extended families from as far away as La Canada who had moved in for the day and brought all the comforts, from thermos jars of steaming rice to beading projects for the younger siblings doomed to remain bored and dry the rest of the day.
It was disorienting to find my comfort zone overrun, like walking into the wrong apartment identical to yours. Added to the reassuring scent of wet concrete, for example, was the splatter of sausage from an open grill, where the dads were turning out big fat pancakes.
It was becoming futile to keep searching for Juliana in the milling crowd of shivering children and grim adults who crowded the event schedules as they were posted. The swimmers were indistinguishable in their caps and goggles and there were so many of them warming up, the pool looked like a frothing overpacked aquarium. The PA system cut in and out and the chaos of high-pitched voices was torturous. The odds, I had known starting out that morning, were that Juliana was not ready and would not show.
Since I had been back on the job there had been only one or two calls. It seemed she no longer needed to talk. She was in school and her parents were still split; yes, she had new friends — but her tone was guarded, as if she finally had stuff going important enough to keep safe in a private treasure box. The fear, however, could not always be contained. Sometimes, she admitted, the nightmares could still be so bad she would find herself out of bed and writhing on the floor.
I did not share my own nightmares with Juliana. I did not tell her how every day I looked into the mirror that was Andrew and me, and every day I was surprised. I had not guessed that either one of us was capable of what we had done, but every day I saw that same reflection. “Good morning, killer,” I would say, and in that way, we would always be joined.
The national anthem blared, and the meet began. The sun had risen, and people were taking off the heavy jackets. The deck had begun to steam. Somehow every part of my body had already gotten wet — pants legs, soft lambskin boots — and there were meltdowns amongst the contestants. A petite blonde girl about eight, wearing a navy team suit with a bolt of lightning on the chest, was curled up in a towel on a beach chair, sobbing.
“She just doesn’t want to,” shrugged the embarrassed mom.
It was itchy to be wearing street clothes with the water so close and beckoning. Only a few weeks ago I had started to swim with the team again.
“Welcome back, Ana Banana,” said my lifeguard friend, standing up in the next lane. In goggles and white cap, he had looked like a grandma who had somehow been endowed with broad glistening male shoulders.
“Been a while,” I said, breathing hard.
He nodded. “The water senses it.”
I laughed harshly.
But he was serious. “When you’re flailing, the water senses it,” he said, and dove neatly under.
Girls twelve years old and older were being called for the one-hundred-yard freestyle, and out of the mob of competitors that had gathered at the west side of the pool for their starts, I noticed something interesting. Two swimmers were helping a third to the blocks. They were all wearing glossy violet suits, and other members of the same violet team were pushing past the judges seated at lane one to shout encouragement. The girl who was going to swim the race held on to the arms of her mates and very carefully, one foot at a time, climbed up onto the tilting platform, from which she stared down at the water with knees locked. You could almost see them quaking. I knew that body.
Shoving through the crowd to the edge of the pool I shouted,
Her skin was mottled white and blue. She bent over and pulled the cap down, and pressed the goggles firmly to her face, and the whole team of teenage girls — lumpy, long-legged, talented or not — was screaming,
“Swimmers, take your mark,” came the announcement.
In the tense space between the silence and the buzzer a few excited shrieks erupted from the team, and then there were shushes, and Juliana’s whole body was trembling, her fingers stretched behind her like fluttering wingtips, in a crouch so tenuous it looked as if she might simply fall over. The distance before her was unbroken; the water still, and knowing.
Above us, the redtail hawks traced their arcs of freedom.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the law enforcement professionals who generously gave their time and expertise:
First of all, to FBI Special Agent Pam Graham, Negotiator — the inspiration and guiding angel of this book. Her insights were invaluable, her accomplishments impeccable. I was proud to be in her company.
To other outstanding members of the FBI Los Angeles Field Office: Special Agent George Carr, SWAT; Special Agent Hugh Coleman, Principal Firearms Instructor; Special Agent David A. Kice, ERT Coordinator; Supervisory Special Agent Chuck Joyner; Special Agent Mark Voges, Fireams Instructor.
To those based in Quantico: thanks to Arthur E. Westveer, Violent Crime Specialist, and John Jarvis, Behavioral Scientist, Behavior Science Unit, for essential technical advice.
To Special Agent Mark Llewellen, Retired, of Executive Shield, Inc. Also Special Agent William J. Rehder, Retired, the world’s foremost expert on bank robberies, and Special Agent Nick Boone, Retired.
Gratitude, once again, to Don Mauro, as well as to Captain Richard Odenthal, Retired, and Detective Sgt. Ken Gallatin, both of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. It was a pleasure to know Barry A. J. Fisher, Crime Lab Director, whose range of knowledge is as awesome as his generosity.
Santa Monica Police Department Captain Gary Gallinot and Detective John Henry provided skilled understanding of criminal motivation and police procedure. The work of Anna C. Salter, Ph.D., was helpful, as was William J. Bodziak’s
Without the compassionate assistance of Gail Abarbanel, Director of the Rape Treatment Center, Santa Monica — UCLA Medical Center, and clinic coordinator Amy Tishler, RN, NP, this book could not be in any way true. The RTC is a model facility that provides free, state-of-the-art emergency medical care, forensic examinations, counseling and legal support for victims of sexual assault and their families, twenty-four hours a day — but that scarcely describes its humanitarian reach or the urgency of its mission. For victims who suffer in silence, confidential care is available at www.911.rape.org. My greatest hope is that these words reach out to them.
I am deeply obliged to the brilliant defense attorney Blair Berk for legal strategies and to Walter Teller for continuing counsel. William F. Skinner, M.D., was an unfailing source of medical authority and comradeship. My son, Ben, was the creative voice behind the portrayal of teenage life — making me sound more chill than I could ever aspire to be. Thanks to my daughter, Emma, for sharing many spirited adventures; and to Douglas, ever yours. To my East Coast friends and family, always in my heart.
As for agents of another kind — Molly Friedrich is, quite simply, the best; Robert Graham and Matthew Synder at CAA, equally anchors in the storm. Paul Bogaards and Pamela Henstell have done a wonderful job at Knopf — thank you for your support all these years; and to Vrinda Condillac for keeping us all on track. But there is no greater privilege for any writer than working with Sonny Mehta. I remain indebted to his wisdom and enthusiasm.
