I paused, took several steps to the left. My delivery was, by intention, less formal than Pelle's. I wanted the jurors to see Terri as one of them.
It was difficult to judge how well I was succeeding. The jurors' faces were, by and large, masks of blandness. Mr. Ortiz yawned. A gesture that was picked up and repeated by several others behind the railing. Already the trial had lost some of its newness.
“This is one of the instances where the police have made a mistake.” I paused and met the gaze of as many men and women of the jury as were looking in my direction.
“We will show you each step of the way, how they did that. This is a case based entirely on circumstantial evidence.” I gave the term a slight inflection, as though there were something sinister in the concept.
“Each piece of evidence could, and does, have an explanation different from the one the prosecutor has given you. He's taken a collage of facts and arranged them a certain way, painting a picture of guilt. We will show you that there are other ways to arrange these facts, other interpretations that are consistent with Terri Harper's innocence.
“Mr. Pelle talked of motive. We will show that there were many people who had disagreements and run-ins with Bram Weaver. We will show you that the threat Mr. Pelle mentioned wasn't a threat at all, but an understandable, and entirely human, outburst of emotion. The kind of thing we all do on occasion, and feel ashamed about later.”
I moved on to cover the other points raised by Pelle—the gun, the witnesses, the physical evidence raised at the scene—and walked them through the concept of reasonable doubt. Nancy Huntington observed all through narrowed eyes. I could only hope it was bad eyesight and not displeasure.
“Because there is no murder weapon,” I said, “the prosecution has no way of knowing, or proving, what specific gun was used in the crime. That Terri Harper once owned a gun similar to the one used in the crime means nothing. A lot of other people own the same type of gun. The prosecutor has no eyewitness to the crime, no one who can positively place Terri anywhere near the crime scene the night of the murder. He has no fingerprints linking Terri to the murder, no traces of the victim's blood on any of Terri's clothing or belongings. The evidence he does have—fibers, hair, dark glasses—may have certain similarities to items that belong to my client. But you are all wise enough to know that similar is not identical. Without DNA, we can say only that a blond hair comes from a blonde, not which blonde. We cannot even say with certainty that a hair found at a murder scene belonged to the murderer.”
I turned and walked to the other end of the jury box. “On the night of the murder, Terri Harper was at home with her new baby and her mother. Terri had asked her mother to spend the weekend because her husband would be out of town and because Terri knew how excited her mother was about the baby. Do you think she would invite her mother for the night she was planning a murder?”
I braced myself for an objection I felt sure Pelle would raise, but no voice rang out from behind me, so I continued. “We will present a witness who saw Terri Harper in her home close to the time of the murder. I don't have to tell you that she could not be at Weaver's, twenty minutes away, if she was at home.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Judge Tooley lift her arm to check her watch. I decided to wrap it up.
“Terri Harper is a wife and new mother. She is on the Library Committee and is an active member of several local charities. Previously, she taught kindergarten. Now she finds herself, unexpectedly and through no wrongdoing on her part, a defendant in a murder trial. Her world has been turned upside down. It is up to you, ladies and gentlemen, to make it right again.
“Allow me to tell you again how grateful I am that you are serving on this jury. That you are here to prevent a grave miscarriage of justice. I am confident that when you hear all the evidence and use your own sound judgment, you will find my client, Terri Harper, not guilty.”
CHAPTER 29
Court adjourned at four-fifteen. Ten minutes later I was on the phone to Jared.
“Alexander Rudd still entertaining the folks at the wharf?” I asked.
“He's actually pretty good, boss. You should hear him.”
“I'm on my way.”
I headed out Van Ness, catching a string of green lights, and arrived at the appointed corner in under twenty minutes. The waterfront around Pier 39, just south of Fisherman's Wharf, is a warren of trinket shops and food vendors in a picturesque setting that combines both the best of old San Francisco and the worst of its new commercialism. The area was crowded with tourists, and the sun sparkled on the bay. September was truly one of the finest months in the city.
I could feel the warm sun on my back as I stopped to get my bearing. I spotted Alexander Rudd before I saw Jared. He was a man about my own age and height, solidly built, with high Slavic cheekbones like his mother and a head of thick, dark hair so curly it formed short, uneven dread locks.
Standing against the corner of a building, gaze welded to a point somewhere in the distance, he was playing a slow, aching tune that made me think of campfires and cattle drives. One of the men in the surrounding crowd dropped a folded bill into the hat at Rudd's feet. Rudd raised his eyes and nodded acknowledgment.
He played for almost half an hour more before he took a break, picking up his hat and emptying the cash into one pocket while slipping his harmonica into the other. As the crowd dispersed, I approached him.
“I enjoyed listening to you play.”
“Thanks.” It was said without enthusiasm.
“I wonder if we could talk for a minute.”
He gave me an uncomprehending look. “Talk?”
“About your mother, among other things.”
The look grew alarmed. “Who are you?”
“My name is Kali O'Brien.”
“Are you with her church?”
I shook my head. “I'm an attorney.”
“I'm not interested in suing anyone.”
“That's not why I'm here. I represent the woman accused of killing Bram Weaver. I understand that you might have seen something that night.”
He backed away. His eyes darted to the passing crowds. “Nuh-uh. Like I told that other fellow, I don't know nothing about that.”
“You're not a suspect,” I told him. “There's a witness who saw you on the street at the same time the shots were fired.”
“Must have been somebody who looked like me.” Rudd was walking away from me now, with a long, quick stride.
I followed.
Rudd picked up his pace, dodging people as he went. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jared, off to our right, jog ahead. Rudd must have seen him too, because he turned abruptly and darted between buildings.
I was half running, moving as fast as I could in low-heeled pumps and a narrow skirt, but I was losing him. “I think whoever beat up your mother was trying to find you,” I called out. “You can't hide forever.”
Rudd slowed, started up again, and then stopped abruptly. I caught up with him at the same time Jared met us coming from the other direction.
“I'm not trying to cause problems,” I said, breathing hard. “But there's a lot at stake here. Your mother and my client are both in trouble.”
His expression hardened. “You think they're connected, lady, you're way wrong.”
“Think about it. I've been wanting to talk to you about the night of Weaver's murder. Don't you think the killer might be looking for you as well?”
We were standing on a wooden walkway along the water's edge. I could hear the bark of sea lions beyond the railing. Jared had positioned himself so that it would be harder for Rudd to take off again, but Rudd seemed to have given up the idea on his own.
“Someone beat your mother to near death. I want to know why.”
Rudd looked at me, then Jared. He didn't say anything.
“It doesn't appear that whoever did it took anything of value,” I added.
“What would they take? She has nothing.”
&nb
sp; “Talking to me might help catch the person who attacked her.”
He gave me a wary look. “Why do you care?”
“It was a friend of mine who found her. She's been visiting your mother.” The explanation was suitably vague that he could make of it what he wanted. “It might also help my client,” I added.
Silence.
“You may have seen something the night of the murder,” I told him, “and not even recognize that it's important.”
Rudd shoved his hands into his pockets and rolled his shoulders forward. He kicked at a spot on the asphalt. His face had closed in on itself, like he was thinking hard, or trying hard not to think.
“My client is a young woman with her life ahead of her. She's a new mother with a three-month-old baby. Terri's in jail now, standing trial for a murder she didn't commit. If you can identify the killer, or help—”
“I didn't see who killed him.”
“But you might have seen something that could help our case.”
More silence.
“There's a good chance the killer thinks you saw him, and that's why he's after you. You and your mother will both be in danger until he's caught.”
Rudd turned and scanned the horizon over the water. I thought for a moment he might be contemplating a jump, but he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and faced me.
“The paper said your client's brother is Steven Cross.”
“That's right. Why?”
“Nothing. I just thought the name sounded familiar.”
“His wife and daughter were killed about five years ago in a hit-and-run accident. Maybe you heard his name on the news.” I was not above using whatever it took to win Rudd over, although it left a sour taste in my mouth.
Rudd rocked back on his heels, studied me a moment. His eyes were a soft, liquid brown. Like those of an old, family dog. Finally, he shook his head. “I wish I could help you, but I can't.”
“Just tell me what you saw that night. Surely you must have seen or heard something. You were right there when it happened.”
He sighed, pulled a hand from his pocket, and scratched the side of his head. “I heard shots, scuffling sounds from across the street. I went to check. When I got there, it was clear there was nothing to be done for the guy.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No. Didn't even have to touch the body to know that help was too late.”
“You were standing across the street at the time of the shooting. You didn't see anyone?”
“I wasn't directly across, I was down the street a bit, not paying much attention to what was happening around me.”
“Why didn't you call the police?”
He shrugged noncommittally.
“And you've avoided talking to me.”
“I just don't want to get dragged into all this,” he snapped.
“Because you're supposed to be dead?”
His cheek twitched. I could see an internal debate taking place.
“You've already admitted to being Sophia Rudd's son,” I reminded him.
“I didn't admit anything.”
“I asked about your mother and you didn't correct me.”
“You did that on purpose. To trick me.” Rudd was growing agitated.
“I'm not trying to cause trouble,” I said. “What I care about is finding out who did this to Sophia. And who killed Weaver.”
Rudd gnawed on his lower lip. “You asked,” he said after a moment. “But you aren't going to like what I have to say.”
“Try me.”
“Only person I saw on the street that night was a woman.”
My heart froze. “Did you get a good look at her?”
He shook his head. “She was dressed in a dark jacket, hat.”
“But you're sure it was a woman?”
“I'm sure. She wore a large diamond solitaire on her ring finger.”
Just like Terri.
My mind called up the old maxim, “Be careful what you wish for.” I'd been looking for a witness in connection with Weaver's murder, and I'd found him. It was good that the prosecution hadn't.
“Maybe now you'll butt out of my life,” he said.
“I don't know what you're hiding from, but I'm sorry about your mother.” I handed him my card. “If there's anything I can do . . . I really would like to see whoever attacked her caught, and punished.”
He licked his lips like he was getting ready to say something, then he slipped the card into his pocket, turned, and walked off.
“Jesus,” Jared said as we walked to my car. “We'd better hope Pelle never finds this guy.”
“Half the population is made up of women,” I reminded him. “And a significant number of them wear diamonds. It doesn't mean he saw Terri.”
“Yeah, but it does make a tidy package for the prosecution.”
CHAPTER 30
When I arrived at the Hall of Justice the next morning, the street was jammed with television trucks and dark cars sporting press placards on the dash. Camera crews were set up across the front steps, making a straight entry impossible.
I pushed my way through without comment, but began formulating a statement I'd make later in the day. Inside, the hallway was congested with more cameras and reporters, primed for action.
I spotted Lenore and Arlo by the water fountain. Lenore was blotting her mouth with a dainty hanky when she saw me. She gave a little wave, though the effort seemed to drain her.
“Ted should be here any minute,” she said. “He came separately.”
Arlo shuffled from one foot to the other, his hands making a similar journey in and out of his pockets. Though I imagined he was at ease in most social situations, his daughter's murder trial was clearly something different.
“How is Hannah?” I asked, more to settle the uneasiness in the air than anything.
“Wonderful,” said Lenore. Her face, which was etched with worry, brightened at the thought of her granddaughter.
“The nanny is working out okay?” I asked. Ted had hired a young English woman through an agency that specialized in providing nannies to those who could afford the best.
“She's fine. But she's still just a nanny. I try to be with Hannah myself as much as possible.” Another pause. Lenore's face pinched with emotion. “Since Terri can't be.”
Ted caught up with us just as we were heading into the courtroom. “It's a media circus out there.” “Did you talk to them?”
“Just a few words, nothing of substance.” He was trying to appear calm, but I noticed a spot on his neck where he'd nicked himself shaving. Like his father-in-law, Ted was agitated and worried, and not on familiar ground in dealing with those feelings. We entered the courtroom together.
Terri was brought in by a matron, followed by another guard. As soon as she was seated at the defense table, they melted into the background. It was a well-orchestrated ritual that took place out of the jury's presence in order to deflect any implication of guilt that might arise if she was seen with guards.
She had dressed each day with increasing simplicity. Today it was a gray jersey dress with a modest silver chain at her neck. “How are you holding up?” I asked.
“Not well. I thought the trial would be easier than the waiting, but it's worse. Much worse.” She didn't even try for a brave smile.
Terri had kept her makeup to a minimum and I could see the spread of freckles across her cheeks, and a flush of nervousness beneath the pale skin.
I checked the ring finger of her left hand, as though it might be the oracle of truth. It was bare, as I knew it would be. In order to avoid having it held in storage by prison authorities, she'd left the diamond at home when she surrendered. But I remembered it clearly. A large, emerald-cut stone that sparkled from across the room.
Had Terri killed Weaver? As much as I didn't want it to be so, I had to admit the scenario was not impossible. I fought to push the thought from my mind. This was not a moment for doubt.
Steven and Jared
slipped into the room just as the bailiff asked us to rise.
Court was in session.
<><><>
“Call Inspector Dennison to the stand,” Pelle said. After establishing the inspector's credentials and taking him through the preliminaries of the investigation, Pelle came to the discovery of Weaver's body.
“Were you the first person on the scene?” he asked.
“No, a uniformed officer answered the call, then the paramedics. I arrived about twenty minutes later.”
“What time was that?”
He looked at his notes. “A little after eight a.m. The deceased's gardener was the one who found the body and called 9-1-1. He'd gone to blow debris from the area around the door and discovered it open.”
“Can you describe what you saw when you arrived?”
“There was a body, male Caucasian, sprawled on the hallway floor by the front door. A lot of blood. It appeared he'd been shot twice. Once in the mid-abdomen and once in the head.”
“What else?”
“He was dressed in street clothes—khaki pants, polo shirt. The light was on in the living room as though he'd been in there before he answered the door.”
“Objection,” I said. “Lack of foundation. Nothing has been introduced into evidence about Mr. Weaver opening a door.” I hated to raise an objection so early lest the jurors peg me as one of those lawyers whose case was so weak she had to rely on technicalities. But neither did I want the state's scenario planted in the mind of the jury without evidence.
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