Glitsky 02 - Guilt

by John Lescroart

'Not exactly, no.'

  'You do admit, however, that you probably had a couple of drinks - that was your habit with meals - regardless whether it was corned beef or pork chops.'

  'That's the first thing I said, wasn't it? That I didn't know?'

  'Yes, it was, Mr Balian. That was the first thing you said, that you didn't remember what you'd eaten. But now, let's get on with what you say you do remember, the car with the ESKW license plates. You saw this car parked on your street on Tuesday night, June 7th?'

  On more solid ground for a moment, Balian settled himself in the witness chair. He loosened his collar at the knot of his tie. 'I did. It was in front of the Murrays' house.'

  'And where were you? Did you walk right by it?'

  A pause. 'I was across the street.'

  'Across the street? Did you cross over to look at this car more carefully?'

  'No. I could see it fine. I didn't study it or anything. I just noticed it, the way you notice things. It wasn't a car from our street.'

  'Okay, fair enough. Is Casitas a wide street, by the way?'

  The petulance was returning. 'It's a normal street, I don't know how wide.'

  Farrell went back to his table and turned with a document in his hand. He moved forward to the witness box. The questions may have been barbed, but his tone was neutral, even friendly. 'I have here a notarized survey of Casitas Avenue' - he had it marked Defense E - 'and it shows that the street is sixty-two feet from side to side. Does that sound right, Mr Balian?'

  'If you say so.'

  'But you had to be more than sixty-two feet away when you saw the license plate that read ESKW, isn't that true?'

  'I don't know. Why?'

  'Because you couldn't read the plate from directly across the street, could you?' Balian didn't answer directly, and Farrell believed the question might have struck him ambiguously. So he helped him out. 'From directly across the street, you'd only see the side of the car, wouldn't you? You would have had to have been diagonal to it to see the license plate, isn't that so?'

  'Oh, I see what you're saying. I guess so. Yes.'

  'Maybe another ten, twenty, thirty feet away?'

  'Maybe. I don't know. I saw the car ...' Balian paused.

  'So how far were you from the car, Mr Balian? More than sixty feet, correct?'

  'I guess.'

  'More than eighty feet?'

  'Maybe.'

  'More than a hundred feet?'

  'Maybe not that much.'

  'So perhaps a hundred feet, is that fair?' Farrell smiled at him, man-to man. There was nothing personal here. 'Now, when you saw this car from perhaps a hundred feet away—'

  'Objection.' Jenkins had to try, but she must have known the objection wasn't so much for substance as it was for solidarity. Her witness was beginning to shrivel.

  Farrell rephrased. 'When you saw this car from across the street, was it at the beginning of your walk or more toward the end of it?'

  'The end of it. I was coming around back to my street.'

  'And so the street-lights were on, were they not?'

  After another hesitation, Balian responded about the street-lights. 'They had just come on.'

  'They had just come on. So it was still somewhat light out?'

  'Yes. I could see clearly.'

  'I'm sure you could, but I'm a little confused. Haven't you just testified that you walked for an hour, and when you got back to your house, it was dark? Didn't you tell that to Ms Jenkins?'

  'Yes. I said that.'

  'And this street you live on - Casitas - is it a long way from the Murrays' house, where you saw this car, to your own home?'

  'No. Seven or eight houses.'

  'And did you continue your walk home after you saw this car in front of the Murrays'? You didn't stop for anything, chat with anybody?'

  'No.'

  'And you've said it was dark when you got home?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, then, I'm simply confused here - maybe you could explain it to us all. How could it have been light, or as you say, just dark, when you were seven or eight houses up the street?'

  'I said the lights were on.'

  'Yes, you did say that, Mr Balian. But you said they were "just" on, implying it was still light out, isn't that the case? But it wasn't light out, was it? It was, in fact, dark.'

  'I said the street-lights were on, didn't I?' he repeated, his voice now querulous, shaking. 'I didn't tell a lie. I saw that car! I saw the license plates. It was the same car I saw the next day.'

  Warfare, Farrell was thinking. No other word for it. He advanced relentlessly. 'And it was a brown car, you said, didn't you? You knew for sure that the car you saw the previous night had been brown because it had the same license plates.'

  'Yes.'

  'When you first saw the car that night, could you tell it was brown in the dark?'

  'What kind of question is that? Of course it was brown. It was the same car.'

  'Couldn't it have been dark blue, or black, or another dark color?'

  'No. It was brown!'

  Farrell took a moment regrouping. He walked back to the defense table, consulted some notes, turned. Then. 'Do you wear glasses, Mr Balian?'

  The witness had his elbows planted on the arms of the chair, his head sunken between his shoulders, swallowed in the suit. 'I wear reading glasses.'

  'And you see perfectly clearly for normal activities?'

  'Yes.'

  Twenty-twenty vision?'

  Another agonizing pause. 'Almost. I don't need glasses to drive a car. I've got fine vision, young man.'

  'For a man of your age, I'm sure you do. How old are you, by the way, Mr Balian?'

  Chin thrust out, Balian was proud of it. 'I'm seventy-nine years old, and I see just as good as you do.'

  Farrell paused and took a deep breath. He didn't want Balian to explode at him, make him into the heavy, but he had to keep going. A couple more hits and it would be over. 'And then the next day, at what you knew was a murder scene, you saw a similar car in a driveway to the one you'd seen the previous night, in the dark, after you'd had a couple of drinks, and Lieutenant Glitsky showed up and suddenly it seemed it might have been the exact same car, didn't it?'

  'It was the same car!'

  A subtle shake of the head, Farrell indicating to the jury that no, it wasn't. And here's why. 'When was the first time you talked to police, Mr Balian?'

  'I told you, the next day.'

  'And Lieutenant Glitsky asked if you'd seen anything unusual in the neighborhood, right?'

  'Right.'

  'And you told him about the car, and Lieutenant Glitsky pointed to the brown Lexus parked in Mr Dooher's driveway, and asked you if that was the car, didn't he?'

  'Yes.'

  'And it looked like the car, didn't it?'

  Balian sat forward, tired of all this. 'I'm pretty sure it was the same car.'

  Farrell nodded. 'You're pretty sure. Thank you.'

  39

  One of Archbishop Flaherty's predecessors had organized The Corporate Santa Claus Party to give a year-end tax incentive for businesses to help provide toys, games, clothes, and various other Christmas presents for the underprivileged children in the city and county of San Francisco. This year the St Francis Yacht Club was hosting the event, which was the society set's unofficial launch of the season's hectic party schedule. Over 300 guests - the cream of the city's business community - had gathered for an evening of dining and dancing to big-band music.

  Mark Dooher, in his tuxedo, was in his element, among friends. The room, like the people in it, was elegantly turned out. Dessert and coffee had been cleared away and the band had kicked into what some guests had decided was a danceable version of Joy to the World.

  Christina had been amazed and gratified by the volume and apparent sincerity of expressions of support and sympathy for Mark. Now they were alone at their table. She held his hand under it.

  'Look at Wes,' she said to Mark. 'It looks like he
's finally having some fun.'

  The bark of Wes Farrell's laughter carried across the room, even over the band. Everybody who wanted to buy Wes a drink had succeeded, and he wasn't feeling much pain.

  Dooher looked over benevolently. 'He deserves it. He's been doing a hell of a job, but the guy's been killing himself. I didn't really know - even knowing him my whole life - that he had all that fight in him. I think he's going to have himself a career after this.'

  Christina squeezed his hand, was silent a moment, then said, 'I don't know if I am.'

  Surprised, he looked at her. 'What do you mean?'

  She shrugged. 'I don't think this is the kind of law I want to do.'

  'Why not? You're getting an innocent man off. Don't you feel good about that?'

  'Sure, I feel great about that. But how it has to be done.' Her free hand reached for the salt shaker and poured a small pile of it on to the linen, then traced circles with what she'd poured. 'Last night I couldn't get my mind off poor Mr Balian, how he looked when Wes got finished with him. And bringing up that stuff with Lieutenant Glitsky ... I know it has to be done. They got it wrong, but—'

  'I can't tell you how much good it does me to hear you say that again. I thought you'd given up faith in me.'

  Again, she squeezed his hand. 'You were right,' she said. 'It is faith. There's unanswered questions about almost everything else in life. It's just here they seem so ominous.'

  'I know. Sometimes, the past couple of months, they almost had me thinking I did it after all. I mean, I remembered being at the driving range. I remember coming home and finding Sheila. But when I first heard about Balian, or the blood, I wondered where those things could have come from. Maybe I blanked, went sleepwalking, something. Maybe I did it.' He squeezed her hand. 'But I didn't. I can't blame you for having your doubts.'

  'It's just so hard to see these other people - Glitsky and Mr Balian and Amanda Jenkins - doing what they do. I have to think they really believe they're right.'

  Dooher was silent for a moment, wrestling with it. 'People get committed to their positions. Glitsky got himself committed, and he sold it to Jenkins. I think that's what's got us to here. But we can't let them ruin our lives. We've got to fight back. That's the world, Christina. Misunderstandings. I don't know if people are malicious -I don't like to think so. But sometimes they're just wrong, and what are we supposed to do about that?'

  'I know,' she said. 'But seeing Wes take them apart, that's hard for me. And if we do get to this Diane Price as one of their witnesses, it'll be me up there, and it will feel personal, and I don't know if that is me.'

  'You'll do fine.'

  But she was shaking her head. 'No, not that. I'm not worried whether or not I can do it. I know what I'm going to be asking her - I've rehearsed it a hundred times. As you guys say, I'll eat her for lunch. But I have to tell you, I'm not comfortable with it. This isn't what I feel I was born to do.'

  He covered her hand with both of his, leaned in toward her. 'What do you think you were born to do, Christina?'

  'I don't know really. Something less confrontational, I guess. There must be something in the law—'

  'No,' he interrupted, 'I don't mean with the law. I'm not talking about your professional life. You'll do fine there, whatever you decide. I mean you personally. What were you born to do?'

  Her finger went back to spreading the salt around. The band finished one song and started another. 'I don't know anymore, Mark. I don't think about that.'

  'But you used to know?'

  She shrugged. 'I used to have dreams. Now . . .' She trailed off, biting down on her lip. 'It's stupid. You grow up and all the variables have changed and what you thought you wanted isn't really an option anymore.' She met his eyes.

  He raised her hand and turned her palm to him, kissing it gently. 'You're thinking an old man like me - hell, nearly fifty, there's no way I'd want what you used to think you were born for ...'

  'I don't. ..'

  He touched her lips with his index finger. 'Which is babies, a family, a normal life like your parents have, is that it? Is that what you used to think you were born for?'

  She pressed her lips together. Her eyes were liquid with tears, and she nodded.

  'Because,' he said, 'we could do that. We could have all the kids you want. I didn't do so well the first time around, maybe we could both start over. Together.'

  She leaned her head in against his. He brought his arms up around her and felt her shoulders give. Holding her there against him, he whispered, 'Whatever you want, it's do-able, Christina. We can do it. Whatever you want. Anything.'

  Nat Glitsky left a message for his son at Homicide, then braved the new storm that had just arrived air mail from Alaska. He got to Abe's duplex, where he told Rita she could take the night off. He was driving his three grandsons downtown where they were going to meet their father at the Imperial Palace in Chinatown for dim sum, Nat's treat.

  It had been a tough-enough year for the family, and after Abe's testimony at the trial, Nat's personal seismograph - sensitive to these things - had picked up rumblings with the boys that made him uncomfortable. Now they were all on the first round of pot stickers. Their father hadn't shown up yet, and the rumblings were continuing. 'What I don't get,' Jacob was grousing, 'is no matter what time we plan something, Dad's late, even if it's like five minutes from where he works.'

  'Your old man's busy, Jake, he's in the middle of a trial on top of his regular job.' But it bothered Nat, too, and checking his watch every five minutes, he wasn't entirely successful at hiding it. 'He'll be here. He's coming.'

  'So's Christmas.' Isaac really wasn't saying much lately. His mother's death had carved out a hole in his personality where the kid used to be, and now a sullen, gangly, hurt teenager glared across the table at his grandfather. Isaac was the oldest and having the worst time of it, but in Nat's view none of the boys was doing very well.

  A waitress came by, as one of them did every couple of minutes, with a new selection of foods - all kinds of sticky buns, chicken, beef and pork dishes, various seafoods (Nat didn't keep Kosher all the time), vegetables and noodles, each served on a small white plate, a pile of which were accumulating quickly at the side of the table. At the end of the meal, the waiters would count the plates and compute the cost - simple and efficient.

  'So you been reading about your father in the newspapers?' Nat wasn't going to side-step into it. He knew what the undercurrent was about and knew there wasn't any solution except to talk about it. But none of the boys answered, so he persisted. 'You taking grief at school?'

  O.J., sitting next to Nat, was the youngest and looked across the table to his older brothers for cues, but they were pretending to be busy peeling aluminum foil from some chicken wings, so he piped up. 'I don't think Dad's a liar. I don't think he cheated.'

  'Shut up, O.J.,' Jacob said. 'He's doing what he's got to do, that's all. He's a cop. It's not the same.'

  'What's not, Jake?'

  'The rules.'

  Nat didn't like hearing that. 'Your dad's not breaking any rules, Jake. He's got the same rules as everybody else.'

  Isaac snorted. 'You read the newspaper, Grandpa? You watch any television?'

  'Yeah, I've seen it.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, what?'

  'Well, what do you think?'

  'I think this man Dooher killed his wife and he's got a smart attorney. Your dad arrested him because he thought he did that. You know he didn't take any blood from the hospital.'

  Isaac looked down, unconvinced. Jacob spoke up. 'It doesn't really matter, Grandpa. Everybody thinks he did.'

  'Not everybody,' Nat said. 'I don't. You boys shouldn't. Anybody starts telling that stuff to you, you tell them they're full of baloney.'

  'But why do they keep saying it?' O.J. wanted to know.

  'Because people don't know your father. And people do know, or they like to believe, that there are cops out there who do bad things, who cheat and lie
and plant evidence so they'll win their cases. But that's not your father. You guys gotta believe in your old man. He's going through a hard time right now, just like you all are. You got to help him get through it.'

  But Isaac was shaking his head, disagreeing. 'Why? He doesn't help us with anything. He's gone in the morning, gone at nights, gone on the weekends. Work work work, and he dumps us off on Rita. He just doesn't want to be with us. It's obvious. We remind him of Mom.'

  'If he did,' Jake added, 'he'd be here.'

  O.J. was having a hard time holding back tears. 'I just wish Mom would come back. Then we wouldn't even need Dad. Then it would be all right.'

  Nat reached out a hand and put it over his youngest grandson's. 'You do need your dad, O.J. Your Mom really isn't coming back.'

  'I know,' he said. 'Everybody always says that.' His voice was breaking. 'I just wish she would, though.'

  'I don't think we do need Dad, Grandpa,' Isaac said. 'I mean, look right here. Where's Dad now? Who cares? We're taking care of each other. Quit crying, O.J.'

  'I'm not crying.'

  'Leave him alone, Isaac.' Jacob pushed at his older brother. 'He can cry if he wants to.'

  'I'm not crying, you guys!'

  'Shh! Shh! It's okay.' Nat smiled at the customers around them who were looking over at the disturbance. 'Let's try to keep restaurant voices, all right? Oh, and look, here comes your dad now.'

  Eleven o'clock, Glitsky's kitchen.

  'Abraham, they need you.'

  'Everybody needs me, Dad. I'm sick to death of people needing me. I don't have anything to give them.'

  'Just some time. That's all they need. Some of your time.'

  'I don't have any time. Don't you understand that? Every minute of my days and nights...'

  'But this is your own blood. You signed on for this.'

  'Not this way I didn't!'

  'Any way, Abraham. They didn't ask to be here either, not like this.'

  Glitsky stopped pacing and lowered himself on to the ottoman which filled the centre of the small room. His dad leaned against the refrigerator. The two men's voices were low and harsh. They didn't want to wake Rita, sleeping in the dim light of the Christmas tree in the next room.