Ripples (11 page)

“I’ve known my ex-wife for a few years, but that doesn’t make us close.”

He grins.

I haven’t gotten to the tough questions. Wonder if he’s ever given a straight answer in his life.

“Help me understand your relationship with Mr. Chandler. That way I’ll know how you can help us.”

“I run what we refer to as a family office. He’s our largest client.”

“So, you have a business relationship.”

“We like to think it’s a good bit more than business, but money is a big part of it. All of our clients have networths over a billion dollars.”

“That must mean Mr. Chandler is worth—”

Samuels grins. “That’s confidential.”

“I see. So I’d have to have a subpoena.”

He shifts in his chair. “Are you driving a something, Deputy?”

“Sorry. I guess I was trying to make a joke. Lighten up the conversation, since you seem to be a bit guarded.”

“An occupational hazard, I guess. Clients expect us to be discreet.”

“I understand. Maybe you can tell me what you thought I ought to know about your friend, Mr. Chandler. He is a friend, right?”

“We like to think all of our clients are friends.”

“I’m sure you do.” I cross my arms and wait. As the rule goes, the next one to talk winds up caving.

It doesn’t take Samuels long. “Yes we’re friends.”

“You called him yesterday. Is that something you do regularly?”

“Jake’s been through a lot over the past dozen years.”

“But you do check up on him?”

“It’s his memory.”

“Is he suffering from dementia?”

“No. The doctors aren’t sure what causes it. He just has these episodes when he forgets blocks of time. So, if he sounds a little sketchy when you ask him for details, he’s not trying to be evasive. He genuinely can’t remember.”

“Has he ever gotten violent during those episodes?”

“No. Never.”

“How often do you check on him?”

“Most every day.”

“But you live where?”

“South of the city.”

“By city, you mean San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t actually see him every day?”

“No. He spends most of his time alone. But, I’ve never seen … excuse me, Deputy, but is something wrong?”

“Mr. Samuels, do you hunt?”

“Do I hunt? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s just a question. Yes or no. Do you hunt?”

“Haven’t for years.”

“Do you recall leaving a weapon, specifically a shotgun, in Mr. Chandler’s possession?”

“Ah … a few years ago I gave him a shotgun as a gift.”

“Why wasn’t the transfer recorded?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it was a detail we overlooked.”

“That little detail happens to be a law.”

“You’re right. I’ll check into it. Whoever was responsible will be dealt with.”

“You and Mr. Chandler were responsible.”

“But in the scheme of things?”

“Yes. Speaking of the scheme of things, how many guns did you give him?”

“Only one that I can recall.”

“Last night we found Mr. Chandler standing in front of his neighbor’s place as it was burning to the ground. His shovel was on the ground next to him.”

“So he was trying to put out the fire.”

“You might think so, but the shovel blade was covered with blood, and the fire crew pulled out a charred body. This morning, the ME tells us that the decedent was shot in the face at close range with a shotgun, then the face was bashed in with Mr. Chandler’s shovel. The only finger prints on the handle belong to Chandler.”

The blood drains from his face. “Where’s Jake now? Can I see him?”

“He’s at the hospital, under observation. He was pretty disoriented when we found him.”

He stands. “I’d better get over there to check on him.”

“You can see him later at the county jail. He’ll be under arrest as soon as he wakes up. I checked gun registration records, and Mr. Chandler owns several weapons, including a pricey Beretta shotgun. When we searched his residence for weapons early this morning, we couldn’t find the Beretta. However, we were able to make out the serial number on the shotgun we recovered from the fire. It was registered in your name.”

He tugs at his starched collar and says, “There’s got to be a logical explanation.”

“Yes. I can think of one very logical one.”

“You’re making a big mistake, here.”

Jacob

A plastic band cuts into my wrist. When I start to sit up, a strap digs into my chest. “What the ….” I fall back.

A chair slides on the floor somewhere near me.

“Take it easy, Mr. Chandler.” The words rumble around like I’m in an echo chamber.

“What’s going on?” I groan.

I turn my head and study a uniformed man walking like he’s in a slow motion video.

“Keep your voice down.” His mouth is out of sync with his voice. “No need to get excited. We brought you in last night so the doctors could check you out. They gave you something to help you sleep.”

I lift up my hand to show him that it’s tied to the bed rail. It drops to my side. “What’s this for?”

“Sir, you’ve been placed under arrest. Deputy Sheriff Baker will be here in a moment to explain.”

I shake the cobwebs out of my head. “Arrest? For what?”

The deputy pulls out a laminated card and reads aloud. When he finishes, he asks, “Do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them?”

I shrug.

Baker appears in the doorway. His voice is sharp and clear. “Mr. Chandler, the deputy asked you a question.”

“Yes. I understand. Now can someone tell me what’s going on?”

“Are you waiving your rights to counsel?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you want to call an attorney?”

I look out the window. Everything is in focus now. “Yes.”

“Mr. Chandler. We found an adult male body inside the shack that burned last night. We haven’t identified it yet, but we believe it’s your neighbor. And the shovel we found at the scene was covered with blood—matches the decedent’s type. Your initials are engraved on the handle.”

“Give me my phone.”

Jacob

B
ehind me is a concrete wall, institutional beige. I sit in a metal folding chair, staring at Carl’s grim face in the monitor. I take the handset off the wall. “Do I have a good lawyer?”

“Yeah. How are you doing?”

“How would you expect?”

“Just keep positive. Your arraignment’s tomorrow. I’ve got the funds all set. If the judge grants bail, you’ll be out of here before dinner time.”

“How the hell do people do it?”

“Do what?”

Though I try to restrain myself, my voice raises an octave. “
If
the judge sets bail. How do people put up with someone else controlling their lives? When I got here, the duty sergeant took my fingerprints, they gave me an orange jumpsuit, and a guard led me to a cell with a cot. Every move I make is based on a schedule somebody else decides works for them. I eat whatever slop they feel like serving, where I’m told, when I’m told. That’s what gnaws at me—they do the telling, I do the doing. If this isn’t rock bottom, then everything from here must be a flat out free fall.”

“Just hang in there. It’ll be over soon.”

“Sure—and what if I don’t get bail? What if I’m convicted? That’s a minimum of twenty-five years.”

“That’s why we’ve hired the best defense attorney in the state. He’ll have you out of here like you were Houdini.”

“You know Carl, until Celine slipped out of my hands, there was never a day that I wasn’t in full control—not just of myself, but everyone around me. I thought the low point of my life was hearing them say Jesse had taken his own life. But the bleeding didn’t stop—Ellen died, then the board fired me from my own firm.”

I draw a deep breath and exhale. “I started from scratch—my first client was a 27-seven year-old gal who’d just won a $300,000 personal injury judgment. From there I built it to the largest investment firm in the country. I put San Francisco’s financial district on the map, single handedly. How do people put up with someone else controlling their lives?”

Carl sits back. “Fear.”

“What do you mean … fear?”

“Fear is why folks let other people control their lives. It’s easier to accept failure if they can blame somebody else when they come up short. Someone bigger, stronger, smarter, more successful, richer. If that doesn’t work they pick on the schleps below them. Complain their employees are lazy, taxes are high, government’s too intrusive, suppliers are cheating, people are stupid, whatever. They’re afraid of taking responsibility for their own screw ups. Fear is why they let others have control.”

I stare at the screen for a long time. Finally, I say, “Yeah, I’m afraid. Maybe the system isn’t going to work this time.”

Carl clears his throat. “Let’s not over think this, okay? Just keep your eye on the ball. Act sane and sound, confident you’re innocent. Don’t give the judge any signals to doubt you. Keep focused and I’ll buy you a fat juicy steak for dinner tomorrow night.”

“And an expensive wine to wash it down.”

He smiles. “You’ve got it.”

I’ve been waiting nearly a week for that steak dinner, but my arraignment keeps getting postponed. So much for a speedy trial. At least when I go to court I get to wear a suit and tie. For today’s appearance the color’s heather-blue—supposed to give the impression I’m honest, trustworthy.

Roger Dugan, my criminal attorney, stands tall—dressed in a dapper tan suit, pale blue tie—shoulders pulled back. “Your Honor, the defense requests bail.” Even a hundred miles from home, the courtroom is his turf.

The assistant district attorney, Kate Chang, jumps to her feet. “The State objects, Your Honor. The defendant stands accused of a capital crime. He is single with no ties to the community and has considerable means, so that bail would not be a deterrent. We consider him a flight risk.”

Dugan counters. “Your Honor, the defendant has experienced a series of tragedies, leaving him without family. That’s true; however, the event that instigated those unfortunate circumstances was the abduction of his 4-year-old granddaughter over a dozen years ago. Since then, he has devoted his life to finding her and would certainly not jeopardize his chances of continuing that search.”

The prosecutor shakes her head. “Your Honor, the State will present DNA evidence at trial showing Jacob Chandler’s granddaughter has been present in the residence where the crimes occurred, giving the defendant sufficient motive.”

I jump to my feet.

Dugan grabs my shoulder and pulls me down. “We beg the Court’s indulgence, Your Honor.”

I wipe away a tear.

Judge Edwards looks at Chang. “You may continue.”

The prosecutor clears her throat. “We will argue the defendant believed the decedent was involved in his granddaughter’s disappearance and that he willfully committed the act of murder out of vengeance. We contend the defendant poses a risk to society as he recklessly continues to hunt down whomever else he believes was responsible for his granddaughter’s disappearance.”

Dugan rises. “May I, Your Honor?”

Judge Edwards nods.

“First of all, the State has yet to identify the deceased, and they have no forensic evidence connecting a murder weapon to the defendant. They only presume the body is that of to my client’s neighbor, and that Mr. Chandler’s shovel and a weapon possibly owned by him were involved in the alleged crimes. Their theories regarding motive and means are without foundation. In fact, not once since his granddaughter went missing over twelve years ago has Mr. Chandler shown any indication he would resort to violence against anyone. And, why would a disciplined and successful executive like my client kill someone who might have knowledge of her whereabouts? For the entire time she has been missing, my client has employed licensed private investigators to search for her, and he continues to do so to this day. Furthermore, the State can’t have it both ways. On the one hand they argue Mr. Chandler doesn’t have ties to the community, but they also speculate his granddaughter is in the vicinity.”

The judge toys with his pen, then signs the bail order. “Agreed, Mr. Dugan. The State seems to be stretching its points about Mr. Chandler’s threat to society and risk of flight. Bail is set at two million dollars.”

When Judge Edwards raps his gavel, I grab Dugan’s arm. “Hey, what’s this about my granddaughter?”

“I’m hearing it for the first time. Have you been holding back something? Because if you are ….”

“Are they saying Celine was the girl that bastard was going to assault with his belt?”

“That’s the first thing I’m going to check out. So you’re telling me you had no clue?”

“There’s no way that girl is Celine. They don’t look a bit alike. But if Celine was there at some point, where is she now? Hell, if only that bastard were here to tell us.”

Dugan shakes his head. “He’s not.”

“Then we’ll have to find the girl. Maybe, she can tell us something.”

Dugan heads out of the courtroom into the corridor without a word. Carl and I follow. Out in the hallway, Dugan looks at me and says, “We’ll drop you at your cabin on our way back to the city. Sit tight until you hear from me. In the meantime, Carl can keep you company.”

I squeeze Dugan’s arm. “If she’s in the area, we’ve got to find her.”

Dugan’s eyes widen. “Sit tight and let me take care of things.”

Amy

R
J’s fever broke after three days. A week later, his cheeks have color. Now, he’s eating soup. Me, spooning it to him. Mercedes watches from another corner of the hut, sour-faced.

I rub his knee. “How’s your leg?”

He smiles. “Let’s test it out.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes. “Finally. The freeloading comes to an end.”

“You’re sounding like Bryce,” I mutter.

“Whatever,” she sneers.

RJ stands, keeping his weight on the good leg. “And fighting’s not going to get us anywhere.”

Mercedes crosses her arms. “Let’s get something clear. This is my place. Don’t wear out your welcome.”