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“All right. Keep track of your mileage and get a receipt for lunch. But that’s it. You need to come up with a good reason to move forward on his case. Otherwise, no expenses.”
“Okay,” I said, not sure I’d be able to do that.
Before I was able to walk away, she said, “And Dom, you shouldn’t have punched Richie in the nose. He could have you arrested for that.”
“Point taken.”
Tail between my legs, I walked over to the antiquated coffee machine and got myself a cup of bad coffee. As I walked over to the makeshift desk I’d put together for myself, I heard Karen call out, “Edwin is on the line.” She’d begun going through Lydia’s call sheet.
I sat down in the open area behind the two offices. There were a couple of banquet tables filled with files, each file started when a letter arrived. I was meant to go through them on my down time. That’s how I’d found Larry Wilkes. It was also where I kept Larry’s file. Other than his letter and a couple of newspaper articles there was nothing much in it yet.
Dear Sir,the letter started.My name is Larry Wilkes. I am serving a sentence of twenty-five years to life for the murder of Pete Michaels. Maybe you hear this a lot, but I’m innocent. I am. I did not kill Pete Michaels. I could NOT have killed him; I loved him. I still love him even though it’s been almost twenty years since he died.
Pete was killed on September 28, 1976. I’d been living in Santa Barbara at the university. I’d enrolled as a freshman but did not attend many of my classes. I missed Pete. I’d tried calling him. There was a payphone in my dorm. I didn’t have my own phone. They were so expensive. He never seemed to be at home. I don’t think his family gave him my messages. Kids were supposed to answer the payphone when it rang but that didn’t mean they’d give you the message. I hadn’t talked to Pete in so long. I was getting frantic.
So I went home. Took a bus from Santa Barbara to Downey. When I got to my parents’ house I kept calling Pete, but he didn’t call me back. Something was wrong. I just knew it. Finally, I took my mother’s car and went to Pete’s house. When I got there, the door was open. I called out but no one answered. I stepped into the living room and saw Pete on the floor. He’d been shot. I hurried over to him and took him into my arms. There was blood everywhere, but he was already cold. I couldn’t stop crying.
Pete’s parents came home and found me with him. The police came. They pulled me from him. I don’t remember a lot of what happened. I didn’t really care. They arrested me, asked me a lot of questions. I didn’t say much. They told me they’d found the gun I used.
I couldn’t afford an attorney, so they got me one. He wanted me to plead guilty. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand up and say I’d killed Pete when I hadn’t. I loved him. I would never hurt him.
At the trial they made a big deal out of the fact that I’d wiped off the gun so there were no fingerprints. Except, I hadn’t done that. I told my attorney it didn’t make sense. If I’d wiped off the gun, I’d have run away. And I didn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t leave Pete alone like that. Whoever shot him did.
Anyway, for a long time it didn’t matter that I was in prison. I was so sad about what happened. I should never have gone away to school. I should have stayed. I think if I’d stayed nothing would have happened to Pete. So, in a way, I thought it was my fault he died.
But now, well, you see I’ve fallen in love again. His name is Brysen. He was another prisoner here. He didn’t do very much. Just took credit cards that weren’t his. Anyway, he got out a while ago and it would be nice if we could be together again. So if you think you can help me…
Okay, so yeah, I’m a romantic sucker.
6
April 4, 1996
Thursday morning
The next morning, I skipped going into the office and drove out to Hemet. It took only a tiny bit longer to get there than it had getting to the valley, though it was twice as far. Driving against traffic has its advantages, I’ll give you that.
Selma Martinez lived in a very ancient Airstream. It was at least a big one, but the silver travel trailer was dusty and scorched by the sun. It was surrounded by potted plants, yucca and other succulents. Sitting among them was the Virgin Mary caught in prayer. She was probably praying to move to a better neighborhood.
Sitting next to the Airstream was a fifteen-year-old Dodge Aries. Even if Selma wanted to travel with her Airstream, she didn’t own a vehicle that could pull it. I knocked on her door. While I waited, I listened to the hum of the air conditioner attached to the top of the trailer. It was eighty-two degrees at 11 a.m. and the little machine was already straining.
The door opened and Selma smiled at me. She was close to thirty with long black hair she’d pinned up into a bun. She wore a pink and white waitress uniform with a nametag pinned up high over her left breast. It said Selma underneath the logo for Polly’s Pies.
“Hi. I’m Dom Reilly. I called you the other day.”
“I remember. Come in,” she said, stepping out of the way. I climbed inside. Even though there were four or five inches between the top of my head and the ceiling I still felt like slouching.
“One of the other waitresses called in sick, so I have to get to work by noon.”
I was beginning to sense a theme. No one wanted to talk to me and they’d use any excuse to get out of it.
“I’ll try not to take up much of your time. Do you mind if I sit down?”
She shook her head, and the two of us sat at the dinette which folded down into a bed. I set the file I was carrying on the table, then glanced around. The trailer was neat, orderly and very clean. There wasn’t much counterspace in the kitchenette and what there was had been given over to a small collection of figurines depicting Catholic saints. I couldn’t tell you which ones they were. Partly because there are thousands of saints and partly because I’m a bad Catholic.
She didn’t offer me tea or coffee or even a glass of water. I could have used a glass of water.
“I believe the LAPD has contacted you and explained that the man convicted of your rape, Alan Dinkler, could not possibly have raped you. We represent Mr. Dinkler. We’ve done testing and his DNA does not match the sample. Do you understand all that?”
