Breakdown

Chapter 41

One cop car drove Loach to the Men’s Central Jail in East L.A. The second transported Enid DePauw to the Women’s Central Jail in Lynwood.

The third, driven by an officer who said, “Lucky me,” took the luggage.

Within hours of booking, both suspects had high-powered lawyers stonewalling on their behalf.

“Big surprise, big deal,” said John Nguyen. “We’ve got bodies.”

The luggage revealed nothing. Milo’s search of Loach’s office was another story.

When he arrived at the law firm with a search warrant, two dollies, a departmental locksmith, and Detectives Lorrie Mendez, Moses Reed, and Sean Binchy, he was confronted by an administrative partner, “one of those pompous twits” named Robert Malley.

Malley made a show of blocking Loach’s door, first insisting entry was impossible, then taking a long time to read the warrant, only to sputter about egregious violation of client confidentiality.

Milo said, “His only client is my other suspect.”

Malley said, “What if you don’t know everything? How will you differentiate between relevant and not relevant?”

“I’m doing it right now, you’re irrelevant. Now move.”

Nothing to differentiate; the only files in Loach’s bench-made, English-import, mahogany Regency Revival cabinet pertained to Enid and Averell DePauw.

It took a while to comb through the eight boxes retrieved from the office, with Milo taking on the job in an empty conference room at the station, and I his volunteer assistant. Most of the documents were what you’d expect with big money being moved around: limited liability real estate syndications, prospectuses, investment reports, tax forms, invitations to participate in corporate proxy votes.

A few told the story.

Three months prior to foreclosure on the house on Bel Azura Drive, a petition to declare Zina Rutherford mentally incompetent, backed up by a psychiatrist named Roberta Waters, was approved by a Superior Court judge named Arthur Ernest.

The push to make commitments more difficult was well under way by then, but you could still pull it off if the patient was sufficiently impaired. Or you had the right connections.

A search of doctor roberta waters pulled up the fact that she’d lost her license several years later due to substance abuse issues.

A search of judge arthur ernest pulled up the fact that eight months after he’d disenfranchised Zina, he’d retired from the bench to take a position of counsel to Loach’s law firm.

Waters had been dead for twenty-three years, Ernest for seventeen. Zina’s court-appointed counsel at the time, a Legal Aid newbie named Donald Pkach, was in practice now in Tacoma, Washington. Milo reached his office and asked him.

He said, “You expect me to remember that?” and hung up.

As a result of Ernest’s decision, Zina had been committed to a private facility in Denver, long shuttered. Nothing further on her until her brother reported her missing and Dub Ott tried to find her.

At the time of commitment, legal and physical custody of “minor child Jane Z. Rutherford” had passed to petitioners Enid and Averell DePauw.

Milo said, “Handed over to the evil aunt, what a nightmare.”

I said, “Five years old. Going back to St. Denis wasn’t psychotic, she’d lived there.”

He passed me another sheet. “Not for long.”

Within six months of being separated from her mother, minor child Jane Z. Rutherford’s welfare had been entrusted to the county foster care system, with petitioners DePauw requesting termination of custody due to “incorrigible behavioral issues.”

This time, an associate at the law firm had handled the couple’s business affairs. J. Y. Loach, Esq.

Nothing in the file on any subsequent adoption by the non-ideal Chases. If they were still out there, good luck finding them.

I said, “Enid eliminates Zina, makes a show of parenting her daughter, then, after a token period, she cuts her off, too.”

“And takes her inheritance,” said Milo. “What a fucking monster.”

The two of us spent a long time putting together numbers. Enid DePauw’s cash, securities, and real estate holdings, including several absentee partnerships spread across five states, neared one hundred million dollars, forty percent of that the property on St. Denis.

Milo said, “Even a small part of that woulda made Zelda a rich woman.”

My stomach lurched. I got up and left the office, walked up and down the hall, returned feeling clammy.

Milo said, “You okay?”

“There’s an eleven-year-old boy who’d be rich if he’s alive.”

“Hey, the jury’s not out yet — that little Swede said she didn’t take the kid with her to Skid Row.”

“That little Norwegian is psychotic. Any plans to dig up the poison patch?”

“Matter of fact, in a few hours,” he said. “Your botanist buddy will be there. Why do you ask?”

“Before you go, see if you can pull up prints from any of these docs related to Zelda.”

“Why?”

I told him.

He said, “Interesting. You usually are.”