Hardy 13 - Plague of Secrets, A

by John Lescroart

  As Hardy knew he would, he said that although the bullets appeared similar in class characteristics and likely came from the same sort of gun, there were insufficient details on the recovered slug to say with absolute certainty that it had come from the gun in the alley.

  Stier knew that this was not his strongest point, and he moved to buttress it. “Tell the jury, please, what tests, if any, you ran on the spent casing, and what results you got.”

  “The brass casing is part of a round of ammunition used in the .40-caliber Glock. The marks on the base of the casing—caused by the weapon’s firing mechanism—were consistent with other markings we could create on other bullet casings fired from the same weapon.”

  “Does that mean the casing necessarily came from the weapon found in the alley?”

  “No. Like the bullet, it came from a Glock .40, but I can’t say with certainty it was that same Glock .40.”

  “But of course, Sergeant, you found no other bullets or casings in that alley, correct?”

  “Right.”

  Hardy knew that this was a repetitive and therefore objectionable question, but that objecting would only draw more attention to something he hoped the jury would not focus on. So he let it go.

  Stier saved the best for last. “Sergeant, is there a database that firearms examiners can access to determine ownership of a handgun?”

  Hardy knew that this was gilding the lily—any cop could access this database. Even a clerk could access the database. Stier’s question suggested that this was some sort of secret database and that you had to be a member of a club to look at it. But there was nothing Hardy could do about it. Once again, he had to tip his hat to Stier for knowing his business.

  “Yes, there is a database. The gun had a registration number, and I ran that.”

  With a brightness implying that this was all new to him, Stier glanced over the jury, sharing with them his enthusiasm for the hunt. “A registration number? You mean the gun was licensed to an individual?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who is that person, Sergeant?”

  “The defendant, Maya Townshend.”

  A wave of energy swept through the gallery. Stier paused just a moment for dramatic effect, until the room was dead silent again.

  Hardy knew that this was a low point, and that it was just going to get worse when the fingerprint examiner told the jury that Maya’s fingerprints were on the magazine that held the ammunition on the weapon from the alley. The best Hardy could hope for from the fingerprint expert was going to be a discussion of an unidentified partial fingerprint on the spent casing.

  But since Hardy knew that ultimately that print could have been left by anyone who ever handled the ammunition, who worked where it was manufactured, or clerked in the store where it was sold, that was precious little.

  Stier took the opportunity by a sideways glance to include the jury in his acknowledgment of the witness. “Thank you, Sergeant.” Then, somewhat to Hardy’s surprise, Stier half turned to look at him. “Your witness, Mr. Hardy.”

  Hardy’s surprise came from the fact that he’d expected Faro to remain on the stand to testify about the Preslee crime scene, but apparently Stier had an alternate strategy in mind for that portion of the People’s case. For now, Hardy had a job to do, and he squeezed his client’s arm and rose with a show of confidence from their table.

  “Sergeant Faro,” he began, “in your testimony today, talking about the alleged murder weapon, the Glock .40 and the brass casing and bullet that you found at the scene of Mr. Vogler’s murder, you used the words consistent with several times, did you not?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Tell the jury, please, what you mean by that phrase.”

  After a moment’s hesitation Faro shrugged. “I’m not sure I know a better word. We fired a few rounds from the gun in the lab and compared the indent left by the firing pin on those casings to the gun from the alley and they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.”

  “Virtually indistinguishable? Do you mean to say that they were exactly the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t say that the casing came from the gun, can you, Sergeant?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s because your virtually indistinguishable markings were in fact so few in number that they don’t permit a comparison. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “To make a point, Sergeant, your name has an A. R. in it, doesn’t it?”

  Stier spoke up from behind him. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

  Braun let her curiosity overcome her distaste for Hardy. “Overruled.”

  Faro spoke up. “Yes, it does. F-A-R-O.”

  “Well, so does mine, Sergeant. H-A-R-D-Y. Does that mean we have the same name?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Hardy.”

  Braun reminding him that she was aware that she’d been ruling in his favor more often than was her wont, but that his leash was very short now, and tightening.

  “Sergeant, how many Glock .40s are there in the world?”

  “Objection! Speculation.”

  “Overruled, Mr. Stier. You qualified Sergeant Faro as a firearms expert.”

  Hardy fenced with Faro in this vein for a moment before concluding. “In other words, Sergeant Faro,” he said, “you can’t tell this jury that this casing came from this gun, can you?”

  “No. I cannot.”

  “And in fact, aren’t there thousands of other Glock .40s that could have left this casing?”

  “Yes, there are.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Hardy kept his face impassive but brought his hands together in muted delight. “Now, as to the bullet itself, the .40-caliber slug that you’ve identified as the bullet that killed Mr. Vogler. Again, you used the words consistent with. Sergeant, did you not run a ballistics test on this slug?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “And aren’t ballistics tests conclusive?”

  “Generally, yes, they can be.”

  “When are they not?”

  “Well, when the slug is deformed or mutilated.”

  “And was the slug deformed or mutilated?”

  “No, not too bad. It was embedded in stucco and wood, but it was okay.”

  “And so, was your ballistics test conclusive?”

  Faro shot a quick, impatient look over to Stier, shook his head at Hardy. “No.”

  Hardy put on an expression of mild surprise. “No? Why not?”

  “Because like with the casing, this particular bullet lacked sufficient microscopic detail to permit a conclusive match.” Faro seemed to feel obliged to defend his inability to give more conclusive evidence. “This particular type of weapon has a type of unique hexagonal rifling in the barrel that tends not to leave the marks necessary for an exact ballistics comparison.”

  “So, again, Sergeant, let me ask you. Is it possible that the slug that we have here did not come from the gun owned by Maya Townshend?”

  This time, since it was foreordained, and though he clearly hated the pass to which he’d come, Faro didn’t struggle with his answer. “Yes.”

  After a small pause, Hardy went on. “Sergeant, did you and your crime-scene unit get called to the scene of Mr. Preslee’s murder?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  A confused frown. “Well, Sergeant, it’s true, is it not, that you found not one shred of evidence inside Mr. Preslee’s home indicating that Maya Townshend had ever even been inside the place, much less murdered anybody there?”

  As Hardy had anticipated, Stier was on his feet immediately. “Objection. Beyond the scope of direct examination. We’ll get to the Levon Preslee murder scene in due course.”

  “Sustained.”

  Hardy didn’t care. He knew he’d gotten on the boards first with that crime at least, making his point in front of the jury. Hardy came back to the witness. “No further questions.”

  23
>
  The door to the jail’s visiting room swung open and Hardy stood as Maya came in. He waited patiently while the female guard asked his permission and then undid Maya’s handcuffs with a gentleness that he found heartbreaking. Maya had proven herself time and again to be much tougher than she looked, but Hardy had found that it was the little personal indignities that often broke people’s spirits when they were in jail. But this guard was solicitous, even going so far as to touch Maya’s arm and give her a confident nod before leaving attorney and client alone in the glass-block-enclosed space.

  “I hate this place, you know that?” Maya said as they sat down on their metal chairs. “It’s worse than the cell.”

  “I can’t say it’s exactly my favorite either.” Hardy quickly took in their surroundings. He’d been here many times, and the small semicircular room had a certain familiarity to him. At one time, not so very long ago, the building they were in had been the “new” jail and the polished concrete floors and glass walls lent a sense of openness and light to these rooms that at first had seemed far less oppressive than the rectangular, confessional-sized attorneys’ visiting rooms at the old jail.

  Over the years, though, this room’s diaphanous warmth, too, had dissipated somehow, perhaps under the psychic toll of its everyday use. Now it was just another old room, somehow colder for its modernity, its sterility, its cruel illusion of openness through the glass. “Maybe I should smuggle in some rugs, a couple of plants,” he said. “I could bring them in my briefcase every time. That’d spruce the place right up, I bet.”

  Unable to fake even a stab at levity, Maya simply said, “I’m not sure it would help.”

  “No, I guess not.” Hardy tried to maintain an upbeat and easygoing style, since he saw no reason to add to his client’s pain, but sometimes there was no help for it. “Has Joel been by?”

  She nodded, swallowed the lump in her throat. “But outside, at the regular visiting place.” This was a long room for friends and relatives—as opposed to attorneys—similar in fact to those seen on television and in the movies, with a row of visitor stations on either side of Plexiglas windows with speakers set in them, rendering any true personal contact impossible. “It doesn’t really work out there. He only comes by because he feels like he needs to.”

  “He comes by,” Hardy said, “because he loves you.”

  “All right.” Maya clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She bowed her head, lowered her eyes. Then, with a forced interest: “So how’d we do out there today?”

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “I can’t believe they keep going ahead with it.”

  “I know. I’ve had the same thought myself.”

  “Especially with Levon. They have nothing at all, do they?”

  “Your presence. I guess they feel that’s all they’re going to need, once they convince the jury on Dylan.”

  She sat still a moment, hands on her lap. “I just keep thinking that if only he hadn’t been carrying that weed with him.”

  “They probably would have found the stash at his house anyway, and the garden, and maybe the computer records too.”

  “But if he wasn’t selling the stuff out of the shop . . .”

  “We can’t just keep doing ‘if,’ Maya. He was.”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” She paused. “So what about Kathy and Harlen coming down today? Does that help us?”

  “I think so, though I wish she’d run it by me first.”

  Another silence. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “The other person who you said did it. Is anybody looking for him?”

  “Well, the cops aren’t. That’s a safe bet.”

  “So how about us?”

  “How about us what?”

  “We look for him.”

  “Or her. Don’t forget her.”

  “No. I never would. But really.”

  This gambit, or suggestion, or whatever it was, was heartening in some small way, but Hardy kept his emotional guard up. Though technically it didn’t matter what he actually thought about Maya’s guilt or lack thereof, she might think it would give him a psychological boost at the trial if she somehow got him believing she was innocent. And this question clearly telegraphed her assumption of another murderer, without her having to directly lie to her attorney by saying she hadn’t done it.

  The problem was, he knew that she’d done something. Something damn serious, about which she obviously was carrying an enormous load of guilt. And he also knew, or thought he knew, what she’d been blackmailed about—robberies or perhaps worse that she must have committed with Dylan and Levon. So unless she’d committed murder in the course of one of those . . .

  Whoa, he told himself. Therein lies the path to madness. But then he thought, why not? They’d come this far. And he came out with it. “Maya, yes or no, were you involved in the robbery that got Dylan and Levon sent to prison?”

  She straightened her back. “Nobody can prove I was.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  She hesitated. “No.” A beat. “Not that one.”

  “So that is in fact what the blackmail was about?”

  She didn’t answer, turned her face to look at the wall.

  “I ask,” Hardy pressed on, “because you should know that unless you committed murder or some other heinous crime during one of these robberies, you can’t be charged with anything. Anything else, and the statutes of limitations have tolled.”

  Her eyes came back to him. They bore a shine that he thought might presage tears. “Why are you so sure they were blackmailing me?”

  “For one reason, it’s the thing that makes the most sense. You were involved in robberies with them in college. Yes?”

  Finally, her shoulders gave an inch. “I’ve already told you. I did some bad stuff.”

  “Bad enough for life in prison, Maya? Bad enough to never live with your kids or your husband again?”

  She stared through him.

  “You want to tell me what it was? Just put it out here between me and you. It’s privileged. Nobody else will ever know.”

  “Don’t bully me.” Her words had a sudden calm edge.

  “I’m not bullying you. I’m saying you can tell me anything you’ve done.”

  “What for? So you’d do something different? I don’t think so. I think you’d do all the same things, make the same arguments in court, whatever it is you believe I’d actually done, isn’t that true?”

  Angry now, Hardy did not answer.

  And then suddenly, Maya came at him on another tack. “What you don’t seem to understand is that I’m being punished,” she said.

  “For what? By who?”

  “God.”

  “God.” Hardy felt his anger start to wane, washed away in a wave of pity for this poor woman. “God’s punishing you? Why?”

  “The same reason he punishes anybody.”

  “Because of what they’ve done?”

  She sat mute, facing him.

  “Maya?”

  “If it’s unforgivable, yes.”

  “I thought his forgiveness was supposed to be infinite.”

  She answered in a small voice. “No. Not for everything.”

  “No? What wouldn’t it cover?”

  “How about if what you harm is truly innocent—” Abruptly she drew herself up and stopped speaking.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Hardy came forward in his chair. “Maya,” he said, “are you talking about something that happened with you and Dylan and Levon?”

  A dead, one-note bark of laughter didn’t break the harsh set of her mouth. “If you even can ask that,” she said, “you don’t have a clue what innocent means.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Like the unborn. That kind of innocent. How about that?”

  That answer called to mind Hardy’s discussion wit
h Hunt about whether the blackmail had been about an abortion early in her life, so he asked her point blank. “Is that it?”

  But she shook her head decidedly no. “I would never do that. Not ever. But I’ve already said too much. The point is that whatever happens, however God decides all this has to go, I’ll deserve it. I’m good with that now. I’m at peace with it.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I’m sorry about that.” She gestured around them. “About all of this.”

  “I am too.”

  “But . . . so, can we go back to what I was saying before?”

  “What part of it?”

  “Looking for who did this?”

  A black, throbbing bolus of pain came and settled in the space behind Hardy’s left eye. He brought his hand up and pressed at his temple. What was this woman getting at? Hardy could think of several ways to interpret all that Maya had said to him here this afternoon as a kind of confession. And now she was urging him to look for the real murderer.

  Who, he believed, very probably did not exist.

  He looked across at his client’s troubled face and entertained the fleeting thought that she might be legally insane. Should he hire a shrink and do some tests? Would he be negligent if he didn’t?

  The first day of trial had already been too long, too stressful. It seemed to Hardy that he’d been in constant combat since early in the morning.

  And now this.

  He squeezed at his forehead. “Maya,” he said, “are you telling me straight out now that you didn’t kill these two guys?”

  Her eyes widened, closed down, widened again, and to his astonishment, she broke into a genuine, if short-lived laugh. “Of course not.” Leaving it as ambiguous as ever. Of course not, she was not telling him such a thing straight out. Or, alternatively, of course not, she hadn’t killed Dylan and Levon. After which she added in all seriousness, “How could you even say such a thing?”