The One Who Got Away (24 page)

The photographs showed Loren as she was at age nine: pretty and blonde with a blue ribbon in her hair. The
RealNews
team also took photographs from Loren's Facebook – how they did that after David took it down, I do not know – showing Peyton wearing a pair of dotty plastic sunglasses; and of Hannah learning to ride a red trike; and of Hannah racing ahead of Peyton in an egg-and-spoon race; and of Loren holding both girls as babies in her arms.

They took the footage of Dad and me standing in the bleachers at the Walk of Fame ceremony, pleading with Nadine; and the footage of Nadine in all her diamond splendour, agreeing to help.

‘Do you think she'll agree to an on-camera interview?' I asked.

‘We asked, and her people said no,' said Sunday, clearly despondent. ‘Apparently, her people decided it's too risky, especially if there's going to be a trial … but she has given us a statement, and a photograph of herself at age nineteen,' she added, brightening. ‘You should see it, she's sitting on the fire escape in the apartment she shared with Loren, in underwear and black toenail paint. It's amazing. We're going to show the picture, and have the statement rolling down the screen.'

The statement wasn't very long. Basically, it said: ‘Loren Franklin paid my rent for six months when I first moved to New York … I would be nowhere without her.'

‘And maybe you can use bits and pieces from Loren's journal?'

‘Her journal?' said Sunday.

‘Well, it's not strictly a journal,' I said, ‘but her marriage counsellor, Bette Busonne, had her writing down all her thoughts and feelings after she found out that David was having an affair.'

‘And can I see this journal?'

I fetched a printout of a scan I'd made, and handed it to Sunday, who did not even bother to sit before opening the cover and beginning to read.

‘Oh my,' she said. ‘Juicy!'

‘Pardon?' said Dad.

‘Heartbreaking,' said Sunday, recovering herself, ‘but very, very difficult to get across on screen. I mean, so many words.' She fanned the pages, thinking. ‘But do you know what might work,' she said. ‘How would you feel, Molly, if we had somebody transcribe this journal completely and we published it online? Unedited. Untouched! So everyone can get to know Loren, in her own words.'

It seemed to make sense. The footage would show me handing the diary over to Christina, saying: ‘I'm giving this to you because I want the world to know my sister. She was a lovely person. She loved her husband. She loved her children and I will fight until my last day to find out what happened to her.'

* * *

You have made a BIG mistake.

Those were the first words I heard from David after the
RealNews
interview went to air. Not face to face, or on the phone. He sent a text.

It went on:

Molly, you have made a SERIOUS mistake. Loren would be so ANGRY with you. All this attention is NOT what Loren would have wanted. Our girls have already lost their mother. Do you want them to lose their father, too?

I didn't respond. Honestly, by then, I had nothing left to say to David. Except maybe: ‘See you in court.'

Three days after the
RealNews
program went to air, reporters were called to a press conference at the office of Bienveneda's Chief of Police, Captain Sullivan.

I wasn't allowed to go. Media only. But Aaron went.

You won't believe it
, he texted me from the venue.
Fifty people have turned up. There's enough pancake makeup in here to cover a chorus line.

I texted back:
What are people saying?

Everyone's impressed with you
, Aaron responded,
getting your Hollywood movie-star friend to intervene.

I was pretty pleased with myself as well. The full glare of attention was finally upon David.

I have to go
, wrote Aaron.

I'm watching from home
, I replied.

‘Which network will have it?' asked Dad, pointing his remote control at the TV.

‘Looks like all of them,' I said.

We settled on Fox9. For a long time, there was nothing to see. The cameras were aimed at a rostrum, behind which stood the flags of California and the United States.

By my count, Captain Sullivan kept viewers and reporters in the room waiting about twenty minutes before marching up to the rostrum in his dress uniform, complete with braiding and medals.

A team of detectives followed him.

‘Gee, none of them look happy,' I said.

Captain Sullivan, in particular, looked grim.

‘It's because they don't want all the tapes to come out,' said Dad, pointing his remote to turn up the volume.

I felt some sympathy, not necessarily for the people who had been coaxed into having sex with Lyric, but for the people who were likely to become collateral damage.

How many marriages were about to end?

How many children were about to find themselves the butt of jokes at school?

‘Thank you all for coming,' said Captain Sullivan, rustling the papers on the rostrum. ‘As you probably know, we're here to announce the fact that we have today issued a warrant for the arrest of local businessman David Wynne-Estes.'

Camera shutters went wild.

‘And, contrary to some of the reports that have gone to air, this development hasn't just come out of the blue,' Captain Sullivan added, ‘and it most certainly hasn't come as a result of intervention by some Hollywood movie star.'

Some of the reporters tittered.

‘We've actually been working on this case for a while,' the captain continued. ‘Obviously, I can't say much more than that, other than to say that David Wynne-Estes has been informed that he will be arrested; his lawyers have been informed; we're expecting him at the station this afternoon so we can lay the charges formally. He's not resisting that. He's coming in. And beyond that, I'm not sure what else we can say, although our advice to you media is as always, to let the law take its course. So, without further ado, does anyone have any questions?'

A reporter in the front row raised her hand to half-height. ‘Carrie Freeman from CBN,' she said. ‘You said that this arrest
has nothing to do with the intervention of the Hollywood movie star Nadine Perez, but surely …'

Captain Sullivan looked annoyed. ‘That's right. This isn't a soap opera. Police work is a serious business. We don't go around arresting people because stars tell us to,' he said.

A second reporter raised her hand. ‘But, in fairness, Chief, it does seem like a coincidence that it wasn't until …' she began, but Captain Sullivan wasn't having it.

‘I've just said, I don't need movie stars to tell me how to do my job,' he said grumpily. ‘So unless anyone else has a different question …'

An older reporter – he was still using a paper notebook – raised his hand. ‘Hello there, Chief,' he said in a velvety voice. ‘If I could just put the Hollywood nonsense aside for a moment …'

Captain Sullivan picked up his water glass, and took a satisfied sip. ‘Yes?'

‘What I'd like to know is, at what point did you decide that David needed to face a murder charge, and have you informed the family of Lyric Morales?'

The camera shifted back towards the captain, who seemed positively flustered.

‘Oh, you misunderstand,' he said. ‘No. This is my mistake. I'm sorry for the confusion. David Wynne-Estes isn't being charged with the murder of Lyric Morales. No. No. No. We are doing what Loren's family wanted. The warrant we are issuing today, it's for the murder of his wife.'

 

‘They say the truth will set you free –
but I have faith in juries, too!'

Tweet posted by David Wynne-Estes

 

‘O
h my goodness, this is going to be the easiest ten million dollars Dick van Nispen has ever made.'

Cecile was seated in the atrium adjacent to our kitchen. I was doing my duty in the kitchen: squeezing oranges, boiling the fresh brown eggs and lightly buttering the toast.

‘Samuel, have you seen this?' Cecile asked, a little louder this time. ‘There's a story in the
Bugle
. It says Dick van Nispen will be representing that awful man, David Wynne-Estes, in court.'

I went into the atrium, bearing the juice, toast, eggs and of course the French coffee press.

‘So I've heard,' I said, lowering the tray onto the timber table. ‘In fact, he told me personally, yesterday.'

‘What an appalling client to take on,' said Cecile, placing her tablet back on its stand. ‘David Wynne-Estes is obviously as guilty as sin.'

‘He's still entitled to a defence,' I said, lowering myself onto the bentwood chair, ‘although, given he's engaged Dick, it's probably going to end up costing him whatever money he has left.'

‘And they say crime doesn't pay,' said Cecile disapprovingly. ‘It certainly pays for lawyers.'

I flicked open my hardcopy of the
Bugle
, and cracked the top of my egg.

‘Why was Dick talking to you about David Wynne-Estes?' said Cecile.

‘He's scheduled to be in court with me this morning. He wants to move a motion to have the case against David struck out.'

‘On what grounds?'

‘On a tricky point of international law.'

Cecile had put down her spoon and glared at me, as if to say: ‘Are you being condescending?'

‘Forgive me,' I said. ‘Dick says I have no right to hear the case, on the grounds that David's wife went missing in international waters.'

‘And therefore you don't have jurisdiction?'

‘Correct. Dick intends to argue that this case is outside my jurisdiction.'

‘And what do you say?'

‘Well, I don't know yet, do I? As I say, Dick's due in court in an hour. I'll hear him out, I suppose, and I guess I'll decide then.'

* * *

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap.

‘Order,' I said. ‘Order in the court.'

The room fell silent. I put down the gavel and directed my gaze towards a young man with a septum piercing, in the courthouse media seats.

‘Now, I'm going to say this once,' I said in my sternest voice. ‘This is an open court and there is no question of whether you, as
members of what we still call “the press”, are entitled to be here. What you're not entitled to do is make an unholy racket. One more peep or ping or bling or zing out of any of you bloggers or tweeters or Instagrammers or whatever you call yourselves … you'll be out on the street.'

The young man with the piercing glared back at me, as if to say: ‘And who exactly are you, old man?'

Who am I?

He had not actually asked the question, yet I was tempted to answer: I am Judge L. Samuel Pettit, and I have been presiding over this court since you were in diapers.

I've seen it all, including the decline of the mainstream media. Now, I have no objection to the New Media. I don't tend to put a ban on devices in court. I have no real objection to your ribald headlines like
DIRTY DAVID DOES HIS BUSINESS ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR
.

It's all good, as my grandson would say. What is not good is the noise you make while you tweet and post and gram in my court.

‘I'm sitting here trying to listen to the evidence, and all I can hear is ping, ping, ping. It has to stop,' I said. ‘So please, put your devices on silent. Now, Mr Van Nispen, you may go on.'

Dick van Nispen is one of the oldest lawyers still working in the Bienveneda justice system, not that I can talk. I'm one of the oldest judges working at the Bienveneda Courthouse.

Between us, we've probably seen every conceivable human failing – and its comeuppance – on display.

Dick had been standing by the defence table, waiting for me to finish.

‘Thank you, Judge Pettit,' he said in his sonorous voice. ‘As I was saying …'

What had Dick been saying?

Essentially, that David Wynne-Estes couldn't come to trial in Bienveneda. Never mind that David was a prominent Bienveneda businessman, never mind that his wife grew up here (although not in the same neighbourhood, obviously), and never mind that he had two little girls born at Bienveneda Private.

Apparently he was untouchable.

As most people know, David's wife disappeared off a luxury cruise ship. Less than a day later, his mistress, Lyric Morales, was found dead in the kitchen of her apartment in an affordable housing development, behind the Lemon Grove.

Two deaths in two days? It never looks good, yet there was no shortage of lawyers in Bienveneda willing to bet that David would walk free.

Why?

Three reasons.

First, the case against him – that he murdered his wife – was entirely (and I do mean entirely) circumstantial. I would hope that everyone understands what that means? The police had no direct evidence of David's guilt. They had precisely no witnesses.

Second, the police didn't have a body, or indeed a murder weapon, and therefore they had no cause of death. If you can't say how somebody died or even where, how can you say she was murdered?

Perhaps Loren Wynne-Estes got washed overboard.

Perhaps she tripped and fell.

On the other hand, maybe she was feeling desperate – David was claiming that she had flown into a rage before the cruise and killed his mistress – and didn't want to live anymore.

Also, even if the police or the District Attorney could prove that David tipped Loren over the edge of the ship, did he do so deliberately? Maybe she went over trying to escape him?

Third, there was the question of jurisdiction. Loren disappeared from a ship and that's always tricky. By rights, jurisdiction lay with Holland. The
Silver Lining
had been in international waters when Loren left her cabin, which was about as close as anyone was going to get to the time that she disappeared, which let Mexico off the hook. Holland was not remotely interested in prosecuting the case and had eagerly offered the brief to the District Attorney in Bienveneda. David's team was of course going to object to the merry handing over of a murder trial, and I was the judge sent to sort the mess out.

David wouldn't have to be in court; the press had still turned up in droves.

Dick was there to argue the negative and it pleased me to see him, for I do love Dick's face. The deep lines. The worried forehead. The wisps of grey hair greased over the sunspots on his balding head. We greeted each other warmly. I've known Dick for nigh on thirty years. We're members of Bienveneda Golf, Sail and Tennis.

The Bienveneda District Attorney's Office had gone with a newcomer, Sandy Ruiz, to argue the affirmative. I can't say I know Sandy all that well. Like me, she is not from Bienveneda – one can live in this town thirty-odd years and not be considered a local – although she does live Low Side, which is interesting.

I say that only because it's a fair commute from the Low Side to the Bienveneda Courthouse, as most of the people who appear before me already know, and I don't mean the lawyers.

My wife, Cecile, is a fan of Sandy's. I'm not convinced she – Cecile – has ever seen her in action in the courtroom, but she's impressed by the idea that Sandy is Low Side.

‘How tenacious must she be to rise to the DA's office in a place like Bienveneda,' she mused, when news of Sandy's appointment broke in the
Bugle
.

Innocently and maybe stupidly, I said: ‘Maybe she came through on a diversity program?'

That earned me a glare.

‘You should show more respect,' said Cecile. ‘Men in your position – you have no idea how difficult it is for a woman trying to rise. Sandy has no rapport with you, the way somebody like Dick does. You won't be playing golf with her after hours, will you?'

‘She's very welcome at the club.'

‘Her name is Ruiz,' said Cecile. ‘She can't join the club.'

‘I don't see why not.'

‘Then you don't see anything.'

For the record, my wife is from Bienveneda. Cecile was born at Bienveneda Private and schooled at Bienveneda Grammar. Her father, Brennan Chambliss, served as a judge of the Superior Court in the 1970s; her mother, Stacey Chambliss, was a founding president of Booster Club. There is no royal blood in this country, but that makes her Bienveneda royalty.

My own background is more mutt than pedigree: I was educated in the LAUSD elementary school before I got the scholarship into a private school, and then another scholarship into law school, where I met Cecile.

Our son, Brandon, likes to say Cecile's my Uptown Girl, like the Billy Joel song. We graduated on the same day and got married a week later, with Judge Chambliss presiding.

Cecile's affection for Sandy may stem from the fact that Cecile hadn't pursued her intended career, mainly because we
had three children, including Edith, who gave us some trouble, and that slowed Cecile down.

By the time she was ready to return to the workforce, a career in law was out of the question. Cecile could do the work – she's far smarter than me – but not the hours. She went into social work, instead; for a while there, she worked at Grammar, work she characterised as ‘the lonely and the rich, crying on my shoulder'.

‘Sandy Ruiz will give that Dick van Nispen a run for his money,' Cecile told me.

I couldn't disagree.

‘Maritime law is very clear,' Dick said, tapping his cane ever so lightly on the court's smooth, cement floors. ‘This vessel – the
Silver Lining
– was registered in Holland. As such, the flag state is Holland …'

I listened. Dick has a soothing baritone. I was going to say that I could listen to that voice for days except that with Dick, that's a real possibility. He charges by the hour; he can indeed go on for days.

I've developed a few tricks over the years to keep myself awake when he's in court. I'll pinch the skin on the outside of my left thumb, or else I'll turn my feet in their shoes, ten times clockwise, ten times anti-clockwise. I'll point my toes up towards the ceiling, and then down towards the floor. But at some point, even those tricks stop working.

‘Now, Mr Van Nispen,' I said, ‘I'm sure you'll agree that you've been on this point for quite a while. I get your drift. I really do. And now I'd like you to wrap this up.'

‘We can indeed wrap this thing up right now, Judge Pettit,' said Dick, spreading his arms wide. ‘My argument is a simple one. This court does not have the jurisdiction to hear this
case. Loren Wynne-Estes is a person overboard, but she's not overboard in Bienveneda. She's not overboard in California. She's not overboard in the United States of America. She's overboard in places unknown. Where exactly, we don't know, but she certainly isn't here. And this, therefore, has nothing to do with you, Judge Pettit. Much as you'd like to claim the case, much as the press would like to hear it, it's got nothing to do with you, or me, or with any of us. We have no right to be here, even discussing it. Jurisdiction for this matter lies elsewhere.'

‘Very well,' I said. ‘Ms Ruiz?'

Sandy rose. She has a reputation for plain speaking that Grammar girls do not as a rule enjoy.

‘We have every right to be here,' she said. ‘Holland has formally relinquished its jurisdiction over this matter and my office has accepted the brief. This trial should be heard in the United States.'

Looking directly at Dick, she added, ‘Forgive me, Mr van Nispen, but your client is using you – or this action, anyway – to try to get away with murder.'

The bloggers and tweeters in the back seats tittered their approval.

Sandy resumed her seat.

Dick rose, and smiled. ‘Oh really?' he said. ‘That's quite a big call. You're assuming that we all know what happened on that ship, which strikes me as rather odd. I, for one, don't know what happened, and unless you have some powers of insight unavailable to the rest of us, you don't know either. You can speculate. You can point the finger. You can gossip. But you can't know for certain.'

Sandy snorted. It was only a little snort, but it was definitely there.

‘Oh yes, you can do that. You can snort. You can roll your eyes,' said Dick in his big voice, ‘but let's examine this courtroom, shall we? Who don't you see? Loren's own family. Her father. Her stepsister. They've been making a song and dance about David being responsible for her death, but look around you.'

Dick spread one arm around the court in a movement that was almost ballet-like.

‘So, come on. We've all seen cases like this on the TV. Where does the victim's family sit? They sit right here, don't they?' he continued, pointing his cane towards the front row of seats. ‘Right here, in the front, that's where they sit.'

Dick turned to the people in those seats – a middle-aged man, his wife, and her sister – saying: ‘But let's see … you're not Loren's family, are you?'

The family giggled and shook their heads.

‘No, you're not. You are seated where Loren's family should be sitting, but you're not her family,' said Dick. ‘Loren's father, he's not here. Loren's stepsister, Molly – where's she? Not here. So, where are they? At home, watching television? Walking the dog? We don't know, do we? All we know is they aren't here. Which is odd, because it's not like they don't know about the case. They've been talking about this case to the media. Not just telling their story but also selling their story. And if we consider some of the things they've said in their interviews, we can quickly figure out why they're not here. Loren's family told the media that they would not come and sit in court because they think my client is going to get off. That's a quote! That's a direct quote. They think that David is going to get off and they can't bear to watch. How about that? Not even Loren's family think there's enough evidence to convict my client.'