Wendy Hornsby - Bad Intent

I looked around for LaShonda, saw her shake her head and whisper to her neighbor, James Shabazz. What Jennifer had said was true in its words, but not in its intent. And so she went, point by point through the case, skating the edge of truth.

With every point, Mike grew angrier. When his name was brought into the proceedings, Hector reached behind me to grip Mike’s shoulder. Mike set his jaw, gripped my hand so hard it throbbed.

The district attorney was called to give his expert analysis. I swear he was staring at me during his testimony describing a flawed investigation and a flawed prosecution. He laid the heaviest blame on the police, neglecting to mention that he had been part of the original prosecution team. Mea culpa for believing the police, was how I read him.

There was no opportunity for rebuttal. The police were not called. Mike was not asked to explain his procedures, or to answer the charges placed against him.

LaShonda, the surviving witness, wasn’t even mentioned by name.

No one said anything about the man who had been killed. I imagined Marovich explaining that lacuna, “The loss of a man’s life was not germane to the issues here.”

The testimony lasted barely an hour before Jennifer, in tones that were almost weepy, closed. “Your Honor, Charles Conklin is an innocent man. He was an innocent man fourteen years ago when he was sentenced to life in prison because of a deeply flawed trial. We ask the court at this time to grant our writ of habeas corpus and release this man from custody.”

Jennifer sat down and the judge took out his own set of notes. The entire hearing had been only a formality, because he obviously had his decision prepared in advance.

After scolding the police for their misbehavior, the judge faced Conklin.

Conklin was scared. He had sweated through his new coat. He shook, he dabbed at his eyes with a large handkerchief. He did not face the judge, did not look over at Jennifer.

“Mr. Conklin,” the judge said, “on behalf of the state of California, I apologize to you for the gross injustice that has been done. No legal cause exists for your continued imprisonment. Your writ of habeas corpus is granted. The defendant is ordered released directly from this courtroom. You are a free man.”

I got up with Mike and slipped out the back door. Jack Riley ran out after us, dragging a cameraman with him.

“Detective Flint, will you give us a statement?”

“Damn right,” Mike said. I was afraid he was winding up to deliver a scorcher that might embarrass him later, but his statement was both brief and controlled.

“I stand by my original investigation. I absolutely believe that he’s guilty. All this hearing did was throw out the first verdict on a technicality, it didn’t declare Conklin to be innocent. Far from it. There is no statute of limitations on murder. The man should be retried. That is the proper procedure in a case of procedural error.”

Mike walked away toward the elevator as the courtroom began to spill into the hall, every significant player trailing a camera crew. As the din rose, Jack pulled me closer.

“Listen, Annie Oakley,” he said, “Lana wants to do a special about last night’s shooting. But not here. Meet me at the studio before five.”

“I’ll try.”

The D.A. walked by, distracted Jack. “Gotta go,” he said.

This time, I grabbed him. “Innocent man freed is a tempting story, but don’t get suckered into it. Go over and talk to LaShonda about the contents of her affidavit. She’ll help you see what’s screwy.”

From Jack’s reaction, I must have been babbling. “Maggie, you had your say last Friday. This is Monday. Conklin is Monday’s story.”

“Whore,” I said.

“Ratings,” he said.

He trotted off to join the mob swarming around Jennifer and Conklin. As I walked away, I heard Jack’s distinctive voice, “Congratulations, Mr. Conklin. How does it feel to be a free man?”

Los Angeles (WP)

Police investigating the shocking, violent death of Roderick J. O’Leary, director of the re-election campaign for District Attorney Baron Marovich, late Sunday night in the exclusive Hancock Park section of the city, have uncovered evidence that suggests the shooting may have been a tragic accident.

Documentary filmmaker Maggie MacGowen, who fired the fatal shot, may have been startled by O’Leary, who was known to her, and mistaken him for a stalker. Police records show that during the past week MacGowen had complained that a man identified as George Schwartz had been stalking and harassing her. On several occasions she photographed Schwartz in her proximity, hoping to discourage him. After a minor collision, when Schwartz rear-ended her vehicle, MacGowen had him arrested by South Pasadena police.

Police arrest records identify Schwartz as a county worker currently on personal-necessity leave for undisclosed reasons. He was described by co-workers as a quiet man who lives alone. Schwartz was not available for comment.

According to sources, MacGowen was driving a friend to her home on Hudson Street near the Wilshire Country Club late Sunday night. A witness reported that O’Leary, who was armed, opened the door of MacGowens parked car, perhaps frightening her. MacGowen drew her own weapon and shot O’Leary, fatally wounding him. O’Leary died at the scene before paramedics arrived. No charges have been filed.

In recent years, there has been an increase in the number of violent attacks on celebrities by obsessed fans. It is not known when Schwartz first became interested in MacGowen, or whether they were acquainted. Through a spokesman, MacGowen said only, “It would not be appropriate at this time for me to comment.”

There was more, most of it looked to be a recap of Roddy’s career in politics, but I didn’t bother to read it. I threw the paper into the nearest trashcan. Then I went right back and retrieved it. The outline of the article had a familiar ring. For damn sure, no one from any news medium had contacted me about the shooting. And Marovich got scant mention.

A black stretch limo swept away from the curb in front of the courthouse, carrying Conklin and his defense team to a victory party at the Biltmore Hotel. It was half-past four, coming up on happy hour, I thought. I also thought I wanted to see just how happy people were going to be at the Biltmore party.

The hotel was only five blocks from the courts, straight down Grand Avenue. I walked it. It was rush hour. Traffic was so heavy I had to do a little window shopping now and then to keep from beating the limo to the hotel.

Inside the hotel, I followed a train of news people up the massive central stairs to the ballroom. My party invitation was the camera I took from my bag and an extension cord I had picked up off the floor.

In the ballroom, there were more news people than civilian guests. But then, I wondered-and not without some bitterness-how many friends would a man have when he’d been in jail as long as Conklin? And when his offspring were themselves in jail, well, who was left to help you celebrate except his Dr. Frankenstein and the news whores? Me among them.

There was a sumptuous buffet set up along one side. My always ravenous colleagues had queued up for mini soft tacos and sizzling fajitas. Thirsty after my walk, I bypassed the food and headed for the bar.

James Shabazz and Etta were there. James, carrying a fruit kabob in one hand and a soda water in the other, kept me company while I waited in line. “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss MacGowen.”

“I hate to miss a party. This looks like a good one.”

“The man has something to celebrate.”