The Flaming Motel

Now, turn the page for a taste of the debut Oliver Olson novel:

FOLLOW THE MONEY





1


“There was blood everywhere.” Jim Carver leaned back in his chair, chewing a mussel cooked in saffron. “At least that’s how the papers described it. Apparently he was covered with it when they found him, out in his front yard, stammering like an idiot about someone killing his wife.”

Each time he moved, the luxurious blue fabric of his shirt shimmered in the soft light. I’d never seen a shirt so well tailored, so textured. It practically screamed the word money. I wanted to come right out and ask him how much it cost, but I’d known him less than an hour.

We were eating lunch at an overpriced restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. I, of course, had never been there before, but the staff knew Carver by name when we walked in. The cheapest thing on the menu was the soup du jour, at fourteen dollars a cup. Between Carver, Tom Reilly, and me, lunch was well north of a hundred bucks. While he sat there and told me about a gruesome murder and the trial that followed — which I remembered watching on television when I was a kid — all I could think of was the cost of the lunch. Somewhere in the middle of it I realized I had $87.13 in my checking account. Good thing lunch was on Carver. I would have had to borrow money to pay for it, if my credit was even any good anymore. It made me smile. My life was ridiculous.

I had been employed by the international law firm of Kohlberg & Crowley for all of four hours. I was one of twenty second-year law students who started my summer job with the firm that morning. “Summer associates,” we were called, as opposed to real associates, like Tom Reilly, and partners, like Carver. It was the beginning of a three month job interview that all began with projects the firm had picked for us on our first day. Mine involved a murder, a former United States senator, and a jumble of procedural nonsense that I couldn’t even begin to understand. So I sat and listened and nodded my head and tried not to do or say anything stupid. I couldn’t believe I would be working on a case that had once been so famous, or infamous, I should say. Jim Carver went on.

“You remember the story, of course.” Carver was right about that. “James Steele was a United States senator at the time. A U.S. senator claiming someone broke into his house and stabbed his wife in the bathtub. Nothing stolen, no apparent motive. He says he didn’t hear anything until it was too late because he was in another part of the house. When he finally hears a scream, he runs upstairs, down the hall, and, as he’s going into the bathroom where his wife is, someone else is running out. The person running out slashes at him with a knife and pushes him back. Steele falls, hits his head on the baseboard, and by the time he’s out of his daze the intruder is long gone.” Carver pried a mussel open with a tiny fork and glanced at Reilly.

Reilly continued the story. “So Steele sees his wife in the tub. Apparently she’s still struggling, but the tub’s full of water.” Reilly drank some iced tea. His tone was casual, like he was describing a football game he watched on television. Twenty years Carver’s junior, and not yet the multimillionaire many times over that Carver surely was, Reilly’s shirt did not captivate me in the same way. It was obviously down an order of magnitude. Reilly set his tea down and leaned back in his chair.

“Then, at 8:52, Steele calls 911. Turns out, Steele is flustered and transposes the numbers in his address so there’s a mix up and the cops aren’t sure exactly where to go. During the 911 call, Steele sets down the phone for a few minutes. He says he’s checking on his wife. He comes back to the phone and the 911 operator suggests to Steele that he pull the body out of the tub so he can administer CPR. Steele says he will and he’s gone off the phone for a few more minutes.”

I broke in. “So he admits handling the body and moving it?”

“Right. That’s why he’s covered in blood when the cops get there.”

“So he completely messed up the crime scene?”

“Exactly.” Reilly poked the air with his cocktail fork. “Now, it isn’t until Steele comes back on the line the second time that he mentions to the operator that he’s Senator Steele. Once that comes out, the cops know exactly where to go. When they get there, they find Sharon Steele with thirty-nine stab wounds all over her body laying dead in the middle of the bathroom floor.”

The table went quiet. Carver sorted through the empty mussels, looking for another and not finding it. The clinking of shells in a bowl of broth was an odd counterpoint. The guy at the next table coughed and I glanced over at him. He was bald, with a thick moustache and touristy street clothes. He looked as out of place as I felt. Then the waiter arrived with the food and I took a bite of the best damned ham and cheese sandwich I’ve ever had. A twenty-two dollar ham and cheese sandwich. Both immoral and awesome at the same time.

Finally, Carver said, “But here’s where it gets messy.” He grinned, “No pun intended. First, the cops never find the murder weapon. The prosecutor argued that the injuries were consistent with a normal kitchen knife, which Steele had, but none of the knives in Steele’s kitchen had any trace of blood on them, and none were missing. And the time of death was such that Steele wouldn’t have had time to go anywhere to dispose of a knife. She was still warm and had blood running out of her when the cops got there. Of course, Steele says the killer took the knife with him. But the prosecution argued that Steele washed off one of his own kitchen knives and just put it away when he was through. They were apparently solid steel knives that would have been easy to clean. That’s problem one.”

“Second, there were no signs of forced entry. But an EMT looked at Steele’s head and found signs of a minor injury. Steele said it was from being pushed down, but the doctor testified that it was also consistent with a blow from a struggle, much as he presumably would have had with his wife while he stabbed her.”

“There’s another odd fact,” Reilly added, putting a crust of bread in his mouth and speaking as he chewed. “Steele had a wound on his hand that he claims he got when the intruder slashed at him. But again, there was testimony that the wound would have been consistent with Steele cutting himself when his hand slipped on the bloody knife.”

Carver interrupted. “So anyway, they interview Steele, he tells this bullshit story, and they arrest him the same night. Now, he offered his story at trial, but he had no evidence to support it, other than his interpretation of these facts. I mean, he just took the stand and told a story that, and this is how the prosecutor referred to it in his closing argument, a story that sounds too much like The Fugitive to be taken seriously.”

I agreed, the story had always sounded ludicrous to me, even as a kid, only vaguely following the drama on T.V. “What’s the motive?” I asked. “Money?”

“No, that’s just it,” Reilly responded. “There’s no motive. She had money, her family was wealthy, but he didn’t get anything. The kids are taken care of by a family trust, but he got nothing and never stood to get anything. There was no insurance. The two had split up briefly about eighteen months before, but they reconciled quickly and everyone said they were completely happy.”

Carver leaned back in his chair and waited for a few seconds after Reilly finished. Then he said, “So anyway, this case has been floating around the courts for years. Direct appeals in state courts, state habeas petitions. It’s finally time for Steele to file a federal habeas petition, and the court asked us to do it. Pro bono, of course.” Carver sneered a little on pro bono and then asked, “Have you studied habeas in school?”

I said I hadn’t. Carver glanced at Reilly in a way that suggested it was Reilly’s job to fill the new guy in, and then Carver said, “Well, look. It’s like an appeal, but it’s not. It’s a challenge to the process that convicted you.”

I was lost, and looked it. Carver leaned forward and said, “We’re not going to argue that Steele is innocent — you can never win on that — we’re arguing that he didn’t have a fair trial. Generally you argue ineffective assistance of counsel. That’s probably what we’re going to do here.”

Then Carver wiped his mouth with the thick cloth napkin, checked his huge, gleaming watch, and pushed his chair back. “I gotta go guys. But look, we need to push this ball forward as fast as we can. The two of you need to go see Steele and flesh this thing out. He’s going to try to convince you he’s innocent, but that doesn’t have a chance in hell. We’ve got to go with ineffective assistance.” Carver stood and looked at me. “Of course, that defense has a little problem too, but Reilly can fill you in on that. I had the file sent to your office. Have a look at it.”

Carver left us sitting there, staring at his back as he walked out of the restaurant, disappearing through the doorway and into a rectangle of brilliant sunlight. The waiter brought the bill and Reilly paid it. I sat there and waited for him to say something, but there wasn’t much to say. Carver was gone and Reilly and I were strangers.

On the way back to the office I finally spoke up. “So what’s the problem with the ineffective assistance of counsel claim?”

Reilly gave me a grim smile and shook his head. “His lawyer was a guy named Garrett Andersen. He’s one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the state. Maybe the country.”

“Do you really think a guy like that made a mistake?”

“Unlikely. That’s why this case was dead on arrival.”

I was confused. “So why are we doing it if it’s hopeless?”

Reilly laughed and shook his head. The new guy, he seemed to be thinking. “Well, hey, truth be told, no one thinks this thing can win. I mean, we’re not saying we can win. It sounds trite, but everyone’s entitled to representation, to a defense. Blah, blah, blah . . . I know it’s a cliché, but it’s the truth. And this is a complicated story Steele tells. There are a lot of places mistakes can be made. The devil’s in the details, y’know, so we might find something if we look hard enough.”

“But if he killed his wife—” I started to say.

Reilly cut me off with a grin. “We don’t know that. All we know is that he was convicted of killing his wife.”

I’d heard it before, and I usually believed it. The system had problems. There were dirty cops out there in the world. People got railroaded. But there were a lot of guilty people too, and this guy sounded guilty. I was about to make a joke about the difference between truth and confiction, but I stopped myself at the last second. Bad puns seemed dangerous. Instead, I shook my head. “Still, it seems pointless. Why bother? Doesn’t he see that?”

“The guy’s in jail, whether he sees it or not, all he’s got is time, y’know?”

“Sure, but why are we doing this? I mean, I guess that’s what doesn’t make sense to me.” We were stopped at the light. I could see that Reilly had no satisfying answer and I knew what he was going to say. I could feel it coming.

“Look,” Reilly began, “this guy was a senator. He was a powerful man and, on the outside chance that the firm can get him off, I mean, what a publicity boon for the firm. Look at it from their perspective. You’ve got this case, it’s a loser, maybe one in a hundred chance of winning — I doubt even that good, but a chance, you know. They’ve got summer associates coming in, tons of them, don’t know what to do with them all there are so many. What are you guys getting paid these days?”

“Three thousand a week.”

“No offense, but they don’t pay you guys that because you’re worth it. I mean, you’re a smart guy, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. The best and brightest or whatever they say. But you have no experience. I mean the firm tries to bill some of your time, but clients generally don’t want to pay for it. And in this economy, clients get what they want. So the firm just writes your time off as a recruiting expense.”

The light changed and we crossed toward the building. I watched him walk. Reilly looked like a guy who had finally let himself go after years of resistance, as though he’d realized that the trim, frat-boy body he’d had all through college and law school was gone for good. He was still young, fit enough, but he was beginning to show the creeping weight gain at his middle that would someday transform him into a pudgy, forty year old attorney.

“So they have this case. There’s a long shot that it might pay off. Who better to give it to than a summer associate, right? I mean, if you get lucky the firm gets all the glory, and if there’s nothing to it then the firm only loses your time, which it would have lost anyway.” Reilly looked at me and smiled as he went through the revolving door into the cavernous lobby of the K&C building. “Look man, this is a business. I mean you hope you can do some good along the way, but mostly it’s about money. Think of how big a payoff it would be to get this guy off. Why not take that gamble?”

“But meanwhile,” I said, “this guy — who may have a good case, who knows? — is sitting in jail and his future is tied to a law student who doesn’t know anything. I mean, I don’t even know where to start.”

When we stepped on the elevator, Reilly pushed our floors and leaned against the mirrored wall. “First of all, this guy doesn’t have a good case. He doesn’t have any case.” The elevator door opened at my floor and there was an awkward silence. I hesitated. Reilly filled it with, “Well, like Carver said, have a look through the file.”

When I got back to my office there were eight cardboard boxes piled along the side of my desk with the word “Steele” written across the side. I had no idea the “file” would consist of so much paper. I spread the boxes out across the floor so I could see into each of them. Some were just loose piles of paper. Others contained smaller files inside the boxes. There was no organization to them. Nothing was marked “beginning” or “start here,” so I just started rifling through them.

After a minute or two I came to a folder full of newspaper clippings and I sat at the desk and leafed through them. Steele had called 911 at 8:52 in the evening. The police arrived at 9:04. No signs of forced entry and the police dogs picked up no trails indicating any suspects had crossed the property. They arrested Steele at three that morning.

When I was finished, I leaned back in my chair, remembering it clearly. Although I was only ten when it happened, it was such a major story that you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing some reference to it. The murder had been grisly and shocking. The senator swore that someone else had committed the crime but offered no proof at trial other than his own testimony. The jury convicted based on what they viewed as overwhelming evidence.

Now it was my job to help get him out. But not because he was innocent, only because his high-priced lawyer didn’t do a good enough job. So much for good causes, I thought. I exhaled and turned to stare out the window, enjoying my sixty-eighth floor view of the white and green sprawl of Los Angeles. My first law job was to spring a convicted murderer on a technicality.

Wonderful.