’ said Alex with a twinkle in his eye. ‘That’s why I haven’t even got time to watch your show.’
‘Oh really? That’s not what I heard.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Oh, a little bird told me something about you being in a relationship with a certain TV reporter.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on the little bird grapevine.’
‘Then how come we’re meeting for breakfast not lunch?’
‘I thought you were shooting the show after lunch.’
‘You could come and watch that too.’
‘I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m seeing a…’ Alex’s smile was that of the proverbial angel caught out.
Elias smiled back, ‘So the little bird was right after all.’
‘It’s early days yet. Anyway, these long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. She’s down here in SoCal and I’m up by the Bay.’
‘And you ain’t over Melody yet.’
Alex remained silent. They had been friends ever since Alex had represented Claymore, negotiating a plea bargain over 20 years ago. And they had learned to trust and respect one another. But they had also learned to read one another.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Alex. ‘This isn’t the way to the parking lot.’ Alex was quite familiar with LAX and he had noticed that they were heading towards the curbside on the lower level.
‘No parking lot today, bro. We’re going by taxi.’
‘Taxi? Isn’t that carrying this incognito business a bit too far?’
‘My car was stolen.’
‘Stolen? When? How?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘Doesn’t your insurance provide a rental one in the meantime?’
‘They do when I have time to get onto them. So far I haven’t even had time to report it to the cops.’
‘When you say stolen, you mean like carjacked? At gunpoint?’
‘Heck no! If they’d given me half a chance I’d’ve nailed the bastards. I got out to buy a paper.’
‘I thought your Merc had digital ignition control? Isn’t that supposed to be hotwire-proof?’
‘Not if you leave the keys inside.’
Alex looked at him, wide eyed. ‘You’re kidding!’
Claymore held up his hands sheepishly. ‘I plead guilty to stupidity, Your Honor.’
They both laughed and carried on their friendly banter oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the background.
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10.15
The room was a cold, clinical white. It was supposed to be relaxing as well as hygienic but stepping into it felt like entering something out of science fiction.
‘Okay, now just hold still,’ said Doctor Weiner, holding the third swab between Bethel’s legs.
Bethel held still and forced herself not to think about what was happening or what had happened. But the harder she fought to avoid it, the more painful the memories that flooded back.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bethel, fighting back the tears. ‘How many swabs do you need?’
‘We try to take several,’ said Bridget, the twenty-something-year-old detective who was standing a few feet away.
‘But why?’
Bridget could hear in Bethel’s voice the inner strength that the girl was trying to draw on.
‘Because sometimes the whole sample gets used up in the test and we may need to do back-up tests or give a sample to the defense in case they want to run their own independent tests.’
Bethel Newton had already been photographed from all angles, examined by a female doctor and had vaginal swabs and nail clippings taken. They had intended to take combings from her pubic hair, but she was shaven. They had also taken buccal swabs to use as reference samples. Bethel’s body was now – in police investigative terminology – a crime scene. And the vaginal swabs and nail clippings constituted crime scene samples.
‘I don’t see what good this’ll do,’ said Bethel.
‘We can distinguish between different contributors. That’s what your reference sample is for. In fact, we now have powerful techniques for isolating DNA from sperm.’
‘But he used a condom.’ She remembered how deftly he had held her down with the weight of his body while putting it on, before he penetrated her. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing – like he had done it before. Some men are experts with bra straps. This man was an expert at rape – and an expert at minimizing the trail of evidence that he left behind.
‘We don’t expect to find any identifiable sperm in the vaginal swab,’ explained Bridget. ‘But we have to check anyway.’
Bethel shuddered, but kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.
‘You scratched him too, don’t forget,’ Bridget added. ‘That could give us a skin sample or even a blood sample and that in turn will give us his DNA. Also we might find traces of the condom itself. He might have thrown it away nearby.’
‘So what?’ said Bethel, bitterly. ‘How does that help you catch him in the first place?’
Bridget took a deep breath and spoke gently. ‘Okay, well let’s say we find an empty condom packet by the road near where it happened, if it has fingerprints on it, and if he has a criminal record, we’ll be able to identify him and issue a warrant. And let’s say we find some exchangeable traces from the condom in the swabs we took from you – that means substances like lubricants and spermicides and anti-stick powders – we can compare them for chemical similarities to any condoms we find in the suspect’s possession or for that matter any chemical traces in any condom that he discarded nearby. Or if he discarded the whole packet, we can analyze the exchangeable traces in them and compare them to your evidence sample.’
‘So what’ll that prove?’ Bethel spat out contemptuously. ‘That he has the same type of condoms?’
Bridget put a comforting hand on Bethel’s shoulder. ‘Evidence is like a jigsaw puzzle, Bethel. If we can put enough pieces together we can nail him. And if we can match his DNA to the DNA from any other crimes then before you know it he’s going down on multiple counts of rape. And you’d be the one who can claim the credit for stopping him.’
Bethel knew that the flattery was part of a well-meaning game. Still, she warmed to the compliment and nodded, pretending to accept Bridget’s logic.
In fact, a bond was beginning to form between them. But this was only natural. From the moment Bethel had staggered into the police station, Detective Bridget Riley had accompanied her.
Bethel had been reluctant to go through the whole rape examination procedure. Several times she had almost backed out of it. But Bridget had convinced her to continue, pointing out that the bruises and internal injuries showed that the rapist had used considerable force.
‘There’s virtually no danger he’ll be able to argue consent,’ Bridget assured her. ‘They sometimes get away with that in date rape cases, but this wasn’t a date. Unless we goof up badly, there’s no way he can use it here. And once we ID the man, if we’ve got a good sample from any of the swabs or nail clippings, the DNA’ll get him.’
‘But first you’ve got to catch him,’ said Beth tentatively.
‘We’ll check his DNA against the National DNA Index System as well as the California DNA Index which may have some more detail.’
Bethel smiled nervously. But then she said something that struck Bridget as rather strange. ‘What if his lawyers dig up stuff that they can throw at me?’
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 11.05
‘So how big is this department, then?’ Andi asked the lean, bespectacled man in a light gray suit as they walked past the desks in the open-plan office.
A mix-up about her starting date had meant that she had spent half the morning sitting in a room reading brochures and web-based material about Levine and Webster instead of beginning her induction and being introduced to the staff. The human resources manager wouldn’t be back till Monday, so it was left to Paul Sherman, one of the partners in the firm, to lead Andi along through the maze of desks, as some of the younger (male) members of the staff leaned out from their shoulder height partitions to get a glimpse of the new girl. The women, for the most part, kept their attention to their photocopying or papers on their desks, only glancing round briefly to size up the competition.
‘It’s not really a department,’ Sherman replied nervously. ‘It’s more of a section in my department.’
Andi experienced a hint of unease as these words wafted over her. ‘I don’t understand. I thought I was going to head up a department over here.’
Sherman squirmed with embarrassment. He was only slightly shorter than Andi yet she seemed to tower over him. ‘Well, my department covers all forms of negligence and, for our purposes, tortious liability of criminals is a sub-section of that.’
‘I’d’ve thought there’s a difference between malicious acts and negligent ones.’
‘It’s all part of torts.’
‘Well so is trespass,’ she replied, as if addressing a child. ‘So is nuisance, so is defamation.’
‘Yes, but slander and libel are intentional.’
‘Just like crime.’
Sherman seemed embarrassed, as if perturbed by Andi’s confrontational approach, but reluctant to follow suit. ‘Well, anyway, I won’t try to second guess you. When we’ve got a victim case to litigate, you’ll be the one whose desk it lands on. You’re the expert in that field. I’m just a humble negligence lawyer.’
The uneasy feeling was growing in Andi. This wasn’t what they’d promised her when they offered her the job. They had given her the job without an interview, based on nothing more than her résumé and the recommendation of her head of department back in New York. But what Sherman was describing now wasn’t anything like what they had described when they made the job offer. If anything it was a step backwards.
She had made this move because it had become clear to her that in New York she could only move sideways. But now it looked like she had been suckered into this and was going nowhere just as fast. She felt betrayed. No, she told herself. Don’t prejudge. Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe they just have a less formal structure in this firm.
‘So let me get this straight, Mr Sherman. Any crime victim wanting to sue the perp is mine?’
She was watching his face carefully now.
‘As long as it falls exclusively within your remit. There might be some areas of overlap, in which case we’ll have to discuss it. But nobody’s going to go behind your back, let alone over your head. Everything’ll be done on a consensus basis.’
It was obvious that he was trying to sound encouraging, to make her feel at home. It was clear that they respected her or they wouldn’t have hired someone from the other side of the country and made such a generous pay offer, not to mention paying her relocation costs.
‘I guess it makes sense. It’s just not what I had in mind.’
‘Well, let’s see how it goes,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You’ll have a lot of autonomy. And in most cases no one will try to second guess you. The other partners will probably defer to your judgment too. You’re the specialist after all.’
‘Okay,’ said Andi brightening up. ‘Let’s get to work.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘So, where’s my office?’
Sherman looked embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s not really an office,’ he said nervously. ‘As you can see we’re open plan here.’
‘You mean only the partners have private offices?’
‘Well, no, some of the others do too. But we didn’t have a spare room, apart from the conference rooms. You’ll get one when we’ve got things sorted out. It’s just a matter of rearranging things. In the meantime, you’ll have a booth in the corner – away from most of the noise.’
He had noticed the expression on her face. ‘What?’
‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’ll spell it out to you. This isn’t what I signed on for. I signed on to have an office, even head a department. Not to be an orphan or a stepchild.’
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 14.40
‘Well, check out the ass on that!’
Alex shot an angry look at the leering redneck in torn jeans who was nursing a near-empty can of Bud. The man looked back as if to say, ‘Wanna make an issue of it, buddy?’
The truth of the matter was that Alex didn’t want to. But he was ready to. He was more afraid of the legal and professional consequences to himself as a lawyer than the possibility of getting beaten up. The guy was bigger than Alex. But Alex had trained in Krav Maga – an Israeli martial art – and reckoned the odds at about 50-50.
Not wanting to feed the redneck’s desire for attention, Alex returned his attention to the snooker table that the lithe, thirty-four-year-old, dark-haired, Chinese-American woman was bending over.
They were in the Embassy billiards club in San Gabriel. The place had been packed for the men’s event – the fourth in the six-venue US tour. But the hall seemed half empty as the woman in black pants and matching vest lined up her most crucial shot of the frame – if not the entire semi-final match.
After a few seconds, the chattering settled down to a respectful silence as the crowd held its breath with eager anticipation, wondering if Martine Yin could pull it off.
She took the shot with cool ease, not tentatively but with the firm confidence of someone who knew that there were no prizes for second best. And when the red ball dropped into the right corner pocket and the cue ball rolled slowly to a halt a foot away from the left cushion, the small crowd of appreciative aficionados who were there to watch the game and Martine, let out a whooping cheer. And Alex was amongst those applauding wildly – although he had to admit that he was one of those who was there to see Martine more than the game.
They had been going out together, on and off, for over a year now – if you could call it going out together. It had started after the Clayton Burrow case, when Martine had spent several months pursuing Alex for an interview. She was a TV reporter and she had covered what had become Alex’s most famous case. She had been one of the reporters in the observation room adjacent to the death chamber when they got the fateful call to abort the execution.
And she had witnessed, albeit from a distance, Alex’s intense conversation with his legal intern followed by the intern’s arrest. This whole surreal episode had culminated in a high-speed car chase in the dead of night, ending in a fatal crash that unfortunately evaded the cameras of the news helicopters.
After the case, Alex had offered some considerable resistance to Martine’s interview request, and when they did finally talk about it, she got the impression that he was holding something back. At first, she had been determined to break his resolve and get in under his guard. But somewhere along the line, she sensed that what Alex was holding back had more to do with his personal feelings than any hard facts about the case itself. She realized that Alex was all too human – nothwithstanding the predatory reputation of his profession – and thus realized also that there were limits to how predatory she could be in her own chosen vocation.
It was only after that, and because of this softening in Martine’s character, that the relationship between them really started to develop. And even then it was a relationship at a distance, which tended to stunt its growth. She was based in Los Angeles; he in San Francisco.
‘I’d like to put one in your pot, babe,’ the redneck called out, as he swaggered to the bar for a refill.
‘Why don’t you can it?’ said Alex turning round again.
‘Wanna step outside and settle it like a man?’ the redneck challenged.
‘Why don’t you both can it!’ Martine snapped. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’
By this stage, the referee could no longer hope that the situation would play itself out without his intervention. He called a couple of bouncers to escort the redneck off the premises.
Martine turned back to the table and, taking a deep breath to regain her composure, potted the black and then another red. She had come to the table with four points and eight frames on the board against her opponent’s sixty-one points and eight frames, after a nail-biting battle of safety shots. Her opponent, a petite blonde, had missed a two-cushion escape from a tricky snooker and this gave Martine a final chance to save the match on this final frame.
But only if she made every shot.
Keeping her cool, she made another black and then a red. But this time, the cue ball drifted towards the baulk end of the table and she had to settle for a pink instead of a black. She knew that there were no more chances. After the pink she had to pot the last red and get on the black. She sank the pink and came a little too far on the final red. Not that she couldn’t pot the red. It was an easy shot in itself. But if she just rolled it in she would be on the wrong side of the black. She had to play it with pace and come off three cushions in order to get back down the table to the black. But if she played it with pace, she also had to play it with deadly accuracy.
She took the shot with pace…a lot of pace.
Alex held his breath and prayed.
The ball dropped into the pocket to shrieks of delight from the crowd. And to top it all off, the ball came to rest with perfect position to pot the black one final time.
From there Martine cleared up: yellow, green, brown, blue pink and black. But when the frame ended, there was thunderous applause. She had made a break of fifty-eight and a frame-winning score of sixty-two.
The crowd loved it when a match came down to the wire, however nerve-racking it might be for the players, and Martine found herself having to sign many autographs before she finally got to talk to Alex.
‘You were great,’ he said.
‘Do me a favor,’ she replied. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
‘What’d I d—’
‘You know what I’m talking about. I don’t need you to get into fights for me. You don’t have to prove anything.’
‘But he was—’
She held up her hand.
‘Let’s go grab a bite,’ she said, taking his hand.
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.15
‘The reason we got a drug problem is ‘cause the man flooded the ghetto with cheap cocaine!’ the black militant shouted into the microphone. ‘And the reason things haven’t changed, brother Elias, is because we’ve still got Uncle Toms like you blaming the brothers for what the white man did to us!’
The audience broke into loud spontaneous applause, especially the large group of the black militant’s own supporters. The white supremacist on the other side of the studio struggled above the roar of approval to make his answer heard.
Elias Claymore was enjoying himself. It was fiery guests like these who made Claymore’s ratings. The militants might get the anger off their chest, but it was Claymore who’d make more money thanks to the syndication deal.
Claymore was just as black as this militant guest of his. Now in his late fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, his colorful life had run the gamut from left-wing radical to Islamic fundamentalist to neo-conservative and born-again Christian.
This was meant to be a three-way debate between secular black militants, Black Muslims and the Ku Klux Klan. But the black militant had turned the debate on conservative blacks, including Claymore himself, and made the white supremacists in the studio – who had raised the drug issue in the first place – largely irrelevant.
‘What they did to us is no excuse for what we’re doing to ourselves, brothers!’ Claymore replied. ‘We have to stop blaming others. We used to be slaves to the white man. Now we’re slaves to the white powder. I say it’s time for us to break the chains and set ourselves free once and for all!’
Again the audience burst into thunderous applause, except the small cadre of militants. Claymore looked around and saw the approval on the faces of most of the audience, black and white. The black militant had almost won them over, but Claymore knew that with a few well-chosen words he had won them back.
Then a man wearing a suit and a bow tie with a crescent on it spoke up. ‘If you think that joining the white establishment is a solution,’ said the besuited man, ‘then you’re as big a fool as he is.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Claymore.
‘I mean you’ve jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. You’ve betrayed your people twice over.’
He was a tall, slim, dapper figure and he was known to be Claymore’s arch enemy. The man was a leading member of the Nation of Islam. Claymore had once belonged to his sect, but had later become disillusioned with it.
‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Claymore challenged.
‘I’m talking about Islam, the religion of the black man, the religion you turned your back on when you became an apostate.’
‘An apostate to Islam or an apostate to the Nation of Islam? The two are not the same. Malcolm X left the Nation of Islam but never turned his back on Islam. Yet that didn’t save him from getting murdered.’
This was one of his favorite challenges to his former sect. Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam in disillusion both at its policy of separatism and at the practices of its leader.
But the well-dressed man in the audience was not going to be drawn into a debate about who killed Malcolm X. The Nation of Islam had subsequently re-adopted their former enemy and tried to distance themselves from his assassination.
‘You’re not like Brother Malcolm, Claymore, and you never will be! Brother Malcolm never did what you did.’
There was wild applause at that one. Everyone knew that Elias Claymore was not quite as respectable as he had now become. But Claymore was prepared for this.
‘It’s precisely because of my own guilt that I must speak out,’ said Claymore, casting a professional eye at the studio clock. ‘As a sinner, I have a duty not to remain silent. In the meantime, let’s all say a loud “Thank God” that we’re living in a country where no one has to be a slave unless he chooses to be. Thank you all, good afternoon and God Bless America.’
There was thunderous applause. The show was over.
As one of the cameras pulled back to let him pass, Claymore walked away, talking to various eager members of the audience and shaking hands with some of them.
He left the set to be confronted by two uniformed policemen and a female detective who couldn’t have been more than thirty, if that. But what frightened him most was the implacable look on their faces. He didn’t know what was going on, but sensed that it was something serious. The faces of the TV staff hovering around them looked tense. The detective stepped forwards and flashed her shield at Claymore.
‘Elias Claymore?’
‘Yes?’ replied Claymore, slightly nervously.
‘Detective Riley. I have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘What for?’
‘Rape.’
Claymore shot a look of panic at the producer and swallowed. ‘Call Alex Sedaka. Now!’
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