“I bet he’ll have enough money to hire you. And when he taps out, the court’s gonna have to appoint you. Come on, Sam. It’s a no-brainer. Win-win.”
I’d thought of all that. But there was just one fly in the ointment. “No way he’d hire me. Everyone knows how much I hate cops-”
“That’s exactly why he should want you. Gives him more credibility.”
I wasn’t so sure he’d see it that way, and to be honest, I still wasn’t sure I wanted the case. I shook my head. “He’ll never go for it-”
“He might. You’ve got a solid rep around the courthouse. He’s bound to have heard of you.”
“Exactly my point. Why pick a cop hater-”
Michelle grabbed my forearm. “Sam, you haven’t paid me in two months, they’re about to turn off the electricity, and we’re behind on the rent.”
I sighed. She was right. I picked up the last of the fries as I nodded, very reluctantly. “I’ll give it a try. But don’t go paying any unnecessary bills. This is a long shot at best.”
“Good.” Michelle sat back. “Besides, it’s possible he’s not guilty.”
I laughed so hard I had to put down my fries.
I went to bed that night still conflicted about whether I wanted to try and get Pearson’s case. If it’d gone down the way the news reports said, the jury was going to shred this guy so hard there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury.
And even if I did go for the case, how would I pitch myself to Dale Pearson? As I drove to work Monday morning, I tried to come up with an intro. But all the lines sounded like bad come-ons for a hookup: “I know I’ve got a rep for hating cops, but it’s different with you…” Or like phony ass-kissing: “You’ve probably heard I’m not a big cop lover, but I’m actually a big fan; you’re one of the good guys…” And I’d know that… how? I was still trying to come up with a line I could deliver without laughing-or gagging-when I got to the office.
But the minute I walked in the door, Michelle waved me over to her computer. “Never mind about Pearson. He’s hitched.” She pointed to the news clip.
I read over her shoulder. “Dale Pearson, 51, a veteran LAPD detective who has been declared a ‘person of interest’ in the double homicide of Chloe Monahan and Paige Avner, has reportedly met with attorney and former police officer Errol Messinger. Messinger has made the representation of police officers a specialty since leaving the force in 2002. Stuart Holmes, a Los Angeles attorney who has worked with Messinger in the past, said, ‘This case is Errol’s bread and butter. He’s the perfect lawyer for Dale Pearson.’ District Attorney Skip Whitmer has said his office is reviewing the evidence and that a decision as to what charges will be filed will be made by the end of this week.”
Messinger. It figured. He was the go-to guy for naughty cops. And of course, Stuart Holmes, his bun boy, was there to cheer him on-in the hopes of getting on the case as his second chair. “How did Holmes manage to get Messinger’s dick out of his mouth long enough to give that statement?”
Michelle gave a short laugh. “According to certain ‘celebutantes,’ it just takes a little practice.” She sighed. “So much for our shot at the bigs.”
I shrugged. “Probably for the best.”
FIVE
Other than finding out that someone else had snagged the Canyon Killer case, it was a day like any other. But for some reason, by the time I got home, I was so tired I barely had the energy to heat up a can of chicken noodle soup before falling into bed. So I thought I had a shot at making it through the night without having the damn nightmare again. No such luck.
In my dream, I’m plunging the carving knife into his chest again and again and again, grunting with each blow until my clothes, my face, and my arms are covered in blood. I stand back to let him fall, the handle of the knife slick and wet in my hand. But he doesn’t fall. He smiles. That sick leer of a smile that always made my insides freeze. I’m paralyzed for a moment, but then the hot rage surges through me again, and I lunge forward to slash his throat with a swift backhand motion. Blood gushes from his neck. But he’s still smiling. Frustrated, furious, I sob as I bury the knife in his stomach. Once, twice, three times, heaving with the effort of each thrust. Finally, I yank out the knife and stand back. Still he doesn’t fall. Exhausted, gulping for air, I raise the knife again, but suddenly, I can’t reach him. He’s a giant. I stare up at him, terrified. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs my arms, lifts me up, and pins me against the wall. His hands feel like steel clamps. I fight to break free, my heels kicking against the wall. As I twist my head back and forth, I feel a blast of hot, fetid air. His mouth opens wide-a huge, cavernous black hole-and I feel the darkness begin to engulf me. Trapped, terrified, I scream and scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic little whisper.
I woke up to the choked gurgle of my own voice, my heart pounding, my throat raw. I rolled over on my back still gasping for air. I used to believe the dreams would go away over time, once the memory of the living nightmare faded. But it’s been years now, and the dreams still come almost every night. The only thing that ever changes is the weapon. I’ve used a gun, a piano wire, a machete-even an ax. Doesn’t matter. It always ends the same way, with his hands clamped around my arms, and me, paralyzed, terrified… doomed.
Now, I curled up and shivered under the covers. My favorite sleeping T-shirt, the one with a smiling Janis Joplin, was soaked with sweat. I looked at the soft glow of sunlight that peeked through the gap in the curtains of my bedroom window-a reassuring slice of reality that reminded me that the monster was out of my life. I might not be able to get to him, but he couldn’t-wouldn’t dare-try to get to me. Except in my dreams.
I stumbled out of bed the next morning, tired and groggy. I had a headache that felt like someone had pounded a spike through my forehead. It took three cups of coffee to get my brain clear. By the time I left for the office, it was nine thirty. I hate being late.
I ran downstairs, jumped into my car, and jammed the key into the ignition. Beulah slowly groaned to life. Dealing with her on days like this made me want to scream. I needed to fly-or at least make it from zero to sixty in less than five minutes. But that just wasn’t Beulah’s way. I was turning onto Beverly Glen Boulevard to head over the canyon when Michelle called. “You almost here?”
“Almost,” I lied.
“Just left home, huh?” Michelle knows me way too well. “Good. Because you need to get downtown. Your jury came back.”
It’d been three days since the jury had gone out on Harold Ringer’s case. It wasn’t the longest I’d ever had a jury stay out, but it was close. “Sure took their time.”
“Yeah. And I hope they hammered your guy. That scum-sucking pig. No offense.”
“None taken. My guess is you’ll get your wish.”
It’d taken hours of coaching to make Ringer come off halfway decent on the witness stand. “Okay, I’m heading to court.”
Happy at the prospect of not having to see him again after today, I dialed up a Steely Dan album on my phone and sang along to “Don’t Take Me Alive.” When I got to court, I saw that the victim, Aidan Mandy, was sitting in the audience with a victim-witness counselor from the DA’s office. He looked frail, vulnerable, his skinny frame hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap. It hurt to look at him. I signaled to Jimmy, the bailiff, to let me into the holding tank.
Ringer was pacing in his cell. His square face, normally ruddy, was pale, and I noticed a film of sweat on his forehead. As I approached the cell, I saw that his hands were shaking and he was swallowing hard, his breath coming in shallow gulps. Prison was going to be a rough ride for him, and he knew it. He moved up and gripped the bars. “What do you think?”