Not that night. Not the nights that followed. Somewhere the thought drifted across my mind that what we were doing was wrong. The warning was faint, though, like skywriting turned to haze. In the weeks and months that followed the accident, I would be reviled by my moral failings. Not by Steven's, interestingly, but very definitely by my own.
But in those days and nights before everything changed, I lived only for the moment. Even in the quiet aftermath of our lovemaking, with Steven nestled at my side, I would pull the blinds on any thoughts but the here and now.
It was March. A rainy night. A good night to be indoors with someone you cared about. According to my bedroom clock, it was nine thirty-eight when Steven's cell phone rang, wrenching the sweetness of two-and-a-half months from our grasp.
I wanted to go with him to the hospital, but I knew it was wrong. I didn't even offer. Steven stumbled into his clothes and out the door almost in one movement. There were no good-byes, not even any muttered words of regret. Just loose ends and unfinished business.
Caroline was dead by the time Steven arrived at the hospital. Rebecca was taken off life support three days later. A wrenching decision I learned about only via the grapevine. By mutual, unspoken accord we hadn't seen each other again. Until last week.
What in the world had he been thinking anyway, asking me now if I wanted to have coffee? Was he out of his mind?
It wasn't necessarily a date, I reminded myself. Mature adults had friendships. But a voice in my head protested. Mature adults didn't find themselves in situations like the one we were in.
Maybe the invitation had simply been a slip of the tongue. Gratitude for my willingness to help Terri. Maybe he'd never mention it again and we could pretend the question had never been raised. I fervently hoped so. The memories, and the unrelenting guilt, were simply too painful to revisit.
A woman with a golden lab walked by and Loretta jumped up, her tail wagging. She had about ten seconds to sniff and make friends before the woman yanked on the lab's leash and continued on. Begrudgingly, Loretta settled herself on the pavement again.
In front of the bakery next door, a man with a baby stroller leaned against the building and smoked a cigarette, drawing glares and disdainfully wrinkled noses from customers exiting the store. First, a man with a commuter cup and then a woman carrying two cups of coffee and a bakery bag. I did a double-take.
Because I'd been used to seeing her pregnant, it took a moment for me to recognize the young woman. Melissa was dressed in shorts and a loose-fitting cotton tee. She was still plump, but I had no way of knowing how much of the weight was left over from the pregnancy. While I debated calling out a greeting, she headed across the street to the blue Explorer I remembered from the day we'd met over lunch in San Francisco.
Ted Harper's Explorer.
It was one of the fringe benefits the Harpers could offer and the first adoptive couple couldn't. It made me slightly uncomfortable to see that the Harpers had allowed her to keep driving it after the baby's birth, but I couldn't say why.
Melissa climbed into the driver's side, handed her passenger the coffee cups, and buckled herself in. As she pulled away from the curb, I tried for a glimpse of the passenger but saw only light-colored hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of the neck.
<><><>
When I hadn't heard from Terri by midmorning the next day, I called the Harpers, and reached Ted.
“When did you get back?” I asked.
“Last evening. Just in time, too. Terri was beside herself.”
“About the search?”
“They left the place a real mess.”
“How's Terri now?”
“Sleeping.”
I checked my watch. Ten-thirty. “Is she okay?”
Instead of answering, Ted began peppering me with questions of his own. His tone was angry. “What in the hell is going on anyway? The airwaves have been full of the story, and the search was front-page news in this morning's Chronicle.”
I'd seen the story too. Not as big as the one on Weaver's death in Sunday's paper, but police interest in Terri Harper had not gone unnoticed.
“How can they even think Terri killed Weaver?”
“She's got a motive,” I told him. “At least from their perspective. And she owns a gun similar to the one used in the murder.”
Ted grunted dismissively. “Terri hates guns. She doesn't even know where the thing is anymore. Neither of us do.”
“That may have added to their suspicions.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you could produce it, tests would be able to determine whether or not it was the murder weapon. I imagine the cops find it suspiciously convenient that the gun is missing.”
“I told you we haven't seen it since . . . I don't know when. It's not like the gun disappeared right when Weaver was killed.”
Ted did not sound like a man interested in rational discussion so I didn't point out that no cop would find “I haven't seen the gun in ages” as proof that it was so.
“And where do they get off searching our house anyway?” Ted's voice was growing louder. “Just because Terri once owned a gun? Gun ownership is legal last I looked.”
“Ted, I am not the enemy. Stop yelling at me.”
He continued to rant. “I can see why the NRA gets so upset. The cops have already turned gun owners into outlaws!”
I tried to redirect his focus. “Did Terri say what they took?”
“Some stuff from our bedroom closet, and from the car. Didn't sound like they found anything significant. They made a mess of things though. We spent last night straightening up.” He took a breath and grew calmer. “I feel unclean. Like our home, our life, has been defiled.”
“That's a fairly common reaction, if it helps any.”
“It doesn't.”
“It must be much worse for Terri,” I added. I was tiring of Ted's wrath. “She was there during the search and she's the focus of this . . . this witch hunt.”
“Yeah, I know.” He took a breath. “Sorry I got kinda hot under the collar. I realize it's not your fault.” He paused, took another breath. “The baby's crying. I've got to go. You'll let us know if you hear anything?”
“Absolutely.”
“See you Sunday then, for the christening.”
<><><>
On Wednesday afternoon I finally reached Inspector Dennison, although I might as well have saved myself the call. Tight-lipped didn't begin to describe his response.
Either he was sitting on something big or he had nothing. I was hoping it was the latter. Hoping that whatever the police were expecting to find at the Harpers', they hadn't.
The news coverage had quieted some too. No longer a front page story. A couple of inches of text rather than two columns. A number of possible suspects was the official line. Terri wasn't even mentioned by name.
<><><>
At the office Friday morning, I set aside an hour to clean off my desk, which was beginning to resemble a free-form paper sculpture. I'd just poured myself a cup of coffee, smeared half a bagel with light cream cheese, and pushed back in my chair, when I got a call from the District Attorney's Office. A man by the name of Don Pelle.
“You representing Terri Harper?” he asked.
“That's correct.”
“A warrant has been issued for her arrest. As a courtesy, we're going through you rather than having the police pick her up directly. She has until five o'clock today to surrender.”
I set my coffee down hard, spilling it in the process. “On what evidence?”
“You'll get a report.”
Eventually. “You chose Friday on purpose, didn't you?”
The bail hearing wouldn't be until Monday, maybe Tuesday. Terri would wind up spending the weekend in jail. Friday arrests were an old ploy meant to wear down suspects, make them more inclined to cooperate.
“What are we supposed to do,” Pelle asked with sarcasm, “never arrest anyone on a Friday?”
&n
bsp; “You won't make it past the preliminary hearing. Your office will wind up with egg on its face.” This was bravado, but it might make him take another look at the evidence.
“There won't be a prelim,” he said smugly. “We've got a grand jury indictment.”
A beloved tool of the prosecution. Evidence was heard in private, away from the questioning eyes and ears of defense lawyers, and suspects themselves.
Given the high-profile nature of the case, I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. And worried. They clearly had evidence tying Terri to the murder.
“When can I get a copy of the report?” I asked.
“When we've reached that stage. Right now all you need to worry about is making sure your client turns herself in by the end of the day.”
CHAPTER 12
Terri huddled in the passenger seat of my car, staring silently out the side window. We'd driven the first four blocks from her house without exchanging a word.
“How are you doing?” I asked finally.
“I'm scared to death.”
Stupid question. What did I expect? I glanced at the tiny overnight bag at her feet, filled no doubt with PJs, makeup, and a couple of paperback novels. Like someone trying to make the best of a stay in the hospital. Scared as she was now, I knew it was only going to get worse.
“Ted says there ought to be a way to get me out right away. So that I don't have to spend the night.”
He'd made that point to me, as well. Several times. And he'd refused to listen when I'd told him it wasn't fair to raise Terri's hopes. He'd refused to listen to much of anything, in fact, including his wife's suggestion that he call Lenore to come help with Hannah. I suspected that he was merely trying to quell his own discomfort, but I'd found his snappishness irritating all the same.
“I think it highly unlikely you'll get a bail hearing today,” I told Terri. I'd made a few calls already, to no avail.
“How long will I have to stay there?”
“Over the weekend at least.”
“Till Monday?”
“Or maybe Tuesday.”
Terri made a sound, something between a whimper and a groan. Her fantasy of an Eddie Bauer arrest had just taken its first hit.
“And they're probably not going to let you keep your things,” I added.
“What do you mean?”
I gestured with my head. “The bag from home.”
“But I...” She let the words trail off and sucked in a ragged breath instead. “This can't really be happening.”
“Terri, we need to go over your story.”
“My story?”
“What happened the night Weaver was killed. There are some points that need to be clarified.”
“I told you, I was home in bed.”
“But the police—”
“Later, okay. I can barely breathe right now, much less talk. Or think.”
She was right. Now was not the time to plot strategy. “Just remember, don't talk to anyone. Not the police, not guards, not even cellmates.”
“Cellmates.” She shuddered at the very idea. “You're sure I can't get out before Monday? We've got the money. Posting bail won't be a problem.”
“There needs to be a hearing before a judge. I'll see what I can do, but it's not likely to happen over the weekend.”
Terri slumped lower in her seat and turned quiet again.
A photographer from the local paper had somehow learned of Terri's arrest and was there to record her misery as we entered the building.
“Keep your chin up and your eyes straight ahead,” I told her. “Pretend you're walking into a room full of admirers.”
“Don't worry,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “I won't give those bastards the satisfaction of thinking they've gotten to me.”
Terri was booked and fingerprinted, then escorted off to be stripped, searched, and doused with disinfectant—an indignity that was clearly unnecessary. The deputies were civil and efficient, but their sheer indifference to her was almost more demeaning than overt insults would have been.
“I'll be here first thing Monday morning,” I told her. “If not before. And I will do everything in my power to get you out as soon as possible.”
“Tell them Hannah needs me,” she said, as if that were reason enough. As if the criminal system even took notice of human faces, or human hearts.
<><><>
I saw Terri briefly on Saturday afternoon to convey the news. No judge would hear her request for bail until Monday. She wasn't surprised, she said. She'd learned a lot in twenty-four hours. None of it encouraging.
But she seemed to be holding up well. No tears, no panic, no crawling into a hole of depression. I was beginning to appreciate the steel fiber beneath the Junior League appearance.
<><><>
Monday morning I sat at the cluttered, gray metal desk of Don Pelle, assistant DA assigned to the case. He was young, which surprised me; arrogant and brash, which didn't.
“I can give you five minutes,” he said brusquely. “I'm up to my eyeballs in deadlines.”
In other words, cut to the chase. I wondered if he'd have been as quick to bypass the social banter had I been a male.
“Theresa Harper,” I said, matching his tone. “She was arrested on Friday. Arraignment is set for two this afternoon.”
“What about her?”
“I was hoping we could work out something on bail before we got into court.”
This was standard practice since neither side benefited from a protracted and contentious argument before the judge. It worked smoothly in the majority of cases, but I could tell from the look on Pelle's face that this was not going to be one of them.
“Bail?” he roared. “She's charged with murder.”
“Still, the court has discretion. She's hardly a risk to public safety—”
“How can you be sure?”
“For heaven's sake, she's got a five-week-old baby.”
“The very baby who's the motive for murder. Besides, she's a flight risk.” He held up a hand. “And don't bring up the baby again. Your client could take the baby with her. Like she did before.”
It took a minute to figure out what he was talking about. “You mean her trip to Mendocino? That's ridiculous. She didn't know you wanted to talk to her until she got home.”
“Right. Like, I've got a bridge to sell you.”
“You know who she is, don't you? Terri Harper has got family here, connections to the community.”
“If she killed Weaver, family's not going to make her stick around.”
The kid had a knack for kindling my irritation. “There is absolutely no reason to keep her behind bars. She's got a clean record, ties to the area, no history of impulsive behavior. She can easily post bond.”
“Right. And she could just as easily buy a one-way ticket to obscurity.” Pelle checked his watch. “Sorry, I'm going to have to cut you off, I've got a meeting. It's going to be my recommendation that she be held without bail.” Rising, he ushered me to the door with an unctuous smile. “See you in court, counselor.”
The way he said it, I was willing to bet he practiced in front of the mirror.
<><><>
At the arraignment that afternoon, Judge Simon followed the State's recommendation—despite my best efforts to the contrary— and denied bail. Terri let out a gasp.
I covered her hand with mine and gave an empathetic squeeze. “We'll try again,” I whispered. “Don't lose hope.” But first I was going to make my plea to the DA himself. I suspected the young prosecutor hadn't yet learned when it was appropriate to flex judicial muscle and when it wasn't.
<><><>
“Nice try, boss.” Jared fell into step beside me outside the courtroom. “Your arguments would have persuaded me. I don't think that judge even listened to you.”
“This isn't nursery school, Jared. You don't have to boost my self-esteem.” But I secretly appreciated his show of support.
“What now?” he asked
, slowing his stride to mine.
“We need to file a motion for discovery. Find out what evidence they've got. Then maybe we'll have a better idea how strong their case is.”
“They must have something pretty persuasive to charge her with murder.”
“It's all in how you look at it. You know those black-and-white pictures that look like one thing until someone tells you it can also be something else?”
“Yeah. I remember one that looks like the profile of a beautiful young woman. But it's also the face of a witchy old hag.” He laughed. “Funny that we always see the beautiful woman first.”
“It's the other way around in criminal cases. Prosecutors are poised to see the hag. They string together evidence that paints a picture of guilt. But when you start looking closer, seeing other scenarios, you can sometimes make a pretty convincing argument for innocence.”
We stopped at the elevator bank and I waited until the emerging cluster moved on before I continued. “We're going to have to anticipate what we think their best case will be, based on the evidence, and then reconstruct it to form a different picture.”
“There's nothing we can do until trial?”
“In theory, we can quash the indictment if it isn't supported by evidence, but that's not very realistic. And I'll try again to get Terri free on bail. Other than that, we'd best put our efforts into preparing a dazzling defense.”
He grinned. “You mean something along the lines of flying DNA and a police vendetta?”
“With luck, we won't find ourselves in such desperate straits. But first things first. Why don't you draft a motion for discovery. I'll take a look at it when I get back to the office.”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“To meet with our client.”
There'd been no opportunity to talk at the hearing, and Terri and I had ground to cover.
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