State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (28 page)

Walter sat down and wiped his brow, as if
having just survived a grueling race. “I was stonewalled at just
about every turn when I tried to get information on the Crawfords.
Seems like the word was out and everyone’s lips were sealed tight.”
His chin jutted. “But that only made me more determined.
Fortunately, I’ve got my street contacts who would sell their own
mothers down the river if the price was right. And it usually
doesn’t take that much to qualify.”

Beverly found herself more than a little
piqued. What could be so damned secretive about the judge and his
widow that the powers that be wanted to suppress?

“So what did you learn?” she asked eagerly,
though striving to keep her voice at an even pitch.

“Plenty.” Walter met her gaze squarely. “I
learned that the honorable judge was two-timing his wife every
chance he got. The man was a sex addict and liked younger women;
who in turn were attracted to wealthy, older, generous men. Judge
Crawford may have had a reputation as being damned good on the
bench, but he sure as hell made for a lousy husband—”

Was his reputation that important to preserve
even in death? Beverly wondered. Moreover, had Maxine been aware of
her husband’s infidelity? Or had she simply learned to live with it
for what she got out of the marriage?

“And that’s not all,” said Walter with a
catch to his voice. “The man was a big time gambler. The ponies,
the dogs, slot machines, poker—you name it. Word has it that
Crawford was financing his habit by accepting bribes to manipulate
the sentences of those who had the right connections and plenty of
money
—”

Beverly was stunned. If true, it meant that
any number of trials in the judge’s court could have been
compromised.

Did Dean know what was going on? Did
Grant?

Could this have had anything to do with Judge
Crawford’s murder?

Walter seemed to put that question to rest
when he said, “So far there’s no indication any of this is
connected to Crawford’s death. On the contrary, everyone I spoke to
said that no one wanted the judge dead and buried. He was too
valuable alive to too many people.”

“Obviously not to everyone,” Beverly
said.

Walter sighed. “No one figured on Santiago
taking him out before anyone could do anything about it.”

“You mean like kill Santiago first so that
the judge’s criminal enterprise could go on uninterrupted?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he mumbled.

Beverly tried to digest what she’d just been
told. Even if it had no bearing on her case against Rafael
Santiago, it did give cause for suspicion about the timing of Judge
Crawford’s death and the appointment of his successor.

Were the two entirely coincidental? Or had
Grant’s judgeship been tainted with blood?

“Turns out the wife was no angel herself,”
said Walter with a smirk. He leaned back. “Maxine Crawford was a
dancer named Crystal Lynley when she hooked up with the judge. As
in
dirty
dancing, if you know what I mean.”

Beverly had an idea, but needed to be sure.
“Just how dirty was her dancing?”

“The former Ms. Lynley was arrested twice for
solicitation for purposes of prostitution,” Walter said bluntly.
“But the charges were dismissed.”

“Let me guess,” hummed Beverly, “by Judge
Crawford?”

“You’ve got it, Counselor.” Walter seemed to
applaud her for putting two and two together.

So Judge Crawford married a woman who
serviced him sexually for money, Beverly mused. Then he used his
influence to keep it all quiet.

It made Beverly wonder if Maxine had ever
really loved her husband or vice versa. Or was she only serving as
a paid watchdog for those who had a vested interest in keeping
Judge Crawford happy and content, only to end up with whatever
didn’t go to the creditors or vultures?

Beverly recalled Maxine’s words.
Other men
wanted me only for my body or what they thought I could give them,
but never my mind and soul.

Either the lady was in complete denial or had
been completely taken in by Judge Crawford. Or maybe it was the
judge who had gotten less than he bargained for with the former
prostitute, Beverly considered.

Walter leaned forward, twisting his lips.
“One other thing you might find interesting—” He opened the folder,
removing what looked to be phone records. “On the night Judge
Crawford was killed, two phone calls were made from his house to a
cell phone. The times recorded suggested the calls came
after
the estimated time of death, meaning they had to have
been made by Maxine Crawford. What’s more, records show that many
more calls were made to this number in the last few months,” the
investigator reported mysteriously.

“Whose cell phone was it?” Beverly looked at
him expectantly.

Walter sucked in a deep breath. “It belonged
to then Deputy D.A. Grant Nunez,” he said levelly. “Of course, he’s
now the Honorable
Judge
Grant Nunez.”

Beverly’s pulse quickened. Grant? How could
that be? He had
never
told her he knew Maxine Crawford. In
fact, he’d seemingly gone out of his way to suggest otherwise. Why
had she been phoning him? Was Maxine still prostituting herself
after she married Sheldon Crawford?

Was Grant one of her clients?

Or had the man Beverly had fallen in love
with also been corrupted by bribes, greed,
and
indiscretions?

And thereby handpicked as Judge Crawford’s
successor in more ways than one...

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Manuel hotwired the car, shifted it into
drive, and sped off. In the rear view mirror he could see the owner
standing on the sidewalk—some dumb ass old white man—shaking his
fist at him.

He laughed.
Idiot!

Manuel headed south, not exactly sure where.
He knew he needed to ditch his old lady’s car when he’d heard over
the radio that they had found her and were now looking for
his
golden ass.

Problem was he liked his freedom. He hated
the sound of a cell door slamming behind him. Possibly for the rest
of his life...or till they stuck the needle in his arm.

He definitely didn’t want to be some
bastard’s prison boy toy.

And the food in the joint was poison. Even
the rats avoided it like the plague, preferring to feast on the
inmates while they slept and had bad dreams.

Before he went back to prison, Manuel would
sooner kill himself.

But that wasn’t in his immediate plans
either. That’s why he’d stolen the old white dude’s Buick
LeSabre.

Too much to live for. He giggled like a
teenager. Yeah, he was high as a kite and loving every damned
minute of it.

The cocaine left Manuel seeing stars, but
still in control. At least he knew that he had to hide out till
things cooled down. Later he’d probably head back to L.A. He could
get lost in the Latino hood and no one would ever find him.

Right now he had to lay low. Think about life
without Claudia. She was a waste anyway. He increased his speed
without being the wiser. The bitch could never satisfy him. Always
a complainer and a lousy lay.

She had finally gotten what she had
coming.

Manuel took note of the speedometer as the
car neared ninety miles per hour. Though the fast speed thrilled
him, made him feel like he was flying like a plane—he pushed down
on the brake till he had fallen within the normal limit. It would
be just his dumb luck to get stopped for speeding, only to have the
cop find out that was the least of his troubles.

Or the cop’s once he pulled out his blade and
cut the son of a bitch up.

Manuel laughed again, enjoying flirting with
death. But he didn’t feel it was his time yet.

Not when he still had some unfinished
business.

He had a date with the Latina attorney,
Beverly Mendoza. He’d watched the house as a security system was
installed. Even seen when she and the boy fled the house that night
with the black man they were with earlier. Manuel suspected he had
probably offered to put them up for the night or however long they
needed to feel safe.

But the boyfriend can’t protect you forever,
bitch.

And neither could some two bit alarm.

Not if he had his mind made up to go after
her.

Which he had.

He always got what he wanted from a woman.
Why should she be any different?

When he was done with her, she would wish he
had never been born.

Or that she hadn’t been.

Isn’t that what the judge’s wife wished after
she had been forced to submit to sexual acts—or die?

Only the attorney wouldn’t be so lucky,
Manuel promised himself. When it was over, she wouldn’t live to
tell her story to anyone who would listen.

* * *

Manuel arrived at his auntie’s apartment.

The truth was he had no more desire to be
there than she wanted him there. But he needed a place to chill.
And he doubted anyone would look for him there.

After all, he had only been in touch with her
twice in the past ten years.

Both times he had only been trying to look
out for her.

Now he had to look out for himself.

He heard the lock turn. When the door opened
just enough to allow air in, he saw a frightened old woman. She
tried to shut the door in his face. But he was quicker, forcing it
open, so that the chain lock ripped from the wall.

She fell to the floor from the impact of the
door crashing against her feeble body. He saw that she was dazed,
but still conscious.

He closed the door, turning the dead bolt
lock that was still functioning.

He faced the pitiful sight beneath him.
“Sorry, Auntie,” he said without remorse. “I need to spend some
time with you for a while. And since I don’t see nobody able to
stop me, looks like it’s just you and me—”

He watched as she tried to speak, but nothing
came out except for a gasp or two. As if she had asthma.

He wondered if she was having a heart attack
or something.

It would serve her right, Manuel laughed to
himself. Family shouldn’t reject family. Especially when he was all
she had left now that her dumb assed son Rafael had gotten himself
locked up again!

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Beverly was summoned to Dean Sullivan’s
office as soon as her meeting with Walter McIntosh was over. She
had tried phoning Grant but was told he was out for the day.

Her mind was spinning as to what all this
meant with regard to her case against Rafael Santiago.

Not to mention her relationship with Grant.
Could she have been wrong about his heart, soul, and character?

His feelings for her?

Beverly could only speculate about what had
gone on between Grant and Maxine Crawford.

She wondered if it was
still
going
on.

When Beverly stepped into Dean’s inner
office, she could tell by the hostile look on his face that she had
incurred his wrath.

“Have a seat, Ms. Mendoza!” His brows were
bridged stiffly.

Beverly sat across from his wide desk,
feeling intimidated and vulnerable with respect to whatever he had
to say to her.

“What’s going on, Dean?” Her voice was as
innocent as she could make it, though Beverly’s heart was thumping
hard against her chest.

Dean bent forward, and said darkly, “I
understand that you were warned to lay off digging into Judge
Crawford’s background and personal life. Why have you ignored this
and insisted on prying
outside
of your jurisdiction?”

Beverly lifted a brow. She really had stepped
on someone’s toes. Was it Dean’s? Grant’s? The governor’s?

Or were they all in collusion?

“I was only doing my job, Dean,” she said
toughly, “trying to learn
everything
I could to solidify my
case against Rafael Santiago. I thought that was what you
wanted...”

“You already have everything you need to take
this to trial, Beverly!” Dean’s eyes narrowed beneath his glasses.
“Your job is to focus on getting a conviction against the man who
murdered a sitting judge based on the evidence of the case—not turn
this thing into a three ring circus by digging for dirt in all the
wrong places. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do,” she protested, “but don’t I have a
right to know if Judge Crawford was
crooked
, thereby
potentially making his murder part of a conspiracy to silence
him?”

“There is no damned conspiracy!” Sputum flew
from Dean’s mouth. “You’ll just have to trust me on that. Whatever
the judge or Mrs. Crawford were into sexually or otherwise is
extraneous to the case against Santiago. If you have a problem with
that, Beverly, tell me right now and I’ll hand the case over to
someone else who’s more cooperative—”

He’s ordering me to look the other
way
, Beverly pondered. Or she would lose perhaps the most
important case of her career thus far.

Which meant she would likely find her career
in the D.A.’s office in serious jeopardy.

Who was pulling the strings here? The D.A.?
The governor?

Or could it be Sheldon Crawford’s replacement
on the bench, Judge Grant Nunez?

“I’m waiting for an answer, Beverly,” Dean
said, impatiently drumming his fingers on the desk.

Beverly bit into her lower lip. “No, sir,”
she snapped in acquiescence, “there is no problem.”

“Good.” He put a hand to his glasses. “Now
update me on how things are going for the upcoming Santiago
trial—”

She told him everything he wanted to know and
nothing he didn’t.

By the time Beverly left Dean’s office, she
had been bruised, but not broken. She would not step over the line
officially and make it easy for him to destroy all she had worked
so hard for.

But she did not intend to let Grant off the
hook either. She was determined to find out what he was involved in
and with whom.