Sullivan's Law (4 page)

After using the copy machine a few doors down, she quickly returned to the interview room and handed him back his prescription. She didn't recognize the drug—decanoic acid phenothiazine—but she wasn't that familiar with psychotropic medications. She jotted down the letters DAP, reminding herself to check out the drug on the Internet. A new treatment for schizophrenia was interesting.

The fact that the medication was administered in a syringe, though, presented a problem. She'd run it by Brad before she decided how to proceed. Glancing at his terms and conditions, she was surprised that he hadn't been ordered to undergo regular psychiatric treatment. He had drug terms, yet no psych terms. They saw this type of idiotic mistake every day. She'd petition the court to have the term added.

Carolyn reached over and grabbed his left forearm. Daniel jerked away, looking as if he were about to slug her. “Roll up your sleeves.”

“Why?”

“I have to check for tracks.”

She examined both arms and didn't find anything. Even in prison, narcotics were readily available. Some of the things criminals came up with were mind-boggling. Pretending he needed treatment with an injectable drug would be the perfect way to cover up a heroin or methamphetamine addiction. He'd have to bring his medication in when he came for his monthly appointments. After she verified it wasn't narcotics in the syringe, he would then have to administer the drug in her presence. Not finding tracks on his arms didn't mean he wasn't an addict. She'd known men who would shoot the stuff in their penis. “You can pull your sleeves down now,” she told him, thinking she might have stumbled across a way to avoid supervising him. If he required a full body search every month, he'd have to be reassigned to a male officer.

“Let's complete the formalities,” Carolyn continued. “You must not associate with any known felons. You must secure gainful employment. If you commit any type of crime whatsoever, your parole will be automatically violated.”

She shoved the document across the table for him to sign. “This is standard procedure, Daniel. If you fail to comply with the conditions set forth, you'll be charged with violation of parole and returned to prison. Since your sentence was twelve years to life, I don't think you want that to happen. Any questions?”

“Yes,” he said, signing the paper without reading it.

Carolyn ignored him and picked up her Palm Pilot again, quickly scheduling appointments for the next four months. She then jotted the dates and times down on one of her business cards. “If an emergency comes up and you have to reschedule an appointment, you must call me as soon as possible. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Daniel said. “About the employment…”

She tried not to look into his eyes. Something in them frightened her. Besides, in supervision cases, it was better to remain impersonal. When preparing pre-sentence reports on rapists, murderers, or other violent offenders, she tried to convince them she was their best friend. She even wore short skirts and high heels, hoping to walk away with admissions that could tack another twenty years on to their sentence. “Have you already lined up a job?”

“I have almost seventy thousand dollars,” he told her, his confidence returning. “I don't need to work right now.”

Carolyn blinked several times. Fresh out of prison and the guy had more money in the bank than she did. She felt like filing a violation against him for spite. “Where did you come up with that kind of money?”

“I inherited it,” Daniel said, smiling. “My grandmother left me ten thousand dollars. She passed away right after I was shipped off to the joint. A lawyer put it in a trust fund for me. Now I have seventy grand. Pretty sweet, huh?”

Carolyn gave him a phony smile, then fell serious again. “I'll need to know the name of this attorney. I have to verify that you came across these funds legitimately.”

“No problem,” Daniel said, scratching the side of his face. “I don't have his phone number with me. He's listed in the Ventura phone book. His name is Leonard Fletcher.”

“You have to work,” she said, staring at a spot over his head. “Holding down a job is one of the conditions of your release in the community. Weren't you listening when I read off the terms and conditions of your parole?”

“I guess not,” Daniel said, shrugging. “I've never worked. I was only seventeen when they arrested me. I don't really have any skills. I got my GED while I was in prison. Other than that, most of what I know I learned on my own. I'm pretty good at physics and math. I can draw, but mostly conceptual stuff for machines and devices. What kind of job do I have to get?”

“Anything,” Carolyn explained, fiddling with the cuff link on her left wrist. Did he really say he was good at physics or was she hearing things? “You can pump gas, wait tables, sweep floors.”

The reality of his situation was beginning to sink in. Daniel's voice elevated. “Why do I have to work if I don't need the money?”

“Because maintaining employment is one of the conditions of your release,” Carolyn told him. “If they inserted a clause that said you had to sit on top of a pole for the next three years, you'd either sit on a pole or get shipped back to prison. I'm not the person who made these rules. I'm only charged with enforcing them.”

“Then I guess I'll get a job,” he said. “How long do I have?”

“Thirty days,” she said. “You should be gainfully employed by the time I see you next month. I don't like the idea of your living in a motel, no matter how much money you have. In addition to getting a job, I'll expect you to find a suitable place to live by your next appointment.”

He looked perplexed. “Why can't I live in a motel? Was that in those conditions you read me?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “It doesn't have to be. Certain things fall into the area of judgment—my judgment. I suggest you look for an apartment. If you live in a hotel, your money will run out and you'll end up on the street.” She started gathering her paperwork to leave. The interview with the victim on the Sandoval rape case was scheduled for four, and Carolyn had agreed to drive to the woman's house as a courtesy. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost three. “When you call in later today, leave the phone number of the motel, as well as your room number. As soon as you secure a permanent address, you need to notify me. The same holds true as to your employment. I have to know where you are and what you're doing at all times. You can't quit your job, move, or leave town without my permission.”

“Being on parole is almost the same as being in prison,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Prison might even be better. At least they feed you and give you a place to stay. I even had my own lab so I could work.”

Carolyn scribbled Seagull Motel in his file. If he didn't report in, she would know where to start searching. She looked up when she heard him say something about a lab. “What did you mean, you had your own lab?”

“Oh,” Daniel told her, “the warden let me convert a storage room into a makeshift lab.”

Sure, Carolyn thought. The man was a raving lunatic. Now he'd spent the past twenty-three years doing physics in his own lab. No prison she'd ever heard of would set an inmate loose in a lab.

“I'll see you tomorrow night at five-thirty. Don't forget to leave word where you're staying.” Carolyn wanted to call the hospital and check on Luisa Cortez's condition. She wondered what terrible crimes Daniel Metroix might be capable of committing. Fast Eddie had been a wake-up call. She would do everything in her power to keep it from happening again. If one of her people slipped so much as an inch, she'd have a warrant issued for his arrest.

Daniel fixed her with an icy gaze. “As long as I'm on parole, you basically own me. Isn't that what this is all about?”

“You got it,” Carolyn told him. “Sweet, huh? I'd rather own a puppy. Stay out of trouble for the next three years and you'll be home free.”

A
handsome young man with long blond hair dropped down on one knee beside Carolyn's desk before the start of her Criminal Law and Procedure class Monday evening.

“A friend of mine is having a party Saturday night,” David Reynolds said, grinning flirtatiously. “Why don't you come along? If the party's a dud, we can split and go to my place.”

Carolyn turned around to make certain no one was listening. She made it a habit to sit in the front row, believing she learned more when she maintained eye contact with the professor. She wasn't a note taker. Listening served her better. David sat directly across from her. Most of the class went for the seats in the back, making it easier for them to finish assignments or find answers to questions on their computers. She asked, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-one,” David said, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “What difference does it make? Age is only a number.”

“We had this same discussion last week,” Carolyn told him. “You only look a few years older than my son. If you're thirty-one, I'm twelve.”

“You're making a mistake,” he whispered, seeing the professor entering the room. “I know how to have fun.”

David had transferred in from UCLA Law for the spring quarter. Ventura College of Law was basically a cram school, the curriculum geared toward passing the bar. Since UCLA was a far more prestigious university, she assumed he'd made the move out of financial necessity. Either that, or he'd done more partying than studying. The school was full of intelligent, good-looking young women. Carolyn had to admit she was flattered by his advances. She'd never expected her relationship with Brad to become permanent. He'd been the first man she'd slept with since her divorce. A flush spread across her face. The sex had been incredible.

The professor, Arline Shoeffel, was also the presiding judge of Ventura County. At forty-six, she was a tall, willowy redhead, her fair skin sprinkled with freckles. Her hair was cropped close to her head, and she wore tortoiseshell glasses. Her manner of dress suggested a person who had no concept whatsoever of fashion, and no desire to do anything other than to cover her body. She was wearing a flower print dress that Carolyn suspected she'd had for twenty years.

“Good evening,” Shoeffel said, leaning back against a podium in the front of the class. “Leave your papers on my desk during the eight o'clock break. Tonight we're going to briefly review the differences between criminal and civil law. Mr. Reynolds,” she said, “can a crime be defined or created by the court?”

“Sure,” David said, laughing as he glanced across the room at Carolyn.

“Incorrect,” the professor told him, giving him a stern look. She scanned the room, then rested her eyes on Carolyn. “Ms. Sullivan….”

“Crimes can't be created or defined by the courts. This must be accomplished in the state legislature. It's then up to the courts to decide on a case-by-case basis whether a crime has been committed by an accused defendant.” Carolyn paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “Interpretation of the statutory criminal law resides with the court system in each of the states.”

“Excellent,” Shoeffel said, turning to the blackboard to write down their next assignment before she continued her lecture.

When the class ended at nine, Carolyn lingered behind to finish her paper on her laptop. She'd worked on it during the break and had only a paragraph or two left. She couldn't print it out, so she saved it on a disk and wrote her name across the front with a black marker. Placing her computer inside her backpack, she left the disk on Judge Shoeffel's desk, hoping she might think she had accidentally missed it when she'd picked up the other students' papers.

Heading to her car in the parking lot, Carolyn spotted Arline Shoeffel standing in front of a silver Acura, anxiously checking her watch. The rain had stopped before she'd left the courthouse. The evening was chilly and damp, though. She continued walking, then made her way between the cars to speak to the professor.

“I never know whether to call you professor or judge,” Carolyn said timidly. “This isn't the safest place for a woman alone. Are you waiting for someone?”

“My car won't start,” Arline Shoeffel told her. Wearing a tan trench coat, she was tapping her umbrella on the asphalt. “I called Triple A almost thirty minutes ago.”

“Do you think it's the battery, Judge Shoeffel? I could try to jump it for you. I carry jumper cables in my trunk.”

“Please, call me Arline,” the woman said. “I appreciate your offer. I'm sure they'll show up any moment.”

“I've waited over an hour before,” Carolyn told her. “Why don't you let me take a look? A girl was raped in almost this same exact spot last year.”

“Oh, yes,” the judge answered, “Maggie McDonald. I recall her being attacked in the parking lot. I wasn't aware it was in this particular section.” She scanned the lot. “The school needs to put in more lights. It's far too dark. This should have been taken care of last year. I'll call the board of regents tomorrow and have a word with them.”

“Can I try to get it started?” Carolyn asked, slipping her backpack off her shoulders as she reached for the door to the Acura.

“Certainly,” Judge Shoeffel said, handing her the keys. “I intended to wait in the car with the doors locked. I was afraid the tow truck driver wouldn't see me. I guess I don't set a very good example for a woman in my position.”

Carolyn turned the key in the ignition. All she heard was a clicking sound. She tried again. This time the engine sputtered, then died. Depressing the gas pedal several times, she waited a while, then gave it another shot. The engine finally engaged.

The judge was peering in through the window. “Let's make sure it doesn't die before you take off,” Carolyn told her. “I think your starter needs to be replaced. Either that or the fuel pump. Wait about five minutes before you cancel your road service, then I'll follow you home.”

“I really hate to inconvenience you this way.”

Carolyn gave her a warm smile. “I left a disk with my paper on it on your desk. I stayed late to complete it. I'm a single parent. Between my children and the job, getting my law degree is probably more fantasy than reality.”

“Say no more,” Arline said, holding up a palm. “If you hadn't stopped to help me, I might have been assaulted. Did you hear about the young girl who was raped this past weekend?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said, reaching inside the car to retrieve her backpack. “They believe the man who did it was one of my probationers.”

“Good Lord,” Arline said, a look of shock on her face. “No wonder you didn't have time to finish your work. At least you can relax now that the police have apprehended him.”

“When?” Carolyn asked, excited. “Are you certain?”

“I heard a report on the radio a few minutes before class this evening. His name was Edward Downly. Is that the name of your probationer?”

“Yes.” Carolyn was grateful that she could go to bed with the knowledge that Fast Eddie wasn't roaming the streets looking for another victim. She wondered why Brad or someone at the PD hadn't notified her. Maybe the judge was mistaken and they'd only released Downly's identity. Pulling out her cell phone, she checked her messages and heard Brad's voice. “Told you they'd get him,” he said. “The PD busted Downly at that barbecue joint on the corner of Clairmont and Owens that you listed as one of his favorite hangouts.”

“Thank God,” Carolyn told the judge, slipping the phone back into her purse. “It's hard when one of the people you're responsible for does something this despicable.”

Arline placed her hand on Carolyn's shoulder. “How's the girl?”

“The doctors think she'll make a full recovery,” she answered, the two women connecting on a more intimate level. “Physically, anyway. Because he strangled her, they were worried about brain damage. She'll never feel safe again, that's for sure. I had the guy. I didn't see it.” She touched her finger to her left eye, wiping away a tear. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to unload on you. You carry fifty times more responsibility than I do.”

“If only we could find a way to prevent these dreadful crimes from happening,” Arline told her, behind the wheel of her car now. “One day, instead of streetlights on every corner, there'll be surveillance cameras.”

Carolyn was still thinking about Eddie Downly. She finally responded to the judge's statement. “Is that where you think we're heading? I know a few European cities have tried it with considerable success.”

“I don't know of anything else that will work,” Arline told her. “The death penalty isn't that effective, at least not as a deterrent. Individuals who commit acts of violence seldom consider the consequences. When people realize their every move is being monitored, crime rates rapidly diminish.”

It was after ten and Carolyn needed to get home. Her daughter was generally asleep by now, but she could spend some time with her son. “Where do you live?”

“Skyline Estates,” Arline told her. “You're going to follow me, right? All you have to do is get me to the gate. From there, I should be fine.”

“I'll get my car,” Carolyn told her. “I drive a white Infiniti.”

“I'd like to buy you dinner,” Arline said. “Maybe one night after class. I usually have conferences during the lunch recesses.”

“Don't worry about it,” she answered as she walked off.

“Wait, Carolyn,” Arline yelled out the window. “You're doing very well in my class. And I'm not saying this because of tonight. You'll make an excellent attorney.”

“Thanks,” she said, waving as she jogged toward her car. It was nice to know that a day that had started disastrously was ending on a positive note. She couldn't wait to recommend a prison term for Fast Eddie. Already, she was stacking the counts in her head. What she couldn't accomplish by law, the prisoners themselves would handle. Not even hardened criminals could tolerate a man who raped a child, and their punishment would be far more fitting than anything the court could administer. Downly would be lucky if he survived.

“Get used to bending over, Eddie,” Carolyn said, depressing the button on the alarm and climbing into her Infiniti. At nineteen, Fast Eddie was a slender young man. His skin was smooth and his features were slightly on the feminine side. The line would be a mile long. The inmates would love him. First, however, they would beat him and sodomize him.

 

The two-story house was located in the North Hollywood section of Los Angeles. The driver parked his black Jeep Cherokee at the curb, making certain to engage the emergency brake so the vehicle wouldn't roll down the hill. The two passengers got out of the car and made their way up a stone walkway to the front of the house. The taller one, a dark-haired man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, was smacked in the head by a tree branch. “This place is a jungle, Pete,” Boyd Chandler said in annoyance, snapping the thick branch in half as if it were a twig. Chandler was dressed in a blue knit shirt and dark slacks. “You'd think the chief would at least have the trees trimmed.”

“He's drunk out of his mind half the time,” Pete Cordova told him. A short, olive-skinned man, Cordova had graying hair and was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt. “He probably can't even see the damn trees.”

“So he dips into the sauce too much,” Boyd tossed back. “He's still the deputy chief of the LAPD.”

They stepped onto the porch and Pete rang the doorbell while Boyd removed a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and popped a piece in his mouth. “I'd die for a cigarette right now.”

“I don't remember,” Pete said. “How long has it been since you quit?”

“Three years.”

“That long, and you want to smoke?”

“Yeah,” Boyd told him, “some urges never go away. Know what I mean?”

Pete laughed.

A pretty Hispanic housekeeper answered the door, lowering her eyes as she gestured for the men to enter. “You can go into the study,” she said. “Would you like coffee, water, a cold soda?”

“Bring us a couple of beers, sweetie.” Boyd's eyes swept over her body, coming to rest on her ample breasts. She was dressed in a white cotton dress, and he could see her nipples through the flimsy fabric.

“I'm sorry,” the woman explained. “Chief Harrison's doctor had me remove all alcoholic beverages from the house.”

The two men exchanged glances. “Things change,” Boyd whispered. “If he's sober, we're gonna be in even more hot water.” He watched the woman's hips sway as she walked into the other room. “Think the chief is doing her? Mighty fine body, don't you think?”

“Nah,” Pete said. “That woman's a lady, man. What would she want with a burned-out drunk like Harrison?”

They entered a dimly lit room. A fifty-eight-year-old male was slouched in a brown leather recliner, his legs splayed out in front of him. He peered out at the men through watery hazel eyes hidden behind thick glasses. He was dressed in pajamas and a terry-cloth bathrobe, and his feet were encased in fur-lined slippers. A stack of newspapers was tossed on the floor beside him, and the end table was cluttered with prescription pill bottles.

“Sit,” Charles Harrison said, glancing toward the sofa. He fixed the two men with an icy stare. Finally he spoke, his words low and measured. “I trusted you to take care of things. Metroix was never supposed to see daylight.”

Boyd cleared his throat, almost swallowing his chewing gum. Plucking it out of his mouth, he deposited it in an ashtray. “We got to most of the parole board, Chief,” he told him. “The problem was they appointed three new people this year.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“We tried,” Pete interjected, finding the man in front of him more pathetic than menacing. He remembered Charles Monroe Harrison in his prime—good-looking, educated, articulate, a shining star in the world of law enforcement. Then his entire life had crumbled. His seventeen-year-old son had been murdered. His wife, Madeline, had been hospitalized for years with some type of peculiar illness. He believed they called it chronic fatigue syndrome. These days, Pete thought, people had a fancy name for everything. The wife had cracked up, plain and simple. Harrison's career had advanced but the man had drowned his sorrows in the bottle. From the way he looked tonight, Pete was certain the booze was going to kill him.