At the passenger door, he looked both ways down the alley, then dragged and pulled Amanda's body off the front seat. Staggering, he carried it to the trunk, dropped the body inside and closed the trunk carefully. After a few deep breaths, he returned to the driver's seat, started the car and drove out of the alley. In a few minutes he was heading east on the San Bernardino Freeway, which, because of the hour, was clear. He opened the windows because of the odor on the front seat.
After traveling ten miles or so from the city limits of L.A., he swung off the freeway and headed north on surface streets, past an endless blur of one-story commercial buildings and stucco homes that could have been anywhere in Southern California. Finally, he made his way up a steep grade toward the San Gabriel Mountains. At the top of the grade the road took a sharp right turn and Bailey found himself on a two-lane mountain road that hugged the chaparral-covered mountain area as it crept slowly to a higher elevation. Below him on the right side was a steep cliff that provided an unhindered view of the city lights below. At the first turnoff he stopped and parked the car.
Bailey climbed out and walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, there was only inky blackness. He headed back to the car, unlocked the trunk and flipped it open. As the trunk light came on her hand reached out for him. Startled, he jumped back, jerked his revolver from his waistband and pointed it. The sleeve of Amanda Kennedy's blouse had caught on a portion of the trunk lock, lifting her hand with the trunk lid. She was dead. As he shoved his gun back in its holster, he realized his hand was shaking. He lifted the body by the arms and pulled it out of the trunk. He lost his grip and it fell to the gravel head first. Heart racing, he hoisted the body to the edge of the cliff and slung it over, then rushed back to the car and slammed the trunk shut. He flew to the front seat, started the engine and made a U-turn. He drove down the hill slowly and listened to the squeaking of his brakes. Retracing his route, he traveled south to the freeway and headed east. In a gas station in downtown Los Angeles, he washed the front seat carefully with wet paper towels.
By the time he reached his apartment, he had stopped shaking.
ELEVEN
The ancient courtroom was a museum of symbols, high ceilings, marble, rich wood and leather. Above the judge's bench was a large American-eagle plaque, fashioned of brass and wood. As usual, the air conditioner was on too high. Carr's hands felt cold.
Carr thought that everyone-judge Malcolm with his crooked toupee, the court clerk who stuffed counterfeit money into see-through evidence envelopes as if on an assembly line and Sally Malone, the court reporter-looked bored. Everyone, that is, except the defendant, who sat on the witness stand. A tall black man, he alternated between touching the witness-stand microphone (which made it hum) and cracking his knuckles. He wore white trousers and a purple, long-sleeved shirt. Come to think of it, Carr thought to himself, it was the same outrageous outfit he wore the night he and Kelly chased him into a backyard clothesline.
'I thought it was narcotics in the briefcase,' the black man said with his head turned toward the judge. 'I threw the briefcase and runned away because I didn't wanna get caught carrying no dope. A man asked me to pick up a load of dope for him and that's what I did. I went to the apartment and a lady handed me this briefcase. When I was walking away from the place, these two Federal men came up on me. I threw the briefcase on the ground because I thought for sure it was filled with heroin.'
The defense lawyer, a wiry young man with a bristling black moustache and unmanageable hair, removed his thick glasses and wiped the lenses on his necktie. He put them back on. 'I have no more questions for the defendant, Your Honor.'
'If you have nothing, Mr. Green, then the defendant may step down,' Judge Malcolm said.
The man ambled off the witness stand. As he passed by the prosecution table, he glared at Carr.
Carr only looked at Sally Malone and smiled. She stenotyped as the judge announced a recess. Everyone in the courtroom stood up and, like a pharaoh, the judge exited the courtroom through a special door.
The defense attorney slid his swivel chair to the prosecution table in order to confer with the assistant United States attorney, a man who, by appearance, could have been his slightly older brother.
Carr went over to Sally.
'He has all his clients say the same thing,' Sally whispered. 'They always claim they thought they were carrying narcotics instead of counterfeit money.'
'I know. And with good old Mushhead Malcolm, it works.'
'Nick called while you were testifying. He wants you to meet him at the Olympic Auditorium tonight. He's refereeing. I guess that means that I get stood up again, right?'
'Unless you like wrestling matches,' Carr said amiably.
'No thanks.'
There was the sound of a buzzer. The court clerk said, 'All rise.' The judge came in his door and went to the bench.
The defense attorney called Carr to the witness stand and swore him in.
'Agent Carr,' he said, 'you previously testified that you watched the defendant enter the front door of the address in question and, watching through the window, you saw a woman remove money from a refrigerator and hand it to the defendant. Then you saw him remove some money from his pocket and give it to her. Is that right?'
'That's right.'
'What denomination were the bills?' the defense attorney asked.
'I don't know. I was too far away to tell.'
'But you could tell it was money?'
'It was money.'
'Could you tell whether it was counterfeit or genuine money?' Green said.
'I was too far away to tell, but an informant had told me that a woman was selling counterfeit money at the address. After the man entered the door I saw her give him a large amount of money and he gave her a smaller amount of money in exchange. To me, that meant that a counterfeiting transaction had probably taken place.'
'Your Honor,' Green said, 'the answer was not responsive. I ask that the answer be stricken from the record.'
'So stricken,' the judge said.
'Agent Carr,' Green continued, 'when the defendant departed the residence carrying a briefcase and you approached him, what did you say?'
'I identified myself as a federal officer and informed the defendant I wanted to speak with him.'
'I take it when you approached him, the briefcase was closed, You could not see what was in it, is that right?'
'That's right.'
'So in actual fact, as you approached the defendant, you had no idea what he had in that briefcase. Isn't that right?'
'I didn't know for sure, but I would have bet a paycheck or two that it was counterfeit money.'
The lawyer looked beseechingly to the judge.
'Mr. Carr, I'm going to have to ask you to limit your answers,' the judge said. 'Please don't make any more conclusions.'
'And when the defendant threw the briefcase on the ground and ran away from you, you and your partner chased him,' Mr. Green said. 'Is that right?'
'Yes.'
'You gave chase immediately, without stopping to see what was inside the briefcase. Is that right?'
'Right.'
'So, therefore, when you were chasing him down the street you still didn't know what was in the briefcase. For all you knew at that point, it could have been heroin or anything else for that matter. Isn't that right?'
'I thought the briefcase contained counterfeit money,' Carr said.
'As a matter of fact, isn't it true that you can't really be sure that the briefcase that you recovered from the
