The 37th Amendment: A Novel (8 page)

“Okay,” Logan said. “Have you ever sold heroin yourself?”

Bara Salvacion frowned. “Yes,” she said.

“Have you ever been arrested for selling heroin?”

“Yes.”

Merritt Logan patiently took the witness through a complete description of her arrest record. There was a lot of bad news to get out.

Emily Rand felt a hand touch her arm. A young assistant to John Morley Jackson was crouched in the aisle, handing her a folded piece of paper from a yellow legal pad. She took the note and opened it. Written on the page in two-inch-high block printing were the words, “IT’S ALL LIES.” She looked up. Rob was staring directly at her. “It’s all lies,” he mouthed. Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” she mouthed back.

Bara Salvacion was describing her arrest on the morning of May 12th. “And I didn’t think I should serve no more time when I’m not the only one in this,” she said. “So I told the officer who arrested me that I wanted to testify.”

“Ms. Salvacion, have you been promised anything in return for your testimony?”

“They told me if I came in here today and told the truth I would get probation instead of jail time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Gonzales.”

“Is that Deputy District Attorney Carl Gonzales?”

“Yes.”

“So it is your understanding that by testifying against Mr. Rand, you will receive a more lenient sentence.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” That was the end of the bad news. Logan turned a page in his notebook. “Did Mr. Rand visit your apartment on February 21st of this year?”

“Yes.”

“Did anything unusual happen?”

“He asked me to go for a ride with him. He said he was going to meet somebody.”

“What time was this?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“In the evening?”

“Yes.” Bara Salvacion sounded incredulous that seven o’clock could occur at any other time of day.

“And then what happened?”

“We drove to a parking lot near downtown.”

“Who drove?”

“He drove, but we took my car because I was parked behind him.”

“Your car was parked behind his car in the parking garage of your building?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t home when he arrived that day?”

“I got there right afterwards.”

“Was he in your apartment?”

“No. He was sitting in his car waiting for me in the garage.”

“Okay. So you’re both in your car, and he drives to a parking lot near downtown. Do you know precisely where it was?”

“It was at 4th and Alameda.”

“And then what happened?”

“He pulled up to the automatic gate and took the ticket and then he parked against the wall in the back row of the lot.”

“And then what happened?”

Bara Salvacion took a deep breath. “Then he told me to come around to the driver’s side and get behind the wheel and stay there and keep my eyes straight ahead.”

“Straight ahead looking at what?”

“At a wall.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“He got out of the car and I didn’t see what happened.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“I heard a woman screaming. And then I heard some shots. And then he came back and got into the car and told me to drive home again.”

“Did you notice anything different about him?”

“His clothes were all full of blood.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said people shouldn’t take what don’t belong to them.”

“Okay. And then what happened?”

“I drove us back to my apartment and he showered and changed his clothes.”

“Did he have clothes in your apartment?”

“No, he took a bag out of the trunk of his car when we got back.”

“And what happened to the bloody clothes?”

“I stuffed them in a garbage bag and threw them away.”

Merritt Logan closed his notebook. “Thank you, Ms. Salvacion. No more questions, your honor.”

John Morley Jackson stood up, picked up a file of loose-leaf pages and walked to the lectern. “Good afternoon, Ms. Salvacion,” he said warmly.

“Hi,” the witness replied.

“Ms. Salvacion, do you have a television set in your apartment?”

“Sure.”

“How many hours a day would you say your television set is on in your apartment on a typical day when you’re at home?”

“Oh, it’s always on. I turn it on when I wake up and it’s just on all day. You know, I don’t really watch it, because everything on is so stupid, but it’s always on. My dog likes it.”

“Oh, you have a dog?”

“Yes, a German Shepherd.”

“Ah, they’re great dogs, aren’t they? Let me ask you this, Ms. Salvacion, when Robert Rand allegedly visited your apartment and gave you money, how did he pay you?”

“Cash.”

“Ah. So there wouldn’t be any record of that, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you ever write down any lists of how much he gave you or how much he owed you?”

“No.”

“And when these packages of heroin were delivered to your apartment for him, did his name appear anywhere on the bags or boxes or cartons?”

“No. He had everything sent to me.”

“I see. Did you ever run into any of your neighbors in the building when you were with Mr. Rand? Did anyone ever see you together?”

“No.”

“Did any of your neighbors ever mention that they saw Mr. Rand in his car in your parking space, waiting for you?”

“No.”

“So there’s no one, besides yourself, of course, who can verify that Mr. Rand was ever in your apartment.”

“As far as I know.”

“All right, then. On the evening of February 21st, when the two of you drove to the parking lot at 4th and Alameda, you said Mr. Rand took the ticket from the automated gate when you pulled into the parking lot. Did you pay when you left the parking lot?”

“Yes.”

“Did you slide a card through the card reader?”

“No, he handed me a twenty-dollar bill and I fed it into the machine.”

“I see. So you didn’t use a city parking pass or a credit card.”

“No.”

“So there’s no record that you were in the parking lot.”

“That’s right.”

John Morley Jackson looked down at his notes and shuffled the pages. “Ms. Salvacion, where is your car today?”

“It was stolen.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. When was it stolen?”

“I don’t remember the exact date. Like a month or two ago.”

“Did you file a police report?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Bara Salvacion looked irritated. “Why do you think?” she asked sarcastically.

“Oh,” said the lawyer. “You didn’t want to talk to the police?”

“That’s right.”

“Is that because you’re a convicted heroin dealer and you had a closet full of heroin in your apartment at that moment?”

The witness didn’t answer.

Jackson smiled pleasantly, and waited.

“Yes,” she said finally.

“I see,” Jackson said. “So if we wanted to test your car to see if there was any blood on the carpet or the seats or the door handle, there would be no way to do so because you don’t know where your car is. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“That is a shame. So no one saw Mr. Rand in your apartment building, there’s no record your car was in the parking lot at 4th and Alameda, the car that you drove back in is gone, and all the heroin packages were sent to your name. Do you know of any way, other than our just taking your word for it, to prove that anything you’re saying here today is the truth?”

“It’s the truth,” Bara Salvacion said firmly.

“As it happens, Ms. Salvacion,” John Morley Jackson said politely, “Anyone with a television set knows exactly as much about the murder of Maria Sanders as you’ve told us here today. Did you see the news coverage of Mr. Rand’s arrest a few hours before you were arrested yourself and decide that making up a story about him might get you out of trouble?”

“Everything I told you is the truth. May God strike me dead right here if it’s not the truth.”

John Morley Jackson took a half step backwards as if trying to stay clear of any sudden lightning bolts. “No more questions, your honor,” he said, glancing nervously at the ceiling. The faint sound of suppressed laughter rippled through the courtroom.

It was 10:05 Thursday morning when Robert Rand took the witness stand. He looked haggard. Emily Rand was seated directly behind the defense table, upright and well-rested, a living tribute to modern psychopharmacology.

“Good morning, Mr. Rand,” John Morley Jackson began. “You know, under the Constitution of the State of California you cannot be required to testify in this trial. Why do you want to testify here today?”

“Because I did not kill Maria Sanders.” Rand’s voice quavered a little.

“Mr. Rand, where were you on the evening of February 21st of this year?”

“I was at Chick Hearn Arena to see the Lakers play the Matterhorns.”

“And when did you arrive at the arena?”

“Just before the tip-off.”

“So that was approximately 7:25 p.m.?”

“That’s right.”

“And where were you before you went to the game?”

“I was at Santa Monica beach.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“I was reading a script for a play I was offered.”

“I see,” Jackson said. “Why were you doing that at the beach?”

“It’s peaceful out there. No telephones. I can concentrate. I have two wonderful children and it can get a little hectic at home.”

“I see. So you were out at Santa Monica beach reading a script. Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you park?”

“At a meter on Pacific Coast Highway.”

“How long were you there?”

“About an hour and a half. I had two hours on the meter but it wasn’t expired yet when I left to go to the game.”

“And about what time was that?”

“About six o’clock. It was getting dark.”

“So you left Santa Monica beach at about six o’clock and it took you an hour and twenty-five minutes to drive to the Chick Hearn Arena?”

“I’d say about an hour, an hour and fifteen minutes. It took some time to find a place to park and walk inside to my seat.”

“Did you have any conversations with anyone when you arrived at the arena?”

“No, the lights were going down for the player introductions so I just walked to my seat and sat down.”

“All right.” John Morley Jackson shuffled some pages in front of him. “Mr. Rand, do you know Bara Salvacion?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen her at any time before you saw her in this courtroom yesterday?”

“No.”

“Have you ever used heroin?”

“No.”

“Have you ever sold heroin?”

“No.”

“Have you ever asked anyone to sell heroin for you?”

“No.”

“Have you ever, as an adult, used or sold any illegal drug?”

“No.”

“Have you ever, as an adult, caused any other person to use or sell any illegal drug?”

“No.”

John Morley Jackson looked up from his notes. “Mr. Rand,” he said, “Were you ever arrested for drug use as a juvenile?”

“Yes, I was,” Rand answered.

“When was that?”

“When I was fifteen I was arrested on charges of cocaine possession.”

“Did you ever use cocaine again after that incident?”

Rand shook his head. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “That cured me.”

Jackson closed the folder in front of him. “Mr. Rand, were you in a parking lot at the corner of 4th and Alameda on the evening of February 21st?”

“No.”

“Did you attack Officer William Szafara with a steel pipe, causing his death?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Maria Sanders?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rand,” Jackson said with a nod. “No more questions.”

Merritt Logan picked up his notebook and walked to the lectern.

“Mr. Rand, what do you do for a living, sir?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Does that account for your entire income?”

“No, I’m a part-time magician. I entertain at parties, that kind of thing.”

“I see. Mr. Rand, would you tell the jury in your own words what it is precisely that actors do in the course of their work?”