Evidence of Guilt

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Wes rubbed the back of a finger along his jaw, his brows furrowed. Finally he shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

  “You apparently got into an argument with a woman down at the Oasis,” I said. “Can you tell me what it was about?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.” His eyes met mine; then he sighed. “If I knew, I’d tell you. She just pissed me off, is all. I can’t even remember why. It was nothing.”

  “You remember her name?”

  “Doreen, Darnelle. Something like that. She’s there most Friday nights.”

  “Your friends say you were in a foul mood all evening. Was Doreen the cause of it?”

  “I told you, the thing with her was nothing. It was just one of those days, you know?” His voice dropped and grew thick with sarcasm. “Or maybe you don’t. Maybe for you everything goes the way it’s supposed to, like clockwork.”

  Oh boy, did he have that wrong.

  Wes watched me, his gaze unwavering.

  “How did you know Lisa Cornell?” I asked.

  The muscle in his jaw twitched. “I didn’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “I said I didn’t.”

  “Then how do you suppose your rabbit’s foot got in her little girl’s pocket?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  ‘Take a guess.”

  Wes shrugged. “I lost it a couple of days earlier. Maybe the kid found it.”

  “A guy you work with says he saw you with it on Thursday.”

  “So maybe it was only one day earlier that I lost it. Or maybe the one the police found isn’t mine.”

  “And the dirt on your motorcycle?”

  “Dirt’s dirt. The stuff at the Cornell place isn’t monogrammed, is it?”

  “Dirt’s not all the same. Besides, we’re talking about more than dirt here. There’s vegetation, road oil, that sort of thing.”

  Another shrug. “I ride through those hills all the time. It must be a coincidence.”

  “There’s an awful lot of coincidence about this.”

  “You got a better explanation?”

  I rolled the pen in my hands, exasperated. The room was hot and stuffy, layered with the odors of unwashed bodies and disinfectant. I wondered if the holding cells were as bad.

  Suddenly Wes rocked forward. The skin around his eyes and mouth was tight. “You don’t believe me, do you? You think I killed Lisa Cornell and her kid.”

  “What I think isn’t the issue.”

  His laugh was bitter. “Right, you’ve got to defend me either way.”

  “I don’t got to do anything.”

  “You get paid either way, too. Buy yourself a fancy new car, go out to dinner. Maybe when this is all over you’ll take a little breather at some resort in the south of France. Win or lose, it’s all in a day’s work to you.”

  ‘To a certain extent that’s true,” I said, with growing irritation. “But I work hard. And win or lose, I’ll have earned my fee.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “And I’ll have done my best for you.”

  This time the laugh was more of a snort. “Right, I forgot. You’re one of those super-achiever types. Wouldn’t dream of doing less than your personal best. I know you went to a big-name college, and I bet you went to some equally big-name law school. Me, I’m such a fuck-up. It’s a good thing I’ve got you on my team.”

  I swallowed my anger, which I realized was really more frustration than genuine outrage. And it was directed as much at myself as at Wes. Why had I let him get under my skin?

  “Believe it or not,” I said carefully, “lawyers are more effective when they don’t take a personal interest in their cases. I’m a good lawyer and I’m going to do the best job I can for you. So will Sam. But it will be much easier, and much more effective, if you cooperate instead of fighting us at every step.”

  Wes’s expression was one of clamped-down anger. He looked at me and said nothing.

  “Okay,” I began again, recapping, “let’s see what we’ve got. Someone killed Lisa Cornell and her daughter. It wasn’t you. Unfortunately, you have no alibi and the police happen to have quite a bit of evidence against you.”

  “Truth is often stranger than fiction.”

  “We’re going to have a hard time selling that to the jury.”

  His expression was derisive. “The courtroom angle’s a bitch, isn’t it?” He turned so that he was no longer facing me.

  “You know, there’s a chance you might be able to plead to a lesser offense. You were drinking that night, and angry about something. Maybe you took a ride through the hills on your way home, got lost or sidetracked and wound up at Lisa Cornell’s place. She might have startled you or maybe threatened to call the police, and you panicked. We could make a case for something less than murder one.”

  Wes slammed his fist against the table and flew to his feet. “Jesus, don’t you listen? I didn’t do it.” He banged on the door for the guard. “Enough of this crap. I’m out of here.”

  “Think about it,” I told him.

  “Hey, guard! ” He beat on the door with his open palms.

  “Please, Wes. At least think about your defense.” My voice had an urgency that surprised me.

  It must have surprised Wes too. He turned to look at me.

  “Sam and I know the law,” I told him. “But you’re the one who knows where you were that night, what you did or didn’t do. It would help the case if we had a coherent scenario that would explain away the evidence against you.” I paused. “And we certainly don’t want to be surprised in court.”

  The guard opened the door and nodded in my direction, ignoring Wes as though he were invisible. “You finished here?”

  I nodded. “I guess so.”

  The guard thrust Wes against the wall face first, then reached into his pocket for the handcuffs. I turned away, embarrassed to watch.

  “Remember Mr. Alridge’s history class?” Wes asked over his shoulder. “You sat two rows in from the front, on the left by the windows.”

  The handcuffs snapped shut with a sharp click. Glancing back, I could see the hard metal edge dig into the flesh of Wes’s wrist.

  “Bet you don’t remember where I sat,” he said.

  The guard turned him around and propelled him toward the door. Wes stopped and twisted back to face me. “What I remember most about that class was watching you. It was a whole lot more interesting than history. You’d sit there with that look of rapture on your face, like you were interested as hell in all that stuff about George Washington and the Continental Congress. But you used to spend an awful lot of time tugging at the crotch of your jeans.” He grinned. “I always wondered if you had your mind on history at all.”

  <><><>

  After the guard ushered Wes out, I stuffed my papers into my briefcase and stomped down the hall to the elevator. The only thing worse than an uncooperative client was one who was also hostile. As far as I could tell, I’d just grabbed the brass ring.

  He was also wrong. I had liked history. Alridge was one of those teachers who made the subject come alive. Could I help it if tight jeans had been the fashion?

  Angrily, I poked the elevator button. Wes had been wrong about something else, too. I’d known exactly where he sat. In history and every other class we had together. It was always in the last row, at the back of the room. And it was always the first spot my eyes were drawn to each day. Gypsy magic.

  I shifted my briefcase to the other arm and took a deep breath to calm myself. Most of what I needed to do in preparing the case didn’t directly involve Wes anyway. With luck, I could do my part without having to interview him further.

  Still, I thought it would be helpful if he’d give us something more to work with than, “I didn’t do it.”

  Unless, of course, there was nothing more to give because he really hadn’t.

  The elevator arrived and I got on. Two floors down, I was joined by Curt Willis, deput
y DA and prosecuting attorney in the Harding case.

  “Hey, Kali,” he said byway of greeting. “It’s been awhile.”

  I couldn’t honestly say whether it had been or not, but I nodded anyway. Curt’s a master of small talk and doesn’t much care what you say in return. He’s about my age, honey-blond hair with matching brows and lashes. Good-looking without actually being attractive. At least not in my book. I find him a bit too polished to be considered sexy, although we’d dated a couple of times when I first got to town.

  “I visited your old stomping grounds last week,” he said. “San Francisco’s quite a place.”

  I nodded again.

  Curt smiled, looked at his watch. “Say, it’s just about quitting time; you want to have a drink? It would be nice to talk to a thinking human being for a change. I don’t believe I’ve had a conversation all day with anyone brighter than a toadstool.”

  “Surely it’s not that bad.”

  “Close.”

  Although I hadn’t actually accepted Curt’s offer, we struck out in the direction of Ollie’s as though I had. Curt seemed to assume I would join him, and the appeal of a drink won out over any reservations I might have had.

  Friday nights are usually pretty busy, but we were early enough to get a table away from the noisiest part of the room.

  “I hear you’re working on the Wes Harding case,” he remarked after we’d settled in.

  “Along with Sam Morrison.”

  Curt gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “You’re going to lose this one, sweetheart. Take it from me.”

  I wasn’t bothered by the sweetheart bit; that’s the way Curt talked. But I was caught somewhat off guard by the conviction in his tone.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about winning,” I told him. The words were pure bravado on my part, and I hoped they didn’t sound as phony as they felt.

  He grinned again. “This case is going to be my ticket out of here. It’s already made the Sacramento papers, and there’s a woman at a television station in San Francisco who wants to follow the whole trial. People are going to be watching this, Kali, important people. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”

  Like most lawyers, Curt liked winning. More than that, though, he wanted to make a name for himself in a bigger pond than the likes of Silver Creek. The scuttlebutt was that he was a hard worker and fairly bright, but he’d had the misfortune of being a mediocre student at a mediocre law school. From there, it’s a tough road to the top.

  Our drinks arrived. I licked at the salt on my margarita. “You want to be careful what you wish for, you know.”

  “You mean about getting out of this town?”

  I nodded.

  Curt curled his fingers around his glass. “I don’t understand how you could have traded a prestigious San Francisco practice for this.” He gestured with his arm. I assumed he was referring to the town rather than the bar.

  “As I’ve explained before, it wasn’t exactly a trade. Not a voluntary one, anyway.”

  “With your credentials and experience, you must have a wealth of options. What does Silver Creek have to offer?”

  “Free parking?”

  He laughed. “Given the wages in this two-bit town, you need free parking.”

  In truth, my options had not been as wide-open as Curt imagined. With a growing glut of lawyers, particularly at my mid-career level, and firms everywhere cutting back, the market was tight. I could have beat the bushes for a job in another big firm, gone through the whole prove- yourself-worthy-of-partnership contest, and then found myself once again bounced out the door for reasons over which I had no control.

  My other option was to go it on my own, which is what I’d chosen to do. Why I’d chosen to do it in Silver Creek was less clear to me.

  Curt downed half his vodka martini in one swallow. “You think I ought to set my sights on San Francisco or Los Angeles?”

  “Depends on whether you prefer fog or smog.”

  Nary a chuckle. Curt took his career options seriously. “It’s a long shot, I know, but someday I might even wind up being appointed to the bench.” Finally, he allowed himself a smile. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

  “You’d better concentrate on winning this case first.”

  “Oh, I’m going to win it.” He reached into his briefcase, pulled out a file and slapped it on the table in front of me.

  “What’s this?”

  "The lab report on clothing items taken from Wes Harding’s place. The blood on the jeans was definitely not Wes’s.” He paused for effect. “Not only does the blood group match Lisa Cornell’s, it’s type B, which is found in only seven percent of the entire Caucasian population.”

  “That’s still a lot of people.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, including me. But the jury’s not going to be looking at the rest of that seven-percent pool. They’re going to know the blood was Lisa’s.”

  “Did they do a DNA analysis?”

  Curt shook his head.

  "Then there’s no way to prove it’s Lisa’s blood. You’re talking probabilities, not certainty.”

  “Sweetheart, there ain’t nothing in life that’s certain, but this is about as close as you get.”

  Chapter 7

  I suppose on one level it was good news. If the prosecution had a slam-dunk case against Wes Harding, who could blame us for losing?

  “You won’t hate me for trouncing you in court, will you?” Curt asked with a self-satisfied smile.

  While Curt’s certainty about the case made me uneasy, it also made me more determined than ever to fight back. I gave his hand a gentle pat. “You’re not going to be the one doing the trouncing, sweetheart. ”

  It surprised me to discover I meant it. I don’t like to lose, but more than that, I found myself feeling oddly supportive of Wes.

  Curt’s smile broadened. Lack of confidence was not one of his shortcomings.

  He signaled the waitress and ordered us each a second drink. By unspoken accord, we left further discussion of the Wes Harding issue for another day and venue. Instead, we swapped lawyer jokes and told war stories about cases and clients from hell. I declined his invitation for dinner largely because I felt we’d about run out of things to say to one another.

  Not that it wasn’t pleasant while it lasted. Despite his smug and sometimes pompous posturing, Curt Willis was an easy companion. There’d been a time, once, when I’d been angry with Tom and full of enough wine that I’d actually considered the possibility of romantic involvement. Luckily, Curt had had as much to drink as I had, and he’d passed out on the living room sofa before I had a chance to consider further.

  We parted ways at the door to Ollie’s. I stopped back by the office, picked up my messages and the file of clippings Myra had set out for me, then headed home by way of Taco Bell. My take-out meal was cold by the time I got back, but at least I didn’t have to cook. Or clean up afterwards.

  What with Curt’s announcement about the blood-type results and the two margaritas I’d put away at Ollie’s, I wasn’t in much of a mood for work. Nonetheless, in the interests of keeping my clients happy, and thus in a mood to pay their bills, I made myself a cup of coffee and set about returning the most urgent messages.

  This was the downside of small-town practice. While I’d been at Goldman & Latham, I’d often worked late nights and weekends, but rarely had I been called upon to deal with flesh-and-blood clients other than during regular office hours. Since a round or two of telephone tag was more or less expected, few people sat around awaiting your call. Small-town clients, on the other hand, expected more personalized service.

  There were only five messages, and I took care of the first three quickly. The remaining two were from Ms. Sheri Pearl, daughter and conservator of the more affable Mrs. Irma Pearl. On the bottom of the second message Myra had penciled in her own communication — Would you PLEASE call this woman before she has a blowout in her bloomers!

  I placed the call, giving a silent pr
ayer of thanks when the answering machine clicked on. I would leave a quick message and be off the hook, at least temporarily. But no sooner had I started to leave my name than the phone picked up.

  “Goodness, Kali, I’ve been trying to reach you for days.” Sheri was apparently home after all.

  “I’ve been swamped,” I told her.

  “I made an appointment for next week, but I wanted to talk to you first so you’d have a chance to think things through before our meeting.”

  And therefore bill her for a short conference rather than a lengthy one. Clients seem to think they ought to get your thinking time for free.

  “I’ve been going over Mother’s finances — and between the money she poured into sweepstakes and the bogus investments she got herself involved in — well, there’s not a lot left. Certainly nothing liquid. I need to raise some cash and I thought I’d start by selling the house. There’s no sense keeping it.”

  “Except that your mother gets such pleasure from visiting for the afternoon.”

  “She’s never going to be able to actually move back. You know that as well as I do. And the place is an effort to keep up.

  “I thought your cousin was staying there.”

  “She is, but that’s certainly not a permanent solution.” I was sure none of us imagined it was. But Irma Pearl hadn’t wanted to sell the place, and it had only been five weeks since she’d moved into the nursing home, on what she undoubtedly assumed was a temporary basis. Not that Irma’s wishes mattered anymore. Not legally anyway. That’s what conservatorship is all about.

  “Besides,” Sheri added, “the market for houses in that price range is quite strong at the moment. And summer’s a good time to sell. We could probably move it fairly quickly.”

  The picture was becoming clearer. Sheri was, among other things, a real estate agent.

  “I thought I’d sell the duplex, as well,” she continued in an off-hand manner, as though we were playing Monopoly.

  “That’s steady income.”