It was a warm day, even here in the shade. I wished I’d thought to pick up a drink for myself when I’d stopped for the burger and fries. A drink and something to read.
I reached for a stone and tossed it against the tree to my left. Bull’s eye. I tried the one a little farther away and missed by a mile.
Was this what small-town practice had brought me? Was it what I wanted? To be sitting on a dusty, bug-infested log in an area of woods littered with candy wrappers, crumpled cigarette packs and used condoms? Maybe Curt Willis was right about wanting to get out.
Of course, I’d had the other. Would have had it still if things had gone the way I’d planned.
I picked up another stone and tossed it hard at nothing in particular. It landed without a sound. Would I be happier if I were still at Goldman & Latham? I wouldn’t be wasting my Sunday hanging around the woods, that was for sure, but more likely than not I’d be working. Sitting at my desk in an office with sealed windows and poor ventilation, wearing panty hose instead of jeans. And I’d be billing my time in ten-minute increments.
I started humming to let Granger know I was here. I also opened the bag and spread the contents on the log. The blue jay moved in closer, to the branch just above me.
At least my clients at Goldman & Latham had been guilty of nothing worse than unfair business practices or reneging on a contract. At the end of trial the judge would bang her gavel, a sum of money would change hands and that was that. Occasionally a client would wind up in jail, but never for very long, and certainly not on death row.
I stopped humming and started whistling, thinking that maybe higher-pitched sound waves traveled farther. It was either that or call for the man by name, as though he were a dog, and I refused to stoop to that.
The jay squawked impatiently, drowning out my loudest whistle. Disgusted, I broke the burger and fries into pieces and laid them out on the log.
“Bon appétit,” I called to the bird, and left.
<><><>
Two things surprised me when I looked up Dr. Markley in the phone book. The first was that the doctor was a she, not a he. The second was that she was a psychiatrist.
Had Lisa intentionally misled Stockman, or was he simply oblivious to the details in Lisa’s life? Having heard his views on therapy, I could understand the former. But having once dated a supreme egotist myself, I wouldn’t rule out the latter either.
Calling on a Sunday afternoon, I expected either an answering service or a machine. Instead, I got the doctor herself.
“My conversations with Lisa are confidential,” she told me after I’d explained why I was calling. “Even though she’s dead, I have to respect her privacy.”
“Yes, I know that. But you might still be able to help me.” I heard the shuffle of papers on the other end of the line. Dr. Markley mumbled something to herself, then said, “How about tomorrow at one? The patient I usually see at that time is on vacation this week.”
Monday was the preliminary hearing. Although Sam would handle most the of arguments and cross, I hated to miss any of it.
“If Monday’s not good for you,” she said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until the following week. I’ve just returned from a conference and my schedule is backed up through Friday.”
“Monday will be fine,” I said. The judge would call a noon recess anyway. I wouldn’t miss much.
“I doubt I’ll be able to help,” she said, “but I’m happy to do what I can.”
Chapter 12
The preliminary hearing is essentially the prosecution’s show. They’re required to demonstrate that they have enough evidence to try the defendant for the crime in question. Period. The proceeding is pro forma in all but a handful of situations, and ours, unfortunately, was not one of them. There wasn’t a chance in hell the judge would dismiss the case at this stage, no matter how persuasively Sam and I argued.
Although our presence at the hearing was required, Curt Willis was clearly the man of the moment. And from the looks of things, not at all reticent about embracing the role.
Curt was holding an impromptu press conference on the courthouse steps when I arrived. Dressed in a new, well-tailored suit, with his hair stylishly trimmed and his briefcase in hand, he faced the bank of lights and microphones as though he were an old hand at stardom. His expression was earnest but relaxed. When he spoke to reporters off the record he was probably even jovial. A man among men.
I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could tell from his manner that he was playing to a simpatico crowd.
I tried to slip past unnoticed, but just as I made it to the top step, I felt the sudden, intrusive glare of a strobe light in my face. “Can you tell us something about Wes Harding’s defense?” The voice was female, and not one I recognized. I turned and was blinded by a second flash.
Several women with placards jostled the reporter aside. “How can you defend a man who kills innocent children?” one of them shouted.
“Their blood will be on your hands,” cried another, shoving her sign in my face.
The reporter tried again. “Is it true that you’re only on this case as a token woman, to win jury support?”
Around me, a small crowd had begun gathering. A man with a television camera stepped to the front, following my every move like a bug-eyed Cyclops. Another man bumped me from the left, almost deliberately. The women with placards began waving their signs and humming something that sounded like a funeral dirge. I caught sight of Helene Stockman behind them and wondered if she was part of their contingent.
As I moved toward the door, they closed in, faces tight with animosity. My stomach clenched and I worried that the scene might turn ugly.
“Did you know that your client is a Satanist?” one of the women shouted.”That he belongs to a cult that drinks the blood of the innocent?”
The reporter pushed her way toward me. “Ms. O’Brien, do you think—”
“No comment,” I said, cutting her off.
With pen poised, she turned to the woman who’d spoken about Satan. Disgusted, I elbowed my way past them and into the building.
After the din out front the courtroom seemed unusually quiet. People packed the visitor’s section in the rear, but they talked in hushed tones, as though they were in church. My footsteps on the old oak floor echoed loudly enough that I broke stride and tried to step more softly. The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself by breaking the stillness.
I saw Grace Harding sitting ramrod straight in the front row with Pammy. Sam and Jake were standing off to one side, talking. Andrea was nowhere to be seen.
Grace nodded at me as I passed by, but she didn’t smile.
“I see you made it safely past the alligators in the alley,” Sam said.
“Barely.” I was still seeing spots from the flash. “At least Curt’s happy. I think he must have sent out personal invitations.”
Sam nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see him handing out cigars when it’s all over.”
“You’d think those bloodhounds could find something more newsworthy to cover,” Jake muttered.
“It’s the nature of the business,” I explained. “Importance is measured by sales figures and ratings. Murder is always a big draw.” Particularly the murder of a woman and a child.
Jake pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow, then began tapping his foot with nervous energy. His suit was pressed, his shirt starched, his shoes polished, yet he looked like a man who was worn and frayed around the edges.
“Shouldn’t you talk to them, too?” he asked. “Listening to Willis, they’re bound to get the wrong picture. I think they need to hear our side as well.”
What side? I thought glumly. That wasn’t the thing to say to the defendant’s father, though; not at this point. Not with him seeming half-undone himself.
“We’ll present our case at trial, where it counts,” Sam said.”There’s no point tipping our hand ahead of time. That would only give the pr
osecutor a preview of our defense strategy.”
Jake made another swipe at his brow, then scanned the packed gallery of the courtroom. "This is disgusting,” he said. “Voyeurism of the worst kind. Don’t they realize a man’s life is at stake here?”
Sam clasped Jake’s shoulder. “Concentrate on giving Wes your support. Forget about the rest of it.” He nodded toward the door, where a guard was bringing in Wes. “You’d better take a seat now.”
The jailhouse overalls had been replaced by a well-tailored dark gray suit. The shirt was crisp, the tie an urbane diagonal stripe. With his face freshly shaven, his hair clipped and neatly combed, his tattoos well-concealed, Wes Harding looked like a different man. One who could almost have been standing in Curt Willis’s place. Almost. Wes had the same self-contained air, but his expression was more sullen than cocky.
He took a seat at the far end of the counsel table, folded his arms across his chest and stared dead ahead. When Sam leaned over and whispered something in his ear Wes didn’t bother to acknowledge the words.
The room quieted as Curt strode down the aisle and took his place at the prosecutor’s table. He shuffled a few papers, passed a file to his assistant, glanced my way and smiled. The smile of a wily fox. But in his eyes I saw a hint of anxiety, like a young boy with his heart set on making the team.
Judge Seaton entered, called court to session, then scowled over the tops of his glasses at the gathered crowd. Many judges — most judges, I’d venture to say — enjoy being in the limelight. Seaton did not. Fiftyish, with stooped shoulders and a face like weathered stone, Seaton conducted his courtroom with as little intervention on his part as possible. Not because of any fine-tuned philosophy of judicial restraint, but because he was about as timid as they come. The fact that he had a courtroom full of spectators and journalists watching his every move no doubt displeased him beyond measure.
Curt Willis, on the other hand, chose his poses carefully for full audience effect. This despite the fact that the only person he had to convince was Seaton. His opening remarks were eloquent and dramatic, although orchestrated more with an eye to the personality game than the law. Nonetheless, he was good. It was all I could do to keep myself from nodding in agreement.
Finally he called his first witness, the police officer who’d responded to the initial call. In the wake of Curt’s questions, the officer verbally reenacted the scene, step by step. The medical examiner was next, followed by the county criminalist.
Curt had dropped the theatrics and was now building his case in a sound and straightforward manner. Occasionally Sam would stand and object to the phrasing of a question, which Curt would simply restate in another form. There was no new evidence introduced, no surprise eyewitness or shocking revelation. Not that I expected any. The prosecution only has to introduce enough evidence to show probable cause. Curt was no more inclined to lay out his whole case at this stage than we were.
As the hearing progressed, I jotted notes to myself, looking for inconsistencies we might exploit at trial. Nothing, not even a toehold. I might as well have been writing out my grocery list.
I’d instructed Wes along similar lines. If any of the testimony rang false with him or suggested a possible defense, he was to make note of it. He hadn’t picked up the pencil once all morning. When Seaton called the noon recess I looked over at Wes.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“You heard the evidence. This afternoon the prosecutor is going to argue that it all points to you.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s going to be wrong."
“Then how about you give us another explanation to throw to the judge.”
A puff of breath, scornful and exasperated.
“We need our own version of events, Wes.”
“I’m working on it, okay?” He pushed himself back from the table and stood. The guard was at his side in an instant. “If I come up with something,” Wes muttered, “I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
I took a deep breath and held it for a minute. Attorneys who screamed in court were not regarded with favor.
Sam slipped his notepad into the scruffy brown briefcase he carried. “Curt Willis is doing a decent job,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“Do I? I guess maybe I am. He has a reputation as something of a lightweight.”
“This case is important to him. He sees it as his ticket to something bigger and better.”
Sam smiled, but his eyes remained solemn. “This case is important to all of us.” He turned. “Are you going over to Dr. Markley’s now?”
I nodded. “I won’t be long. I can’t imagine the good doctor is going to give me much of her time.”
Dr. Markley’s office was located in a room at the back of her house. I entered through the side gate, as she’d instructed, and followed the flagstone path past the plum tree to the unmarked green door and rang the bell.
Dr. Markley was younger than I expected, probably in her late thirties. She had thick chestnut hair that hung in waves about her face. Her skirt was denim, topped with a loose-fitting jersey and applique vest. She looked like someone who’d be more at home canning the summer’s harvest than probing people’s psyches.
After directing me to a seat by the window Dr. Markley took the one opposite for herself. Her office was light and airy, definitely more comfortable than chic. There was a desk at one end, an overflowing bookshelf near the door and an assortment of large pillows along the wall. Something resembling an upholstered dentist’s chair, sans instruments, stood in the far corner. A fat gray cat was curled in the chair’s hollow. He lifted his head and yawned as I sat down.
“You wanted to ask me about Lisa Cornell?” Dr. Markley said. Her voice was soft and low, as unhurried as a feather floating in a still room.
I nodded. “I was hoping she might have told you something that would shed light on her death.”
The doctor’s gaze drifted to the garden outside before shifting back to me. “It’s hard to lose a patient. Particularly one as young and full of life as Lisa.”
“I understand she was seeing you in connection with recurring headaches.”
“That was an issue, yes.”
“An issue? There were others?”
Dr. Markley sighed.”The whole area of confidentiality becomes murky when we’re dealing with a patient who’s been murdered. There are no ethical canons that cover a situation like this.” She paused to smile. “Even if there were, I don’t think I’d follow them if it meant letting a killer go unpunished.”
I smiled back.
“On the other hand,” Dr. Markley continued, “I can’t simply go around repeating what Lisa told me in confidence. I have a responsibility to my profession, as well as to Lisa’s memory. So if I sound vague, it’s because I’m trying to walk a tight line. I hope you understand.”
I did, and told her so.
“Lisa came to see me about her headaches. But the reason she ended up here in the first place is that medical science couldn’t find a cause or cure. Emotional pain often manifests itself as physical pain. That’s the avenue we were exploring.”
“Get in touch with your feelings, that kind of stuff?”
A gentle laugh. “I hope there was a little more to it than that.”
“But it wasn’t simply a stress management class, then?”
Her expression was puzzled. “Not at all.”
“Or a forum for handling chronic pain? It sounds more like group therapy of some kind.”
“Well, yes, I suppose.” She offered a wry smile. “Except it wasn’t much of a group, just me and Lisa.”
I sat forward.”Just the two of you?”
“That’s not unusual. Most therapists prefer to work one- on-one.”
“But what about Wednesday nights? I’d understood you ran a support group for people who suffered from chronic headaches. One of the women from the group called Lisa the night she was killed. Lisa ended up canceling a d
ate with her fiancé because the woman needed help.”
Dr. Markley looked perplexed. “There were just the two of us. Lisa’s standing appointment was Wednesday at six. Now and then we’d meet another time during the week in addition, but she always came on Wednesday evenings. How did you get the idea it was some sort of group?”
“From Philip Stockman, her fiancé.”
“I see.” A frown creased her brow, then gave way to another smile, so faint it was barely visible. “Lisa must have presented it to him that way to keep the peace. He’s apparently a ...” She paused, looking for the right word. “. . . a man of strong opinions. He doesn’t approve of therapy or, I might add, of therapists. Lisa’s style was to avoid confrontation whenever possible.”
“But what about this woman who phoned her?”
“I have no idea. Are you sure Lisa said it was someone from the group?”
“That’s what Stockman says.”
She held out her hands, palms up. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“From what you’ve said, it sounds like Lisa was willing to bend the truth to avoid confrontation. Do you think she might have invented the phone call the same way she did the group? Because it was easier than going into her real reasons for canceling the date.”
“Perhaps.”
“The white lie approach to carefree living.”
There was that faint smile again. “You’ve never done something similar?”
“Sure.” More times than I liked to admit. “But I can’t imagine marrying someone I couldn’t be honest with. Talk about setting yourself up for a dysfunctional marriage.”
Dr. Markley pressed the fingers of her hands together. “People have different ways of handling conflict, different ways of working out the inevitable kinks in a relationship.”
“And Lisa’s was to avoid conflict.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Was that what you and Lisa were working on — her lack of assertiveness in relationships?”
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