No Way Out

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 (#ulink_03d50014-9af1-508a-91d0-1dcce77caf81)

‘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.’