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“Then you’re going to have to start telling the truth.”
She looked up and down the street, and said, “Why are there never any benches?”
“You know Larry Wilkes didn’t kill Pete Michaels, don’t you?”
“I don’t know that. I wasn’t there. I know he told me to pretend to be Pete’s fiancé. That’s all I know for sure.”
“Are you willing to recant your testimony?” She was right. It didn’t exactly prove much of anything. It might not help Larry at all.
“Why do you think I’ll get my husband back if I do that?”
“Because he’s mad about being lied to for twenty years.”
She looked out at the traffic, her face full of doubt. I had her talking though. I wondered if I could find out anything useful.
“You and Larry were friends. You hung out a lot in high school?”
“Yeah, I guess. We smoked cigarettes, weed, got drunk when we could.”
“Did you know he was gay?”
“Sort of. I mean, you didn’t talk about things like that. Not then. Not like now.”
“Were you around when he started seeing Pete Michaels?”
“I think they kept a lot of that secret. Larry wasn’t around as much. Then there were a couple of times when Pete was there. Larry said he was buying pot. Looking back, maybe that’s not what was going on.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have killed Pete?”
“Sure, my husband.”
“Really?” My first thought was that she was playing tit for tat. He’d accused her of murder, so she accused him.
“He didn’t exactly like faggots when we were kids.”
“And you think he likes them better now?”
She smiled for a moment, then she huffed away.
I walked back to the green Taurus and drove to Long Beach. Lydia and Karen were both still rushing around coordinating the release of the three not-rapists. I slipped a note in front of Karen asking her to get information on Coach Carrier when she had time. That earned me a death stare and the words, “Tomorrow. Late.”
Into the phone she hurriedly said, “No, not you. Lydia needs to speak to the ADA this afternoon. No later than five.”
I went into the back and spent the rest of the day reading through the letters we get, occasionally stopping to think through what I knew about Pete Michaels’ murder.
It was possible, even likely, that Anne Michaels would recant her testimony. But I didn’t know if that meant anything at all. Her testimony established motive. But her withdrawing it might simply provide another motive. She could tell the court that Larry wanted her to lie—which was the truth. If a judge knew that Larry and Pete were involved, he or she might assume that was the motive. Larry killed his lover.
Many judges, possibly most judges, would simply decide that Larry felt deep shame about the relationship and killed his lover. The lack of motive then would not be a problem since a judge would supply one in a moment. It was certainly prejudicial and unfair, but it was also reality. I was going to have to find something else. But what?
Around four that afternoon, I got an idea. I dialed a number and waited while it rang.
“Mrs. Showalter?”
“Yes?”
“This is Dom Reilly. I stopped by to see you—”
“Yes, I remember.”
