RK02 - Guilt By Degrees Read Online Free PDF

replied.
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, stricken. “The idiot who lost the only case he ever tried?” I fished through my memory. “A caught-inside-the-car joyriding case.”
    “A genius he ain’t,” Toni agreed. “But he’s a world-class brownnoser.”
    “Right. Got promoted to director of central operations at one point, didn’t he?”
    “Yeah,” Toni snorted. “And on his way up, he headed Special Trials for about five minutes.”
    “Thank God we weren’t around for that. But how did they let a fool like that run a unit like Special Trials?”
    “How do they do anything around here?”
    The clerk pushed the complaint for my case over to me, and I stopped to sign it.
    “I will tell you this, though,” Toni said. “I heard that the deputies in the unit gave him endless shit. Refused to talk to him about their cases, never listened to a word he said, and if he called a meeting, no one would show. They’d all say they had to be in court.” Toni recounted the story with relish.
    “Sounds like good, responsible lawyering on their part,” I replied.
    “Most definitely,” Toni agreed. “But you know who demoted his ass?”
    I shook my head.
    “Your buddy, District Attorney Vanderhorn,” she said.
    “Nooo!” I replied, truly shocked.
    Toni held up her hand. “If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
    Vanderhorn and I were like oil and water. He thought I was insubordinate and unpredictable. I thought he was a boneheaded politico with no legal skills whatsoever. On any given day, we could both be right. But apparently he’d had a rare fit of good judgment where Hemet was concerned.
    “Well, you know what they say…”
    “Yeah, I do, so spare me,” Toni said, knowing what was coming.
    I continued, undaunted. “Even a clock that’s broken is right twice a day.”
    Toni walked out ahead of me, muttering to herself—something about gagging.

7
    I knew the defense would jam me into the earliest possible date for the preliminary hearing, which meant I wouldn’t have much time to pull everything together. From what I’d heard in court, and the flimsiness of the file in my hand, there was still a lot of work to do, not the least of which was to figure out who my victim, currently listed as “John Doe,” was. So I turned down Toni’s offer to hit Little Tokyo for a sushi lunch and grabbed a no-guilt turkey-and-lettuce sandwich to eat at my desk while I worked.
    By the time I settled in and spread out the file, the eighteenth floor was largely deserted. Quiet and empty, just the way I liked it. I shoved the murder book onto the table next to the window and tried not to look at the teetering pile of other murder books and case files that were starting to impinge on my treasured ninety-degree view. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk, dropped my purse on top of the bottle of Glenlivet, and propped my feet up on the edge of the drawer.
    I flipped open the slender file. My John Doe had been walking north on Hope—insert irony here—between Fourth and Fifth Street, when he lunged out and grabbed a woman’s arm. They struggled for a moment, and that’s where the narrative got murky. Either she broke free and then the victim fell to the ground, or he fell to the ground and then she got loose. The report quoted witness Charlie Fern as saying that the defendant, Ronald Yamaguchi, was standing right next to John Doe, so he had to have done the stabbing, though Fern hadn’t exactly seen it.
    It was an interesting twist on what Fern had said in court. Not so much a contradiction as a difference in emphasis. The gap was right there in plain sight: he “hadn’t exactly seen” the stabbing. Why he’d shaved down his statement in court was anybody’s guess. Taking the oath can make witnesses nervous, but it was equally possible that Fern had exaggerated what he’d seen when he’d spoken to the cops. Regardless, the statement itself gave fair warning of a possible problem, and a prosecutor who