No Way Out
David Kessler

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © David Kessler 2010

David Kessler asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847561831

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2010 ISBN: 9780007371747

Version: 2018-07-09

To Eran, my brother in all but name

‘He who fights with monsters should take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good And Evil,

Aphorism 146

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Saturday, 4 July 2004 – 23.40

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 7.30

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 8.50

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9.45

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10.15

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 11.05

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 14.40

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.15

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.30

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 16.50

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 19.30

Saturday 6 June 2009 – 11.00

Friday 12 June – 9.40

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 10.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 13.00

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 14.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 15.40

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 16.30

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 18.10

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 19.45

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21.15

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 10.25

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 13.00

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 16.35

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 11.20

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 12.05

Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 12.40

Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 15.15

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 – 16.30

Wednesday, 15 July 2009 – 18.05

Thursday, 16 July 2009 – 16.20

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 10.00

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 13.00

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 17.30

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 18.10

Monday, 17 August 2009 – 18.20

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 12.40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 15.40

Tuesday, 18 August 2009 – 17.15

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 9.10

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 10.15

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 12.30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.05

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.20

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.30

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.35

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 13.45

Wednesday, 19 August 2009 – 15.15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 10.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.05

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.20

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.30

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.40

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.45

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 11.55

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.10

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.15

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 12.50

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13.05

Thursday, 20 August 2009 – 13.30

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 10.20

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 12.30

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 14.50

Friday, 21 August 2009 – 22.15

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.00

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.20

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 09.30

Saturday, 22 August 2009 – 10.20

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 10.15

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 11.50

Monday, 24 August 2009 – 21.30

Tuesday, 25 August 2009 – 10.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 11.40

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 11.55

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 12.05

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 12.10

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.45

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.50

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 14.55

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 15.00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 15.05

Wednesday, 26 August, 2009 – 18.00

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 20.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.05

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.30

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.35

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 21.40

Wednesday, 26 August 2009 – 22.30

Saturday, 29 August 2009 – 01.20

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 9.50

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 11.25

Sunday, 30 August 2009 – 14.50

Sunday, 30 September 2009 – 22.15

Monday, 31 August 2009 – 10.15

Monday, 31 August 2009 – 10.40

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 6.30

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 10.35

Tuesday, 1 September 2009 – 11.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 9.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 10.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 11.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 13.40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 14.25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 15.10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 16.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 16.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 17.45 PDT (20.45 EDT)

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.40

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.45

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.00

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.05

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.10

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.15

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.20

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.25

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.30

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.35

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.38

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.41

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.44

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.47

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.50

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.53

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19.55

Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 22.00

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author:

About the Publisher

Saturday, 4 July 2004 – 23.40

It was only a set of fingers flying across a keyboard, yet they could work so much malice.

She watched in awe as her words appeared before her, the letters on the screen keeping pace with her fingers. What was so amazing was how little she had to change to wreak so much damage. All she had to do to alter the behavior of an entire computer program was make minor alterations to just two of the lines of the program. Hackers and ‘midnight programmers’ would laugh at the absurd simplicity of it. Some of them might even have been mildly amused by the sheer audacity of it. But few of them would have condoned her objectives.

So what?

She wasn’t doing it for fame or glory. She was doing it for justice – plain, old-fashioned justice.

As she continued her work, she glanced up and looked out through the window. In the distance she could see the flickering lights of the nocturnal city and they reminded her that there was a world out there beyond her private world of vengeance. But she forced herself to ignore the distraction. Her fingers continued to dance across the keyboard in the small pool of halogen light that fell upon the desk. The rest of the room was in darkness.

After a few more seconds she paused, satisfied with the results of her labors. Then, with a couple of clicks on the left button of the mouse, it was done. She had created a new version of the program.

And what a new version!

She thought about it now, almost wistfully. Getting the original source code had been rather tricky. She’d had to use some of her old contacts to break down the bureaucratic barriers. But many States had public records or freedom of information laws. She wished that she could infiltrate the altered program everywhere. That would be something of a coup. But she had to be realistic.

When she first started out, she had no idea that she would even be able to do it. It was more idle curiosity than a firm agenda that had prompted her to explore the possibility. But when she studied the documentation and asked a few questions of a professor to understand how the software worked, it suddenly dawned on her just how easy it would be.

Of course, slipping it in undetected would be the hardest part. There were various ways she could do it. One was to hack into the server computers and upload the new program. But that was risky.

There was, however, another way to infiltrate the new version of the software that didn’t involve hacking at all. That way was to get the systems administrator to install it themselves. The key to this method was to make it seem as if it were a modification of a current program that they were already using. By packaging the program complete with forged letterhead and then sending it out by special courier, she could trick their SysOps into installing the new version under the erroneous assumption that they were getting an upgrade from the software company. It would be the ultimate software hack followed by the ultimate in social engineering.

And now she was going to make the niggers pay.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 7.30

Bethel was nineteen – too young to remember the Sixties and too bored to care about her grandparents’ reminiscences – like how her mother was conceived at the Woodstock festival.

But the sound of Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’ was ringing through her head, via the earphones of her iPod, as she stood by the roadside, waiting for help. She knew little of the context of the song and nothing about the closing of the Pandora’s Box nightclub or the Sunset Strip Curfew Riots. But the voice of Neil Young was haunting. It was easy to sleep through high school civics classes – even to sleepwalk through the assignments and exams. She knew a bit about the Vietnam War and the civil rights struggles of the Sixties. But it was all superficial academic knowledge, of the kind she picked up almost by default while daydreaming about the football team quarterback.

It stayed in her mind not as a coherent picture, but as a collection of sound bites: ‘We shall overcome,’ ‘I have a dream,’ ‘Power to the people,’ ‘Burn, baby, burn!’ The voice of anger still echoed across the decades. But it echoed faintly. A time gulf separated Bethel from the turbulence that had almost ripped her country apart. And the time gulf was ever widening, so all that was left of the ringing timbre of history’s voices were the fading reverberations of barely remembered heroes: Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, the Chicago Eight. Names and slogans to Bethel, but no substance.

But she liked the song. It had a pleasant hook that made it stick in her mind. What really sent shivers up her spine was that haunting phrase at the end of the chorus, urging the young listeners to pause and assess the situation. She had no more than the merest inkling of what it meant. Whatever it was had gone down already. It doesn’t really matter, she told herself. It belonged to her grandparents’ generation anyway. She belonged to another generation, the one that was more concerned with finding a job than changing the world.

Her full name was Bethel Georgia Newton and she was a mixed bag of human elements. In the looks department she was all bleached blonde and classic cheerleader figure, a carefully cultivated complexion and polished-tooth smile. Neither svelte nor buxom, a kind of perfect ‘in-between’ for her height of five foot six; athletic, but in that soft, not overdone sort of way, with well-toned leg muscles, but not rippling ones. She was middle class and far removed from the culture of the street, yet when it came to experience of life she wasn’t entirely naïve. She might not exactly have been streetwise, but she had tasted the bitter side of life.

She stood by the roadside in her tight-fitting white t-shirt and denim shorts that showed every curve of her firm body, holding out her thumb every time a car went by. She thought it would be easy hitching a ride, with her breasts thrusting out in front, straining against her t-shirt, and the perfect ripe complexion of her thighs showing like white silk in the California sunshine. But people were paranoid about helping strangers by the roadside, she realized now.

A few yards away, her car had broken down and she couldn’t even call for help because the battery of her cell phone was flat. She had made a half-hearted effort to fix the car herself, but she didn’t really have a clue when it came to car engines. So all she could do was flag down a Good Samaritan and ask them to take her to a garage where she could get proper help.

Secretly she was hoping that some good-looking man with technical skills and a cool family fortune would stop and rescue her, not just from the roadside but from the aimless drifting boredom that seemed to have engulfed her life lately. But she would settle for an elderly couple taking her down the road to a pay phone if necessary. Only she wasn’t even getting that. Life was unfair.

But then her luck changed.

An aquamarine Mercedes slowed down as it approached her. A recent model and from the up-market end of the European car industry, the owner was clearly affluent and probably young. By the time it had pulled over by the roadside she could see that the driver, in his late twenties, was a black man.

What would my parents think? she wondered with a smile at the fleeting fantasy of turning up on her liberal parents’ doorstep with this young man in tow.

Think rather than say. She knew that they’d be warm and welcoming. But she wondered if they were capable of walking the walk as well as they could talk the talk. It occurred to her that she didn’t really know her parents. And yet here she was away from home, trying to find herself.

As the young man leaned out, smiling, and asked if she needed help, she could tell from his confident voice that this was someone who was going places. She was drawn to his youthful good looks and quiet, cool self-confidence and she warmed to him instantly, even if his diction betrayed the lingering traces of a background that she half suspected he was trying to conceal – or maybe just forget.

He took a look under the hood and after about a minute shook his head and said, ‘I’m not really all that good with engines. I’m better with people.’ He won her over with that line and a disarming smile. Two minutes later she was in the Mercedes and they were rolling along down the road, getting to know each other better. Then, somewhere along the line, she noticed that he had turned off the main road.

She was about to ask where they were going when she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw his lips twist upwards into a smile. But she couldn’t tell if the smile was friendly. And as the first traces of apprehension formed into a knot in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she was too afraid to inquire further.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 8.50

‘I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, Gene,’ said Andi as the car snaked its way through the streets of Los Angeles.

‘It’s too late to go back now.’

They both laughed. This was becoming a bit of an in-joke between them. They had both been nervous about leaving the Big Apple and crossing the continent to a new life on the West Coast. But Andi’s career had demanded it.

Andi Phoenix, sitting silently and brooding nervously, was in her late thirties. She had kept her looks through healthy eating, regular workouts and a bit of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been enhanced from 34B to 36D with silicone implants and she had taken a Botox injection to remove the first lines of age. But the rest was from hard work and healthy living. The blonde hair came from a bottle; the original had been a decent but boring mousy brown. Changing the color had been a form of therapy after the rough ride of her youth, but the enhancements as a whole carried with them the payload of attention from men that she could well do without. She was a few inches shorter than the black woman who sat next to her and in some ways felt in her shadow.

Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently. ‘Just remember this, honey: they don’t know you either. But they were ready to take a chance on you.’

In the driver’s seat, in more ways than one, was Eugenia Vance, the six foot, muscular black woman who had playfully wrestled with her in bed that morning, and won – as always.

They had met over twenty years ago, when Andi was still in her teens. Gene had helped Andi through her teenage crisis years, and they’d been together ever since. In all the time they had known each other, they never used the word ‘lesbian’ to describe their relationship. It wasn’t denial. It was just that their every instinct railed against categorization. Neither Gene nor Andi loved ‘women’, they simply loved each other.

‘I’m just wondering if this whole thing is a big mistake.’

Gene snorted her mockery at Andi’s self-pity. ‘You’ve picked a hell of a time to start wondering, girl!’

Here in California, Andi’s specialty was much in demand. She had majored in psychology before going on to get her Juris Doctor degree from the Northeastern University School of Law where she thrived amidst its progressive atmosphere that encouraged social responsibility. But after graduation she had found the law to be an irritating environment in which to work. Most of her criminal work involved plea bargaining rather than trial work and usually that meant helping criminals plead guilty to lesser charges – hardly the service of justice and way off from the ideals that had driven her into the legal profession in the first place.

Matters had come to a head after she contracted pneumonia, forcing her to take a prolonged leave of absence from the law firm that had initially hired her. But when she went back to work, she found herself welcomed with less than open arms. She was protected by labor laws from outright dismissal, but found herself increasingly sidelined. She joined another firm but then spent the next eight months playing catch-up.

It was in this period that her interest in the subject changed. Although there were innocent people out there who needed to be helped, criminal law meant – for the most part – helping the guilty. And that was not something she particularly enjoyed doing. So she did the old poacher turned gamekeeper routine and got herself a job with the D.A.’s office, in the domestic violence unit, where she thrived for a while. Starting at the bottom of the ladder meant that she didn’t get to do much courtroom work. Most of it involved working directly with victims, reading reports and collating evidence. But she was happy to do this. It gave her a sense of purpose.

Paradoxically, it was only when promotion gave her more courtroom work that disillusion set in for a second time. Because she found herself doing exactly the same thing as she was doing before, but from the opposite side of the table: plea bargaining with criminals. She found their lawyers to be vile, for the most part, and she realized how contemptible she must have seemed to the D.A. in her earlier days as a defense attorney.

At the same time, she had developed another interest: crime victim litigation. There was a growing industry involving the pursuit of civil remedies for crime victims and she very much wanted to be part of it. The only trouble was that she soon hit the glass ceiling and realized that this specialized field was more developed on the West Coast than on the East. She wasn’t altogether comfortable about moving out West. But that was where the work opportunity took her.

‘And what if I don’t make the grade?’ asked Andi, still seeking reassurance.

‘Hey, listen,’ said Gene firmly, ‘I don’t want to hear any of that. There’s nothing to stop you except fear – and if you let that get to you, I’ll be right behind you, ready to take a paddle to that cute little butt of yours.’

‘My butt’s not so little,’ said Andi, but this time with humor rather than self-pity.

In truth, Andi’s butt was fine, as any red-blooded male would have been only too happy to testify.

There was a hard edge to Gene. But it was precisely Gene’s confidence in decision making that Andi loved most. On all the important matters, it was Gene who decided for both of them. It was Gene who had decided that they would come to live out here in California. Andi would never have demanded it for herself, much as she had wanted it. She still lacked the self-confidence to stand up to Gene – to the world yes, but not to Gene. And Gene herself knew that Andi needed to make the move for her career. It wasn’t in Gene’s personal interests to make the move, but she cared too much for Andi to let that stand in their way.

So when it came to the crunch, Gene was ready to uproot herself and start again on the other side of the country. It’s only a sacrifice if you give up the greater value for the lesser one, she told herself, remembering the philosophy that had given her so much strength when she really needed it. Andi’s happiness means more to me than my two-bit career. So it isn’t really a sacrifice.

What Gene loved about Andi was that she was gentle and soft on the outside yet fiery and determined when her sense of injustice was aroused. It was a paradox that was expressed as eloquently in Andi’s eyes as in her words. Her eyes had a kind of magic that was as frightening as it was fascinating: those eyes could look both menacing and vulnerable at the same time. It was Andi’s eyes that Gene had originally fallen in love with. When Gene looked into Andi’s eyes the first time they met, the beseeching, helpless look quickly dissolved into anger…no, not anger…tenacity.

As the car slowed down, Gene gave Andi an encouraging smile and then looked around at the office buildings of the town center. Andi smiled back, encouraged by Gene’s contagious confidence.

‘Looks like we’re here,’ said Gene, with an air of finality.

The car pulled up to a halt in front of a large office building.

‘Wish me luck,’ Andi said, taking a deep breath.

Gene looked at her firmly, ‘I won’t do that, honey, ‘cause you don’t need luck.’

Gene slid her left hand behind Andi’s head, leaned over and kissed Andi on the lips. She had a way of making Andi feel good whenever the fear and self-doubt threatened to get the better of her.

That’s why I love you, Gene, thought Andi, closing her eyes. But she didn’t say it. She just held on a moment longer than Gene did, before letting go and getting out of the car. She wanted to say something, but the jitters were still with her and she knew that Gene could sense it.

‘Get in there and knock ‘em dead, honey!’

Andi closed the door and walked towards the building. Ignoring the names of the countless law and accountancy firms on the nameplates, she walked into the building and presented her ID to security.

Outside, Gene watched Andi enter the building like a mother watching her tearful five-year-old vanish into the crowd of other children on her first day at kindergarten. Then she brought the engine to life with a roar, made an aggressive U-turn and drove back the way she’d come. She knew it was going to be a tough day for Andi – first days always are.

Her thoughts were cut short by her cell phone. It was a call from the Say No to Violence rape crisis center.

‘Hallo,’ said Gene, pressing the button of the hands-free set.

‘Gene, we’ve just had a call from Riley.’

Bridget Riley worked at the sex crimes unit in the local police department. And a call from Bridget Riley probably meant only one thing: another woman had been raped.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9.45

‘You’re kind of early, Alex.’

Alex Sedaka spun round to see a fifty-eight-year-old black man standing there with a beaming smile on his face. Elias Claymore was overdressed for SoCal at this time of year. But Alex knew that he was trying to avoid being recognized. Claymore didn’t usually like to draw so much attention to himself because then he’d find himself surrounded by autograph seekers.

‘I was at the front of the plane,’ said Alex, reciprocating the smile. ‘First one off.’

‘How are you doing, old buddy?’ asked Claymore, rejecting Alex’s outstretched hand in favor of a warm, brotherly embrace.

Alex returned the greeting and then followed as Claymore led the way.

‘What’s happening with the show?’ asked Alex as they walked towards one of the exits.

‘The network renewed the syndication deal.’

Elias Claymore was the next big thing in talk show hosts, after his California-based show had gone national last year. He was tipped by some to become the next Montel Williams. But others criticized this appellation in view of Claymore’s less than honorable past.

‘How’s the love life?’ Typical Elias, filling the silence with his cheeky humor.

‘You know I’m married to my work,’ said Alex with a twinkle in his eye. ‘That’s why I haven’t even got time to watch your show.’

‘Oh really? That’s not what I heard.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Oh, a little bird told me something about you being in a relationship with a certain TV reporter.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on the little bird grapevine.’

‘Then how come we’re meeting for breakfast not lunch?’

‘I thought you were shooting the show after lunch.’

‘You could come and watch that too.’

‘I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m seeing a…’ Alex’s smile was that of the proverbial angel caught out.

Elias smiled back, ‘So the little bird was right after all.’

‘It’s early days yet. Anyway, these long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. She’s down here in SoCal and I’m up by the Bay.’

‘And you ain’t over Melody yet.’

Alex remained silent. They had been friends ever since Alex had represented Claymore, negotiating a plea bargain over 20 years ago. And they had learned to trust and respect one another. But they had also learned to read one another.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Alex. ‘This isn’t the way to the parking lot.’ Alex was quite familiar with LAX and he had noticed that they were heading towards the curbside on the lower level.

‘No parking lot today, bro. We’re going by taxi.’

‘Taxi? Isn’t that carrying this incognito business a bit too far?’

‘My car was stolen.’

‘Stolen? When? How?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘Doesn’t your insurance provide a rental one in the meantime?’

‘They do when I have time to get onto them. So far I haven’t even had time to report it to the cops.’

‘When you say stolen, you mean like carjacked? At gunpoint?’

‘Heck no! If they’d given me half a chance I’d’ve nailed the bastards. I got out to buy a paper.’

‘I thought your Merc had digital ignition control? Isn’t that supposed to be hotwire-proof?’

‘Not if you leave the keys inside.’

Alex looked at him, wide eyed. ‘You’re kidding!’

Claymore held up his hands sheepishly. ‘I plead guilty to stupidity, Your Honor.’

They both laughed and carried on their friendly banter oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the background.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10.15

The room was a cold, clinical white. It was supposed to be relaxing as well as hygienic but stepping into it felt like entering something out of science fiction.

‘Okay, now just hold still,’ said Doctor Weiner, holding the third swab between Bethel’s legs.

Bethel held still and forced herself not to think about what was happening or what had happened. But the harder she fought to avoid it, the more painful the memories that flooded back.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bethel, fighting back the tears. ‘How many swabs do you need?’

‘We try to take several,’ said Bridget, the twenty-something-year-old detective who was standing a few feet away.

‘But why?’

Bridget could hear in Bethel’s voice the inner strength that the girl was trying to draw on.

‘Because sometimes the whole sample gets used up in the test and we may need to do back-up tests or give a sample to the defense in case they want to run their own independent tests.’

Bethel Newton had already been photographed from all angles, examined by a female doctor and had vaginal swabs and nail clippings taken. They had intended to take combings from her pubic hair, but she was shaven. They had also taken buccal swabs to use as reference samples. Bethel’s body was now – in police investigative terminology – a crime scene. And the vaginal swabs and nail clippings constituted crime scene samples.

‘I don’t see what good this’ll do,’ said Bethel.

‘We can distinguish between different contributors. That’s what your reference sample is for. In fact, we now have powerful techniques for isolating DNA from sperm.’

‘But he used a condom.’ She remembered how deftly he had held her down with the weight of his body while putting it on, before he penetrated her. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing – like he had done it before. Some men are experts with bra straps. This man was an expert at rape – and an expert at minimizing the trail of evidence that he left behind.

‘We don’t expect to find any identifiable sperm in the vaginal swab,’ explained Bridget. ‘But we have to check anyway.’

Bethel shuddered, but kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

‘You scratched him too, don’t forget,’ Bridget added. ‘That could give us a skin sample or even a blood sample and that in turn will give us his DNA. Also we might find traces of the condom itself. He might have thrown it away nearby.’

‘So what?’ said Bethel, bitterly. ‘How does that help you catch him in the first place?’

Bridget took a deep breath and spoke gently. ‘Okay, well let’s say we find an empty condom packet by the road near where it happened, if it has fingerprints on it, and if he has a criminal record, we’ll be able to identify him and issue a warrant. And let’s say we find some exchangeable traces from the condom in the swabs we took from you – that means substances like lubricants and spermicides and anti-stick powders – we can compare them for chemical similarities to any condoms we find in the suspect’s possession or for that matter any chemical traces in any condom that he discarded nearby. Or if he discarded the whole packet, we can analyze the exchangeable traces in them and compare them to your evidence sample.’

‘So what’ll that prove?’ Bethel spat out contemptuously. ‘That he has the same type of condoms?’

Bridget put a comforting hand on Bethel’s shoulder. ‘Evidence is like a jigsaw puzzle, Bethel. If we can put enough pieces together we can nail him. And if we can match his DNA to the DNA from any other crimes then before you know it he’s going down on multiple counts of rape. And you’d be the one who can claim the credit for stopping him.’

Bethel knew that the flattery was part of a well-meaning game. Still, she warmed to the compliment and nodded, pretending to accept Bridget’s logic.

In fact, a bond was beginning to form between them. But this was only natural. From the moment Bethel had staggered into the police station, Detective Bridget Riley had accompanied her.

Bethel had been reluctant to go through the whole rape examination procedure. Several times she had almost backed out of it. But Bridget had convinced her to continue, pointing out that the bruises and internal injuries showed that the rapist had used considerable force.

‘There’s virtually no danger he’ll be able to argue consent,’ Bridget assured her. ‘They sometimes get away with that in date rape cases, but this wasn’t a date. Unless we goof up badly, there’s no way he can use it here. And once we ID the man, if we’ve got a good sample from any of the swabs or nail clippings, the DNA’ll get him.’

‘But first you’ve got to catch him,’ said Beth tentatively.

‘We’ll check his DNA against the National DNA Index System as well as the California DNA Index which may have some more detail.’

Bethel smiled nervously. But then she said something that struck Bridget as rather strange. ‘What if his lawyers dig up stuff that they can throw at me?’

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 11.05

‘So how big is this department, then?’ Andi asked the lean, bespectacled man in a light gray suit as they walked past the desks in the open-plan office.

A mix-up about her starting date had meant that she had spent half the morning sitting in a room reading brochures and web-based material about Levine and Webster instead of beginning her induction and being introduced to the staff. The human resources manager wouldn’t be back till Monday, so it was left to Paul Sherman, one of the partners in the firm, to lead Andi along through the maze of desks, as some of the younger (male) members of the staff leaned out from their shoulder height partitions to get a glimpse of the new girl. The women, for the most part, kept their attention to their photocopying or papers on their desks, only glancing round briefly to size up the competition.

‘It’s not really a department,’ Sherman replied nervously. ‘It’s more of a section in my department.’

Andi experienced a hint of unease as these words wafted over her. ‘I don’t understand. I thought I was going to head up a department over here.’

Sherman squirmed with embarrassment. He was only slightly shorter than Andi yet she seemed to tower over him. ‘Well, my department covers all forms of negligence and, for our purposes, tortious liability of criminals is a sub-section of that.’

‘I’d’ve thought there’s a difference between malicious acts and negligent ones.’

‘It’s all part of torts.’

‘Well so is trespass,’ she replied, as if addressing a child. ‘So is nuisance, so is defamation.’

‘Yes, but slander and libel are intentional.’

‘Just like crime.’

Sherman seemed embarrassed, as if perturbed by Andi’s confrontational approach, but reluctant to follow suit. ‘Well, anyway, I won’t try to second guess you. When we’ve got a victim case to litigate, you’ll be the one whose desk it lands on. You’re the expert in that field. I’m just a humble negligence lawyer.’

The uneasy feeling was growing in Andi. This wasn’t what they’d promised her when they offered her the job. They had given her the job without an interview, based on nothing more than her résumé and the recommendation of her head of department back in New York. But what Sherman was describing now wasn’t anything like what they had described when they made the job offer. If anything it was a step backwards.

She had made this move because it had become clear to her that in New York she could only move sideways. But now it looked like she had been suckered into this and was going nowhere just as fast. She felt betrayed. No, she told herself. Don’t prejudge. Maybe it’s not what it seems. Maybe they just have a less formal structure in this firm.

‘So let me get this straight, Mr Sherman. Any crime victim wanting to sue the perp is mine?’

She was watching his face carefully now.

‘As long as it falls exclusively within your remit. There might be some areas of overlap, in which case we’ll have to discuss it. But nobody’s going to go behind your back, let alone over your head. Everything’ll be done on a consensus basis.’

It was obvious that he was trying to sound encouraging, to make her feel at home. It was clear that they respected her or they wouldn’t have hired someone from the other side of the country and made such a generous pay offer, not to mention paying her relocation costs.

‘I guess it makes sense. It’s just not what I had in mind.’

‘Well, let’s see how it goes,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You’ll have a lot of autonomy. And in most cases no one will try to second guess you. The other partners will probably defer to your judgment too. You’re the specialist after all.’

‘Okay,’ said Andi brightening up. ‘Let’s get to work.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘So, where’s my office?’

Sherman looked embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s not really an office,’ he said nervously. ‘As you can see we’re open plan here.’

‘You mean only the partners have private offices?’

‘Well, no, some of the others do too. But we didn’t have a spare room, apart from the conference rooms. You’ll get one when we’ve got things sorted out. It’s just a matter of rearranging things. In the meantime, you’ll have a booth in the corner – away from most of the noise.’

He had noticed the expression on her face. ‘What?’

‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’ll spell it out to you. This isn’t what I signed on for. I signed on to have an office, even head a department. Not to be an orphan or a stepchild.’

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 14.40

‘Well, check out the ass on that!’

Alex shot an angry look at the leering redneck in torn jeans who was nursing a near-empty can of Bud. The man looked back as if to say, ‘Wanna make an issue of it, buddy?’

The truth of the matter was that Alex didn’t want to. But he was ready to. He was more afraid of the legal and professional consequences to himself as a lawyer than the possibility of getting beaten up. The guy was bigger than Alex. But Alex had trained in Krav Maga – an Israeli martial art – and reckoned the odds at about 50-50.

Not wanting to feed the redneck’s desire for attention, Alex returned his attention to the snooker table that the lithe, thirty-four-year-old, dark-haired, Chinese-American woman was bending over.

They were in the Embassy billiards club in San Gabriel. The place had been packed for the men’s event – the fourth in the six-venue US tour. But the hall seemed half empty as the woman in black pants and matching vest lined up her most crucial shot of the frame – if not the entire semi-final match.

After a few seconds, the chattering settled down to a respectful silence as the crowd held its breath with eager anticipation, wondering if Martine Yin could pull it off.

She took the shot with cool ease, not tentatively but with the firm confidence of someone who knew that there were no prizes for second best. And when the red ball dropped into the right corner pocket and the cue ball rolled slowly to a halt a foot away from the left cushion, the small crowd of appreciative aficionados who were there to watch the game and Martine, let out a whooping cheer. And Alex was amongst those applauding wildly – although he had to admit that he was one of those who was there to see Martine more than the game.

They had been going out together, on and off, for over a year now – if you could call it going out together. It had started after the Clayton Burrow case, when Martine had spent several months pursuing Alex for an interview. She was a TV reporter and she had covered what had become Alex’s most famous case. She had been one of the reporters in the observation room adjacent to the death chamber when they got the fateful call to abort the execution.

And she had witnessed, albeit from a distance, Alex’s intense conversation with his legal intern followed by the intern’s arrest. This whole surreal episode had culminated in a high-speed car chase in the dead of night, ending in a fatal crash that unfortunately evaded the cameras of the news helicopters.

After the case, Alex had offered some considerable resistance to Martine’s interview request, and when they did finally talk about it, she got the impression that he was holding something back. At first, she had been determined to break his resolve and get in under his guard. But somewhere along the line, she sensed that what Alex was holding back had more to do with his personal feelings than any hard facts about the case itself. She realized that Alex was all too human – nothwithstanding the predatory reputation of his profession – and thus realized also that there were limits to how predatory she could be in her own chosen vocation.

It was only after that, and because of this softening in Martine’s character, that the relationship between them really started to develop. And even then it was a relationship at a distance, which tended to stunt its growth. She was based in Los Angeles; he in San Francisco.

‘I’d like to put one in your pot, babe,’ the redneck called out, as he swaggered to the bar for a refill.

‘Why don’t you can it?’ said Alex turning round again.

‘Wanna step outside and settle it like a man?’ the redneck challenged.

‘Why don’t you both can it!’ Martine snapped. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

By this stage, the referee could no longer hope that the situation would play itself out without his intervention. He called a couple of bouncers to escort the redneck off the premises.

Martine turned back to the table and, taking a deep breath to regain her composure, potted the black and then another red. She had come to the table with four points and eight frames on the board against her opponent’s sixty-one points and eight frames, after a nail-biting battle of safety shots. Her opponent, a petite blonde, had missed a two-cushion escape from a tricky snooker and this gave Martine a final chance to save the match on this final frame.

But only if she made every shot.

Keeping her cool, she made another black and then a red. But this time, the cue ball drifted towards the baulk end of the table and she had to settle for a pink instead of a black. She knew that there were no more chances. After the pink she had to pot the last red and get on the black. She sank the pink and came a little too far on the final red. Not that she couldn’t pot the red. It was an easy shot in itself. But if she just rolled it in she would be on the wrong side of the black. She had to play it with pace and come off three cushions in order to get back down the table to the black. But if she played it with pace, she also had to play it with deadly accuracy.

She took the shot with pace…a lot of pace.

Alex held his breath and prayed.

The ball dropped into the pocket to shrieks of delight from the crowd. And to top it all off, the ball came to rest with perfect position to pot the black one final time.

From there Martine cleared up: yellow, green, brown, blue pink and black. But when the frame ended, there was thunderous applause. She had made a break of fifty-eight and a frame-winning score of sixty-two.

The crowd loved it when a match came down to the wire, however nerve-racking it might be for the players, and Martine found herself having to sign many autographs before she finally got to talk to Alex.

‘You were great,’ he said.

‘Do me a favor,’ she replied. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

‘What’d I d—’

‘You know what I’m talking about. I don’t need you to get into fights for me. You don’t have to prove anything.’

‘But he was—’

She held up her hand.

‘Let’s go grab a bite,’ she said, taking his hand.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.15

‘The reason we got a drug problem is ‘cause the man flooded the ghetto with cheap cocaine!’ the black militant shouted into the microphone. ‘And the reason things haven’t changed, brother Elias, is because we’ve still got Uncle Toms like you blaming the brothers for what the white man did to us!’

The audience broke into loud spontaneous applause, especially the large group of the black militant’s own supporters. The white supremacist on the other side of the studio struggled above the roar of approval to make his answer heard.

Elias Claymore was enjoying himself. It was fiery guests like these who made Claymore’s ratings. The militants might get the anger off their chest, but it was Claymore who’d make more money thanks to the syndication deal.

Claymore was just as black as this militant guest of his. Now in his late fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, his colorful life had run the gamut from left-wing radical to Islamic fundamentalist to neo-conservative and born-again Christian.

This was meant to be a three-way debate between secular black militants, Black Muslims and the Ku Klux Klan. But the black militant had turned the debate on conservative blacks, including Claymore himself, and made the white supremacists in the studio – who had raised the drug issue in the first place – largely irrelevant.

‘What they did to us is no excuse for what we’re doing to ourselves, brothers!’ Claymore replied. ‘We have to stop blaming others. We used to be slaves to the white man. Now we’re slaves to the white powder. I say it’s time for us to break the chains and set ourselves free once and for all!’

Again the audience burst into thunderous applause, except the small cadre of militants. Claymore looked around and saw the approval on the faces of most of the audience, black and white. The black militant had almost won them over, but Claymore knew that with a few well-chosen words he had won them back.

Then a man wearing a suit and a bow tie with a crescent on it spoke up. ‘If you think that joining the white establishment is a solution,’ said the besuited man, ‘then you’re as big a fool as he is.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Claymore.

‘I mean you’ve jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. You’ve betrayed your people twice over.’

He was a tall, slim, dapper figure and he was known to be Claymore’s arch enemy. The man was a leading member of the Nation of Islam. Claymore had once belonged to his sect, but had later become disillusioned with it.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Claymore challenged.

‘I’m talking about Islam, the religion of the black man, the religion you turned your back on when you became an apostate.’

‘An apostate to Islam or an apostate to the Nation of Islam? The two are not the same. Malcolm X left the Nation of Islam but never turned his back on Islam. Yet that didn’t save him from getting murdered.’

This was one of his favorite challenges to his former sect. Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam in disillusion both at its policy of separatism and at the practices of its leader.

But the well-dressed man in the audience was not going to be drawn into a debate about who killed Malcolm X. The Nation of Islam had subsequently re-adopted their former enemy and tried to distance themselves from his assassination.

‘You’re not like Brother Malcolm, Claymore, and you never will be! Brother Malcolm never did what you did.’

There was wild applause at that one. Everyone knew that Elias Claymore was not quite as respectable as he had now become. But Claymore was prepared for this.

‘It’s precisely because of my own guilt that I must speak out,’ said Claymore, casting a professional eye at the studio clock. ‘As a sinner, I have a duty not to remain silent. In the meantime, let’s all say a loud “Thank God” that we’re living in a country where no one has to be a slave unless he chooses to be. Thank you all, good afternoon and God Bless America.’

There was thunderous applause. The show was over.

As one of the cameras pulled back to let him pass, Claymore walked away, talking to various eager members of the audience and shaking hands with some of them.

He left the set to be confronted by two uniformed policemen and a female detective who couldn’t have been more than thirty, if that. But what frightened him most was the implacable look on their faces. He didn’t know what was going on, but sensed that it was something serious. The faces of the TV staff hovering around them looked tense. The detective stepped forwards and flashed her shield at Claymore.

‘Elias Claymore?’

‘Yes?’ replied Claymore, slightly nervously.

‘Detective Riley. I have a warrant for your arrest.’

‘What for?’

‘Rape.’

Claymore shot a look of panic at the producer and swallowed. ‘Call Alex Sedaka. Now!’

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 15.30

‘This is the best Chinese food I’ve ever tasted,’ said Alex, expertly picking up a mouthful of chicken chow mein with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

‘Best at this price,’ said Martine, her voice still tense from the incident back at the snooker tournament. ‘Let’s not exaggerate.’

They were eating at the Embassy Kitchen, just across the parking lot from the billiards club. The area itself seemed like a bit of a dump. But Alex was used to slumming it, in his line of work. And he suspected that the same was true of Martine.

‘Look, about what happened earlier…’ He was nervous, sensing that Martine was still angry.

‘You don’t have to apologize. Just don’t do it again.’

Alex felt deflated. He hadn’t been going to apologize. But he wanted to clear the air. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of crap.’

‘And you shouldn’t have to get into fights to prove your masculinity. Okay! You fathered two children. You paid your dues in life. You win battles in court – which is the battleground where thinking men fight and win battles. I don’t need you to beat up some redneck to prove yourself.’

He was flattered that she said ‘beat up’ not ‘get beaten up by.’

‘I wasn’t trying to prove anything. But the way he was going, I figured it was distracting to—’

‘Oh gimme a break! You think arguing with him made it less distracting? Come off it, Alex. You wanted to play the hero. You wanted to show me that you’re not the wimp lawyer in a suit but the tough guy who can take care of his lady – like I’m the sort who’s gonna be impressed by that macho bullshit. Like I haven’t seen it, done it and bought the t-shirt.’

‘All right, maybe I overreacted. And maybe I’m old-fashioned.’ He was leaning close to her now. ‘But then again, I think that it is a man’s duty to protect his lady.’

‘And maybe you’ve also got some unfinished issues.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means you’re still thinking about another lady you felt you should have been able to protect.’

She saw the hurt in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I was out of line with that.’

‘No it’s true. You’re right. I wasn’t there for Melody.’

‘You couldn’t have been there for Melody. How were you to know that some loony-tunes with a Saturday night special was going to bushwhack her on the way home? Don’t beat yourself up about it.’

Alex’s wife Melody had been killed by a gangbanger in the parking structure of the hospital where she worked. Melody was a doctor who had been working in A & E when two gangbangers from opposite sides of town were brought in the same night. What she didn’t know was that the one she was treating had shot the other one. She saved the one on her operating table, but the other doctor lost his. And the dead man’s homeys couldn’t get at the guy who killed their brother, ‘cause he was in jail – in solitary. So they held a council of war and decided that Melody had to pay.

By that stage, she probably knew she was in danger, but she refused to take it seriously. She even rejected an escort to her car, saying she was too old for a nanny.

Call it arrogance, call it self-confidence – either way, she paid with her life.

And Alex still blamed himself in some way.

‘I just wish I could…’ He trailed off. But Martine knew what he was going to say. He wished he could turn the clock back. Just like everybody does. But as his son David, a physicist, had once told him: time doesn’t run backwards.

He tried to take his mind off it. ‘Tell me how you made that trick shot?’

‘You should get David to explain it. You see it’s all about Newtonian mechanics. If you hit the object ball at quarter ball with pace, the cue ball moves off at an oblique angle, while—’

Martine’s cell phone went off. She whipped it out and answered it with polished, professional speed. ‘Martine Yin.’ For the next half minute, she appeared to be listening intently. ‘Okay, I’ll be there in ten.’

She turned to Alex, looking acutely embarrassed.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’

She thanked him for his understanding and left briskly. Seconds later, the roar of a car engine outside brought a wry smile to his lips as he realized that the predator in her might lie dormant but was far from extinct. She was still a newswoman, poised to pursue a good story at a moment’s notice, just as he was a lawyer 24/7, even if he didn’t quite resort to ambulance chasing.

He managed one more mouthful of food before his own cell phone blared out the familiar musical phrase from the Allegro of Dvorak’s New World Symphony.

‘Mr Sedaka?’ said an almost desperate-sounding male voice at the other end of the line.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m the producer of the Elias Claymore show. We’ve got a situation here and I was wondering if there’s any possibility of you coming to LA—’

‘I’m in San Gabriel.’

‘Oh, thank God for that! Mr Claymore asked me to call you. He’s been arrested.’

‘Arrested? What’s the charge?’

‘It’s some kind of phony rape charge.’

Alex knew at that moment why Martine had left in such a hurry.

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 16.50

‘Okay, there we are,’ said the evidence technician, as she took the third buccal swab.

Like Bethel a few hours earlier, Claymore was giving a DNA sample from the lining of his mouth. They hadn’t told him that the rapist had worn a condom or that the victim had scratched the rapist’s arm. The less they told him, the better their chances of getting him to incriminate himself by revealing first-hand knowledge of the crime. But they did subject him to a full examination in which they looked for signs of scratches and found several.

Nevertheless, this was far from conclusive. The real test would be the DNA. They had several good samples from Bethel and now all they needed was a good match.

After the reference samples had been taken, Alex sat with Claymore for twenty minutes, going through where Claymore had been at the time of the alleged rape. Claymore had been very clear that he had nothing to hide and wanted to answer police questions. But Alex was wary of this; he knew that even guilty people sometimes think they can get away with the crime by talking to the police. And he also knew all about the naivety of the genuinely innocent man who thinks he has nothing to hide. Alex had known Elias for a few years now – ever since he had represented him at the plea bargain for unlawful escape, after he came back to the United States to face the music – and he had been impressed at the time by Claymore’s sincerity and genuine sense of shame at his past. But that meant little now. If a man could change once, he could change again. The only thing it did mean was that Alex had a certain amount of influence with Claymore.

But lawyers take their instructions from clients, not the other way round. So when Claymore made it clear that he was determined to answer police questions, all Alex could do was say his piece and then step aside while the interview took place. He would be present during the questioning and he’d step in if he had to.

Alex sat in silence while Lieutenant Kropf, the tall, thin man who headed up the investigation, used his aggressive rapid-fire technique to try and trip Claymore up.

‘Okay, so you admit that no one saw you at home at that time?’ barked Kropf.

Alex wanted to tell the lieutenant to stop wasting time; he’d had his answer and was just repeating himself ad nauseam. But Claymore held out a restraining hand to silence his lawyer.

‘It’s not a question of admitting,’ Claymore replied, trying to keep his voice level. ‘I was alone. That’s a fact. It’s not a crime to be alone.’

‘No, but it helps to have an alibi.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ asked Claymore wryly.

In the tense silence that followed, Claymore looked around. The room was stark and bare. The furniture was limited to a table and three chairs, one for the lieutenant and one each for Claymore and Alex. Light entered the room from a high window located very close to the ceiling.

Another police officer, a detective, stood by the door but said nothing. He was there in case the suspect decided to get ‘physical.’ He was also there to be a witness to protect the lieutenant from false accusations. Although the interrogation was being videotaped, with Claymore’s consent, and there was a technician on the other side of the one-way glass, there were times – on the way in and the way out – when the people were out of the watchful eye of the camera.

‘Can you think of anything else that might prove you were at home?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a phone call. Did anyone call you? Did you call anyone?’

Claymore shook his head. The monotonous drone of the air conditioning was beginning to take its toll. It was more irritating than the monotonous drone of Lieutenant Kropf’s voice as he kept up a steady stream of questions that carried with them more than a hint of quiet menace.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘If you called out from your phone then there’ll be a record on your phone bill. It’s all digital now so you should get an itemized bill.’

Alex sensed that the lieutenant was actually trying to be helpful, almost like he didn’t believe that Claymore was guilty.

‘Okay,’ Kropf continued, ‘if you’re confident on this one, we can get it now.’

The lieutenant was looking at Alex when he said this.

‘At this time?’ asked Alex skeptically, looking at his watch.

‘I know a friendly judge we can ask.’

‘And you think the phone company’s going to haul ass tonight just ‘cause we wave a subpoena in their faces? Get real!’

Alex knew well enough what the lieutenant was up to. He was testing to see how confident they were. It wasn’t a legally binding test of innocence. But it was a good way to know whether or not he was wasting his time on a sure-fire loser.

‘Okay,’ said Kropf, finally. ‘We’re not going to charge your client.’

Claymore breathed a sigh of relief.

‘At least not right now. We’ll wait for the DNA results to come in and we’ll take it from there.’

Alex smiled. It was beginning to look like the storm had blown itself out before it hit dry land. But he noticed that Kropf looked far from deflated – like he still had one more card up his sleeve.

‘Just one more question, Mr Claymore. What car do you drive?’

‘Well I’ve been using taxis for the past couple of days.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘My car was stolen.’

‘Did you report it?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t had the time.’

‘What make of vehicle was it?’

‘A Mercedes.’

‘What color?’

‘Blue.’

‘A blue Mercedes?’

‘Aquamarine, if you want to get technical.’

Friday, 5 June 2009 – 19.30

‘I’m beginning to think that nothing’s changed,’ said Andi, bitterly.

They were sitting on the porch of their house, dining alfresco in the California evening sun.

‘How d’you mean?’ asked Gene, with measured sympathy. She wasn’t one to encourage self-pity, having seen in the course of her work what a self-destructive force it can be. Self-destructive and thoroughly seductive.

Andi attacked her food with such ferocity that Gene was forced to smile. It meant that Andi wasn’t succumbing to the demon of surrender. She was in fighting spirits and that was surely a good sign. She’d snap out of it completely in no time at all!

‘We uprooted ourselves from New York and relocated for what? It’s not a department. It’s just a meaningless title.’

‘Give ‘em a chance, honey. I mean it’s only your first day. Let’s see what they let you do.’

Gene was calmly reassuring. She knew that Andi expected no less of her. It was a game they played: Andi bitched about life and Gene pulled her back down to earth.

‘I can just feel the vibes from the start,’ Andi continued. ‘I’m supposed to be on the fast track for a partnership and yet I haven’t even got an office. They’ve stuck me in a glorified broom closet.’

Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently. ‘I’m sure that’s only temporary.’

They ate on in silence for a few seconds. Andi was still sulking. But Gene was content to leave her to it. If Andi preferred to sulk for a while longer, that was her business. I can’t be her mother all the time.

In the end, it was Andi who broke the silence, changing the subject.

‘So how was your first day?’

She couldn’t understand why Gene looked so upset.

‘My first day? What? At the Center? Pretty hectic. I guess I should be used to it.’

‘Are you understaffed?’ asked Andi.

She knew perfectly well that they were understaffed. Rape crisis centers always suffered from a chronic shortage of employees, exacerbated by the low pay.

‘Understaffed and underappreciated,’ Gene replied. ‘Everyone rails and rages against crime, but they’re more concerned with punishing the perpetrator than helping the victim recover from the trauma. Who needs to help the victim when you can get revenge? That’s the American way.’

This was unfair, and they both knew it. They both understood the desire for revenge all too well. But it was strange how guns always counted for more than bandages on the human balance sheet.

‘You’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you?’ The voice was gentle, sympathetic. It was one of those spontaneous mid-conversation role reversals that characterized their relationship.

‘I had a case this morning…’

She trailed off, but Andi could read the rest of the sentence in the silence.

‘They threw you in at the deep end?’ This was something that Andi had been hoping for in her own job. But it wasn’t to be. Instead it was Gene who had the dubious privilege.

‘Wha’d’you expect? Like I said, we’re understaffed.’

Andi put a gentle hand on her lover’s bare arm. ‘What’s bugging you? You’ve seen it all before. You know the score by now.’

A pained expression flipped briefly across Gene’s face. ‘I’ve seen this before all right,’ Gene muttered bitterly. ‘It’s the kind of case that sets off the talking heads on TV. Feminism versus race politics. A white girl raped by a black man.’

Andi, who had been taking a sip of her orange juice, gulped and put the glass down. ‘The press’ll have a field day. It’ll probably turn into another black rights versus women’s rights circus.’

‘And don’t I know it! The defense will raise the specter of the Scottsboro Boys and the prosecution will use everything they can throw at the defendant from Mike Tyson to O.J. Simpson.’

Andi nodded sympathetically.

‘And caught in the middle of it is one frightened little girl, not yet out of her teens.’

‘You think you can handle it?’

‘Oh, I can handle it all right. I’ve been there before, remember. The question is, can the victim?’

‘And can she?’

Gene shook her head, sadly. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for.’

‘Have they got a suspect?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has she ID-ed him?’

‘Yes. Only they released him pending DNA results.’

Andi sat forward, part eager, part concerned. She had known Gene long enough to pick up the nuances in her words as well as her tone.

‘Well if she ID-ed him then maybe she’s tougher than you think.’

‘She’s not tough. She’s just naïve. She doesn’t realize that she’s going to carry the can for two centuries of racial persecution.’

Saturday 6 June 2009 – 11.00

Albert Carter was an old man. Not a wise old man, not a crusty old man, not even really a frail old man, just an old man who had lived a full life and been around the block a few times. He wasn’t in the best of health, having done his share of smoking and drinking, before he gave it up when he noticed it slowing him down a bit. But he was a lonely old man, having lost his first wife to divorce and his second to the Grim Reaper.

Oh yes, the Reaper.

There were many weapons in the Reaper’s arsenal, and Albert Carter couldn’t even pronounce the name of the disease that had claimed Hildegard.

His children were still around, but he had lost them to professional migration. He saw them at Christmas and on his birthday, but that was pretty much it. One lived in Utah and one in Boston. The one in Utah was a store manager and the one in Boston some kind of academic. He understood the work of the former more than the latter, but, both had families and neither came out west very often.

So he spent his days watching TV, reading the newspaper and – with diminishing frequency – bowling with his old friends. It was a dull, repetitive chapter towards the latter part of his book of life, but he had his basic needs and he didn’t want more. All he yearned for was a bit less arthritic pain. Oh, and he wished that the cops would do more to round up those gangs who were turning the neighborhood into such an unpleasant place. He knew who they were…in a generic sort of way, at least.

It was while he was watching the TV alone one night, he saw a news report about the Bethel Newton rape case, saying how a famous local talk show host had been arrested and then released. They didn’t have any footage from the police station, but they showed a still photograph of the girl and stock footage from the man’s talk show. Apparently he’d been arrested after shooting the latest show, yet to be broadcast.

And that was when Carter got the feeling.

He didn’t remember the details too clearly – the whole thing had happened just too fast. But there was one thing that he remembered.

For a moment he hesitated, realizing that criminals could sometimes be vengeful towards people who snitched. But then he remembered his own, all-too-frequent words about the cowards who don’t speak out when criminals destroy their communities. He didn’t want to be like one of those people whom he routinely criticized. He knew now that it was his civic duty to speak out and he didn’t want to be like all the shirkers.

So he dragged his weary bones out of the comfort of his tattered, dust-ridden armchair and trudged over to the phone.

Friday 12 June – 9.40

Detective Bridget Riley was a victim chaperone, not a counselor. She was the principal point of contact between the investigating officers and the rape victim. The detectives investigating the case put most of their questions through Bridget. When they had to put questions directly or when others had to have contact with the victim, such as during the medical examination, the victim chaperone had to be there.

She had a sporty, athletic look about her, the tough look of a kick boxer. Male colleagues found her attractive and her face, highlighted against her raven-colored hair, was potential photographic model material. But what would be a blessing in the world of show biz, could be something of a curse in the locker room culture of the police.

Because of her looks, Bridget had been the target of sexual harassment by her colleagues. And it had made her tough. She could take the compliments with a smile and a shrug and when they became vulgar she hit back with a glib ‘in your dreams, buster.’

When one of the rookies was bold enough to try to pin her against a locker, showing off in front of three of his friends, she deterred him from further action with a well-placed fist to the groin. Then she added insult to injury by asking him if he wanted her to kiss it better. The rookies never bothered her again; nor had anyone else in the department during the four years since.

Bridget was sitting at her desk typing up a report on a domestic violence case for Sarah Jensen at the D.A.’s office, when a female officer dropped a fax on her desk. But Bridget did not look up.

Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney in charge of the domestic violence division at the Ventura County D.A.’s office, was no less determined than Bridget to nail these bastards who beat their wives or girlfriends. But Sarah Jensen was a realist. She was also very ambitious. She knew that unsuccessful prosecutions damaged the reputation of the department, and gave her a poor track record, personally. So Bridget knew that she had to word every sentence carefully to give Sarah the impression that this was a winnable case.

When she looked at the fax, her eyes lit up. She scooped it up and rushed out of the room.

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 10.30

Sitting on a lounging chair on the deck of his Mediterranean-style villa, looking out onto the ocean, Elias Claymore realized that crime and repentance had served him well. His present surroundings were a far cry from the ramshackle hut where he had been born and the rat-infested ‘hood where he had grown up.

The villa stood in landscaped grounds on the sands of Montecito’s most prestigious beach and had breathtaking views of the ocean from nearly every room. There was a huge living room with fireplace, bar and ocean view, a beachside kitchen, two beachside bedrooms each with a fireplace, and a third at the back. Even the office had an ocean view. There was also a separate guest apartment, a large beachfront deck, a sunset view seaside spa, majestic trees and flowering gardens and seventy-five feet of private beachfront.

But how far had he really come?

‘You can take the man out of the ghetto,’ the racists had taunted, ‘but you can’t take the ghetto out of the man.’ And much as it pained his troubled conscience, the racists were right on this one, albeit in the most literal sense. A ghetto is a place of retreat where one is surrounded by one’s own kind yet is constantly under threat from those outside. And right now Elias felt besieged.

His mind drifted back to what his life had once been like. He used to think that the pain was all over. He had never forgotten what he had done. But after all these years he thought it would no longer come back to haunt him. Yet the events of the past week had proved him wrong – and it was like a slow, drawn-out torture.

He tried to soften the pain by reminding himself what had driven him to do the things he had done and become the man he became, thinking back to the time he was nine when two white policemen raped his mother before his eyes. He had tried to stop them, but one of them had grabbed him and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to watch while the other had pinned his mother to the ground, ripped her clothes and forced himself into her as she screamed and begged for mercy.

She had brought up Elias alone, without the help of a man, and she had always been a strong figure in his early years, dishing out the punishment while protecting him from the bigger kids in the ‘hood. But she couldn’t protect herself from this. And Elias Claymore learned in those few minutes that his mother, who had been like a pillar of support for the entire world as he knew it, was powerless in the face of this invading force in their own home.

And through his childish eyes, little Elias knew why. She was a woman – and women were weaker than men. He couldn’t expect a woman to protect him. It was for men to be strong and to protect women…or violate them. That was how it was in other households. He had seen the local pimps slapping their girls around and he quickly learned that this was the natural order in the world. It was normal for men to dominate women.

But these men who had invaded his house and raped his mother were not their men. They were an alien presence. These were the pigs who beat up blacks just because they were black. These were the people who called him ‘Nigger’ and made him afraid whenever they walked by, knowing that he daren’t respond to their racist taunts. And now they were here in his home, doing…this thing…to his mother.

He couldn’t blame her for being weak. But it was her fault that they didn’t have a man to protect them. She had driven him away. That’s what one of his brothers had told him. She had called Elias’s father a no-good, drunken deadbeat and thrown him out of the house. But now he realized how much they needed a man in this household…and they didn’t have one because of her.

He realized in that moment that one day he would be a man. He would be big and strong and then there’d be hell to pay! Because then he’d be able to fight back…and he’d hit them where it hurt. He’d hit their weakness – their women.

He was shaken out of his unhappy daydream by a loud, aggressive knocking on the front door.

‘Who is it?’ he called out.

‘This is the police! We have a warrant for your arrest.’

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 13.00

‘This time we’ve got a witness,’ said Lieutenant Kropf.

‘Who?’ asked Alex.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

Alex had flown down to Los Angeles from San Francisco as soon as he heard of Claymore’s second arrest, having told his client not to say a word until he got there. He knew that the cops would try their usual tricks – telling the suspect that they were more likely to believe him if he spoke freely on the record, without getting all ‘lawyered up.’ But Alex had been firm.

‘Don’t fall for it,’ he had warned. ‘The issue is not whether they believe you, but whether they’ve got a case. They’re capable of talking themselves into anything. You just stay cool and hang on till I get there. If they’ve got no case, they can’t act. If they think they’ve already got one, then nothing you can say will make any difference.’

‘What exactly did this witness see?’ Alex assumed that someone hadn’t just stood there watching a rape and doing nothing about it.

‘He saw your client running away from the crime scene,’ said Kropf, regretting it a moment later.

He.

Alex picked up on it. So the witness was a man…or a boy. And he had only seen Claymore allegedly running away from the crime scene, not the rape. That was a very different thing.

And Kropf had also let slip that an ID had already been made.

‘Wait a minute, you put my client in a line-up when I wasn’t there?’

‘We didn’t need to,’ said the lieutenant. ‘He recognized him from the news reports.’

They hadn’t said anything about a witness at the time of Claymore’s first arrest. And even if he was right about the identity of the man running away, how did he know that it was from the scene of a rape? If he had known at the time, would he not have stayed to help the victim? Or given his name to the police? And would they not have said something about a witness at the time of the first arrest? And put Claymore in a line-up? But now they were saying that this man had recognized Claymore from the news reports. That meant that he didn’t stick around at the time.

Why not? Had he been afraid? Why would he be afraid if the rapist had run away? Was he afraid to get involved? Was he afraid of the police? Was he a criminal himself? Had he really seen something? Had he even been there? Or was he one of the legion of freeloaders who come out of the woodwork in high profile cases, looking to make a quick buck?

‘Can I see his statement?’ asked Alex.

At a certain point, if they decided to proceed against Claymore, they’d have no alternative but to show him the statement. However at this stage, they owed him nothing, not even the name of the witness.

‘You’ll get it from the D.A. with the rest of the discovery material.’

That sounded ominous, like they had already made up their minds to charge Claymore.

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to give my client an opportunity to explain what he was doing there?’

‘What, you mean why he was at a crime scene at the time of the crime when he had previously claimed to be at home? No, as a matter of fact, we wouldn’t.’

Alex realized that he was in a tight spot. The police were under no obligation to give Claymore a chance to explain himself, now that they had a witness to put him at the crime scene. They could do so, if they wanted to. But they didn’t have to. If they decided to go to trial, Claymore would have to take his chances with a jury.

The door opened and Bridget entered. She signaled the lieutenant over and whispered in his ear while showing him a piece of paper. The lieutenant was nodding seriously and the expression on his face looked grave. Alex suspected that this scene was being staged. He had seen this sort of thing dozens of times before.

The lieutenant came back to the table. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ he asked Alex.

‘Just cut the crap and spit it out,’ said Alex.

‘We just got back the results of the DNA test.’

Alex suspected that they already had the results before rearresting Claymore. They wouldn’t have arrested him on the strength of the witness’s ID alone, when the test results were still pending.

‘And?’ asked the lawyer tensely.

‘We didn’t have any DNA in the vaginal swab because the rapist used a condom. But the victim scratched the rapist’s face and so we were able to get a good DNA sample from under her fingernails. Want to know what the results were?’

‘Spill it,’ said Alex, realizing where this was going.

The lieutenant handed the fax over to Alex, watching his face for a reaction with a growing sense of excitement. But when Alex perused it, the emotion he felt was anger – not towards Kropf, but towards his own client. And when he showed it to his client, the look on Claymore’s face was one of confusion…and fear.

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 14.30

‘Your Honor,’ Alex Sedaka’s voice rang out confidently, ‘although my client has a criminal record, his last criminal conviction was over twenty years ago.’

They were in Court 13 of the Ventura Courthouse, in the same building where Claymore was being detained. It was a crowded courtroom with backless spectators’ benches and a large cage for holding prisoners. Being based up north in the Bay area, Alex had never had to practice here before, but he knew that this was one of the busiest courts in the country, essentially a meat factory for arraignments, scheduling motions and defendants’ pleas. With 200 cases a day to process, user-comfort was a luxury that they couldn’t afford.

‘Mr Claymore has strong roots in the community,’ Alex continued. ‘And for the last ten years has been a model citizen.’

In truth, Alex was rather less confident than he sounded. The warrant for the second arrest had been a no-bail warrant, because of Claymore’s past, a powerful indicator of which way the judge’s thinking was heading. Alex would have liked to file for an interim appeal. But he knew that his grounds were weak to nonexistent. Denying bail to a man who had previously escaped from prison and stayed at liberty for several years was hardly unreasonable.

But his training and experience as a trial lawyer, permitted him to conceal the doubt – indeed required him to conceal it.

So it was with this turbulent mixture of emotions that Alex was addressing the judge. Except that he was all too aware that he wasn’t addressing only the judge. This was Claymore’s first appearance in court since his arrest and predictably enough it had attracted a lot of public attention. The courtroom was packed with reporters and Alex knew how important it was to get the message out there into the stream of news as quickly as possible, to counteract the negative effect of Claymore’s well-known past.

It was inevitable that the media would dredge up Claymore’s history; there would be no restrictions on public discussion of the facts of the case. Gag orders could be imposed at the judge’s discretion, but there was no automatic sub-judice rule.

As Alex sat down, a woman of about forty, of average height with neat, jet-black hair, rose from her chair to dispute the point. She was Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney who headed the domestic violence division of the D.A.’s office. Alex had never crossed swords with her before but he was well aware of her reputation. Some prosecutors are tough but not good. Others are good but not tough. Sarah Jensen was both tough and good.

‘Your Honor,’ there was an angry, almost contemptuous edge to the voice, ‘Elias Claymore’s record is well known and the defense counsel conveniently failed to mention that he not only raped six women in the past, but he also escaped from prison last time he was convicted and remained at liberty for several years. For this reason alone, he is a very serious flight risk.’

Alex was back on his feet. ‘Your Honor, the Assistant District Attorney seems to have conveniently forgotten that my client returned to America voluntarily to serve out his sentence.’

It was Alex who, as a young law graduate, still learning his craft, had negotiated the plea bargain.

‘And why should that outweigh the fact that he fled in the first place?’ asked the judge, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

The judge was an old man, close to retirement from the bench. He had seen and heard just about every piece of bullshit that lawyers were capable of throwing at him, and if there were any new tricks to be learned – even from a veteran like Alex – he would have been most surprised.

‘Because it’s a more recent event, Your Honor. And in judging a man’s character, the court should give more weight to his recent past than his distant past.’ He placed the emphasis on his key words, in the hope of neuro-linguistically programming the judge to respond as he wanted.

‘You mean the fact that he returned to the United States to serve out his sentence after he escaped?’

‘Precisely, Your Honor.’

The judge squirmed with mock embarrassment and scratched his head. ‘Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, Mr Sedaka, but he could hardly have done it before he escaped.’

The courtroom erupted with mirth at the judge’s wisecrack and Alex felt the frustration that goes with knowing that one faces an uphill struggle against a hostile judge – especially when the hostile judge has the law on his side.

The gallery, packed with journalists who had got wind of Claymore’s arrest, sensed that this was the beginning of another media event, like the O.J. Simpson trial.

Sarah Jensen shook her head. ‘Your Honor, if I might just add something at this juncture. There is nothing particularly confidence-inspiring in Mr Claymore’s return to the United States, after he’d spent several years on the run as a fugitive from justice. He stayed away as long as he could hold out, until he decided that he preferred the comforts of an American prison to the hardships of a Third World dictatorship.’

Alex bristled with anger. ‘Your Honor, anyone who thinks a prison is a comfortable place to be, should spend a couple of nights there.’

‘I believe,’ the judge replied solemnly, ‘that prison is supposed to be an unpleasant place…so that the inmates don’t get too attached to it.’

Again, laughter erupted from the spectators.

‘My point, Your Honor,’ Alex replied, with growing irritation, ‘is that the court should be guided in its judgment by considering the new Elias Claymore, not the old Elias Claymore. His absconding, like his criminal record, belongs to his past.’

‘That’s something that the prosecution will no doubt dispute, and something that the jury will have to decide,’ said the judge in his world-weary tone. ‘However, I’m inclined to accept that the defense has a valid point regarding the flight risk. The fact that Mr Claymore returned to the United States to serve his sentence is a strong point in his favor. Also he does now have roots in the community. On the other hand I must also bear in mind the severity of the alleged crime and the fact that Mr Claymore has a record for this sort of crime and the fact that he did once escape lawful custody.’

Alex and the A.D.A. waited in silence while the judge considered his options.

‘I feel that in this case, the accused’s record of escape outweighs any other factors. Bail is denied.’

Alex was angry. ‘In that case my client stands by his right to a speedy trial.’

‘That is his right, Mr Sedaka. I’ll set the prelim fourteen days hence in Court 12.’

In general lawyers are more amenable to a delay when their client is out on bail. Alex’s motive for refusing to waive the right was twofold. Firstly to put pressure on the D.A. – and thus indirectly on the judge – to reconsider the bail question. Secondly, if bail was to be denied, then he didn’t want his client sitting in jail for long. Jail is an unsafe environment at the best of times, and for a black man who was thought of as an ‘Uncle Tom’ it was particularly dangerous. He would be in danger from both sides.

Whether either of them would go as far as to try and kill him was another matter, but prison beatings were almost impossible to prevent. The only way Claymore would be safe was if he asked for isolation from the general prison population. But that would involve being put in a special section with all the sex offenders, including child molesters. Alex wasn’t sure if Claymore would be ready to seek this. Knowing Claymore, he’d probably try to tough it out – until it was too late. And this wasn’t an area in which Alex could advise his client. It was something Claymore would have to decide for himself.

After a brief whispered exchange, Claymore was led away to the county jail that was located in the same building.

As Alex was walking away, he was approached by a dignified, sixty-something gray-haired man, who stiffly proffered his business card to Alex, by way of introduction.

‘I’m Arthur Webster of Levine and Webster.’

‘How do you do, Mr Webster,’ said Alex, tensely. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Let’s walk,’ said Webster, indicating with his hand to the side exit from the court building. Alex was happy to comply, but felt alienated by the man’s manner, that appeared to straddle the fence between embarrassment and condescending arrogance.

‘I should explain that we’re a local law firm, based in Los Angeles. We’re retained by the network that broadcasts Mr Claymore’s show and we work extensively with SoCal Insurance where Mr Claymore carries his liability insurance.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ said Alex.

Webster seemed pleased by this.

‘The reason I wanted to talk to you is because I understand that you’re actually based in San Francisco.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well Claymore’s insurance policy with SoCal Insurance includes legal liability and it occurred to us that it might be rather hard for you to represent Claymore down here in Ventura when you’re based up in the Bay area.’

‘And you want…’

‘We’d like you to step aside as attorney of record and let us represent Mr Claymore.’

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 15.40

‘But as I’m sure you know,’ said Alex, ‘the policy only covers civil liability.’

Alex was seated with the partners of Levine and Webster, including Paul Sherman, around the long oval rosewood table in the main conference room. The atmosphere was tense.

‘Well obviously it can’t cover criminal liability,’ said Webster with a puerile grin, ‘because an insurance company can hardly serve a custodial sentence. But the policy includes payment of legal fees as well as liability payouts, and the insurance company has specifically asked us to take the case.’

Alex had kept his cool when Webster had first approached him and had agreed to this meeting without prejudice. But he was getting irritated now.

‘That means, presumably, representation and legal fees in a civil suit, when there’s an issue of liability.’

‘It covers all legal representation,’ Webster insisted, ‘including criminal.’

‘You seem to be assuming that you can do a better job of defending him on criminal charges than I can.’

‘Oh, come on Mr Sedaka, you’re a one-man band. We’re a large law firm. We’ve got dozens of lawyers and a network of experts and other contacts that you can only dream about.’

‘I’m not disputing your size, but that’s not necessarily an advantage. If the accused marches into court with an army of lawyers, that can actually count against him.’

‘There’s also the logistical aspect. You’re up there in the Bay, we’re down here in the Basin. Ventura’s in our backyard. What are you going to do? Commute down from San Fran every day?’

‘You seem to be assuming that the trial is going to stay in Ventura.’

‘Are you going for a change of venue?’ asked Sherman.

‘I might. It certainly wouldn’t hurt if we could get it transferred to a county with better demographics.’

‘I thought you wanted a speedy trial,’ said Webster. ‘A change of venue motion will give them a pretext for a delay.’

‘Also we’re in a better position than you when it comes to a change of venue,’ added Sherman.

Alex’s ears pricked up at this. ‘How so?’

‘We’ve got a whole department for demographic analysis.’

Alex thought about this for a moment. ‘You may have a point. But it’s not for me to decide. It’s Claymore’s call. I’m his lawyer and I’m here for him as long as he wants me.’

‘But you could talk to him,’ said Webster, ‘convince him.’

‘I’m not even going to try. I’m not convinced that you can do a better job, so why should I try and convince him?’

Arthur Webster leaned forward to speak again. But a frail-looking man, who must have been pushing eighty, held up his hand to silence him. This was Aaron Levine, the senior partner in the firm. Webster slumped back into his seat and left it to his lifelong friend to address Alex.

‘Could I ask you a question, Mr Sedaka? Please don’t take this the wrong way, but is it a matter of professional pride? Because, if so, you needn’t worry. Your reputation precedes you. We all remember your remarkable achievement in the Sanchez case.’

Alex was no longer angry. But neither was he assuaged by the flattery. In truth he was simply relieved that their real concerns were finally coming out into the open. He noted that this man was tactful enough not to mention the Clayton Burrow case.

‘It has nothing to do with professional pride. But I’m not just Elias Claymore’s lawyer, I’m also his friend. I’m not going to abandon him or do anything to give him the impression that I want to unload the case onto someone else.’

‘We’re not asking you to do that, all we’re ask—’

‘I know what you’re asking. But the fact of the matter is I’m not convinced that anyone in your criminal law department is in a better position to help him than me.’

Webster leaned forward again, unable to contain himself any longer.

‘But we have the resources to—’

‘Then let’s pool our resources,’ said Alex.

This silenced them for a few seconds.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Levine, the only man in the room with the gravitas to break the silence, or the moral courage to meet Alex’s eyes.

‘I’m offering you second seat.’

Webster’s intensity flared up again.

‘We’re not asking for second seat. We want you to—’

Again, Levine’s hand silenced his partner.

‘Could you elaborate?’

‘Yes. Let’s work on this case together, with me as point man and your formidable resources to back me up. You pick your best man – or woman – to take second seat to report back to you.’

‘But you lead?’ said Levine, half-question, half-statement.

‘I take first seat,’ Alex confirmed in a tone of finality that made it clear that this position was not open to debate.

A cheerful smile graced Aaron Levine’s face, changing the mood for almost everyone.

‘I think we can live with that,’ he said, looking at Webster in a way that demanded his agreement. Webster nodded, his face taut to maintain its neutrality.

‘Good. Then I guess we can roll up our sleeves and get on with it.’

The tension was collectively released from the lungs of those present and the awkward smiles spread like a contagion round the table.

‘I think it stinks,’ said Joanne Gale, a woman in her late thirties, sitting forward to meet Webster’s eyes. She was the only women partner in the firm.

‘Why?’ asked Webster.

‘You know why. The man is a rapist.’

‘A rape suspect!’ Webster corrected. And it’s never bothered you before.’

This was true. The firm had defended rape suspects before. Indeed Jo herself had taken first seat in several rape defenses – and in some of those cases there was little room to doubt the guilt of the accused.

‘This is different. He’s done it before.’

‘And he’s served his sentence,’ said Alex. ‘But that doesn’t make him guilty this time. He’s not the same man now that he was then.’

‘He got off lightly last time.’

‘That’s not for us to judge.’

This was Webster again. Everyone else remained silent, including Alex. It was tempting to speak up in defense of Claymore, or even to lecture this woman on the finer points of legal ethics. But it wasn’t his job. If she had a problem with Levine and Webster being involved in Claymore’s defense, that was between her and her colleagues.

Again, it was left to Aaron Levine to break the silence. ‘Do we have a hope in hell of winning? There’s not much kudos in losing a high profile case.’

The other partners looked down or away, anything to withdraw from this pragmatic way of looking at the issue. Alex realized that the question was directed at him. He met the old man’s eyes.

‘It’s going to be an uphill struggle.’

‘How steep is the hill?’

Alex thought about this for a moment.

‘There’s a lot of evidence for us to refute – not to mention that we still have to overcome the effect of Claymore’s past. It won’t be easy. The problem is I can’t desanctify the victim without seeming like a bully.’

‘Desanctify the victim?’ Levine echoed softly.

Jo Gale spoke into the silence that followed, ‘A euphemism for character assassination used by sleazy shysters who like helping rapists and wife-killers beat the rap.’

Alex smiled, not in mockery, but out of respect for Jo Gale’s feisty attitude.

‘I prefer to think of it as leveling the playing field after the D.A.’s finished milking the sympathy of the jury for all it’s worth.’

‘Well if you can’t “desanctify the victim”,’ asked Jo Gale, ‘how do you propose to level the playing field?’

‘By making Claymore seem harmless.’

‘And how do you propose to do that?’

Alex looked around the table to gauge the mood. It was obvious that no one else had anything more to say. This was turning into a grudge match between himself and Jo Gale.

‘That’s very simple. A picture paints a thousand words.’

She rested her elbows on the oval table, and leaned forward, meeting Alex’s eyes implacably.

‘And how do you propose to paint a picture for the jury?’

‘By putting an attractive woman next to Claymore. She doesn’t have to say a word on his behalf, just sit there looking comfortable and relaxed. That’s all it takes.’

Jo recoiled. It was an actual, physical retreat.

‘You can forget it, Mr Sedaka,’ said Jo. ‘’Cause it ain’t gonna happen.’

Alex had to fight hard to resist the urge to smile.

Sherman, who until now had been leaning back in a desperate effort to make himself invisible, now sat forward, sensing an opportunity to earn some brownie points with the senior partners.

‘There’s Andi Phoenix.’

All the other heads in the room looked round at him. But it was Jo who spoke – and her tone was audibly defensive.

‘Who’s Andi Phoenix?’

‘She’s from our New York office. We needed someone to fill our victim litigation slot and she took the bait. She knew she wasn’t going anywhere in the Big Apple so she came out here.’

‘Will she do it?’ asked Webster.

‘She’s hot and she’s ambitious. I know she’d just love a piece of the action. If you want a cute piece of ass to sit next to Claymore looking comfortable and keeping shtum, you won’t have any trouble convincing Andi Phoenix to take the seat.’

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 16.30

‘I won’t do it!’ said Andi, flatly.

They were in one of the smaller conference rooms: Andi, Paul Sherman and Alex Sedaka.

‘Why not?’ asked Alex. ‘It’ll be great experience for you – and a challenge.’

‘Don’t patronize me, Mr Sedaka. I’m past the stage when I need that sort of a challenge. And I’ve had plenty of experience back east—’

‘Oh, my mistake, I thought you came out here because you hit the glass ceiling in the Big Apple.’

Andi felt like punching him in the face for his sarcasm. She felt like punching Sherman too for exposing her to it. But she contained her anger.

‘That doesn’t mean I have to scramble for the dregs.’

‘No one’s asking you to scramble. I’m coming to you, remember. All I’m asking of you is your help for our client.’

‘He’s your client not mine.’

‘He’s Levine and Webster’s client,’ Sherman stepped in. ‘That makes him your client too.’

‘That doesn’t mean I have to prostitute myself defending him.’

‘We’re not asking you to prostitute yourself,’ said Alex. ‘We’re just asking you to stand up for the principle that a man is innocent until proven guilty.’

‘Oh, come off it, Mr Sedaka. What do you need me for? I’m a civil litigator.’

‘You’ve had criminal experience,’ Sherman cut in. ‘Working both sides of the fence.’

‘There are plenty of criminal lawyers here with a lot more experience. Why do you need me?’

‘Okay, I’ll be honest with you,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t want you to play an active role. I just want you to sit next to him, make him look harmless. Look, you know the kind of pre-trial publicity this case is going to arouse – the sort of publicity it’s already aroused. They’ll drag in every incident from Claymore’s past. They’ve already compared him to O.J. Simpson. They’re going to savage his reputation before the case ever gets to trial. That’s what we’re up against.’

‘And how do you think me sitting there next to him is going to refute the negative pre-trial publicity?’

Alex met her eyes, trying to read her.

‘When the jury sees a beautiful young woman sitting next to him, it’ll dissolve their prejudice. It’ll make him look like a normal, everyday human being. It’ll show them that he’s safe, harmless, inoffensive…not the monster that the prosecution is to going to try and make him out to be.’

‘And you say you’re not asking me to prostitute myself?’

She was looking at him hard; she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

‘Look,’ he said after a long pause and a deep breath. ‘Claymore has an image problem with Middle America. Everyone knows about his past, how he raped white women and said it was political. How he broke out of prison and fled to Libya. But he has the right to be judged by the evidence in this case – not his past when he was an angry and embittered young man.’

‘I don’t deny that Claymore’s got a problem,’ she conceded, shifting uncomfortably. ‘But asking me to sit next to him and make him look harmless is like…like trying to use my body to sell a product.’

‘What product? We’re talking about a man’s reputation.’

‘Then sell it like a reputation, with reasoned argument – not with a head of bottle-blonde hair and a pair of silicone-enhanced tits.’

Alex was about to argue, but he fell silent as his face melted into a smile. He realized that there was an element of satire in Andi’s description of herself.

‘Okay, you’ve nailed me. We’ve got to use Madison Avenue techniques. But you know what? We’re doing it in a worthy cause.’

‘What you’re proposing goes way beyond Madison Avenue…more like Sunset Boulevard or Old Moulin Rouge.’

‘All right, Ms Phoenix,’ said Sherman. ‘Let me lay it on the line for you. You’re an employee of Levine and Webster and I’m pulling rank.’

‘Pulling rank?’

‘Yes,’ he said stiffly.

Alex said nothing. They were playing the old good cop, bad cop routine, and now it was Sherman’s turn.

‘You seem to think you’ve got something to back it up with.’

‘How about your future at this law firm?’

‘My future?’ she echoed, more amazed than afraid, more puzzled than angry. ‘I have a contract.’

‘That cuts both ways. You’re refusing to work for one of our biggest clients.’

‘Elias Claymore?’ she asked incredulously.

‘His insurance company.’

‘Well if it comes down to it, I have a valid reason for not representing Claymore.’

‘What reason?’ asked Sherman.

‘My…partner…she works at the Say No to Violence rape crisis center. She might even be assigned to this case.’

‘She could agree to hand over to another member of staff.’

‘She may have had some contact with the victim already.’

‘We can cite the defendant’s right to his counsel of choice. And you can agree not to talk to your partner about the case.’

‘It’ll…put us under…strain.’

Alex noticed that she had mellowed in her objections: the tone of her refusal was no longer outright. But he also knew that if he waited any longer, they’d lose her completely.

‘Okay,’ Alex cut in. ‘Try this.’

He turned and grabbed a couple of newspapers from a nearby wooden trolley and threw them on the table.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Andi, her tone betraying her confusion.

‘Wait!’ he said, thumbing through the papers. ‘Just listen. “Elias Claymore is the kind of man who expects people to believe he’s right whatever side he takes and whatever he says or does. When he was raping white women and calling it a revolutionary, political act, he expected us to think of him as a freedom fighter, not a criminal. When he fled to Libya and started preaching Islam, he expected to be thought of as a religious scholar. Then he ‘saw the light’ and found Jesus – as well as capitalism – and expected us to welcome him with open arms. And like fools, we did. Now he’s accused of rape once again and, having come full circle, he asks us to believe that he’s an innocent man who is being victimized because of his outspoken political comments in the recent past.’”

‘So what? Of course he’s going to get some hostile press.’

Alex wasn’t finished yet. ‘Okay, that’s the mainstream press. And it’s typical of the rest. Trust me, I’ve read through them all.’

He pointed to a stack of newspapers on the cherrywood trolley beside the table. ‘Now let’s see what black radical journals are saying.’

He grabbed another paper. This one was already open on the right page.

‘“The chickens are coming home to roost for a Judas who betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver. Elias Claymore, who once stood for the rights of his oppressed brothers, now stands exposed as a hypocrite who places self-indulgence above any cause. This perennial campaigner, who keeps reinventing himself whenever it suits him, has now run out of ideas and has finally reverted to type as a narcissist and egomaniac. Having turned against his own kind and sold his soul to the devil, he has now compounded his crime by bringing his brothers into disrepute.

‘“When Claymore was a respectable figure of the middle-class establishment, he was held up by conservatives as an exception to the rule, the black man who worked within the system and succeeded. The rest of us only had ourselves to blame for our miserable plight because we were lazy and refused to abide by the rules and make use of the system. But now that he has been exposed for what he really is, he will be held up as a typical example of the black everyman and the old stereotype of the black male as sex-driven monster will be resurrected yet again.”

‘Okay. That’s what we’re up against!’

‘And you think…’ She stopped. There was no easy way to brush off an appeal to the fighting spirit within her. Bullying hadn’t worked, but this was quiet persuasion.

‘Well, what do you say?’

‘I say…’ She hesitated again, wondering if Alex could see the civil war raging within her.

Alex and Sherman looked at Andi, inviting her final answer. Ignoring Sherman, she stared back at Alex for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Then, not trusting her voice, she nodded her head in reluctant truce rather than surrender. He smiled gently as if accepting it with good grace.

‘Okay,’ said Sherman. ‘I’ll go now and leave you to start working.’

And with that, Sherman packed his papers into his attaché case and left.

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 18.10

‘The case took a dramatic turn today when it was revealed that Andromeda Phoenix – a civil litigator with Los Angeles law firm Levine and Webster, is to serve as co-counsel with Alex Sedaka.’

Martine Yin’s voice was coming from the television window in the web browser on a computer.

‘Ms Phoenix is in a relationship with Eugenia Vance, a counselor at the Say No to Violence rape crisis center. In order to protect Elias Claymore’s right to the counsel of his choice, the judge issued an injunction against Ms Vance having any contact with the alleged victim.’

Standing outside the courthouse, Martine was wearing her snooker vest, speaking to the camera in a dry, clipped tone. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to depart from her trademark blue jacket, but she had worn the snooker vest a couple of times before and had got a positive response in her mailbag. And she had a particular reason for wanting to emphasize her figure today; the network had been talking about putting her behind a desk in the studio and were evidently getting some funny ideas about parachuting in some ambitious spring chicken to fill her slot.

‘Ms Phoenix’s participation was opposed by the prosecution. But after a long sidebar, the prosecution’s motion was denied. The D.A.’s office declined to say afterwards whether they would file an interim appeal.’

A woman’s hand reached out and paused the news report. Then she returned her attention to the computer in front of her. With a click of a button she launched an e-mail package and started preparing a message to aphoenix@levineandwebster.com.

This would put the fear of God into the bitch.

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 19.45

‘So how did you manage to overcome her objections?’ asked Martine over her hors d’oeuvre of torchon of duck foie gras with poached Adriatic fig in Muscat wine.

Ten minutes earlier, Martine and Alex had entered the Little Door, one of Martine’s favorite haunts. As they’d stepped through the wooden doors to the patio, it had been like passing through a gateway into another dimension. In an instant, they had left the city behind them and entered a rustic world of bougainvilleas, ferns, a tiled fountain and a Koi pond. A succession of light waves from the wrought-iron candelabra rippled across the lace tablecloth. They could even see the moon through the open skylight.

‘I don’t want this to end up on the evening news,’ said Alex.

‘Strictly off the record,’ Martine assured him.

‘We used a bit of gentle persuasion.’

He didn’t really feel comfortable telling her about the incident. It would probably make him sound like a bully. But the practice of law was a dirty business. They both knew that.

‘We?’ Martine raised her eyebrows with a delicate smile.

‘Paul Sherman and I.’

‘You mean you blackmailed her?’

‘I prefer to call it bribery,’ he said with a guilty smile, after a short pause.

He attacked his own hors d’oeuvre of farmer’s market butter lettuce and steamed spring vegetables, a light starter to allow room for his main course of filet mignon and roasted fingerling potatoes.

‘So what was the carrot?’ she smiled, alluding to the piece of carrot poised at the end of his fork with a smile.

‘I sold it as a fight for a man’s right to a second chance.’

His facial expression was nervous, as if he was expecting a torrent of skeptical laughter or a cutting response. But Martine’s smile was both piercing and bewitching.

‘And what did Sherman use as the stick?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come off it, Alex. You were playing good cop, bad cop.’

He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, caught in the glare of Martine’s headlamps.

‘Okay,’ he acknowledged reluctantly. ‘You’ve got me. We did a little arm twisting.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. It must be pretty hard for her, with her lover working at a rape crisis center.’

‘That’s a personal matter. They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.’

‘You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.’

‘I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.’

Martine’s face turned suddenly serious. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words…and the tone. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I also have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.’

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21.15

It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.

But the DNA was a problem, a real problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post-O.J. Simpson that was no longer an option. Defense ploys are like magicians’ tricks – they can never be repeated in the same form. The most Alex and Andi could do was point out that the particular form of the DNA technology used in this case was less discriminating than other methods.

But all of this was still way down the line. First they had to resolve the issue of trial venue. That was the big question that was going to come up at the pre-trial in two weeks’ time. And that was what Andi had to focus on now.

Gene was lying on the bed in her underwear in the dimly lit room, watching the wall-mounted TV when Andi entered. Andi took off her street clothes in the walk-in closet by the door and then shuffled back into the bedroom barefoot and in her underwear, expecting Gene’s usual warm welcome. But Gene didn’t even turn to look at her. Andi was hurt and confused; Gene was never cold like this, even if she was in a bad mood.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Gene, her eyes glued to the TV.

Andi sensed that Gene had had a bad day as she climbed onto the bed behind her lover, gently massaging Gene’s raised shoulder.

‘At the office. I had a lot of paperwork to clear up. I’ve just started on a major case.’

‘I know. Some flunky from the court came round to the center to serve an injunction on me.’

Andi stopped massaging, but left her hands in place. She knew now what this was about. ‘Are you angry?’

Gene turned round, brushing off Andi’s hands in the process. There were tears of anger in Gene’s eyes. This surprised Andi. It was very rare for Gene to cry.

‘What do you think? I quit my job in New York and crossed the continent with you ‘cause you couldn’t make it over there and now you stab me in the back by getting me thrown off the case, so I can’t even help the victim. And why? To defend a rapist!’

Andi understood Gene’s anger, and she could hardly blame her for it. In a way she knew that Gene was right. The anger that Gene was feeling towards Andi was every bit as intense as the anger that Andi had felt towards Alex. But the fact was, she had signed on for the defense and all she could do was fall back on that last standby of litigants and lovers: anger of her own.

‘It’s my job,’ she snapped, rolling off the bed. ‘And it’s alleged rapist!’

With these words, Andi stormed out of the room.

Tears now streaming down her own cheeks, Andi went downstairs to the living room. She crossed over to the alcove that housed a desk and bookshelves, which they had set aside as a study and office. On the desk was a laptop PC, a docking station and a large monitor. Andi switched on the computer to download her mail. There were five messages. Four were from old friends wishing her luck in her new job. But it was the fifth message that startled her. It read:

That rapist scumbag Elias Claymore is unworthy of your assistance and deserves everything he gets. Make sure that you are not around when justice is finally delivered or you will only have yourself to blame.

Lannosea

An alarm bell went off inside her head. Who had sent the message? And where from? She scrolled up to the ‘From’ field, and saw that it had come from a webmail address. It could have been sent from a public library or an Internet café. There would be no way to trace it to a person.

A range of emotions swept over her like a quick succession of waves: confusion followed by fear followed by anger. But if the first was a ripple and the second a surfer’s tube ride, the third was a tsunami.

Who the fuck was Lannosea?

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 10.25

‘What’s she doing here?’

Elias Claymore’s reaction appeared to border on paranoia when Alex first brought Andi into the room at the Ventura pre-trial detention facility that had been allocated for their conference.

‘Allow me to introduce my co-counsel on this case,’ said Alex. ‘Andi Phoenix.’

Claymore’s eyes darted away to Alex for a moment before returning to Andi, the suspicion lingering in his eyes.

‘You didn’t say anything about co-counsel. Nothing personal, Ms Phoenix.’

‘Oh, please, call me Andi,’ she said, in a reassuring tone calculated to put him at ease.

She held out her hand warmly. Claymore hesitated before reaching out to shake it. Then he sat down, not taking his eyes off Andi. Andi followed suit, leaving Alex last to take his seat round the table.

‘The first thing we need to talk about,’ Alex began, ‘is a change of venue.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Andi.

She looked at Alex. He nodded.

‘According to the latest stats, Ventura County has just under 700,000 Caucasians and 17,000 African-Americans. That makes the State 2.1 per cent black and 87.5 per cent white.’

‘That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m probably more unpopular with my own people at the moment.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Andi. ‘We’re talking about ultraconservative whites.’

Claymore tried to sound jovial. ‘Well, hey…I’m a conservative!’

‘I know, Mr Claymore, and that might have worked if it was a minor charge. But this is rape and a lot of your natural supporters have already turned against you.’

‘You’ve done an opinion poll?’ He grinned, desperately, trying to make light of the situation.

Andi maintained her neutral face. ‘We’re keeping an ear to the ground and those are the vibes we’re getting.’

Claymore looked over at Alex, who nodded imperceptibly, content to let Andi earn her keep.

‘In any case,’ Andi continued, ‘we know from the stats that Ventura juries tend to be convicting juries.’

‘What about Hispanics?’ asked Claymore.

‘Hispanics can be either race and they’re included in the black and white stats. But we have a separate figure of 287,000 Hispanic and Latino citizens. Of those, 272,000 are classified as white Hispanic. There are also some 50,000 Asian citizens who are likely to be hostile to working class blacks, but might admire you and a further 17,000 of mixed race who may be a bit more friendly. But those two groups combined are less than 10 per cent of the population.’

Claymore looked crestfallen. ‘And what do we need? If we had the ideal choice.’

Andi was about to speak when Alex finally entered the discussion.

‘Ideally, we’d have a jury of liberal whites.’ He was going to elaborate on his reasons, but held back, realizing that it would sound just a little too cynical.

‘Or Hispanics,’ Andi added. ‘Even white Hispanics won’t be tainted by the prejudice of the more conservative non-Hispanic whites. Even if we can’t use collective guilt on them in quite the same way.’

‘So what can we do?’

Alex and Andi exchanged glances. In the end it was Andi who spoke.

‘In the real world, the outcome of one controversial case can often have a knock-on effect on the next. In the O.J. Simpson case, the acquittal of the cops who viciously beat Rodney King was still fresh in the minds of the jurors. The truth of the matter is that a case that may be cast iron and watertight in the courtroom can fall apart in the jury room.’

‘So are there any recent cases we can take advantage of?’ asked Claymore. The cynical words fell uneasily from his lips.

‘Unfortunately not. In this case, the key to winning is getting the right jury,’ said Andi. ‘And that means holding the trial in the right district and then using challenges to prune and cherry pick the jury. Sometimes that might be as simple as getting a jury of the right ethnic group. In the O.J. Simpson case, the defense was able to get a predominantly African-American jury. In the Rodney King case it was an all white one in Simi Valley where a lot of cops lived.’

‘And can we do that?’

Again Andi looked at Alex. Again he nodded to let her know that he was content to let her speak.

‘In this case it’s a little more complicated. Even if we can get an all black jury, it’s by no means certain that such a jury would favor you. Like you said, a lot of blacks have been alienated by your outspoken views.’

‘Could I ask a personal question, Ms Phoenix? Did you volunteer for this job?’

Alex felt a stab of fear, wondering if Andi’s answer was going to be tactful or brutally honest. But he knew that he couldn’t interfere now.

‘That’s not a personal question,’ she replied with a reassuring smile. Claymore was watching her closely. ‘I…’

She looked at Alex. But his face offered her no hint of assistance. ‘I was asked by Mr Sedaka to help, and I agreed. Alex was…most convincing.’

Alex coughed nervously.

‘Okay, I think we’d better get a move on. We’re working on some research for the change of venue motion, but in the meantime we need to review the evidence.’

He handed copies of the evidence report to Andi and Claymore.

‘The case against you appears to be made up of the following. One: a statement of the alleged victim including the second of two photo line-ups. Two: a medical report about the victim’s physical condition right after she reported the incident. Three: police photographic evidence of same. Four, a DNA comparison between crime scene DNA and reference samples taken from you and the alleged victim. Five: eyewitness evidence after the alleged rape that you were seen running from the crime scene. Six: your arrest record – six counts of rape.’

‘I don’t know where they got this stuff,’ said Claymore shaking his head. ‘I mean the record I admit. But the rest is just a load of garbage.’

‘Some of it is easy enough to demolish,’ said Alex. ‘The witness who saw you running away is weak, I need to get a PI to look into the girl’s background for anything we can use to impeach her. The real problem is the DNA and the medical and photographic evidence. The DNA points to you and makes it hard for us to deny that a sexual encounter took place between you and Miss Newton.’

‘I don’t understand how they could’ve got DNA evidence.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Andi.

‘I never touched her. I’ve never even met her.’

‘All right,’ said Alex. ‘We’ll go into that in a moment. But first let me make one thing clear: we can’t argue that it’s both a case of mistaken identity and that she consented. We have to nail our colors to the mast early. In effect you’ve already committed us to saying that it’s mistaken identity because of what you told the police. Technically we can still change your story, but it won’t look good.’

‘But why should I change it? I never even met the bit—’

For a few seconds they all avoided each other’s eyes as they realized what Claymore had been about to say.

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 13.00

‘There goes Uncle Tom.’

There was mocking laughter and jeering as Elias Claymore shuffled his way to the end of the table.

‘Watch where you’re sitting!’ snarled the man next to him, as Claymore barely brushed against him when he sat.

Claymore tried to ignore the taunts. But when he raised the food to his mouth, he felt a sharp elbow in the rib cage, making him drop it. He knew that this was the first and final test. If he showed weakness now, they would make his life a living hell. He had to stand up to the bullies before they saw him as easy prey.

‘Look, cut it out!’ he shouted, leaping to his feet and turning to face his attacker.

The man rose to face Claymore. They were evenly matched for size, but the man was a lot younger and probably a lot fitter.

‘You talkin’ to me, Tom?’ The words were backed up by an open-handed shove.

‘Yeah, you!’ Claymore shot back, shoving the man equally hard.

The man took a swing at Claymore. Claymore ducked and dove in under his guard, clamping on a side headlock and hooking his right leg around the younger man’s left leg in a grapevine. The other man took a swing at Claymore with his left fist, which Claymore deflected with his open right. But he couldn’t avoid the younger man’s rabbit punch to the back of his head, a second before he swung the man round and grappled him to the ground.

The whole place erupted into pure chaos as a nervous guard hit the panic button.

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 16.35

‘So when are you going back to LA?’

Alex was sitting with his secretary Juanita in the reception of their San Francisco office on the 15th floor of the Embarcadero Center. He had flown back that afternoon, after the consultation with Claymore, and was now briefing his paralegal on the background to the case.

‘We’ve got the prelim in twelve days and I’m planning on pushing hard for a change of venue.’

‘What are the chances?’

‘Well the D.A. will fight us all the way. It’s Sarah Jensen. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her?’

‘I’ve heard of her,’ said Juanita. ‘Ventura County domestic violence section. The rumor mill says she’s got her sights set on her boss’s job.’

‘And her boss has his sights set on Sacramento.’

‘I know.’ She nodded.

‘Anyway,’ continued Alex, ‘we already had a fight on our hands about Andromeda Phoenix taking second seat and we won that. But that’s because she didn’t really have a leg to stand on. That means she’ll be even more determined on this one. And she’s got time to do her homework so it’s going to turn ugly.’

‘Maybe you should step aside and let it turn into a catfight. Assuming she’s good enough.’

‘Oh, Andi’s good. But I don’t know if she’s fully—’

The phone rang. Juanita picked it up.

‘Alex Sedaka’s office…oh hallo, Ms Phoenix…I’ll put you through right away.’

She put the call on hold.

‘I could have taken it here,’ said Alex.

‘I need this line free for other calls,’ said Juanita in her sharpest tone. ‘This is an office.’

‘Okay boss,’ he said, with a smile, as he rose from his chair.

Juanita put the call through to his office before he got there, making sure that his phone was ringing by the time he went through the door.

‘Hi, Andi,’ he said into the handset.

‘Hi, Mr Seda—Alex. Listen, I’ve been working here with the demographic department at my firm and we’ve been trying to figure out which are the best counties to try the case. We’ve come up with a list of counties based on demographic analysis and some public prejudice questionnaires.’

‘And which counties are they?’

‘Well the best is Alameda. I emailed a file over to you. Take a look at the demography. It has about 300,000 Hispanics to 200,000 African-Americans and half a million white non-Hispanics. It’s also got 350,000 Asians, who may or may not be friendly to Claymore. We’ll have to run some surveys to check that out.’

‘Okay. But the 200,000 African-Americans won’t necessarily be too friendly to Claymore.’

‘No, but I was thinking about this white liberal issue.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, you can cherry pick the liberals at the voir dire.’

‘Yes, but whatever cherry picking we try and do, the prosecution will do the opposite. And they’ve got ten peremptories too.’

‘I know that. But it’s a question of how many liberals there are on the panel.’

‘Yes, but like you said, Andi, there’s no such thing as a white liberal county.’

‘By and large there isn’t. But I was thinking: Berkeley’s in Alameda and at Berkeley you’ve got the liberal academic contingent. And they tend to live around that area. So with that and the Hispanics and the Asians as well as the blacks, you might just be able to cherry pick a sympathetic jury.’

‘You could be onto something,’ Alex conceded. ‘The trouble is, the prosecution will fight us every inch of the way.’

‘Only if you let them know what you want. If you make it look like you’re afraid of a black jury and wary of Asians, they might just go for it themselves. The trick is to let the judge suggest it as a compromise.’

‘Andi, if you were here right now, I think I’d kiss you.’

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 11.20

‘In addition to the unfavorable comments on the talk radio stations, an opinion poll has shown that ninety-six percent of the women and seventy-eight percent of the men in the county believe my client to be guilty.’

The judge in Court 12 at the Ventura County Superior Court appeared to be listening attentively to Alex.

‘Clearly,’ Alex continued, ‘it would be impossible for my client to receive a fair trial in Ventura County under these circumstances. On the other hand there have been no such signs of prejudice in Sacramento.’

Andi was watching Alex as he spoke. Sacramento was eleven per cent black and eighteen per cent Hispanic.

‘Any addition to your earlier response, Ms Jensen?’ asked the judge, looking over at the prosecutor. Sarah Jensen rose, sweeping a strand of her black hair out of her eyes. She paused for a moment, as if trying to assess the judge’s current state of mind. This was a tricky matter, and one so sensitive that the entire outcome of the trial could hinge upon it. What happened here today could render everything that followed largely irrelevant. So the A.D.A. had to pitch it just right.

‘My only argument is what I said in response to the defense counsel’s earlier argument, namely that the voir dire should be sufficient to weed out any prejudiced jurors, as long as the panel is large enough. However, I would also point out that defense counsel appears to be trying to relocate the trial to a venue with more favorable demographics.’

‘Are you suggesting that the demographics of Sacramento are likely to be pro defense?’ the judge prompted.

‘Not necessarily. But it does have a higher percentage of bla—of Mr Claymore’s own ethnic group.’

Alex knew that the A.D.A. had to choose her words carefully. She wanted to accuse the defense of trying to get more blacks onto the jury, but by opposing it, she was effectively saying that prosecution wanted the opposite.

‘But there’s nothing constitutionally improper about the demography of Sacramento is there?’

The judge was smiling as he said this. Sarah Jensen’s embarrassment was palpable.

‘I…we…that is, the prosecution accepts that there is a case for a change of venue. And obviously it should be away from the south and possibly in the Bay area. But Sacramento would not be the best choice.’

Alex saw his opportunity and pounced. ‘If the A.D.A. is concerned about the demographics of Sacramento, the defense is quite amenable to a county where the demography is more to their liking, like Santa Clara.’

Sarah Jensen blushed. They both had the stats in front of them and Sarah knew that while Santa Clara County – Silicon Valley – was 2.7 per cent black and 62 per cent white, many of those white people were working in the computer industry, where there was a high proportion of liberals and libertarians, unlike the traditional conservatives of Simi Valley in Ventura. But Sarah Jensen could hardly use this in her argument.

‘We would prefer San Mateo or Marin County – or even Napa.’

‘What do you say, Mr Sedaka?’ asked the judge.

Alex knew that he had succeeded in the first part of his objective: getting the A.D.A. and the judge to accept relocation to the Bay area. Now he had to get the judge to choose the county he wanted. That meant making it look as if he wanted somewhere else.

‘Your Honor, we believe that many of the people who are most prejudiced against my client are actually those who the prosecution seems to think are biased in his favor.’

‘Does that mean you agree to Ms Jensen’s suggestions?’

‘Well we’d prefer San Joaquin or Solano. Maybe Contra Costa.’

‘What about Alameda?’ asked the judge. Sarah Jensen looked as if she was about to say something, when Alex spoke up quickly.

‘Sidebar, Your Honor?’

The judge nodded. Alex and Sarah approached the bench.

‘Your Honor,’ Alex said putting on his most embarrassed tone of voice. ‘Alameda County is 20 per cent Asian. It’s a well-known fact that a lot of Asians are prejudiced against blacks and this would deny my client a fair trial.’

‘Oh, do me a favor!’ said Sarah. ‘There may be some limited residual prejudice against working class blacks. But Claymore is hardly working class. Besides, Mr Sedaka can use the voir dire to weed out any biased jurors.’

The judge turned back to Alex. ‘That makes sense doesn’t it?’

Alex fought hard to maintain a neutral face and shrugged his shoulders. ‘That depends on how reasonable the judge is when it comes to accepting challenges for cause.’

‘Well I have to assume that another judge will be reasonable,’ said the judge. ‘And if you think he abused his discretion you can always appeal.’

Alex used the full range of his acting skills to look like a man who was trapped.

‘There’s also the problem of transportation. My office is in San Francisco and that means I’ll have to cross the Bay Bridge during commuter times.’

‘Yet you were ready for San Joaquin or Contra Costa,’ said the judge, sarcastically.

‘Those were second choices,’ said Alex feebly. ‘I still think a Sacramento or Santa Clara jury would be more likely to approach this case with open minds.’

‘Well you can file an exception for the record. In the meantime it’s decided. The trial will be transferred to Alameda County.’

As they returned to their places, Alex continued his struggle to suppress a smile that was just itching to appear on his face.

Friday, 26 June 2009 – 12.05

‘So what’s this weakness you’ve found in their case?’ asked Claymore.

They were in a meeting room at the Ventura County pre-trial detention facility, where Elias Claymore was being held. Alex was taking the lead this time, while Andi sat in almost total silence.

‘She changed her story…about the attacker’s age.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, initially she told the police that her attacker was in his twenties. They did a photo line-up – they even had a suspect tucked in there with the pictures – but she didn’t choose him.’

‘I don’t understand. When they said she picked me from a photograph, I thought that meant she picked me from a book of mug shots.’

‘No, they don’t do that anymore. They discovered a long time ago that after looking at hundreds of pictures, the witness’s vision becomes so blurred, they can’t tell a stranger from their own mother. It actually led to erroneous arrests in the past and also let guilty people slip through the net. They sometimes use an artist’s impression or e-fit picture when they’re planning on asking the public to help find an unknown suspect.

‘But in this case they used mug shots as a cheap alternative to a line-up as they already had a suspect. It’s called a “photo line-up.” Instead of hauling a suspect in and risking a civil rights suit, they use photographs of suspects mixed in with pictures of law-abiding citizens that match the description. In fact they can even use out of date pictures. As long as the picture of the suspect is up-to-date and as long as the faces in all the pictures matched the description of the suspect given by the witness, then the identification is valid.’

‘But can they do that without my knowledge? Without an attorney present?’

‘Sure can. US versus Ash, 1973. But we can challenge it before the jury.’

‘But if she told them I was in my twenties, then what picture of me did they put in there? As I am now or when I was in my twenties?’

‘When you were in your twenties.’

Claymore looked confused.

‘Doesn’t that invalidate the whole thing?’

‘No, you don’t understand, Elias. She didn’t pick anyone.’

‘So what was all that bullshit about her picking me from a photograph?’

‘That was later. After lunch she went back and told them that she’d had second thoughts and that the man who attacked her was older than his twenties.’

‘But I’m fifty-eight. How’d she get from twenties to fifty-eight?’

‘Good question. I think they were probably skeptical too, although their reports don’t make it obvious what they were thinking. You have to read between the lines.’

‘But what did she say? I mean did she just come out with something like, “He was twice as old as I said at first”?’

Alex handed Claymore a copy of the statements. Claymore picked it up and started reading through it as Alex spoke.

‘She said she now thought that he was in his fifties. But she explained that the reason for the change of heart was because she had actually seen him again.’

‘What do you mean seen him again?’

‘I mean saw you. Not in the flesh, but on the TV. She said she was passing an electronics store and she saw you on a TV screen in the display window. It was your show. And that was when she realized – so she said – that it was you.’

‘But didn’t they notice the age difference? Didn’t they ask her to explain the discrepancy?’

‘They did, but she just said she was mistaken. She claimed that she was under stress. Which is reasonable.’

‘But how can stress make her mistake fifties for twenties?’

‘That’s the question they don’t seem to have asked. Or if they did, they didn’t receive any answer, as far as I can determine. And that’s the question that we’re going to ask if this case goes to trial.’

Wednesday 15 July 2009 – 12.40

‘The defendant, Elias Claymore is charged with Rape under section 261, Part a, Paragraph 2 of the California Penal Code. How do you plead, Elias Claymore: guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty.’

Claymore sat down, looking around the courtroom nervously. They were in Court 11 of the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse on Fallon Street in Oakland, before Justice Roberts.

Alex remained standing. ‘Your Honor, at this stage I would like to renew my request for bail in accordance with my written submissions.’

Sarah Jensen, who had hung on to the case for the time being, rose to reply. But the judge stayed her with a raised hand.

‘I’ve considered your submissions carefully, Mr Sedaka, but I see no reason to reopen the original decision to deny bail. This is truly an exceptional case, but I am bound to consider the defendant’s past as an escapee and for this reason I cannot grant bail.’

Alex gritted his teeth. It was particularly hard on Claymore, because he was still being held at the pre-trial detention facility in Ventura. To get to this ten-minute hearing, he had been driven for 6 hours across 375 miles.

‘In that case, Your Honor, I move that the defendant be transferred to the Santa Ritter jail in Alameda County.’

‘So ordered. Now, regarding the trial date. I see that the Information was filed in Ventura County on June twenty-sixth. That means the trial must commence by August twenty-fifth. I also see that there’s a vacant slot on Justice Ellen Wagner’s docket in Court Seven between August seventeenth and September fourth. Does that allow enough time for the trial?’

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