Chapter Fifteen

It wasn’t that I doubted my sexual aptitude. I wasn’t going to author an addendum to the Kama Sutra, but I knew all the basics. And God knows when it was good, I enjoyed it as much as the next guy. For the most part, I had gotten over the giant chasm in our relative attractiveness. Couples like us were out there. Usually it was when a beautiful woman was with a super wealthy guy, but they were out there.

Still, the prospect of first-time sex had always made me anxious for fear of failure or rejection. Not that I had performance issues that required medication—not yet anyway. And while I was never thrilled with the appearance of my naked body, that wasn’t it either.

It was just that it was all so personal. For me, the actual nakedness was a metaphor for the absolute exposure of all things private. The first time involved sharing all of your most personal needs and peculiar preferences with someone who was usually a relative stranger. Enjoyable sex did, anyway. My stress was the reason why the term sexual encounter was descriptive. Sex shouldn’t be an encounter, like confronting a strange dog in your driveway.

And that was the dilemma. I felt like to succeed in the endeavor—to give and receive pleasure—meant exposing everything. And if we were not a good match—if she didn’t like the way we fit together or my scent or what I said, if I talked too much or kissed too much or hadn’t shaved enough of my body—then we would both know it. I’d be lying there, my failure naked and exposed.

So, it was with these thoughts bouncing around my brain that I climbed the hill in the charming Rockridge neighborhood and arrived at her townhouse, holding a bottle of Pinot Noir.

She greeted me with a kiss on the lips. “Hi there!”

“Hi. What a place,” I said, still looking at her smile. She wore an off-white top that sort of wrapped around her perfect breasts and hung vertically to a cool turquoise belt buckle and faded jeans. On second thought, I was far from getting past the gap in our looks.

“I feel like I need a decorator. Nothing really matches, but it’s comfortable.”

If this was just “comfortable,” I shuddered at the thought of her seeing my recliner. Her home was bright, with high ceilings, shiny parquet floors, and colorful artwork. There were comfortable looking overstuffed sofas on area rugs—real adult furniture.

“Wow, Carnegie Slopes,” she said taking the wine. “I love the winery. Have you been?”

“No, Sonoma?” I asked, following her to the spotless modern kitchen.

“Yes, it’s on the coast. It’s beautiful. In fact, look at this,” she said setting two stemless wine glasses on the counter that were emblazoned with Fort Carnegie Winery. “This is the winery that makes the wine. It’s a good sign for us.”

“Yes, well, you said you were making lasagna and I thought the notes of dried sage and orange peel would pair well.”

“Is that right?” she asked, laughing.

“Yeah, that and I liked the label.”

“So, I have something to ask you, Joe Turner?” she said, with a cautious smile, pausing to gage my reaction as she handed me a wine opener.

“Sounds serious, maybe I’d better pour the wine first.”

“Okay, good idea. Here’s to sage and orange peel,” she said after I had poured.

“So, what’s on your mind? Is this about my three children? My time in prison?” I asked, taking a seat opposite her on a kitchen stool.

“Well, here’s the thing. I’ve gotten to know you a little bit, now…”

“Yes,” I said filling up the pregnant pause.

“And I have a feeling that you might be a little nervous about tonight.” She smiled and paused again. “Being the third date and all?” she asked raising her eyebrows.

“Ah, yes. The third date and all of its various…accompaniments?”

“Accompaniments, exactly.”

“I’m assuming you’re referring to the tradition of the third date baking competition?”

“You goofball,” she laughed, pushing me playfully.

“Okay, seriously,” I said and took a healthy drink of the wine. “Yes, not to be presumptuous, but you’d be right to say that I may be a tad bit nervous about the expectations.”

“So, here’s what I think, Joe Turner.”

“Yes, Eddy Busier?”

“By the way, isn’t my name awful?”

“No, Busier is a great name.”

“Very funny. My dad was Ed and so was his dad.”

“Got it, but you were about to tell me something.”

“Okay, I think that I’m also nervous about it and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to just enjoy tonight without that pressure.” She took my hand in hers. “So maybe we could agree not to do it tonight but sometime soon when it’s right?” Her blue eyes looked at me hopefully.

“I think that is a fabulous idea,” I said, smiling.

She came off her stool and into my arms. “Really?”

“I do. Turns out you know me pretty well.”

“Oh, I promise I’m going to,” she whispered before our mouths met for a kiss that started soft and turned deep and passionate.

“You know what?” I said, still holding her close. “You can probably guess.”

She thought for a second before her blue eyes twinkled. “Yes! When it happens, I don’t think I’ll be nervous either.”

From there, the evening was a dream date. We drank wine, ate lasagna, and sat on her couch, filling the gaps in our knowledge of each other. I described the seminal childhood event of seeing my father murdered. She shared that she had an older sister who worked on the stock market in Los Angeles and a twin sister who was a therapist in Seattle.

“But don’t get any ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought twins were every guy’s dream.”

“Not me. I can barely keep track of one body other than my own.”

“Good to know. More lasagna?”

“You know, my first instinct was no, but since you’re not going to see me naked, why not? It’s delicious.”

“See, another benefit to my decision, although I’m thinking maybe we should strip for each other now and get it over with?” she said with a gleam in her eye.

“And still not have sex? No, hard pass,” I said, laughing. Beauty, brains, and a slightly wicked streak. I liked so many things about her.

“How’s your friend, Darnell, doing?”

“It’s rough sledding.” I told her about Bedrossian’s identification at the preliminary hearing.

“So, he was in all likelihood at the scene, driving his car, had a motive because of the rival gang, and now there’s an ID? Yikes.”

“And owns a gun that shoots the same caliber of bullets that killed the victim.”

“Are those popular guns?”

“Apparently popular for killing humans, yes.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“Yeah, but for some reason I think I’m back to believing him.”

“Well, someone once told me you’re very good at spotting a liar. Oh, wait, that was you.”

“Very funny, Busier. I stand by my history of accurate truth detection with a few notable exceptions.”

“Have you made any progress with him trusting you?”

“Zero.”

“How about you, Joe?” she asked, turning to face me on the couch, putting both hands on mine. “Are you a trusting person?”

“Sometimes too trusting, I think.”

“Uh oh, sounds like some serious scar tissue, Turner. Karen said your last relationship ended badly.”

“It was a bit of a catastrophe.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“I made the mistake of getting involved with someone who was related to one of my cases.”

“Eww. Sounds messy. Not the defendant, I hope?”

“God no, but it was a tire fire.” I poured the last of the wine in her glass.

“Well, I promise,” she said smiling, “I was nowhere near West Oakland at the time of the shooting.”

“Good to know. So how about you? Any serious relationships in your past?”

“Yeah, well, the trip to Australia wasn’t entirely career based.”

“I’m picturing a tall and tan professional sailor with an irresistible accent. I want to punch him.”

“Well, you’re right about the accent, but that’s it. And feel free to punch away.”

Our conversation was interrupted by periodic episodes of kissing and touching that made me question the no-sex mandate. Still, I knew it had been the right call. We were learning about each other, inside and out. Between the first kiss and tonight’s pronouncement, I had learned that she wasn’t afraid to make a decision. She possessed a rapier wit and great listening skills, recalling details of Darnell’s case. She also seemed to like it when I kissed her neck.

“So, I’m off to London on Friday for two weeks,” she said when it was time to walk me to her door.

“Do you go often?”

“A few times a year so far. That’s where our parent company is based. Have you ever been?”

“Yes, I did a semester abroad in college. It’s where I picked up the language.”

She laughed. “What am I going to do without you for two weeks?”

“Well, I know I’ll be thinking about what we’ll do when you get back.”

We kissed again, and I could have floated home.

****

The timing of Eddy’s trip, if she had to go, couldn’t have been better. Trial was not far off, and the Moore case needed my undivided attention. I had spent Thursday transcribing the interviews of Darnell and Bedrossian. I could have paid for them to be transcribed, but I had found that it helped me learn their content inside and out if I did it myself.

Now, in my quiet office I could think the case through. Ideally, rather than just telling the jury that Darnell wasn’t the murderer, I would have an alternative explanation for the jury. The time honored SOMDI defense. Some other mother did it. Of course, that would require actual evidence, which, in turn would require Darnell to point me in the right direction.

Barring that, I would divide and conquer. Taken together, the evidence against Darnell was strong. His vehicle was used in the shooting, and he had all but admitted being in the area. He had motive to kill, advertised as it was by his Kill Cashtown cap. He had been caught with a gun that matched the caliber of the murder weapon and had been identified by an eyewitness as the shooter.

I would have to attack each piece of evidence individually. Anyone could have driven Darnell’s car and committed the murder. In fact, what murderer in their right mind would use their own car? And while it was true that the Iceboyz had motive to kill Cashtowners, would the gang rely on Darnell, who hadn’t committed a violent act in his life? Or was it more likely that one of the other violent gang members with the popular forty-caliber handgun had committed the crime? That left Bedrossian, who had failed to describe even one attribute of the shooter only minutes after seeing the assailant speed through his field of vision while facing the opposite direction.

I called Chuck for an update. “Hey, any progress on getting the surveillance tape from inside the E&J?”

“Not yet. Bedrossian says there may have been a problem with the camera.”

“That sounds fishy.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Maybe see if we can get the D.A. interested?”

“Good idea. Also, don’t forget to contact the dime store Indian.”

“Okay, it’s on my list. At least we know where to find him.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

Chuck’s idea to see if Didery would subpoena the surveillance video from inside the E&J was a good one. While technically the defense had the power of subpoena, a District Attorney subpoena served by the police tended to get better results. First, though, I decided to call my new friend, Rocco, and ask him directly about the video.

“Rocco, if there’s something your dad doesn’t want seen, like selling alcohol to a minor, I understand. I’m willing to watch the video inside your store. I just need to do my due diligence.”

“I understand. I don’t think that’s it, but I’ll take a look at it. I think there’s a problem with the formatting. I’m sure it’s retrievable. Pops isn’t exactly a genius when it comes to technology.”

“Okay, thanks. And what do you know about the old guy who was sitting on the porch at your market when we visited?”

“Yeah, that’s Elijah Jakes. He’s sort of a fixture in the neighborhood. Actually used to own the E&J before he sold it to my dad.”

“Is that his usual spot?”

“He’s been there every day since I’ve been back. Good friends with my dad. He’s actually learning my dad’s language.”

“I wonder if he was on the porch when the shooting happened?”

“I would be surprised if he wasn’t. Want me to ask him?”

“That’s okay, thanks. I think Chuck’s going to speak to him.”

As I was saying goodbye, Andy wandered in holding his face in his hands.

“What’s new, partner?”

“I just got Ludlow’d,” he muttered, rubbing at his temples. “Lost a summary judgment motion. Case dismissed in a case where damages were going to be mid-six figures.”

“Ouch.”

Andy’s verb choice indicated his courtroom defeat had come at the hands of one Douglas Ludlow, renowned for his reputation as the least intelligent judge in the county. After managing to squeak by the bar exam on his third try, he had been hired by the District Attorney’s Office and then rapidly appointed to the bench based on his father’s considerable influence in California politics.

“Any chance to appeal?”

“Unlikely. Oh well. So much for early retirement,” he said, pausing on his way out. “How’s Eddy?”

“Out of the country for two weeks. Any feedback on my third date?”

“Besides your exceedingly small penis, no.”

“Nice try, Andy. Hey, what language is spoken in Armenia?”

“Armenian? Is that a language? Why?”

“I need a translator.”

A word-search showed the answer was Armenian and Russian. I found an Armenian interpreter through a translation service and sent them a copy of Bedrossian’s 911 call. I spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the more than a hundred color photos of the crime scene, trying to re-enact the shooting in my mind. While I still didn’t think Darnell killed Cleveland Barlow, there wasn’t a shred of evidence to the contrary.

At six-thirty p.m., I rubbed my tired eyes and clicked to the last photograph in the file. It was a booking photo of the defendant, taken soon after his arrest. He looked young and scared.

On the drive home, Chuck called. “No luck with Elijah Jakes. I would have had a better chance with an actual wooden Indian. He literally walked off the porch and disappeared into the store when he saw me coming, then snuck out the back and left.”

“Unbelievable. Chuck, we’re officially in crisis mode. Trial is scheduled to start in a month, and we don’t have a defense.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“What? Like Jakes and Bedrossian decide to shoot the kid at the very instant Darnell is barreling though the intersection. Their shots go through the passenger window of Darnell’s car, out the driver’s window, somehow missing Darnell, and kill the victim?”

“I love it,” he said, his laugh coming over the waves. “I’d pay to see you sell that to a jury with a straight face.”

“Don’t laugh. You may get the chance. See ya.”

Despite my characterization of my theory as wacky, Bedrossian, the long-tormented market owner had crossed my mind as a possible suspect. It would explain his rush to blame someone else. Also, I wasn’t sure his bullets would have had to travel though Darnell’s windows. Maybe he could have shot over the top of the car, or slightly ahead of it.

But I would still have to explain the immense coincidence of the timing of Darnell’s dash through the intersection, not to mention all the other evidence pointing to his guilt.

I got home with every intention of burning off my frustration with a run, but a ballgame was on and a few gin and tonics would have the same effect. I exchanged texts with Eddy, wishing she was with me on the recliner. At some point I realized I had forgotten to eat and slapped together a peanut butter sandwich. Soon, I stumbled off to bed, the Darnell Moore case flushed from my mind, at least for a night.

The morning was unkind, but after coffee and cold pizza, I was ready for a run, returning to find an email from Didery. Did this guy ever stop working? Attached to the email were the recorded jail calls of Darnell, from the first date of his incarceration to the present. I cringed. Not only was there a good chance there was something incriminating in the calls, the task of listening to the calls meant hours, even days of tedium. The fact that I could listen while watching a game or running helped, but still the task was one of my least favorites.

No matter how many times I warned my clients against talking about their case on the phone, it was astounding how many defenses had been torpedoed with an admission on the phone to a friend or loved one. Every inmate phone call was actually preceded by a recording. So often did inmates disregard the warning, my defense attorney friends had joked that the warning message should add, “Begin your confession at the sound of the tone.”

One memorable client, accused of possession of a firearm, told his friend to be sure and “hide the, uh, biscuit in your car.” Not surprisingly, when the gun was found in the car, the jury had cracked the code and convicted in less than thirty minutes.

I wanted to get through Darnell’s calls so I could devote time to more important matters, like figuring out what in the hell I would tell the jury. Throughout the next week, his conversations with his mom and brother became the soundtrack for most of my waking hours.

Against all odds, by week’s end, I had eavesdropped on roughly three quarters of the calls without hearing my client utter a single incriminating statement. For the most part, he continued to sound like the confident, upbeat kid who was sure he would be out of jail any day.

I was at my kitchen table paying bills when Eddy’s name appeared on my phone. Not wanting to bother her on her trip, I had managed to only respond to her texts, though I’d been daydreaming about her more than I cared to admit to myself.

—What’s up, counselor? I’ve been thinking about you—

—Me too. Was just picturing you on a dig. I believe that’s the terminology?—

—Yes. More impressive than your first comment about my field. “Wow. So like, digging.” What were you picturing on the dig?—

—Nothing too specific. Just you in a hard hat and hot pink string bikini with a rolled-up map in one hand and a whip in the other—

—Lol. Yeah, not very specific at all. How’d you guess my dig attire?—

—Just lucky. How’s the trip going?—

—Okay, lots of boring meetings but I love the city. I do miss you. Feel free to text me once in a while—

—Okay, I didn’t want to bother you, but I will. I can’t wait to see you—

In the office on Monday, a ballistics report arrived in the mail. Pulling open the manila envelope, I braced for the news that Darnell’s gun had been the murder weapon. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my clients had been shot down by his own gun.

Juries love scientific evidence because it is visual and easy to understand. Every handgun is manufactured with its own unique rifling, which refers to the markings etched inside a firearm’s barrel to impart a spin on the bullet for accuracy. The rifling leaves the same unique imprint on bullets. Similar distinctive markings are left on shell casings, the brass jacketing of the bullet that is expelled from the gun when fired.

Firearm examiners can test fire a suspect’s weapon into a water recovery tank to obtain comparison bullets and shell casings, then compare them to those recovered from a crime scene under powerful microscopes. The report documented the bullets dug out of the front door of 454 Eighth Street. I flipped hurriedly through the lengthy report to the conclusion.

None of the 4 bullets examined were of sufficient quality for comparison purposes.

Surprisingly, only the bullets and none of the ten shell casings found in the street had been examined. Also, only the four bullets dug out of the front door and door frame had been recovered. The ten shell casings meant ten rounds had been fired. One left at the base of Cleveland Barlow’s skull still left four bullets unaccounted for.

I double-checked the crime scene photos. The shell casings, which were ejected to the right of the handgun, were scattered within a radius of twelve feet near the middle of the street. I printed one wide angle photo and I drew a line from the front door where the bullets were recovered through the location of Barlow’s body into the street.

As I suspected, the line ran to a location in the street just to the left of the shell casings. That meant that all the rounds were fired from roughly the same location. The bullets that missed Cleveland Barlow had lodged in the door. So where were the other five bullets?

Overall, I was pleased there was no ballistics match to Darnell’s gun. On the other hand, I was certain Didery wouldn’t overlook testing the shell casings for long. I shut the file and tidied up my office for a meeting with a new client—a college friend whose son had been running a drug store out of his high school locker. My phone buzzed. It was Eddy.

—Tell me something I don’t know about you, Joe Turner—

—When I’m alone in my car, I sing off-key and practice impersonations. Your turn—

—I eat more peanut butter than any other food—

—Me too! Chunky?—

—You calling me chunky?—

—Ha-ha. No, and not plain either—