Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Yes, but that's not the problem.”

  “We'll make it chaste, okay? We'll admire the view, listen to the sounds of night, commune with our inner selves.”

  I started to laugh, but he appeared to be serious. “I'm not sure I want to know my inner self,” I said instead.

  “Concentrate on the view, then.” Steven had already moved toward the tub and was now folding back the collapsible cover, as he had so many evenings in the past. Then he started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Steven, I really don't think—”

  “I'm going in. You can sit there and watch me, or you can join me.”

  Or I could go inside and start washing the dishes. “I'll go get towels,” I said.

  By the time I'd returned, Steven was already submerged in the steamy water. I flipped off the inside lights, cloaking us with darkness. Then I quickly undressed and joined him.

  He'd turned on the jets. I eased back against the powerful fingers of water and began to relax. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. The hum of the jets, the gurgle of the water, a lone airplane overhead—the sounds that filled the silence between us were soothing.

  “Kali?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Your inner self is beautiful and intelligent. And she's not your enemy. Maybe you should get to know her a little better.”

  “This isn't Marin. Hot tub therapy is against the Berkeley city charter.”

  He laughed. “Point taken. I'm hardly one to give advice anyway.”

  I couldn't read Steven's mood clearly, but I could tell there was something rattling around inside him. Had been all evening. I decided I should probably have sent him on his way as soon as we'd finished dinner.

  Steven's foot brushed mine.

  I angled my legs the other way. We gazed at the lights of the city in silence. Then his foot grazed the inside of my calf.

  “I thought this was going to be chaste,” I said.

  “It's just your leg.”

  I closed my eyes and a moment later felt Steven's hand on my thigh. My eyes stayed shut. As did my lips. The words of protest that sprang to my mind were never spoken.

  And then his lips grazed my neck, sliding just to the water's surface near the tops of my breasts. “I guess it's not going to be chaste, after all,” he murmured.

  It wasn't too late to change course.

  He touched my cheek. “You think that's going to be a problem?”

  Yes. A chorus of voices inside my head sang out in unison.

  “No,” I breathed softly. “No problem.”

  Steven reached for a towel. “Let's go someplace more comfortable.”

  The chill of the night air was refreshing against my steamy skin. But it didn't bring either of us to our senses.

  We toweled off quickly, then went inside and downstairs.

  Steven laughed, a kind of uneven breath that betrayed nervousness. “Different bedroom, I see.”

  “Dotty's using the other one now.”

  He sat on the bed and took my hand, pulling me down beside him. “I've thought of you so often over the years. I think the reason I gave Terri your name was because I was hoping it might somehow bring us together again.”

  He grazed my neck and shoulders with the palm of his hand, stroked my back, my legs.

  I didn't return the caress, but I didn't protest either.

  Moving slowly, whispering in my ears between kisses, Steven gently eased me back onto the bed.

  His skin was soft and warm, his breath sweet. My hand traced the arc of his shoulders, the curve of his spine.

  His kisses became more passionate. My body responded with growing hunger. But in my head there was a persistent ringing, like Steven's cell phone the night of the accident. I felt myself stiffen.

  “What's the matter?” Steven asked. His hand stopped moving, suspended at the base of my spine.

  “I can't. . .” I rolled onto my back. “This isn't going to work,” I told him.

  “I was rushing it?” He raised himself, leaning on an elbow.

  I shook my head. “It's that I keep remembering . . . what happened.”

  “We can't change that.”

  “And I can't silence the voices in my head.”

  Steven ran a finger along my collarbone in a moment of silence, then he, too, rolled onto his back.

  “Are you angry?” I asked.

  “I'm only sorry about the way everything has turned out.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Maybe things will change with time.” He picked up my hand and kissed the palm. “I guess each of us has to exorcize the demons in our own way.”

  “I'm working on it,” I told him. “So am I, Kali. So am I.”

  <><><>

  After Steven had gone, I tried to sleep, but couldn't. Tried to make sense of my behavior, and couldn't do that either. I'd been eager enough to jump into bed with Steven when he'd been married. Now, ironically, it was the absence of his wife that stopped me.

  Or maybe it was simply that I was no longer as young and impetuous as I had once been.

  I straightened the kitchen and made myself a cup of herb tea, thinking I'd get into bed to read for a bit. That's when I noticed the blinking message light on the answering machine. In my haste to prepare for Steven, I'd forgotten to check it.

  I hit play.

  This is Peter Longf. . . I mean, Alex Rudd. My mother died yesterday. His voice came in gasps, like each word drained him of energy. I don't... 7 think . .. Another pause. I would like to speak with you. I will be on the Berkeley fishing pier Sunday at one o'clock. I hope you will come.

  I played the message a second time. It was going to take a lot more than tea to lull me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 37

  I called the hospital immediately, and got the runaround—which wasn't surprising considering it was two o'clock in the morning. When I called back at the more reasonable hour of nine-thirty, I finally managed to connect with someone who confirmed that Sophia Rudd had died Thursday morning.

  Though I'd barely known her, I felt a wash of sorrow. Weighted with self-blame. Had I stirred up trouble by asking about her son? He'd obviously had his reasons for going underground. Maybe tomorrow I'd learn what they were.

  <><><>

  In my days as a law student at UC, I would occasionally take afternoon walks along the waterfront to clear my mind and escape the confines of academia. Although I wasn't a fisherman, I often found myself heading out on the pier, which had been a Berkeley institution long before the city fathers had turned the mudflats of the bay into a marina and park.

  The pier is a straight stretch of plank and asphalt, like a deserted highway, positioned several feet above the water. It gives you the feeling of walking on water, as though San Francisco were only a short stroll's distance across the bay. The people who come to drop their lines into the water are not the fishermen of L. L. Bean and Sports Illustrated, but the city's less affluent, and often foreign speaking. They trudge to their spot along the railing with buckets of live bait and coolers of beer.

  On weekdays they are mostly men, but weekends draw whole families. The radios are louder, the coolers packed with sandwiches and soft drinks as well as harder liquid refreshment. By the time I'd arrived, about quarter to one that afternoon, both sides of the pier were lined with family encampments. Snatches of dialogue—Spanish, Chinese, and several languages I didn't recognize—caught my ear as I passed by.

  Every now and then an image from the previous night would float to the surface of my mind and I'd push it away. I did not want to think about Steven just yet. Or about my own feelings and motivations. Maybe with a little distance it would all be clearer.

  I walked to the end without finding Rudd, then turned and started back again. The pier was maybe half a mile in length, and he hadn't said where he would be.

  Ahead, I could see a commotion of some kind. A flurry of activity and a gathering crowd. By the time I reached the spot, the crowd had grown considerably. I craned my
neck to see what they were looking at.

  A dark-haired woman of Eastern origin, Pakistani perhaps, was sitting on the asphalt looking dazed. Her head was bleeding slightly and she held her elbow with the opposite hand.

  A uniformed officer approached not thirty seconds after I got there.

  “Are you hurt, ma'am?” he asked.

  She bent her elbow a little and winced. But she shook her head. “It's not serious.”

  “He just knocked her down,” one of the bystanders said. “Didn't stop. Just kept right on running like he never even seen her.”

  “What did the man look like?” the officer asked.

  “Not too tall. Skinny. Had a knit watch-cap pulled low over his forehead. Kinda unkempt, like he lived on the streets.”

  A man brought the woman some ice and some paper towels to clean up the scrapes.

  The officer's gaze swept the circle of onlookers. “Anyone else see him?”

  “Adidas running shoes,” an older black man said. “New. Flashy. They didn't look nothing like the rest of him.”

  “He came out of nowhere,” said another man. “He was kinda ambling along, looking in trash cans, you know, minding his own business. Then suddenly, wham, like a horse with a burr under his saddle. He went that way.” The man pointed toward shore. “Plowed right into that poor woman.”

  As the police officer took down names for his report, I continued my trek back down the pier.

  Could the man have been Rudd? He was about my height, and slender—so that part fit. But he'd been wearing heavy boots when I'd seen him at the wharf. More to the point, why would he suddenly bolt after suggesting we meet? Had something, or someone, frightened him?

  I'd returned to the base of the pier. It was now one-twenty. Maybe we'd simply missed one another in the throng of people.

  The sun was bright. I could feel it baking my skin, and cursed myself for not bringing a hat.

  I started toward the far end of the pier again. By now the crowd had dispersed and the injured woman and her husband were packing up.

  Still no sign of Rudd.

  I completed my second tour, then found a spot near the entrance and leaned against the railing. If he passed by, going or coming, I'd see him.

  Vibrantly colored kites danced overhead. Equally colorful windsurfing sails skitted across the water. There was lots of activity, but no Rudd.

  By three o'clock, I decided he wasn't going to show. Or had shown, and then fled. Both scenarios left me with unanswered questions.

  <><><>

  Monday morning I put aside any lingering thoughts of Alexander Rudd and focused on the trial.

  The first witness for the defense was Jane Parsons, a friend of Terri's for more than ten years. Pelle had presented his case within the narrow confines of motive and direct evidence. Not surprisingly, the picture that emerged was one-dimensional and distorted—Terri as a vindictive killer. I wanted the jury to see Terri as a fleshed-out human being, a compassionate and well-liked woman. Someone with whom they could identify.

  Jane Parsons spoke of meeting Terri when they were volunteers in a church-sponsored literacy volunteer program. Both women had gone on to become teachers, Jane at the high school level, Terri favoring kindergarten. They remained close friends to this day. Jane acknowledged that Terri had upset by Weaver's claim of paternity, but she insisted that Terri would never have killed him.

  “She won't even step on a spider,” Jane said. “Terri is one of the most nonviolent people I've ever known.”

  “Did she talk to you about the possibility of losing Hannah?” I asked.

  “Yes, we discussed it. Obviously that wasn't what she wanted, but she knew it might come to that. I think she'd begun the process of bracing herself for the loss.”

  Pelle kept his cross-examination to a minimum. He underscored the fact that Jane Parsons was there as a character witness at the request of her friend.

  “Did you speak to the defendant on the day of Weaver's murder?” he asked.

  “No, I didn't.”

  “How about the day before?”

  “Not then either.” Jane Parsons had short, dark hair and the remnants of a Texas accent.

  “Did you speak to her at any time during the preceding week?”

  Jane shook her head. “No, I did not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I was in France at the time.”

  “Then you don't know what she might have been thinking or planning at the time of Weaver's murder, do you?”

  “I know Terri, and I know she would never resort to killing.”

  “Never? Not even in self-defense?” Pelle asked, sounding astonished.

  Jane hesitated. “Well, maybe then.”

  “Or in the defense of an innocent child?”

  I raised my voice. “Objection.”

  Pelle smirked. “I'll withdraw the question. That's all for this witness, Your Honor.”

  I called two more witnesses—another friend and the principal of the school where she'd taught—to attest to Terri's good character and solid moral values. Both times, Pelle declined the opportunity to cross-examine them, giving the jury an amused, we-all-know-this-is-meaningless glance before declaring, “No questions of this witness.”

  I spent the remainder of the morning calling a parade of defense experts in order to put the State's evidence against Terri in proper context. Sheepskin seat covers were widely distributed; there were countless .25 caliber Berettas registered to owners in the greater Bay Area; three out of seven digits in a license plate didn't harrow the field much; a killer shooting at close range would be likely to end up with blood spatters on his or her clothing.

  I called to the stand a criminalist who reiterated what I'd brought out earlier on cross, that there was no way to know with certainty whether the black fibers found at the crime scene had come from Terri's nylon jacket. Another expert attested to the popularity of nylon clothing.

  There were no bombshells and no “aha” moments. In fact, it was fairly mundane stuff. I tried to keep it lively by keeping it short. Pelle's approach to cross-examination was methodical and thorough. I wasn't at all sure on which side I'd come down, had I been on the jury.

  But the foundation was laid for reasonable doubt. Nothing in the State's case was conclusive, and for every element of testimony they had presented, there was an alternative, and in most cases equally logical, explanation presented by the defense. I was counting on the neighbor's housekeeper, Car la Hassan, who would be testifying that afternoon, to begin pulling the jury over to our side.

  Steven had come into court after the morning session had begun. When I looked for him at noon recess, he was already gone. Happenstance or avoidance? The latter was certainly easy to understand in light of the awkwardness of Saturday evening. Though he'd said he wasn't angry, a dark mood had settled over him by the time he left.

  I'd almost called him on Sunday, using Rudd's message as a cover, to apologize. But since I could never get a handle on what I was apologizing for, exactly, I'd let it go. And in truth, I was just as glad that I'd been spared the embarrassment of a face-to-face encounter today.

  “Turkey on rye?” Jared asked as we packed up our portable office—the laptop and plastic case of files.

  “Without mustard this time.” I'd never understood the attraction of mustard on turkey. “And fruit salad if they have it.”

  I carted our stuff to the conference room while Jared went to pick up lunch. Rather than reviewing my questions for witnesses one last time, I picked up the crime scene photos and went through them anew. No matter how many times I saw Weaver's body crumpled on the entry floor amid the spatters of blood and brain, each viewing made me catch my breath. I forced myself to ignore the body and look at the rest of the room, to put myself there.

  Beyond the foyer was the living room. Although the photos had been taken in daylight, the lights were on, as they had been at the time of the crime. No open book or magazine, however. And the television w
as off. A lone bottle was on the buffet. Courvasier, according to the crime scene report. But no glasses. Unless Weaver drank straight from the bottle, it was there from an earlier occasion.

  But the autopsy report had shown a blood alcohol level of point zero eight. Could he have drunk enough at dinner six hours earlier to account for that? Not if he'd been sober when he was on the air that evening.

  Maybe he'd stopped for a drink on the way home from his show and been followed. Someone he'd insulted or angered. Or inadvertently attracted with a thick wad of bills.

  As I was jotting a note to myself, Jared returned looking grim.

  He set the deli bag on the table. “Bad news, boss.”

  “What is it?” The realm of “bad news” possibilities was almost infinite when Jared was the arbiter of “bad.” Anything from a riot on the streets to mustard on my turkey sandwich.

  “I checked our messages,” he said. “Carla Hassan called this morning. She says she's not feeling up to testifying.”

  “What? We've subpoenaed her. This isn't an optional afternoon diversion.” I shoved my chair away from the table. “I'd better call her.”

  “Done that,” Jared said.

  “And?”

  “No one answered.”

  Keep calm, I cautioned myself silently. A flustered attorney is no good to anyone.

  “Go on over there,” I told him. “Maybe she's unsure about getting downtown.” The woman didn't have a car, and relied on the bus to get around. I'd offered to reimburse her taxi fare, but I realized now that if she wasn't accustomed to taxis, which she probably wasn't, it would be a daunting undertaking.

  Jared eyed the deli bag longingly.

  “Take your lunch, for goodness' sake. You can eat and drive at the same time, can't you?”

  “Not if I'm going to appear in court this afternoon in a clean shirt.”

  “Then I'm afraid lunch will have to wait.”

  I took one bite of my own sandwich. It landed like lead on my stomach. I wrapped it up and set it aside. Without Carla Hassan, there was nothing to refute the testimony of prosecution witnesses who claimed to have seen Terri on the night of the murder. I spent twenty minutes going over my notes, but it was a rote exercise. Hardly one word stuck.