27
The judge called a recess. Hal and Kristina waited until the deputy sheriffs removed their client from the courtroom. Then they headed for the door. Hal was already mentally reviewing food options. A tuna salad sandwich was currently the leading contender, although a good, juicy bacon cheeseburger was running a close second. He would let Kristina make the ultimate decision.
They were en route to the elevators when she gripped his arm and jerked him to a stop in front of the door to an attorney-client conference room. “In here.”
“Now?” He knew his wife was a hard-worker—it was one of the things he found attractive about her—but everything was better in moderation. “Kristina, I’m starving.”
She pushed him inside and closed the door behind her. The room was hardly larger than a walk-in closet, provided as a convenience for lawyers to speak privately with their clients and witnesses. This one smelled like pizza, which managed to simultaneously gross Hal out while also making him crave pizza. A table dominated the room, sturdy wood covered in the scrapes, scratches, and other battle-scars of decades of nervous hands. There were two chairs, but neither Hal nor Kristina sat.
“What was that about?” Kristina said. Her brow furrowed.
“What was what about?” Hal tried a smile. When she didn’t return it, he let it drop from his face. “We’re winning.”
“Why did Witherell change her testimony?” Kristina crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out a hip.
“I have no idea.”
“You said you told Ivan Coakley to focus on her. Do you think he did something improper? Threatened her?” Her gaze was steady, piercing.
Hal tried another smile. “I have no idea. Do you want to grab something to eat?” He reached for the doorknob, but Kristina batted his hand away, hard enough to sting. “Ow. Seriously?”
“We shouldn’t be using some ex-con friend of our client. We should be using a real, licensed private investigator. Why didn’t you hire one?”
“I told you. There was an oversight.”
“It was a money issue, wasn’t it? Hazenberg was telling the truth. The firm is broke.”
The walls of the cramped room seemed to press in around him. Hal leaned against the edge of the table to steady himself. “There’s no money issue. Hazenberg is a liar. For God’s sake, Kristina, he’s probably a murderer. Why would you give anything he says a second thought?”
“I called the bank, Hal.” Emotions seemed to flash in her eyes. Sadness. Disappointment. Betrayal. Ferocious anger.
“You called the bank?” Hal said.
“Why would you hide this from me?”
“Kristina—”
“I thought we were partners.”
“We are.”
“I don’t feel like your partner right now. In fact, I don’t feel like your wife right now. I don’t know what I feel. If I have to look at your stupid smirk for one more second I’m going to throw up.”
“It’s a temporary cash flow issue. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Go get your food. Fill your belly. And then go back to the courtroom with more of your stunts and tricks. Maybe you’ll be the one facing prison next. Don’t look to me to defend you.”
She left the interview room and slammed the door behind her. Hal stared at the door for a minute, maybe two. Then he dropped into one of the chairs.
Damn it.
Jessie thought, I can’t win this trial.
She headed for the elevators. Her head ached as she struggled to come up with a strategy that could possibly result in Hazenberg’s conviction. All her mind seemed willing to do was dwell on the fiasco of Angelica Witherell’s testimony. She didn’t see Kristina Nolan coming toward her until it was too late.
Jessie tried to dodge out of the way, but Kristina, barreling forward with her head down, walked right into her. The impact sent Jessie staggering backward. Kristina fell, spilling the contents of a file folder across the hallway floor.
Jessie knelt to help the woman. Kristina looked at her, and Jessie realized there were tears in the woman’s eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.” Kristina wiped her eyes. She scooped up her papers.
“You’re sure?”
“See you later.” Kristina hurried away. Jessie considered pursuing her—something had clearly happened—but the woman disappeared into an elevator before Jessie took a step.
Then she saw a door open further down the hallway, in the direction from which Kristina had come. Hal Nolan stepped out of an attorney-client conference room. Even from thirty feet away, Jessie could see the guilty expression on his face.
Her mind flashed back to the first preliminary arraignment. What had Kristina said? Marrying a co-worker. Something I know a bit about. Had there been an edge in her voice? A warning Jessie had been too naive to pick up on? Was fighting inevitable for colleagues who were also spouses? Was she making a huge mistake?
In time, would she be the woman crying in the courthouse hallway?
She pushed the thoughts away. She was not Kristina Nolan, and Leary was definitely not Hal Nolan. The incident she’d just witnessed had nothing to do with her. What she was experiencing was her brain playing tricks on her, projecting her own insecurities. She and Leary were fine. They were going to marry, and they were going to be fine.
Then she remembered the menus in her apartment. The brochures for photographers and bands. All the tasks she’d been putting off. Leary was still staying in a hotel room.
Everything was not fine, and she couldn’t ignore that any longer. She needed help.
28
The cab of Jessie’s father’s truck smelled like its owner—aftershave, fresh-cut grass, donuts. He’d owned the vehicle for almost ten years. At this point, Jessie supposed the scents were baked in. He drove without noticing any odor, but for Jessie, sitting in the passenger seat, it was comforting, familiar. She breathed it in.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Something’s weighing on you.”
She shot him a look. “Why do you say that—”
“You’re smelling me. I see you doing it.” He smiled.
“Okay, you caught me. And I’m sorry again for asking you to do this at the last minute.”
“You never need to apologize to me,” Harland Black said.
“I just don’t like to do this alone.”
“I know.”
New Jersey scrolled by her window. Her father’s residential area, where she and her brother Alex had grown up, gave way to the commercial sprawl that had overtaken this area decades ago—malls, strip centers, chain restaurants. Then the landscape became more sparse as they neared their destination. A gated entryway welcomed them to Sunset Hills Cemetery.
Her father glanced at her as he drove onto the grounds, but he didn’t speak. Jessie had been drawn to this cemetery many times throughout her life, and passing through the gateway always seemed to be a solemn moment. She saw emotions play over her father’s face as he drove in silence. She did not disturb it.
He navigated the truck through the winding lanes of cemetery plots. Then he pulled to the side of the roadway and parked. Her mother’s headstone was visible at the top of a nearby rise.
Her father cut the engine and the truck settled into silence. “I’m actually glad you called,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day. Perfect day for a visit.”
He always referred to these trips as visits, as if her mother were here to receive them as guests. As a child, Jessie had taken the phrase literally and believed that her mother could hear her speak, could see her. As a cynical teenager, she rejected the concept even though her father stuck with it. During that period of her life, she avoided trips to the cemetery. In hindsight, she guessed she had been trying to protect herself—raise a shield against the pain of her mother’s death—but at the time, she had rationalized it away with excuses of being too busy.
As an adult, she had managed to lower this shield enough t
o consider the possibility that she’d been right as a child. That her mother was, in some way, here.
They climbed out of the truck. The sounds of their doors closing seemed as loud as gunshots. They walked up the hill and her father knelt in front of the tombstone.
Jessie hung back. She could not hear her father’s voice, but his lips moved. Then he rose, took a step back, and looked at Jessie. “It’s a nice day. I’m going to take a walk, give you some time alone.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
She watched him walk away, strolling through the grounds.
Then she turned to the weathered stone marking her mother’s final resting place. Her family had not been well-off, and the stone was simple, plain. A basic rectangle with minimal text engraved into its surface. Constance Rosemarie Black. Beloved Wife and Mother. And two dates marking the short span of her life.
“Hi Mom.” Jessie swallowed her grief. “It’s been a few months I guess since I’ve been here. I’m sorry. I’ll try to come more often.”
She wiped tears from her eyes.
“I … I wish you were still here. I wish that all the time. But especially now. I don’t know what to do. Being engaged, getting married. I don’t know how to do it. I wish you—”
Her voice cut off again, choked by emotion. More tears slid down her face. She took a long breath.
“Am I being unfair to Leary? Am I being unfair to myself? Am I screwing everything up?”
If she had expected some answer, some sign—and a part of her, she realized, had expected one—she was disappointed. There was no sign. No guidance from beyond. Just the quiet, peaceful breeze.
“Okay, Mom. I love you.” She touched her hand to the rough surface of the stone. “I miss you.”
Driving back, her father waited until they were outside of the cemetery. Then he looked at her. “Did you find what you needed, honey?”
Jessie gazed out the window, hoping he couldn’t see her sad expression. “Not really.”
She glanced at him and saw him nod with understanding. “You know, I was thinking. I know you’re having a hard time finding a dress. You could wear your mother’s dress.” His eyes locked on the road in front of him and his jaw muscles clenched. “I mean, it’s an idea to consider.”
“I would love that, Dad.”
His face seemed to lighten. “It’s in a box in the attic. I’ll find it when I get back to the house, after I drop you off in Philly.”
“Thanks.”
“Is that why you wanted to come here today? The wedding? You’re still having mixed feelings?”
“I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to marry Mark. I do. It’s just…. It’s like I’m hardwired to put the job first. I want to be excited about the wedding and picking out the food and the band and everything, but all I can think about is this man, Oscar Hazenberg, who killed another man, tortured him, and is probably going to get away with it.”
Harland Black nodded. “The guy who cut off the other man’s privates.”
His response startled her, since she’d never talked to him about Hazenberg. “You’ve been following the trial?”
“I follow all your trials, Jess. The ones the papers cover, anyway. You’re my girl.”
“I hope the reporters are being kind.”
“Well, the other guy, what’s his name—Hal Nolan—he seems to get most of the sound bites.”
Jessie smirked. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“So why would this guy Hazenberg get away with the crime? It sounds like you know he did it for certain.”
“We do know. But a lot of the best evidence has been kept out of the trial for legal reasons, and what’s left just isn’t enough. I don’t think I’m going to be able to convince the jury.”
Her father raised an eyebrow. “Not enough evidence? That’s hard to believe. A guy who breaks into a house and chops another guy up is bound to leave a mess behind, right?”
“You’d think so.”
“Wasn’t he covered in blood?”
“Hazenberg was careful. He might have made a mess on his own clothing, but we didn’t find his clothing. He got rid of his clothes, took a shower, and changed.”
“Fingerprints, anything like that?”
“He wore gloves. We know, because we found one of the gloves, but we can’t present that evidence at trial.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You have the glove, but you can’t use it?”
“There’s a constitutional issue.”
“What about DNA? Hair follicles, that sort of thing?”
“We didn’t find any of Hazenberg’s hairs at the crime scene. We found some hairs on the victim, but they weren’t Hazenberg’s.”
“Whose were they?”
“We don’t know. It’s not relevant, anyway.” Jessie shrugged.
“How do you know it’s not relevant?”
Jessie looked at her father, then mulled over his question. How did they know?
The hair strands had been found on Kent Edley’s naked body, which had to mean either that the hairs had been transferred there after Hazenberg undressed him, or that they had been underneath his clothing when Hazenberg arrived. Now that she thought about it, that did seem odd.
“Why would someone else’s hair be on the victim’s naked body?” she said, thinking out loud.
“Sounds like maybe he was naked and fooling around with somebody before Hazenberg showed up, and then he threw on some clothes real quick.”
The neighbor’s statement echoed suddenly in Jessie’s mind. He was what my generation called a ladies’ man.
“You think someone else was there?” Jessie said.
Her father’s mouth broadened into a smile. “Hey, you’re the assistant district attorney. I’m just a retired factory worker.”
Jessie felt a surge of adrenaline. “If someone else was there, there might be an eyewitness. That could win the trial for us.”
They crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philadelphia. Her father turned the truck in the direction of Jessie’s apartment building.
“Don’t take me home, Dad.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I need to talk to Leary.” She gave him the address of the hotel.
29
Jessie knocked on Leary’s hotel room door. It gave her a funny feeling, reminding her of a story she’d heard about a couple who role-played that they were strangers as a way to spice things up.
For a second, she allowed herself the fantasy that she was doing that now. That he would open the door and she would say something corny like, “Hey stranger,” and they would make love and resolve all of their issues.
But that wasn’t going to happen. It just wasn’t who she was—or who he was. And she had an important reason for being here that had nothing to do with romance.
Leary opened the door. “Jessie. I wasn’t expecting you. You should have called. I already ate dinner.”
Judging by the odor wafting from the room behind him, she guessed that dinner had come in a paper sack from McDonald’s.
“That’s okay. I came to talk, not to eat.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” He hugged her and pulled her inside. His room was small but clean, with a queen-size bed and a small desk. On the desk, she saw his laptop. It was open and the screen was bright.
“You’ve been working?”
Leary shrugged. “Not much else to do cooped up in here.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “You could come home.”
“I’m going to. Soon. But….”
“But you’re still sorting out your thoughts. About what a terrible fiancée I am.”
Leary sighed. “I’m not doing this to punish you, Jessie. I love you. More than ever. I’m just trying to…. I don’t know.”
“I found a dress.”
He looked at her with a startled expression. “In the middle of the trial?”
“I told you this is important to me, too. I meant it.”
Jessie shook her head and gave him a coy smile. “You’re going to have to wait for the wedding. That’s how it works, right?”
“Fair enough. So why the visit? Is this a booty call?”
The suggestion was more tempting than she’d thought it would be. And she was already sitting on his bed. But as he came toward her, she placed a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Maybe later. But first….”
“First business,” Leary said.
He did not look angry or disappointed, though, and that was a relief. He looked interested. “You’re okay with that?”
“I know the last few days of trial haven’t gone smoothly. I’ve been going through the file, trying to find something to help you.” He gestured toward the laptop. “But I’m coming up empty.”
“Kristina Nolan already approached me once about discussing a plea deal.”
Leary ran his fingers through his hair. “I can imagine how that makes you feel.”
“I know he’s guilty.”
“But if the choice is between some prison time or a total acquittal…. I don’t know, Jessie. It might be worth starting the conversation.”
Jessie leaned forward. “Before we go down that road, I had a thought. Actually, it was my dad’s thought, when I was complaining to him about the case. We were talking about that other person’s hair that was found on Kent Edley’s body. On his skin, even though he would have been dressed when Hazenberg arrived. What if it means he was with another person just before the attack? Do you think that’s possible?”
Leary considered her words. “You think there was a witness, someone else in the house? And we missed it somehow?”
“It happens sometimes. Especially if the witness wants to be missed.”
Leary nodded thoughtfully, and she knew he was thinking of past investigations from his days as a homicide detective for the Philadelphia Police Department. “The presence of a few strands of hair isn’t much to go on, even assuming the hair does belong to a mystery witness.”
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