“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You don’t know?” says Ryan.
Pencils in the front row are beginning to smoke, cutting grooves in paper. I can do nothing to stop Ryan from pounding on her.
“You heard Mr. Hale make death threats against the victim earlier that day in Mr. Madriani’s office. You knew that Mr. Madriani was Mr. Hale’s lawyer, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you saw nothing inappropriate in asking a sworn law enforcement officer, one of your own employees, to take Mr. Madriani through the police line at the scene of an ongoing criminal investigation, one in which you knew that Mr. Madriani’s client might very well be involved?”
“Objection.” I’m out of my chair.
“Rephrase the question,” says Peltro.
It is all the more damning because of Susan’s obvious motivation, to help a friend. I can object to the inference that somehow she knew Jonah was guilty, but the message to the jury is clear: Why else would she do all this?
“Didn’t you think there might be something inappropriate in all of this?”
“I didn’t think,” she says.
“You didn’t think.” Ryan says it not as a question, but a statement of fact, nodding, turning toward the jury, pacing as far as the podium will allow.
“Let’s turn our attention,” says Ryan, “to events that occurred after April seventeenth. At some point after the events of that evening, did it come to your attention that Investigator Brower and Mr. Madriani had been given a look at certain physical evidence at the scene that night?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell the jury how you learned about this?”
“Mr. Brower told me.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That one of the investigators at the scene showed them a bullet . . .”
“Bullet? You mean a spent bullet cartridge?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Some cigarettes they found smoked at the scene.”
“What else?”
“A partly smoked cigar.”
Ryan stops her with his right index finger in the air like a pistol about to be fired. “And do you remember on the morning of April seventeenth at the meeting in Mr. Madriani’s office the defendant, Jonah Hale, offering cigars to those in attendance?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you find out about this cigar being found at the scene?”
“Mr. Brower told me he had seen it.”
“What else did he tell you? About the cigar?”
“Objection, hearsay.”
“Sustained.”
Ryan’s trying to get at the question of whether Brower thought he recognized it as similar to the one Jonah had given him earlier in the day.
“Do you recall whether Mr. Hale offered a cigar to Investigator Brower during the meeting at Mr. Madriani’s on the seventeenth?”
“I think he did.”
“You think he did?” Ryan is beginning to get angry.
“He gave him one,” says Susan.
“And did you ever talk to Mr. Brower about that cigar, the one Mr. Hale gave to Mr. Brower after discovering that a similar cigar had been found at the scene?”
Susan looks at me.
“I’m going to object. Assumes facts not in evidence.”
“Your Honor, we have expert testimony on the cigars.”
“But we don’t know the witness knew they were similar at the time.”
“That assumes Mr. Brower didn’t tell her they looked the same,” says Ryan.
“I’m gonna overrule the objection,” says Peltro.
“Did you ever talk to Mr. Brower about the cigar he received from Mr. Hale?”
“We had a conversation,” says Susan.
“A conversation. Ms. McKay, isn’t it a fact that you instructed Investigator Brower to turn that cigar over to you, and that he told you he’d already delivered it to the police? That you were angry with him for this?”
“I was his supervisor,” says Susan. “He should have told me what he was doing before he got involved.”
“Why? You’ve already testified that this was not something within the jurisdiction of your department. This was an open homicide case. Why did you want that cigar, Ms. McKay?”
When Susan doesn’t answer, Ryan nails her. “Was it that you craved a good smoke?” he says.
A couple of jurors actually laugh.
“Is that when you reassigned Investigator Brower?” says Ryan. “He was good enough to take Mr. Madriani to the crime scene for you, but he wouldn’t turn over evidence, is that it?”
Susan is now looking at Ryan with all the fire she can muster. Molten steel shot with a gaze.
The inference is poisonous, that Susan, in league with the defense, wanted to destroy evidence. To this she has no answer.
TWENTY-NINE
* * *
In the afternoon, Ryan puts on a taxi driver who testifies that he picked Jonah up on the street, two blocks from Susan’s office on the day of the murder, and delivered him to the parking lot at Spanish Landing. All this before three in the afternoon.
Unfortunately no one saw Jonah on the boat, not that he was there long. Jonah has told Harry and me that he took his car and went driving in a daze of anger and frustration, he can’t remember where, until the cops found him sitting in the sand along the Strand, his car parked illegally out on the highway.
The only bright spot is that Peltro had us in chambers over the noon hour to talk about Jonah’s condition. Dr. Karashi, as promised, called the judge and told him of his findings.
In response, Ryan has called Karashi’s boss. The kid is now off the case. Judge Peltro is now forced to wait until more senior physicians can get in to see our client. Jonah’s own doctor will not be in until tonight.
Jonah is looking worse by the hour. He spent noontime on his back on the cot in the holding cell. His color is flushed, and this morning Harry caught him in what appeared to be a breathless state. Jonah has denied this, saying he is feeling fine, as if it is a solemn duty to complete the trial.
Ryan, in an effort to mollify Peltro, has assured the court that he will call only one more witness. We can then recess for the weekend. According to Ryan, Jonah can rest, and get a thorough medical examination, a million electrodes, and if Ryan has anything to do with it, wires no doubt thrust up his kazoo.
“Mr. Hale, how are you feeling?” Peltro looks down from the bench. “If you want to take a break anytime,” he says, “you just tell me.”
Jonah shakes his head. Waves him off. “I’m feeling fine, Your Honor.” Certificate of health from my own client. He sees this as the fair thing to do. The state is trying to put him to death, and Jonah wants to be fair.
“Are you sure?” Harry’s in his ear.
“No, I’m okay.” He says it loud enough now for everybody in the courtroom to hear, as if he is angry at Harry for asking, like a nagging wife.
Ryan looks at him. He would strap Jonah in his chair and prop his eyelids open, add a little heat if he had to, to keep the trial going. The last thing Ryan needs is a defendant too ill to continue, and a mistrial. Peltro himself is walking on eggs, trying to avoid it.
Ryan may be at the end of his case, but his last witness is troublesome. He calls Floyd Jeffers, the deckhand who worked on Jonah’s boat, and who according to Jonah he hasn’t seen for nearly two years.
Jeffers has that hint of the alcoholic about him: undernourished frame with a slightly bloated belly and bags under the eyes. It’s a build that makes you suspect his liver is already corroded. His hair looks like somebody cut it with a dull pair of hedge clippers.
He’s wearing a new pair of blue jeans, r
olled up cuffs, something no doubt purchased by the county for the occasion, and a cotton flannel shirt, yellow plaid to match his color. The shirt is at least one size too big.
He’s the kind of witness you don’t dress in a suit. It would only look ridiculous.
Ryan has him spell his name for the record and give his address. I am only guessing, but I would bet that this is a halfway house, probably something connected to the county’s detox center.
The worry here is why Ryan would call Jeffers, particularly as his last witness. It is a cardinal rule that you want to end on a high note, leave the jury mulling over your strongest piece of evidence and hope that they forget the weak spots.
“Mr. Jeffers, I would ask you to look at the defendant, Mr. Jonah Hale, and tell the jury whether you know him.”
Jeffers looks at Jonah, smiles, nods, he actually waves. What’s worse, Jonah raises a hand and returns the gesture. “That’s him,” says Jeffers. Points with a finger.
“So you’re acquainted with Mr. Hale?”
“Yep.”
“Can you tell us how you met him?” says Ryan.
“I worked for him.” Jeffers says it as if the entire room should know this already. He has no doubt been going over it endlessly with Ryan and his staff.
“When was this? That you worked for him?”
“Worked for him for about six months. That would have been about two years ago.”
“And what did you do?”
“Deckhand,” he says. “Worked on his boat. The Amanda.”
“And what were your duties working on the boat?”
“A little bit of everything,” says Jeffers.
And a lot of drinking, is my guess.
“Maintenance. Cleaned up after we went out,” he says. “Handled bait lines on the water. Worked the gaff sometimes, if the fish were big.”
“Were you the only deckhand?”
“No. There were two of us. Sometimes three, depending on the weather. In the early going, when he first got the boat, Mr. Hale that is, he’d bring on a skipper once in a while.”
“Did you get on pretty well with Mr. Hale?”
“Oh, yeah. He was a good man. Good boss. Paid real well. Let me stay on the boat sometimes when I needed a place.”
“He allowed you to live on the boat?”
“Sure. For a few weeks in the summer. I needed a place,” says Jeffers. “Didn’t have any money. So he let me stay there. I sorta watched it for him.”
“When was this?”
“Oh.” Jeffers thinks now. He’s not the rummy witness you might suspect. “It was two summers ago. I was there for a few weeks is all. Till I could get up enough money for my own place.”
“When you lived on board, where did you sleep?”
“There’s a salon, good sized, and V-berth up forward. That’s where I slept.”
“So when you were there, you brought some of your . . . your personal belongings on board?” The way Ryan says it, emphasis on the words personal belongings, makes it sound like a kind of code.
“Yeah. That’s when I brought the gun on board,” says Jeffers.
“Gun? What gun?” says Ryan.
“Your Honor, I object.” I’m out of my chair like a rocket. “I’d like an opportunity to voir dire this witness.”
“Your Honor, the witness was on the list,” says Ryan. “The defense had every opportunity if they wanted to question him.”
“If the prosecutor has a gun, it should have been disclosed.”
“Do you have the firearm?” says Peltro.
Ryan shakes his head. “No gun, Your Honor. But the witness can testify where it was, when he saw it.”
Like a torpedo from the fog on calm water, the details of Ryan’s case suddenly come into focus, too late to avoid them. It’s why he wanted Susan to explain to the jury that she drove Jonah to her office that day after our meeting; that Jonah’s car was at the boat. Ryan’s evidence, his theory is that the murder weapon was there as well. Now with the taxi driver’s testimony, he puts Jonah back on the docks with plenty of time to drive to Suade’s office and kill her.
“I’m gonna overrule the objection,” says Peltro. “You can answer the question.”
“What about this gun?” says Ryan.
“It was a little semiautomatic.” Jeffers describes the pistol as if they’ve rehearsed it, which they no doubt have.
“Why did you bring this gun on board the boat?”
“We used it,” says Jeffers. “For some of the bigger fish. One shark I can remember, about twelve feet long. We got it up near the side, still in the water. It was thrashing all around. So we got the gun and shot it before we brought it on board.”
“You say ‘we.’ Did Mr. Hale know that this firearm was on board his boat?”
“Your Honor, I have to object.”
“Overruled,” says Peltro.
“Oh, yeah. I showed him where I kept it,” says Jeffers.
All this time I’m trying not to look at Jonah, though twelve sets of eyes from the jury box are burning holes through him.
“Do you remember what kind of pistol it was? Make or caliber?” says Ryan.
“Can’t remember the make,” says Jeffers. “But it was a three-eighty caliber.” The witness is nodding as if this is precisely what Ryan expects.
When I finally look over at Jonah, there is a burning emptiness deep in my stomach, caused not so much by what Jeffers is saying as by the expression on my client’s face, like a veil of remembrance. Oh yeah. That’s right.
“One final question,” says Ryan. “Do you know what happened to this pistol?”
“Yeah. I left it on Mr. Hale’s boat when I quit.”
“Your witness,” says Ryan.
I can’t wait to get at him. I arrive at the podium before Ryan can collect his papers.
“Mr. Jeffers, do you have a record?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you have a criminal record?” I ask.
Jeffers looks at Ryan. “Do I have to answer that?”
Ryan nods.
“Yeah. I been arrested, if that’s what you mean.”
“Isn’t it a fact that you’re a convicted felon? That you were sentenced to the state penitentiary at Folsom? That you did more than a year for embezzling money from a former employer?”
“That’s true,” he says.
Harry and I had gone over Jeffers’s criminal history, though we had never expected him to be called. Harry had even managed to get a copy of the arrest records so that we know some of the details surrounding his conviction.
“How did you acquire this handgun that you testified about?”
“I bought it from a friend,” says Jeffers.
“When?”
Jeffers has to think for a moment. Looks at the ceiling. “Probably four or five months before I went to work for Mr. Hale.”
“Who did you buy it from? What’s your friend’s name?”
“Maxwell Williams.” Jeffers doesn’t hesitate with this, as if he was expecting it. Ryan has clearly prepared him.
“And how did you know this Maxwell Williams?”
“I met him in jail,” he says.
“And how did he get this gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much did you pay for this pistol you testified about?”
“Two hundred dollars,” says Jeffers.
“How did you pay for it? Check or cash, or did your friend take a credit card?”
“It was cash,” says Jeffers.
“That’s a lot of money for someone who can’t even afford the price of a weekly motel room.”
“I needed the gun for protection,” he says.
“From wh
o?”
“Living on the street,” he says. “It can be dangerous.”
The problem with Jeffers is that everything he says has the ring of truth. I can see in his eyes that Jeffers can sense where I’m going. Why would a man who is broke, and who spends two hundred dollars buying a pistol, leave it on his employer’s boat when he quits? So I don’t go there.
“Mr. Jeffers, do you know it’s a violation of federal law for a convicted felon to possess a firearm?”
“Yeah, I know,” says Jeffers. “I found that out. That’s why I told Mr. Hale when I quit, that I left the pistol on his boat.”
It’s why you never want to jump at a witness.
“I forgot all about it.” Jonah says it to Harry out loud before we can stop him. “I dumped it. Threw it over the side when Amanda started coming on the boat,” he says.
The courtroom is in an uproar. Peltro’s hitting the gavel, nailing the wooden surface of the bench. Telling everybody to be quiet. “Shut your client up, Mr. Madriani.”
“I forgot.” Jonah still trying to convince Harry.
“Mr. Hale, shut up,” says the judge.
These are the last distinguishable words I can remember before Jonah’s head hits the counsel table, dead weight, like a melon hitting a wooden wall.
THIRTY
* * *
I can tell that Mary has been here before. She tells Harry and me about the other little room down the hall, the one with muted lamps on the side tables, large plush sofas against the walls, and blinds on the small glass window that looks out onto the hallway. That one is reserved as the family grieving room, the place where you do not want to be taken when the physician comes out with news.
“There was another lady when I was here last time,” she says. “They took her down there.”
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