“I know it's hard. But we each have our roles, and you're handling yours admirably.”
Ted made a sound, something between a grunt and a laugh. “You sound like Lenore.”
“She said the same thing?”
“More or less, only I think she was referring to herself as much as me. So what brings you here?”
I stole another quick look at Hannah, then took a breath. “The results from the paternity test.”
“He's dead, what does it matter?”
“Weaver isn't Hannah's father.”
Ted set his wineglass down so hard I thought it would break. His eyes turned a shade darker. “Who is, then?”
“I don't know. Melissa insists the test is wrong. I talked to the lab, and they stand behind the results.”
Ted rocked back, shaking his head. “Jesus. First it's some kid from the deli, then it's Weaver, now it's someone else altogether. How can she not know who she was sleeping with?”
“Maybe you'll have better luck talking to her than I did.”
“Hah! I doubt it. I took your advice and told her she should stop coming around so much. I'm not her favorite person at the moment.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed his forehead to his palms. “Why couldn't we have had a normal adoption? Is that so much to ask for?”
I shook my head, although he wasn't looking for an answer.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Hannah's laundry is all folded,” Lenore said. “And I remade . . .” She stopped partway into the room. “Kali. What are you doing here?” Her voice held the same alarm Ted's had earlier. “Has something happened?”
“It's not about Terri,” Ted explained. “It's Weaver. The paternity test showed he wasn't Hannah's father.”
“What?” The color drained from Lenore's face. “How can that be?”
Ted shot her a contemptuous look. “Guess Melissa Burke was screwing someone besides Weaver. That's how.”
Lenore's expression was pained. “There's no need to be crude, Ted.”
“It's my house. I'll use whatever language I feel like using.”
“I only meant...” Her voice faltered. She sank into an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. “Not her father? You're sure?”
“I spoke to someone at the lab myself. The test results are clear.”
“What does this mean for Hannah's adoption?” Lenore seemed to have trouble getting the words out.
“I'd guess the chance of the birth father coming forward at this point is slim.” They didn't need me to point out that a more worrisome, and perhaps more likely obstacle to the adoption, was Terri's potential conviction at trial.
“You're telling me that Bram Weaver had no claim to Hannah? He couldn't have stood in the way of her adoption?”
“Right. Without proof of paternity, he wasn't relevant to the proceeding.”
“It can't be . . . it's not fair,” Lenore moaned. “None of this is fair. All Terri wanted was a baby. That's all any of us wanted for her.”
“For us,” Ted corrected. But his tone had lost its earlier hostility.
I stole another peek at Hannah, who was beginning to whimper. Her skin was creamy white with a blush of pink at her cheeks. As I watched the dimpled chin and cupid-bow mouth quiver with helpless indignation, I could only imagine the pain Terri must feel at having been wrenched from her daughter.
Lenore had regained some of her color. She rocked the infant seat, and when that didn't quiet Hannah's fussing, she scooped the child into her arms.
My own arms hung at my side, like awkward appendages that needed to be tucked away. I rose from the couch. “I need to be getting back.”
“Come on,” said Ted. “I'll walk you to the door.”
When we were out of earshot, I turned to him. “How is it with your mother-in-law staying here?”
He groaned. “Everything's got to be done her way. I understand that she knows more about babies than I do, but I'm not a complete incompetent. And Hannah is my daughter.”
“How long is she staying?”
“She wanted to move in for the duration, until Terri is home again, but I put my foot down. She's going back to Carmel on Monday. She can come up and visit for a day or two each week if she wants, but that's the limit. I don't imagine Arlo likes having his wife gone all the time anyway.”
“Can you manage Hannah by yourself?”
Ted nodded. “I've hired a nanny to help me out. Besides, I don't have a lot of work commitments at the moment. Seems having a wife on trial for murder makes me less appealing as a spokesperson. TelAm is even talking about pulling the commercials.” This last was said with some bitterness.
He opened the door. “What do you think Terri's chances are of beating this?”
“It's early still. There's so much—”
“But what do you think they are?”
I hesitated. “Good,” I said after a moment.
“I sure hope you're right.”
So did I.
<><><>
I didn't hear from Steven again until the end of the week. After half waiting for a call on the Sunday following our dinner, I'd relegated our date—if that's what it was—to the back of my mind. Not without effort at times, but I'd managed to do it.
So when he called Friday, catching me as I was flying out the door to meet a friend for lunch, I didn't run through my customary mental list of admonishments. I simply treated it like I would any other renewed friendship.
“I had a good time Saturday night,” he said.
“So did I.”
“Maybe we can do it again someday.”
“Yeah. Might be nice.”
Steven laughed. “Be careful, you almost sounded as though you meant it.”
I took a breath. “I did.”
“You're on, then. I'm having a barbecue a week from Saturday. Very informal. A mix of friends and neighbors. If you're free, it would be good to have you join us.”
So nonchalant. Good to have you join us. Not a big deal one way or the other. If Steven could handle this, I ought to be able to as well.
“Thanks,” I told him. “I'll try to make it.”
“I went to see Terri yesterday,” Steven said, turning suddenly serious. His voice thickened and dropped a level.
“How's she doing?”
“She's lost weight and says she isn't sleeping well. Doesn't surprise me.”
Me either. I had trouble enough sleeping in a comfortable bed with a room to myself.
“She told me about Weaver's paternity. Or nonpaternity, I should say.”
Ted and I had agreed it was better she hear the news from him than me. But I hadn't followed up to know that he'd told her. “How did she seem?”
Steven thought for a moment. “Worried.”
I hadn't realized until then what I'd been grappling with subconsciously all week. If Weaver wasn't Hannah's father, and if Terri had actually killed him, then she'd done so in vain. Worried must be only a fraction of what she was feeling.
On some level, I think, I'd avoided telling her about the paternity results myself because I didn't want to see her reaction. I believed in my client's innocence, and that was the way I wanted to keep it.
“How did it all get so muddled?” Steven sighed, a ragged sound that brought home his personal involvement in the case. Terri was my client, but she was his sister.
“We need to keep focused on the trial,” I said.
“I've been going over what we know about the crime. Trying to look at it in a fresh light. According to the reports, the first shot, in the abdomen, was enough to kill Weaver. The second shot, at close range and to the face, was personal. Borne of anger or hatred, I'd say.”
“Which supports the State's case that Terri killed him because of Hannah.”
“Except it doesn't fit who Terri is. She doesn't get angry and she doesn't carry grudges.”
“You weren't there when she lashed out at Weaver after the hearing.”
“Well, okay, maybe s
he gets a little hot under the collar now and then. But it's a big jump from that to killing the guy. Besides, she hates guns and she hates blood. She flunked biology in high school because she wouldn't go to labs. I can't imagine her standing in close proximity to a dying man and shooting him in the face.”
“But if she thought she was protecting Hannah—”
“Not even then. What's more, the killer was a good shot. Terri, frankly, isn't. Half the time she'd close her eyes when she pulled the trigger.”
“That's going to be hard stuff to play before a jury.”
“I know, but here's something else. Remember the smudged handprint the police found on the railing?” There was an excited quality to Steven's voice.
“Not clear enough to make an identification.”
“No, but they could tell it was a left hand.”
“And Terri is left-handed.”
“Which would mean that she'd be holding the gun in her left hand. It would have been the killer's free hand that made the print.”
Not exactly a slam-dunk for the defense, but it was something.
CHAPTER 23
Jared nudged me with his elbow as we left the courtroom Thursday the following week. “Hey, boss.”
“What?” We'd struck out repeatedly that morning in pretrial motions to exclude evidence. I was not in a good mood.
“Isn't that the big man himself?” Jared gestured in the direction of the figure striding toward us with his distinctive, uneven gait. District Attorney Ray Shalla, in the flesh.
“No doubt coming by to gloat.”
“Too soon for that,” Jared pointed out. “Unless he has a direct line to the courtroom.”
“Right. I forget it takes at least an hour for news to travel these hallowed halls.”
Shalla's gaze drifted our way. He gave a nod of recognition, then with a casual oh-by-the-way change of course, he veered to meet us face on. Although it was a convincing performance, I would bet the meeting was anything but accidental. Maybe he had a direct line, after all.
Shalla smoothed his tie. It was an elegant silk in shades of ruby and teal. “How's it going, counselor? Gearing up for the big day?”
“I'm looking forward to it. So is my client. She's tired of being in jail for something she didn't do.”
The tie got another pressing. “You know, it's not too late to talk about some sort of accommodation.”
“Plea bargain, you mean.”
He seemed to consider the term. Accommodation certainly had a better ring to it. Finally, with a half-shrug, he acquiesced. “Call it what you will.”
“I don't think we're interested, but I'll run it by her.”
Much as I would have liked to think Shalla's scrambling reflected a weak case, I suspected it was more a matter of bad press. He'd taken on Terri Harper in the hopes of boosting his ratings with the liberal electorate. No breaks for the rich and famous; District Attorney Ray Shalla played it straight. But he'd ended up shooting himself in the foot, at least with a large segment of women voters.
As the tide of public sentiment became clear, the mayor had begun to distance himself from the case. And now Shalla was alone in the hot seat. There'd be no chance for redemption if the prosecution lost at trial. If he could get Terri to admit guilt, however, his reputation would remain intact.
“Be sure you do that,” Shalla said with a fatherly crinkle of his eyes. “The state's case is solid. She should think long and hard before rejecting the offer.”
“I'll tell her that.” Not that he'd actually made an offer.
He looked at Jared, male-to-male. “Tough lady you work for. And a good attorney. You can learn a lot from her.”
Shalla's groveling surprised me. He was more eager for a plea than I'd thought. And not nearly as bright if he imagined he could manipulate me with flattery.
Jared looked amused. “She's also a good person.”
“Well said, young man.” A good-natured grin pasted itself onto his fleshy features. Shalla in public figure mode. “If you get tired of working for the defense, be sure to give me a call. There just might be room for you here.”
Jared matched the smile. And probably the degree of sincerity. “Thanks. I'll remember that.”
Shalla scratched his cheek, broadened his focus to address both of us. “You know, that witness list of yours is all over the map. If you're playing fast and loose—”
“The names are legit.”
Both the prosecution and the defense were required to submit a list of potential witnesses. They weren't, however, required to give any hints as to the expected testimony. The upshot was a sort of witness scavenger hunt, where each side tried to garner information about the other side's witnesses.
“Clyde Billings and Len Roemer, for example.” Shalla frowned as if in concentration. “They were old friends of Weaver's, right?”
I nodded. That was hardly giving away the store. Besides, the police had talked to both of them.
“But Alexander Rudd, that's a name that hasn't come up in any of the reports that I've seen.”
We'd listed Rudd although we'd had no luck so far in tracing him. Nick had learned that Sophia Rudd's only son, thirty-four-year-old Alexander, had supposedly died five years ago when his car plunged off a cliff and into the ocean near Big Sur. Yet we were fairly certain that's who the pizza man was. Bea, who'd been back to see Mrs. Rudd on several occasions, had tried to ferret out the truth, to no avail. Surprisingly, Mrs. Rudd had welcomed Bea's visits, but she refused to talk about her son or the man who had delivered pizza to her house each Sunday until recently.
“How's he connected to the case?” Shalla asked.
I gave an enigmatic smile. “Just one piece of a very complex puzzle.”
“You aren't playing games, are you?”
Gamesmanship was the essence of trial work—but there were strict rules of play.
“Scout's honor, no games.” I held up two fingers.
The muscle in Shalla's cheek twitched. His expression was hard to read but I could tell he wasn't pleased.
“For what it's worth,” I added, “I have questions of my own about some of the names on the prosecution's list.”
He seemed on the verge of saying something, then backtracked. “More pieces of the puzzle. Well, good talking to you.” He turned and headed off, his limp slightly more visible from the rear.
Jared waited until he'd gone only a few paces before asking, “Whew, what was that all about?”
“I'm not sure. But I'd bet he didn't run into us by chance.”
“He seemed pretty anxious to work out a plea,” Jared said. “Must mean we have him scared.”
I only wished I knew why. And why the district attorney himself, rather than the prosecutor of record, was the one asking.
When I got back to the office, I found a message on the machine from Ranelle Mosher, Weaver's ex-girlfriend. Just when I’d given up hope of ever hearing from her, she'd finally returned my call.
I dialed the number and she picked up on the second ring.
“Sorry to be so late getting back to you,” she said. “I've been out of town all week. My answering machine really got a workout.” A laugh fluttered across the wire. I pictured a blonde, with pronounced curves and big hair. “You said it was about Bram.”
I hesitated, not certain she was aware of his death. It had been all over the news locally, but Ranelle Mosher was living in Boston.
“Is it something about his will?” she asked.
So she did know. I forged ahead, equally uncertain about her reaction to what came next. “I represent the woman who is charged with his murder.”
“The one who wanted to adopt Bram's baby. I heard about that.” Her tone gave away nothing of her feelings about it.
I didn't bother to explain that Hannah wasn't Bram's child.
“I have no clue who killed him,” Ranelle Mosher continued, as though I'd asked. “Not the foggiest. I only spoke to him once after I moved away, and that was . . . g
osh, months ago.”
“How long were you and Bram together?”
Her laugh was a bitter stab. “I don't think we were ever really together. That was the problem. Bram was interested in Bram. And in his own pleasures, which included proving everyone else wrong. But we dated for almost two years. I'm a slow learner.”
She and I could form a club. “When did you break up?”
“Officially, the end of December. But things weren't going well before that. Looking back, it kills me the crap I took from him. And I'm only talking the stuff I knew about. Now I discover he was banging some eighteen-year-old at the same time. Jesus, she's only a few years older than his son.”
I picked up a pen and began doodling. A stick figure, to which I added a skirt and curly hair. And then a very pregnant belly. Where had that come from?
“Have you met Dan?” I asked, tossing the paper into the trash.
“Just brief hellos. Weird kid. He started coming around occasionally after he switched to a boarding school in the city. Bram pretty much ignored him, except to belittle him.”
“How'd Dan react? I imagine he'd be pretty hurt and angry.”
“Hard to tell. Like I said, the kid's weird. Tell the truth, I don't know why he wanted anything to do with Bram.” Ranelle Mosher paused, then made a sound of disgust. “Guess for the same reasons I did. Pathetic the way some of us are so hungry for attention.”
Maybe not such big hair after all, I thought. And mentally toned down the curves as well. “Did you know any of Bram's friends?”
“I'd see them at parties and stuff. But mostly when Bram and I got together, it was just the two of us.”
“How about the names Len Roetner, Clyde Billings, Hank Lomax? You know any of them?”
“I've met them. Roemer and Billings were friends of Bram's from way back. Boys' club kind of thing. Hank was initially a friend of Roemer's, I think. But they were all four pretty close by the time I met Bram. They'd get together about once a week. Mostly for poker or Monday night football, but sometimes they'd go out on the town, too.”
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