I’d only met Graden’s little brother a couple of times, though what I’d seen, I really liked. He was a softer, gentler, and shyer version of his older brother. But I’d never met Devon’s girlfriend. And I wasn’t bathing suit ready. With all this work, I hadn’t had the time to even think about getting a tan. Or finding some abs.
Hearing my hesitation, Graden said, “If you can’t lose a whole day, you could just come for dinner.”
I didn’t know whether he’d sensed my bathing suit anxiety, but regardless, I was relieved. “That’s fantastic-”
A beeping told me I had a call waiting. It was Bailey. “Graden, can you hang on a sec? It’s Bailey-”
“Go ahead and take it. We’ll work out the details later.”
I took Bailey’s call. “What’s up?”
“I’m having trouble getting Dominic’s subpoena served. Every time my uni goes out there, his people say he’s not home-”
Dominic Rostoni, the skinhead boss who’d found Brian’s body. “The Nazi asshole is resisting service? I’m shocked to the core.”
“Yeah, I may have to go out there and do it myself. Also, one of our cell phone record custodians is off on maternity leave. I don’t suppose you could get Fisk and company to stipulate to her? They can’t really be planning any big cross on the records.”
I sighed. “They’re probably not, but I wouldn’t expect any stipulations from this bunch. If we put her on, they won’t bounce her around for long, but if we say we have a problem getting her, they’ll make a big deal of it. Just tell her that once she shows up, we’ll have her on and off the stand fast. Any more good news, sunshine?”
“Brittany’s MIA.”
“What are you talking about? The girl is filming right here in Hollywood.” I’d planned to call Brittany Caren as one of the witnesses who could describe the bitter feud between Russell and Tommy Maher. The last I’d heard, she was about to start shooting her next film with Russell, and for a change it was local.
“Apparently, she had a screaming fit on the set and stormed out. No one’s heard from her since. They’re recasting her part.”
“When did that happen?”
“Not long after we saw her, but I can’t really say the timing’s suspicious.”
I had to agree. Having seen what a mess she was-and having heard about her reputation for walking off sets-even I had to admit that Brittany’s flameout was unlikely to be related to our meeting. And in all honesty, I hadn’t been thrilled about using her anyway. I had others who could describe the fight between Tommy and Russell who wouldn’t show up stoned. Probably. Or at least not visibly. Brittany’s disappearance was a surprise, but not a devastating one. The next one was.
My office intercom buzzed. It was Eric. “Rachel, I need a minute. Can you come to my office?”
When I got to his office, I saw that Melia’s desk was vacant, so I went to his door, which was uncharacteristically closed, and knocked. “Eric?”
“Come in, Rachel.”
I opened the door and saw Melia standing in front of Eric’s desk. She turned and gave me a beseeching look. Eric had a funny expression on his face too, as he told me to close the door. “What’s going on?”
“Apparently you’ve become a featured attraction.” Eric held out a newspaper. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”
As I took the paper from him, I saw that it was the National Inquisitor. With my mug plastered almost life-sized on the front page. Splashed above it was the headline “Powers Prosecutor’s Personal Tragedy.” Below that was the subheading “Sister Romy Abducted at Age Eleven.” The office spun around me like a Tilt-a-Whirl. I sank into a chair in front of Eric’s desk and tried to absorb it all.
Melia twisted her fingers together and spoke in a pleading voice. “I didn’t buy this at the stand. It came in the mail and when I picked it up in the mail room I didn’t really look at it till I got back to my desk…”
I waved her off. “It’s okay, Melia.”
“The whole thing with your sister! How come you never told anybody?” she asked.
I shook my head and tried to make the room stop spinning.
“Melia, give us a minute,” Eric said. He stood up, leaned across the desk, and took the paper from my frozen hands. “I’ll keep this for now, if you don’t mind.”
After Melia left, Eric sat back down. “It wasn’t until I saw this article that I realized how private you are. I tried to think back over all the time I’ve known you, and I couldn’t recall one time when you ever made mention of anything about your personal life before you joined the office.”
I stared at the corner where Eric’s briefcase lay, unable to make my voice work.
“I only say all this so you’ll know that I have some appreciation for how particularly painful this must be. I don’t know how to make this better and I can’t make it go away. I can’t even make it stop. This is a major tabloid, and if they put you on the front page, that means they think you’ll sell papers. So there’s probably more to come. The only way to get them to lose interest is for you to let go of the case. What I’m saying is, if you want off-”
“No!” I swallowed to push down the awful queasiness in my stomach. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”
Eric looked at me, concerned. “You sure?”
“Completely.” I started to stand up, then something occurred to me. “Do you think the defense did this? To rattle me?”
“If they did, they’re pretty stupid. This”-he pointed to the paper-“is a favor. It’s going to make you extremely sympathetic. Ian has the glitz of celebrity, with all those actors and that big director on his side, but this kind of personal tragedy grabs the public like no other.”
“So you’re telling me this…nightmare…is good news.” I shook my head. Un-friggin’-believable.
“Yes.”
But, of course, he was right. I’d have realized it sooner if I hadn’t just had my bell rung. It was exactly why we always struggled in trial to get out personal details about the murder victims. Because it humanized them, made them sympathetic. I can’t lie: knowing that the whole world was learning about my past made me physically ill. Humanizing or not, I’d have preferred to remain an anonymous cog in the machine, just another faceless prosecutor. But there was no way to put this genie back in the bottle.
I got up and walked to the door. “Oh, and would you mind…?” I pointed to the paper.
“Sure, of course.” He held it out to me.
“No. I mean, would you mind burning it?”
Eric laughed. “It’d be my pleasure.”
59
Bailey was livid. “I’m going to get that reporter’s license plate and tell every cop in town to tag his worthless ass if he so much as uses the wrong blinker,” she growled.
I sighed. “And then he’ll write a story about how he’s been targeted by the LAPD ever since-”
“Let him!”
Toni was equally outraged, but she too pointed out the upside. “You wanted to turn the tide of public opinion? Well, this’ll do it. And a heck of a lot faster than evidence.”
Graden had called as soon as he heard about the story. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. I know how much you hate this. I can put some security on you. Have a couple of guys with you if you decide to walk to court-”
“God forbid. Thank you, Graden. Really. But I’m sure I don’t need bodyguards.”
Graden sighed. “I figured you’d say that. So just make me one promise: if anyone bothers you or so much as looks at you funny, you’ll tell me about it.”
“I’m sure no one-”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“Dinner’s at seven thirty.”
Graden’s house was in Pacific Palisades. If you don’t live in Southern California, you probably haven’t heard of the Palisades. Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Malibu-those are the big-name hoods. But as far as I’m concerned, they can’t compete with the Palisades. Spread across the hills and cliffs above the Pacific Ocean, it offers sweeping views, clean air, and perfect weather with none of the traffic, noise, fog, or hassle that comes with beach living.