“Sounds like you weren’t able to mount much of a defense.”
Dowd’s mood turned on a dime. “I’m a damn fine lawyer, Mr. Logan. Or perhaps you think people of color got no business in a court of law except wearing ’cuffs and a jumpsuit.”
“I don’t see color, Mr. Dowd. I only see good or bad. I meant no offense.”
“Well, I am offended. I’ve been practicing law in this city for more than twenty-five years, and I don’t much appreciate some flight instructor coming in here, questioning my legal skills.” He snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his scuffed black wing tip. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting upcoming with my investigator on another matter.”
I stood. “What was the evidence against Dorian Munz that was so ‘overwhelming and irrefutable’?”
“You’ll find the entire case file over at the clerk of the court. You can read to your heart’s content.” Dowd picked up his phone and waited for me to leave. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Fly safe, Mr. Logan.”
What can I say? Some of us have a knack for offending others without even trying. Call it a gift. I thanked the attorney for his time and turned to go.
Standing in the doorway, blocking my way, was a towering, well-built man with mocha-colored skin. Except for his ears, which were abnormally large for his head, he reminded me of a Doberman pinscher. Same sinewy frame. Same darkly menacing features. His untucked, green silk camp shirt bulged subtly at the right hip of his baggy jean, where his concealed pistol rode in a pancake holster. I made him for Dowd’s aforesaid investigator.
“Who’s this?” he asked Dowd while gazing at me hard.
“This is Mr. Logan. He’s looking into the Munz case ex post facto.”
“Looking into the case for who?”
“The father of the victim. I believe Mr. Logan was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr. Logan?”
“Surf’s up,” I said to the Doberman. “Wouldn’t want to keep Frankie and Annette waiting.”
His eyes held steady on mine. In a previous life, I can only assume we must’ve crossed swords. Whatever the instinct, it was clear that his dislike of me was as instantaneous as mine was of him. At six-foot-four and 220, he had a good three inches and what looked to be about thirty pounds of steroid-fortified flank steak on me. Ah, but what I gave away in height and weight, I more than made up for in wisdom-rich years. Which is to say that if push came to shove, I was likely going to get my sage, unarmed ass stomped — not without getting in a few good thumps of my own, mind you, but stomped regardless.
“Who’s Frankie and Annette?” He had a grating, raspy voice.
“Original Mouseketeers,” I said. “Annette went on to have a very successful career as a professional virgin.”
The human Doberman smiled frigidly. His teeth looked like something unearthed by a paleontologist. “You’re a regular comedian,” he said.
“My ex-wife would beg to differ.”
“Let him pass, Bunny,” Dowd said sternly.
Bunny? Who names a Doberman pinscher “Bunny”? I wanted to say something snide, but held my fire.
Grudgingly, Bunny stepped aside. “See you around, funny man.”
“Not unless I see you first.”
The receptionist winked at me as I walked out.
I might’ve blushed if only I could’ve remembered how.
The clerk’s office of the U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, was located a block east on Front Street, in the first floor of a modernistic, five-story building named in honor of a federal judge who, if the memorial plaque in the lobby was to be believed, never uttered an unkind word to anyone, including the hundreds of miscreants he’d sent to federal prison for the rest of their miserable lives. It was past 2:30 by the time I got there. I filled out a request form with the case number I pulled from a computer terminal, turned over my driver’s license to an indifferent civil servant manning the counter, and waited for someone to retrieve the file — or, more accurately, files.
Excluding subsequent appeals, the government’s proceedings against Dorian Nathan Munz filled three banker’s boxes. The clerk’s office closed in less than two hours. I’d need to do some serious speed reading. Skimming was more like it. I took a seat at a wooden, librarian-style table, on an unpadded wooden chair, and dove into the transcripts of the trial.
The case file made clear that attorney Dowd had pinned his client’s defense almost wholly on an alibi constructed from the sketchy recollections of Janet Bollinger, a co-worker of Ruth Walker’s at Castle Robotics who described herself as Ruth’s “former” best friend. Bollinger had told FBI agents initially that Dorian Munz could not have possibly killed anyone during the approximately three-hour window in which Ruth was believed murdered because he’d spent that entire evening with her. On the stand, however, Bollinger recanted. She testified that she’d gotten her dates mixed up. Upon reflection, she couldn’t be certain, she said, if she and Munz had been together the night Ruth Walker was killed, or whether it had been the night before. Munz’s attorney pressed Bollinger. Someone had threatened her, he insisted, forcing her to change her testimony, but Janet Bollinger held fast; she’d simply gotten the dates wrong. The defense’s case fell apart faster than a Kardashian marriage.
A succession of Ruth’s friends and acquaintances testified that her breakup with Munz had been acrimonious, an allegation that Munz himself did not deny when he later took the stand in his own defense. Cellular phone records entered into evidence by the prosecution showed that he’d made several calls to Ruth’s office and home on the day of her slaying, each lasting no more than a few seconds. They were hang-up calls, the kind meant to intimidate Ruth, the prosecution theorized. Munz countered that he’d been framed: someone had stolen his phone from his locker at the YMCA, where he swam daily, then made calls to Ruth to incriminate him.
Two prosecution witnesses testified that on the day of Ruth Walker’s murder, they observed Munz at the Mystic Mocha coffee shop in San Diego’s University Heights, a few blocks from Ruth’s apartment. Munz seemed upset about something, both witnesses said. Munz insisted that his presence at the coffee shop that day was far from sinister; he stopped by occasionally for his favorite espresso. As for his agitated mood, he claimed to have been under pressure at work.
Ruth Walker’s autopsy found that she’d been stabbed twice in the abdomen. It revealed scrapes and bruises on her hands and arms consistent with the defensive wounds of someone who’d fought for her life and lost. Munz was taken in for questioning four days after her body was found. There were incriminating bruises on the knuckles of his left hand, photos of which were also entered into evidence. He insisted during his testimony that he’d hurt himself trying to replace the oil filter on his VW Jetta. Dowd, his attorney, claimed during the trial that the bruises were proof of Munz’s innocence; the accused was right handed.
Though the murder weapon was never recovered, the nature of Ruth’s knife wounds showed the blade to have been approximately six inches in length and one inch wide. Munz owned a pricey set of eight steak knives fitting those specifications. The knives, ironically enough, had been a Christmas present from Ruth, given to him before their relationship soured. Dowd argued that the FBI’s own laboratory examination showed all eight knives to be in pristine condition, free of any DNA that would’ve linked any of them to Ruth Walker’s killing. Justice Department experts, however, pointed out that a well-made knife can show no sign of wear, even after years of heavy use. As for the lack of incriminating DNA on the blades, the experts testified that Munz could’ve simply washed off any flesh or blood after fatally stabbing his victim.