Judge Swanson interrupted at that point to remind the prosecutor that this was only a preliminary hearing, and that he was going into too much detail, that only the salient facts were needed. The burly O’Neil thanked the judge for her advice, then went on as before, carefully drawing out of Lucca the full story of his investigation: the continuing sequence of fortuitous hunches and discoveries. When they finished, O’Neil smiled gratefully and thanked the sergeant, who then got up and duck-walked back to his seat, his coat still open, his expression unchanged. Once he was seated, Baird forced himself not to look over at him, half expecting to see the man burping contently, raising his bib and daubing at his mouth, wiping away the melted butter and bits of flesh.
The prosecutor meanwhile had turned to the judge in triumph. “In short, Your Honor, thanks largely to Sergeant Lucca’s diligent work on this case, we now have three witnesses who will testify that the defendant and James Slade were together at the Oolala nightclub on Lake City Avenue on Saturday night, the fifteenth of August. Two of the witnesses are dancers, and one is a bouncer at the club, a man who knew Slade’s reputation as an ex-con and drug dealer. The bouncer and one of the dancers also will testify that the defendant was at the club with Slade nine days later, on Monday night, the twenty-fourth of August—in other words, on the night of the murder!”
“Objection!” Steiner bawled. “The day and hour of the victim’s death are not known, Your Honor. All the prosecution has on that score is woolly speculation.”
The judge sighed. “Again, Counselor, this is not a trial.”
“The alleged night of the murder,” the prosecutor amended. “The defendant and Slade were seen leaving together at around eleven-thirty that night. Two hours later, the dancer known as Satin—Miss Terri Dean—was assaulted outside her Bothell apartment by two men, one of whom then apparently attacked the other. Miss Dean will testify that the defendant, Jack Baird, was one of these men. And keep in mind that Miss Dean’s apartment is only a few minutes’ drive from the spot where Slade’s body—shot three times—was dumped in the lake, locked in the trunk of his own car.”
Jimmy O’Neil then outlined the testimony that would be given by Alma Jessup, the live-in maid. And finally he said that at the trial itself, he would put Lucca back on the stand.
“The sergeant will give testimony,” he said, “about his interrogation of the defendant. And we will run a video of part of that interrogation—the part in which the defendant uses these words in reference to Slade: ‘I would kill him.’”
Even in the carpeted hush of the courtroom this caused a considerable stir, and Baird’s heart sank. Judge Swanson gaveled for quiet. The prosecutor meanwhile had closed his notebook and sat down.
“That’s the gist of our case, Your Honor,” he said.
The judge looked dolefully up at the wall clock. “There’s still an hour before lunch break,” she observed, looking at Steiner. “Would you like to start now, Counselor, or wait till after the break?”
Steiner was up on the balls of his feet, rocking precariously. “No need to wait, Your Honor. Considering the state’s case—or lack of a case, I should say—I can start and finish well before the break.”
“Then we shall be grateful,” the judge said, gesturing for the little lawyer to proceed.
Small though he was, Steiner had a voice that needed no amplification in the sound-deadening room. Right off, he conceded most of the prosecution’s case, admitting that Baird had a motive for killing Slade—“as did every other decent Northwest man with a daughter,” he added. And he admitted that Baird had initiated contact with Slade and had been out drinking with him on three separate occasions.
“And the prosecution wonders why!” he thundered. “Actually wonders why! Even he admits you couldn’t find two less likely drinking buddies if you scoured the earth for them. Mister Clean and this ex-con, this drug-dealing rapist, this bisexual whore to the gay community.”
Steiner turned and looked at Baird, threw out his hand as if he were an emcee introducing a Hollywood star. “And yet, this man—this one-time teacher and now successful businessman, with scores of friends who will testify that he’s the absolute tops, the tower of Pisa, the flat-out best there is—this family man with a lovely wife and two beautiful kids who love him dearly—this man goes out bar-crawling with…” Up on his toes again, Steiner looked to the ceiling for inspiration.“…with this sewer creature! With this bottom feeder!”
Judge Swanson leaned toward her mike. “Again, Counselor, I remind you that this is only the preliminary hearing. There is no jury present.”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” Steiner said. “It’s just that this case, it really gets to me. That a man such as this could be tried for murder on so little evidence. It’s not easy to be calm.”
“Try,” the judge advised.
“I certainly will.” Steiner bent to his papers, shuffling them to no apparent purpose. Then he returned his attention to the bench. “So my client goes bar-hopping with this…this Jimbo Slade. Why? Why on earth would he do such a thing? After all, Slade was stalking his daughter. Slade had burglarized his house. Slade had a long history as a sexual predator and was even the chief suspect in the brutal rape of another local woman whom he had stalked in much the same way as he had Mister Baird’s daughter. Also, he was a viable suspect in another recent rape in our city, as well as two unsolved murders! Yes, that’s right—murders! So why on earth would this man—Jack Baird—have anything to do with such a character?”
Pausing to straighten the hairs across his pate, Steiner looked from the prosecutor’s table to the bench, as if he expected a response.
“Why else,” he shouted suddenly, “except to befriend the man? To get to know Slade! To let Slade get to know him! All in the hope that this monster might stop thinking of him and his daughter as mere objects in his life—things actually, mere things that he could step on or not step on, depending on his whim of the moment. So, in a word, Jack Baird tried to co-opt the man. He tried to neutralize him with friendship. If in time old Jimbo—as Slade called himself—if old Jimbo just had to go out and find himself some beautiful young woman to rape and kill, just maybe he would overlook his new friend’s daughter. Like the Angel of Death himself, just maybe Jimbo Slade would pass over Jack Baird’s door.”
Though the judge looked as if she were about to drop off, the crowd was quiet and attentive. And Steiner obviously was confident that he had them, the way he began to strut out in front of the tables now.
“Let us stick to the facts,” he said, beginning to count on his fingers. “One, we concede that Jack Baird did go out drinking with James Slade on three separate occasions, the last one being the alleged night of the murder. So the state can forget about its witnesses in that regard—the dancer and bouncer who claim to have seen my client leave the strip joint with Slade around eleven on the night of August twenty-four. We concede that. And two: as for the other witness—the stripper, Satin—the first time she viewed the defendant in a lineup, she could not identify him. Absolutely did not know him from Adam. The arresting officer, Sergeant Lucca, will testify to that—as a hostile witness, I presume. So which Satin are we to believe? The one who never saw my client before, or the one who is apparently going to come into this courtroom and testify—for the moment anyway—that she did see him after all? I know which one I’d believe—neither!”
Steiner paused there to take a drink of water and rearrange his hair. Then he proceeded again, moving on to his third finger.
“And three, let us keep in mind that this youthful stripper—Satin or Terri Dean or whatever else she calls herself—even she does not claim to have seen the murder victim after-hours outside her apartment house, as one of the two men alleged to have assaulted her on the night of August twenty-four. Whoever he was, this assailant, she admits she never laid eyes on him. He seized her from behind, she says, and punched her into unconsciousness. So even if she erroneously identifies my client as having been on the scen
e that night—as the assailant who saved her life, I believe that’s how she puts it—that still doesn’t put my client and the victim together in Bothell early Tuesday morning, just a few minutes before the killing is alleged to have taken place! Remember that!” The little lawyer turned from the crowd at that point and faced the bench again, moving on to his pinkie finger.
“And four, Your Honor, we will hear from my client’s wife, who will testify that her husband came home between eleven and eleven-thirty that night and was safely in bed beside her when the victim—the rapist-murderer Jimbo Slade—met his maker a good ten miles away, on the other side of Lake Washington!”
The little lawyer was again rocking on the balls of his feet, weighing his next words, when another voice, clear and strong, was heard.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor, but that is not quite true.”
Lights flashed, cameras whirred, and a wave of sound—spectators whispering to each other—swept through the courtroom. Judge Swanson banged her gavel, and Baird turned to look, though he already knew that it was Ellen who had spoken. She was on her feet now, resting her hands on the partition that separated the spectators from the participants. Her short hair was neatly coiffed and she was wearing one of her handsome tweed suits. She looked as calm as ice, unlike Kathy and Kevin, who were sitting next to her. In their shock and surprise, they looked to their father for an answer, but all he could do was shrug, signaling that he didn’t know what was going on either—though he was afraid he did. It was payback time, he imagined. A sweet few minutes of revenge, and in public, for all the world to see. He thought of that overworked line about revenge being a dish best served cold.
Steiner by now had regained his voice. “Hey, what is this?” he bawled. “This is my witness, Your Honor! And what she told me earlier—what she swore to—that’s the only testimony this court should hear!”
The judge’s eyebrows arched higher. “Even if it’s not true?” she said, looking past Steiner now, at Ellen. “You’re the defendant’s wife?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And the testimony the defense counsel expected you to give at the trial—you wish to amend it?”
“Yes.”
Steiner looked as if he were about to have a stroke. He banged his fist on the table, then advanced on the bench, his hands lifted, imploring.
“Your Honor, this woman can’t testify here now! As you yourself have pointed out, this is not a trial! The only proper way to handle this matter is to call a recess so I can confer with the witness again and clear up this matter. I’ve had no indication of any contrary testimony.”
“But we have that indication now,” the judge said. “And since it appears that this witness has already lied once—to you—I see no reason not to put her under oath and get to the bottom of the matter. If you don’t like her testimony, maybe the prosecution will. And that’s what we’re here for—to learn what each side has.” She looked again at Ellen. “Will you come forward, Mrs. Baird, and testify under oath?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I take exception!” Steiner bellowed.
The judge nodded. “So noted.”
Baird watched Ellen as she sidled past Kevin and came through the gate, heading for the stand. He didn’t hate her for what she was doing, but it surprised him that she hated him enough to do it. After taking the oath, she sat down in the witness chair.
Judge Swanson leaned toward her. “All right now, Mrs. Baird. The defense counsel stated that in the coming trial you will testify that your husband came home between eleven and eleven-thirty on the night of August twenty-four—the night the prosecution claims that James Slade was murdered. Will that be your testimony?”
“No, it won’t be.”
“When did your husband come home?”
As hushed as the courtroom now was, Ellen was able to speak at her normal level, almost conversational.
“For a number of weeks he had been keeping late hours, usually coming home long after midnight. On the night in question—which happens to be my parents’ wedding anniversary—I was unhappy and suspicious, and I couldn’t sleep. So I got in my car and drove around. I went past my husband’s favorite bar, but I didn’t see his car outside. And then I tried to think, wondering if he was actually seeing another woman, just who that woman might be. And the only one who came to mind was someone whose address I already knew—I’d looked it up before and had driven past her house one other night when my husband was out late. So I knew where it was. Anyway, I drove past the house again—oh, it must have been about eleven-forty-five—and this time I did see him. He evidently had just arrived. He was up on the porch, knocking on the door. Then the door opened and I saw the woman inside. My husband entered the house, and the door closed.”
Judge Swanson squirmed. “I realize we’re getting into a rather delicate area here,” she said. “But then, this is a murder case. Mrs. Baird, can you identify the woman your husband was with that night?”
Ellen raised her hand and pointed directly beyond the prosecutor’s table. “Yes,” she said. “It was that woman, Your Honor. It was Detective Lee Jeffers.”
Nineteen
There was a brief tumult in the courtroom after Ellen named Lee Jeffers as the woman Baird had been with at the time of the killing. While the judge gaveled for silence, Baird glanced back across the aisle and saw Lucca staring at his partner as if she had turned into a pillar of dung. And the sergeant’s mood did not improve at all when Lee, replacing Ellen on the stand, testified that she had thought Baird’s first visit to her home had occurred on the night of the twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth.
“Which is why I never mentioned it,” she went on. “I didn’t feel it was relevant.”
“And is that your testimony here?” the judge asked. “That the defendant visited you on the twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth?”
Lee paused for a moment, looking straight at Baird. Then she shook her head. “No, I can’t swear to it. I’m not that positive.”
After dismissing her, Judge Swanson leaned close to her microphone and announced acidly that since the police working on the case were now the defendant’s alibi, and since there was no other solid evidence against him, she was dismissing the murder charge.
“As for the assault charge,” she went on, addressing the prosecutor, “your witness waffles on the I.D. a bit too much to suit me. So I’m dismissing that count too.” Still not smiling, the lady then looked at Baird and told him he was free to go.
Ten minutes later, under the massive portico of the courthouse, there was no judge to quell the tumult. Kevin had run on ahead to get the car, so Baird and Ellen and Kathy, along with Steiner, had to stand and wait, much to the joy of the media. The reporters and cameramen were in a mild frenzy, surging back to the portico after having chased Satin and her co-workers halfway down the street. Their hunger seemed at least partially to mitigate Steiner’s obvious disappointment at the sudden turn of events. Baird wasn’t sure what the little lawyer mourned most: losing the income from an extended trial or losing the starring role he would have played in the trial.
As exhausted as he was, Baird gave the media all the platitudes they wanted. Yes, he was immensely relieved at the outcome of the case. And yes, he was very proud of his wife, that she had come forward and “saved his bacon,” especially in such difficult circumstances. Would there be a reconciliation between the two of them now? No comment, Baird said. As did Ellen. As for Kathy, the reporters wanted to know how she felt about her father. Had she always thought him innocent?
“Of course,” she said, holding onto Baird’s arm, smiling shyly. “How could he be anything else?”
Though Steiner was left without much to talk about, he did not let that discourage him. The reporters and cameramen who happened his way probably got more words and footage than they wanted. And they promptly abandoned him when they saw Lucca and Lee coming out of the building, moving past the huge Doric columns and heading for the street. Like driven
sheep, the media poured across the broad stone stairs, trying to intercept the detectives, but failing with Lucca, who shoved his way forward and practically ran toward the police station, in the next block. Lee kept moving too, though without hurrying, smiling coldly as she made her way down the steps, through the reporters and photographers. They kept asking questions and sticking microphones in her face, but she continued to ignore them. In her dress, a blue polka-dot silk, she looked elegant and beautiful.
As Baird watched her, she glanced his way just once, and at that distance he could not read her expression. He wanted to run after her and explain that he had never meant to put her in such a predicament, making her choose between him and her career, between her lover or committing perjury. As she walked on, he wondered if she would ever forgive him, ever again let him be the lover he still wanted to be.
It was a beautiful day, bright and crisp, with the noontime sun pouring into the canyon between the courthouse and the building across the street. The sidewalks were filled with people on their lunch break, stylish women and well-dressed men as well as hookers and felons and bums. And Baird was beginning to wonder what had happened to his feelings of pessimism and despair. For the moment anyway, they seemed to have lost their grip on him.
In the courtroom, when Ellen took the stand and gave her surprising testimony, he had been thoroughly confused at first, wondering where the dagger was hidden in her words. He could not figure out what devious form her revenge was taking. Then it began to dawn on him that she was not trying to hurt him at all but to save him, and he felt stupid and ashamed. For a time he was not sure whether she had made an honest mistake, confusing the two nights—the twenty-fourth and the twenty-fifth—or whether she had deliberately lied in order to give him a better alibi than the one he had concocted on his own.
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