Liar Liar Read online

  “I love you, too.” She felt guilty about lying to Josh yet again. But she’d promised him that—other than appearing as a witness—she’d stay away from the case. And here she was meeting with the defense attorney to discuss it. If she told Josh, he’d be upset, and she didn’t want to deal with that.

  Sperantza was already at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. Once she’d ordered a glass of wine, he said, “So what’s up? You had a question.”

  “It’s about Doshan’s teammates. Has your investigator taken a look at them? It seems to me that if he’s being framed, whoever is doing it must hope to gain something. Maybe it’s a teammate, hoping to get Doshan’s position as quarterback.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that. I had Slater take a look, but he couldn’t find anything.”

  “I also wonder about the chaplain at Oceanside. Mary Ellen went to his Bible study sessions, and she may have seen him for counseling. He’s at war with the school’s athletic department. It’s a long shot, but he might merit checking out. His name’s Jonathan Lyons.”

  Sperantza pulled the small notebook from his pocket and wrote in it. “I’ll give this to Slater and have him take a look.” He paused to put the notebook away and sip his drink before he went on. “We do have a number of character witnesses, like Andy Drummond, who you met. He and several others are willing to testify that Doshan is mild tempered, and they’ve never seen him become violent off the field.”

  “What are his chances?”

  “It’s hard to say,” he said. “The prosecution doesn’t have a strong case. It’s all circumstantial. On the other hand, we don’t have a very strong defense. Doshan doesn’t have an alibi. He talked to the police, which was a terrible mistake, and in doing so, he changed his story. If nothing else turns up, I’ll have to consider putting him on the stand to see if the jury buys his version of what happened that night.”

  Nicole looked up. The waitress was approaching with her wine. When she was gone, Sperantza said, “Tell me about yourself. You’re planning to become an investigator, is that right? What made you decide to go into that line of work?”

  “I was office manager at Nichols, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo,” she said. “Sometimes I helped the in-house investigator when I had time, and I really enjoyed the work. You said you followed the Robert Blair murder case, so you know the rest of the story. After that, the law firm went under. Office management wasn’t my thing anyway, so here I am.”

  The next twenty minutes or so were taken up by the attorney’s accounts of trials he’d handled for celebrity clients. He was a good storyteller, and Nicole was entertained. When she finished her drink, she pulled the valet ticket out of her purse and started to get up.

  Sperantza put his hand over hers. “Don’t go,” he said. “Stay and have dinner with me.”

  “Sorry, David. My fiancé’s waiting at home. But thanks for the drink and the update. Let me know if you find out anything.”

  She left the bar somewhat puzzled by Sperantza’s dinner invitation. She was wearing a sizeable diamond on her finger. Hadn’t he noticed, or was it that he didn’t care? She was no stranger to attention from men, but he was the first since she’d started wearing an engagement ring.

  Nicole’s thoughts turned to the upcoming trial. Somehow she doubted Slater had devoted much time to investigating Doshan’s teammates. Why not do some digging of her own? She had the resources, and she was good at it. Maybe she could uncover something.

  She started using her lunch breaks at the office to troll the company’s databases for information. It was slow going. She couldn’t get much done within the limits of her time, but she didn’t want to work at home because of the risk that Josh might find out. Each day, she’d buy lunch from a woman named Charlotte who came around selling food she made and packaged herself. Her sandwiches were excellent and her brownies in a class by themselves. She carried her goods in a basket with a red-and-white gingham cover; it reminded Nicole of the basket Red Riding Hood had been carrying when she encountered the big bad wolf. This became a running joke between her and Charlotte.

  Nicole started her research with the chaplain. One look at his records seemed to show an exemplary life. He was married with five children. He’d never been arrested or involved in a scandal, at least any that showed up in the records. His credit was excellent. His college degrees checked out. He’d never even had a traffic ticket. This, of course, didn’t mean he wasn’t fooling around with coeds, as Veronica implied. Still, as far as the records went, he was clean.

  She looked at the team roster on the Oceanside Sharks’ website. She was surprised by how many players there were—more than sixty, with five quarterbacks. Doshan’s name wasn’t there. He was working with a trainer, but he was no longer on the team because of the criminal charges against him. Andrew Drummond’s name did appear. He was now one of the quarterbacks, although it looked as if he was simply a replacement in the lineup who played other positions as well.

  She started searching the players on the firm’s databases and on her browser. Two weeks went by without turning up a single bit of useful information.

  September 15th finally arrived. The trial was beginning, and she still had nothing.

  Nicole would have given anything to be in the courtroom and watch the proceedings first hand. But, even if she hadn’t been working, she was banned from attending because she was going to testify as a witness. She had to satisfy her curiosity by reading the paper and checking the tabloids.

  §

  While Nicole was stuck reading about the trial, Doshan was living it. As his limo approached the criminal courts building in downtown Los Angeles, Doshan was struck by how different it was from the Santa Monica Courthouse, which looked more like a high school than a legal institution. The downtown court, where his trial was about to begin, was a high-rise on a busy downtown thoroughfare. The building’s façade resembled a honeycomb, suggesting it was filled with busy worker bees.

  The broad sidewalk and steps leading into the building offered the only space where reporters, television crews, paparazzi, and spectators could wait for a glimpse of Doshan arriving for his first public appearance since he was arrested.

  At 8:30 a.m., the limo pulled up to the curb. The crowd parted as the entourage pushed its way into the building. Reporters hurled questions at Doshan. He ignored them, squaring his shoulders and taking long, unhurried strides. His lawyers scurried to keep up.

  He hadn’t slept the previous night and felt numb. In the car Sperantza had coached him on how to conduct himself. “Look serious and confident,” the lawyer had said. “There will be press outside asking questions. Ignore them. If anything needs to be said, leave that to me. The same goes for your appearance in court today. Keep your cool—and keep your mouth shut.”

  Doshan and his lawyers entered the building, boarded an elevator, and rode up to the ninth floor, where L.A.’s high-profile criminal trials took place.

  Judge John Lloyd, white-haired and gaunt as death, appeared at the stroke of 9:00 a.m. to call the court to order. Sperantza had told Doshan that Lloyd was strict in matters of courtroom procedure, but he was also known to occasionally cut a break for the defense.

  “Lloyd used to be a deputy D.A.” Sperantza had said, “a very tough prosecutor who usually got convictions. Then a couple of years ago—it was after he’d been appointed to the bench—the Innocence Project cleared two men he’d had convicted of murder. One was on death row. You can bet that shook him up. He’s been a different man ever since, much more inclined to give the defense leeway to introduce evidence and witnesses.”

  Once they were in session, Deputy District Attorney Frank Kendell began presenting the prosecution’s case. Kendell was wearing the uniform of his profession, a dark blue suit, light-blue shirt, and red-striped tie. In his fifties, he had close-cropped, graying hair and was twenty pounds overweight, most of it through his middle. His demeanor was cool and professional, betrayed only by his tendency to raise an eyebrow and smirk w
hen he felt he’d made his point.

  A forensics investigator from the police department was up first to present the prosecution’s evidence. Exhibit A was Doshan’s billed cap, grimy from exposure to the elements. It bore the aqua logo for Oceanside’s football team, featuring the face of a shark, teeth bared in a sinister smile. The investigator said the cap had been found at the murder scene. It was hanging from a fishing line that had been snagged on a pier support beam. Not surprisingly, Doshan’s DNA was found on the cap.

  Doshan passed a note to Sperantza, “What about any DNA they found on the body?” it said. “Are they going to talk about that?”

  Sperantza jotted at the bottom of the note, “Don’t worry. We’ll ask on cross. And we have our DNA experts with their own findings.”

  The forensics investigator went into detail about the spot under the Santa Monica Pier where Mary Ellen’s body had been found. He explained that Mary Ellen had been moved from wherever she’d been killed. He said evidence showed that she’d been dragged under the pier, probably by her feet, judging by the way her top and jacket were pulled up, exposing part of her bra and a shoulder. From the condition of the body, she appeared to have been half buried in the sand for at least twenty-four hours before the tide uncovered her. On a video screen, he showed photos, first of her body and another of her face, red-splotched neck, and blank stare. Some of the jurors took a quick look and averted their eyes. Others studied the photos closely, as if they might reveal the identity of the killer.

  When Kendall was done with his questions, it was Sperantza’s turn. “Tell me this,” he said, “was any other DNA found at the crime scene besides on the hat.”

  “Yes. But it was a small amount, and …”

  Sperantza interrupted. “Just answer the question, please. Where was the other DNA found?”

  “Some skin was found under the victim’s fingernails,” the investigator said.

  “Where is the report on that DNA?”

  “We couldn’t analyze it. The victim had been buried in wet sand and covered with salt water when the tide was in. Exposure to the elements degraded the DNA, making it useless.”

  “Thank you,” Sperantza said. “That will be all for now, but I would like to reserve the right to question this witness again if the need arises.”

  The next witness was Detective Gregory Morse, one of the team who’d questioned Doshan after he was taken into custody. He confirmed that he’d interviewed Doshan that day and said he was now going to play an audio recording of the interview. There was a click, and the detective’s voice came on, giving both his name and Doshan’s, as well as the date and time of the interview.

  Morse: “Where were you the night of March 23rd of this year?”

  Doshan: “I was home in my apartment over the garage at Joe Connelly’s house in Malibu. He’s an alum of Oceanside and is letting me stay there.”

  Morse: “Did anyone see you there? Mr. Connelly? Anyone in his family?”

  Doshan: “They were away. So, nobody saw me.”

  Morse: “Okay. I’m going to show you a video. It’s from a webcam at the Santa Monica Pier. It’s dated March 23, 2017, 12:00 a.m.”

  There was a click, and the detective’s voice said, “I’m running the video now. It shows Mr. Williams walking past the entrance to the Santa Monica pier, turning right and heading in the direction of the water.”

  Doshan came on, sounding rattled: “Oh, right. Sorry, I got mixed up. I stayed in my apartment the first night of the trial. It was the second night that I went to Santa Monica beach. I couldn’t sleep and thought a walk on the beach might help relax me.”

  Morse: “Why did you drive all the way to Santa Monica? There’s a beach just across the road from the university.”

  Doshan: “Wait. Shouldn’t I talk to my lawyer before I answer any more questions?”

  Morse: “That’s totally up to you. But I want to make this clear. This is your only opportunity to tell us your side of the story. Once you call for a lawyer, we can’t talk to you anymore, and you lose that opportunity.”

  At this point, Morse leaned over and turned off the recorder. “That’s where the recording ends.”

  Listening to it, Doshan once again regretted talking to the police. The night before the police interview, he’d been too keyed up to sleep. He understood he’d be the primary suspect in the girl’s murder, and the prospect of being questioned terrified him. Yet he’d felt he had no choice. An innocent man wouldn’t refuse to answer questions, and he was innocent. He’d gone to bed and lay there, listening to his heart pounding in his ears. Around 1:00 a.m., he got up, found a bottle of tequila, downed five or six shots, then a few more, hoping this would help him sleep.

  The liquor had done the opposite. Not only had he not slept, but when he arrived at the police station in the morning, he’d been hung over and still a little drunk. His brain wasn’t working. Only after he’d screwed up his story did he realize he shouldn’t have told the cops anything.

  The next witness was Deputy County Coroner John Ortega. Once again, photos of Mary Ellen’s corpse appeared on the screen. Ortega zoomed in on her, using the red beam of a laser pointer to direct attention to the marks on her neck. “These are finger marks,” Ortega said. “They indicate the killer had large hands with a wide span. I’d say this man was bigger than average.”

  “Can you tell us how tall that person might be?” asked Kendell.

  “Not with any accuracy. I’m guessing well over six feet.”

  “Like six-foot-five?”

  Doshan noticed Sperantza tense up, as if he were about to stand and object, but he seemed to change his mind.

  “As I said, I don’t know,” Ortega said. He projected another photo of Mary Ellen on the screen. This was a shot of the back of her head, her hair matted with blood. In the next photo, her hair was parted to show a long, jagged wound on her scalp. “She was struck on the head with a blunt instrument,” Ortega said. “From the extent of that wound, I would say she was probably unconscious when her neck was broken.”

  The coroner said the approximate time of death was 3:00 a.m. and then began describing in numbing detail the fine points of the physical evidence. Doshan started dozing off, only to be woken when Sperantza gently shook his arm.

  §

  As the trial progressed, and Nicole realized she had to narrow her search. She found Doshan on several social media sites. His pages were well put together and appeared professionally designed. They were also similar to other players’ social media pages. This made her think the university set them up for its star athletes. Doshan’s held quite a few photos, most with a group he seemed to pal around with. Drummond was one of them. The rest looked like football players as well. She checked the names and found they were indeed fellow Sharks.

  Her targets were now pared down to the five quarterbacks, their close friends online, as well as Doshan’s buddies who appeared most often on his social media pages. Still, the thought of doing background checks on all of them was daunting. She sat for a while, drumming her fingers on her desk while she tried to think of a better approach. Before too long, she came up with a plan.

  She wrote down the names of a dozen players who appeared to be closest to Doshan. Then she called Veronica Smith, Mary Ellen’s old roommate.

  “Whazzup,” Veronica said. Listening to her snarky tone, Nicole could picture the young woman with her inflated sense of entitlement.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Just name it,” Veronica said.

  “Do you have access to some kind of student phone directory? I need the phone numbers of some Oceanside students.”

  “Sure. They’ll be on the school’s database. Who do you want?”

  Nicole read them off, and Veronica found the numbers and read them back. When they finished, Veronica said, “Hey, these guys are all on the football team.”

  “Right,” Nicole said. “Thanks so much, Veronica. This is a huge help.”

  “So, what’s t
his for? I mean, are you still trying to get Doshan off?”

  Nicole wasn’t going to share her plans with a gossip like Veronica. “This isn’t related to the case. It’s just for our records. Thanks again, Veronica. I really appreciate it.” With that, she rang off.

  Nicole spent the next half hour calling the numbers. Most didn’t pick up, so she left messages. Of the remainder, two seemed flummoxed by her call and asked if she was with the police. When she said she wasn’t, they refused to talk to her. Another said that he was too busy and hung up.

  Nicole’s next call was to a receiver named Johnny Austin. To her surprise, he said, “Sure, I’d be glad to talk to you. We’re done training for the afternoon. I’m hungry for some Mexican food, so I’m heading over to Santa Monica in a bit. How about meeting me at El Cholo at about 3:00?”

  Nicole thought of a witness she was supposed to interview in the next few days. She could set that up for 4:00 and leave the office early to meet with Johnny first.

  “Sure,” she said. “El Cholo at 3:00. See you there.”

  Since she’d looked up his photo on the team roster, Nicole recognized Johnnie right away. He was a tall, well-muscled redhead with freckles. He looked like a Mid-Western farm boy, although he was born and raised in L.A. He was seated in the main dining room next to a cooking station where one of the cooks was making fresh tortillas. She seemed to have taken a shine to Austin, for as Nicole approached, the woman flipped a hot tortilla onto his plate.

  Nicole sat down, and a waiter scurried over to get her order. “Just coffee,” she said.

  Johnny didn’t seem curious about why Nicole wanted to talk, nor did he ask if she was with the police. She had the feeling he knew who she was. “What do you want to know?” he said.

  “It’s about Doshan Williams. Was there anyone on the team who was jealous enough of him to frame him for murder?”

  There was a long moment while Johnny finished chewing an enormous bite of his burrito. “Everybody on the team was jealous of Doshan. He was my friend, and I was jealous. I would have made a great quarterback, but he had more talent, and he got the gig. I’d never have done anything to fuck him over, much less frame him for murder. But I can’t speak for the others. There are people who would stop at nothing to be a star.”