Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  When holding failed to quiet her, Weaver bounced her on his knees, which only made her cry harder. He looked at me, and I shrugged. I wasn't about to coach him in parenting, even if I'd known how. Finally, ten minutes before the end of his already truncated hour, he handed her back to me.

  “Your allotted time isn't up,” I told him.

  He checked his watch. “Close enough. I've got a busy afternoon.”

  I left to take the howling baby to Terri. She and Lenore were waiting by the door when I emerged.

  “I thought you were going to stay in my office,” I said.

  “I heard her crying.”

  I handed Hannah to Terri. She held the child against her chest and gently patted her back. Hannah quieted.

  Weaver was in the doorway. “Has she had a sample taken for the paternity test?”

  “Yesterday.” Terri had been relieved to learn that it required only a saliva swab and not the drawing of blood.

  “Good,” Weaver said, heading for the door. “I went in earlier this week. The baby ought to be able to come home with me by the end of the month.”

  “I hope that man rots in hell,” Terri said.

  <><><>

  Despite the fact that nothing much had happened for the entire hour, the air had been thick with tension. I was glad to have the office to myself again.

  Without waiting for Jared's help, I began rearranging the furniture in the conference room, putting it back the way it was. When I heard a tentative knock on the outer door, I poked my head into the reception area thinking maybe Weaver had returned to sling some final barb my way.

  A blast of canine energy greeted me instead.

  “Loretta!”

  The dog made a beeline for me, her stubby tail wagging so furiously I couldn't understand how she managed to stay upright. She pushed against my legs with the full force of spaniel energy. It had been a long time since I'd experienced such enthusiasm at my mere presence.

  While I was scratching her ears, I looked up at Tom standing in the doorway. I knew he had to be somewhere close by since he'd been keeping Loretta for me.

  “What are you doing here?” I was hoping he'd attribute the waver in my voice to surprise and nothing more. The truth was, seeing him called forth a jumble of feelings that left me a little breathless and short of rational thought.

  Tom was part of my life in Silver Creek. We'd been seeing each other. Seriously, I'd thought. But when Tom's estranged wife decided that being divorced wasn't such a hot idea after all, he'd taken her back. For the children's sake, he told me. My head understood, but not my heart.

  This wasn't the first time we'd been together since I'd returned to the Bay Area last winter, but the other times had been back in Silver Creek. And always with advance planning.

  “No one was at the house,” Tom explained, “so we came by here.” His voice was warm but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. “You alone or have you got clients?”

  “Alone. The clients have gone and Jared left early for a weekend at Tahoe. Why? Are you in need of a good attorney?”

  He hesitated and then laughed. It was the same wonderful laugh I'd grown to love. “All my quick comebacks are double entendres, probably best left unsaid. But no, that's not why I'm here. Lynn and I had a fight.”

  “You're looking for a place to stay?” And maybe an old girlfriend to pick up with again?

  Tom looked embarrassed. “No, sorry. Not that kind of fight.” He paused. “We had a fight about Loretta. Lynn doesn't want the dog around anymore.”

  I felt a stab of anguish. It hurts enough to get dumped, but when a guy dumps your dog as well, you know it's over.

  “It's not Loretta's fault,” Tom added. “She's been great.”

  “But?”

  “Well, there's the connection with you.” He paused for a sardonic smile. “It's hard to work on a marriage when your husband has his ex-lover's dog underfoot.”

  “Really?” I loaded the word with disbelief.

  “No need to lay on the sarcasm.”

  I went to the coffee room and filled a bowl with water for Loretta. Tom followed, leaning against the doorjamb to watch me.

  “You could have called,” I said. “I'd have come and gotten her.”

  “I guess I was looking for an excuse to get away.” He paused, rubbing his palms against his jeans.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “This isn't easy, you know.”

  I crossed my arms. “Don't expect me to feel sorry for you.”

  “I'm not asking for your sympathy, Kali. Just your understanding. As a friend.” When I didn't say anything, he stuck his hands in his pockets. “So how are things going here? You think you'll stay?”

  “I haven't decided yet.” I wondered if Tom knew he was a big part of the equation.

  “You'll be able to keep Loretta, won't you? I mean, it won't be a problem?”

  I thought of the yard, which wasn't fenced; the traffic, which she wasn't used to; the narrow and steep streets near my house that made walking difficult. But truth was, I'd missed her. After years of staunch independence, of never taking on so much as the responsibility of an African violet, I'd inherited Loretta when my father passed away two years ago, and discovered the comfort of unconditional love. It was probably the only place I'd ever find it.

  “I'm glad to have her back,” I said. “It was lonely without her.”

  “That Barrett trial made headlines, even in Silver Creek.” He cocked his head. “You're a star.”

  “Hardly that.”

  “Still, you did a good job, Kali.” Tom's voice held genuine admiration.

  “Thanks.”

  We stood in silence for a moment. Then Tom ran a hand along Loretta's neck and patted her sides. “I'm going to miss you, girl.”

  I wondered briefly if he was talking to me as well as the dog.

  “Well,” he said, straightening. “Guess I should be going.”

  “You headed back tonight?”

  “I think that's best.” He hesitated, then crossed the room and pulled me close in a quick, amiable hug. “We were friends once, Kali. We ought to be able to do it again.”

  I wasn't so sure. I returned the hug, then pulled away quickly. “Drive carefully.”

  Standing at the window, I watched his truck pull away from the curb and found myself filled with immeasurable sorrow.

  The conference room furniture could wait. Loretta and I headed home.

  Bea and Dotty were out for the evening, which was probably a good thing given my mood. While Loretta explored her new home, I watched Seinfeld reruns on TV, drank more wine than I should have, and cried. I couldn't decide how much of it was Tom, and how much simple loneliness.

  I woke in the morning to the sound of voices. My head throbbed. I turned gingerly and looked at the clock. Ten o'clock.

  I never sleep that late.

  But I wasn't ready to get up either. I knew Loretta would have been let out and fed by now. The sisters had been ecstatic when they'd come home last night and learned that she was joining our household.

  The voices grew stronger. Bea's and Dotty's I recognized, but there was a male voice as well. Low and resonant, like a rumbling of stones. Slowly, I pulled myself out of bed, and padded to the window. A police car was parked on the street in front. Had Loretta managed to get into trouble already? Then I saw the SFPD logo on the car. San Francisco, not Berkeley. I slipped into jeans, rinsed my mouth, and stumbled upstairs.

  “Kali, we were just coming to get you,” Dotty said. “There's a policeman here to see you.”

  A black officer. Male and young. Despite the dog prancing at his feet, he was all business. “Are you Kali O'Brien?” he asked, chewing on a wad of gum.

  I nodded.

  “Can you tell me how you're acquainted with Bram Weaver?”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  The dark eyes didn't blink. “I believe I asked a question, ma'am.”

  Ma'am. Like I was his mother's age or s
omething. “I'm an attorney,” I explained. “I represent a couple who are trying to adopt a baby Weaver claims is his.”

  “Ted Harper and his wife, right? I heard something about it on the news.”

  I nodded.

  “When did you last see Weaver?”

  I thought a moment, still befuddled by the shadow of a hangover. “Yesterday, in my office.”

  “About what?”

  “It was a court-ordered visitation with the baby.”

  “Did you have any contact with him after that?”

  “In what, all of the eighteen hours since the visit? Hardly. Now will you please tell me what this is about.”

  The officer tapped his pen against his notebook. “Weaver is dead, ma'am.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I blinked. “You mean he was murdered?” The young officer gave a look that was immediately suspicious. “What makes you say that?”

  “Why else would you be here?” My brain was finally beginning to function. “How did Weaver die?”

  The man ignored both questions and asked one of his own instead. “Who was present at the visit in your office?”

  “Terri Harper and her mother, Lenore Cross. Weaver, of course. And a photographer friend of his. But for the actual visit, it was just the baby, Weaver, and myself.”

  He scribbled briefly in his notebook. “Your card was on the counter by Weaver's phone. Any idea why?”

  “He must have picked it up yesterday in my office.”

  “And you're sure you haven't talked with him since?”

  “I'm sure. When was he killed?”

  The officer made another notation in his book. “Sometime last night.”

  “Where? How?”

  He packed away his notebook and started for the door. “Thanks for your help, ma'am.”

  I'd gotten all the information I was going to get.

  By the time I returned from ushering him to the front door, Bea had the morning newspaper open and was running her finger down the pages, column by column.

  “I don't see a word about it anywhere,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “Here, give it to me.” Dotty elbowed her sister aside and reached for the magnifying glass she kept close at hand.

  “I'd guess Weaver's body wasn't discovered in time to make the paper,” I said. “Let's see if the radio has anything.”

  Seven minutes to the top of the hour. I turned the radio to KCBS. We sat through four long commercials, financial news, traffic and weather, and then a five-minute wrap-up of national news. But Weaver's death led the hour as the top local story. Unfortunately, the report was short on detail.

  The body of Bram Weaver, talk radio host and author of the controversial book, On Being Male, had been found that morning in the entryway of his Twin Peaks condo. He'd been shot in the stomach and head. Police were asking anyone with information about the crime to contact them. The announcer read off the police hotline number, then shifted to a reporter in the field who fed us taped reaction from people on the street.

  “Shocking.”

  “No one is safe anymore.”

  “I'm not surprised. He made plenty of people mad.”

  And the official reaction from the San Francisco Women's Alliance, “While we disagreed with much of what Mr. Weaver stood for, we are steadfastly against the use of violence to solve problems. Our sympathy goes out to his family and friends.”

  I'd barely known the man, and like some of those interviewed, I hadn't liked much of what I did know. Nonetheless, he'd sat in my office not twelve hours before his death. That gave the news a personal dimension that left me shaken.

  But my mind had already jumped a step ahead. The Harpers could now adopt Hannah without a fight.

  The newscast switched to coverage of a warehouse fire, and Dotty turned off the radio. She was a large-boned woman, tall and angular in contrast to her sister's softer, plumper figure.

  “What was Weaver like in person?” she asked me.

  “More mild-mannered than I expected.”

  She dusted the radio with her sleeve. “Did you ever listen to his show?”

  I nodded.

  “Nothing mild-mannered about him there,” she said.

  “He was so rude to callers,” Bea muttered, “I wondered why they bothered calling.”

  “Nonetheless, he had plenty of listeners.”

  “I know his show was popular/' Dotty said. “But I think a lot of people just tuned in to hear how outrageous he could be.”

  “Lots of his callers were outrageous too,” Bea pointed out. “That's what made it interesting. Who wants to listen to bland, polite conversation?”

  “Whatever the reason,” I told them, “his audience was growing. There was even some talk of his running for office.”

  Bea put her hand to her forehead. “Heaven help us.”

  Dotty shot her sister a reproachful look. “You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Bea.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's disrespectful.”

  “Phooey.” Bea turned back to the crossword puzzle she'd apparently been working on before the morning's excitement. “Truth is never disrespectful,” she grumbled.

  “Guess I'd better make some calls,” I said, heading downstairs.

  I phoned the Harpers, and when no one answered, I hung up without leaving a message. I tried Melissa next. She'd heard the news from a friend who'd caught the story on television that morning at the gym.

  “I know I should feel sad or something,” Melissa said, “but I'm actually kind of glad he's dead.”

  “Because of the adoption?”

  “And because he was a creep.”

  I hesitated. “The police may want to talk to you.”

  “Me? Why would they talk to me?”

  “I'm only guessing. They came to see me this morning.”

  “What did they want?”

  “To know my connection with Weaver. Unless they have evidence that points to a specific suspect, they usually start by questioning people who knew the victim.”

  Melissa laughed nervously. “Guess I'd better not tell them what I just told you then. About not being sad he's dead, I mean.”

  “Probably a good idea. But don't wrap yourself in lies, either. The police are sure to figure out that you weren't happy about Weaver's interference in the adoption.”

  Melissa sighed. “Seems like all he's done since the moment I met him is cause trouble.”

  “How are you doing otherwise?” I asked, shifting focus. “You settling in to your new apartment?”

  “Sort of. It's kind of lonely without Ted and Terri around.” She was quiet a moment. “It's so weird him being dead and all. I guess maybe it is a little sad after all.”

  Sad, and in this case, unsettling. For the remainder of the afternoon, the pall of Weaver's murder clouded my mind like smoke from a grass fire. I switched on the radio every half hour, listening for updates. When it became clear there weren't going to be any, I took Loretta for a hike in the hills, off Grizzly Peak Boulevard. It was new territory for her and she clearly loved every minute of the three hours we were gone.

  I was on the front porch trying to brush some of the dirt from Loretta's fur and checking her for foxtails, when Bea poked her head out the front door.

  “You had a call from the police,” she said. “About an hour ago. Same fellow who was here earlier. Said his name was Holbrook.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Couldn't weasel a thing out of him. And believe me, I tried.”

  I laughed. “I'm sure you did.”

  I took another few minutes to finish with Loretta, then went inside. Bea dallied about the kitchen, ostensibly wiping counters, while I returned the call.

  “We haven't been able to reach the Harpers,” Holbrook said, still popping a wad of gum.

  “Ted is out of town on business. Terri probably went out for the afternoon with the baby.”

  “Her mother was there at the house. Says she
doesn't know where Mrs. Harper is either.”

  “And you think I do?”

  “Maybe,” Holbrook replied. Smack, pop. “Seems logical that someone in her position might call her attorney first thing.”

  “Her position? What are you talking about?” But I thought I knew.

  “Someone we might regard as a possible suspect.”

  At least he'd said might.

  “You guys don't waste any time, do you?”

  “No, ma'am. We don't.”

  “There must be no shortage of people with motives.” I thought instantly of Melissa and bit my tongue. “I'm not talking about the adoption, but the rest of his life. He wasn't known as a controversial figure without reason.”

  A couple of quick pops. “You're sounding defensive, Ms. O'Brien. My question was simply if you knew where your clients were.”

  “Sorry, but I don't.” Question answered, I hung up.

  Bea looked up from the spot she'd been scrubbing for the last five minutes. “Trouble?”

  “I hope not.”

  I tried the Harpers' number again, and again reached the machine. This time I left a message. “Mrs. Cross, if you're there, pick up. It's Kali O'Brien, Terri and Ted's attorney.”

  I'd just about decided she'd gone when the phone finally clicked in.

  “Kali, this is Lenore Cross.” I could hear the hysteria in her voice. “The police were here. They were looking for Terri. Why would they want to talk with her?”

  “They're talking to a lot of people, Mrs. Cross.”

  “They think she might have something to do with that awful man's death, don't they?”

  I banished Holbrook's words from my mind. “I don't think you should jump to conclusions. Do you know where Terri is?”

  “No. I was heading home to Carmel earlier when I heard the news on the radio. I turned around immediately to come back. The police were here and Terri was gone.”

  “She's probably at the park,” I said. “Or out shopping.”

  “That's what I thought at first. But a neighbor saw her with a suitcase. And Hannah's portacrib is gone.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Have you tried to reach Ted?”

  “I don't know where he's staying. Somewhere in San Diego is all I know.”