Chapter 27

August 6, 1996

Tuesday morning

One look at Wesley Colcott and I knew he and Lydia would have a lot of friction. He was a dinosaur from another era. In his late sixties, he wore a charcoal gray suit and had oiled his thinning hair. Sammy looked small and waifish, wearing a pink blouse with a lacy collar and a matching skirt. She was trying to look like a church-y teenager. She'd put a lot of thought into it.

Introductions were made and Karen offered coffee or water.

"This shouldn't take long," Colcott said, more a command than a reason not to have a cup of coffee.

"The videographer is late," Lydia said. "We're trying to reach them, but their office isn't open yet. If need be, I have a decent tape recorder."

"I prefer a written transcript anyway," Colcott said. "Facial expression can be distracting. Just because we can do things doesn't always mean we should."

As he said that, we walked into the back. Sammy took one look at the drawings on the wall, and said, "What the fuck is that?"

Colcott took them in. He leaned over and said something into Sammy's ear. Then to Lydia, "What are you playing at?"

"You mean the drawings? We put those up weeks ago. I didn't want them getting all curled or wrinkled in case I have to bring them into court."

"Artwork is not admissible."

"Artwork is usually not admissible. It's up to a judge. Andy Showalter is dead so we can't reexamine his testimony. If there's a new trial and the prosecution attempts to enter his testimony, I'll provide these to refute it. They speak to his state of mind."

"They won't be allowed in."

Lydia shrugged. "I'd agree if we were talking about direct evidence. I would never want to see someone convicted on the basis of his artwork. However, I would be using these drawings to impeach prior testimony. The images create reasonable doubt; the bedrock of our legal system. I'd say I have a fifty-fifty shot." Smiling, she suggested, "Why don't we sit down."

Colcott led Sammy to a seat where the images were behind her back. I could see that she was seething—jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Exactly where Lydia wanted her.

Karen came out of Lydia's office with a tape recorder and set it in the middle of the table. After Lydia turned on the tape, she made the same sort of introduction she'd made with Anne Michaels. That took two or three minutes. When she was done, she asked Sammy, "Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes," her voice was terse, sharp. It could have cut glass.

"You told my investigator, Dominick Reilly." She gestured toward me. "That Pete Michaels attempted to extort ten thousand dollars out of your husband, Bernie Carrier. And that because of this your husband killed him. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"How did you become aware of this?"

"Bernie told me."

"When was that?"

"When did he tell me about it?"

"Yes."

"Sometime after Pete's murder."

"Before you married? Or after?"

"It was well after."

"Can you estimate the date?"

"I suppose, five or six years ago."

"Some time in nineteen-ninety or ninety-one?"

"Yes. I guess."

"When did you learn that your husband liked to have sex with teenaged boys?"

"It was around the same time."

"Can't you be more specific? That seems like the kind of thing a person would remember exactly when they heard it."

Lydia got a sharp look from Sammy. Colcott said, "Tone, Miss Gonzalez."

She responded to Colcott, "It's a reasonable question. People remember things that are traumatic. It would have been a traumatic thing to hear. Don't you agree?"

"Assumptions you make about how my client should or should not respond are not relevant."

"I think my question would be allowed in court. We can agree to disagree. Now, Miss Blanchard, I want to be very clear on one point. At the time of Pete Michaels' murder, you had no idea he'd had a sexual relationship with your eventual husband?"

"None."

"Were you friendly with Pete Michaels or Larry Wilkes?"

"No. They were two grades ahead of me. Two years makes a big difference in high school."

"At the time of Pete Michaels' murder, you were already in a relationship with Bernie Carrier?"

"When was the murder?" she asked, as though she wasn't sure. We all knew she knew.

"September 18, 1976. Were you in a relationship with Bernie Carrier at that time?"

"I don't remember exactly when things began."

"Can you tell us how your relationship with Bernie Carrier began?"

"He was my health teacher."

"Can you elaborate? Not every high school sophomore marries her health teacher."

"Again, would you watch your tone," Colcott said. "Ms. Blanchard was sexually abused by her teacher. She's a victim."

"She later married the man who abused her."

"While she was still a child."

To Sammy she said, "Bernie Carrier was your health teacher. When did that class begin?"

"I was a sophomore."

"What year were you a sophomore?"

"Nineteen seventy-five."

"The class began in the fall of nineteen seventy-five and ended in the spring of seventy-six. Several months prior to the murder. That would mean your relationship with Bernie Carrier began prior to Pete Michaels' murder."

"I suppose that's right."

"Miss Gonzalez should stop referring to sexual abuse as a relationship. My client was a child. Bernie Carrier sexually abused her."

Lydia nodded, seeming to concede the point. "Miss Blanchard. Can you tell us when your ex-husband began abusing you?"

"He's not my ex-husband."

"You're still married to your abuser almost twenty years later?"

"I was very young. I didn't necessarily understand what was happening."

"Can you elaborate on that? Starting with how the abuse began."

Sammy glanced at her attorney. Clearly, she did not want to tell this story. But her attorney couldn't save her, so she began: "I started staying after class. Thinking up questions to ask. I played dumb. I already knew men liked that."

"Are you saying you were the aggressor?"

"She was fifteen. He was fifty-six," Colcott said. "The abuse was illegal regardless of how it came about."

"I'm not blaming Mrs. Carrier," Lydia said, voice as sweet as maple syrup. "I'm just trying to establish what happened."

"Blanchard, please," Sammy said.

"If you like. Coach Carrier was married when the abuse began. You lived with your parents. How did the two of you manage to meet?"

Colcott reached out and turned off the tape. "My client was led to believe this deposition was about her husband admitting to killing Pete Michaels. Which you've already established. At this point, you've strayed too far."

"I don't think so," Lydia said. "A judge will want these questions answered. Not to mention the DA." She reached out and turned the tape recorder back on. "Tape was paused by Mr. Colcott resulting in a thirty-second lapse."

After an awkwardly long pause, Lydia repeated, "How did you and Coach Carrier arrange your meetings?"

Sammy glanced at her attorney. He showed her an open palm, meaning there wasn't much he could do.

"My parents were alcoholics. They left me alone. A lot. When they did, I would call Bernie's house and let the phone ring twice and then hang up. He'd know to come over."

She'd told me that before, but now we had it in a deposition. Better. Much better. It also matched the way that Pete and Larry met each other. And the way the killer lured Larry to Pete's house.

"When did you learn that Mr. Carrier was also abusing teenage boys?"

"Not until the Tamayo boy."

"Which was when?"

"Three years ago. Four."

"That would be ninety-two, ninety-three?"

"Yes. Somewhere in there."

"You're sure it wasn't earlier?"

"My client has answered the question."

"Your husband was severely beaten by Alfonse Tamayo on the fifth of March in nineteen-ninety-one. Would you like to adjust your answer to my question concerning when you learned your husband was abusing teenage boys?"

"It was before he was beaten, yes."

"Sometime in nineteen-ninety or ninety-one?"

"Yes."

"Around the same time he told you he killed Pete Michaels?"

"Yes. I told you, he wanted to frighten me."

"You said Pete Michaels attempted to extort money from him. Blackmail. Did he tell you what information Pete was using to do that?"

"That they'd had a relationship."

"You became aware that Coach Carrier and Pete Michaels had a sexual relation no earlier than nineteen-ninety?"

"Yes. Around that time."

"Did you have a car as a teenager?"

"Yes."

"What kind was it?"

"A Chevrolet Vega."

"What color?"

"Yellow."

"I want to object to this," Colcott said. "Once again you're straying into territory that has no relevance."

"Your objection is noted," she said, smiling in a reassuring way. "In one of the original statements taken by the Downey police, the woman across the street claims she saw a small yellow car arrive at the Michaels house at around eleven thirty that morning. A young woman matching your description got out of the car and went into the house."

"It wasn't me."

Lydia glanced over Sammy's shoulders at the drawings.

"You sure it wasn't?"

"My client answered your question. She's sure."

"I want to ask again: You were not friends with Pete Michaels?"

"No. I was not."

"You did not know of his relationship with your husband until nineteen-ninety?"

"No. I did not know."

"There's no reason to ask questions twice, Miss Gonzalez."

"How did your husband obtain the gun that killed Pete Michaels?"

"From Andy Showalter."

"He told you that?"

"Yes."

"When did he tell you that?"

"When he threatened me."

"So, the two of you had a much longer conversation than you've indicated."

"It might have been."

"Is there anything else you haven't mentioned?"

She shook her head.

Lydia asked, "Since we're on tape, would you please say no."

"No."

"Did he tell you why Andy Showalter got him a gun?"

"No."

"Do you know why he didn't get a gun himself?"

"No."

"Did you know Andy Showalter well?"

"I didn't know him at all."

"Can you tell me why he'd make drawings of you?"

"Because he was a freak. Everyone knows that."

"How did your husband convince Andy to perjure himself at Larry Wilkes trial?"

"I don't know."

"What leverage did he have over Mr. Showalter?"

"She just said she doesn't know," Colcott said.

Again, Lydia looked over Sammy's shoulder at the artwork.

I thought this an interesting angle. In the original trial there was no real reason for Andy Showalter to obtain the gun for Larry Wilkes, but his counsel didn't follow up on it. That wouldn't be happening this time. The only logical reason for Showalter to get a gun for anyone would be to get it for a sixteen-year-girl. Sammy.

"A woman named Andrea Grubber wrote an article for The Downey Legend in which she said she'd received a tip that Pete Michaels had a fiancée. That tip came from someone who claimed to be Kelly Hawley. But Miss Hawley, now Dr. Wallpole, claims to have been in the room when you made the call impersonating her."

"She doesn't claim that," Sammy said. "You're wrong."

"We know you attempted to coerce Dr. Wallpole into not speaking with us?—"

"Wait just a moment," Colcott said. "You're making accusations about things you couldn't possibly know."

"We've spoken to Dr. Wallpole. We know exactly what was said. We know what your client was trying to do."

That was not exactly true, we hadn't yet deposed Dr. Wallpole, but it had the desired effect. Sammy was terrified. Lydia was circling close to what had actually happened.

"You planted the item about Pete having a fiancée," Lydia said. "That led the police to think his murder had to do with a love triangle. Which I think it did. Just not that love triangle. Sometime in 1976, you found out about Coach Carrier and Pete Michaels. You wanted to get rid of your competition, so you killed Pete."

"That's enough," Colcott said. "This deposition is over."

Sammy was glaring at me. She seemed to have taken the phrase ‘if looks could kill' to heart and was trying to figure out how to remove the ‘if'. I checked to make sure there weren't any sharp items within her reach.

Colcott was standing, pulling her up by the arm.

"You completely misrepresented what this deposition was about," Colcott was saying. "I'll be filing a complaint with the bar."

"Go ahead. I did nothing wrong and it's all on tape. If you want to waste your time, be my guest."

We were all up by that point and following Sammy and her attorney out of the office. In the lobby, Elaine Joy was struggling with her equipment, trying to come fully inside. Colcott shoved her out of the way as he dragged Sammy outside. Elaine Joy landed on her ass.

Sammy and Colcott were gone. It was silent for a moment, and then Lydia looked down at Elaine Joy and said, "You're late."

Naturally, the rest of the morning was anticlimactic. We listened to the tape twice, then Karen started working on the transcript. Lydia was chomping at the bit to write her motion.

"Do we have enough?" I asked Lydia before she went into her office.

"Yes, yes. We have enough. We can challenge every aspect of the original case."

"Do you think the DA will accept that or will they go for a retrial?"

"All they really have is Larry being found with the body. And we have two witness reports that says the gunshot was twenty minutes earlier. Before he even arrived at the house."

"So, they have nothing."

"Not a thing."

"She's a flight risk," I said. "She was buying a suitcase at the mall on Saturday."

She raised an eyebrow at me. Making me say, "Yes, I know. Catching murderers is not our job. Our job is to get Larry out of prison. It would be nice if part of that was sending the right person to prison."

"If the police in Downey have any sense, they'll be looking at her closely."

"If they can find her."

At lunchtime, I suggested pizza. We ordered a large chicken pesto pizza from The Pizza Place. They didn't deliver, so I offered to go and get it. Karen was deep into the transcript and Lydia was absorbed by her Writ of Habeas Corpus. They barely noticed my leaving. My Jeep was across the street. As I crossed, my cellular phone rang. It was Ronnie. I stood next to the driver's door and answered, "Hey."

"Do you remember what today is?"

"Oh God. It's an anniversary?"

"Yes."

To be fair, we had a half a dozen anniversaries he wanted to celebrate. The first time we met, which was also the first time we had sex; our first date, which came later; the first time I said I loved him; the day we bought the Bennett house; and then the day we bought the house on 2nd Street. I could never keep straight which happened when.

"Which one?"

"We met four years ago."

"Dinner?"

"Absolutely."

"Fancy or casual."

"Fancy."

"You sure? You don't want to save that for next year. Five seems like a bigger deal."

"It's all a big deal."

"Okay. La Boheme or Nectar? Or what about that place you like in Seal Beach?"

Before he could answer, I heard the screeching of tires. I turned in time to see a white Camaro fishtailing out of a parking spot a half a block away—and then it was bearing down on me. I had it in mind to get in front of my Jeep, but in a split second realized I wouldn't have time. A flash of Sammy's angry face behind the wheel and I jumped onto the hood of the Jeep—my phone flying, the Camaro sideswiping the Jeep and then nicking my foot, spinning me round, tossing me through the air over the Jeep, and onto the sidewalk beyond. I landed on my right side and heard my shoulder blade snap. And then, mercifully, everything was gone.