Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  I don't watch B movies for nothing. Bending over, I picked up a couple of pebbles from the ground at my feet and tossed them to the pavement out toward the water. When they hit, Shalla turned toward them and fired.

  In that instant, I grabbed the pole and swung with all my might. Shalla fired again, but the pole hit him first and the shot went wide. The gun flew to the ground. Shalla started running.

  I swung again and sent him to his feet.

  Steven grabbed the gun. I whacked Shalla once more for good measure. He sprawled on the ground, holding his head. Blood trickled from his temple.

  “What are you doing here?” Steven sounded more angry than grateful. “I thought I told you to leave a long time ago.”

  “I did leave. But then I saw Shalla . . . Was it really him who killed Caroline and Rebecca?”

  Steven drew in a breath. The dim light overhead illuminated only one side of his face, and that was strangely contorted by shadows.

  “He killed them,” Steven said. “As well as everyone who could tie him to it. That's why Rudd faked his own death—to avoid being killed himself. He moved away for a while, but then with his mother's stroke, he came back home.”

  And accidentally became a witness to Weaver's murder. When I'd put his name on the witness list, Shalla had known Rudd was alive. I remembered his questioning me about Rudd in the hallway of the courthouse.

  I caught the flash of blue and red lights out on the street. My 9-1-1 call had apparently gotten through.

  “Shit,” Steven said. “Cops.”

  Relief flooded my body. “Better late than never.”

  Shalla lifted his head and groaned. “These guys know me. You're going to have a hard time making your story stick, Cross.”

  “Too bad they won't recognize you with your face blown away,” Steven said.

  I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Get away from here, Kali.” He raised the gun. His voice was cold.

  “You aren't going to shoot him, are you?” Or me? The fear returned like a sudden storm.

  “He'll find a way to get off. His kind always does.”

  “But he practically admitted to the killings. I heard it myself.”

  “It won't matter.”

  I heard the doors of the police cars slam. A strong-beamed flashlight cut a swath across the darkened plaza where we stood. They were still far enough away that I wasn't sure they could see us.

  “Let the system handle it, Steven. Don't throw your life away.”

  “What life?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Who killed Weaver.”

  I hesitated. Steven's mood was unpredictable.

  “You said you'd figured it out.”

  “It was your mother, Steven. It was Lenore.”

  “Wrong. It was me.”

  My heart stopped. “No.”

  “I couldn't let him have Hannah. Not after I failed to protect Rebecca. I had to do it.”

  “You let Terri stand trial for murder?”

  “I felt awful about it. And I was going to come forward if she was convicted.”

  The flashlight made another arc. Stopped, like a theater spotlight, framing the three of us.

  “Police,” one of the men shouted. “Put down your gun.”

  “It's me,” Shalla shouted, not moving. “District Attorney Ray Shalla. I'm hurt.”

  “Go on, Kali. Leave.”

  I held my hands over my head and headed toward the source of the light. “Don't shoot him,” I yelled. “He's got explosives.”

  It took me less than a minute to reach the sidewalk. But it was a long minute. A minute of silence broken only by the soft tread of my shoes and the crackle of the police radio.

  When I reached the string of police officers, the one on the end handcuffed me immediately and threw me against the side of his car.

  “Shalla was going to kill us,” I screamed. “It's his gun.”

  “Does that other guy really have explosives?”

  “He says he does.”

  “Clear the area,” said one of the cops. “And call for a negotiator.” He turned to the cop next to him. “And take her downtown.”

  The cop who'd handcuffed me shoved me into the back of his cruiser. Then he climbed in the driver's seat and sped off, lights flashing.

  It couldn't have been more than a second later that I heard the shots.

  And then a loud, deafening blast.

  CHAPTER 41

  The days following Steven's death were like a dream world. There was a crazed logic to events that under scrutiny made no sense at all.

  The early news accounts focused on the shootout at the waterfront. There was even video footage, grainy though it was. An enterprising reporter had apparently been listening on the police scanner and had arrived at the scene, camera in hand, just as I was being whisked off to police headquarters.

  It was on every newscast for days running. I made it a point not to turn the television on at all.

  I ended up watching the footage only because the police insisted. Internal affairs was involved, as they were in every police shooting, and they wanted me to walk them through my recollection of the events.

  It was too dark to see Steven's face on film, but I could read his movements. And hear his voice clearly.

  “I've got a bomb here,” Steven said, still holding the gun on Shalla. “I need to get rid of it.”

  “First, drop the gun.”

  Steven started to lower it, then hesitated.

  “Now,” the officer shouted.

  Steven looked to his left, out at the water. He seemed uncertain.

  “The man's crazy,” Shalla shouted. “He lured me down here and tried to kill me.”

  “Drop it,” the officer yelled again.

  Shalla moved slightly, gripping the side of his head. “The guy's looking for a scapegoat for his wife's death. Came up with some harebrained story about how I'm to blame.”

  In one quick movement, Steven raised the gun and fired at Shalla. He got off two shots before a fusillade of police bullets hit, triggering a deafening explosion.

  There was a flash of light. A ball of fire. I was grateful for the cover of night. I didn't even want to think about what the camera might have showed had it been daylight.

  In later reports, other details began to emerge. Rudd came forward to attest to Shalla's role in the hit-and-run. An inquiry was opened into Joe Moran's death. A search of Shalla's papers revealed notes he'd made about Sophia Rudd. My phone had, indeed, been bugged.

  The charges against Terri were dropped three days later, and the jury excused. Steven had left a taped confession on his kitchen table, along with the murder weapon. Since it provided a perfect ballistics match, there wasn't any real question about continuing with the trial. If there had been, Lenore's statement would have clinched it.

  She'd gone to see Weaver the night of Weaver's visit with Hannah, thinking maybe she could persuade him, or bribe him, to relinquish his claim. She'd driven Terri's car, she said, because hers was parked on the street and she was afraid that if she moved it, she'd never find another parking space. Terri had gone to bed early and never knew Lenore had left the house.

  Weaver had been cordial, Lenore said. He offered her a glass of brandy. They'd been in the living room when the doorbell rang and Weaver went to answer it. She'd barely had time to register the fact that he'd opened the door, when she heard a shot. And then a second one.

  Frightened for her own safety, she looked for someplace to hide, and glanced out the window in time to see Steven slipping down the path at the side of the house and over a neighbor's fence.

  Afraid to be placed at the scene, Lenore had taken the brandy glasses with her. An illogical, moment-of-panic decision that in retrospect had cast further suspicion on her daughter. If the police had seen signs that Weaver had company, they might have gone looking in a differ
ent direction.

  <><><>

  I dropped by to visit Terri the day after she'd been released from jail. If anything, she looked worse than she had during her incarceration. Her eyes were puffy and her coloring was uneven. She wore her hair pinned back behind her ears, and no makeup.

  Lenore was there too. Grief and worry had taken their toll on her as well, but she'd managed to pull off the Hollywood version, with rouge and eyeliner, and hair that was well styled.

  We had tea in the sun room off the den. Ted stayed around long enough to be sociable, then kissed Terri and Hannah, who was sleeping in an infant seat near Terri, and took his leave.

  “How are you doing?” I asked. I'd been hoping to find Terri alone.

  “Not so good,” she said. “Though I'm grateful to be home. To be with Hannah again.” She held the blue ceramic mug in both hands, as if warming herself. “I still can't believe Steven is dead.”

  “Me either.”

  Lenore looked pale. Her lips moved but her words were inaudible.

  “Or that he killed Weaver,” Terri added. “That he did it for me.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears and she wiped at them with the back of her hand. “It's so horrifying, like, I don't know . . . like I should be grateful, and then I feel bad that I'm horrified.”

  “He wasn't rational, Terri. And the last thing he'd want is for you to feel guilty.”

  “I'm so confused.” She turned to her mother. “You really were there?”

  Lenore took a sip of her tea. Her hand shook. “I went to see Mr. Weaver. To plead with him. I was so upset, I didn't know what else to do.”

  “That's why I gave you those sleeping pills, to help you relax.”

  “How could I relax when that man might have gotten Hannah? I didn't want to relax. I wanted to set things straight.”

  “It wasn't your place to set things straight.” Terri's voice had an edge to it.

  “I only wanted to help.”

  Terri stared into her mug. I could see a pulse jumping in the hollow of her neck. “You knew it was Steven all along?” she asked.

  “Yes.” The answer was slow in coming. There was no mistaking the pain in Lenore's voice.

  “You let me spend all that time in jail when you knew I was innocent?” Terri's pale skin was flushed.

  “I didn't have a choice.”

  “You were here with my baby while I was stuck in some cell thinking I'd never see her again.”

  “How could I tell them it was Steven?” Lenore asked. “How could I point to my own son?”

  Terri dropped back against the couch cushions like a rag doll. “How could you not stand up for me?”

  “I would have, Terri.” Lenore moved to the sofa, held her daughter's hand in her own. “I would have said something if you'd been convicted. I saved the brandy glasses, as proof that I was there.”

  Terri stared at Lenore. Her mouth was slightly agape, as though she'd meant to speak and then found the words wouldn't come.

  “I would have done anything to help you,” Lenore said.

  “Except tell them who the killer really was.”

  “It wasn't easy, Terri. There was you, and there was Steven. Then when that neighbor's housekeeper said she saw you. . .”

  “But that wasn't until right before the trial!”

  Carla Hassan had changed her testimony because Roemer had threatened her. More convincingly than he had me with his confrontation in the stairwell and the altered catalog. He was convinced that Terri was guilty, and would never be convicted because she was a woman.

  “With all Steven's troubles,” Lenore lamented, “I couldn't add to them.”

  “He committed murder.” A shadow of distress crossed over Terri's face. She bit her bottom lip and swallowed. “I was the one in jail.”

  “But don't you see? I couldn't choose one of you over the other.”

  Terri's eyes welled with tears. She took a gulp of air, then turned to Lenore and pulled her hand free. In a voice devoid of emotion, she said, “No, of course not.”

  But Lenore had chosen. She'd protected Steven over Terri, at least in the short run. I could see from Terri's expression that she recognized that as well. There would forever be a rift in their relationship, a chasm between them so large I wondered if either would be able to see to the other side.

  “I had a feeling you might have gone out that night,” Terri said. “I could tell that my car was parked at a different angle. But I never said a word. I didn't want to cast suspicion on you.”

  “I'm grateful, but—”

  “And when they showed the dark glasses they'd found at the crime scene, I thought to myself, 'Gee, those are kind of like Mom's.' The ones I wore for a week last spring when you left them at our house. I could have said as much, cleared up the manicurist's confusion about my glasses. But I didn't.”

  “Honey, if I'd thought—”

  “I was trying to protect you!” Terri rubbed her hands over her arms, hugged herself. Blinked back tears. “I was looking out for you. Which is more than you did for me.”

  “That's not so, Terri. I had no choice.”

  “You did, and you made it.”

  Hannah stirred, then woke with eyes wide open. Her little arms began thrashing like a dog pawing at the air.

  “Look who's awake,” Lenore said, reaching for Hannah.

  Terri beat her to it, almost snatching the baby from Lenore's grasp. “Come to Mama, sweetie.”

  Lenore's arms fell back to her lap. “You want me to change her?”

  Terri held her daughter to her chest. “I'd prefer to do it myself.” Her tone was cold, distancing.

  Lenore gave Terri a long look, then excused herself, and left the room.

  Terri cuddled Hannah, patting her back and cooing until the baby stopped fussing. “Hannah will never know her uncle,” Terri said sadly.

  “I should think you'd be angry at him. He let you sit in jail for all that time.”

  “On one level I am. But I know he'd have never let them send me to prison. And he was a good man. That's the side of him Hannah will never know. She'll only know the stories. Her uncle, the murderer.”

  “He was unbalanced,” I said. “Friends of his saw signs of it. In retrospect, I did too.”

  Terri nodded. “He went through a deep depression. Right after the accident. He was totally irrational sometimes. His behavior was erratic. Then he got better. Or mostly better. There were times I'd wonder, though. He'd be talking along like the old Steven, and then, out of the blue, he'd say something totally off the wall. Usually about Rebecca.”

  “I think by “saving” Hannah, he felt he was atoning for his sins with Rebecca.”

  “There was an incredible bond between them. Much more so than with Rebecca and her mother. The only person Caroline really cared about was herself.”

  “I can't imagine the pain of losing a child.”

  “It wasn't just grief with Steven,” Terri said. “It was guilt, too. He blamed himself for the accident. Thought he'd failed Rebecca. He'd berate himself for putting his own happiness before hers. It made no sense at all.”

  Maybe not to Terri and the rest of the family, but I understood the source of Steven's remorse. Shared it, in fact. Now layered with guilt about Steven's death. How much had I contributed to his suicide by turning away from him on Saturday night? I'd never know.

  “Dan Weaver signed the adoption papers,” I said, grateful to move on to a less painful subject. “There won't be any problems getting the final order.”

  “Wonderful. We're hoping he'll come meet her someday.”

  “I'm sure he will, in time. Alexander Rudd would like to meet her, too,” I said. “And you. He feels he's partially responsible for Steven's death. He had no idea what Steven was planning.”

  “None of us did.”

  “He was the one who put flowers on Caroline's and Rebecca's graves each year. Did Steven tell you about that?”

  She nodded, then gave me a questioning
look. “You knew Steven pretty well, didn't you?”

  I shook my head. “Not as well as I thought.”

  <><><>

  I didn't go back to the office. Wasn't sure I'd ever go back.

  Instead, I headed to Tahoe, which was beautiful, and quiet, in the fall. I stayed at a cabin on the north shore, and spent my days hiking and my evenings reading. No computer, no e-mail, no television. Jared had come through like a trooper. He was fielding calls, handling clients, following through on important pending matters as though he'd been at it for years.

  He'd also managed to unravel the mystery of Weaver's high-tech business venture. Along with his good friends Billings, Roe-mer, and Lomax, Weaver had set up a pornography website. It was apparently a lucrative undertaking. But when the other three wanted to push the envelope into child porn and real-time video feed with unsuspecting women, Weaver had resisted. None of them were happy about our prying into what they were doing.

  As for myself, I tried not to dwell on anything but the moment. The trill of birds greeting the sunrise, the blue lake water lapping against the shore, the scent of pine warmed by the sun and, in the evening, of wood smoke in the air.

  It didn't work, of course. I ended up spending a lot of time thinking about what had happened. About Steven. And about my own role in all of it.

  Steven had said he'd made his peace with Caroline. That they'd had conversations after her death they should have had much earlier. I tried in my own way to reach Steven. Dialogue, both imagined and remembered, floated through my mind in an endless reel of remorse. But Steven remained elusive.

  On my last night in the mountains, I stopped at the 7-Eleven for a soda and caught the top-of-the-hour news on the store radio. A gay rights rally in San Francisco, a Marin woman beaten and raped in a grocery store parking lot, a lost child reunited with her parents. Life moved on. The deaths of Steven Cross and Ray Shalla were no longer stories of the hour.

  My cell phone rang as I was getting back into my car.