Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [86]
The conditions of release on bail allowed for meetings with my attorney and I entered their swank offices as if having been let out of a cave. Maybe it was a design statement, but diamonds were everywhere—diamond patterns in the sage marble tile, diamonds etched on frosted glass, inlaid in maple cabinets, part of the ironwork coffee tables. The chairs in the waiting room were covered in silk, velvet pillows on the couch. If this was coming to Jesus, sign me up.
The jewels of the kingdom were not shared with the help. A tired-looking young woman assistant in a tattered sweater and jeans led the way to a corner office where Devon sat behind a huge trestle table fit for a warlord. Since I had seen him during that predawn visit in jail, he had gone from ghetto to glitz, a vision of hip efficiency in crisp white shirtsleeves and buffed scalp. The table was loaded with expensive, highly detailed model cars. Cars lined the windowsills and cars rolled by, outside the windows, on Santa Monica Boulevard. There were too many cars in the world, anyway, and considering Devon had almost lost his life in a car, you had to wonder why he would surround himself with a fetishistic collection of reminders.
I sat in a cockpit of an armchair made of soft Italian leather.
“It’s a long way from the homicide desk, Detective.”
Devon smiled. “Ten years ago you could have told me a mojito was a male prostitute.”
“You mean a mojito is not a male prostitute?”
“A mojito is a rum drink.”
“Oh.”
“Apple martinis are out. Mojitos are the new LA thing.”
“You travel in the right circles, Devon.”
His gaze drifted to the immediate view. Ten-million-dollar estates belonging to new Hollywood and old aerospace were deftly tucked between neat rows of palm trees adumbrating toward the hills.
“You think as an investigator you’ve seen it all.” He shook his head. “You would not believe what I see.”
“The level of greed?”
“The fucking and sucking.”
I guessed we were talking about the same thing.
“The hardest part for you,” he continued, in one peculiar segue, “will be to see Detective Berringer for the first time in court. You need to prepare for that.”
“What should I do? Stare at his picture and give myself electric shocks?”
“I mean it, Ana.”
“I’m not arguing.”
“You’re feeling defensive.”
“No I’m not.”
“I can tell from your body language.”
I looked down and uncrossed my legs. In fact, the idea of seeing Andrew in court had made my stomach cramp.
“Better?”
“You’ve never been on the other side, is what I’m saying. Never sat at the defendant’s table. The DA is definitely going to call Andrew Berringer. And this man, who you know intimately, is going to basically accuse you in open court of attempted murder.”
I reached for a water bottle left by the tired assistant and drank as if it could give me strength. In the soft field of Mediterranean daylight created by the large windows, Devon, with his white shirt and shining dome of a head, seemed hyperdefined, like a figure out of context in a dream. Those figures often appear bearing a message.
“Whatever Detective Berringer says, you do not show emotion of any kind. It is very important,” Devon insisted, “if I am to defend your freedom, to know I’m not going to see you reacting in any way. I don’t want you looking at him with anger, or rolling your eyes when you don’t like something, or—doing like you’re doing right now—shaking your head like I’m a moron.”
“I don’t think you’re a moron.”
“I need you to do nothing except take notes on a pad. If there’s something you need to relate to me, write it down. I don’t want anyone who might be observing this hearing to assume that you have a bias either way.”
“I’m shaking my head, Devon, because that’s impossible.”
“What is?”
“For me to sit there and listen to whatever bullshit the DA is going to come up with.”
“Forget the DA. You know how that’s played. Let’s focus on Andrew. He’s the one who can push your buttons.”
I said nothing.
“Am I right?”
“Well, he did. Apparently.”