Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Just cleaning out old magazines.”

  “I guess I shouldn't have been so eager to try to help them. Seems pretty stupid in retrospect, but I never thought they'd be suspicious of me.”

  “Hard to tell how much of it is suspicion and how much is basic investigative procedure.”

  “It's unnerving, whatever it is.”

  We'd reached Terri's car, new and shiny with soft lambs wool covers on the seats. She unlocked the car with the remote gadget on her key chain and gently pried the sleeping Hannah from her baby sling. Placing the baby into a rear-facing safety restraint, she adjusted the straps and secured a safety bar. I marveled silently, as I had on previous occasions, at the effort involved in simply transporting a child from one place to another.

  “You've been a super traveler,” Terri said, stroking the top of Hannah's head. “A perfect ten.”

  “It's a long trip to Mendocino,” I said when she'd extracted herself from the car's interior.

  Terri shrugged. “I don't mind the drive.”

  “I thought your mom was going to stay with you until Ted came home.”

  “That was the initial plan.”

  “So what changed?”

  “I told you, I wanted some time to myself.” Terri's tone was not snappish exactly, but close. She must have heard it herself because she backpedaled, softening her response. “Besides, Mom wasn't feeling well. I thought she'd do better at home.”

  Lenore hadn't seemed under the weather when I'd talked with her. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, just a touch of nerves, I think. I'd given her a couple of sleeping pills the previous night because she was feeling out of sorts. But I don't think she slept well.” Terri started for the driver's door.

  “Another thing—”

  “Can we talk later? It's been a long day and I'd like to get home before Hannah wakes up hungry.”

  I stepped away from the car. “Sure.” I had a couple more questions, but at this moment, they weren't at issue. With luck, they never would be.

  <><><>

  Jared stumbled into work Monday morning looking like something the cat dragged in.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Just tired is all. I didn't get much sleep this weekend.”

  “What were you doing?”

  A smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. “Uh, boss, that's not a question you ask a red-blooded young man.”

  “Ah, that kind of tired. I hope you were careful.”

  He shot me a look between scorn and embarrassment. “Enough about my weekend, okay? Looks like I missed all the excitement, though. I saw the piece about Weaver's death in the paper this morning. Weird that the guy pops into our lives right before someone pops him.”

  Weird yes. I fervently hoped that it was no more than that.

  “Guess Ted Harper and his wife will get to keep that baby after all.”

  “It looks that way.” In fact, I'd already put in a call about the court date.

  The phone rang and Jared reached for it. “Just a moment and I'll check.” He put the caller on hold and looked at me. “For you, someone by the name of Steven. You want to take it?”

  I nodded, then made a shooing gesture with my hands. Jared slid out the door and closed it behind him.

  I took a deep breath to calm my stomach and picked up the phone. “Hi, Steven.”

  “Kali? Hi.” A long pause. He cleared his throat. “How have you been?” Then he laughed. “Guess we did that already, didn't we? As I was leaving Terri's the other day.”

  I could hear the nervousness in his voice and that somehow made it easier. Put us on even footing in a way. “We did. And you were right about Hannah. She's wonderful.”

  Another pause. “Listen, I know this is awkward for both of us. But I think we're better off acknowledging that than pretending it isn't so.”

  The elephant in the middle of the living room. A favorite analogy among psychologists. Something so obvious everyone knows it's there despite an unstated conspiracy of silence.

  “You're right,” I conceded. “It is awkward. More than that even. I feel so—”

  “Don't go there, Kali. That's not what I meant.”

  There was a moment's silence.

  “I was surprised you gave Terri my name,” I said at last.

  “Why wouldn't I? You're just the sort of lawyer she needed. Needs, present tense. That's why I'm calling.”

  I slipped into my lawyer hat. “What's happened?”

  “Nothing you don't already know. But I'm worried.”

  “In a case like this, the cops cast their net fairly wide.”

  “I understand that. But all this interest in her gun. . .” He paused. “They must have checked the records because they know she owned a Beretta.”

  “How'd you hear that?”

  “One of the detectives called Terri this morning. They wouldn't keep asking her about it unless it was the same kind of gun that killed Weaver.”

  “It would help if she could produce it,” I said. Unless, of course, it was the murder weapon.

  Steven may have had the same thought. His voice, when he continued, was thoughtful. “She never liked owning a gun. But Arlo insisted she needed it for protection. He made sure we all learned to shoot. While other kids spent Sundays in the park, we'd have family picnics at the rifle range.”

  “Still, they can't pin this murder on her just because she once owned a gun similar to the one used as a murder weapon.”

  “You'd think not.” Left unspoken was what we were both thinking. There must be more to it.

  “You want me to ask around?” I said. “See what I can find out?”

  “That would be great.” Relief flooded his voice. “I'd do it myself but I've burned a few bridges over at the Hall of Justice.”

  I'd heard rumors to that effect. Steven Cross, transformed from grieving husband and father into total jackass. I could well understand the need to blame someone, however. And since the driver of the other car had never been identified, it wasn't hard to see how allegations of ineffectual police work followed.

  “I hate to ask a favor,” he said.

  “Steven, please. It's the least I can do.” Listening to my own words, which rang with a theatrical tenor I wasn't expecting, I felt a giggle spring forth out of nowhere. “Sounds like a line out of a soap opera, doesn't it?”

  He laughed too. It felt good. We'd almost succeeded in browbeating the awkwardness into submission.

  “I suppose it's not too far from the truth,” Steven said. “The soap opera, I mean. You'd be hard pressed to come up with a more tawdry script.”

  I was suddenly silent. As if silence could banish the memories.

  Steven seemed not to notice. “How about coffee sometime?”

  “Coffee?” My mind was still immersed in the drama of our tawdry history, where the unexpected peal of Steven's cell phone five years earlier had wrenched open the gate of self-blame and guilt. A shiver inched across my shoulders, powered by the memory of Steven's hand tracing the contours of my face before he reached to answer on the fourth ring.

  “You know,” Steven said, “coffee. The beverage you drink hot from a cup. Or maybe you'd prefer wine. As I recall, that's more up your alley.”

  My throat felt tight. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Hair of the dog, maybe.” He laughed. I wasn't sure what but, he might be verging on hysteria. “Oops, got to go. Time for my eleven o'clock class.”

  Steven was gone but the mental reel continued to spin as unwelcome images flickered across my brain. I tried counting backward from one hundred, but got only to seventy-nine before I declared the exercise a failure. Second round of defense: focus my attention on Terri.

  I called the San Francisco Police Department and got the runaround. They weren't about to reveal details of an ongoing investigation. Neither Dennison or Holbrook was available. I left a message though I suspected I'd get no more from them. My mind ran through the list of people I'd
known in the District Attorney's Office. All had since moved on.

  I buzzed Jared. “Who do you know in the San Francisco DA's office?”

  “Couple of people. Why?”

  I explained.

  “Whoa. Guess we're not in adoption-land anymore, Toto.” He gave a soft whistle. “We going to handle her defense?”

  “Jared, back up. The police have questioned her. Period.”

  “But you're worried they think she did it.”

  I sighed. “That's what I'm trying to determine.”

  “Gotcha. So what is it you want to know?”

  “What they've got on Weaver's death and why they're looking so hard at Terri Harper. Will you see what you can find for me?”

  “Sure, boss. Consider it done.”

  <><><>

  It was past noon and I was suddenly ravenous. The six-ounce container of lemon flavored yogurt I'd brought from home seemed paltry fare. I got into the car and drove to the burrito shop on College Avenue, where I wolfed down a veggie burrito and diet cola while sitting at one of the small tables clustered near the front sidewalk. Then, instead of heading back to the office, I drove across the bridge to San Francisco and the address where Bram Weaver had lived, and died.

  Weaver's house was located on a narrow street, down a flight of steep stairs that led to a landing. The walkway and main entrance were at the side of the house. Thick foliage and the natural rise of the hillside provided privacy from both the street and neighbors. They also offered easy hiding for a gunman.

  The papers had been full of news about Weaver's death, but had offered little by way of substance. From what I'd pieced together, Weaver's body had been found just inside the doorway. Speculation was that the shots had been fired by someone standing outside. Had Weaver opened the door from the inside? Or had he been going into the house himself when he'd turned at a sound behind him?

  The crime scene tape was no longer up but I saw a piece that had torn off lying in the garden. What had the police found in their search of the scene? No fingerprints, I would guess, or they'd have taken Terri's for comparison. But nothing that would seem to rule her out, either.

  I tried to determine the most likely spot for the gunman to have stood. Probably the flat area where the stairs met the landing. It was far enough from the door to be out of arms' reach, yet close enough for accurate aim. All he'd have had to do to blend into obscurity was take a few steps downhill behind the heavily vined concrete wall.

  Positioning myself there, I gazed down at rooftops below. An unlikely angle for anyone looking back up the hill to where I was standing. The house to the left was screened by Weaver's own place and to the right the nearest window didn't come into view until I was halfway back up the stairs toward the street. Weaver had no doubt treasured the seclusion, but it might have cost him his life.

  From Weaver's, I drove to the Harpers', timing myself from point to point. With midday traffic the trip took twenty-five minutes. At night it would be considerably less. Could Terri have driven to Weaver's, killed him, then driven home without her mother ever knowing? Clearly she could have.

  Did I think she had? No, I didn't.

  I fervently hoped those two convictions never had to meet head-on.

  <><><>

  When I arrived back at the office, Jared was busily scribbling a note for me.

  “I was just on my way out,” he said, setting the pen aside. “I got the information you wanted. A guy who was a year ahead of me in law school.”

  I stuck my purse in the desk drawer. “What did you find out?”

  “Probably not what you were hoping to hear. You were right about their interest in the gun. Weaver was killed with a .25 caliber Beretta, same as is registered to Terri. And a neighbor heard Terri go out a little before midnight. She doesn't know what time Terri came in because she was asleep by then. The cops have some fibers and stuff too. Just to warn you.”

  I tried to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. “Any idea what?”

  “Nope. My friend didn't know either.”

  Didn't know or wasn't saying.

  CHAPTER 11

  Whatever it was the police had on Terri, they clearly hoped to find corroborating evidence by searching her house. She called me Tuesday morning, her voice pitched in panic.

  “The police are here with a search warrant. What should I do?”

  “If they've got a warrant, you have to let them in.”

  “But they're tearing the place apart.”

  Cops executing a search are sometimes far from careful. Since the vast majority are male, I suspect it has as much to do with their gender as their profession.

  “Maybe you should take Hannah and sit on the deck,” I suggested.

  “And let them turn this place into a sty?” She sounded as though she were hyperventilating.

  “Terri, you need to stay calm. There's not a lot you can do about it.”

  “There must be something.”

  “Have you got a camera?”

  “Of course.”

  “When they leave, take pictures. If they've been out of line, we can sue for damages.”

  She humphed. “For all that's worth.”

  “Do you want me to come over there? I'd be happy to.”

  “It won't change anything, will it?”

  “Probably not.”

  She sighed. “I'll be okay. But thanks for offering.”

  “Don't say anything to them. Don't answer their questions; don't volunteer information.”

  “Right.”

  I hesitated. “Terri, what about the gun? Is it there?”

  “I told you, I haven't seen it in ages.”

  At least her story was holding up under pressure. “Did you ask Ted about it?”

  “Last night when he called. He doesn't know either.” She dropped her voice. “Why are they so interested in me? Certainly I'm not the only person in the country with a gun.”

  This wasn't the time or place to talk to her about physical evidence or the neighbor who'd heard Terri drive off the night of the murder. Especially when I didn't know, myself, what the cops really had.

  “Note what they take,” I told her. “And call me when they leave. Most importantly, stay calm.”

  “Just how do I do that?”

  She had me there.

  <><><>

  I left messages for both Dennison and Holbrook immediately after talking to Terri. By the end of the day neither man had called me back.

  Aggravating, but not surprising.

  Terri didn't call again either. Maybe she'd taken my staying calm suggestion to heart and was off doing something pleasurable. Or she'd gone to the other extreme and had a nervous breakdown.

  Or been arrested. But then I'd have heard, wouldn't I?

  I tried calling her and got the answering machine.

  When I finished my four-thirty conference on another matter, a client who'd been injured when the deck of her rental home collapsed, I called it a day. I'd managed to gamer a nice settlement for her. Better to end on a high note, I decided. It wasn't an opportunity that offered itself often.

  Overhead, the late afternoon sky was clear blue and the sun was still bright, but a cool wind was blowing off the coastal fog bank—a fixture of Bay Area summers. I traded my skirt and blouse for jeans and a sweatshirt, then took Loretta for a walk. We didn't head into the parklands this time, but instead wound through the maze-like streets of my hillside neighborhood in Berkeley and down to the small block of shops at the base of the hill. Securing Loretta's leash to a parking meter, I dashed into Peet's and bought myself a decaf latte, then perched on the wide lip of the brick retaining wall in the courtyard. Sheltered from the wind, I could enjoy soaking up the last of the sun's rays.

  It was, ironically, the same spot I'd come with Steven Cross in the early stages of our . . . I stopped myself. Our what? Our indiscretion? Our infatuation? Our cosmic bonding?

  Except that when we'd stopped for coffee that crisp fall morning, i
t had been simple friendship.

  When had it changed? Sometime during the Dickerson case, I'd have said then. Somewhere in those long hours together reviewing psychiatric evaluations and preparing witnesses; somewhere in the nooks and crannies of camaraderie over late-night pizza eaten in the office.

  But with the clarity of hindsight, I'd since decided that the chemistry between us had been there all along, buoyed by our mutual love of the outdoors and bad movies, by the offbeat sense of humor we shared, and the bond of having lost a parent during our childhoods. It had been there, smoldering under the surface, but neither of us recognized it until it slapped us in the face.

  When the Dickerson case settled, Steven and I drove to Tahoe for a day of skiing, with his wife's blessing. Caroline didn't ski, hated the cold, and was glad that her husband had someone with whom to share the drive.

  Midwinter bright and crisp following a dusting of fresh snow, the day was ski-perfect. Though Steven was a stronger skier than I was, our abilities were evenly enough matched that we took the hills together, often with an edge of good-natured competition. At the end of the day I was pleasantly tired and greatly satisfied.

  Sitting in the passenger seat on the way home, I dozed off-and-on during the last leg of the drive. There was a part of me that never wanted it to end.

  Steven helped me carry my ski stuff into the house, where I told him to dump it in the front hallway. I would deal with it later.

  “You want some coffee?” I'd asked. Steven still had to continue on into the city and I thought the coffee might help him stay awake. I remember thinking that, because what I really wanted was wine. And a roaring fire. And Steven's thigh pressed against my own.

  He faced me, started to say something, then leaned one arm against the wall behind me and kissed me softly. For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. I said the first thing that came to mind. “Whoa, that was a surprise.”

  He smiled. “Surprised me, too.”

  “A nice surprise,” I added.

  “Very nice.” Steven leaned closer and kissed me again.

  That was the pivotal moment. If I could go back and change what happened, that is where I would start. We could have laughed it off, said gee, if only things were different. We could at least have put up a fight. But we didn't.