“Is that what the police think?” I asked. “That she was robbed?”
“The place was messy, like someone had been searching through it. Drawers emptied, books off the shelf, that sort of thing.”
A midday burglary in an occupied apartment was unusual.
“Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”
Bea brought the cup to her lips, but set it down again without sipping. “I got there about two o'clock. I'd bought those currant scones from Nabloom Bakery that are so good, and some fresh strawberries. And a couple of tea bags, just in case, although I was sure Sophia would have plenty.”
Bea had embraced the challenge of improving her signing skills, and Sophia had welcomed her company. The two women had apparently found plenty to converse about as long as they stayed clear of Alexander Rudd's identity and whereabouts.
“When she didn't answer after a couple of tries,” Bea continued, “I figured maybe her signal light was broken. So I went around back to see if I could wave through the window and catch her attention. The door was partially open and I could see her lying on the floor, all twisted and hurt.”
Bea's hands were shaking still, though her voice was steadier. “I used the phone to call 9-1-1, which I know wasn't smart. There might still have been someone in the house. But I wasn't thinking straight.”
“Was she conscious?”
“It was hard to tell. She opened her eyes at one point and looked at me, but that's all. No recognition, no change in expression.”
The cafeteria was filling up. Doctors and nurses, plates piled high, plying themselves for the long evening ahead. Their conversations were punctuated with gestures and occasional laughs. They were easily distinguishable from the bleary-eyed families and friends of patients. Visitors who made it to a hospital cafeteria were usually in for the long haul. They were absently sipping sodas or hot beverages, and if they'd bought food, it remained largely untouched.
With a sudden awareness, I realized how horribly familiar the surroundings would feel to Steven. In the days following the accident, when he'd found himself a newly widowed father with a young daughter on life support, the hospital would have been his world. A capsule of pain and grief.
I pushed the image away.
“Do you think Sophia keeps jewelry or valuables?” I asked.
“I wouldn't know, but she's a practical person. Why not give them what they were after? Nothing could be worth the beating she took.” Bea's eyes teared up. “You should have seen her face, Kali. All bloody and swollen.”
Unless they weren't looking for valuables.
I knew virtually nothing about either of the Rudds. They could both be running from the law or mixed up in shady dealings. It dawned on me that I might inadvertently have placed Bea in danger.
I covered her hand with my own. “How terrible for you. I should never have involved you in this.”
She shook her head. “Don't even think such a thing. I want to help now, too. Now more than ever. If they weren't after valuables, what did they want?”
“Someone might have been looking for information about her son,” I suggested, since it was a question prominent in my own mind.
Bea fingered the blue and tan scarf around her neck. “I suppose that might make sense. She'd want to protect him, I know that much. From the little she's said, he was . . . is, a lovely man. Very concerned for her. Always willing to help people in need.”
Maybe. But there had to be a reason he'd faked his own death.
“Who do you think would be after him?” Bea asked.
“Could be whoever killed Weaver. He might be worried that Rudd will be able to identify him. Or possibly it's connected to whatever trouble Rudd was in before.”
In theory, I supposed Don Pelle might be looking for Rudd as well. Rudd was a potential witness, after all. Supplied by the defense. And the DA himself had expressed interest. But I couldn't imagine Pelle bludgeoning anyone to locate a witness.
Bea looked at her watch. “I think we should go back upstairs and see if there's any news on Sophia. She should be out of surgery soon.”
The small visitor lounge on the fifth floor had been empty when we left for the cafeteria. Now there was another couple there, holding hands, staring silently into space, their expressions strained.
Bea and I went to the nursing station across the hall. “Any word yet on Sophia Rudd?” I asked.
The nurse was a moon-faced woman with skin the color of rich espresso. She clicked at the computer keyboard, then looked up.
“The surgery went well. When she's ready to be moved from recovery, they'll take her to intensive care, one floor down.”
“She's deaf,” Bea volunteered. “She uses sign language. I can interpret if you'd like.”
The nurse looked at her with compassion. “I imagine it will be quite a while before Mrs. Rudd will be communicating with anyone.”
“Oh.” The word was a puff of air, as though Bea had been punched in the chest. She gripped the counter to steady herself.
“She's still unconscious?” I asked.
“Besides a broken arm and deep lacerations, she's suffered a major blow to the head. You'll need to talk to the doctor about the long-term prognosis.”
“I gave the other nurse the name of her church,” Bea said. “That's who her closest friends are. She has no family that I know of.”
Unless you counted her son, I added silently.
“The information is right here,” the nurse assured us. “We've already called and spoken to the pastor.”
<><><>
Over dinner, Bea recounted the afternoon's events for Dotty's benefit. Usually one to jockey for a place in the spotlight, that evening Bea was subdued. Her focus remained on Sophia Rudd.
I ate quickly, then moved downstairs to work. I also put in a call to Nick and explained what had happened. “You think you could keep an eye out?” I asked. “Alexander Rudd might show up at the hospital.”
“I thought you'd given up the idea of finding him.”
“I have. More or less.”
“Aah.” The voice of skepticism.
“At least in terms of the defense case.”
Nick didn't press the issue. “Sure. I can hang around there this evening until they kick me out. But I'm booked solid tomorrow.”
“I'll put Jared on the day shift.”
Jared was less than thrilled at the prospect of spending the day in a hospital when he expected to be in court.
“Bo-oss.” He made the word into two syllables, both delivered with a clear whine.
“Right. I am the boss, as you keep informing me, and I want you to do this.”
Silence.
“Jared, do I need to remind you whose signature is going to be on the letter of recommendation you'll be asking for when you pass the bar?”
He laughed. “You're lucky I'm a nice guy. Otherwise I'd make you beg. But you owe me.”
<><><>
I arrived at the Hall of Justice early next morning in the hopes I might find an opportunity to talk with Don Pelle before court convened. But he appeared at the last minute, in the company of two assistants. Finally at mid-morning break, after three more jurors had been selected, I caught up with him near the elevator bank.
“Looks like we'll have a jury before the day is out,” I said in an off-hand manner. This was lawyer small-talk, like backyard exchanges about the weather.
He nodded. “Tomorrow we begin battle. Maybe even this afternoon.”
“You think she'd do that?” Most judges liked to start a trial fresh, with opening statements in the morning. But some, in an effort to ease perpetual backlog, forged ahead whenever there was an available time slot.
“Judge Tooley runs a tight ship. Doesn't believe in wasting taxpayer money. You'd better be ready, just in case.”
I nodded and smiled. He sounded sincere. “I am ready,” I offered. And paused. “The only hitch is that I haven't been able to locate one of my wit
nesses, a man by the name of Alexander Rudd.”
I watched closely for a reaction. Pelle didn't blink. He didn't hesitate or show any signs of recognition. “You'll still have time. I figure my case will take several days at least.”
He took the elevator down to the lobby. I went to the ladies' room. I hadn't really believed he'd been responsible for the attack on Sophia Rudd, but I felt an odd relief nonetheless that nothing in his reaction had made me reconsider.
<><><>
The last juror was seated by eleven o'clock. Steven leaned over. “Our fate is cast,” he whispered with an edge of black humor.
“You sound like someone with little faith in your fellow man.”
“Not far from the mark, my dear.” While the words were meant to be light, there was an ominous vein to them.
All in all, it wasn't a bad jury. Five men and seven women, with a range in age from sixty at the far end to a woman in her twenties who looked about fifteen. All gave the impression of giving their task the serious and fair-minded attention it deserved. There were enough uncertainties in my mind, however, that I was far from confident.
Judge Tooley rubbed her temples. “Mr. Pelle, is the prosecution prepared to present its opening statement this afternoon?”
“We most certainly are, Your Honor.” A little too kiss-ass, I thought, and wondered if the jurors' reaction was the same.
“Ms. O'Brien?”
“Ready, Your Honor.”
“Fine. Let's take our lunch break and begin with opening arguments when we reconvene at one-thirty. I'd like to hear from both the prosecution and the defense today, if possible, so let's keep it moving on track, shall we?”
With that admonishment, she rapped her gavel, and court was in recess. I glanced at Terri and gave her a reassuring smile, which she didn't return.
“I'm scared, Kali.” She looked it, too. Her features were drawn, her naturally rosy cheeks almost colorless. “Those men and women on the jury don't know me. They don't know anything about me. But they get to decide my future. They could so easily get the wrong impression.”
I laid a hand on her arm. “It's my job to make sure they don't.”
She took a deep breath and nodded obediently.
I didn't think I'd reassured either one of us.
<><><>
The press was there in force when the afternoon session began. Camera crews in the hallway, reporters craning their necks from the seats on the far side of the bar. Word had gotten out that the trial was about to begin.
Ted, Lenore, and Arlo were in court as well. I assumed Steven had called them over the break. The remaining seats were crammed with spectators. Terri had told me she recognized a couple of friends.
Don Pelle strode to the jury box emanating confidence and purpose. His shoes were polished, his white shirt crisp and starched, set off with a silk tie of red and black stripes. His suit that morning had been a light gray; the one he wore now was a fine worsted charcoal. He'd obviously had a fresh ensemble waiting in his office. A distinct advantage to working out of the same building that housed the courts.
Pelle began by thanking the jurors for their time and for their participation in such an important undertaking. He went on to talk about the jury process, its role in our society, and his part as a representative of “the people.” It was not an original approach, but a wise one. It's human nature to want to feel appreciated, to be part of something important. By playing on these feelings, Pelle was hoping to win the jurors over to the side of justice. His side.
He then laid out the bare bones of his case. His presentation wasn't flowery or dramatic. In fact, it was a bit stiff. But it was effective.
Terri Harper and her husband wanted a baby, Pelle said. Arrangements had been made to adopt a baby girl born to Melissa Burke. Unfortunately for the Harpers, Ms. Burke had neglected to notify the baby's father, Bram Weaver, of the impending adoption—or even of the pregnancy. When he learned he had fathered a child, he immediately took steps to stop the adoption and assert his parental rights.
Terri Harper had lost one child already in a failed adoption, and she wasn't about to lose another. With Bram Weaver's death, Pelle explained, there would no longer be an impediment to the adoption.
“The State, ladies and gentlemen, will prove that the defendant murdered Bram Weaver because he stood in the way of the adoption. We will present witnesses who will testify that the defendant made threats against Mr. Weaver.”
Threats. Plural. I stole a glance at Terri. As far as I knew, there'd been only one threat, such as it was—the afternoon at the courthouse when Weaver had asked for visitation rights.
But Terri's face remained a mask of stoic attentiveness. Either she hadn't picked up on the use of the plural, or she knew of threats I did not. I scrawled a note to myself.
“We will show that a weapon registered to the defendant is the very make and caliber gun used to kill Bram Weaver. A weapon that she is now unable to produce. A weapon, incidentally, that is not among those most commonly owned.”
Pelle infused his words with just enough fervor to raise the specter of suspicion. He paused to let the points sink in, then continued.
“We will link evidence found at the crime scene to the defendant. Hair, fibers, a pair of dark glasses, for example. We will present witnesses who will testify to the defendant not being at home, where she claims she was that night. One of the defendants' own neighbors heard her leave the house a little before midnight. Another witness will place her near the murder scene about half an hour later. These times are well within the window of the crime.”
The jurors were listening intently, some leaning forward in their seats, eyes riveted on Pelle. Their curiosity had been tweaked during voir dire and now, finally, they were being allowed to hear the elements of the case.
Pelle paced slowly across the breadth of the jury box, making eye contact with the jurors one by one. “We will show further that the defendant changed longstanding plans to spend the weekend at home with her mother. Instead, she left town unexpectedly less than twelve hours after the murder. She left without telling anyone she was leaving or where she was going. Not her mother, who she sent back to her own house in Carmel. Not her husband, who was out of town that weekend. By the time the defendant finally made herself available to speak with detectives, it was no longer possible to test her skin for powder residue, a test that might have been conclusive to guilt.”
Or not. Pelle was treading dangerously close to argument, by innuendo if not directly. But my objecting would only reinforce the points he was making in the jurors' minds and lead to the appearance that Terri had something to hide.
“After you've heard all the evidence,” Pelle said in conclusion, “I am confident that you will find Terri Harper guilty of murder.” He again thanked the jurors, and sat down.
Judge Tooley seemed pleased with the brevity of the prosecution's remarks. She turned to me. “Ms. O'Brien, do you intend to make opening statement at this juncture? We have ample time in the afternoon schedule.”
I'd given some thought to waiting until after the prosecution had presented its case. There are theoretical advantages to this approach, the biggest being you know by then the full extent of the state's evidence. But I didn't want the jurors sitting through the next several days of testimony with only the prosecution's interpretation of events ringing in their heads.
“The defense is ready to proceed, Your Honor.”
“Good. We will take a fifteen-minute recess and then resume with the opening statement from the defense.”
No sooner had the gavel struck, than the bailiff approached and handed me a note. Ring me on my cell phone as soon as you're free. Jared.
I gave Terri's hand a squeeze, then headed for a quiet corner of the hallway to return Jared's call.
“What's up?” I asked.
“Your man Rudd. He was dressed like an orderly. Stopped by to see his mother and now he's down at Pier 39 playing his harmonica.”
&nb
sp; “His harmonica?”
“For money. Only he's competing with a blues saxophonist on the next corner and a bronzed human statue across the street. I don't think he's going to pull in much.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Nope. I thought I should check with you first. I was afraid I might scare him off.”
“Stay with him. I've got opening argument in a few minutes but I'll call you as soon as I'm finished.”
“Gotcha. How's it going in court?”
“Pelle was good. No surprises, though.”
“You're going to be better than good, boss. You'll be super.”
The confidence of a neophyte is amazing.
<><><>
Facing the assembled jury, I felt both a surge of hope and the terror of possible failure. As Terri herself had said, the jurors didn't know her. Didn't know what she'd done or hadn't done; didn't know what was on her mind or in her heart. I was the conduit by which they would come to know her, and decide her fate. It was up to me to convince them of her innocence, or at the very least, raise reasonable doubt about her guilt. And that was a frightening burden to shoulder.
I began by introducing myself and Terri. Not as attorney and defendant, but as human beings. It was an effort at establishing a bond, an attempt to erase the presumption of guilt which often lodges in a juror's brain after listening to the prosecutor's tale of murder.
I, too, thanked the jury. “I know you have other commitments, and places you'd rather be. I appreciate your putting those aside to help make our judicial system work the way it should. Terri Harper appreciates it, too.”
I turned and gestured to include her in the delivery. The jurors' eyes shifted in her direction.
Terri was working hard at looking relaxed and confident, as we'd discussed. But not overly so. A trace of vulnerability was a good thing. She'd been practicing for days, without benefit of a mirror. And she was doing well.
“Terri Harper has, herself, sat on juries,” I continued. Build a sense of identification between defendant and juror. It was a basic tenet of trial work. “She knows what a difficult job it can be, and how important. As you're aware, some countries have no jury system. If an innocent person is arrested, she goes straight to jail with no chance to question the charges or give her side of events. But in this country we know that police sometimes make mistakes, just like everyone else. Despite their hard work and best intentions, they sometimes arrest the wrong person. That is why our system requires the state to prove its case to you, the jury. To you as independent, impartial members of the community.”
Witness for the Defense Page 24