CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Thursday, not quite a week after Veronica’s visit to St. Mary’s, she and Logan joined about thirty journalists, activists, civic voyeurs, and well-wishers in the cramped lobby of a midtown office building to bear witness to the official announcement of Weevil’s lawsuit.
“Thank you so much for being here.” The lawyer’s name was Lisa Choi, a rising star who projected the riveting charisma and no-bullshit focus of Helen Mirren on Prime Suspect. Veronica had been shocked to learn that the nationally lauded prosecutor with the Hillary pantsuit and black-framed glasses was just thirty-two years old—three years her senior. “Today we have filed a lawsuit against the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department. In January of this year, my client Eli Navarro was attempting to render aid to a citizen whose vehicle had broken down. He was shot at point-blank range for his trouble, and he still suffers chronic pain and disability from this unwarranted attack. Yes, Mr. Navarro is lucky to be alive. But luck certainly wasn’t in his corner when the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department arrived on the scene.”
Weevil stood to Lisa’s right, looking uncomfortable in the same slacks and button-down shirt he’d worn for his criminal trial. Keith and Cliff lingered on the sidelines, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Both men had long, contentious histories with Lamb, and Veronica knew that Lisa wanted the trial to be perceived as all about Weevil, not a political vendetta.
“The night my client was shot, deputies of the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department planted evidence on him to falsely indicate that he’d been attempting to rob the woman he was trying to help. Mr. Navarro was later found innocent of all charges. For all of us who believe in equal justice under the law, that’s a start. It’s a good start.” She paused for effect and turned to Weevil, whose stoic face was flushed from the effort of suppressing his emotions. “However,” Lisa continued, “this still fails to undo much of the damage that’s been inflicted upon his career, his health, and his mental well-being. It fails to undo the injustice perpetrated on my client and on the community of Neptune at large.” She looked around the room at that, as if challenging someone to disagree. “When we lose faith in our officers of the law, it harms all of us. It cripples our criminal justice system. It threatens the most vulnerable parts of our community. It allows money and power to subvert justice.”
“I miss money and power,” Logan whispered in Veronica’s ear.
Veronica pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh, then turned her attention back to Lisa. What she’s doing—that could have been my life, if I’d wanted it.
Veronica had gone to law school in part to get away from the PI life, convincing herself she wanted to be comfortable and detached and…and what? Normal? Whatever that was supposed to look like. In the end she hadn’t been able to stay away.
Did she have regrets? Maybe. But she’d had half a year to accept the choices she’d made—to stay in Neptune, to work in her father’s profession, to give up law. Now it all felt inevitable. But there was no denying a twinge of envy as she watched Lisa command the room.
“We will show that the officers who planted that gun on my client are not, as the department has claimed, outliers, but that they are part of a pattern of corruption infecting the department at large—a pattern reaching all the way up the chain of command.” She hadn’t named Lamb outright, but Veronica knew the journalists in the room would immediately zero in on the sheriff. “The Sheriff’s Department has been manufacturing its own twisted version of justice for years now. My client was only the most recent victim of this pattern. Our aim is to expose as much of this endemic, unchecked corruption as possible so Neptune can once again have a justice system worthy of the name.”
Glad she’s on our side, but I hope she’s got a bodyguard. Veronica glanced over at her dad, who stood next to a potted ficus on the other side of the room. Someone had tried to kill him for daring to ask too many questions. Now Lisa Choi was asking those same questions, with a bullhorn.
“I’m ready to take any questions you might have,” Lisa concluded.
The room exploded in a chaos of TV, radio, and print reporters’ urgent voices.
“What kind of damages are you seeking?”
“Are you suggesting that Sheriff Lamb knew about the planted evidence?”
“Are you planning to name Mrs. Kane in the suit as well?”
Veronica had heard enough. She gave Logan a little nod, and together they pushed out the glass doors, onto the covered sidewalk. It was almost three p.m. and visible waves of heat rolled up from the concrete. She was temporarily blinded by the sun’s glare reflecting off windshields in the parking lot.
“Well, that was romantic,” Logan said as she rummaged for her sunglasses in her bag.
“Why, darling, what could be more romantic than uncovering systemic corruption through a grueling process of investigations, subpoenas, and litigation?” She tilted her head and grinned. “But I guess, if you want, we could do something more, you know, light and fun?”
He did a mock double take, wiggling his index finger in his ear as if clearing it out. “I don’t understand. What’s this ‘fun,’ and how do you do it?”
“I’ve heard some people do it two days a week,” she said. “Maybe we could take a drive up the coast? Have dinner later tonight?”
“Dinner, like, at the same place, at the same time?” He raised an eyebrow. “Now that sounds suspiciously date-like.”
“Yeah?” She leaned up to kiss him. “Play your cards right, maybe I’ll take you home after.”
Before he could say anything else, her phone trilled from the depths of her bag. She dug it out and checked the screen.
It was Preuss Insurance.
“Let me take this real quick, okay?” She held up one finger toward Logan, then answered the phone.
“Hi, Veronica, this is Joe Hickman. I’m calling to let you know that the hair you sent in—Ramirez’s kid? The DNA doesn’t match.”
Her heart picked up speed. She moved the phone to her other ear and took a few steps away from Logan.
“I knew it. Have you talked to the victim’s lawyers yet?” She hadn’t talked to Grace since she found out Ramirez had a family; she’d wanted verification first.
“Not yet. Now that we know he’s in Michoacán we’ve sent someone down there to take a sample from Ramirez himself.”
“Great, so now I’ll focus on finding Grace’s boy—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Mars. I don’t think you understand,” Hickman interrupted. “We hired you to determine if Ramirez was guilty. Based on what you’ve found, we’re reasonably satisfied that he’s not.”
She paused, her shoulders going rigid. “So you’re saying I’m off the case.”
“No, I’m saying the case is closed.” His tone was firm. “We do get several cases a year that require the assistance of a private investigator, and we’ll certainly call you the next time that happens. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
She kept her voice measured. “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
As she hung up, she caught sight of Lisa Choi, still declaiming from the podium. She thought about her dad, nearly dying to get at the truth about the Sheriff’s Department; about Cliff, who defended people the rest of Neptune wanted to throw away.
Grace’s words floated back to her. I thought you were a big hero. She had an image of Grace as a child, waiting for Veronica to come back. Waiting for her to open that closet one more time, and tell her it’d be okay.
Veronica’s decision came clearly in that moment, as unavoidable as it was surprising. Concepts like heroism and moral certainty were so far from her normal worldview, naive at best, delusional at worst. Yet here she was, determined to keep working the case. She shoved her phone in her bag, and turned to Logan, a hundred apologies on her lips. But then she saw he was looking at her with a knowing smile.
“Our plans just got canceled, didn’t they?”
“Logan, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to—”
“I know.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see if Dick’s around tonight. Maybe he’s up for a romantic drive.”
She gave a wan smile. “You get going. I’ll grab a cab home later.”
He gave her a final lingering look, then nodded, heading across the parking lot to where he’d parked the convertible. As soon as he was out of sight, she pulled out her phone again, and dialed Grace’s number.
The phone rang three times before the girl picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Grace. This is Veronica Mars. Can you talk?”
There was a short pause.
“Okay.”
“I just have some follow-up questions for you about the night of the attack.”
“I already told you everything I remember.”
“I know. The thing is, Grace, we’ve managed to get DNA evidence that proves it wasn’t Miguel Ramirez who raped you. I know you were really certain it was him, but…”
Grace exhaled sharply. “DNA evidence? How? I thought he was in Mexico.”
“He is, but his son’s here in the US and we were able to get a sample. They’re working on getting Ramirez’s DNA just to be sure—it might take a few weeks, but they’re pretty sure it’ll clear him.” Veronica chose her next words carefully. “No one’s accusing you of lying, Grace. You went through a lot. It’s possible your brain injuries scrambled some of the details. I mean, maybe you’d seen Ramirez around the Grand before, and so he popped up in your memory when you were trying to reconstruct the attack. Or maybe it was someone who looked a little like him, or…”
“Don’t act like you’re trying to help me.” Veronica could just make out the tremble in the girl’s voice. “All this time you’ve been trying to prove I’m lying. Don’t ever think I’ve forgotten: You’re working for them, not me.”
“No, I’m not working for them. Not anymore. As far as they’re concerned I’ve done my job and I’m off the case. Which means right now they’re probably on the phone with your lawyer, telling him your suit is falling apart. But I still want to figure this out, Grace. And if I’m going to help you, I need to know the truth.”
The girl was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again her voice was steady.
“So what does that mean?”
“That means I need the name of the guy you were there to meet that night.” The deputies who questioned her were assholes, but they weren’t wrong. In 99 percent of cases, the assailants were boyfriends or husbands. Without ruling Grace’s out, the case couldn’t move forward.
“You’re just like those cops, you know that?” Grace said. “They kept asking and kept asking, trying to catch me in a lie. They came to my hospital bed and talked to me while I was high on morphine before the nurses finally chased them off. And here you are, playing good cop, acting like you’re my friend. Good cop, bad cop. It doesn’t make any difference—none of you give a shit about me.” She took a ragged breath. “Forget it, Veronica. I’ve already told you what happened. If you don’t believe me, you can just join the fucking club.”
With that, Grace Manning hung up the phone.