Dorian’s expression told me it was good that Bailey’d been the one to ask. “What do you do with my reports? Line the cat box?” I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “The blood drop wasn’t on the back of the seat. It was on the undercarriage of the passenger seat.”
Would anyone else have found that little drop of blood in such a hidden location? I doubted it. And what a find it was. A blood drop in an accessible area is one thing. But a blood drop underneath the seat? That one was hard to explain. Especially with the evidence of cleanup. This new evidence would decimate any lingering hope the defense might’ve had at selling the BS story that Melissa had been killed in a robbery. It’d be a pretty rare thief who’d kill someone, dump the body, then take the time to wipe down the car out on the highway. Feeling cheered—maybe more than was justified—we thanked Dorian and headed out to see the Gibbons family one last time before the trial began.
Bailey steered us onto the freeway, and I braced myself for an inch-by-inch, hour-long crawl. It was almost four p.m., a time when the freeways routinely turned into parking lots. But for some reason the goddess of travel smiled upon us, and today the road was stunningly wide open. We flew up the 101 Freeway north and made it to Hancock Park in just fifteen minutes. It’s an older neighborhood, with homes that date back to the ’30s—ancient, by Los Angeles standards—and its pricey midtown location makes it particularly desirable to high-end professionals in the entertainment and law business. The nearby Wilshire Country Club provides a picturesque stream that runs through the area, and even the smallest homes are worth at least a million; the larger estates will set you back more than ten times that much. So the lawyers who live there? Yeah, none of ’em work in the L.A. County District Attorney’s Office.
The Gibbons manse was on South Las Palmas Avenue and occupied a double lot that sported an elegant French Tudor home on one side and a pool pavilion with a ski lodge–type fireplace on the other. The newly retiled pool and tennis court robbed the family of any excuse not to stay fit, and the guesthouse and home theater ensured company would be entertained and well cared for. This was where Melissa had grown up.
Her mother, Nancy, was a warmer version of the kind of woman who always seemed to be the “lady of the house” in a place like this: perfect, understated makeup, expertly styled pageboy hair, neatly manicured nails, and tasteful, conservative threads that genteelly whispered
The maid, an older woman with Slavic features, ushered us into the living room. My heels sank into the plush beige carpet and the sunlight that streamed through the expansive picture window filled the room with a warm glow. I felt as though I’d walked into a painting. Nancy, her handsome features sagging with fatigue and sorrow, moved toward us and gripped my hand in both of hers.
“Thank you for coming. Bennie couldn’t get out of his meeting in time, but of course he’ll be in court… the day after tomorrow, isn’t it? I find it hard to believe it’s finally happening.”
I gave her what I hoped was a supportive smile. But to me, it felt more like “already” than “finally.” We all sat down and I asked how she was doing. As well as could be expected, she told us, then asked, “More importantly, how are you feeling? How does the case look?”
I told her about the latest findings by Dorian and Kwan. I tried to soft-pedal the subject of blood, to give her the importance of the results without invoking the images it conjured. But how the hell do you do that? Anyway, I tried. Nancy blanched and closed her eyes briefly.
“I know, it’s a terrible thing to have to hear,” I replied. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no. I meant it when I said I wanted to know everything. And I appreciate how you’ve accommodated my wishes.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “So with this… evidence, and the diary, do you think the case is strong enough?”
“With all that plus the evidence in the garage, yes, I do.”
But, of course, I wouldn’t be on the jury. The truth was, given all the circumstances, I was less confident than I let on. Fortunately, Bailey took over.
“Did Melissa keep a diary when she was younger? Or was this something she started when she got older?”
“If she kept a diary as a child, I didn’t know about it. You’d have to ask her college roommates to be sure, but I believe the diary-keeping was something she started after she and… Saul”—Nancy nearly choked on the name —“began having trouble. I think her diary gave her a way to vent because she wasn’t ready to admit out loud that she’d made a mistake.”
I waited for her to continue, but she stopped suddenly and looked down at her hands. Only when the sun sparkled on the teardrops falling into her lap did I realize Nancy was crying. I squeezed her shoulder, and she patted my hand as though she were trying to console us both. Once again, I found myself admiring her strength and unstudied dignity. After taking a few deep breaths, she blinked and looked out the window. Though her body was unbowed, it seemed cloaked in an aura of despair.
“It’s just hard to accept,” she said. “We were always so close. Yet Melissa didn’t feel she could confide in me about what she was going through. I keep asking myself, why? Why didn’t she tell me? Where did I go wrong?”
Nancy pressed her lips together and again closed her eyes and bent her head. I gave her space to recover, and the room filled with a heavy silence.
“Nancy, I don’t think you went wrong anywhere,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, Melissa was strong and independent… like you. I think she wanted to handle this herself. And who knows? Maybe at first she hoped things would improve. Then, by the time she realized there was no hope, it was too late. I’d bet she’d planned to tell you after she’d handled the situation but just didn’t get the chance.”
Nancy swallowed and patted my hand again. “Maybe so. I hope so. Thank you, Rachel.”
But I knew she wasn’t convinced. It would be a long time before she would stop blaming herself for Melissa’s death. If ever. I was struck again by the way the murder of one person poisoned the lives of so many. The proverbial rock in the pond that sends ripples in concentric circles all the way to shore.
The first day of the trial dawned bright and fiery hot. The sun bounced off the sidewalks with blinding force as I walked up Broadway on my way to the courthouse. I could’ve driven, but the walk always gives me a chance to think and charge my mental batteries. Today, especially, I needed that interruption-free time to review my opening statement. But as I walked I could feel the heat penetrate my suit and blouse, and sweat began to run down my neck and into my bra. I’d just pushed through the security door on the eighteenth floor and headed down the hallway for my office when a familiar voice called out, “Now I know what they mean by ‘something the cat dragged in.’ Girl, you look like hell.”
That unflattering assessment was provided by Toni LaCollier, who, like me, was a prosecutor in the Special Trials Unit. If she weren’t my “bestie,” I’d have nailed her in the head with the heel of my Stuart Weitzman.
“So it’s a good thing I’ve got opening statements in one hour, isn’t it?” I groused. “Damn it. Please tell me this isn’t a bad sign.” Trial lawyers are notoriously superstitious. Which is why I was wearing my standard navy “believe me” suit, the one I always wore when I was going to talk to the jury.
“This isn’t a bad sign,” Toni parroted obediently.
“Okay, now say it like you mean it.”
“I do mean it. But remind me to give you my juju just in case. Better safe than sorry.”
“Your what?” I asked. “Toni, since when do you—”
She held up a warning hand. “Stop, do not go there, hear me? Just trust me, it works. Now, come on, I’ll fix you up.”
An hour later, makeup restored and hair expertly blown dry thanks to Toni and her ever-present beauty kit of wonder, I was standing before the jury, the poster-size photograph of Melissa’s white SUV propped up on an easel to my left.
As I’d hoped, the photograph was a siren song the jury could not resist. Time and again, as I described the evidence I’d present, I saw their eyes stray and linger on the image. Taking heart, I hit my final points slowly but firmly.
“So, ladies and gentlemen, we will show you the signs of a struggle in the garage, Melissa’s bloody scarf near the stairs, and the drop of blood on the undercarriage of the car seat, but that’s only the forensic evidence…”
I paused, partially for effect, partially to let the jury catch up. I’d deliberately not mentioned the wipe marks that were evidence of cleanup in the car because I always like to promise less than I deliver. That way, when I present the “new” evidence, it has an extra punch.
