“I hope you’re right, Luke,” Alex said levelly. “Indicting the grandson of Juanita McCoy for murder is the last thing anybody in this county wants to do, believe me. Christ, if anyone would know that it’s you, you sat in the hot seat, you know how intense the pressure can be.”
Luke didn’t want to hear about their problems. Protecting his client was all he cared about. Although technically he wasn’t Steven’s lawyer yet, he would be if Steven was indicted for Maria Estrada’s murder. This was Juanita and Henry McCoy’s grandson. No one in this county could say no to Juanita McCoy; certainly not him.
“But so far, you don’t know if the gun you found is the murder weapon,” he told Alex.
“We don’t, you’re right,” Alex agreed readily. “And if it isn’t, good for him. But if it is…”
No one spoke for a moment. The implication needed no voice.
“I haven’t gone anywhere with this yet,” Alex said, “except to protect McCoy as best I could so far and make sure his lawyer was involved. He’s sitting back there, drinking a Coke, watching USC play football on television.” He paused. “But I want something from you, in return for my white-glove handling.”
“What?” Luke asked suspiciously.
“I want to fingerprint him and take photos.” He hesitated momentarily as he saw the look of anger cross Luke’s face. “Don’t force me to do it the hard way, Luke,” he warned his former boss. “Because I will if I have to.”
This is a textbook example of being between a rock and a hard place, Luke thought. “Steven McCoy will comply voluntarily,” he told the District Attorney and the sheriff.
The crime lab in Goleta dusted the revolver for fingerprints. Three sets were recovered. A comparison with Maria Estrada’s thumbprint from her driver’s license was a match to one of them, conclusive proof that the victim had touched the gun.
After the fingerprint tests were complete, Dana Wiseman, the lab’s bullet expert, test-fired the revolver. He shot three .38 short bullets, identical to the one Dr. Atchison had taken from Maria’s heart, into a six foot by three foot stainless-steel tank filled with water. Then he measured the test bullets against the evidence bullet.
The old gun had left very specific and unique markings. The bullets matched. It was a eureka moment—they had found the murder weapon. Now they had to try to find out who the other prints belonged to.
The police photographer took front and side head shots of Steven. Then he was sent downstairs to the fingerprint section, where a full set of his prints were taken and transferred to a computer. The entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Steven was brought back upstairs and released to Luke, who drove him to his office, a few blocks away.
Steven seemed to be more upset at the way he was being treated than worried about why. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked Luke, as Luke escorted him into his office. “Where’s Tyler? What are they doing with him?” he asked, concerned for his friend.
“Tyler’s on his way back to Arizona.”
Steven seemed genuinely perplexed. “So why aren’t I?”
During the time it took to photograph and fingerprint Steven, Alex Gordon had given Luke a broad-strokes account of the sheriff’s investigation and the detectives’ Q and A’s with Steven and Tyler. Luke had to admit (to himself, not to Alex) that Steven’s story wasn’t promising; parts of it were potentially very damning.
“Because there are holes in the account you gave the police about what you did on the day the murdered girl disappeared, that have put you under suspicion,” Luke told him. “The cops want to check them out further, before they send you home.”
Steven’s attitude changed immediately. There was no ambiguity in it now—he was scared. “You’re joking, right?” he asked incredulously.
“I wish I was.”
“What kind of holes?”
“Whether the security gate was locked or unlocked when you guys left to go to town, for instance.”
“Fuck,” Steven blurted out. “Tyler said he thought it was locked, right?”
“He vacillated. Also, there are several hours where your time is unaccounted for, which is always a red flag to a cop. And most importantly, they may have found the gun that was used to kill the girl.”
He was watching Steven closely as he passed on this information. Steven wasn’t showing any guilt, just fear. Luke took that as a positive sign. Or at least, a hopeful one.
“Where did they find it?” Steven asked. “And anyway, what would that have to do with me?”
“In the old ranch house.”
“And they think that…” Steven tailed off. “It’s not that old revolver, is it?”
Luke stared at him in bewilderment. “How do you know about that?” he asked nervously. Jesus Christ, he thought, what kind of Pandora’s box are we opening?
Steven started pacing the room in agitation. “When I was showing Tyler around that night I saw this old revolver from my grandparents’ gun collection lying on the floor. I knew it shouldn’t be out in the open, but I didn’t know where it belonged. It was too dark to see very well, so I picked it up and stuck it back in the gun case where I could fit it in.”
Luke groaned. “You picked up a gun near where a murder victim was found and you didn’t tell anyone?” This kid was his own worst enemy. “Why not?” he asked in exasperation.
“I didn’t know it was any kind of murder weapon,” Steven protested. “It was just a gun sitting there.”
“But you knew later! Why didn’t you say anything once you heard?”
Steven looked down at the floor. “I didn’t connect it. I didn’t even think about it.”
For a moment Luke couldn’t speak, he felt so impotent at this sudden blast of bad news. “I have to call the D.A. and try to explain this to him,” he finally said, reaching for the phone. “This is very bad news for you, Steven, I’m not going to sugar-coat it. If it is the gun that killed her, your fingerprints will be all over it.”
There was a knock on the door. Juanita McCoy hurried in. Luke had called her from the sheriff’s office, while Steven was being fingerprinted. She looked at her grandson. “Oh, Steven,” she cried out, her voice heavy with worry. “My God, what’s happening?”
Steven stood up. “I’m in trouble, Grandma.” His voice was quivering.
Juanita hugged him protectively. Turning to Luke, she asked, “What in the world is going on here? Is he?”
Luke nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Why?” she asked in bewilderment.
“They found an old gun at the ranch house they think killed the girl,” Steven said. “It was sitting out when Tyler and I came back that night. I put it back in the gun case, because I knew it shouldn’t be lying around.”
“Which will connect him to the murder, if the gun matches,” Luke told her.
Juanita frowned. “This gun. Was it an old Colt revolver?”
“I don’t know,” Luke answered. “Why should that matter?” She sat down with a thud. “Because I took it out of the gun cabinet, the morning Steven arrived.”
Luke’s head snapped up so fast he cricked his neck. “What did you say?”
“That gun Steven found and put back in the case? That old revolver?” Her look to Steven was one of utter remorse. “I was by myself, and I heard a car coming up the road. My foreman wasn’t around, and the gate was locked, so nobody should have been able to get up there.” Her eyes tightened shut, as if she was trying to will the episode to have never happened. “You hear about these terrible things happening nowadays. Which, of course, did to that poor girl.” She turned to Luke. “I took the gun out of the gun cabinet. I wasn’t planning to use it, I didn’t even think it was loaded, it hadn’t been fired for years. I wanted to scare off whoever was trespassing.” She fell back in a heap. “Then I saw who it was.” She turned to Steven. “You. I put it down and came outside, and forgot all about it.” Her hands were trembling in her lap. “Does that make any difference?”
“It might,” Luke answered cautiously. This confirmed Steven’s account of how he had come across the gun inside the house—that he hadn’t taken it out of the case, but found it where his grandmother had inadvertently left it. No one would question Juanita McCoy’s word.
Still, something felt off. “Where did you put the gun?” he asked Juanita.
“On a side table, near the front window,” she answered. “Why?”
“You didn’t drop it on the floor?”
“Heavens, no!” she answered. “Drop a weapon? It could go off, or it could be damaged. No one with a wit of sense would drop a gun,” she insisted. “Why do you ask?”
Steven answered the question. “I found the gun lying on the floor,” he told her.
“Which means whoever used it panicked and dropped it, right there,” Luke concluded. “Someone who doesn’t know anything about handling guns.” He picked up the phone and punched in Alex Gordon’s cell number. “Alex? I have some vital news about that gun.”
“So do I,” Alex came back from the other end of the line. “It’s the murder weapon. The lab confirmed it. I was about to call you.” He paused. “McCoy’s fingerprints are all over it.”
Luke covered the mouthpiece. “The gun is a match,” he told Steven and Juanita. “And, of course, your prints are on it, Steven.”
Steven sat down next to Juanita. They held on to each other like two survivors of a shipwreck clinging to a life raft.
Luke spoke to Alex over the phone again. “I understand. But there’s an explanation.” He repeated what Steven and Juanita had told him. “You must see the significance, Alex,” he said ardently. “It’s a horrible coincidence, but it explains why the prints are on the gun.”
As he listened to the senior D.A.’s reply, Luke’s face began to cloud over. He shook his head, back and forth. “Yes, I understand,” he replied. “Have it your way. For now.”
He slammed the phone down in disgust. “In essence, the D.A.’s answer is, ‘So what?’ Instead of taking the gun out, you found it lying there. The point is, the bullets matched, and your prints are on it. They just got the word from the crime lab. So are the victim’s, by the way, which makes things worse. That gun is the murder weapon—no ifs, ands, or buts.” He braced himself against his desk. “The detectives will be here any minute to arrest you.”
Juanita moaned, and curled into a ball. Steven wrapped a protective arm around her thin shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Grandma. I didn’t kill her.” He looked at Luke. “Can you come with me?”
It’s times like this when you hate your job, Luke thought. “Not now. After you’re booked, I’ll be allowed to see you.”
“When will that be?”
“Later tonight or tomorrow morning, hopefully.”
“I’ll have to stay in jail tonight?” Steven asked, his voice rising in a tremolo.
“Yes, unfortunately.” There was no easy way to explain this. “You’re going to be in jail for a few days, until we can enter a plea. This is a murder case, Steven. It isn’t going to go away fast.”
Steven fell back, his arms splayed out to the sides. “Jesus Christ. How did this happen?”
There are only two answers to that question, Luke thought grimly. Either you’re the unlucky victim of a series of terrible circumstances, or you did it. There were times when he had to be painfully blunt with a client. This wasn’t one of them.
There was a knock on the door. Luke stood up, then helped Steven to his feet as Rebeck and Watson took a few steps into the room. They both avoided looking at Juanita.
Rebeck, her eyes ablaze, did the honors. “Steven McCoy, we are arresting you on the charge of murder, under section 187 of the California Penal Code.”
Steven started to collapse. Luke held on to him to keep him upright. Juanita, hunched over on the couch, was utterly distraught. This is the kind of stress that can kill an elderly person, Luke worried, as he looked over at her. She was a tough old bird, but this was an experience way beyond what anyone could ever be prepared for.
Watson cuffed Steven’s hands behind his back. Luke was at Steven’s side as the detectives led Steven outside.
As soon as they opened the front door, they were blinded by a wall of television lights. An unruly posse of camera operators jostled with each other for position, boom-mikes swung overhead, TV reporters carrying hand microphones pushed toward them like Pickett’s troops charging Cemetery Ridge. The reporters started yelling on top of each other, a blizzard of sound.
“When did you decide…”
“Is the charge going to be first-degree murder?…”
“What’s his name…” On and on, a babble of controlled hysteria.
Luke helped Watson and Rebeck rush Steven through the throng to the waiting car. Watson pulled the back door open and pushed Steven inside, cradling his head against the doorjamb. Rebeck ran around to the driver’s side, rudely pushing aside a microphone that had been thrust in her face. “No comment,” she called out. “The sheriff will issue a statement later.”
Watson jumped into the passenger seat. The unwieldy sedan fishtailed down the street as it headed for the freeway on its way to the county jail.
Fucking chickenshit cops,
Luke thought in anger, as he watched the car disappear around a corner. They had deliberately leaked Steven’s arrest, to make their sorry asses look good. Down the line, Alex Gordon would pay a healthy tribute for this.
He needed to calm this circus down, if only by a fraction. “My client has fully cooperated with the authorities,” he said into the cluster of microphones. “I am confident that when this all shakes out they will release him, because there is no irrefutable evidence against him.” He deliberated for a moment, then decided to fire a shot across the bow. “The sheriff’s department has been under incredible stress to make an arrest in the Estrada case, even though no one knows whether her killing was deliberate, accidental, or a dozen possibilities in between. While I’m not saying the police were pressured into making a premature and improper arrest, in a case as important as this one there should be a strong preponderance of evidence before anyone rushes to judgment.”
He stopped. They could draw their own conclusions—and they would. “That’s all I have to say—for now.”
K
ATE DRAGGED HERSELF THROUGH
the front door of her Westside bungalow. It was a few minutes after nine. She had spent most of the day with Luke Garrison, going over preparations for Steven McCoy’s booking and arraignment. She did the PI work on Luke’s serious cases; this one was going to be particularly grueling, because of who was involved: a murdered Chicano girl and a young, handsome Anglo defendant. That Steven was from one of the county’s most prominent families was additional gasoline thrown on the fire. It wouldn’t be a national story like the Michael Jackson circus, but locally it would be as important. Starting tomorrow, this case would take precedence over everything else on her schedule.