The Victim (38 page)

“
I checked out the stats on the website. There’s the typical social media—Facebook, Twitter. All tweets and posts are current. There’s also an RSS feed, a blog. Deals with treatment and rehab issues, guest posts from substance abuse professionals. The last post was yesterday morning. So based on that, I’m assuming the info on the site’s current. If that’s the case, Earl Simpson is a counselor there.”

“
You didn’t want to call him ahead of time? I pay two hundred grand a year for the privilege of fifty hours on this baby.”

“
You said so yourself: the guy’s an elusive witness. I was afraid if I called him then we definitely wouldn’t find him.”

Jack set his drink down on the desk and adjusted the lever on his chair until he was fully reclined. He pulled down the sunshade and closed his eyes.

“
So…your client asked you to drop a speedy demand?”

“
Yup. Tomorrow’s the calendar call. Morales is gonna set it for trial right away. I know her.”

Jack chuckled. “Oh yeah. You tell the court you’re affirmatively ready for trial, they’ll call your bluff. She’ll give you the first available court date. You ain’t getting the full speedy window. Judges hate speedy demands. So should lawyers. Why in the world would your client want to rush to trial? I hope you have good malpractice insurance.”

A silence ensued for five minutes. Jack was snoring loudly.

Anton asked, “Tell me about your conversations with Ozzie Garcia.”

Jack’s eyes shot open. “Huh?”

“
Your conversations with Ozzie. Tell me about them.”

Jack exhaled, closed his eyes again. “What about them? It was like talking to a three-year-old. The guy couldn’t give me any details that could’ve assisted with an alibi. Kind of like your client—the crazy lady’s husband? He doesn’t remember what happened the night he allegedly choked his wife. Like you, I had to rely on my own investigation. Hell, Ozzie was so far gone by the time I met him he had to undergo competency restoration just to stand trial. Hence the delay. Trial didn’t actually begin until almost a year after the arrest.”

“
Do you think he did it?”

“
Do I think he’s guilty?”

“
Yeah.”

“
I think he was convicted on shoddy evidence.”

“
You didn’t answer my question.”

“
Yes I did.” He shimmied his shoulders into the seat, adjusting his posture. “Now…wake me up when we’re somewhere over Tucson.”

West Texas and New Mexico blended together like a dusty blanket rolled out across the earth. No-name towns littered the landscape, their streets nothing more than etchings in the sand.

Anton closed his eyes. By the time he woke up, he could hear the landing gear coming down as the Cessna gradually sank into the clouds.

CHAPTER 41

They took a cab from the airport to a nearby Budget office and rented a Chevy Malibu for the day. The morning sun was bright but cold. Fifty-seven degrees, according to Anton’s phone. Anton took the 101 to the 202 and exited at Rural Road. Driving across Tempe Town Lake, Sun Devil Stadium came into view, poking out from behind “A” Mountain, the iconic butte on the north side of the Arizona State campus that boasted a sixty-foot, gold-painted letter A resting along its south-facing slope. Manzanita Hall, the fifteen-story dorm where Anton had spent his freshman year, towered over the corner of Rural and University.

“
You getting nostalgic?”

Anton turned onto University. Packs of students meandered down the sidewalk, across the arched walkway that fed pedestrian traffic onto Palm Walk.

“
Lot of great memories here.”

“
When was the last time you came back?”

“
Fraternity brother’s wedding, three years ago. Stayed up in Scottsdale at the Biltmore. Haven’t been to Tempe since I left. May of 2004.”

Anton had decent enough grades and an LSAT score to be accepted into a number of law schools. Loyola, Colorado, Pepperdine. He was wait-listed at USC. He opted to attend Miami. It was the farthest from Arizona. Either that or Syracuse, and Anton was a warm weather guy.

Law school in Miami symbolized a new life. By the time he graduated, over a year had passed since the crash on the Beeline. The unofficial determination was that a drifter must have stolen the RV. Everybody accepted that theory without asking too many questions.

He stopped at the light at Mill. Bars, restaurants, and ASU-themed clothing stores lined Tempe’s main drag. A sullied assortment of street kids loitered in front of Ruby Tuesday, wearing T-shirts for punk bands they were too young to remember. A boy, no older than eighteen, strummed an acoustic guitar, his back to the brick wall, the worn leather case open, expecting spare change. Anton thought about Lola Munson and wondered if she ever mixed with the homeless youth of Mill Avenue during one of her runaway spells.

He crossed the railroad tracks and weaved through a quiet residential neighborhood off of Priest, arriving at a short cul-de-sac with only five houses. Two were deep in foreclosure neglect, the unkempt front lawns looking like cornfields, the ivy climbing up the walls and consuming the homes the way jungles swallow Mayan temples. The other houses were nondescript, even by the modest standards of old Tempe, built in the mid-sixties, rock gardens made of crushed quartz adorning the front yards. Tall desert palms lined the street.

The address, according to the website, was the house on the apex of the cul-de-sac. The lawyer in Anton wondered whether Sermon on the Mount had the necessary permits that would enable them to run a business like this in a residential neighborhood. He wondered how the neighbors felt about having a live-in treatment center next-door, occupied by felons on drug-offender probation and vets coming home with PTSD and meth problems.

They headed up the stone walkway. Thick patches of weeds burst through the cracks. The wooden steps creaked and strained as they marched up the porch. A sign hanging from a hook on the wrought-iron security gate read
no solicitors.

“
Do lawyers count?” Anton asked.

Jack motioned for Anton to knock.

The security gate rattled. A buzzer sounded and the lock unlatched. The gate slowly swung open off the jamb. The door was unlocked and they let themselves in.

The place reeked of Pine Sol. There he was, dipping the mop into an orange Home Depot bucket. Anton could see the Seal Team One tattoo poking out from under his sleeve. He shook off the excess and slathered the floor with soapy water. His eyes focused on the task at hand as if the fate of the free world depended on his ability to mop.

“
Hello?”

He stopped and propped the mop against the wall. He walked over slowly, cautiously eyeing the two men dressed in suits, who could have either been cops or IRS agents.

He didn’t offer a handshake. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice so low he could have sung bass in a gospel band. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with each word.

“
You’re looking for someone.”

It was a statement, not a question. Something told them this guy didn’t ask questions.

Deep folds in his face told stories Anton wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. A lifetime of benders and binges and cautionary tales. His jowls hung loosely off his gaunt cheekbones. His bald head was mottled with what would probably become melanomas. His goatee was the color of dirty snow.

“
Yeah,” Jack said, taking the lead. “You Earl Simpson?”

“
That depends. You boys cops?”

“
No, we’re lawyers,” Anton said, wondering whether that made things any better.

Earl glared with suspicion. “Some of our residents got in trouble with the law before they got clean. Others are on probation so they’re subject to routine searches. We don’t harbor fugitives here, but we won’t turn someone away on account of a legal problem. Cops are always showing up here.” His eyes radiated purpose. Anton knew—without hearing so much as a single word—that this man would be dead if not for this place. “What can I help you fellas with anyway?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Mr. Simpson, my name’s Jack Savarese. Back in 2003 and 2004, I represented Osvaldo Garcia. You know who I’m talking about, right?”

He pursed his lips, lowering his head in a moment of solemn reflection. He nodded. “Why don’t you boys come with me.”

They followed him down a narrow hallway to a meeting room, nothing more than a semicircle of aluminum folding chairs placed before a lectern stacked on a card table. Dust particles floated in a beam of light, slashing through the back window. The cottage cheese ceiling was bloated and marred with yellow stains. Drab design, all plain white walls. A banner tacked above the doorway read
secrets make us sick.

Earl went to the window and opened it, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a soft pack of cigarettes. He lit one and blew the smoke outside.

“
We can smoke in here,” he explained, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “One vice at a time, right?”

A slant of light shone through the open window, spreading across the linoleum, accenting the meth scars on Earl’s hands, arms, and cheeks, burned white into his skin by years of desert sun.

“
You knew Ozzie Garcia?” Anton asked.

The first inkling of a smile spread across Earl’s leathery face. “Ozzie? Sure. Lost touch with him when everything happened. Some years back when I was finishing up my time at Lewis, one of his lawyers showed up to ask me some questions. Jesus, if I thought I could’ve helped him I would’ve done what I could. I gave the lawyer a written statement and she said she’d be in touch. Never heard from her. Got released a few months later and got sent here as a condition of probation. Never left.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette with his long skeletal finger. Black basketball shorts crept up his thighs, exposing knobby knees. The off-color skin grafts on his right calf could have been mistaken for a shark bite. Earl caught Anton’s stare. “IED, Mogadishu. 1994.”

“
Mr. Simpson—”

“
Earl, please.”

“
Fine,” Jack said. “Earl. Are you familiar with why Ozzie was arrested and convicted?”

“
Of course. They got him for that girl’s murder.”

“
They never found the body.”

Earl shook his head. “You think that matters? They say Ozzie buried her in the forest. All the feds, park rangers, state troopers, and sheriff’s deputies in the state couldn’t cover every possible burying spot.”

“
How long had you known Ozzie before he got arrested?” Jack asked.

Earl looked up, trying to account for a time in his life clouded by a haze of methamphetamine smoke.

“
About a year before he got picked up by the cops.”

“
Where did you meet him?”

“
El Paso. He was young, just got kicked out of his house. Said he had done some jail time back home. Albuquerque or Santa Fe. Somewhere in New Mexico, I think.”

“
Albuquerque,” Jack advised.

“
Yeah, folks had a gardening business or something. Said he didn’t want to work for them. Had a bad habit. He was a Marine; I was former Special Ops. We cliqued up.”

“
Where?”

Like most recovering addicts, he felt emboldened by the desperation in his past.

“
I was sleeping under the I-10 overpass. He’d hitched a ride in a truck and was wandering around town, looking to score some tina.”

“
Tina?” Jack asked.

“
Crystal meth,” Anton said, informing him of the slang term. He turned to Earl. “What was Ozzie like?”

“
Shellshocked. Fucked up. Seen some combat. Talked about it, too. He had been to Bosnia. He used to jump when he heard a car backfire. The meth didn’t help things. Sometimes it took a shot of Jack Daniels, a line of coke, and a Valium just to level him out. We got that when we could, you know, if we had a few bucks to spare. Called it the Holy Trinity.”