“I’ve got about two minutes, then I’ve got to get back in there.”
“I just want to know if we can talk after court today. Things are happening and I need some time with you.”
“I know things are happening. Two agents showed up here today.”
“What did you tell them?”
“To fuck off. It made them mad.”
“Federal agents don’t take that sort of language that well, you should know that, Bosch.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a slow learner.”
“What about after?”
“I’ll be around. Unless Fowkkes creams this wit. Then I don’t know, my team might have to retreat somewhere to lick our wounds.”
“All right, then I’ll hang out, watch it on TV.”
“Later.”
Bosch went back into the courtroom, wondering what McCaleb had come up with so quickly. The jury was back and the judge was giving Fowkkes the go-ahead. The defense attorney waited politely as Bosch moved by him to get to the prosecution table. Then he began.
“Now Ms. Crowe, is acting your full-time occupation?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been acting here today?”
Langwiser immediately objected, angrily accusing Fowkkes of harassing the witness. Bosch thought her reaction was a bit extreme but knew she was sending a message to Fowkkes that she was going to defend her witness tooth and nail. The judge overruled the objection, saying Fowkkes was within bounds in cross-examining a witness hostile to his client.
“No, I am not acting,” Crowe answered forcefully.
Fowkkes nodded.
“You testified that you have been in Hollywood three years.”
“Yes.”
“I counted five paying jobs you spoke of. Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
Fowkkes nodded.
“Good to be hopeful. It’s very difficult to break in, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very difficult, very discouraging.”
“But you are on TV right now, aren’t you?”
She hesitated a moment, the realization that she had walked into a trap showing on her face.
“And so are you,” she said.
Bosch almost smiled. It was the best answer she could have given.
“Let’s talk about this… event that allegedly took place between you and Mr. Storey,” Fowkkes said. “This event is, in fact, something you concocted from newspaper stories following David Storey’s arrest, correct?”
“No, not correct. He tried to kill me.”
“So you say.”
Langwiser stood up to object but before she did the judge admonished Fowkkes to keep such editorial comments to himself. The defense lawyer moved on.
“Now, after Mr. Storey supposedly choked you to the point of unconsciousness, did you develop bruises on your neck?”
“Yes, I had a bruise for almost a week. I had to stay inside. I couldn’t go to auditions or anything.”
“And you took photographs of the bruise to document its existence, correct?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you showed the bruise to your agent and friends, did you not?”
“No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I didn’t think it would ever come to this, where I would have to try to prove what he did. I just wanted it to go away and I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“So we only have your word for the bruise, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just as we only have your word for the entire alleged incident, correct?”
“He tried to kill me.”
“And you testified that when you got home that evening David Storey happened at that very moment to be leaving a message on your phone machine, correct?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you picked that call up – a call from the man you say tried to kill you. Do I have that right?”
Fowkkes gestured as if grabbing a telephone. He held his hand up until she answered.
“Yes.”
“And you saved that message on that tape to document his words and what had happened to you, correct?”
“No, I taped over it. By mistake.”
“By mistake. You mean you left it in the machine and eventually taped over it?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to but I forgot and it got taped over.”
“You mean you forgot that someone tried to kill you and taped over it?”
“No, I didn’t forget that he tried to kill me. I’ll never forget that.”
“So as far as this tape goes, we only have your word for it, correct?”
“That’s right.”
There was a measure of defiance in her voice. But in a way it seemed pitiful to Bosch. It was like yelling, “Fuck You” into a jet engine. He sensed that she was about to be thrown into that jet engine and torn apart.
“Now, you testified that you are supported in part by your parents and that you have earned some monies as an actress. Is there any other source of income you haven’t told us about?”
“Well…, not really. My grandmother sends me money. But not too often.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Do you take money from men on occasion, Ms. Crowe?”
There was an objection from Langwiser and the judge called the lawyers to a sidebar. Bosch watched Annabelle Crowe the whole time the lawyers whispered. He studied her face. There was still a brush stroke of defiance but it was being crowded by fear. She knew something was coming. Bosch decided that Fowkkes had something legitimate that he was going after. It was something that was going to hurt her and thereby hurt the case.
When the sidebar broke up Kretzler and Langwiser returned to their seats at the prosecution table. Kretzler leaned over to Bosch.
“We’re fucked,” he whispered. “He’s got four men that will testify they paid her for sex. Why didn’t we know about this?”
Bosch didn’t answer. She had been assigned to him for vetting. He had questioned her at length about her personal life and had run her prints for an arrest record. Her answers and the computer run were clean. If she’d never been popped for prostitution and she denied any criminal activities to Bosch, there wasn’t much else he could have done.
Back at the lectern, Fowkkes rephrased the question.
“Ms. Crowe, have you ever taken money from men in exchange for sex?”
“No, absolutely not. That is a lie.”
“Do you know a man named Andre Snow?”
“Yes, I do.”
“If he were to testify under oath that he paid you for sexual relations, would he be lying?”
“Yes, he would.”
Fowkkes named three other men and they went through the same loop of Crowe acknowledging that she knew them but denying she had ever sold them sex.
“Then have you ever taken money from these men, but not for sex?” Fowkkes asked in a false tone of exasperation.
“Yes, on occasion. But it had nothing to do with whether we had sex or not.”
“Then what did it have to do with?”
“Them wanting to help me. I considered them friends.”
“Did you ever have sex with them?”
Annabelle Crowe looked down at her hands and shook her head.
“Are you saying no, Ms. Crowe?”
“I am saying that I didn’t have sex with them every time they gave me money. They didn’t give me money every time we had sex. One thing had nothing to do with the other. You are trying to make it look like something it’s not.”
“I’m just asking questions, Ms. Crowe. As it is my job to do. As it is your job to tell this jury the truth.”
After a long pause Fowkkes said he had no further questions.
Bosch realized that he had been gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white and had gone numb. He rubbed his hands together and tried to relax but he couldn’t. He knew that Fowkkes was a master, a cut-and-run artist. He was brief and to the point and as devastating as a stiletto. Bosch realized that his discomfort was not only for Annabelle Crowe’s helpless position and public humiliation. But for his own position. He knew the stiletto would be pointed at him next.