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He took a look under the hood and after about a minute shook his head and said, ‘I’m not really all that good with engines. I’m better with people.’ He won her over with that line and a disarming smile. Two minutes later she was in the Mercedes and they were rolling along down the road, getting to know each other better. Then, somewhere along the line, she noticed that he had turned off the main road.
She was about to ask where they were going when she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw his lips twist upwards into a smile. But she couldn’t tell if the smile was friendly. And as the first traces of apprehension formed into a knot in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she was too afraid to inquire further.
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 8.50 (#ulink_d79120c8-ee94-5491-93e6-94b2a9d75b1f)
‘I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, Gene,’ said Andi as the car snaked its way through the streets of Los Angeles.
‘It’s too late to go back now.’
They both laughed. This was becoming a bit of an in-joke between them. They had both been nervous about leaving the Big Apple and crossing the continent to a new life on the West Coast. But Andi’s career had demanded it.
Andi Phoenix, sitting silently and brooding nervously, was in her late thirties. She had kept her looks through healthy eating, regular workouts and a bit of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been enhanced from 34B to 36D with silicone implants and she had taken a Botox injection to remove the first lines of age. But the rest was from hard work and healthy living. The blonde hair came from a bottle; the original had been a decent but boring mousy brown. Changing the color had been a form of therapy after the rough ride of her youth, but the enhancements as a whole carried with them the payload of attention from men that she could well do without. She was a few inches shorter than the black woman who sat next to her and in some ways felt in her shadow.
Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently. ‘Just remember this, honey: they don’t know you either. But they were ready to take a chance on you.’
In the driver’s seat, in more ways than one, was Eugenia Vance, the six foot, muscular black woman who had playfully wrestled with her in bed that morning, and won – as always.
They had met over twenty years ago, when Andi was still in her teens. Gene had helped Andi through her teenage crisis years, and they’d been together ever since. In all the time they had known each other, they never used the word ‘lesbian’ to describe their relationship. It wasn’t denial. It was just that their every instinct railed against categorization. Neither Gene nor Andi loved ‘women’, they simply loved each other.
‘I’m just wondering if this whole thing is a big mistake.’
Gene snorted her mockery at Andi’s self-pity. ‘You’ve picked a hell of a time to start wondering, girl!’
Here in California, Andi’s specialty was much in demand. She had majored in psychology before going on to get her Juris Doctor degree from the Northeastern University School of Law where she thrived amidst its progressive atmosphere that encouraged social responsibility. But after graduation she had found the law to be an irritating environment in which to work. Most of her criminal work involved plea bargaining rather than trial work and usually that meant helping criminals plead guilty to lesser charges – hardly the service of justice and way off from the ideals that had driven her into the legal profession in the first place.
Matters had come to a head after she contracted pneumonia, forcing her to take a prolonged leave of absence from the law firm that had initially hired her. But when she went back to work, she found herself welcomed with less than open arms. She was protected by labor laws from outright dismissal, but found herself increasingly sidelined. She joined another firm but then spent the next eight months playing catch-up.
It was in this period that her interest in the subject changed. Although there were innocent people out there who needed to be helped, criminal law meant – for the most part – helping the guilty. And that was not something she particularly enjoyed doing. So she did the old poacher turned gamekeeper routine and got herself a job with the D.A.’s office, in the domestic violence unit, where she thrived for a while. Starting at the bottom of the ladder meant that she didn’t get to do much courtroom work. Most of it involved working directly with victims, reading reports and collating evidence. But she was happy to do this. It gave her a sense of purpose.
Paradoxically, it was only when promotion gave her more courtroom work that disillusion set in for a second time. Because she found herself doing exactly the same thing as she was doing before, but from the opposite side of the table: plea bargaining with criminals. She found their lawyers to be vile, for the most part, and she realized how contemptible she must have seemed to the D.A. in her earlier days as a defense attorney.
At the same time, she had developed another interest: crime victim litigation. There was a growing industry involving the pursuit of civil remedies for crime victims and she very much wanted to be part of it. The only trouble was that she soon hit the glass ceiling and realized that this specialized field was more developed on the West Coast than on the East. She wasn’t altogether comfortable about moving out West. But that was where the work opportunity took her.
‘And what if I don’t make the grade?’ asked Andi, still seeking reassurance.
‘Hey, listen,’ said Gene firmly, ‘I don’t want to hear any of that. There’s nothing to stop you except fear – and if you let that get to you, I’ll be right behind you, ready to take a paddle to that cute little butt of yours.’
‘My butt’s not so little,’ said Andi, but this time with humor rather than self-pity.
In truth, Andi’s butt was fine, as any red-blooded male would have been only too happy to testify.
There was a hard edge to Gene. But it was precisely Gene’s confidence in decision making that Andi loved most. On all the important matters, it was Gene who decided for both of them. It was Gene who had decided that they would come to live out here in California. Andi would never have demanded it for herself, much as she had wanted it. She still lacked the self-confidence to stand up to Gene – to the world yes, but not to Gene. And Gene herself knew that Andi needed to make the move for her career. It wasn’t in Gene’s personal interests to make the move, but she cared too much for Andi to let that stand in their way.
So when it came to the crunch, Gene was ready to uproot herself and start again on the other side of the country. It’s only a sacrifice if you give up the greater value for the lesser one, she told herself, remembering the philosophy that had given her so much strength when she really needed it. Andi’s happiness means more to me than my two-bit career. So it isn’t really a sacrifice.
What Gene loved about Andi was that she was gentle and soft on the outside yet fiery and determined when her sense of injustice was aroused. It was a paradox that was expressed as eloquently in Andi’s eyes as in her words. Her eyes had a kind of magic that was as frightening as it was fascinating: those eyes could look both menacing and vulnerable at the same time. It was Andi’s eyes that Gene had originally fallen in love with. When Gene looked into Andi’s eyes the first time they met, the beseeching, helpless look quickly dissolved into anger…no, not anger…tenacity.
As the car slowed down, Gene gave Andi an encouraging smile and then looked around at the office buildings of the town center. Andi smiled back, encouraged by Gene’s contagious confidence.
‘Looks like we’re here,’ said Gene, with an air of finality.
The car pulled up to a halt in front of a large office building.
‘Wish me luck,’ Andi said, taking a deep breath.
Gene looked at her firmly, ‘I won’t do that, honey, ‘cause you don’t need luck.’
Gene slid her left hand behind Andi’s head, leaned over and kissed Andi on the lips. She had a way of making Andi feel good whenever the fear and self-doubt threatened to get the better of her.
That’s why I love you, Gene, thought Andi, closing her eyes. But she didn’t say it. She just held on a moment longer than Gene did, before letting go and getting out of the car. She wanted to say something, but the jitters were still with her and she knew that Gene could sense it.
‘Get in there and knock ‘em dead, honey!’
Andi closed the door and walked towards the building. Ignoring the names of the countless law and accountancy firms on the nameplates, she walked into the building and presented her ID to security.
Outside, Gene watched Andi enter the building like a mother watching her tearful five-year-old vanish into the crowd of other children on her first day at kindergarten. Then she brought the engine to life with a roar, made an aggressive U-turn and drove back the way she’d come. She knew it was going to be a tough day for Andi – first days always are.
Her thoughts were cut short by her cell phone. It was a call from the Say No to Violence rape crisis center.
‘Hallo,’ said Gene, pressing the button of the hands-free set.
‘Gene, we’ve just had a call from Riley.’
Bridget Riley worked at the sex crimes unit in the local police department. And a call from Bridget Riley probably meant only one thing: another woman had been raped.
Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9.45 (#ulink_5b3ba611-2f19-590a-9f4b-1367e65ae3d8)
‘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 (#ulink_502ce025-b4cf-58dd-b154-2520047c4494)
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.’
