Blood Relations Page 12

  Men with money liked to have models around, and the agency gave the girls invitations to parties in apartments overlooking Central Park or the river, with antiques, thick carpets, original art, catered food, and, in those days, crystal bowls of cocaine on polished tables. In a penthouse on Park Avenue, Caitlin stumbled into an immense bathroom with a marble floor and a wide, silk chaise where a senator with a pelt of white chest hair lay with two teenage models, his ruddy, glistening member ludicrously erect. She used the toilet, then left. They never noticed. That winter a lawyer for Chase Manhattan Bank woke her at dawn, said he’d forgotten his wife and kids were coming back from Disney World at noon. He sent a fur coat by way of apology, and when Caitlin refused to see him again he sent someone to retrieve it. The man reached into her closet and she knew better than to object.

  Most people in the industry did their jobs and went home. Caitlin joined the club scene: models and photographers and designers partying with rock stars and other celebrities, going from club to club in limos, getting drunk, getting stoned, dancing until sunrise, then snorting or popping whatever they needed to get through the shoots scheduled for eight o’clock in the morning.

  Caitlin found work. Her book grew thick with tear sheets from catalogs and magazines, and clients began to ask for her by name, paying up to $5,000 a day. She flew a dozen times to Europe—a hair color commercial in Paris, runway shows in Milan, shoots in Spain, Sweden, Greece. One cosmetic company had rights to her eyes, another to her hair, and a hosiery company owned her legs. She felt just as fractured inside, aware that who she was depended on what the camera might record at any given moment.

  She married a TV producer and divorced him when she found him with another man. She passed out in a shoot for Richard Avedon that had taken two weeks to arrange. She was arrested twice for DUI, evicted from several apartments, and had an abortion and a miscarriage. A doctor told her she would never conceive again. Her heroin use ended after she nearly died of an overdose. Her agency kept it all quiet.

  In Miami no one cared that her career was in decline; the town was hungry for any kind of celebrity. As she closed in on thirty, there were fewer fashion ads and more products—a deodorant, a cruise line, the female half of a couple having dinner at a hotel. Then an ad for Correctol, smiling and stretching in her nightie as if she’d had a good night’s sleep for a change. Caitlin began to imagine the inevitable progression: grocery shopping, laxatives, dentures, then incontinence pads, and then what? Coffins?

  At the clubs she kept it down to an occasional line of coke with her friends. She drank too much. She thought seriously of suicide.

  Frank pulled her back from the edge. Not a perfect white knight, but he saved her, then stuck around. Some days were hard, others weren’t so bad. She wanted to take photographs and make a living at it, although being an artist of any kind was risky, and the competition was murderous. Of her earlier days, she could almost swear they had happened to another woman, or in a book she had read a long time ago.

  Caitlin had told Sam about her life. Bits and pieces, what she thought she could afford to give away, and then everything in a flood of words and tears. Sam’s arms around her, his warm breath in her hair. But in the end it was too much for him. A man with a responsible job, a wife, and two children.

  But he would listen to Ali. Caitlin was sure of that, if she knew anything at all about Sam Hagen.

  On the ground floor Ali gave her name through a glass window, then she and Caitlin found places to sit. Several dozen chairs faced front, bolted together in long rows. The room was crowded and noisy with people. A couple of young Hispanic cops in dark blue city of Miami uniforms stared openly at Ali. Even in Caitlin’s jacket, two sizes too big, she had that effect.

  Five minutes after they had come in, Caitlin felt Ali’s fingers clamp around her forearm.

  She whispered, “It’s him. The guy outside my apartment this morning.”

  A man with a bristly white crew cut stood in the open door to the lobby. A scar ran through his bottom lip to his chin—as if it had been slashed with a knife—giving him a tilted, off-center cleft.

  After a minute he came over, walking with a limp. A waist holster made a bulge under his loose-fitting guayabera. He looked down at Ali, who stared back up at him. “Miss Duncan.”

  She nodded.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Dale Finley. I work for Edward Mora.”

  “Who?”

  “The state attorney.” He made a slight smile, then glanced at Caitlin. His eyes were icy blue with flecks of yellow. “Who are you, a relative?”

  “A friend.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I asked you.”

  She shrugged. “Caitlin Dorn.”

  There was a flicker of recognition. “Were you asked to appear, Miss Dorn?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came with Ali. Does it matter?”

  “Not at the moment.” He held an arm toward the lobby. “Let’s talk for a minute, Miss Duncan.”

  She took Caitlin’s hand. “You come, too.”

  “Miss Dorn can sit right here. We won’t be long.”

  Ali raised her chin. “I don’t have to talk to you at all. Detective Ryabin said for me not to talk to anybody but Sam Hagen.” She raised an eyebrow. “I assume you know Detective Ryabin?”

  Whatever Finley thought of her response, he made none of his own. He put his foot on the chair adjacent to hers and leaned over so she could hear him, crossing his arms on his knee.

  He smiled at Ali. “I bet you’re tough, aren’t you? That’s good, because with the men you’re accusing, why, there might be half a dozen defense attorneys, all itching to get at you. We need to know in advance that you can take the pressure, that you’re not going to give up halfway through a trial.”

  She laughed. “I won’t.”

  “Good.” He nodded, then came closer. “Once this case is filed, if it is, they’ll want to know about you. Your sexual practices, your boyfriends, the drugs you take, everything. We need to know about it first, so before Mr. Hagen sends for you, put your thinking cap on. That’ll make it go a little faster, if you’re ready with your answers when he starts asking questions. Some people say it’s like a trip to the dentist, but if you don’t hold back, you’ll be out of here before you know it.” The scar through his lip whitened when he smiled.

  Ali stared up at him.

  He said, “We’ve got police reports and statements by a number of witnesses. Some of them say you were a little tipsy. Maybe you don’t recall the events as clearly as we’d like. I don’t care, myself, but Sam Hagen’s not as forgiving as me when people want to file a case, then change their story when the going gets rough. You have to be straight with us. Can you do that?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s great. I wouldn’t want to see you charged with perjury.” He patted her arm. Then he turned toward Caitlin. “Miss Dorn. I might have to pay you a visit, ask you some questions. I’m afraid you can’t get any special treatment from this office.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aren’t you dating Mr. Hagen’s former law partner?”

  “That’s none of your damned business.”

  He smiled and straightened up, taking his foot off the chair, leaving a dusty shoe print. “I appreciate you ladies taking the time to talk to me. Mr. Hagen is busy right now. He’ll send someone down in a while to get you, Miss Duncan. See you later.”

  Dale Finley limped out of the waiting room and vanished in the direction of the elevators. Caitlin looked back at Ali. She was taking deep breaths, and her eyes were fixed on Caitlin, burning with indignation and betrayal.

  “I told you. They won’t do anything. I knew it. They wouldn’t care if I walked out that door.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be back.” Caitlin abruptly grabbed her purse and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To fin
d out what the hell is going on.”

  chapter nine

  The reason Sam had not been able to reach Adela Ramos, he discovered when he returned from lunch, was that Adela Ramos had been on her way to his office. She had brought her brother with her. She wanted Sam to explain to him why the jury had acquitted a guilty man. Adela had tried to explain it herself, but the American system of justice was difficult to understand.

  Idelfonso García and Adela sat side by side on the sofa. Joe McGee, Sam’s co-counsel on the case, sat in a chair facing them, Sam in another. García worked construction, and it was hard for him to take time off. He had worn a suit and a white shirt and a tie, showing these lawyers he was worthy of some respect.

  He wanted to know: If Luis Balmaseda had confessed, why had the judge not allowed the jury to hear it? Had the judge been paid off? Perhaps the jury had found Balmaseda not guilty because he was an American citizen and Adela was not. Did the life of a four-year-old boy mean so little to them?

  García’s thick wrists stuck out past the hems of his coat sleeves. He could have crushed a brick in his sunburned, muscular hand, but he gently held his sister’s in it. He had moved Adela over to his place because she didn’t want to live in the apartment where Luis Balmaseda had murdered her son.

  For the last fifteen minutes or so, Sam had been explaining the exclusionary rule, not calling it that, but telling Idelfonso García that if the police made mistakes in gathering evidence, they couldn’t use what they found, including confessions.

  “Nobody was paid off,” Sam said. “The judge didn’t want to exclude Balmaseda’s statement, but he had to. The rule is meant to protect ordinary citizens from the police, and we all have to follow it. As a prosecutor, there are times I’d like to take shortcuts, believe me. But if I did that, I’d be breaking a law I’m supposed to uphold.”

  Sam spoke the words, but they sounded condescending to him. Even absurd. Carlito Ramos, this man’s nephew, his sister’s only child, was dead.

  García thought about it for a while, not convinced, but sensing the futility of argument. Finally he said, “I told your friend—” He nodded toward Joe McGee. “—that Luis has been calling Adela on the telephone. When I answer he hangs up. If Adela answers, he uses bad language with her. I don’t want to say in English.” Ramos had a heavy accent, but he spoke slowly, as if it was his nature to take his time, being careful.

  McGee said, “Mr. García, you could change the number. Or get Caller-ID. There are ways to block the calls.”

  “Why do I have to pay for Luis to stop? The police should put him in jail. They say they can’t.”

  “Well, Mr. García, they will if you prove harassment or if you get a restraining order. Then they can put him in jail if he makes threats, or if he hangs around your apartment. If he follows Adela, that sort of thing.” For an instant McGee’s eyes met Sam’s. If Balmaseda had walked into the room right now, either of them might have slammed him against the wall.

  Adela spoke up. She looked a little better than she had ten days ago. She wore lipstick, and her long dark hair spilled down her back from a gold clip at the top of her head. “The policeman, Robin—” She meant Ryabin, Sam realized. “—he coming to my brother house for say … about arrest Luis.”

  Sam said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Go straight to see Detective Ryabin. Tell him I sent you. Make out a police report.”

  “Sí. He say the same.” She looked at her brother. “Después de salir de aquí, vamos a la policía.”

  An anguished expression fell over García’s face. He shook his head. “I knew Luis before Adela did. I brought him to meet her. I introduced them.”

  She touched his arm. “Shhh, Idelito. No es la culpa tuya.” She was telling him it wasn’t his fault. How could he have known it would turn out this way? Sam remembered Luis Balmaseda: good-looking guy, nice clothes, some money to spend on a pretty woman like Adela. She would have fallen in love with him. But what quirk of psychology had made her put up with the abuse he handed out? To take it for months and months, not telling anyone, even her brother, who obviously cared for her.

  Adela nudged him, then stood up, tucking a bra strap under her neckline, adjusting her shoulder bag. She extended her small hand to the prosecutors. “Thank you, Mr. Hagen and Mr. McGee.”

  García didn’t speak. He held the door for Adela. Joe McGee said he would take them downstairs.

  After they left, Sam sat alone in his office for a while, feet sprawled in front of him, too tired to move. He couldn’t count the number of times that scene had been played out in one fashion or another, so many sets of victims and survivors of victims. They were all, himself included, caught in a clanking, inefficient machine that ran on habit, custom, and lack of any reasonable alternative. Not exactly a substitute for God, as Dina had said. And she wasn’t entirely right about the guilty being raised up, either, although yes, it did happen. Just often enough to make people cynical. Sam knew he would lose faith entirely if he dwelled on the ones that turned out badly. Most of the time—he was confident of this—the system worked all right. He won nearly all his trials, and the accused were sent to prison. Sometimes survivors would stay in touch. One set of parents gave him a new tie every Christmas, a thank you for convicting the man who had raped their daughter, then blinded her with a pencil. Six ties so far, nineteen to go—unless the guy got out early on parole.

  Dina had heard too many of the bad stories. Too many descriptions of the unspeakable things a person could do to another human body. Sam knew he shouldn’t have burdened his wife with it.

  Four hours from now he would be walking into Frank Tolin’s office to hear Frank tell Dina the same thing he had just told Carlito Ramos’s uncle: I know you’re feeling bad, and the system sucks, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do for you. I share your loss.

  Sam went over to his desk, picked up the telephone, and punched in Frank Tolin’s number, which he still remembered. He announced himself to a receptionist whose voice he didn’t recognize. She put him on hold.

  Then Frank came on the line. “Sam. How’s it going?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’d like to know what you discussed with Dina relative to a wrongful death suit. She told me about it over lunch today. I can’t say I approve.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Frank said, “There was no intention to hide anything from you, Sam. Dina called me this morning, and I assumed you knew about it.”

  Frank’s office was on a corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a view of Biscayne Bay. Frank might have his feet propped up on his desk right now. Ostrich skin cowboy boots, twelve hundred bucks.

  “This is a lousy idea, Frank. Were you aware she spent most of last October in a hospital?”

  “Yes, I’m aware. It isn’t uncommon, Sam, to seek help after the death of a child. Dina sounded perfectly competent to me.”

  “She is,” Sam said. “Now she is. We’ve got our lives back, and I’m doing my damnedest to keep it that way. I don’t want my wife going through any more emotional trauma like she—”

  “Sam, I’ve done this for years, counseling people who’ve lost loved ones. I know just how you feel.”

  “You fucking do not know how I feel.” There was only silence on the line. He said more reasonably, “Did you tell her we had grounds to file a complaint?”

  “Of course not. Listen. Matthew had been drinking at a club that shouldn’t have served him. That’s all I know. Dina wants to see what can be done, if anything. I’ll talk to her. I think she needs to get it out of her system. Let her do it. You’ve handled the loss in your way; let her do it in hers.”

  “I’m telling you here and now, Frank, I don’t want to file a lawsuit, and I don’t want you raising her hopes.”

  “No, no.” His voice was soothing. “I’m going to listen to what she has to say, that’s all. And don’t jump in. Just let her talk. If I advise against legal action, Dina might accept it better if you don’t say, ‘I told you so.’”


  Sam nearly hung up.

  “You know, Sam, we didn’t end our professional association on the best of terms, that’s true, but I still consider us friends. We go back, buddy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Dina. It’s the least I can do.”

  He could imagine Frank Tolin signing papers with his Mont Blanc at the same time he was telling Sam what buddies they were. How far back, Frank? Bien Loc? Frank a second lieutenant and Sam a specialist, fourth class. In the thickly forested hills outside Bien Loc their platoon had come under heavy NVA artillery attack. Gunships put down covering fire, and the men were ordered to fall back. The place was a hell of smoke and explosions. Tolin lay in a gulley with his arms over his head, leaving a gap in the line. Nobody noticed but Sam, who dragged him by his web belt to the Huey and threw him aboard like a duffel bag. The chopper barely made it out. Frank never mentioned the incident again. Now what? Gratitude after all these years?

  Sam made himself reply, “We’ll see you at five-thirty.”

  He heard a disconnect and slammed down the phone. Almost immediately it buzzed.

  He swept it up. “What?”

  It was Gloria. “Sam? I noticed Adela Ramos leave a while ago, with her brother. I wanted to remind you about Duncan.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” He rubbed his forehead. “Send her up.”

  “Someone else wants to talk to you first. Caitlin Dorn. She called awhile ago from a phone downstairs. She was insistent. Rude, if you want to know.”

  His mind reeled. “Caitlin Dorn? What does she want?”

  “She refused to say. I told her you didn’t have time to talk to anyone else, but she made me promise to mention it to you.” Gloria waited. “Sam? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Send them both up. I’ll see Miss Dorn first.”