Sullivan's Law (5 page)

“We did everything we could, Chief,” he said. “We wined and dined them…told them how dangerous Metroix was, that his psychological profile indicated a high probability that he'd kill again if released. We even showed them Tim's picture in his football uniform.” He stopped speaking, seeing the deputy chief's chest expand and contract with emotion. “Things were looking pretty good until we met with this woman, one of the new people on the board. The first thing she asked was to see our credentials. As soon as we admitted we were no longer officially employed by the police department, she slammed the door in our faces.”

“Yeah,” Boyd added, his right shoulder twitching with nervous energy. “I called her up later and convinced her to talk to us again. This time we leaned on her. Her husband chased us off the property with a shotgun.”

Charles Harrison's eyes flashed with rage. “I told you fools that those kind of tactics would only work against us. What did you do? Tell her you were going to break her legs?”

“Not exactly,” Boyd told him, making a waving motion with his hand. “She's got a son who's a senior in high school. So I follow him one day, see, catch him smoking pot with some of his friends. I'd already checked out his school records. The little snot had won a scholarship to one of those fancy schools back east. Harvard, I think.”

“Princeton,” Pete said, a look of envy on his face. He imagined what it would be like to start his life over. The day he'd been sworn in as a police officer had been one of the proudest moments in his life. Several members of his family had gone into law enforcement as well, quickly moving up through the ranks. A Hispanic cop carried a good deal of status. All Pete had was a high school diploma. Unless a person became a security officer, ten years as a cop didn't account for anything, and his situation was far worse than most. Pete and Boyd were convicted felons.

“All I did was tell the kid's mother that the university might have some pretty strict rules regarding the use of narcotics,” Boyd explained. “You know, that her boy could lose his scholarship.”

“Metroix had already served a longer sentence than most people convicted of the same offense,” Pete added, fidgeting in his seat. “Not only that, the guy became buddies with the warden. His report listed Metroix as a model prisoner.”

The older man's face froze into hard lines. “That bastard killed my son. And you two morons have the balls to sit in my house and tell me he was a model prisoner. Get out of my sight,” he shouted, a trickle of saliva running down the side of this mouth. “You disgust me. You were both worthless when you wore a badge and you're worthless now.”

Pete coughed, glancing over at Boyd as he tried to decide what they should do next. They'd tangled with a cranked up burglar one night and Boyd had beaten the man so severely, he'd suffered permanent brain damage. Pete had altered his report to cover his partner, unaware that there were several witnesses to the incident, one of them a reporter for the local newspaper. During the majority of the beating, the prisoner had been in handcuffs. Both officers had been convicted and sentenced to three months in the county jail. The day they were released, Chief Harrison had been waiting outside in his car with a suitcase containing twenty thousand in cash. Somehow, every year, the chief had come up with another twenty grand to make certain Daniel Metroix remained in prison.

Over the years, the two former officers had moved into the shadows, rubbing shoulders with organized crime and narcotics traffickers. Pete and Boyd didn't steal or deal; however, they served as extra muscle with a few remaining contacts inside law enforcement. The money Harrison paid them was peanuts. They had continued to work for him out of respect.

“Forget it,” Harrison said, his voice trailing off. A shaky hand reached for a bottle off the end table as he poured several pills into his palm. He popped them into his mouth, then washed them down with water. “My liver's shot,” he told them. “Alcoholics aren't placed at the top of the transplant list. I can't go to my grave knowing this man is on the street. Do you understand me? I've got two hundred grand in my brokerage account.”

“We're glad you've got some money to keep you comfortable,” Pete said, pushing himself to his feet. “Problem is, Chief, Boyd and I don't kill for money.”

He started to walk over and shake the man's hand, thinking this might be the last time they saw him. Harrison wasn't an evil person. He was a dying man who'd never come to terms with his grief. Pete took several steps forward and then stopped, terrified that he might be looking at a future vision of himself. What would he do if someone killed one of his children? He quickly spun around and followed his partner to the door.

“Two hundred grand is a lot of money,” Harrison told them, his voice strong now. “Do you think I haven't kept tabs on you? I can document every crime you've committed, as well as every crook you've associated yourselves with since you were booted off the force in Ventura. All I have to do is make a few phone calls, and you'll spend the rest of your lives in prison. Of course, if you turn your back on me and walk out that door, you may not live long enough to go to prison.”

Pete Cordova had feared all along that it might end this way. He had a wonderful wife and two darling daughters. The underworld people they dealt with couldn't afford to be exposed, and Harrison had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “Come on, Boyd,” he said, tugging on his sleeve. “We're not talking to a rational person anymore. You're on your own, Chief.”

“You'll be back,” Harrison told them, bending over at the waist as his face contorted in pain. “Even if you don't, someone else will take me up on my offer.”

Once the two men left the house, Boyd said, “I wanted to take out Metroix the night he killed Tim. Greenly was chicken. Would have saved everyone a lot of grief if he'd listened to me.”

Pete Cordova kept his mouth shut and walked ahead to the car. The time had come for him to turn his life around. He owed it to his family. One of the first people he needed to distance himself from was Boyd Chandler. He doubted if Harrison would follow through on his threats and report their illegal activities to the authorities, but Boyd might go behind his back and take the chief up on his offer. Two hundred grand was a sizable sum of money, and Boyd was a habitual gambler.

C
arolyn resided in a modest three-bedroom home located near Ventura College. Before she began attending law school, she'd spent her weekends gardening in the California sunshine. The walkway leading to the front door was lined with blooming rosebushes, and the beds along the exterior of the house were filled with rows of vibrantly colored perennials.

Pulling her white Infiniti into the driveway at ten-thirty that night, Carolyn rushed into the house, hoping her son was awake. Because John cooked dinner and helped Rebecca with her homework on Mondays and Wednesdays when she attended classes, Carolyn had given him permission to convert the garage into his own private apartment. All three of the bedrooms were located on the same side of the small house, and at fifteen, John needed privacy.

Rebecca was a rambunctious, popular twelve-year-old. She played her stereo at deafening levels, constantly had one girlfriend or the other over visiting, and only cleaned her room when her mother threatened to ground her. Unlike most teenage boys, John was fastidiously neat. He spent his time reading and studying, and detested any type of noise whatsoever. Outrageously handsome, he stood over six feet and had thick dark hair and luminous green eyes. At present, though, the opposite sex played an insignificant role in her son's life. He would occasionally take a girl to a school dance or a movie. Afterward, the girl would call or drop by the house, but John was too busy to put up with the demands of a steady girlfriend.

Carolyn's son aspired to go to MIT and major in physics. Providing for her children's needs was not easy. She certainly couldn't depend on her ex-husband. Frank had been a compulsive liar, and had cheated on her repeatedly. When he'd started using drugs, Carolyn had finally put an end to the marriage.

She found John in the kitchen stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a white tank top. His skin was tan and his body taut and muscular.

Carolyn walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “You're looking good, kid,” she told him, knowing he worked out every day now in his new garage apartment. Lifting weights, John told his mother, helped him to sleep at night. Like herself, her son found it hard to quiet his constantly churning mind. After years of sleepless nights, Carolyn had finally resorted to medication. She hoped her son didn't end up following in her footsteps.

“I'll finish cleaning up,” his mother told him. “You need to get to bed. I've told you a dozen times not to bother with the dishes. You do enough as it is.”

“Bed?” John said, an anxious look on his face. “I have hours of homework left to do.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Paul Leighton bought a house down the street. I saw him outside today. I was going to walk over and introduce myself. I decided it wouldn't be polite to bother him until he gets all his furniture and stuff moved in.”

Carolyn opened the refrigerator and removed a pitcher of lemonade, pouring herself a glass and taking a seat in a wooden chair at the round oak table. “Am I supposed to know this person? The name doesn't sound familiar.”

“He's a physics professor at Caltech,” John told her. “Mr. Chang showed me all of the books he's written. He thinks Leighton is going to be another Richard Feynman, the guy I've been studying.”

“Impressive,” Carolyn said, bracing her head with one hand, then kicking her shoes off. “So he's both a writer and a physicist?”

The boy shook his head in frustration. His mother was an enigma. In the past, she could solve a math problem he'd worked on for days in less than an hour. Since she'd been attending law school, though, she'd turned into a space cadet. He knew she was tired. He could see it on her face. “Leighton doesn't write novels, Mom, like Dad tried to do. He writes textbooks. Not only that,” her son continued, “he graduated from MIT.”

“Now I'm really impressed,” Carolyn said, smiling. “There are other schools besides MIT, you know. What's wrong with Caltech? Even Long Beach State is a good school. A California university wouldn't be as costly.”

“You don't understand,” John argued. “MIT is the best. Maybe Professor Leighton could write a letter for me. Since I went to summer school last year, I'll be able to graduate when I'm seventeen. That's only two years away. All I need to do is ace my SATs.”

“Sounds great,” his mother said. “When I can free up a night, we'll invite the professor and his wife over for dinner.”

Her son had a sheepish look on his face. “He doesn't have a wife. He's divorced. His daughter is the same age as Becky. That means she'll go to the same school. I've already talked to Becky and she promised to introduce Leighton's daughter to some of her friends.”

“Your sister doesn't like to be called Becky,” Carolyn reminded him. “She says it sounds too babyish now that she's in junior high.”

“What do I care?” John tossed out. “I do all the work around here. I can call her anything I want.”

“I had a similar conversation with Brad today,” Carolyn told him, finishing her lemonade and carrying the glass to the sink. “Call her Rebecca, okay? I've got enough problems without listening to you two squabbling over a name.”

“What did Brad do to make you mad?”

“He called me sweetheart.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“It's not appropriate for a supervisor to use terms of endearment at the office. He also called me baby.”

“I'm glad you stopped seeing him,” the boy said. “He's a prick, if you ask me. The thought of him shacking up with my mother made me want to puke.”

Carolyn slapped him on the shoulder. “Talking about your mother shacking up is unacceptable, got it? I was lonely. Brad and I've been friends for years. We went out to dinner and took in an occasional movie.”

“Right,” John said, smirking. “You can't feed me that bullshit. I saw you sneaking in at two in the morning.”

“Stop using bad language,” Carolyn corrected him. “Regardless of what Brad and I did, it's none of your business. It's over now anyway.”

“Professor Leighton isn't old and ugly,” John told her, excited. “He might be a few years older than you. Smart guys don't always look like movie stars. He's better looking than Dad.”

“Speaking of your father,” Carolyn said. “Has he called or stopped by lately?”

“No,” the boy said, averting his eyes. “Even if he did, I wouldn't want to see him. He doesn't care about us. We don't even have his phone number. The last time we talked, he said he was calling from a phone booth. I'm sure he was lying. I heard some chick laughing in the background. He lies about everything now.”

Carolyn remembered the sensitive, romantic young man she had fallen in love with. They'd had picnics and made love on the beach. He wrote her love letters and brought her flowers. Curled up together in his bed, many nights they'd talked until the sun came up. Her son was wrong. Frank had been a handsome and appealing man. It was amazing what alcohol and drugs could do to a person's looks. Not yet forty, her former husband looked like an old man. Their marriage had started coming apart ten years ago.

Because of the baby, only one of them could continue their education. Carolyn had placed John in day care and worked as a secretary to pay Frank's tuition. He'd taught English while he struggled to complete his first novel. When he wasn't able to get the book published, he bolstered his ego by sleeping with other women. Then, even his sexual escapades had failed to appease him. He'd allowed drug dealers to come to the house around her children. During the divorce, Carolyn had tried to keep the truth from John and Rebecca. The psychologist they'd only recently stopped seeing insisted that she tell the children why she had divorced their father. When a person became involved with hardcore narcotics, there was no room for anything else. Frank no longer loved anyone. The only thing he loved was the drugs.

“My teacher says Professor Leighton's a fun guy,” John told her, breaking the silence. “You might like him.”

“Oh, I see,” Carolyn said, smiling. “It's all right if I shack up with a physics professor as long as you get a recommendation to MIT. Is that what this is all about?”

John chuckled. “Sort of,” he answered. “At least I'd learn something. I can't imagine learning anything worthwhile from Brad. I admit I thought he was cool with the race cars and all when I was younger. I bet the guy couldn't even pass my calculus class. I
know
he doesn't have the brains to ever do physics.”

“I'm too busy to get involved with another man right now,” Carolyn told him, using a sponge to wipe down the counter. “Is Rebecca asleep?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I had to help her with her homework again. She's lazy, Mom. She could have done it by herself. I have my own work to do.”

Carolyn had heard this complaint before. She made a mental note to talk to Rebecca in the morning. “Did she pick up all the junk in there like I told her?”

“You know Rebecca never cleans her room. She gets her friends to do it for her. She's a spoiled brat, Mom. You should see how she acts when you're not here. She won't even pour herself a glass of milk. She treats me like I'm her slave.”

Carolyn braced herself in the doorway. “Who got the whole garage to himself? Besides, I thought you wanted me to hook up with this physics professor. Perks are perks, guy. Everything in life comes with a price.”

 

A tall brunette with dark eyes and a round, friendly face looked up from her desk when Carolyn swept into the office Tuesday morning. Behind each partition were two workstations. Since Carolyn had seniority, her desk was located next to a window. Veronica Campbell's desk was on the opposite side of the partition, but since she had the desk near the wall, the two women could see each other and converse. Veronica had a tendency to talk too much, one of the reasons she had trouble staying on top of her work.

“I'm so sick of this job I can't even think straight,” the woman said, scowling. “Preston assigned me two new cases this morning.” She picked up a stack of files, then tossed them back down on her desk. “There's no way I can finish these reports on time, even if I stay here every night until midnight. I've got a husband and three kids. I think Drew has a girl on the side, and my two-year-old thought I was the babysitter last night. No wonder the agency makes so many mistakes. We're not machines, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Carolyn said, walking into her cubicle and placing her purse and briefcase on the floor next to her chair. The two probation officers who shared partitions with Carolyn and Veronica were seldom around. Blair Ridgemore, who shared a space with Carolyn, was one of the small group of people in California who were still addicted to nicotine. When Ridgemore wasn't interviewing victims or defendants, he dictated his reports into a tape recorder while sitting on one of the concrete benches outside in the courtyard where he could smoke. Sandra Wagner, who shared Veronica's space, had been on maternity leave for the past six months.

“So when do you think you'll graduate from law school?” Veronica piped up again. “Then you can leave this drudgery and become rich and famous. I can't wait to see you on those TV shows talking about all the slimy bastards you'll be defending.”

“Thanks,” Carolyn answered, sighing as she pulled out the file on Daniel Metroix. “Even slimy bastards are entitled to legal representation, Veronica. It's not like I intend to represent child molesters, rapists, or murderers. That is, unless I'm convinced they're innocent.”

“Right,” Veronica told her. “That's what everyone says. Why don't you become a divorce attorney? Then you can stick it to all those cheating husbands. If I catch Drew fooling around, I may be in the market for a divorce attorney myself.”

“I'd rather defend criminals. Domestic law is the worst. Not only is it maddening, half the clients can't pay. Criminal law is what I know best. Who knows? I might become a prosecutor.”

“You go to class tonight, don't you?”

“Not tonight,” Carolyn answered, thinking once the children were in bed, she might be able to catch up on her reading. Thank goodness, Judge Shoeffel, or Arline, as she'd asked Carolyn to call her, hadn't assigned them another paper to write this week.

“I don't know how you do it,” Veronica continued. “My kids would burn the house down if I left them alone for more than an hour. Jude is almost fifteen, but she's a rotten babysitter. Micky was a goof, you know.”

“You mean the baby?”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “I'll be raising children until I retire. Besides, I could never tackle law school. You don't even have a husband to help you.”

“It isn't easy,” Carolyn admitted, gazing out the window. “As far as the kids go, I'm lucky that John is so responsible. Rebecca can be difficult. I hope I can finish school before she starts getting involved with boys.”

Carolyn went into a room with the intention of dictating a report on the Sandoval shooting. She kept thinking of Daniel Metroix, though. Since she would be seeing him that evening, she decided to search the computer archives to see what kind of additional information she could dig up on his case. The man's claim that he knew her had spooked her. He'd left his room number at the Seagull on her answering machine the night before. She didn't want to end up fighting off a rapist, or have the guy whip out a gun and shoot her. And then there was all that crazy talk about physics and having his own lab at the prison.

Ah, she thought, slipping on her headset and dialing the number for Chino. She could clear up at least one delusion.

“Warden Lackner here,” a deep voice said. “My secretary told me you had a question regarding a former prisoner named Daniel Metroix.”

“Yes,” she said, relating what Daniel had told her.