Room 203 was what homicide called a soft interview room. The same size as the lieutenant’s office, the room contained a metal table and three chairs against one wall, just as in the other interview rooms. A green vinyl couch sat against the opposite wall, and a row of metal file cabinets took up the back wall. Nothing fancy, but it was the most comfortable and nonthreatening interview room on the floor and the preferred place to interview cooperative witnesses and family members. Sinclair decided to interview Griffin here so that he could later testify in court that Griffin was not under arrest, and he therefore didn’t have to read him his Miranda rights. Reading a possible suspect his rights was always the safest route to take legally, but if he did so, Griffin would figure out that Sinclair suspected his involvement and ask for a lawyer. Since Sinclair’s goal was to get the truth, telling someone they didn’t have to talk was counterproductive.
Griffin was slouched in the center of the couch when they entered, his head craned upward so he could peer through the bottom of his glasses as he pecked away on his Blackberry.
“This is Sergeant Braddock, my partner,” said Sinclair. “And I suspect you already know my name’s Sinclair.”
Griffin nodded and slipped his phone into his pants pocket. Sinclair and Braddock took their customary chairs at opposite sides of the table, leaving the middle one for Griffin.
“Ted, I want to make it clear that you’re not under arrest. You’re free to leave at any time.”
Once Sinclair asked the necessary questions to get Griffin’s personal information, he asked, “What do you do at Nadgold?”
“I’m the director of security.” He pulled himself up straighter in the chair.
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like we’re in the same business.”
“To a degree, although private security is different in many ways.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Mr. Nadeiri and Goldman brought me over from Oracle when they decided to start their own company.”
“What did you do at Oracle?”
“I started as a uniformed security officer. I had always wanted to be a police officer—like you both—but security paid the bills while I sent out applications.”
“What happened—you change your mind?”
“I applied at over twenty departments. Even though I had a college degree, half never let me test. I failed the physical agility course at a few. I worked out like a maniac but still had trouble scaling the six-foot wall. I didn’t make it through the medical exam, the oral board, or the psychological at the others. I applied and tested for five years before giving up.”
Griffin’s story was common for many who ended up as security guards. Out of a hundred applicants for OPD,
two made it through the selection process, and only one of those made it through the six-month academy and the four-month field-training program. Observing Griffin, Sinclair could tell that Griffin didn’t have what it took to be a cop—even when he was fifteen years younger.
“Too bad. I’ll bet you would have made a good cop,” said Sinclair.
“I made the best of it. I worked hard at Oracle and they made me a supervisor in the main complex where enterprise software was developed. Mr. Nadeiri was a division chief there. He recruited—or maybe stole is a better word—everyone for his new company from that building.”
Sinclair looked Griffin over. His suit surely cost more than a thousand dollars, his European wingtips close to that. His shirt, with French cuffs and gold cufflinks, was Egyptian cotton and cost over a hundred.
“Looks like you’re doing well now.”
“In eight years, Nadgold went from fifteen employees to three hundred. Last year, the company did four hundred million in revenues. I do alright.”
“That brings us to why you’re sitting here tonight.” Sinclair set his pen down and pushed himself away from the table. “I’m sure you know we’ve been speaking to Adrian, your boss’s son. We also have Brandon Shaw and he’s given a statement as well. We know you took the two girls from Nadeiri’s house that night. You drove them to the bus bench in the Escalade that’s parked out front. From there, a man called the mother of Samantha Arquette—she was the girl hit by the car that night, the girl who never regained consciousness, the girl who later died. I suspect it was you who made the call.”
“Do you intend to arrest me?”
“I can’t say what the DA will charge you with. You have some responsibility for what happened. Only you can explain your intent—those mitigating factors the DA will evaluate. I will promise you that if you lie to me or don’t tell me the whole truth, you might walk out of here tonight, but I’ll make it my mission to see you prosecuted for manslaughter and as an accessory to rape.”
Griffin looked at Sinclair, but his eyes were focused on the wall behind him. Sinclair knew that he was wondering how much the police knew and how little he could get away with saying.
“Why did you say manslaughter?” asked Griffin. “Do you think the girl being hit by the car was something other than an accident?”
“You’re the only one who can tell me that.”
“You said accessory to rape. Did Adrian and his friend say I had something to do with what they did with the girls or procured the girls for them or something?”
“I want to hear your side of the story. How did you get involved in this?”
Griffin pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Mr. Nadeiri called me to his house that night and asked me to clean up a mess.”
“What happened when you got there?”
“I told him the girls needed medical attention and we should call an ambulance.”
“That’s not what happened, was it?”
“I agreed to take them to the hospital, but if it ever came back on us, I wouldn’t cover for his kid or anyone else. I would tell the truth and testify if necessary.”
“This must have been tearing you up, knowing what eventually happened and all.”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did that night. I saw the car hit the girl. I followed it in the papers. I heard when the girl died.” Griffin pulled a monogrammed silk handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and wiped the tears from his eyes. “In a way, I’m glad it’s over.”
“Let’s start from the beginning.” Sinclair picked up his pen and began writing as Griffin spoke.
“Mr. Nadeiri called me at home that night and asked me to come to his house—to the apartment where Adrian stays. I’d been there before and bailed Adrian out on minor stuff previously. He’s a bright kid but spoiled. Adrian was sitting on his bed, wearing only boxers. His pupils were huge, so I knew he was high on something. A girl was in his bed. I tried to wake her, but she didn’t move. I pulled the blankets down and . . .”
“What did you see?” asked Sinclair.
“She was so young . . . so helpless. I have a daughter who was just thirteen at the time. I pictured her in that bed. I was so angry I wanted to kick Adrian across the room. Then I saw the blood. I had Adrian get me a washcloth and I wiped between her legs. I didn’t see any cuts on her, but the blood was coming from her vagina. I first thought she was bleeding from rough sex, but Adrian said she
was
a virgin. As if it was a source of pride.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“I was sickened. From there, I went to the guest room. The other boy, Brandon—he’s a real piece of work—was sitting in a chair with a shit-eating grin on his face. Jenny—she looked to be a few years older than Samantha but still too young to be in that kind of situation—was passed out in the bed, a tangle of blond hair covering the pillow. I
couldn’t even see her face. I was able to wake her, but she was incoherent.”
“I have to ask here,” said Sinclair, “why didn’t you call nine-one-one for an ambulance?”
“I owed Mr. Nadeiri everything. I knew what this would do to his reputation and that of the company.”
“I understand your conflict,” said Sinclair.
“My first priority was to the girls. They needed medical attention. We got them dressed. I still remember my anger when dressing Samantha. She was just a girl.” His voice cracked. “I carried her in my arms to the car, and Mr. Nadeiri walked Jenny down the stairs to steady her.”
Sinclair wasn’t sure he believed Griffin’s motives, but the sequence of events matched the evidence he’d seen and what the two boys said. They’d had plenty of time to get their story straight, however, and Griffin had thirteen months to rationalize and justify what he did that night.
“What happened next?”
“I drove to Children’s Hospital. I’d taken my own daughter there, once when she broke her arm and once when she was running a high fever. But as soon as I pulled into the ER, I noticed their security cameras and got scared—scared that I’d be identified, that I was already covering up a crime—so I panicked and drove back out. I took the first right and stopped when I saw the bus shelter. I was going to leave them there and call nine-one-one, but I knew that there’d be a recording of my voice. I used Samantha’s phone, found a number under
Mom,
and called. I thought they’d just sit there on the bus bench. If I had any idea . . .”
“I believe you.”
“I drove up the street and pulled over, waiting to make sure someone came for them, and then one of the girls—I later read in the paper it was Samantha—walked into the street and a car came.”
“Did you consider returning to render aid?”
“I was getting ready to, but I saw nurses and doctors running from the hospital, so I knew there was nothing more I could do. I drove back to Mr. Nadeiri’s house.”
“What happened there?”
“Mr. Nadeiri’s attorney was there.”
“Zimmerman?”
“No, his personal attorney. Zimmerman arrived later.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Maybe I should take the advice of my attorney and not say any more.”
Sinclair caught Braddock’s eye.
Sinclair asked, “Are you saying that you have an attorney and now don’t want to talk with us any longer or that you just don’t want to talk to us about what you and the attorneys discussed?”
“The latter. Zimmerman told all of us that if the police questioned us, we should say nothing and call him. Obviously, I’m not taking that advice, but I don’t think it right to mention what we discussed or implicate anyone else.”
“Such as Mr. Nadeiri?”
“Can I ask you something?” Griffin asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ve been expecting this for over a year. What took so long?”
Because I was drunk when I was assigned this case
, Sinclair thought.
Braddock jumped in. “When this happened, there wasn’t much more to go on. Recently, there were further developments that caused us to reexamine this file.”
“You mean the two bus bench murders this week?”
Sinclair focused on Griffin’s face, trying to read him.
Then he gathered up his papers and stood. “We’ll be back in a few moments.”
Woodrow Drive was the kind of neighborhood where residents noticed strange vehicles. Two cars could barely pass each other when meeting on the narrow road, and residents parked their cars in their driveways and garages.
The man parked his van in a dirt lot on Shepherd Canyon Road, jogged across the road, and continued along the Montclair Railroad Trail, a hiking and bicycling path built on what was once a passenger train route between San Francisco and Sacramento. Dressed in brown hiking boots, tan cargo pants, and a forest-green, long-sleeve shirt, he looked like any other nature lover out for a little evening exercise.
It was just past eight o’clock. The moon lit up the paved trail, but once he stepped off the path under the thick canopy of trees, he could barely see his feet. He had scouted this route in daylight enough times that he could find his way even on a moonless night. He moved slowly and quietly through the forest of redwoods, eucalyptus, and oak. He skirted a massive redwood deck off the rear of one house, staying well back in the woods, and climbed a low knoll to the backyard of Dr. and Carol Brooks. He settled beneath a Monterey Pine.
Large windows on the rear of the house provided an unobstructed view into the kitchen and family room. No other houses were visible through the thick forest, and the curtains were open in every window of the house. Carol was sitting at the kitchen table, a laptop computer in front of her and a telephone to her ear. Her husband was working tonight, so she was home alone.
When she hung up the phone, the man crept into the backyard, along a stone path through a flower garden, and onto a brick patio. The pistol tucked in his belt under his shirt dug into his back. Invisible to anyone inside the brightly lit kitchen, he crept toward the sliding glass door. He pulled the handle, but it was locked.
He stepped back, pointed the semiautomatic pistol at the center of Carol’s chest, thumbed off the safety, and pulled the trigger. The patio door shattered as the explosion reverberated inside his head. An alarm shrieked and Carol collapsed to the floor screaming.
He stepped through the aluminum frame and stood over her. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. He pointed the gun at the middle of the expanding circle of blood on her purple blouse and pulled the trigger three more times.
He crunched through the shards of glass into the dining room. A half-dozen framed photographs were arranged on the wall above an oak sideboard, one of a smiling couple dressed in Hawaiian shirts with palm trees and a white-sand beach in the background. Removing a medallion from his pants pocket, he slid the chain around the picture frame. He slipped back outside, avoiding the jagged pieces of glass still hanging from the aluminum frame, and scurried across the patio and into the woods. By the time he reached the trail, the alarm had stopped and the only sound he heard
was the ringing in his ears. He hurried down the trail, staying in the shadows. When there were no cars in sight, he sprinted across Shepherd Canyon Road to his van.
He was more than a mile away when he heard a siren and saw a police car screaming past him up the hill.
Sinclair and Braddock came out of room 203 to find the office empty. A handwritten note lay on Sinclair’s chair.
We got a call out. Headed to a house in the hills where a female was shot. Finished serving the search warrant, found nothing that relates to other murders. Jankowski.
“Wouldn’t you know it—Jankowski and Sanchez probably have a mom-and-pop homicide in a nice clean house,” said Braddock. “Should we get another team to help us while we finish up these interviews?”
“If we solve these murders, it’ll happen in those rooms,” said Sinclair. “More investigators sitting in the office won’t help.”
Braddock picked up her cup, grabbed Sinclair’s from his desk, and headed to the coffee pot. “Are you really going to let Griffin walk out of here tonight?”
“We got him for accessory after the fact on the rapes. The DA will charge him if I ask him to, but when was the last time you saw anyone do the statutory three years for accessory?”
“Not in Oakland,” she said. “But we can hang that over his head to convince him to testify against the kids and tell us what he knows about the other murders.”
“You think he knows something?” Sinclair asked.
“One of those three has to know something. We can tell Griffin we can make a case against him for involuntary manslaughter.”
Griffin’s actions met the elements of section 192(b) of the penal code. Facing up to four years in prison, on top of the three for the accessory charge, would convince most anyone to cooperate. But the DA’s office wouldn’t take it to trial, as convincing twelve members of a jury that leaving the girls at the bus stop might result in one’s death would be difficult. Sure, it was stupid, but a few jurors would likely view it as little more than a tragic accident. He was trying to help after all, Griffin would argue.
“I don’t plan to waste my time on an accessory charge and a bullshit manslaughter,” said Sinclair. “We can’t ignore the rapes the kids committed. They’re going down for that, but as long as Griffin tells us everything he knows, I’ll let the DA sort it out later.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been duped before, and he’s holding back on what old man Nadeiri said to him.”
“Because that would make Nadeiri an accessory as well.”
“I’m only concerned with what he might know about the murders.”
“What now? Go in and confront them with the two murders?”
“First we try to find their connection to Caldwell and Hammond.”
Braddock shrugged. “Maybe there isn’t one.”
“The bus bench and medallion connects them. Zachary’s father works at Children’s. The girls and Zachary are around the same age.”
“But one girl’s from New York, the other San Francisco, and Zachary’s from Danville. Sanchez couldn’t find any connection between them.”
“Which means we missed it. It could be anything. What if Griffin’s wife and Susan got their hair done at the same place? What if Zachary met the girls at that rave?”
“According to his parents, Zachary didn’t party at all,” said Braddock.
“The point is we just don’t know everything about them.”
“What’s our interview strategy?”
“We go back at them—one at a time—pin them down during the time frame when Zachary and Susan were killed. Verify their alibis. If they lie, we hammer them. Show them photos of those vics, see their reaction, press them, see how they react.”
“Looks like it’ll be a long night.”
“You got a better place to be?”
“Are you kidding?” said Braddock. “I live for this stuff.”
Sinclair’s desk phone rang. Caller ID said it was the patrol desk. “I got this lawyer in the lobby raising hell. Says you’re holding his clients without cause, and he demands to see them.”
“His name Zimmerman?”
“Right. He ordered me to formally record his demand to see his clients and that they’re not be questioned without him.”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
“He insisted I call the watch commander when no one answered in homicide.”
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“Sarge, I had to. I can’t afford another complaint. The lieutenant said to tell you to come down and at least talk to the guy.”
As Sinclair made his way down the stairs into the PAB lobby, the desk officer pointed to a man dressed in a black double-breasted suit that was several times more expensive than Griffin’s. He appeared to be in his fifties, his jet-black hair certainly dyed to keep it that way. He stopped talking on his cell phone and glared at Sinclair.
“Mr. Zimmerman, my name is—”
“I know who you are,” the lawyer interrupted. “I demand to see my clients, Mr. Nadeiri and Griffin. You have violated their rights by preventing their consultation with counsel prior to questioning. The court will hear about this, and I’m putting you on notice that anything they might have said to you is inadmissible.”
Sinclair smiled.
“Do you find this amusing, Detective?”
“Actually I do,” said Sinclair. “Both the US and California Supreme Courts have ruled that the right to counsel belongs to the arrestee. A lawyer has no legal right to invoke Miranda for a suspect.”
“You mean an accused or a defendant?”
“You use your language, I’ll use mine. I read Nadeiri his rights, and he agreed to speak without an attorney. Griffin is here voluntarily and not in custody, so I don’t need to advise him of his rights.”
“Did you advise them of my presence?” Zimmerman asked.
“I didn’t know you were here until a minute ago.”
“I advised your associate of my presence at Mr. Nadeiri’s house an hour ago and this officer thirty minutes ago. Why are you obstructing me from meeting with my clients?”
“You’d tell them to not talk with me.”
“To protect their rights.”
“To prevent me from getting the truth.”
“Are you intending to charge them?”
“I intend to charge Adrian with rape and several enhancements related to drugs and the victim’s age. I’ll talk to the DA before deciding about homicide charges.”
“Homicide?”
“A fourteen-year-old girl died.”
“Adrian had nothing to do with that.”
“If the DA decides to charge him with murder, you can argue that in front of a jury. By the way, who’s your real client? Who’s paying your bill?”
“That’s privileged information.”
“Seems to me, representing two potential codefendants would be a conflict of interest.”
“Should more than one person be charged, additional counsel will be arranged,” said Zimmerman.
“Please tell Adrian’s father, Rashid Nadeiri, who I’m sure is the one paying your bill, that I’d like to talk to him.”
“Do you intend to arrest him?”
Sinclair thought for a moment. “If his involvement is only as an accessory after the fact, I’ll take his statement and release him. I’ll let the DA decide what to do. If he’s truthful and didn’t kill anyone, he’s not my concern.”
“We may be able to work something out. What will happen to my clients tonight?”
“I still have a few things to discuss with them and then I’ll take Adrian to the jail for booking.”
“Those few things—might you mean the two recent murders that have been all over the news?” Zimmerman asked.
Sinclair met his gaze, saying nothing.
“My clients had nothing to do with those.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for this?”
“I just left Mr. Nadeiri’s house. Since the incident with the young ladies last year, he and his wife have kept a very short leash on their son, and I’m sure we can prove he was elsewhere during the time of the murders.”
“Parents have been known to lie for their kids.”
Zimmerman thought for a moment. “I’ll make them available to speak with you. I think you’ll find them both quite honest.”
“I’ll need to determine that myself,” said Sinclair.
“I should hope so. Concerning the other matter, my clients truly regret what happened.”
“Is that why they kept quiet about it for over a year?”
“Youthful indiscretions, for which Adrian may now be held accountable. Mr. Nadeiri is guilty of protecting his son. What father wouldn’t? And Mr. Griffin of loyalty to his superior and an obligation to protect his company.”
Sinclair nodded. He wasn’t about to point out that just about every criminal he ever met was able to rationalize the crimes he committed. The only difference was that the wealthy ones had high-priced lawyers to articulate it for them.
“Why are you doing this—I mean cooperating at this stage instead of waiting until trial to spring it on the DA?”
“I’d prefer you and the DA don’t overcharge my clients to hold them because of the public pressure for the police to take action on the two recent homicides. I’m helping you to see their innocence, so that you can focus on finding the actual perpetrator.”
“Assuming this checks out, I appreciate it.”
Braddock was just hanging up the phone when Sinclair walked back into the office.
“That was Jankowski. He’s on Woodrow Drive. Call came in as gunshots less than an hour ago. Female victim’s DOA. Her husband’s a doctor, and hanging on the wall next to the body was a peace sign medallion.”