Sidney Sheldon's Angel of the Dark (27 page)

“Yes.” Sofia's voice was barely a whisper. “But you don't understand. She had no choice. She had to. Frankie—”

“Yes, yes, we know. Frankie ‘made' her do it. Ms. Basta, isn't the
truth really that you willingly and actively participated in all these murders?”

“No.”

“That you and Mancini planned them together, months or even years in advance?”

“I told you, it wasn't like that.”

“What was more sexually arousing to you, Ms. Basta? The rape fantasy? Or watching the innocent men you entrapped being mercilessly butchered?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.” Judge Muñoz was starting to enjoy himself. He'd waited a long time for the prosecution to make this bitch squirm and he wasn't about to let her off the hook now. “Answer the question, Ms. Basta.”

For the first time, and quite unexpectedly, Sofia showed a flash of anger. “I wasn't
aroused,
Mr. Boyce,” she shouted. “I was raped and beaten. I was forced. He told me if I didn't do what he asked, he'd do the same to my sister. That he'd rape her and torture her and kill her. If you think I derived
enjoyment
from that, you're the sick one, not me.”

Ellen Watts put her head in her hands.

William Boyce allowed himself a small smile.

“I feel obliged to remind you, Ms. Basta, that you don't
have
a sister. But I do so appreciate your use of the word
I
. No further questions.”

 

E
VERYONE AGREED THAT
W
ILLIAM
B
OYCE'S CROSS-EXAMINATION
had been devastating to Sofia Basta's defense. The
L.A. Times
put it most succinctly: “Never in the history of criminal justice has not just a single word, but a single
letter,
had such a profound impact on a case.” In one enraged outburst, Sofia had turned all the doubt and goodwill so carefully cultivated by her attorney over the previous few days into hardened certainty: the Angel of Death's “identity confusion” was nothing but an act. And if that was fake, how much more of her insanity defense might be put on?

Ellen Watts did her best to limit the damage, calling Sofia's current, state-appointed prison psychiatrist to give an evaluation of her mental state. Dr. Lucy Pennino was a strong witness and her testimony
was unequivocal: Basta was “without question” suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. Like most schizophrenics, her condition was cyclical—it would come and go—and her mental state now, during the trial, was almost certainly more lucid than it would have been during the times of the murders, when she was taking none of the mood-stabilizing medication she was taking now.

“A person suffering from her condition would be highly susceptible to influence by others, both for bad and good. Matthew Daley, for example, seems to have had a profoundly positive effect on Sofia, when she met him as Lisa Baring. During my sessions with Ms. Basta, she has described theirs as being a genuine love relationship. Had she met Mr. Daley before the first murder, rather than after the fourth, it is my professional opinion that the Azrael killings would never have taken place.”

It was good stuff, made all the more poignant by the sight of Matt Daley openly, and copiously, weeping from his wheelchair in the front row. But one look at the jurors' stony faces told anybody watching that Pennino's evidence was too little, too late.

Inevitably, Judge Muñoz's summing-up was as black and white and compassionless as was legally possible.

“The question before you today,” he told the jurors, “is not whether Frances Mancini or Sofia Basta had unhappy childhoods. Neither do you need to ask yourself whether either defendant has, or has had, psychological problems. You do not need to understand their motives, their relationship or anything about the inner workings of their twisted minds other than this: Did they kill those four men deliberately? If you believe that they did, you must convict.

“We already know that together, Frances Mancini and Sofia Basta carried out these horrendous crimes and that they were brought to justice in the process of committing another. Make no mistake. Had they
not
been caught, Mr. Ishag would not be alive today. And despite his impassioned pleas for clemency for Ms. Basta, the truth is that Mr. Daley too was lucky to escape from her clutches with his life. Had they
not
been caught, thanks to Assistant Director McGuire's dogged determination, their killing spree would have continued, perhaps for another ten years. More innocent men would have lost their lives in the most unimagin
ably terrifying circumstances, betrayed and slaughtered by a woman they loved, and who they believed loved them. This court has heard no convincing expression of remorse from either defendant.

“Much has been made of the defendants' mental capacity, in particular Ms. Basta's. In light of this, I am obliged to remind you that according to the law it makes no difference whether she believed herself to be somebody else at the time she perpetrated these crimes. All that matters is whether she intended to kill. The same goes for Mr. Mancini. If you believe there was intent, you must convict.

“You may now retire to consider your verdict. All rise.”

Once the accused were led away, the spectators began to disperse. Danny McGuire turned to David Ishag and Matt Daley. “Can I take you both to lunch?”

Ishag looked tired, but Matt looked gravely ill, white as a sheet and shaking.

“We should get out of Beverly Hills before those reporters mob us.”

“Thanks, but I can't,” said David, gathering up his notes and stuffing them into his briefcase. “I'm catching a plane back to India tonight.”

Matt looked amazed. “Before the verdict is announced?”

“I have to. The jury'll be out for days and I have a business to run.”

“You really think they'll be out for days?” asked Matt hopefully. “You think they're that uncertain?”

“I think they're totally certain,” said David. “They have to go through the motions of weighing up all the evidence, that's all. Boyce's footnotes alone would take a week to read.” He shook Danny McGuire's hand, fighting hard to control his emotions. “Thank you. What Muñoz said was true. I'd be dead if it weren't for you.”

“You're welcome. You're sure you won't stay, at least for lunch?”

“Quite sure. Good-bye, Matt. Good luck.” And with that, David Ishag strode out of the courtroom and into the blacked-out limousine that was waiting for him, swatting aside reporters' shouted questions like a giant dismissing a swarm of gnats.

Matt Daley watched him go, a stupefied look on his face. Danny McGuire knew the look well from all his years on the force dealing with victims of violent crime. Matt was in shock. The trial, always a strain, had finally become too much for him.

Danny pushed Matt's wheelchair toward the private, police-only exit. “Come on, man. Let's get you out of here.”

 

T
HEY HAD LUNCH AT A TINY
Jewish deli in Silverlake, only six miles from the courthouse but a world away from the Azrael soap opera. Danny ordered a brisket sandwich and insisted on some chicken noodle soup for Matt as well as a mug of hot, sweet coffee.

“They're gonna execute her, aren't they?”

Danny put down his sandwich. “Probably. Yeah. I'm sorry, Matt.”

“It's my fault.” Tears began coursing down Matt Daley's cheeks, splashing into his soup. “If I hadn't started with this stupid documentary, if I hadn't gotten you involved, they'd never have found her.”

Danny was shocked. “You can't possibly mean that. If you hadn't done what you did, people would have died, Matt. Innocent people. That woman had to be stopped.”

“I could have stopped her. You heard the psychiatrist. If Lisa and I had gotten away like we planned to. If we'd made it to Morocco and disappeared. Frankie couldn't have kept killing without her…and she'd never have hurt a fly if it hadn't been for him.”

“Maybe so,” said Danny. “Or maybe not. Remember, you had no idea back then that Lisa was involved in any of the murders. How do you think you'd have reacted if you'd known?”

Matt was unhesitating. “I'd have forgiven her. I'd have understood.”

“She killed your father, Matt. That's
why
you got involved with this in the first place. Because Andrew Jakes didn't deserve to die like that. Remember? Nobody deserves to die like that.”

“No,” Matt said stubbornly. “Mancini killed my father. Lisa was confused. She thought she was protecting her sister. She never wanted any of this to happen.”

There was obviously no point in talking to him. He wasn't going to change Matt's mind, and the subject made his friend intensely agitated, which was exactly what Danny had hoped to avoid by taking him out to lunch. He changed the subject.

“How's Claire?”

“She's good. Tired of having me living with her, I guess. It's not easy
having a crippled brother around with two kids and a husband to take care of.”

“She'd do anything for you,” said Danny. “Even I could see that. You're lucky.”

Yeah,
thought Matt.
Lucky. That's me.

“She thinks I should see a shrink.”

“What do you think?”

Matt shrugged. “It won't make any difference. If Lisa…If they…” He choked up, unable to go on, but Danny could guess the rest.
If they execute Sofia, he thinks he'll have nothing to live for.
The jury might not know it, but they were deliberating the fate of three lives, not two.

“Maybe you should go back to work, Matt. Make this damn documentary of yours. God knows you have enough material and no one's closer to this case than you are. People can't get enough of this story right now. You could make a fortune.”

“I don't want a fortune,” said Matt truthfully. “Not if it can't buy Lisa her freedom.”

“You want to tell the truth, though, don't you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you want people to know what really happened. Well, what better way to do that than to make a movie? To get the message out there in a way that millions of people will understand? That's the one way you
can
still help her.”

For the first time, something resembling hope seemed to cross Matt Daley's face. It was true. He did owe it to Lisa to tell the truth. He owed it to all of them. Whether he intended to or not, Danny McGuire had just thrown him a lifeline.

Just then Danny's cell phone rang. It was Lou Angelastro, an old buddy of his from the LAPD.

“What's up, Lou? I'm just out at lunch with a friend of mine, taking a break. Can I call you back in ten?”

Matt Daley watched as Danny McGuire's face passed from surprise…to disbelief…to panic.

“We'll never make it in time…Silverlake…can you send a car? Yeah, I'll give it to you.” Reeling off the name and address of the deli where he and Matt were eating, Danny hung up the phone.

“Everything okay?” asked Matt.

“Kind of…No…Not really.” Pulling out two twenties, Danny dropped them on the table, hurriedly scrambling to his feet. “The jury came back already. They've reached a verdict.”

 

I
N COURTROOM
306,
PANDEMONIUM REIGNED
. A
S
people scrambled for the best seats, camera crews battled one another for access to the reserved media gallery, using their heavy cameras as weapons. A number of key news teams had already left the immediate vicinity of the courthouse. No one expected a verdict so soon. But when word was released that the jury was ready to return and that Judge Federico Muñoz was expected to call the court back in session within minutes, they all raced back to Beverly Hills, leaning on their horns like impatient rally drivers. Pretty soon Burton Way was as clogged up as the 405 during rush hour. Even the sidewalks were packed, with passersby and devoted Azrael watchers huddling around the two giant outdoor screens where they could watch the verdict delivered live.

For a case of such international scope, it was amazing how proprietary the Angelinos had become about the defendants, claiming Sofia Basta and the chillingly handsome Frankie Mancini as their own. Suddenly everybody cared about Andrew Jakes, the rich, elderly art dealer the pair had slain back in the early days of their killing spree. The Azrael murders had started in L.A. As far as Angelinos were concerned, it was only fitting that the drama should end there. Not since the O.J. trial had the world's attention been so closely focused on the city's criminal justice system. It was important to the people of Los Angeles that this time the guilty parties receive their just deserts. Although they stopped short of openly baying for blood, the mood among the crowd was grimly expectant, knowing as they did that Judge Dread enjoyed nothing more than handing down death sentences. Today, for once, the city was right behind him.

Matt Daley gripped the handhold on the police car's passenger door. Above him, the siren was wailing, its lights flashing brilliant blue and white as they hurtled toward the courthouse. Matt was struggling to breathe.

“Not much longer,” said Danny as the traffic grudgingly parted to let them pass. “I think we'll make it.”

 

J
UDGE
M
UÑOZ WALKED REGALLY INTO THE
court. All the assembled lawyers, defendants and spectators stood up. Arriving at the judge's chair, Muñoz paused for dramatic effect, a king surveying his kingdom. There were the attorneys:

William Boyce, who'd almost bored them all to death with his lifeless performance for the prosecution over the first two weeks, but whose cross-examinations had gripped the world and changed the course of the trial.

Alvin Dubray, for Mancini, the bumbling old “fool” who'd said the least but probably achieved the most for his client by keeping him silent and allowing Sofia Basta enough rope to hang herself.