Without a Doubt - [21]
That was ridiculous. The statement was only two pages long. David laid it on the line.
“Your client was subpoenaed to appear before the grand jury at one-thirty this afternoon. Make sure he’s there.”
The tussle with Kato was small-time compared to the trouble brewing beyond the walls of the Criminal Courts Building. I was oblivious to the rumblings until about noon, when I was paged by the office’s indomitable senior legal assistant, Patti Jo Fairbanks. Patti Jo had the authoritative air of a four-star general and the voice of a drill sergeant.
“Marcia!” she bellowed. “I need to see you in my office, right now!”
Sounded serious. I walked the few short steps between her office and mine, poked my head in, and asked, “What’s the deal?”
“Come in and close the door.”
Good news never comes when they tell you to close the door.
“It’s Simpson,” she said. “He was supposed to turn himself in at Parker Center this morning and he didn’t show.”
What?
Shapiro, Patti Jo told me, was to have brought Simpson in to Parker Center by eleven o’clock. An hour later, still no sign of him.
“The cops are plenty pissed,” she told me. “They’re going to send a unit out there to get him.”
“I thought they didn’t know where he was.”
“He’s staying over at Kardashian’s place in the Valley,” Patti Jo replied. She was referring to Robert Kardashian. Up till then, I’d never heard of the guy, but he was apparently a longtime buddy of O. J. Simpson.
Curiouser and curioser. How did so much manage to happen without our knowledge? I’d never seen this before-and it was certainly a bad sign.
The phone rang. Robert Shapiro.
“Let me talk to him,” I mouthed to Patti Jo.
“Just a minute,” she told him. “Marcia’s sitting right here.”
She handed me the phone.
I dispensed with pleasantries.
“What’s going on, Bob?” I said. “This is no time to screw around.”
“Marcia, I promise you. He’s coming in. We just need to do a few things,” said Shapiro.
“What do you mean?” I shot back. “He’s had all week to get his things together. What are you guys doing?”
“He’s being checked out by some doctors,” said Shapiro. His speech was infuriatingly slow, his tone condescending. “I’m sure you’ve heard that he’s very depressed. We Just need to be sure that he doesn’t go into custody in a suicidal frame of mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s depressed.” I snorted. “He’s got very good reason to be depressed. I just want to hear back from you in half an hour telling me he’s left.”
Over the next few minutes, there was a flurry of calls between us. Shapiro kept insisting that “It’s going to be a little longer than we thought.” Simpson would need another hour, he insisted. Then, inexplicably, he passed the receiver to someone else.
“Who’s this?” I asked the stranger.
“Saul Faerstein.”
I knew that name. Faerstein was a forensic psychiatrist who testified in criminal courts around L.A. County. The line on him was good. What the hell was he doing at Kardashian’s? Were they laying the groundwork for some kind of diminished-capacity defense? I asked Faerstein for directions to the house and he gave me some convoluted reply. When I tried to clarify them, he became even more evasive. Finally, I lost my patience.
“Doctor, you’d better stop playing games here,” I said. “Do you understand that you’re obstructing justice? That’s a criminal charge, and I don’t think you need a record like that, do you?”
He must have tossed the phone like a hot potato; in an instant Shapiro was back on the line. I was in the process of extracting directions from him when Patti Jo signaled me to break away. She had the LAPD’s Valley Division chief on the line. They’d finally gotten their own fix on the safe house and were on their way.
Show time. I took a deep breath and pushed through the doors to the grand jury room. I flashed my best warm-up smile to the jurors seated in the little three-tiered amphitheater. I tried not to betray my anxiety as I first welcomed them and then had to explain our departure from ordinary procedure. I would be deferring my opening statement until Monday.
“For today,” I said, “we are convened for the testimony of only one witness.” And I called Brian Kaelin to the stand.
“Mr. Kaelin,” said the foreperson when Kaelin stumbled to the witness chair, “please state and spell your full name, speaking directly into the microphone.”
He looked a bit dazed. “B-R-I-A-N G-E-R-A-R-D K-A-E-L-I-N.” Well, at least he could spell his name.
I turned to him. “Mr. Kaelin, were you acquainted with a woman by the name of Nicole Simpson?”
He fidgeted a bit, and then looked down at a piece of legal paper. Finally he spoke, in the tremulous tones of a child reciting a poem he doesn’t quite understand. “On the advice of my attorney,” he said, “I must respectfully decline to answer and assert my constitutional right to remain silent.”
God damn.
“You seem to be reading from a piece of yellow paper,” I said. “Did your attorney write that out for you this morning?”
“On the advice of my attorney, I must respectfully decline to answer and assert my constitutional right to remain silent.”
