Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Good. But we're going to have to cut our losses fairly soon and prepare for trial with what we've got. September 15 is less than a month away.”

  <><><>

  That was how I intended to spend the remainder of the morning—preparing our defense. But after an hour, it became clear that I couldn't focus on trial preparation when other loose ends tickled my mind.

  I called Moran's widow and set a time for Nick and me to look through the box of her husband's belongings. Then I climbed into my car and headed south to pay Clyde Billings a face-to-face visit.

  Star Systems' headquarters were housed in a concrete low-rise with minimal landscaping and ample parking, a configuration that rendered it indistinguishable from hundreds of others in Silicon Valley.

  Inside was a reception counter, empty. I waited, coughed, peered around the head-high partition to the vast warren of cubicles beyond. I heard the hum of conversation and the clicking of computer keys, but the people themselves were tucked out of sight behind sleek gray panels.

  I tried making morel noise. Nothing. Then a young man in jeans and a white cotton crew-neck T-shirt emerged from what was presumably the coffee room. Carrying a steaming cup, he started to walk past me.

  “Excuse me, I'm looking for Clyde Billings.”

  He slowed. “Talk to Gloria at the reception desk.”

  “She's not there.”

  A large sigh. “Is Clyde expecting you?”

  “Yes.” He must have been. Maybe not today, but he couldn't really expect that I'd let his threatening phone call be the end of it.

  The young man shifted his coffee to his other hand and pointed. “Go down that way. When you get to a wall, turn right. Clyde's cube is on the left, just past the green exit sign.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I followed the directed route, I peered now and then into the interior work areas. I've never understood how anyone is able to work in a cubicle. To my mind, it's a shortsighted approach to cutting costs—though I've been told it's a management philosophy as much as an economic factor. But how often do you see a company president holding forth from a cubicle?

  I found Clyde Billings' work space. His name was on the partition wall but he was nowhere in sight. I stepped inside anyway.

  His space was neat as a pin, unlike many of the individual work areas I'd passed on my way there. Except for a small framed photograph of his wife and kids, there was nothing on the desktop. No Post-It notes stuck to the computer, no silly cartoons or personal mementos tacked to the corkboard walls. I peered into the trash can, which contained only an empty yogurt carton. Strawberry.

  “You looking for something?”

  The woman standing behind me in the entrance appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with spiky blue hair and a pierced nose.

  “Clyde Billings.” A someone rather than a something, but she might not notice.

  “He's at a meeting,” she said, giving me a wary look. “How'd you get back here anyway?”

  “My feet.” The words were out before I'd taken time to think.

  The young woman made a face. It was clear she didn't appreciate glib humor.

  “The receptionist wasn't in,” I explained, endeavoring to counter my earlier flipness. “A man, one of your coworkers I presume, gave me directions.”

  “Figures. Gloria is never at the desk. I don't know how she's managed to hold on to her job as long as she has.” The woman stepped into the cubicle. “My name's Jana. If you're here to see Clyde about the budget allocation, maybe I can help. I did all the work.”

  “No, it's . . . personal.”

  Jana giggled, which struck me somehow as an odd response coming from someone with spiky blue hair. “I didn't know Clyde had a personal life.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She shrugged. “He's here a lot.”

  “How is he to work with?”

  “Okay.” Another half-shrug.

  “Except that he wants to take credit for your work,” I said.

  Jana narrowed her eyes at me. “The guy's a control freak. He doesn't make cooperative effort easy.”

  I gave her a girl-to-girl nod of understanding. “I know the type. Has he ever mentioned Bram Weaver?”

  “That jerky radio guy who was murdered? Why would Clyde mention him?”

  “Just wondering. How about a business venture he was involved in with friends. Any mention of that?”

  She frowned. “Are you with the police or something?”

  I debated stretching the truth a bit, then shook my head. “I'm an attorney.”

  It's an admission that often has an effect on people, sometimes positive, sometimes not. Jana wasn't reassured.

  “You shouldn't be back here,” she said, turning cool again. “It's company policy. I don't know which moron let you in but he shouldn't have.”

  “Let me leave a note for Clyde and I'll be on my way.” First name only, like we had a standing and cordial relationship.

  A voice from the corridor called to Jana. “I've been looking for you. You've got a phone call.”

  Jana hesitated. I grabbed a piece of paper from my purse and started scribbling. Finally, she left to take her phone call and I stuffed the paper back into my purse. I took another quick look around the cubicle. It was neater than any office of mine ever looked, even after I'd spent the afternoon cleaning up.

  With a glance over my shoulder, I hit one of the keyboard keys. The screensaver vanished and a list of programs appeared. If I'd had time . . . But I didn't, I reminded myself. A flashing mailbox at the bottom of the screen caught my eye. With another look over my shoulder, I clicked on it.

  Clyde Billings had three new messages. Two originated inhouse and had been sent to multiple recipients. The third was from Hank Lomax. It was short and to the point.

  “I still think we should reconsider. Especially now, with all that's happened.”

  He'd copied Billings' original message as well. “Forget what Bram said,” Billings had written. “He's not part of this anymore.”

  I heard steps in the hallway and clicked out of mail. But the screen saver hadn't come on, and it wasn't likely to do so in time.

  In a desperate attempt to cover myself, I stepped back against the keyboard as if I'd knocked it accidentally.

  The man who appeared in the entry to the cubicle was about my height, on the thin side, and prematurely balding.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing in my office?”

  I held out my hand. “Kali O'Brien. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings.”

  His anger apparently interfered with his eyesight because he said nothing about the computer screen. “I thought I told you to stay away.”

  He who must be obeyed. From his tone, it sounded as though that was the usual course of things.

  “You may have,” I told him. “But I wanted to talk to you about Bram Weaver.”

  “You're part of the conspiracy that got him killed. I've got nothing to say to you.”

  “Conspiracy?”

  “Women who think men don't matter.”

  “Mr. Billings, I'm an—”

  “I know who you are. And what you do. I'm warning you. Keep away from me.” His voice was pitched low and tight. It radiated hostility.

  If we'd been anywhere but in a sea of workstations, I might have been scared. As it was, I felt irritated rather than fearful. “I have a question about the business you're in with Len Roemer and Hank Lomax. The one Weaver was part of.”

  “Get out,” he said. “Or I'm calling Security.” He reached for the phone.

  “If you won't talk now, I guess I'll have to subpoena you at trial.” An empty threat since I'd be hard pressed to find a reason to do so.

  “Get out.”

  I left my card on his desk. “In case you change your mind.”

  <><><>

  Nick had given me the address of the rape crisis center where Suzze Madden worked. I didn't know if I'd find her there on a weekday afternoon, but it was wo
rth a try.

  I drove north on 101 and got off near Market Street.

  Once again, no receptionist. But I could see two women with coffee cups talking in a back room.

  The woman facing the door had looked up when I entered. “Can I help you?”

  “I'm looking for Suzze Madden.”

  “That's me,” said the other woman, turning. She rose and came to greet me.

  I'd been expecting stocky, maybe even burly. Features pinched into a permanent scowl. Trimble had said she was tough as nails. Nick had told me she was a gun enthusiast. I know it's not fair to think in stereotypes, but that doesn't stop my mind from forming images.

  In this case, I was about as far off base as I could be. Suzze Madden was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall and slender, with emerald eyes and straight blond hair that fell just short of her shoulders.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “My name is Kali O'Brien. I'm an attorney representing the woman accused of killing Bram Weaver.”

  She raised a brow slightly, but said nothing.

  “I'd like to talk with you, if I may.”

  “Me? Why?” Her voice wasn't as silky as her appearance. It was hard, almost reproachful.

  “I was hoping you could tell me about Weaver. About your interactions with him.”

  She laughed harshly. “Sure I can tell you about Weaver. He was a prick. Among other absurdities, he claimed no woman could be raped against her will. As far as I'm concerned, he was a threat to public safety.”

  “Is that why you were harassing him last year?”

  “He's the one who was harassing women.” She eyed me with disdain. “Don't tell me you're one of those mousy things who went along with him.”

  “Far from it.”

  She crossed her arms and smiled. “Good.”

  “It must be kind of a relief for you now that he's dead.”

  “There's plenty more like him.”

  “But none quite so vocal.”

  She shrugged. “Vocal or not, men are always trying to impose themselves on women.”

  “So what was it about Weaver that got you so riled?”

  “He's dead, what does it matter?”

  “I'm trying to get a better handle on who he was.”

  “Slime,” she said. “That about sums it up in my opinion.”

  I feigned a cough. “Do you by any chance have a stick of gum or something. I have this tickle in my throat.”

  Suzze Madden gave me an odd look, but went into the back room and returned with her purse. “No gum, but I've got a breath mint. Maybe that will help.”

  Tall, blonde, good with a gun. A stick of Doublemint would have been a nice addition, but it wasn't a necessity.

  “Thanks.” I took the mint and handed her my card. “And thanks for your help. My client didn't kill Weaver. That means someone else did. Give me a call if you have any ideas who it might have been.”

  <><><>

  In the next few days, I made an initial stab at outlining our defense case. The strategy was fairly straightforward. No tricks, no rabbits pulled out of a hat. We'd simply take the prosecution's case point by point and show at each step how the evidence was subject to a different interpretation. We would undercut the credibility of prosecution witnesses. And we'd raise the specter of a different killer by playing up disputes in Weaver's personal and professional life.

  I took a break from the case Thursday afternoon when Nick and I met with Mrs. Moran at the storage facility. It was a small concrete block with a corrugated metal door, but inside she'd made one corner into something of a memorial to her husband. His photo rested atop an oak bureau and his uniform, cleaned and pressed, hung inside a clear garment bag.

  “I had to move into a studio apartment not long after Joseph died,” she said, pulling her cotton cardigan around her ample frame. “Space was limited, but I couldn't bear to throw away things that were his.”

  She went to the bureau, pulled out a leather box, and opened it. “This is his badge. Being a policeman was his life, the only thing he ever wanted to do. Some of the newer recruits, they're drawn to police work because the pay is decent and there are good benefits. But Joseph wanted to make the world a better place. The day he died, in fact, he told me at breakfast how important it was to do what was right, even when it wasn't pleasant or easy.”

  “He had a heart attack?” I asked.

  She nodded. For a moment her expression clouded, as though she were reliving the day. “It was completely unexpected. Joseph kept his weight down, exercised regularly. His last medical exam showed nothing. He was only fifty-six. His parents lived into their eighties.”

  “How'd it happen?” Nick asked gently.

  “It was a Sunday. I'd gone shopping. Joseph was out in the garage, tinkering with his wood projects. When I came back, I found him crumpled on the floor. I called 9-1-1 immediately, but it was already too late.” She paused to look again at his badge. “If only I hadn't gone shopping and left him alone. I wasn't even looking for anything in particular.”

  “It might not have made a difference,” I offered. “Your being there.”

  “That's what the doctor said. It was a massive heart attack and there was nothing I could have done. But I'm sure I would have noticed that Joseph was out of sorts. Maybe I could have persuaded him to lie down or call the doctor.”

  “Out of sorts?” I asked.

  “He must have been feeling a bit rocky. The side door to the garage was open. Joseph always kept it shut because the dirt blew in from the yard. He must have thought the fresh air would do him good. That's how he was. Hell could freeze over before he'd admit he felt ill. He'd just say he needed air or he'd eaten too much.”

  Another pause during which her mind seemed to drift. Finally she pulled a box from the stack of cartons to the left of the bureau. “Here's the stuff from his office desk. Not the official papers and reports, of course. Those were all retained at headquarters. But the department gave me what was left after they'd taken what they wanted.”

  “Did your husband keep a notebook that wasn't part of the official record?” It was not an uncommon practice, particularly among the older generation of cops.

  “Sometimes he'd jot things down as he thought of them. On scraps of paper, though, not in any central place. Mostly he kept stuff in his head. Joseph had an incredible memory. I know that made things hard for the officers taking over his cases. I got an earful a time or two, like I'd been the one responsible.”

  Nick peered into the box. “Did your husband talk to you about his work?”

  “I know you're interested in that hit-and-run. Joseph mentioned it to me in general terms, but not the particulars. Someone from the DA's office grilled me about it at the time, and Mr. Cross himself came to see me. He was understandably frustrated by the department's lack of progress.”

  “This was soon after your husband's death?”

  She nodded. “Joseph worked hard on that case. It really bothered him because we have a granddaughter who was the same age. He never said anything about the case being stalled. In fact, he seemed pretty satisfied with the headway he was making.”

  As important as the case was to him, Joseph Moran had done a lousy job of documenting his progress. I could understand Steven's disappointment.

  “Take your time,” Mrs. Moran said, brushing dust from the top of the box. “I'm going to see if I can put some order to this box of old photographs.”

  While she sorted through photos, Nick and I went through the odds and ends from Joseph Moran's desk. There was a magazine of do-it-yourself home projects, a word-a-day calendar, an assortment of pens and rulers, an appointment card for an upcoming dentist visit, a business card from Henzel's Auto Works, receipts for postage, an ATM withdrawal slip, and an ad for leather jackets from Macy's.

  I leafed through the calendar but it was blank. Something he'd probably used for building his vocabulary rather than keeping track of meetings.

  Nick caught my eye and
made an empty-handed gesture. I nodded.

  I thanked Mrs. Moran for letting us look through her husband's things. Then Nick and I headed for the car.

  Despite the fact I hadn't expected to find anything useful, I felt the weight of disappointment. And the cool shadow of my own guilt over the deaths of Steven's wife and daughter.

  CHAPTER 25

  I was sitting at my desk the next morning, staring at the phone and wishing I were barefoot on the beach instead of stockinged and office-bound. I'd intended to call Hank Lomax ever since I'd stumbled onto his e-mail in Billings' office, but I kept putting it off because I couldn't figure out what I was going to say. Certainly not that I'd been prowling around Billings' cubicle without his knowledge. With a sigh, I picked up the receiver and punched in the number.

  “Change your mind about sitting for a photo?” Hank asked when I'd given my name. He managed to make even the question sound slimy.

  “Afraid not. But I was hoping you could tell me a little about this business venture you and Bram were involved in.”

  Dead air on the other end.

  “The two of you along with Billings and Roemer.”

  I could hear caution in the continued silence. “What venture?” he asked finally.

  “Your foray into the world of dot-coms.” I tried to make it casual. “I'd like to round out my understanding of Weaver.”

  “Why?” The tone was contentious. “What do you care about Bram?”

  It was a good question. One better skirted than answered. “Has the business gotten off the ground yet? I imagine Bram's death set things back a bit.”

  Hank laughed harshly. “I don't know where you get your information, lady. But I hope you aren't paying for it.”

  “You mean Clyde Billings wasn't being straight with me?”

  Hank's mood changed abruptly. “When were you talking to Clyde?”

  “Couple of days ago. He seemed kind of distracted. Said he'd just gotten an e-mail from you. That's how the subject happened to come up.”

  “Clyde told you about the website?”

  Website. I was making progress. “Only in general terms.”