The Trials of Nikki Hill (28 page)

Nikki, who hadn’t really expected any thanks for her help, said, “Next time, try being nicer to your housekeepers.”

“The woman’s a liar,” he almost shouted, as they waited for the always overcrowded elevators. “I paid her better than minimum wage.”

“Great,” Nikki whispered, “but this isn’t the best place to be making a speech.”

“Caught the bitch wearing my mother’s wedding ring. Was I supposed to give her a raise?”

“Ray,” Nikki said sternly. “Everything you say now is gonna be on TV tonight.”

He nodded and cleared his throat nervously. He dabbed at his nose again, studied the blood on his handkerchief, and said, “Joe’s going to have to get me a bodyguard. We all are going to need bodyguards before this is over.”

Wise was even more dejected when he appeared at her office door an hour later. “They ought to flush this day down the crapper,” he said.

“You’re not still stewing about those housekeepers from hell?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I just got a call from Teddy Maxwell’s father. The little bastard is recanting. Says he’s no longer sure what kind of car he saw at Gray’s.”

“Let’s go pay him a visit,” she said.

“Maxwell refuses to let us see the kid. We could force it, but I think we’d be walking the dog.”

“Let’s bounce it off Joe,” she said. “Assumin’ he’s not too busy fornicating with your second chair.”

Walden was in his office with Meg Fisher. He was in a fury. Both of his secretaries were busy fielding phone calls. With every incoming ring, his ire went up another notch. “I understand from Court TV that we’ve lost another witness,” he told them.

“Teddy Maxwell?” Nikki asked.

“Oh, then you know. I don’t suppose you felt I’d be interested in these little petty details or that the damned phone would be ringing off the hook for my reaction.”

“That’s why we’re here, Joe,” Wise said. “I just heard from the boy’s father five minutes ago.”

“They must have notified the media before they called us,” Meg said.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep us a step ahead of the news vultures, Meg? Isn’t that what we’re paying you for?”

“I thought it was because I remain so cool under fire,” Meg said flatly.

Joe turned to Wise. “So how did you fuck this one up, Ray? Pushing the boy too hard? Misinterpreting things he said?”

“He identified the Jag,” Wise said. “First to the detectives. Then to me. No pushing. No misinterpretation.”

Walden sighed, then seemed to shrink within his large body. “Okay. I’m sorry, folks. I better lay off the caffeine and get more sleep.”

Better lay off
something,
Nikki thought.

F
IFTY-FOUR

G
oodman stood at the open door to Nikki Hill’s empty office. Maybe it was just as well she wasn’t there, he thought. He could come back some other time. As he turned to head toward the elevators, she appeared, walking fast, a scowl on her face.

“Nikki?”

She stopped, turned to him. Then, as recognition dawned, she smiled. “Detective Goodman. I’m sorry. My mind was on something else.”

“I just dropped off some new evidence with George Emerson,” he said. Emerson was the deputy D.A. assigned to the Arthur Lydon murder. It would be his case unless or until Walden decided to link that death officially to the case against Dyana Cooper.

“It’s good seeing you, detective,” Nikki said. “I think Ray wants to schedule some times this week for you and Carlos to go over your testimonies.”

“Sure,” he said. “Guess you’re pretty busy, huh?”

Her brown eyes studied him for a few seconds. “You got a problem?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Come on,” she said, leading him to her office.

She shut the door after them and gestured to a chair. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Your boss was right,” he said.

“Yeah?” she said, as if that might be a surprise. “Right about what?”

“Remember that meeting when he said talking to Madeleine Gray’s blackmail victims wasn’t such a good idea? It wasn’t. This one lady, an old TV actress named Nita Morgan, is accusing me of blackmail.”

He didn’t like the way the warmth went out of her eyes. “What would make her do that?” she asked.

“Not long after I went to see her, she got this phone call from somebody asking her for money. Morgan says the caller didn’t identify himself, but it was a man and it sounded like me.”

“I assume it wasn’t you.”

“No, ma’am. My guess is it was Arthur Lydon. I think he had a copy of Madeleine Gray’s blackmail files and he tried to use ’em and that’s what got him killed.”

“The files weren’t among his effects.”

“No, ma’am. I imagine whoever killed him got ’em.”

“You mention all this to George Emerson?”

“I, ah, did tell him that one of Maddie’s victims had been contacted by a new blackmailer and that I thought it was Lydon.”

“You neglected to mention the charge against you.” When Goodman sheepishly acknowledged that, she asked for Emerson’s take on the blackmail angle.

“He asked for proof, which I don’t have,” Goodman said.

“He strikes me as the kinda guy who, given the choice of walking or sitting, keeps his chair pretty warm.”

She smiled. That was Emerson to a T. “What do you want from me, detective?”

“My boss, Lieutenant Corben, has ordered me to stay clear of Nita Morgan. So I can’t very well question her about her story. I was hoping you might.”

“Why me?”

Goodman took a deep breath. “The way I see it,” he said, “by the time Dyana Cooper’s lady lawyer finishes with me and this blackmail claim, I’m going to make Mark Fuhrman look like Policeman of the Year.”

“As of this morning there was no Nita Morgan on the list of defense witnesses.”

Goodman was surprised. “I just assumed...It doesn’t mean they won’t add her.”

“True,” Nikki said. “I still have to ask: Why come to me? Why not Ray Wise or Dimitra Shaw?”

“If we may speak frankly,” Goodman said, “this is my life and my career and I don’t feel like entrusting it to an asshole like Wise. Or to somebody I don’t know.”

“Gee. You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

Oh, Christ,
he thought,
I’m playing this all wrong.
“It’s not just that. From what I can see, you care about your work. You don’t just phone it in.”

He thought she softened slightly. “Speaking of phones, I suppose you had access to Nita Morgan’s number?”

He nodded. “Unfortunately. But the timing is off,” he said. “When she made her initial complaint, she said the blackmailer called her at the same time I was interrogating Dyana Cooper. You were there. You know I didn’t leave the box. Today, Morgan changed her mind about the time of the call. Said it was later. I got no alibi for later.”

For what seemed like an eternity but was probably a minute or two, Nikki stared at him, saying nothing. It made him uncomfortable, but he knew the game and stared back, a man with a clear conscience.

“Okay,” she said, glancing at her watch, “I’ll go see Ms. Morgan.”

Goodman felt greatly relieved. “I really appreciate this.” “I’m not going to rambo an old woman,” she cautioned. “All I’ll do is listen to her story and see if I can shake it a little.”

“That’s all I ask,” Goodman said. “Except, could we keep this just between us for a while?”

“Ray’s gonna have to know about it when he goes over your courtroom testimony,” she said. “Until then, all you’ll have to worry about is Nita Morgan or the defense leaking the story to the press.”

Goodman avoided the reporters and cameras by leaving the CCB from a rear exit. He circled the block and was headed toward his office when he spotted Gwen Harriman at the corner, having an animated conversation with a man who seemed vaguely familiar. A big, solid man, with a square jaw, wearing a cocoa-brown suit.

The big man said something that turned Gwen’s face into a mask of anger. He grabbed her arms and began to shake her Goodman started toward them, then paused. Ten years ago, hell, five years ago, when his own personal brand of male chauvinism was still in full bloom, he’d have thought nothing of giving his instincts full rein. Now he considered the possibility that Gwen might not want to be “rescued.” What he was witnessing might be a lover’s quarrel.

As he pondered his next move, Gwen made hers, kneeing the big man in the groin. With a howl, he folded, releasing her.

Gwen hissed something at him, turned, and stormed away.

Goodman watched the man gradually straighten. He wiggled the upper part of his body, as if trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity, and followed Gwen.

Goodman followed him.

The man seemed in no hurry as he crossed the street and entered Parker Center.

Goodman pushed through the heavy doors just as the man was stepping into an elevator. Going down.

By the time Goodman got to the subterranean parking level, the man was nowhere to be seen.

He waited for a minute or two, checking cars as they headed for the exit. Then, more than a little annoyed and confused, he got back on the elevator and headed up.

Gwen was at her desk, phone to her ear. He waved to her. She gave him a wink. With a sigh, he sat down at his desk and wondered what the hell was going on.

F
IFTY-FIVE

A
s if the members of the prosecution team needed a reminder, Ray Wise tacked a countdown calendar to his office door. It consisted of a stack of pages, approximately six by six inches, on which three-and-a-half-inch-high numerals marked the number of “Days Left Until Trial.” Wise would tear off a sheet when he arrived at work in the morning. By then, one of several office humorists usually had altered the previous day’s sheet to read something like “20 Days Left Until Trial Anna Marie Kicks Our Ass” or “19 Days Left Until Trial Wise’s Housekeeper Kicks His Ass.”

On the morning the calendar read “16 Days Left Until Trial the Battle of the Bitches,” an indication of how the staff felt about Dimitra Shaw, Meg Fisher gathered the key members of the team in the small conference room to look at a videotape presentation she’d assembled. Dressed in a smartly cut business suit appropriate to a public relations maven whom fate had suddenly awarded instant access to all media, Fisher dimmed the lights and started the video machine.

The assembly watched the monitor as a montage of newspaper and magazine pieces appeared, all, even the most conservative, favoring Dyana Cooper. There were stories about the Willinses’ happy marriage, photos of Dyana Cooper in church, visiting children’s hospitals, attending the Special Olympics, welcoming orphans to a luncheon she’d arranged at the Beverly Hills Hard Rock Café.

This was followed by a compilation of pro-Cooper television news bites topped off by a report from a usually scurrilous tabloid show that a group of Catholic African-Americans in Michigan were seriously campaigning for Cooper, a living non-Catholic, to be considered a candidate for sainthood.

Suddenly, Dyana Cooper was replaced by a plump, hard-eyed white woman. This was, according to the screen caption, “Adele Kellman, former wife of Prosecutor Raymond Wise.” She was telling the world that she was awarded custody of their child because “Ray didn’t have any interest in either our daughter or me.”

She was followed by Wise’s ex-housekeeper, the new darling of the press, who described in loving detail his disdain for people of color—“black, tan, yellow, all the same to him, all bad.”

Fisher turned off the TV. “I didn’t mean to single you out, Ray,” she said. “We’ve all had our hits and there will be more to come. Some excellent spin doctors are trying to make this whole office look slightly to the right of Saddam Hussein. We must remember the cardinal rule: Truth is nice, but public perception is everything....”

It wasn’t Nikki’s cardinal rule. In fact, she was offended by it. She looked across the table at Dimitra and was surprised to see that she wasn’t smiling either. Maybe they were more alike than Nikki had thought.

“This office is in dire need of a quick-fix image overhaul,” Fisher was saying. “Now is the time to engage in public services that offer positive photo ops. Visits to hospitals, attendance at civic affairs, speaking before groups like MADD or battered wives, upbeat appearances on talk radio and TV. I have some ideas I’ll be bouncing off of you within the next few days.

“And, Joe, I’ve taken the liberty of checking a few upcoming events that I’d like to discuss with you right after this meeting.”

Walden took that as his cue to call a halt to the proceedings.

As Nikki was leaving, she passed by Dimitra, who was still seated, staring off into space. “You okay, Dee?” she asked.

Dimitra didn’t respond.

Pressure of the job?
Nikki wondered.
Pressure of sleeping with the boss?
In either case, none of her affair. She shrugged and headed out.

At twenty minutes before five that evening she was called back to Walden’s office. Waiting for her were the district attorney, Wise, and Dimitra.

“Shut the door, will you, Nikki?” Walden requested. “Then take a chair.”

When she’d carried out these simple requests, Walden said, “We suddenly have an opening at the prosecution table. Ray has convinced me you should fill it.”

Nikki looked at Dimitra, who said, “I’m going on leave from the office.”

“Why?” Nikki asked.

“My doctor says I’ve got to take it easy for a while,” Dimitra said. “Nothing serious. But if I stayed on, I wouldn’t be able to contribute a hundred percent.”

Walden patted the woman’s arm in a gesture that seemed to Nikki to be more than a little patronizing. “She’ll be back

with us soon,” he said.

“Badder than ever,” Dimitra said.

“Well, Nikki,” the D.A. asked. “You still want the job?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said.

Dimitra stood up. “I got things to take care of,” she said.

Walden nodded. “If you see Meg out there, ask her to come in.”

“We need to have a talk,” Dimitra whispered to Nikki on her way out.

Meg Fisher bustled in, carrying the news that the National Association of African-American Leadership would be presenting Walden with its top honor, the Mabwana Amali Cup, when its annual meeting took place in Los Angeles the following month. “Their PR director, an extremely cooperative fellow,” Fisher said, “tells me that
mabwana amali
is Swahili for ‘man of action.’ The dinner will be black tie at that ballroom at the top of the Hotel Balmoral. Our end of it is five tables at two thousand dollars each, and worth every penny.”