Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “The lonely bluffs along the way,” I explained. “Lots of them. Perfect for tossing a murder weapon into the ocean where it would never be found.”

  He dismissed the notion. “She could have done that from half a dozen places closer to home.”

  “The plan was for Lenore to stay the weekend. She was looking forward to spending time with her new granddaughter. Why would Terri suddenly head off on an unplanned trip instead?”

  Steven smiled. “It wouldn't seem strange if you knew Terri better. My mother on the other hand”—he paused for a reflective sip of wine—”I have to admit I'm surprised she gave up so easily, even if she was feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “I'm sure the prosecution will make something of it. And if it seems suspicious to me, it's going to strike the jurors the same way.”

  “Not necessarily. You've been trained to be suspicious.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, but his tone was grave. “Just remember, you've also been trained to present arguments so as to alleviate suspicion.”

  It was interesting the way the world seemed so logical when you talked only in the abstract. “It's not that easy.”

  “You're good with a jury,” Steven said. “I've seen you.”

  “There's also the witness who remembers a Ford Explorer,” I reminded him. “And a woman fitting Terri's description. We can discredit her testimony with statistics and cross-examination, but you have to admit it's an odd coincidence.”

  Steven looked up, studying me. “Sounds like you're beginning to doubt your own client.”

  “Not really. I mean, there are things that bother me, but I don't think Terri killed him.” In theory, it shouldn't matter anyway. But I was more comfortable representing clients I believed in.

  Steven tapped the table top with his fingers. “I know Terri,” he said, looking me in the eye. “And I know she isn't capable of murder.”

  “There are those who would tell you everyone is capable, under the right circumstances.”

  He retreated into some private place for a moment. Wrestling with his own doubt, perhaps. Or puzzling how best to handle mine. Then he laughed. A hollow sound without humor. “Maybe that's true for some of us. But not for Terri.”

  Our food arrived—grilled salmon for me, lamb for Steven, along with a second glass of wine for each of us—and we turned our conversation to other topics. Safe topics like recent movies, current events, the weather.

  By the time the waiter had cleared our plates, I was in a relaxed and lighthearted mood.

  “Are you back in the Bay Area for good?” Steven asked.

  “That's up in the air at the moment.”

  “You might actually return to Silver Creek, then? Small-town practice must have its attractions.”

  It did. But the real appeal for me had been that Tom was in Silver Creek. He was also a major deterrent to my return. I wasn't enthralled at the prospect of crossing paths with an ex-lover who'd since reconciled with his wife.

  “It's more complicated than deciding where to work,” I explained. “There's someone there I was dating.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was separated from his wife when we started seeing each other. They later decided to try to make the marriage work. For their children's sake.”

  Steven grunted in sympathy. “I can see how that might be tough. Especially in a small town.” His voice was soft, sincere. It was one of the things I'd always found so appealing about him.

  “But I'm tough, too. I shouldn't let it get to me.”

  “You're not as tough as you think, Kali.” He rested his forearms on the table.

  “Do you think maybe I do this to myself on purpose? Subconsciously, I mean.” I'd spoken without thinking, but it wasn't such a bad question. And Steven was a psychologist. Maybe he'd get to the heart of my troubled history and set me straight.

  “Do what?”

  “Fall for married men.”

  A hint of a smile tweaked his mouth. His eyes met mine. “I'm probably not the best one to answer that.”

  Right. Something like the chicken seeking counsel from the fox, I supposed. Only Steven was hardly wily, and I was far from innocent.

  The waitress brought our coffee and we sipped in silence for a moment. “Someone puts flowers on their graves,” Steven said suddenly. “Each anniversary of the accident. Pink carnations on Rebecca's. White daisies for Caroline.”

  Caroline and Rebecca. The names we'd avoided speaking all evening.

  “At first I thought it might be you,” he added.

  I shook my head. “It's not me.” I'd been too consumed with my own feelings of remorse to face even their ghosts.

  “I know that now. This last year I kept a vigil at the graves hoping to see who it was.”

  “And did you?”

  Steven nodded. “A man. When I tried to speak to him, he ran away.”

  “Do you think it was the driver of the other car?”

  “Could be. Or it could be someone who . . .” Steven ran a finger around the rim of his saucer, then looked up. “Maybe I wasn't the only one fooling around.”

  I wondered if that made it easier for him to accept, or harder. “You shouldn't jump to conclusions,” I said. “There are lots of possibilities.”

  He started to say something, then stopped himself. “He'll probably never show up again.”

  “What happened with the police investigation? Were there no leads at all?” I knew only what I'd read in the paper when it happened or gleaned secondhand from others who'd known Steven. And since reconnecting with him recently, I'd been studiously avoiding the subject.

  “None that went anywhere,” he said. “You have to remember that hit-and-run isn't a high priority for an ongoing investigation. Usually something breaks right away if it's going to happen.”

  “And nothing did?”

  “The one witness was a young high school student. She'd only had her license a couple of months and was too busy watching the road to notice much about the other car. White, she said, or light gray. Solo occupant, male. She couldn't remember anything more.”

  “Young? Old?”

  Steven shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “What about make of car?”

  “She thought maybe BMW, but she couldn't be sure. She agreed to be hypnotized even. No luck. The cop in charge, Joe Moran, he seemed like a good guy.”

  “But he never made any progress?”

  “He died of a heart attack about two weeks into the case. The guy who took it on never really took it on, if you know what I mean. New things came in and the accident kind of fell through the cracks.”

  “I'm sorry. That must have been very hard to watch.”

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and looked at his hands. “I'd go down there and rattle their cages, but nothing ever happened. I often wonder about the driver of the other car. What he's feeling. What he thinks about. Whether he remembers them at all. Some days I look at every stranger on the street—from the bike messengers downtown to the bigwigs in their Armani suits and imported leather loafers—and wonder which one of them is him.”

  I fought the urge to touch his arm, to cover his hand with my own. How could I offer comfort when I was part of the problem?

  “I failed them,” he said. His eyes had grown dark and flat. “Especially Rebecca. A father is supposed to protect his child, no matter what. To put her above all else.”

  Steven had told me he'd put what happened behind him. If he honestly believed that, he was deluding himself.

  “Why did you suggest dinner tonight?” I asked. “Doesn't it make things worse for you?”

  A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Actually, it's just the opposite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel connected.”

  I wasn't sure I understood, but the waiter came with the bill and we moved on to less personal topics.

  Outside the restaurant there was another awkward moment during which neither a ha
ndshake nor a hug seemed quite right.

  “Thanks for coming,” Steven said at last. “I enjoyed it.”

  “So did I.”

  “Shall I walk you to your car?”

  “I'm just down the street.”

  “Okay, then. See you.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand—half wave, half shrug—and headed off to his own car.

  With a twist of nostalgia, I watched him amble away.

  <><><>

  At home, I found Bea, Dotty, and their two guests embroiled in a lively game of penny poker. From the sounds of things, it had turned out to be a very successful evening.

  I cut myself a piece of leftover cheesecake and went downstairs feeling unaccountably lonely.

  I changed into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and then sprawled out on the bed to read. After nine pages, I gave up and set the book down. Critical acclaim aside, I was finding the story tedious and boring.

  Instead, I pulled out the case file on Hannah's adoption, something I hadn't looked at since shoving it into my briefcase this afternoon in court. I wanted to make sure everything was in order so that when I looked at it again, which would most likely be months from now after Terri's trial, I wouldn't be scrambling to find lost papers or missing information.

  Would Terri be in prison at that point, or back home with Hannah? I felt a knot of tension form in my chest at the weight of what I'd taken on. Two lives, three if you included Ted. Their fate in my hands.

  Enough, I scolded myself. Too much of that sort of thinking can be counterproductive. I drew a curtain across my mind and flipped through the sheaf of papers the court clerk had handed me. At the back was the lab report for Weaver's paternity claim, a matter no longer at issue. Judging from the attached correspondence, it had gone to Weaver's attorney first, and then to court, where it had been filed awaiting review.

  There were several pages of numbers and grids. I was too tired to try to make sense of them, but my eyes were drawn to the summary at the bottom of the second page. A short paragraph set off by a Roman numeral.

  I read the paragraph once, then moved closer to the light to read it again. I felt as though the air had been sucked from my lungs.

  Bram Weaver was not Hannah's father.

  CHAPTER 21

  “It must be a mistake.” Melissa's voice sounded hollow. I couldn't tell if this was because of the phone connection or the news I'd just dropped in her lap.

  “No mistake,” I told her. “I have the report right here in front of me. Bram was not the baby's father.”

  “The report is wrong.”

  “I don't think so, Melissa.”

  “It has to be.” There was a desperate edge to her words.

  “It's a sophisticated test.”

  “But labs make mistakes. Or maybe the person typing the results messed up. You know that stuff happens.”

  “Not very often.”

  She grew quiet. I could hear her breathing into the phone. “Anyway,” she said after a moment, “it doesn't matter now.”

  “Maybe not in terms of Bram's challenge to the adoption. But I'm sure Ted and Terri would like to know who Hannah's father is. And to feel comfortable he won't be coming out of the woodwork at the last minute to cause new problems.”

  I waited for a response. None came.

  “It might also prove useful in structuring Terri's defense,” I added.

  “How?”

  That was something I hadn't worked out for myself. But it seemed as though the information could be a crucial piece of the puzzle. “I'm not sure yet. But knowing who the father is might lead us in a new direction. Maybe even give us an alternate killer.”

  “I already told you,” she snapped. “It was Bram.”

  “Melissa, this isn't about reputation or morals or whatever you're worried about. There are legal ramifications. If the father was never notified of the pregnancy—”

  “You asked me about Hannah's father and I gave you my answer. It's your problem if you don't like it.” She hung up abruptly.

  Monday morning I was at my desk reviewing a commercial lease when Weaver's attorney called. I'd left a message on Wednesday and was wondering if he'd decided to simply ignore it.

  “Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner,” Trimble said. “Big trial. You know how that is. In fact, looks like your client's got you into a humdinger. You got a court date yet?”

  “Mid-September. Mr. Trimble, I—”

  “Bill. I don't stand on formality.”

  Allegiance among lawyers was apparently more important to him than the fact that my client was accused of murdering his. I was grateful not to be dealing with misplaced hostility.

  “Bill, what can you tell me about Weaver's exchanges with the Women's Alliance?”

  “You're thinking maybe one of them had reason to kill him?”

  Lawyers' logic following lawyers' allegiance. “Possibly.”

  He chuckled. “I don't know, they loved screaming and yelling about him, but truth of the matter is, the publicity helped their cause more than it hurt.”

  “Was there anyone in particular, maybe, who took it more personally?”

  “They take everything personally as far as I can tell. That's part of their problem.”

  “What about death threats, that sort of thing?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He paused. “About a year ago, though, there was a woman who was harassing Bram. Real in-your-face sort of stuff. She'd grab his arm at public appearances, try to speak to him one-on-one, show up on his doorstep. Always angry. We took steps to get a restraining order, but she backed off.”

  “You remember her name?”

  “Suzze Madden. I had an address at one time, but I couldn't tell you what it was now. She worked at a rape crisis center in the city, though. A man hater. Tough as nails.”

  “Was she connected with the Women's Alliance?”

  “Must have been, but I got the impression she was acting on her own.”

  I thanked him for the information, and had barely hung up when Nick Logan called with a report on the pizza man.

  “His name is Peter Longfellow,” Nick said. “He's worked for Pizza Pizazz about six months now.”

  I reached for a clean sheet of paper and began jotting notes.

  “The boss says he's a conscientious worker, though he's apparently been playing fast and loose with his deliveries to the old lady, Mrs. Rudd. Pizza Pizazz doesn't show any orders for her, and the boss says Weaver's neighborhood isn't in their delivery zone anyway. Besides which, this guy Longfellow doesn't even work Sunday afternoons.”

  “Did he show up at Mrs. Rudd's again yesterday?”

  “Right on schedule.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I tried. He wasn't in the mood for being social. Swears he wasn't even in the neighborhood the night of the murder.”

  I tapped my pen against my wrist. “You think the kid who saw him was mistaken?”

  “No, I think Longfellow is lying,” Nick said. “The guy was nervous as hell.”

  “Maybe he was the one who killed Weaver.” That idea didn't hold water, though. The boy had said that Longfellow was standing on the street when the shots were fired. “Not the one who actually pulled the trigger,” I amended. “But he could have been a lookout or something.”

  “Hard to tell until we know more. You want me to stay on this, right?”

  “Absolutely.” It could be just the break we needed. “I'll try reaching Mrs. Rudd. It will be interesting to see what she says about him.”

  Nick paused. “She's deaf, remember?”

  “I have a friend who knows sign language. I think she'd be willing to help out.” More than willing. If for no other reason than to lord it over her sister.

  “Can't hurt.”

  I looked at my afternoon calendar. Nothing pressing. “I'll see if we can get over there today. And see what you can find out about a Suzze Madden. She works, or did work, at a rape crisis center in the city. She w
as causing trouble for Weaver last year.”

  When I phoned her, Bea leapt at the chance. “My signing may be a little rusty,” she warned. “But I think I'll be able to communicate.”

  “Do you have time this afternoon?”

  “Honey, I have nothing but time. You know that.”

  It wasn't so. Both Bea and Dotty led lives that would have had my head spinning. Classes, bridge groups, part-time jobs—in fact, I'd been surprised to find Bea home when I called.

  “I'll pick you up in half an hour.”

  “I'll be ready.” With a chuckle, she asked, “Shall I bring my trench coat and magnifying glass?”

  “We're just going to visit an elderly woman.” As soon as I said this, I realized Mrs. Rudd was probably not much older than Bea.

  “One who might have information about a crime,” Bea added, oblivious to my verbal stumbling. “It's all very exciting, if you ask me.”

  Bea was waiting by the front door when I arrived to pick her up. No trench coat, but I noticed she'd put on her new yellow dress and matching cardigan.

  Dotty, who was also wearing one of her special occasion dresses, wanted to come along.

  “I think not,” Bea said curtly. “Too many people will scare the old gal off.”

  “Look who's talking.”

  “Kali asked me. She wants my help, don't you?” This last was addressed to me.

  I took a stab at making peace. “I think Bea's right. It's better if just two of us go. And Bea knows sign language.”

  “She knew it,” Dotty said with sisterly disdain. “A long time ago.

  <><><>

  Bea was chatty on the drive across the bridge, but she grew quieter as we approached Weaver's neighborhood. I drove down the street, past Weaver's house, to the address Nick had given me. Mrs. Rudd lived on the ground floor of a four-unit wood-frame building set back from the street.

  “She may not know sign language,” Bea said, betraying signs of nervousness. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, pulling it taut across her lap.

  “Nick saw her hands moving when he tried to talk to her.”