In My Dark Dreams (48 page)

One more important note to hit, then I am done. “The prosecution is going to try to make a big deal of the fact that since Mr. Salazar’s arrest there have been no more Full Moon Killings. It’s true—there haven’t been. But there was a break in the action before. That happens in serial killings, it is a common pattern. And sooner or later, they stop. The killer has gotten the evil out of his system, or he may have died, or there are many other legitimate reasons. That no other killings have happened since Mr. Salazar’s arrest does not mean he is guilty of the ones that occurred before he was arrested.”

I walk to the jury box rail. Putting my hands on it, I lean toward the jurors.

“The prosecution wants you to believe that this city is safe from this killer. But he could strike again. If that happens, they’ll have a built-in excuse—they will claim that it is a copycat murder. Because the facts are known now, they are public knowledge. Any weird freak out there can kill a woman in the future, take her panties, and he’ll be the Son of the Full Moon Killer, not the original killer. If it does happen, that’s how they’ll spin it.

“Or maybe the real killer will strike again. Either way, the man who stands on trial before you will not be that killer. Just as he is not that killer now.

“The law requires—it demands—that if Mr. Salazar, or any defendant, is to be found guilty, he must be found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecution has not reached that bar in this case. They have a flimsy case, built entirely around one piece of evidence that could so easily have been manipulated it is virtually worthless. It is your duty, ladies and gentlemen, to weigh the facts in this case and come to a just decision. And the facts, when you examine them in the cold light of day, do not prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Roberto Salazar killed Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz. He is not the Full Moon Killer. He must be found not guilty, and must be allowed to walk out of this courtroom a free man.”

“You did good, girl,” Joe exults. He’s like a proud father whose kid just won the Little League championship game with a grand slam home run in the bottom of the ninth. “Really good.” He swigs some Diet Coke. “Better than I could have done.” He smiles broadly. “You kicked some righteous ass.”

We are on lunch break, hanging out in his office. When we reconvene, it will be Loomis’s turn. He’s champing at the bit. He shot me a look that could cut glass after Judge Suzuki adjourned us until after lunch.

I didn’t see Cordova after he bugged out, but he will be there. I burned that bridge. I burned more than one bridge this morning. I had to. There was no other way. I want to be collegial, but I crossed the line today. I will still get along with cops and prosecutors, but not like before.

H
ARRY LOOMIS, BALANCED ON
his feet like a championship prizefighter, gives his closing rebuttal to my summation.

“If you believe that a decorated police officer with more than twenty years of experience, a man whose record is one hundred percent clean, who has never been brought up on disciplinary charges, who has dozens of awards and commendations—if you believe that man planted evidence in the accused’s truck, you must find the accused not guilty. You must. Or if you believe that someone else murdered Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz, and planted the evidence in the truck of the accused, you must find the accused not guilty. You must do that.”

He is leaning forward on the podium, gripping it hard, as if he’s driving a race car. The wind is almost whipping through his hair, he radiates so much kinetic energy. Now he relaxes his white-knuckle grip and stands up straight. He smoothes his tie.

“But if you do not believe either of those things, then you must find the accused guilty as charged. Because there are no other possibilities. Someone put those underpants in the accused’s truck. And it wasn’t the Wicked Witch of the West. It was the accused.”

He turns and points at Salazar, who is sitting in the middle of the defense table between Joe and me. Salazar stares back at him, not menacingly, but with a blankness that is almost Zen-like. I force myself to maintain what I hope is an aura of calmness. Joe, the old pro, takes it all in stride. He twiddles a pencil between his fingers, looks at Loomis, at the jurors, the judge, the other players.

Loomis turns back to the jury.

“Either it was Mr. Salazar,” he repeats, “or a decorated police officer whose integrity has never been questioned during his entire career, or some unknown party who took the victim’s undergarments and then planted them in the accused’s truck. Out of all the trucks in all of Los Angeles, he chose that truck in which to stash the incriminating underpants. A truck owned and operated by a man who just happened to be within a stone’s throw of where the victim was found. Who was found almost on top of another victim’s location. Man, what an incredible set of coincidences. Out of all the trucks in all of Los Angeles County, the real killer puts the stolen evidence in that particular truck. What lousy luck for the accused.

“If you believe that’s what happened.”

Point by point, Loomis makes his case, and as he does, he kicks the crap out of ours. What is a married man who is faithful to his wife doing with condoms in his glove box? Do he and his wife have sex in his truck? (Mrs. Salazar winces and begins shaking when he brings that up.) Why was he right where the murders took place, not once, but multiple times? Why did he change his schedule just before Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz was killed, which conveniently, oh so conveniently, gave him an excuse to be there?

Not one but two credible witnesses saw a man who in every way fits Salazar’s description with two of the victims. The truck, the baseball hat, the size, shape, age, ethnicity. Too many coincidences.

Loomis tackles their key eyewitness’s recantation head-on. “Our main eyewitness …” He shakes his head in resigned annoyance. “That was a blunder,” he admits. “She was honest—she decided she could not, with one hundred percent accuracy, swear that the accused was the man she saw. She was almost sure he is, but she couldn’t swear to it. I think she panicked. People do that in court when they’re not used to the pressure. But putting aside whether or not she was willing to state without any reservation that it was the accused, he still looks exactly like the man she saw with the victim.”

He turns and looks at us again, specifically, at me. I feel a blast of heat coming my way, and it isn’t friendly sunshine.

“The defense laid out their story. It was told well. Fairy tales usually are. Which is what that was, a fairy tale. All the elements of a good fairy tale were there—suspension of belief, creating an alternative world, concocting imaginary villains, absolving the hero of any guilt. A good story, but it isn’t true. You all know that. You have good common sense. You know that fairy tales are not the truth.

“Here’s what really happened. That man sitting at the defense table knew these victims. He was having affairs with them. Why else would he have those condoms in his truck? After he did, he killed them, and took a souvenir of his awful deed.”

Loomis leaves the podium and starts to slowly pace back and forth in front of the jury box.

“Why did he kill them? That question may never be answered, but I have a few theories. One, he is a sociopath, despite the defense psychologist’s testimony that he isn’t. Sociopaths often go undetected. They pass lie detector tests with impunity. Why? Because they have no conscience, and no remorse. He killed them because he got pleasure from doing it, and because he could. They were young, defenseless women who trusted him.

“That is one possibility. Another is that these women spurned him. He was a married man, there was no future for them with him. They had sex with him, maybe once, maybe a few times, then they didn’t want to anymore. And please, folks, don’t judge them about that. They were single, they were not having extramarital sex, they were not betraying a relationship. The accused was. But still, that enraged him, that they would cut him off. So he killed them out of anger.”

Loomis stops his pacing and faces the jury head-on. “Here is yet a third reason, and this one, I think you will agree, is the real one. He was afraid they would turn on him, blow the cover that he had so craftily concocted over the years. The family man. The youth group counselor. The man of religion. His entire life would have gone up in flames. People kill for reasons far less important than that.”

He takes a step back. “You have a choice. You can believe a fairy tale, or you can believe the truth. The truth is that the accused murdered four innocent women. The truth is that the victim’s underwear was found in his truck. The truth is that he was where she was murdered, when she was murdered. The truth is that he was where another victim was murdered, when she was murdered. The truth is that not one person can say he was anywhere but those places, at those times.”

Loomis scans the faces of the jurors, one by one. They look back at him in rapt attention. “Part of the accused’s defense is that he is a man of God, and a man of God would not kill,” he says. “Well, we all know that throughout history, millions of people have been killed in the name of God, so that’s not an acceptable excuse. Let me quote from scripture, to put this in the proper frame. A quotation we all know, because it rings so true. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse eleven.”

He speaks from memory.
“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; but when I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

“You and I are not children. We are grownups, adult men and women. We have put away our childish things, including believing in fairy tales. Real life is staring us in the face. And in this real life, this real world, Roberto Salazar, the man sitting in front of you, murdered Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz. He must be found guilty of the most heinous crime of all, the taking of another’s life. He must be found guilty of murder in the first degree, with premeditation.”

T
HE JURY HAS BEEN
out for five days. Good news for us, or bad? I don’t know. I’m at home, resting. I had vacation time coming. I’m in touch with the office, and can be there in an hour.

After Judge Suzuki charged the jury and adjourned the proceedings, Joe and I confabbed in his office, one last time. Our mutual consensus was that I had dazzled the audience with smoke and mirrors, but that Loomis had effectively pulled the curtain aside, revealing the little man behind the screen who was manipulating the great wizard’s image. He had the evidence on his side. In the end, we had emotion. Evidence almost always trumps emotion.

We were confident that we had done our best. Now, we wait.

Amanda comes over and we practice our birthing procedure. We don’t talk about the trial, or speculate on the outcome. She was very complimentary to me after it was over, congratulating me on doing what she declared was a superb job, but we have a mutual, unspoken agreement to let it lie. After the verdict, we’ll talk. Right now, the concentration is on the blessed arrival. I’m less than a month away. Since this is my first pregnancy, the baby could come earlier. It is certainly big enough; I’ve gained almost forty-five pounds, so even if only 15 percent of that is the baby, she will be normal sized. Given my size and Jeremy’s, this baby will weigh a lot more than six or seven pounds.

I have not talked to Jeremy in months. I don’t want to. I don’t want him there when I give birth. Maybe later, I’ll let him into his child’s life. But probably not. He has not pushed for that; just the opposite. He ducks my calls and e-mails, so I’ve stopped trying to stay in contact with him. His only connection to us may be the support check he will write every month.

Sometimes, late at night, alone in my little house, I miss him. I miss us. But more and more, he is a fading memory. A life I used to live, but don’t anymore.

The judge wants to see us. I drive downtown and meet Joe in the office. It’s been eight days since the jury began deliberating. Even for a trial this important, that is too long. We ride the elevator to Suzuki’s floor and are shown into his chambers. Loomis and Arthur Wong are already there. Loomis looks grim.

“The jury is at a logjam,” Suzuki informs us in a doleful tone of voice. “I’ve instructed them to deliberate some more, try to come to a verdict.” He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “A split verdict after all this
meshugass
—what a mess that would be.”

Another Yiddish-speaking Asian. What a small world we inhabit.

“From the tone of their communications, though,” he goes on, “they may hang. We should know in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Joe says, as we ride back up to the office. For us, a tie is almost as good as a win. “A hung jury. Damn.” We are alone on the elevator, so he permits himself a self-satisfied smile. “Loomis must be crazed.”

“We’re not there yet,” I caution. I feel heavy, not only with the weight of my baby and my body, but with the emotional weight of what we have been through during the past months. “If it’s only one or two—”

“That’s true,” Joe agrees. He doesn’t want to jump the gun too much.

One or two for acquittal. What we had hoped and prayed for.

That one, possibly two, of the jurors would resist the prosecution’s case and buy into our story. One or two stubborn jurors can sometimes hold out until the bitter end; more often than not, though, they are beaten down until they yield to the majority. One more day. We have to hang in for one more day.

“We cannot come to a verdict, Your Honor,” the foreperson, a middle-aged woman who works as a stock analyst, tells Judge Suzuki. They have split almost right down the middle, seven to five. Slightly in the prosecution’s favor, but three or four more for our side than we dared hope for.

Suzuki’s sigh is of Olympian quality. “You are positive.” He knows the answer—when the division is that deep, there can’t be reconciliation.

“We are, Your Honor. I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Suzuki says in a testy tone of voice. “We have a mistrial,” he announces. “The jury is dismissed.” He bangs his gavel and galumphs back to his chambers without thanking them for their effort.