The Trials of Nikki Hill (10 page)

“Fine. Then I suggest you do two things. First, get Mason frigging Durant out of your head. That’s a closed book neither of us wants opened. Then go on about your business, whatever the hell that is. And I’ll get to mine.”

“You seem to be forgetting something, Ray,” she said.

“From this point on, your business is mine.”

T
HIRTEEN

J
amal Deschamps hadn’t spent much time behind bars. A misunderstanding in a club had led to an overnight in the tank down at the glass house, Parker Center Jail. And there’d been the four days he’d put in at the old Hall of Justice Jail on West Temple Street before Irma Childs calmed down and dropped her assault charges. Still, he felt experienced enough to realize that, as long as you were stuck sitting on your raggedy ass in a jail cell, his setup at the Bauchet Street lockup wasn’t so bad. As other high-profile defendants like the Menendez boys and O. J. Simpson had discovered, custody status “keepaway” K-Ten provided all sorts of special amenities, the most notable being that you didn’t have to mix with the sort of lowlifes that make up the general jail population.

Jamal was resting on his comfortable bunk, staring at the clean, off-white ceiling and trying not to think too much about the immediate future, when a sheriff’s deputy arrived to tell him he had a visitor named Jesse Fallon.

More than a little suspicious, Jamal asked who the fuck this Fallon dude might be.

“Says he’s your lawyer,” the deputy replied.

“Yeah? Well, that don’t make it so.”

“Want him to go?”

“No. Let’s see what he has to say.”

The man who entered his cell was about the same age as his real lawyer, Elmon Burchis, somewhere in his sixties, but other than that he was about as different as he could be. He was big and black, with eyes so pale blue they were sorta spooky. And he was completely at ease, like he’d popped a dozen chill pills at lunch. He shifted a polished, black leather briefcase to his left hand and extended his right. “My name’s Jesse Fallon, Mr. Deschamps.”

When his offered hand was ignored, he used it to indicate a metal stool that was anchored to the wall. “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“You got a card with your name on it?”

Fallon plucked a thin oxblood card case from his pocket and removed a small white rectangle from it that he passed to Jamal.

It read “Jesse K. Fallon, Attorney-at-Law.” Under that was the name and address of a firm, Jastrum, Park, Wells, that meant nothing to the young man. He slipped the card into his pocket and turned his attention to Fallon. He was intrigued by the lawyer’s head. It was a cueball, very round, mainly bald, though a fine frizz of white circled the area above his ears. Some baldies had heads that shined like they’d been polished, but his looked like it had been buffed. It was as dry as dusting powder. Jamal wondered what it would take to make him sweat. Hell of a lot, he figured.

“Park it, if you want,” Jamal said, sitting on the edge of his cot. He was curious about Fallon, wanted to hear the big man’s pitch. But it was never smart to let the other guy know what was going on in your head. He watched Fallon unbutton the coat of his dark gray suit, caught a glimpse of yellow suspenders and a little extra padding in the gut area.

“They treating you well?” Fallon asked, as though he really wanted to know.

“Room service’s a little slow,” Jamal said.

“Then we ought to see about getting you out of here.” The lawyer placed his briefcase on his knees and snapped open the twin locks.

“That alligator skin?” Jamal asked.

“Actually, it is,” Fallon said, mildly surprised.

“Worked a couple months at a tannery,” Jamal said. “That much gator must’ve set you back some serious bones.”

“It was a Father’s Day present from my daughter.”

Well, fuck,
Jamal thought. “What’s the deal, Mr. Big Coin Brother? You’re not my lawyer. Where’s Burchis?”

If Fallon was offended by Jamal’s tone, he gave no evidence of it. “Mr. Burchis is a very good lawyer for a public defender. Your situation may be a little beyond his capabilities.”

“Not beyond yours, huh?”

“Hopefully not.”

Jamal didn’t particularly like the arrogant old turkey, but he was impressed by him. “I got no money,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Fallon replied. “Jastrum, Park, Wells can afford to waive a fee every now and then.”

Jamal had never heard of anybody doing anything for anybody for nothing. “Why would Jastrum, Whatever want to do that?”

“To keep me happy,” Fallon said.

“You mean that much to ’em, how come your name’s missing from their lineup?”

“There are other perks besides partnership,” Fallon said.

Damn but the guy was an iceman. “So it’s gonna make you happy to defend me?”

“Only if we win,” Fallon said.

“I didn’t kill Maddie Gray.”

“That’s nice to hear, Mr. Deschamps,” Fallon said. “But not quite as important as other things I need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like how your skin got under the dead woman’s fingernails.”

“No way,” Jamal said, leaning forward, tense as a bedspring.

“Good,” Fallon said. “Then the traces they found aren’t yours and the DNA will set you free.”

Jamal frowned and looked down at his hand. He ran a finger over a raised scab on his palm. “Well, this thing did happen when I was trying to, uh, get her ring off.”

“What ring is that?” Fallon asked, his eyes losing some of their sparkle.

“When I found her, dead like that. There was this ring on her finger.”

“I see. They discovered the ring in your possession?”

Jamal gave an imperceptible nod.

“All right,” Fallon said. “You were trying to remove her ring.”

“I cut myself on her thumbnail. I mean, she was a long time dead, but I still cut myself.”

“On her thumbnail.”

“Yeah.”

“What about her fingernails?” Fallon asked.

“She got somebody’s skin under her fingernails, it don’t belong to Jamal Deschamps.”

Fallon smiled. “Good answer,” he said.

“Truth,” Jamal insisted. “What else you need to know?”

“Can’t think of a thing right now,” Fallon told him, clicking the alligator briefcase shut and getting to his feet. “When I do, I’ll be back.”

“You know where to find me.”

F
OURTEEN

T
hat night, Nikki raced home to feed Bird before rushing off to the meeting of the Inglewood Money Mavens. Instead of bounding through the specially hinged panel in the back door as soon as she entered the house, the big dog remained outside, staring at the darkened graveyard down the hill, pretending to ignore her.

Even when she placed his brimming dish on the rear patio, he continued his tombstone vigil. She hunkered down beside him, scratching his neck. “Your food’s gonna taste better than any ole bones you could dig up down there,” she said.

He turned his big head and looked at her. In the moonlight, it seemed to her that he lifted a disdainful eyebrow. “Okay, so I’m late again,” she said. “Worse, I’ve got to go right out. I’m gonna make it up to you, I swear.”

With some reluctance, the dog stood and strolled to his food. Along the way, he paused beside a particularly large mound of his waste matter, staring back at her.

Grumbling, she located the long-handled scooper resting against the side of the house. Bird waited until she began the cleanup before flopping down to dine.

“You guilt-tripping, smart-ass hound,” Nikki said. “This is the thanks I get for not having you neutered.”

Bird’s eyes went to her for a brief moment. Then, with what might have been a sarcastic chuckle, he returned to his food.

Juanita Janes’s apartment was just minutes to the west of Nikki’s home, on the top floor of an elegant building in Playa Del Rey. Loreen greeted her at the door with a glass of wine and extended cheek. She was a short, compact, very dark woman. Her face, with its sharp features, active eyes, and long, thin nose, resembled a woodland fox. Her most memorable feature was her dark, lustrous, softly curly hair, a testament to her mother, Rose, who until her death had been a popular hairstylist and owner of the salon that now bore the slightly awkward name of Loreen’s The Rose Beauty Palace.

“Juanita’s in the kitchen trying to calm Sister Mumphrey down,” Loreen said.

“Sister’s here?” Nikki asked with some annoyance. She’d never liked the officious woman who’d long ago forgotten that her nickname had no official religious connotation. “When did we vote her into the Mavens?”

“She’s not a member,” Loreen said, “and won’t be until I’m dead and buried. She came with some complaint about Acacia.”

“Juanita’s daughter? What is she, ten or eleven?”

“Sixteen, honey. And a handful. Sister saw her over at Fox Hills Mall smoking. Weed, Sister says.”

“Sister wouldn’t know weed if it was growing up her leg,” Nikki said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if she had real weeds growin’ up

there,” Loreen said. “Anyway, she told Acacia to stop smoking and Acacia told her to go fuck herself and so Sister ran over here to carry on in front of Juanita.”

“Who’s that out there with you, Loreen?” someone called from inside.

“Guess who was the main topic of conversation before Sister showed up?” Loreen whispered to Nikki.

“Probably not Acacia, huh?” Nikki said, entering with Loreen.

A month ago, the women in the room would barely have paused in their chat to wave or embrace her. Now, all conversation ended and almost one by one they nodded their welcome in a strangely formal manner that both embarrassed and annoyed her.

Victoria Allard, a tall, thin woman with the looks and grace of a supermodel, approached and handed her a folded section from the morning’s
L.A. Times.
“Wonderful article,” she crooned, “and you look so exquisitely dressed in the picture.” Since her divorce, Victoria had been making ends meet by selling designer clothes and shoes from her home at well below retail prices.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, girl,” Nikki said, accepting a glass of wine from one of the other Mavens.

Angie Arnold, a short, voluptuous woman, had been stretching her purple tights bending over the CD player, busily changing Juanita’s music selections from Gershwin and Porter to Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott and Young Bleed. She suddenly spotted the newcomer, straightened, jerked her tiny tank top over her large breasts, and let out a squeal of delight. “Hey, Nikki! Girl,” she shouted, “you blowin’ up all over the TV.”

With that, the formality swiftly drifted away like a bad idea and they were all asking her about the new promotion and what the handsome and eligible Joseph Walden was really like, and, of course, what the inside story was on the Madeleine Gray murder.

She played up the promotion, making it sound almost as significant as had the newspaper article (which called it a blow against both racism and sexism in public office). She played down her connection to the Gray investigation. She also played down the sex appeal of Joseph Walden.

“Man’s my boss,” she said.

“Bad idea to mess with your boss,” Christine Martin, a slightly plump, smartly dressed assistant to an advertising executive, agreed.

“Not if you do it right,” Angie countered. She was a dental hygienist whose relationship with her employer had lasted longer than most marriages. “But enough about that. What I want to know, Nikki, is did that brother in jail really off the TV bitch?”

Nikki was almost as annoyed by the word “bitch” as if Madeleine Gray had been a friend of hers. “You know her well enough to call her a bitch, Angie?” she asked.

“Saw her once at a party at the St. James,” Angie said. “She was layin’ it out for every man in the room, from the host, some political asshole or other, to the guy bussin’ drinks. Black, brown, yellow, white. Didn’t matter to her. When it came to dick, Maddie was a equal opportunity fuck. Never know it though, all these so-called celebrities sayin’ all these nice things about her on the tube, now she’s dead. I ’magine she and the brother you got in the slams were bumpin’ heavy?”

“I just can’t talk about it,” Nikki said.

“Oh, come on,” Christine Martin pleaded. “Just one tiny little secret?”

Nikki was saved from another negative reply by Sister Mumphrey, all three hundred pounds of her, barreling into the room, proclaiming, “That little girl’s got a date with Satan, Juanita. You better do something and do it quick.”

Their hostess, elegant as always, in a pale purple gown, looked nonetheless dismayed. “I’ll have a talk with her, Sister,” she said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Nikki and Loreen exchanged glances. Loreen winked and said, “Sister, you want to bless this gathering before you leave?”

The fat woman’s head spun toward her. “Well, Loreen Battles, I may not be empowered by the good Lord to bless, but I am a religious woman and proud to say it aloud, no matter how sinful the atmosphere.”

“This atmosphere’s sinful?” Christine Martin asked angrily.

“I see people drinking spirits,” Sister Mumphrey said. “And Evangeline Arnold’s top is so small her tits are falling out. And—”

“Sister, I really do want to thank you for coming by,” Juanita said, interrupting the uninvited guest’s critical flow. She took the woman’s balloonlike hand, intending to lead her out. Only Sister wasn’t quite ready to leave.

“Money is no substitute for the rewards of heaven,” she informed the Mavens. Then she spied Nikki. “Well, Nicolette Hill. I been hearin’ all about you, girl.”

“Nikki’s been on the TV more today,” Juanita said, “than I’ll be on all week.”

“Not from the TV, ” Sister said. “I don’t waste my time watching TV. No, I been hearing about Nicolette from her daddy.”

Nikki stared at the fat woman, wondering where in the world she and her father might have gotten together. As if tuned in to her thoughts, Sister said, “Tricia and I have got real friendly thanks to our church work.” Tricia was Nikki’s stepmother, the main reason she wound up being raised by Grandma Tyrell.

“You and Tricia,” Nikki said. “Don’t that figure.”

“A fine woman. A real Christian. Your daddy’s a fine man, too. You ought to visit them more often. They’d love to see you, I’m sure.”