Kip tuned in to the conversation going on at his table. They’d already rated the San Francisco 49ers’ current crop of receivers, denounced the University of California’s latest admissions criteria—which all agreed smacked of hidden affirmative action—and pondered the spotty record of the ongoing war on terrorism. Now they had moved on to the never-ending debate over whether part of San Francisco Bay should be filled in to expand runways at San Francisco’s airport. Though Kip knew that in this crowd there really wasn’t much to debate on that topic.
“Seems to me,” he informed his rapt listeners, “this is an economic rather than an environmental issue. Forget terrorism. Business travelers will shun the city in ever greater numbers if we can’t improve the on-time record at SFO.”
Nods all around. Kip could almost see the donation checks getting bigger. Man, he loved these people. They were the kind he’d grown up with, outside Boston—small-business owners, subcontractors, or insurance salesmen, like his dad. The big dogs were dentists or owned car dealerships. He pretended Libby and Joan Hudson were his kind, but that was all an act. They made him nervous, truth be told. With these folks he could be himself, or at least a more relaxed form of himself.
A Hispanic waiter came by to bus his empty plate. Kip sipped from his coffee, which at Rotary lunches was a thin, diner-style brew served alongside the meal, and prepared to deliver his speech. It honed in on one topic and one topic only: how Kip Penrose’s policies had single-handedly reduced serious crime on the Monterey Peninsula. He’d just double-checked the order of his index cards when his cell phone rang. He twisted his body away from the table to answer. “Penrose,” he said.
“Kip, I am so pleased to have reached you. It’s Joan Gaines.”
Kip’s heart rate ramped up, as if he’d just increased the speed on the cross-trainer he’d purchased for the renovated basement of his home. Immediately he rose from the table to head to a private corner of the banquet room, putting an expression on his face that might lead his tablemates to believe he’d just been phoned by the governor. “What can I do for you, Joan?”
“There’s a small matter I thought I should bring to your attention.”
There were no small matters where a Hudson was concerned. “Yes?” he prompted.
“The woman who is assisting you on my husband’s case ... Alicia Maldonado, is it?”
“Yes?” By now Kip’s tablemates would have noticed that he was frowning.
“Well, I understand, of course, that she’s just doing her job, but she paid a visit to a friend of mine to confirm that I stayed overnight at her house the night Daniel was killed.” She paused to sigh heavily. “Kip, the police had already spoken to my friend over the weekend and, I must say, taken up a great deal of her—”
Damn! Kip clenched his cell phone. Joan Gaines would never understand why her whereabouts had to be confirmed. But why the hell hadn’t Maldonado warned him about this? Better yet, left it to him to handle it?
“—Courtney Holt? You know the name?” Joan was saying. “Her husband is Lawrence Holt, the attorney. Of course I explained to—”
Double damn! The Holts were donors, or at least they had been. Maybe he could have his secretary send them flowers to apologize? No, he realized instantly, that would look like favoritism, and he had to avoid that appearance at all costs.
This whole case was so damn complicated! He would’ve been so much better off if Daniel Gaines hadn’t been murdered. Then Gaines would have become governor, and who knew how he might have helped Kip then? It was so frustrating Kip could barely think straight.
He forced himself to sound calm. “Joan, I do apologize for the inconvenience to your friend. And you can rest assured that I’ll talk to my aide about it this very afternoon.”
Another sigh. “I would be so grateful, Kip. I would just hate if any of your supporters thought your office wasn’t handling my husband’s case properly. It would be such a shame.”
Joan hung up shortly afterward. Kip watched, almost blind with fury, as the Hispanic waiters buzzed among the tables clearing plates and distributing the custardy dessert. He could have throttled Alicia Maldonado right then and there.
Chapter 12
“All rise. The court is now in session.”
Judge Timothy Pade banged his gavel. “Good afternoon” was exchanged all around, and the few dozen people—most of them press—in Superior Court Four reclaimed their seats.
Since Treebeard’s arraignment happened to be the first item on the docket, Alicia was already in position at the people’s table, Penrose at her side. At the defense table to their left sat Treebeard and Jerome Brown, a natty figure in a black-and-white houndstooth sport jacket and perfectly creased gabardine slacks. In front of Alicia hulked the black binder filled with three-hole-punched case notes. With the police report, Treebeard’s DMV history and lengthy rap sheet, evidence form, and other paperwork that went into bringing a homicide case to trial, the binder was as big as a VCR. And twice as heavy.
Which meant, of course, that Alicia had hauled it up the six flights of stairs from the first-floor D.A.’s office, Penrose climbing unencumbered by her side. No courthouse staff ever used the elevator. It was a creaky, unreliable piece of equipment that moved at roughly the speed of the county bureaucracy. For some reason Penrose had seemed very keyed-up, his steps unusually jerky, his face flushed. She’d felt duty-bound to ask him whether something was wrong. He’d pushed out, “You’re damn right something is,” through clenched teeth, then twisted his features into a cheery smile as they passed the potential voters lined up on the second floor for jury duty. Alicia knew she’d hear what had him all riled up before the day was over.
Whatever was going on with Penrose, Louella had scored a victory just before lunch. She’d gotten a judge to allow her to subpoena Joan Gaines’ cell-phone and credit-card records for December. So before long Louella would have her hot little hands on what might provide some interesting insights into Joan’s activities the night of her husband’s murder.
“I’d like to think I’ve become tremendously newsworthy,” Judge Pade deadpanned. “Maybe you all heard that I finally broke par.” Halfhearted chuckles broke out in the rear of the gallery, the area set aside for the media. A bearded, even-keeled veteran of the Monterey County justice system, Pade didn’t look as if he expected a more rousing response to his tepid attempt at humor. “But I know better.” He waved a hand at the gallery. “I imagine all of you are leaving after the first item of business?”
Another round of chuckles. A man called out “Yes, sir!” Alicia twisted in her chair, trying to be casual, trying to scan the occupants of the press rows without looking too obvious. She realized quickly she hadn’t succeeded. There sat Milo Pappas, second to the last row on the left, looking straight at her and wearing an I know who you’re looking for and you just found him grin.
Damn. She pivoted back around to face the bench. Momentarily she was catapulted back to third grade at Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary, where every morning Sister Gonzaga gave Alicia her only reprimand of the day for squirming in her seat trying to find Hermano Bautista, an eight-year-old bad boy of the best kind. Somehow Hermano had always seemed to know she was looking for him, too.
“Let us dispense, then,” Pade said, “with the first item on this afternoon’s agenda ...” and the bailiff piped up without missing a beat: “The People versus John David Stennis.”
At the defense table, a jumpsuit-clad Treebeard rose to his feet, his ankle manacles clattering. As form required, Jerome also rose, as did Alicia and Penrose. Behind her, Alicia could hear the soft whir of camera equipment as the only still photographer and TV cameraman allowed inside the courtroom focused their lenses on the accused.
The attorneys stated their names for the record. The charges were read. Pade asked Treebeard if he understood them, and Treebeard said he did. Alicia thought Jerome looked relieved and guessed that he’d been worried his client would refuse to speak that day.
; Pade stared at Treebeard. “On the count of murder in the first degree with special circumstances, how do you plead?”
It seemed to Alicia that everyone stilled. From her position on the right side of the people’s table, she leaned forward to see around Penrose and get a better look at the defendant. Treebeard dropped his chin to his chest and shuffled his manacled feet. The thought flashed through her mind that maybe he was a fabulous actor playing out this moment for all its dramatic worth. Finally he raised his head and stared straight at the judge. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
As they’d all expected. She relaxed. But then Treebeard went on talking, which sent a palpable wave of surprise through the courtroom.
“I’m not just pleading not guilty.” His voice took on the hostile edge Alicia knew so well. “I’m honestly not guilty, Your Honor. I didn’t do it.”
“That’s enough, John,” Alicia heard Jerome murmur, and watched him lay a hand on his client’s left arm.
“No, I mean it.” Treebeard’s voice rose. He shook off Jerome’s hand. “Somebody set me up. I didn’t do it.”
Judge Pade raised his voice, though he gave no other indication the defendant was out of order. “The preliminary hearing will be held Monday, January thirteenth, 9 AM. Next case.” He banged his gavel on its little wooden stand, which seemed to agitate Treebeard further.
“No!” he shouted, and shook Jerome off with such force the lawyer was knocked backward a few feet, crashing noisily into one of the chairs at the defense table. The still photographer and TV cameraman scooted up to the bar to get closer to the action. “Can’t I get a word in edgewise here?” Treebeard yelled. “What the hell kind of justice is this?” Now two armed guards were on him, trying to manhandle Treebeard out the side door into the defendant holding area. But Treebeard squirmed and kicked and shouted, looking for all the world like the kind of crazed maniac who would shoot an arrow through Daniel Gaines.
Alicia watched the display with a sick heart. It gave her not one iota of satisfaction, though it would help her win the case. Treebeard had single-handedly turned his own arraignment from a nonevent into a top news story, one that would convince most Americans he was a guilty man.
Yet when she saw this angry, impotent side of Treebeard, she thought him less likely to be guilty of murder than of gross stupidity. If Treebeard had been framed, whoever picked him as the mark had made an inspired choice.
*
Milo stared at Alicia’s profile and saw nothing in the play of expressions on her face that he would have expected. Instead of triumph, he read regret. Instead of vindication, sadness. She’s honestly not convinced Treebeard did it. She wasn’t just feeding me a line when she said the case wasn’t all sewn up.
But if not Treebeard, who? He pictured Alicia’s face as she sat across from him at the Mission Ranch bar. Almost always it’s somebody close to the victim. In his memory, her face was still, thoughtful. Spouse, family, friends.
Milo remained seated on the hard wooden bench, watching Treebeard get dragged through the courtroom’s side door. Spouse? It simply wasn’t possible. Joan wasn’t capable of murder, literally wasn’t capable of it. For good or ill, she was too much of a hothouse flower to be able to drive an arrow through a man’s heart. At least any way other than metaphorically.
Again Alicia’s voice reverberated in his memory, this time cold, resentful. You mean because she’s from a wealthy family? Because she’s the daughter of a governor? No. Because she’d never had to do anything difficult in her life. And killing your husband, even if you desperately wanted him dead, was difficult.
His fellow reporters were filing out. He stood to allow those in his row to exit, and came face-to-face with D.A. Kip Penrose, who was grinning at him broadly and holding out his hand. Milo took it and glanced at Alicia, grim-faced at her boss’s side. “Milo, good to see you again,” Penrose was saying. “I’m gratified to see that WBS has you covering this important story.”
Milo didn’t let himself say any of the things that sprang to his mind. Penrose was gratified? Because Milo was on Newsline and Newsline was the hottest prime-time magazine on the air and the D.A. would dearly love its national exposure? “Certainly,” was all Milo could make himself say, but that was apparently enough for Penrose, who gave him a comradely slap on the back and preceded him out the courtroom door. Alicia, Milo noted with disappointment, was already gone.
The reporters were setting themselves up in the corridor for an impromptu press conference. There was only one cameraman, serving as the pool, who would provide dubs of the day’s video to the outlets requesting it. Milo joined the throng, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook in hand. Penrose was faster than the defense attorney at stepping up to the lone mike. He bent his head and cleared his throat. The cameraman turned on his light, bathing the D.A. in a wash of illumination. “Rolling,” the cameraman said, and immediately Penrose began talking.
“Kip Penrose, K-I-P-P-E-N-R-O-S-E, Monterey County district attorney. First let me make a statement.” He paused to arrange his features into solemn lines. “The case against John David Stennis, who calls himself Treebeard, is extremely strong. This afternoon’s arraignment is an important first step in bringing a barbarous murderer to justice, but much remains to be done. In the preliminary hearing in ten days’ time ...”
Milo tuned out, already bored. Penrose would offer no interesting insights, even if he had any, which Milo doubted. Alicia hadn’t even bothered to stay for the performance, a sure signal of just how dreary it promised to be. And if by some chance Penrose, or later the defense attorney, did let fly something notable, Milo would hear it on the pool tape.
He sidled away from the mob, stowing his reporter’s notebook in his overcoat pocket. His feet led him down the red-tiled stairs to the first floor, where across the central hall was the unprepossessing glass-door entryway to room 101, the district attorney’s office. He stared at it, then traversed the hall, pulled open the door, and gave his most winning smile to the twenty-something red-haired receptionist who sat behind the reinforced glass partition window. She—the gatekeeper who buzzed visitors through a locked door into the sanctum sanctorum—smiled back.
“I have a 4 o’clock appointment with Deputy D.A. Maldonado,” he lied, and flashed his laminated, all-purpose press pass for effect. “My name is Milo Pappas.”
“I know who you are.” She smiled again.
Milo smiled again, too. “I’m a little early, but would you be kind enough to let me in? I’d like to make a swing past the men’s room and would rather not use the facilities out here.”
“I understand completely,” she said, and buzzed him in. That was that. Milo saw no sign that she alerted Alicia to his imminent arrival, so he would maintain the advantage of surprise.
What did he want? he asked himself as he strode down the narrow corridor as if he knew where he was going, peering into each of the minuscule offices he passed. Well, he wanted to see Alicia. He wanted to talk to her. Give asking her out another whirl. Maybe this time he could convince her that dinner, just the two of them, wasn’t so out of order. But she was nowhere in sight. Many of the offices were shut down for the night—lights out, desks cleared. Not surprising, given that it was late afternoon on the thirtieth of December. He did find a men’s room, where he made the promised pit stop, then resumed his circumnavigation of the office.
The few people around took little notice of him. In fact, most were grouped in one office, devouring what appeared to be a New Year’s sheet cake. As he walked past, he heard the pop of a champagne cork, followed by laughter and whistles.
He turned another corner and there in front of him, at the end of the corridor, was an office whose superior furnishings indicated that its owner had to be Kip Penrose. Just as he made that deduction Milo watched Alicia enter the office from the corridor perpendicular to his own and claim one of the two upholstered chairs in front of the sprawling desk. She crossed her legs, threw back her head, and stared at the ceiling, the pi
cture of raw impatience.
Clearly she was waiting for Penrose. Milo retreated behind a cubicle wall and pondered what to do. This would not be a good time to interrupt her. He wanted her undivided attention and wouldn’t get it while she was waiting for her boss. Nor did he want Penrose to interrupt them in what he hoped would be a personal conversation. But he couldn’t lurk in these corridors forever. Maybe he could wait in the men’s room?
He was considering that humbling option when he leaned forward and saw Penrose enter his office from the same corridor Alicia had used, then slam shut the door.
For a few seconds, Milo remained in place. No one was near him. The party continued a few offices away. Cautiously he inched forward. When he reached Penrose’s door he saw that the office to its left was empty and dark. Its owner—R. Messina, judging from the nameplate just right of the doorjamb—was apparently gone for the day.
Milo gave another quick look around. Still all clear. On impulse he slipped inside the empty office, half closed the door, and stood in the shadows with his back against the wall adjacent to Penrose’s office. Some instinct told him that Alicia and Penrose were about to discuss the Gaines case. The journalist in him was curious to know what they would say, and he soon realized he would be able to—for the voices next door were being piped loud and clear through the offices’ shared heating duct. He stilled and listened.
“Why should I care if she called you?” Alicia’s voice, indignant. “Is that what you’ve been upset about?”
Penrose. “You should have warned me you were going to interview Courtney Holt a second time.”
“Why? So you could have forbidden me to do it? Or come along and fawned all over her the whole time?”
“It is highly questionable whether a second interview was even necessary. You’re constantly telling me how busy you are.” Penrose slammed something. “Maybe you’d clear off your desk faster if you didn’t traipse off to Santa Cruz redoing what the police have already done.”
To Catch the Moon Page 18