Beyond Reasonable Doubt (Keera Duggan), page 6
“Yes, of course.” She turned to Patsy. “I want you to represent me, if it comes to that.”
Patsy shook his head. “My days as lead trial attorney are behind me, Jenna. Keera handles our trials now. I sit second chair when asked.”
“I feel comfortable with you, Patsy. Keera doesn’t have your . . . experience.” She looked at Keera. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Keera said, and she meant it. Few attorneys had her father’s trial experience or his skill. Certainly not her. Not yet. Patsy had defended hundreds of clients in trial and counseled hundreds more. His well-earned nickname, the “Irish Brawler,” signified his bare-knuckles trial style. Keera had gained a similar reputation playing in dozens of chess tournaments. An opponent could anticipate and prepare, but preparation went out the door after the first move. After that, you had to adjust, grind, and scrap, or you’d find your king toppled. She tried cases the same way.
“Keera has skills I no longer possess,” Patsy said. “And she’s a woman, which I think will play well to a jury, again should the matter ever get that far. Let’s hope it doesn’t.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, though I haven’t been very lucky lately. I would like your word you will be involved,” Jenna said.
Jenna was no longer stroking Patsy’s ego. She was placating her own. She always sought a concession, no matter how minor, a victory to which she could cling.
Patsy obliged her. “I’ll be involved.”
Jenna’s glare found Keera. “And I want your assurance, if this goes forward and if I’m charged, you will do what is necessary to get me off.”
Keera thought it interesting Jenna talked as if she would be charged. “The best trial attorney in the world won’t guarantee they will get a client off. Especially if the client is guilty.”
“Tell that to O. J. Simpson,” Jenna said, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“Are you O. J. Simpson, Jenna?” Keera asked, matter-of-fact.
“Keera,” Patsy said.
Jenna put up a hand. “No. It’s all right.” She smiled as if unbothered. She was. “To answer your question, Keera, no. I’m not O. J. Simpson. I didn’t kill Erik Wei, and I didn’t kill Sirus Kohl, but somebody wanted me convicted for killing Erik, and having failed, they have killed Sirus. I’m aware the spouse, the girlfriend, or the ex-girlfriend is always a suspect.”
“Prime suspect,” Keera said.
“Prime suspect.”
“Then, if this goes further, I will make every effort to ensure you are not wrongly convicted,” Keera said.
The two women stared across the table at one another in an uneasy truce. Jenna blinked first. “I guess I’ll have to take you at your word.”
“That makes two of us,” Keera said, except Jenna’s word could never be trusted.
Chapter 6
Rossi stepped into the covered walkway between the house and the garage and sucked in a breath of fresh, though warm, air. He had talked through the progression of his investigation as lead detective with the CSI sergeant and explained what he wanted the CSI detectives and videographer to do inside the house. CSI would use total station survey equipment to create a crime scene diagram to scale. Arthur Litchfield, the medical examiner, had also arrived and now had control over Kohl’s body. The latent fingerprint and DNA experts were in a holding pattern.
At every homicide scene he had worked, Rossi took a moment to step away and remember that the victim had been a living, breathing human being, not just the lifeless piece of evidence on the floor, and that someone had deliberately and, given the gunshot wound’s location, cowardly taken that life.
Rossi also took time to consider the laminated card he and Ford kept in their go bag. The card itemized a checklist of tasks to be performed to thoroughly process each crime scene. He didn’t want to overlook anything. “Routine” did not exist when it came to murder; each case had to be processed individually or you’d miss something, possibly screw up the prosecution, and find yourself back working patrol.
Ford stepped outside and approached Rossi. He held a laptop computer in his large hands. “I’d swear you were a closet smoker the way you disappear.”
“Just thinking about what you said about Jenna Bernstein,” Rossi said.
“Calculating?” Ford replied. He could size up a person in a word or two and was usually spot-on. Ford’s other superpower was his ability to play almost any musical instrument and any song, without sheet music. If Ford heard a song once, he could play it. “Didn’t shed a tear when we told her the news. Eyes didn’t even water. She and Kohl worked together eight or ten years; didn’t they?”
“Lived together as well, according to the daughter,” Rossi said. “I thought you might say ‘cold.’”
“Might have, but almost as quick as I got out my first question, Bernstein said she had nothing to say, and we could talk to her attorney, Patsy Duggan.”
“She has been down this road before,” Rossi said.
“I’d say that road is well traveled,” Ford agreed.
“Is that the search warrant?” Rossi nodded to the computer.
“First pass,” Ford said, handing it to Rossi.
After the CSI team and their sergeant had arrived, Rossi sent Ford and Ian Bressler, one of the two next-up detectives, to talk to Bernstein before news of Kohl’s murder broke. Bernstein lived just ten minutes away in a condominium complex on Lower Queen Anne. Upon his return, Ford had told Rossi the building had a security guard on duty, and he had noticed security cameras in the lobby, in the elevators, and on Jenna Bernstein’s floor. Ford had asked the guard for the security footage from last night and early this morning, but the guard got nervous about violating the tenants’ rights. Ford told the guard to secure the video and ensure it did not get erased or recorded over, that he’d be back with a search warrant signed by a superior court judge. The guard provided Ford with a company business card.
“Looks good to me. Let’s run it by the MDOP when he or she gets here,” Rossi said, handing back the computer. “What did you think of the daughter?”
Adria Kohl had reluctantly departed after Rossi had told her the police would control the house for at least another day, and that he would contact her to get back into the residence to retrieve her father’s belongings.
Ford mulled the question over a bit, then said, “Vindictive. She’s definitely out for blood.”
Rossi smiled. “You’re good.”
“I know.”
Rossi had no superpowers, though Ford did say Rossi had “grim persistence.” Seemed appropriate for a homicide detective, but more a necessity than a superpower. He was like a machete, hacking at the thick jungle vines in search of a beam of light. It wasn’t going to get him laid, as his buddies liked to say, but it had always got the job done. “Not sure she was more angry her father had been murdered or that Bernstein had walked on Erik Wei’s murder,” Rossi said.
“She clearly thinks Bernstein is guilty on both accounts,” Ford agreed.
“Let’s follow up on her,” Rossi said. “Just to be sure.”
“Her father was a wealthy man,” Ford suggested.
“Maybe,” Rossi said. “But I’m assuming he invested heavily in PDRT and lost most of it when the company went tits up.” Rossi came from a family of accountants and had majored in accounting in school. He had decided he didn’t want to sit at a desk in an office crunching numbers all day, but numbers remained his thing. Not a superpower. Not by any means, but better than most. “Let’s find out.” He made a note in his spiral notebook.
Footsteps drew their attention. Rossi had the word on the tip of his tongue, but Ford beat him to the punch. “Ironic.”
“Walker Thompson,” Rossi said, as if having a hard time believing the prosecutor had been assigned to this investigation, given what had happened in Wei. Then again, Thompson might have asked for the assignment.
Ford’s word for Thompson was “Cowboy,” but that was just too easy. Thompson lumbered up the driveway in the same rolling gait John Wayne had made famous. He was also tall, favored jeans and boots and long-sleeve, button-down shirts, and had a rugged, outdoor complexion.
Thompson motioned to the street corner where a crowd that included reporters had gathered behind sawhorses. “So much for working in anonymity.” He even had a twinge of a Texas drawl, though he’d been born and raised in San Francisco.
“Didn’t take the media long to put it all together; did it?” Ford said.
“No, it did not.” Thompson spoke from authority. Patsy Duggan had made the Jenna Bernstein trial a circus. Knowing the media would be intrigued by the young, driven entrepreneur’s fall from grace, Duggan had embraced and welcomed the attention, and he’d said the PA had picked the low-hanging fruit and rushed to trial without evidence. He cited the lack of an eyewitness and of a murder weapon and said the State’s case was all circumstantial evidence. He even changed Jenna’s wardrobe from her traditional, dark-colored pantsuits to light-colored dresses that softened her appearance and made her look like a young housewife. The press and the public ate it up. Spectators had packed the courtroom and the overflow courtroom broadcasting the proceedings to watch the slugfest. When the jury found Bernstein not guilty, there were as many shouts of outrage and disbelief as there were of amazement and wonder.
The more recent US Attorney’s indictment had again put Kohl and Bernstein back in the judicial crosshairs, but not like this investigation threatened to do—murder always trumped business shenanigans.
“Street cameras?” Thompson asked.
“Next-up team is working it,” Rossi said.
“Who’s the ME?”
“Litchfield,” Rossi said. “Initial cause of death is single gunshot wound fired from a distance of four to ten feet. Likely a 9-millimeter slug. No evidence of a struggle. No abrasions or bruising on his hands or arms.”
“He wasn’t trying to get away,” Thompson said.
“More likely he turned his back, and the assailant shot him,” Rossi said. “The killer didn’t want to look him in the face.” He thought again of the daughter. “Seems consistent with the lack of any evidence of a forced entry.”
“The killer let himself in, or Kohl let him in. Same as Erik Wei; isn’t it?” Ford asked.
“Same,” Thompson said softly, as if recalling a bad memory that he had tried to forget. “Including the caliber of the weapon . . . if Litchfield is right about a 9-millimeter slug causing the wound. Jenna Bernstein owned a 9-millimeter handgun, though we never found it.”
“Likely at the bottom of Lake Washington,” Ford said.
“Kohl’s daughter doesn’t think so,” Rossi said.
“Meaning?” Thompson said.
Rossi and Ford showed Thompson the text messages on Sirus Kohl’s cell phone about the meeting that morning Kohl had with the US Attorney. “Daughter said Kohl called her last night and confirmed the meeting was going forward this morning, and she told him not to say a word to anyone. Call log on her phone confirms his call.”
“But he didn’t take her advice?” Thompson said.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Rossi said. “I sent Billy and Ian to speak to Bernstein. Find out if she could account for her whereabouts last night.”
Thompson’s interest had clearly been piqued. He turned to Ford. “Yeah? She have anything of interest to say?”
“‘Talk to my attorney,’” Ford said. “Noticed a security camera in the lobby of Bernstein’s building, though. And in the elevator, and on her condominium floor. Asked the security guard on duty to see the security video, but he got squirrelly and said I’d have to talk with his home office. Took a first pass at a search warrant.” Ford handed Thompson the laptop.
Thompson read the document, but Rossi and Ford had put together dozens of such warrants and knew the key was to provide an affidavit showing probable cause, that the evidence sought was potentially relevant to a crime under investigation, and that it was needed to aid in identifying a suspect. “Looks good to go,” Thompson said, handing back the laptop. “Let’s get a judge on the phone.”
Thompson would be strategic about which superior court judge he wanted them to call. The judge who issued the warrant was automatically disqualified from being the trial judge—if the investigation got that far. The PA didn’t want to burn one of his first trial-judge choices.
After discussing a few names, Thompson said, “Let’s call O’Neil,” meaning Judge Thomas O’Neil.
Ford attached the recording device to his cell phone, plugged in the earpiece, and called Judge O’Neil’s cell. When the judge answered, he explained the circumstances. O’Neil swore him in as the affiant of the facts to justify issuing the warrant, and Ford read what he had typed and said an urgency existed to get the security video. “We want to secure them before they’re lost,” Ford said.
O’Neil said, “All right, Detective, I’m orally granting the search warrant. Have a written copy sent to my chambers and I’ll sign it ASAP.”
Ford hung up, then sent the warrant in an email to Mark Upson, the C Team’s “fifth wheel,” and asked him to run it over to the judge’s chambers to get it signed, then get the video from the building. “Fifth wheels” were detectives either on their way to retirement or waiting to get a permanent position as one of the sixteen Violent Crimes detectives working in four-person teams. Upson was on his way to retirement and a lot of golf, but unlike some others who saw the position as a place to hide out until their final day, he remained diligent.
Rossi and Ford also told Thompson that Adria Kohl was convinced Bernstein killed her father and Erik Wei.
“Bernstein had several billion reasons to kill Wei. Did the daughter say why she thought Bernstein would be motivated to kill her father?” Thompson asked.
Rossi showed Thompson the text string on Sirus Kohl’s cell phone to another burner cell phone assigned to Jenna Bernstein.
Thompson nodded his head, his lips pinched tight. “Doesn’t come out and say that exactly. Can we confirm the other phone belonged to Jenna Bernstein?”
Rossi said they would. “What led you to Bernstein the first time?” he asked. Rossi had just passed the detective exam and hadn’t been involved in the first trial.
“I’ll pull the Erik Wei file and send it over,” Thompson said, “let you have a look for yourself. Did Litchfield give you an estimated time of death?”
“Nothing definitive yet,” Rossi said. “But his initial assessment, based on the degree of livor mortis and the presence of rigor mortis, is six to twelve hours. And we know Kohl called the daughter at 9:17 last night to confirm the morning meeting. At least there’s a call registered on his cell phone.”
Lividity was indicated by red, blue, and purple splotches to the skin caused by blood settling to the body’s lowest parts after the heart stopped pumping. It became fixed at six to twelve hours. Rigor mortis—joints and muscles stiffening—occurred one to two hours after death and could last for days.
“So last night or early this morning,” Thompson said.
Ford said, “With all due respect, could Bernstein have been innocent in Wei?”
Thompson shook his head. “As Gil Garcetti said after the jury found O. J. innocent: ‘The killer just walked out the courtroom door.’”
Chapter 7
At a break, Keera asked Ella to have Maggie order lunch.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Ella asked.
“I’m not speaking to her at the moment.”
“I’m not getting involved—”
“And ask her to send John Bernstein home.”
“Fine, but the two of you need to get your shit worked out,” Ella said. “Do you want me in the conference room?”
Keera diplomatically told her no. She didn’t want it to appear like her oldest sister watched over her.
It was bad enough having her father in the room, though she and Patsy had an established work relationship.
Patsy was like a net to a trapeze artist. He’d catch Keera if she fell, and soften the blow. She knew Jenna. Too well. Keera also wanted Patsy present to witness what was and was not said. If Jenna was charged, again, then Keera would have another decision to make—whether to represent her. The case would likely generate even more interest than the Vince LaRussa case, which the firm could certainly use, not to mention the legal fee would be substantial. But Keera didn’t know if she wanted to go down that path and let Jenna back into her life—on any level.
They tuned the conference room’s television to a local news station. Reports of Sirus Kohl’s killing trickled in. At least one reporter said Kohl had died of a single gunshot wound and the police were treating it as a homicide.
“Did the detectives say how Sirus Kohl died when they came to your condo this morning?” Keera asked Jenna.
“We never got that far.”
“Do you own a gun?” Keera asked, though she suspected she knew the answer from the Wei trial.
Jenna spoke to Patsy. “I did, a Glock 9 millimeter, but I left it behind when I left Sirus’s home.”
“You don’t know where it is?” Keera asked.
“No one knows,” Patsy said.
To Jenna, Keera said, “Do you know?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I assume the police searched for it in the Wei matter?” Keera asked Patsy.
“They did. But they didn’t find it in Kohl’s house. The prosecutor insinuated at trial that Jenna had gotten rid of it to prevent ballistics from matching it to the bullet that killed Wei.”
“Did you?” Keera asked bluntly.
“Did I what?”
“Did you get rid of the gun to prevent ballistics from matching it to the bullet that killed Erik Wei?”
“No.” Jenna looked and sounded upset. “As I told Patsy, after I spoke to Erik and learned Sirus had been lying to me about the LINK’s capabilities, I grabbed a handbag of clothes and quickly moved out of his house. I didn’t have any reason to take the gun.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“When Sirus locked the gun in the safe in the bedroom.”
Patsy shook his head. “My days as lead trial attorney are behind me, Jenna. Keera handles our trials now. I sit second chair when asked.”
“I feel comfortable with you, Patsy. Keera doesn’t have your . . . experience.” She looked at Keera. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Keera said, and she meant it. Few attorneys had her father’s trial experience or his skill. Certainly not her. Not yet. Patsy had defended hundreds of clients in trial and counseled hundreds more. His well-earned nickname, the “Irish Brawler,” signified his bare-knuckles trial style. Keera had gained a similar reputation playing in dozens of chess tournaments. An opponent could anticipate and prepare, but preparation went out the door after the first move. After that, you had to adjust, grind, and scrap, or you’d find your king toppled. She tried cases the same way.
“Keera has skills I no longer possess,” Patsy said. “And she’s a woman, which I think will play well to a jury, again should the matter ever get that far. Let’s hope it doesn’t.”
“From your lips to God’s ears, though I haven’t been very lucky lately. I would like your word you will be involved,” Jenna said.
Jenna was no longer stroking Patsy’s ego. She was placating her own. She always sought a concession, no matter how minor, a victory to which she could cling.
Patsy obliged her. “I’ll be involved.”
Jenna’s glare found Keera. “And I want your assurance, if this goes forward and if I’m charged, you will do what is necessary to get me off.”
Keera thought it interesting Jenna talked as if she would be charged. “The best trial attorney in the world won’t guarantee they will get a client off. Especially if the client is guilty.”
“Tell that to O. J. Simpson,” Jenna said, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“Are you O. J. Simpson, Jenna?” Keera asked, matter-of-fact.
“Keera,” Patsy said.
Jenna put up a hand. “No. It’s all right.” She smiled as if unbothered. She was. “To answer your question, Keera, no. I’m not O. J. Simpson. I didn’t kill Erik Wei, and I didn’t kill Sirus Kohl, but somebody wanted me convicted for killing Erik, and having failed, they have killed Sirus. I’m aware the spouse, the girlfriend, or the ex-girlfriend is always a suspect.”
“Prime suspect,” Keera said.
“Prime suspect.”
“Then, if this goes further, I will make every effort to ensure you are not wrongly convicted,” Keera said.
The two women stared across the table at one another in an uneasy truce. Jenna blinked first. “I guess I’ll have to take you at your word.”
“That makes two of us,” Keera said, except Jenna’s word could never be trusted.
Chapter 6
Rossi stepped into the covered walkway between the house and the garage and sucked in a breath of fresh, though warm, air. He had talked through the progression of his investigation as lead detective with the CSI sergeant and explained what he wanted the CSI detectives and videographer to do inside the house. CSI would use total station survey equipment to create a crime scene diagram to scale. Arthur Litchfield, the medical examiner, had also arrived and now had control over Kohl’s body. The latent fingerprint and DNA experts were in a holding pattern.
At every homicide scene he had worked, Rossi took a moment to step away and remember that the victim had been a living, breathing human being, not just the lifeless piece of evidence on the floor, and that someone had deliberately and, given the gunshot wound’s location, cowardly taken that life.
Rossi also took time to consider the laminated card he and Ford kept in their go bag. The card itemized a checklist of tasks to be performed to thoroughly process each crime scene. He didn’t want to overlook anything. “Routine” did not exist when it came to murder; each case had to be processed individually or you’d miss something, possibly screw up the prosecution, and find yourself back working patrol.
Ford stepped outside and approached Rossi. He held a laptop computer in his large hands. “I’d swear you were a closet smoker the way you disappear.”
“Just thinking about what you said about Jenna Bernstein,” Rossi said.
“Calculating?” Ford replied. He could size up a person in a word or two and was usually spot-on. Ford’s other superpower was his ability to play almost any musical instrument and any song, without sheet music. If Ford heard a song once, he could play it. “Didn’t shed a tear when we told her the news. Eyes didn’t even water. She and Kohl worked together eight or ten years; didn’t they?”
“Lived together as well, according to the daughter,” Rossi said. “I thought you might say ‘cold.’”
“Might have, but almost as quick as I got out my first question, Bernstein said she had nothing to say, and we could talk to her attorney, Patsy Duggan.”
“She has been down this road before,” Rossi said.
“I’d say that road is well traveled,” Ford agreed.
“Is that the search warrant?” Rossi nodded to the computer.
“First pass,” Ford said, handing it to Rossi.
After the CSI team and their sergeant had arrived, Rossi sent Ford and Ian Bressler, one of the two next-up detectives, to talk to Bernstein before news of Kohl’s murder broke. Bernstein lived just ten minutes away in a condominium complex on Lower Queen Anne. Upon his return, Ford had told Rossi the building had a security guard on duty, and he had noticed security cameras in the lobby, in the elevators, and on Jenna Bernstein’s floor. Ford had asked the guard for the security footage from last night and early this morning, but the guard got nervous about violating the tenants’ rights. Ford told the guard to secure the video and ensure it did not get erased or recorded over, that he’d be back with a search warrant signed by a superior court judge. The guard provided Ford with a company business card.
“Looks good to me. Let’s run it by the MDOP when he or she gets here,” Rossi said, handing back the computer. “What did you think of the daughter?”
Adria Kohl had reluctantly departed after Rossi had told her the police would control the house for at least another day, and that he would contact her to get back into the residence to retrieve her father’s belongings.
Ford mulled the question over a bit, then said, “Vindictive. She’s definitely out for blood.”
Rossi smiled. “You’re good.”
“I know.”
Rossi had no superpowers, though Ford did say Rossi had “grim persistence.” Seemed appropriate for a homicide detective, but more a necessity than a superpower. He was like a machete, hacking at the thick jungle vines in search of a beam of light. It wasn’t going to get him laid, as his buddies liked to say, but it had always got the job done. “Not sure she was more angry her father had been murdered or that Bernstein had walked on Erik Wei’s murder,” Rossi said.
“She clearly thinks Bernstein is guilty on both accounts,” Ford agreed.
“Let’s follow up on her,” Rossi said. “Just to be sure.”
“Her father was a wealthy man,” Ford suggested.
“Maybe,” Rossi said. “But I’m assuming he invested heavily in PDRT and lost most of it when the company went tits up.” Rossi came from a family of accountants and had majored in accounting in school. He had decided he didn’t want to sit at a desk in an office crunching numbers all day, but numbers remained his thing. Not a superpower. Not by any means, but better than most. “Let’s find out.” He made a note in his spiral notebook.
Footsteps drew their attention. Rossi had the word on the tip of his tongue, but Ford beat him to the punch. “Ironic.”
“Walker Thompson,” Rossi said, as if having a hard time believing the prosecutor had been assigned to this investigation, given what had happened in Wei. Then again, Thompson might have asked for the assignment.
Ford’s word for Thompson was “Cowboy,” but that was just too easy. Thompson lumbered up the driveway in the same rolling gait John Wayne had made famous. He was also tall, favored jeans and boots and long-sleeve, button-down shirts, and had a rugged, outdoor complexion.
Thompson motioned to the street corner where a crowd that included reporters had gathered behind sawhorses. “So much for working in anonymity.” He even had a twinge of a Texas drawl, though he’d been born and raised in San Francisco.
“Didn’t take the media long to put it all together; did it?” Ford said.
“No, it did not.” Thompson spoke from authority. Patsy Duggan had made the Jenna Bernstein trial a circus. Knowing the media would be intrigued by the young, driven entrepreneur’s fall from grace, Duggan had embraced and welcomed the attention, and he’d said the PA had picked the low-hanging fruit and rushed to trial without evidence. He cited the lack of an eyewitness and of a murder weapon and said the State’s case was all circumstantial evidence. He even changed Jenna’s wardrobe from her traditional, dark-colored pantsuits to light-colored dresses that softened her appearance and made her look like a young housewife. The press and the public ate it up. Spectators had packed the courtroom and the overflow courtroom broadcasting the proceedings to watch the slugfest. When the jury found Bernstein not guilty, there were as many shouts of outrage and disbelief as there were of amazement and wonder.
The more recent US Attorney’s indictment had again put Kohl and Bernstein back in the judicial crosshairs, but not like this investigation threatened to do—murder always trumped business shenanigans.
“Street cameras?” Thompson asked.
“Next-up team is working it,” Rossi said.
“Who’s the ME?”
“Litchfield,” Rossi said. “Initial cause of death is single gunshot wound fired from a distance of four to ten feet. Likely a 9-millimeter slug. No evidence of a struggle. No abrasions or bruising on his hands or arms.”
“He wasn’t trying to get away,” Thompson said.
“More likely he turned his back, and the assailant shot him,” Rossi said. “The killer didn’t want to look him in the face.” He thought again of the daughter. “Seems consistent with the lack of any evidence of a forced entry.”
“The killer let himself in, or Kohl let him in. Same as Erik Wei; isn’t it?” Ford asked.
“Same,” Thompson said softly, as if recalling a bad memory that he had tried to forget. “Including the caliber of the weapon . . . if Litchfield is right about a 9-millimeter slug causing the wound. Jenna Bernstein owned a 9-millimeter handgun, though we never found it.”
“Likely at the bottom of Lake Washington,” Ford said.
“Kohl’s daughter doesn’t think so,” Rossi said.
“Meaning?” Thompson said.
Rossi and Ford showed Thompson the text messages on Sirus Kohl’s cell phone about the meeting that morning Kohl had with the US Attorney. “Daughter said Kohl called her last night and confirmed the meeting was going forward this morning, and she told him not to say a word to anyone. Call log on her phone confirms his call.”
“But he didn’t take her advice?” Thompson said.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Rossi said. “I sent Billy and Ian to speak to Bernstein. Find out if she could account for her whereabouts last night.”
Thompson’s interest had clearly been piqued. He turned to Ford. “Yeah? She have anything of interest to say?”
“‘Talk to my attorney,’” Ford said. “Noticed a security camera in the lobby of Bernstein’s building, though. And in the elevator, and on her condominium floor. Asked the security guard on duty to see the security video, but he got squirrelly and said I’d have to talk with his home office. Took a first pass at a search warrant.” Ford handed Thompson the laptop.
Thompson read the document, but Rossi and Ford had put together dozens of such warrants and knew the key was to provide an affidavit showing probable cause, that the evidence sought was potentially relevant to a crime under investigation, and that it was needed to aid in identifying a suspect. “Looks good to go,” Thompson said, handing back the laptop. “Let’s get a judge on the phone.”
Thompson would be strategic about which superior court judge he wanted them to call. The judge who issued the warrant was automatically disqualified from being the trial judge—if the investigation got that far. The PA didn’t want to burn one of his first trial-judge choices.
After discussing a few names, Thompson said, “Let’s call O’Neil,” meaning Judge Thomas O’Neil.
Ford attached the recording device to his cell phone, plugged in the earpiece, and called Judge O’Neil’s cell. When the judge answered, he explained the circumstances. O’Neil swore him in as the affiant of the facts to justify issuing the warrant, and Ford read what he had typed and said an urgency existed to get the security video. “We want to secure them before they’re lost,” Ford said.
O’Neil said, “All right, Detective, I’m orally granting the search warrant. Have a written copy sent to my chambers and I’ll sign it ASAP.”
Ford hung up, then sent the warrant in an email to Mark Upson, the C Team’s “fifth wheel,” and asked him to run it over to the judge’s chambers to get it signed, then get the video from the building. “Fifth wheels” were detectives either on their way to retirement or waiting to get a permanent position as one of the sixteen Violent Crimes detectives working in four-person teams. Upson was on his way to retirement and a lot of golf, but unlike some others who saw the position as a place to hide out until their final day, he remained diligent.
Rossi and Ford also told Thompson that Adria Kohl was convinced Bernstein killed her father and Erik Wei.
“Bernstein had several billion reasons to kill Wei. Did the daughter say why she thought Bernstein would be motivated to kill her father?” Thompson asked.
Rossi showed Thompson the text string on Sirus Kohl’s cell phone to another burner cell phone assigned to Jenna Bernstein.
Thompson nodded his head, his lips pinched tight. “Doesn’t come out and say that exactly. Can we confirm the other phone belonged to Jenna Bernstein?”
Rossi said they would. “What led you to Bernstein the first time?” he asked. Rossi had just passed the detective exam and hadn’t been involved in the first trial.
“I’ll pull the Erik Wei file and send it over,” Thompson said, “let you have a look for yourself. Did Litchfield give you an estimated time of death?”
“Nothing definitive yet,” Rossi said. “But his initial assessment, based on the degree of livor mortis and the presence of rigor mortis, is six to twelve hours. And we know Kohl called the daughter at 9:17 last night to confirm the morning meeting. At least there’s a call registered on his cell phone.”
Lividity was indicated by red, blue, and purple splotches to the skin caused by blood settling to the body’s lowest parts after the heart stopped pumping. It became fixed at six to twelve hours. Rigor mortis—joints and muscles stiffening—occurred one to two hours after death and could last for days.
“So last night or early this morning,” Thompson said.
Ford said, “With all due respect, could Bernstein have been innocent in Wei?”
Thompson shook his head. “As Gil Garcetti said after the jury found O. J. innocent: ‘The killer just walked out the courtroom door.’”
Chapter 7
At a break, Keera asked Ella to have Maggie order lunch.
“Why don’t you ask her?” Ella asked.
“I’m not speaking to her at the moment.”
“I’m not getting involved—”
“And ask her to send John Bernstein home.”
“Fine, but the two of you need to get your shit worked out,” Ella said. “Do you want me in the conference room?”
Keera diplomatically told her no. She didn’t want it to appear like her oldest sister watched over her.
It was bad enough having her father in the room, though she and Patsy had an established work relationship.
Patsy was like a net to a trapeze artist. He’d catch Keera if she fell, and soften the blow. She knew Jenna. Too well. Keera also wanted Patsy present to witness what was and was not said. If Jenna was charged, again, then Keera would have another decision to make—whether to represent her. The case would likely generate even more interest than the Vince LaRussa case, which the firm could certainly use, not to mention the legal fee would be substantial. But Keera didn’t know if she wanted to go down that path and let Jenna back into her life—on any level.
They tuned the conference room’s television to a local news station. Reports of Sirus Kohl’s killing trickled in. At least one reporter said Kohl had died of a single gunshot wound and the police were treating it as a homicide.
“Did the detectives say how Sirus Kohl died when they came to your condo this morning?” Keera asked Jenna.
“We never got that far.”
“Do you own a gun?” Keera asked, though she suspected she knew the answer from the Wei trial.
Jenna spoke to Patsy. “I did, a Glock 9 millimeter, but I left it behind when I left Sirus’s home.”
“You don’t know where it is?” Keera asked.
“No one knows,” Patsy said.
To Jenna, Keera said, “Do you know?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I assume the police searched for it in the Wei matter?” Keera asked Patsy.
“They did. But they didn’t find it in Kohl’s house. The prosecutor insinuated at trial that Jenna had gotten rid of it to prevent ballistics from matching it to the bullet that killed Wei.”
“Did you?” Keera asked bluntly.
“Did I what?”
“Did you get rid of the gun to prevent ballistics from matching it to the bullet that killed Erik Wei?”
“No.” Jenna looked and sounded upset. “As I told Patsy, after I spoke to Erik and learned Sirus had been lying to me about the LINK’s capabilities, I grabbed a handbag of clothes and quickly moved out of his house. I didn’t have any reason to take the gun.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“When Sirus locked the gun in the safe in the bedroom.”
