Authors: Don Lasseter

Date With the Devil (29 page)

BOOK: Date With the Devil

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“Are you familiar with the defendant's vehicles?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What vehicle did the defendant drive, if you know, to the LAX Marriott?”

“Blue Jag convertible.” King concurred that he had seen it in the valet lot upon arrival. Perhaps he realized he couldn't win this little battle, and decided to open up slightly.

Grace inquired, “Approximately what time did you arrive at the hotel?”

“It was after six in the morning. Between six and seven.”

Several more “Yes” answers verified that King knew Mahler had checked in, and that the two of them went up to his room. The first “No” response came when Grace asked if the witness had been in the room during Mahler's entire stay. King didn't explain, but according to previous interviews, he had left at one point to bring a prostitute up there.

The next question from Grace elicited a veritable verbal essay from King. “Did the defendant tell you anything about having shot a woman?”

“It wasn't like he shot her, you know, like just shooting somebody. He said that they had been partying and having a good time, if I'm not mistaken, all weekend, and she just flipped out. A gun came into play. I think she pulled the gun and he wrestled with her, and it went off.”

Grace sounded dubious. “He told you that
she
pulled a gun on him?”

“Yeah, he didn't say he pulled no gun on her. He said thatâthat it just went off, you know, him trying to get the gun away from her toâI would assumeâstop her from shooting him.”

“And he told you the gun went off?”

“Yep.”

In the gallery, observers had split opinions about Atticus King's integrity. Some believed his honest answers simply reflected what David Mahler had told him. Others thought he wanted to protect Mahler, even if it required lying.

“At some point, did he ask you if you could help him dispose of her body?”

King's darting eyes and flexing jaw suggested a struggle on how to answer this one. He replied, “Well, when he said that, I was like, âMan, you're not going to kill nobody or let nobody get killed.'”

Grace would not accept the ambiguity. “I understand that, but let me stop you. My question wasâat some point in time, did he ask you if you could help him dispose of the dead woman's body?”

Partially caving in, but hedging about a faulty memory, Atticus King said, “I think so. But I really don't remember that very well, because I didn't believe him.”

“Did he ask you how much you would charge him to go clean up his residence?”

“No, I don't remember him asking me no price, because I felt there wouldn't be no price. I didn't believe him no way, soâ”

“Did you tell the defendant that you would not help him get rid of the body?”

“I didn't have to tell him that. It wouldn't happen, because I didn't believe him. It's kind of vague, but, you know, the way I remember it ... I'm looking at him and I'm trying to see if he's serious. And when I look back, you know, I know it had to be an accident, so it was like, hey, you know, he didn't ask me to get rid of noâno body.”

Calm and collected, Grace asked, “He did not ask you that?”

Atticus backed off slightly. “He may have. I don't know what he said, but I just ... I can't remember all of what was said. I remember when he told me they was wrestling andâand then a gun went off.”

Acknowledging a recollection of being interviewed by a detective, King said he remembered Vicki Bynum, but he couldn't recall the specific questions.

Grace inquired, “Did the detective ask you about a conversation you had with defendant Mahler on the morning of May 27, 2007?”

“I know she did. She had to, but I just can't remember.”

Grace countered, “How many interviews did you have at the Hollywood police station?”

“One.”

“Okay, and how many times have you ever been interviewed about a murder?”

“Well, you came and interviewed me. That's two.” Suppressed chuckles could be heard in the gallery. Perhaps enjoying his own performance, Atticus added, “And then they came once, so that's three times.”

“Have you ever been interviewed before about a murder?”

“In my life?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, probably when I was younger.”

Grace's aplomb remained, but he knew he had taken a wrong turn with this gambit. “Okay. I'm talking about the very first interview you had with anybody about this. Was it with the police at the Hollywood Station?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. King, do you recall being asked by Detective Small and Detective Bynum specifically about whether or not defendant Mahler asked you to help him in any way dispose of a dead body?”

“No.”

Grace brought out a police report of the interview and asked Atticus King to read a portion of it to himself. It contained a passage in which Atticus King had said,
“Dave asked me how much money it would take to get me to go to his house, clean it up, and move the dead girl out of there. I told him there ain't no amount of money would get me to do something like that.”

When the witness finished silently reading the report, Grace asked if that had helped refresh his memory.

King replied, “I don't remember it but ifâif the detective. . . if it came to her notes, I must have said it, but I don't remember. I don't think she'd lie on me.”

Now Vicki Bynum could be seen covering her mouth while her eyes twinkled with humor.

“Well, Mr. King,” said Grace, maintaining his polite demeanor, “in fact, you do kind of remember, don't you? Because the police were investigating you to see whether or not you may have had something to do with the removal of the body. Is that right?”

King looked heavenward, as if praying for a little help. He replied, “Yes, but let me back up a little bit. When I say, I don't remember ... She was pretty cool. I mean, she's a detective, but she was pretty cool. I remember when [David] said ... I don't remember him saying get with it, you know, go up to his house, clean it up or nothing. He was so upset because he knew ... I mean, he was panicking. It was an accident. He didn't know what to do... .”

“Let me stop you, Mr. King, because that's not responsive to my question. I'll ask it again. Do you remember this interview in which the police were asking you if you were involved with getting rid of that dead body?”

“Right.”

“And were you pretty concerned about the fact that the police might have suspected that you had something to do with it?”

“At first, you know, I mean ... yeah, I mean, somebody accuse you of getting rid of a bodyâ”

Grace interrupted again. “Okay, so you were very clear when the police were interviewing you, that they were asking you questions about the dead woman's body and where that body could be found?”

“I remember they were asking me. That's right.”

“Okay, so I'm going to ask you again. Did Detective Small ask you specifically what did [Mahler] offer you in regard to that, cleaning up or getting rid of the body?”

“See, what did he offer me? He didn't offer me anything. I just can't remember him offering me nothing to go up there and clean nothing up. I mean, I can't remember.”

Bobby Grace's frustration finally leaked through. “You can't remember, or you don't want to remember?”

Larry Young objected to it as argumentative, and Judge Wesley agreed. He also decided that everyone needed a short break. With the jurors out of the room, Wesley's face broke into a broad smile and he commented, “I can't help but like Mr. King.”

With the break over, Bobby Grace tenaciously resumed trying for an answer to the same question, but Atticus King continued his rambling evasions for another ten minutes. The prosecutor at last resorted to reading aloud questions Detective Small had asked, with King's answers, and asking him if he recalled these conversations. This allowed the jury to hear that King had indeed been asked by Mahler to help get rid of the body and clean up the house.

Winding down, Grace asked, “You consider yourself to be friends with the defendant. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you really don't want to be here testifying. Is that right?”

“I was subpoenaed.”

“You came, but you didn't want to be here. Is that right?”

“No, sir.” The response probably meant that Atticus King did not want to be thereâbut, literally, it meant that Grace's suggestion was not right.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Bobby Grace turned the witness over to the defense.

Larry Young took the reins and asked how long King had known David Mahler. Eight or nine years, the witness said.

“Do you pick up girls and deliver them for him sometimes?”

“If he ask me to go pick them up.”

“Do you pick up drugs and deliver them to him?”

“No.”

Producing the Marriott Hotel bill, Young asked a couple of questions about the room service charges and heard vague replies equal to what Grace had suffered. Turning to the tab of over $400, he asked if it was mostly liquor.

“Not really,” King replied. “He was a big tipper. He told the guy if you bring the food up in fifteen minutes, I'll give you a hundred-dollar tip.”

Young uttered, “Wow!”

Atticus King warmed to the subject. “And if you bring my booze up here ... and the guy was running like a rabbit in a race. Shoot. The guy was getting the money. It wasn't no meal, 'cause steak and eggs and RÃ©my Martin don't cost no four hundred bucks.” The witness displayed remarkable recall of these details, considering that he couldn't remember being asked to get rid of a murdered body.

Returning to the ongoing theme of Mahler's inconsistent behavior, Young asked, “How did he appear emotionwise and sobrietywise when you were there at the LAX Marriott, when you saw him?”

“He was tired. He was just tired, but he was cool.”

This is not what the defender wanted to hear.

“Was he doing drugs?”

King said, “We were drinking.”

“Not you,” said Young. “Was he doing drugs? I know you don't.”

“I don't remember him doing no drugs. I remember him drinking.”

“Was he high?”

Again unwilling to portray his pal in negative terms, King repeated, “Drinking.”

“I know,” said Young. “Was he high? Did he get drunk?”

Observers grew increasingly impressed with this taxi driver's ability to skate around questions from highly educated lawyers. King said, “Well, we had twoâa couple fifths of RÃ©my Martin. So you're going to get a little buzzed off of drinking a couple of fifths of RÃ©my Martin.”

Turning to a different subject, Young asked about the woman who joined them in the room. King insisted that she came there independently; he had neither arranged for her presence nor transported her. The attorney, with eyebrows arched, asked, “You didn't bring her?”

“No, I ain't bring her. She showed up.”

“Were you there when the television was damaged?”

This topic seemed to infect King with an attack of verbosity. “Well, you know, she was owed some money, and she asked for the money. And the way I ... You know, at first I thought maybe he intentionally broke the TV, but I don't really know if he really intentionally broke it. Because she was a little abrupt with him, and he jumped up out of the bed and he kind of fell over the cocktail table. And I think when he was trying to grab ... catch his fall, he knocked the TV off. I don't know. I was buzzed, and so couldn't really, you know ...”

This verbiage hadn't produced what Young had sought. He tried to steer it back on course. “Was he angry?”

“Yeah, he was a little angry, but it wasn't like crazy with it.”

Young gave up. “I have nothing further. Thank you.”