When Levy finished the call, he offered his hand as he gestured at the files.
“Is that everything?”
“Yeah. I kept a copy for myself.”
“That’s fine. I just want to be sure we’re on firm legal ground before we hand them over. Here, let’s sit.”
He took the files and motioned me to a soft leather club chair on the other side of his office. He dropped onto the opposite chair, leaning forward like he was about to fly off a diving board.
I said, “You see the news?”
“I did. I also met with a representative of the DA’s office and Chief Marx this morning. Would you like coffee? Jacob could get you a coffee.”
“I’m fine. What are we going to do about this, Alan?”
The bulging eyes blinked.
“About what? I’m going to let them examine the files. I don’t see any reason not to cooperate.”
“Not the files. Byrd. He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett.”
A line appeared between his eyebrows and he shook his head.
“There’s nothing to do, Elvis. Pinckert and Marx explained their investigation to me this morning. If I had this information three years ago, I would not have taken his case.”
I expected Levy to be angry, but he wasn’t. Alan Levy was never reversed. Levy was the guy who got the other guy reversed. Instead, he looked sad.
“Alan, we proved he could not have killed Yvonne Bennett. We proved it.”
Levy studied me for a moment, then spread his hands.
“I make up stories. That’s my job, Elvis. Making up stories within the defined parameters of an established structure. That’s what I do.”
Talking to a genius is hard work.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The law. I start with a list-names, dates, events, whatever-information on a page, facts without a narrative structure. My job is to frame those facts with a narrative, you see? A story. The opposing counsel, they have exactly the same facts, and they have to make up a story, too. The facts are the same, but the stories are always different. Same facts, two different stories, and whoever tells the best story convinces the jury. I am very good with my stories, Elvis. I can take a list of facts, any facts at all, and create the most wonderful stories. I do that better than almost anyone.”
I was growing impatient. He was giving a lecture in narrative theory, and I was the retard who couldn’t keep up.
“What does this have to do with Lionel Byrd?”
“I’m not saying I couldn’t prove it again. I’m telling you I wouldn’t take the case. Chief Marx and Ms. Pinckert were very open with me this morning. I wasn’t always polite, but they were patient. They convinced me.”
“They convinced you Byrd was good for the killings.”
“Yes.”
“Because he had these pictures.”
“They were thorough in their presentation. Tell you the truth, I was impressed.”
“I’ve seen scans of the album. I know how they broke it down and what they found with the camera and the film packs. Having this album doesn’t mean he killed them.”
Levy raised his eyebrows.
“I’m not the only one who’s had a meeting.”
“All the album means is Byrd and the person who took the pictures were somehow connected.”
“I made the same point. These people aren’t stupid, Elvis. They investigated the possibility of a second killer or some sort of an association, but found nothing to support that idea-no likely suspects were identified through his call register, nothing was found in his residence or vehicle, and no forensics belonging to anyone else was found on the album or pictures.”
“They couldn’t find Angel Tomaso, either. They’re right about this only if they ignore what Tomaso said in a sworn statement, and that’s what they’re doing. They’re assuming he made a mistake.”
“Maybe he did.”
“You thought he was right at the time.”
“If Tomaso was telling me the same thing today, I would still believe him, but I would discount his statement. A person can tell the truth as he knows it, but be mistaken in what he knows. That happens all the time.”
I expected Levy to come out swinging for having been cast in a role that potentially made him look like the villain in Marx’s Circus of Justice, but, instead, we were arguing.
“So what you’re saying is, three years ago when we proved this guy couldn’t have killed Yvonne Bennett, we were wrong.”
An embarrassed smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as if he couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
“No, we were right. We were right with the information we had at that time. There’s a difference.”
“Did they go over the other six victims with you?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Do you remember Lionel Byrd?”
Now he frowned, wondering where I was going.
“Of course I remember him.”
“I’ve only spent a few hours with this, Alan, but here’s what I found: None of these women were raped, bitten, or sexually abused. No contact means no DNA. The kill-zones were spread all over the city and the murder weapon changed with each killing. Six of the seven were murdered at the new moon-when there’s no moon at all.”
“I know what it means.”
“All of this makes it more difficult for the police to connect the crimes, which implies forethought and planning. Think about it, Alan-anyone can be a short-term spree killer, but it took an organized mind to hunt humans for seven years and get away with it. We’re talking about a top-of-the-food-chain predator. Byrd wasn’t up to it. He doesn’t fit the profile.”
Levy smiled as if he was proud of me.
“I like it. Same facts, different story. You’ve created a story you can live with.”
“This isn’t a story.”
“It’s too complex. See, that’s the problem. He had the pictures and the camera. He didn’t take hair or jewelry-he took the pictures. A simple story is always best. The truth lies in simplicity.”
“You think they’re right or they just have the best story?”
“The right story is always the best story.”
Levy frowned at the pictures of his wife and children. They wore white in almost all of the pictures. I hadn’t noticed their clothes before. Behind him, downtown Los Angeles spread to the east, swept clean by the hot desert winds.
“I understand you’re upset, Elvis. I am, too. I fought for Mr. Byrd three years ago, and won, but this time it’s not my game.”
“You fought because you thought you would get another State Supreme Court argument out of it.”
“Well, yes, but nevertheless. Last time we were right, but this time they’re right. The facts change, the story changes. It has to.”
I stood, and went to the door.
“Tell you what, Alan, after I talk to Tomaso, maybe the story will change again.”
He gave me the same frown he had been giving the pictures.
“Well, do what you want, but you’re only going to end up embarrassing yourself. You’ll look like a sore loser.”
Alan Levy, with his ninety-eight percent acquittal rate and seven appearances before the California Supreme Court, worried about being a sore loser.
“Alan, did you make a deal with Marx to keep your mouth shut?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Marx and Wilts were screaming the charges against Byrd should never have been dropped, but they never brought up your name.”
Levy’s face darkened.
“Don’t forget to have your parking validated on the way out.”
John Chen called as I was leaving the building. He was even more paranoid than before.
10
CHEN TOLD me to meet him under the Fourth Street Bridge. It was a desolate, industrial part of Los Angeles, where the river was framed by concrete and warehouses, and was mostly known for the cardboard encampments under the bridge. Twenty minutes later I was watching the homeless people when Chen pulled up in an SID wagon. Chen was tall and skinny, and watching him get out of the wagon was like watching a question mark unfold. He studied the surrounding buildings as if he were checking for spies, then hurried to my car.