Motion to Dismiss (A Kali O'Brien Legal Mystery)

by Jacobs, Jonnie

  I shook my head again. “Ms. Nichols was involved in a case I was working on.”

  The explanation was broad enough to cover a multitude of sins, and I’m sure she knew that, but she didn’t ask me to elaborate.

  “I don’t imagine they’ll want people tromping around the property for a day or two. Things like this take time. With it being outdoors and all, well, it’s harder to make sure you’ve looked at everything you need to. That’s why I came back here today, to check something for my report.”

  I peered around the side of the house and into the ravine in back. It was a sheer drop from the street-level deck to the ground. “Does anyone know yet how it happened?”

  “Looks like she came off the deck. There were some abrasions on her legs embedded with wood splinters.” She nodded toward the back of the house. “Like the redwood in the railing.”

  Not likely that she’d end up with scrapes and splinters if she’d jumped or fallen accidentally. I could understand why the police were being cautious.

  “It must have been terrible for the little girl,” I said. “I heard that she was here when it happened.”

  “I don’t know how much she actually saw. I’ve been on cases where kids have witnessed some really awful stuff. Sometimes there’s no one there to help them deal with it. Those cases break my heart.”

  I nodded. I’d been fourteen when I lost my own mother. Not a child, certainly, but it left an emptiness inside of me. A void that has never been filled.

  “At least here the child has family,” the officer said. “An aunt she’s close to. That’s who she called after she called 911.”

  It was a small consolation, but better than nothing. “Were you one of the officers who responded to the call?”

  “Right. I got here a few minutes before the paramedics. But as soon as I saw the body, I knew she wouldn’t be needing them.” The cop paused. “It was almost surreal, like something out of those art movies. That head of coppery curls, the white of her nightgown, the spring grass such a lush green. There were even daffodils nearby.”

  “Nightgown?” I asked.

  “Not the kind you sleep in. At least, not the kind I sleep in. It was one of those filmy ankle-length things. Maybe it’s more like a robe than a nightgown.” The officer’s radio crackled just then and she stepped away to listen.

  I wandered down the road a bit to eyeball the house from a different perspective. From where I stood, I could see most of the deck. It wasn’t large, but it was wide enough to accommodate a chaise, barbecue, and a small table. It appeared also to be relatively private. There were no houses directly below that I could see, and the places to either side were angled in the opposite direction.

  You seem like a real person, Deirdre had said to me that day in the rest room. Like someone who has feelings.

  We’d been adversaries in the strict sense of the word, but that didn’t stop me from liking her. I looked again at the precipitous drop off the deck to the ground and felt a wash of sadness at her death.

  I was headed back up the road, when a man, laden with plastic grocery bags, emerged from a parked car. As he reached his front steps, one of the bags ripped, sending canned goods cascading down the hill. I crossed over to help.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problem. I dropped a bag of oranges once and they rolled forever, probably all the way to the bay. I was able to salvage only about half of them.”

  He laughed. “Been there myself. Some days you wonder why you bother to get out of bed.” He stopped. “ ‘Course, compared to that poor woman up the road, I’ve got nothing to complain about. You heard what happened, didn’t you?”

  He’d obviously mistaken me for a neighbor, and I didn’t bother to correct him. “Yeah, they said she fell from the back deck.”

  “From the looks of all the activity down there, I’d say they think there might be more to it than that.” He nodded in the direction of his own house. “I was awake most of the night surfing the Net. Was probably sitting there at my desk when she went over. I keep thinking that maybe if I’d looked up, I’d have been able to help.”

  “You can see the back of her house from yours?”

  “If I look. The road loops back on itself between here and her place.”

  But he apparently hadn’t been looking. “How about sounds? Did you hear anything unusual that night?”

  He shook his head. “I thought about that, too. I keep the windows closed whenever there are people hanging out down in the canyon. The sound floats right up. Seems amplified almost. And I’m sensitive to noise.”

  I stuffed the last of the runaway cans into a bag. “Did you know her?”

  Another shake of his head. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen her, to tell the truth. How about you?”

  “To say hello to. Nothing more.”

  “Only reason I even knew the Carsons were away and had someone staying in the house is because my son is their paperboy. You know the Carsons at all?”

  I equivocated. “Not really.”

  “Funny couple. Didn’t have a stick of furniture when they moved in. I thought they might have been burned out of their previous place, but my son says they just move around a lot.”

  After the ‘ninety-one firestorm in the Oakland hills, there’d been a lot of people moving into new homes with literally nothing. It wasn’t surprising the image stuck in our minds.

  “I don’t think I’ve said more than five words to them in the whole year they’ve been here. Every time I try to be friendly, they act kind of huffy and walk off.” He hoisted the newly packed bags with both arms. “Well, I’d better get this all put away before the ice cream melts. Thanks again for the help.”

  As I drove back by the Carsons’ house, I slowed, wondering where Adrianna had been standing when she saw the silver convertible in the driveway. And why Deirdre would have been dressed in a nightgown if there’d been someone else there. I’d spoken the truth when I told Grady I wanted nothing to do with this, yet I found myself, almost against my will, thinking how I would argue the evidence in court.

  Chapter 13

  “Jesus, can you believe this?” Marc sat forward on the edge of the couch, glaring at the television screen. He’d returned from New York several hours earlier, and we were at his place, watching the evening news. “The police haven’t even listed it as a homicide, and already the press is primed to convict Grady.”

  I grabbed the remote from his marble-topped coffee table and kicked up the volume. A young Chicana reporter was recapping the highlights of the “Deirdre Nichols Investigation”—a term that had become almost a household word in the three days since her death. The newscaster spoke in clipped tones, touching on the alleged rape, Deirdre’s fall from the deck under suspicious circumstances, and the continued questioning of Grady Barrett by police.

  As she spoke, the camera cut away to footage of Grady and myself leaving the police station where we’d gone for further questioning that afternoon. We both looked haggard.

  In conclusion she noted, “Mr. Barrett, speaking through his attorney, declined to comment.”

  “What the hell,” Marc growled. “They make ‘no comment’ sound like an admission of guilt.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not good. Makes it sound like Grady’s got something to hide.” He turned to look at me. “Couldn’t you have said something about your client’s innocence? The media attention is inevitable. We might as well use it to our advantage.”

  “I wanted to get Grady out of there before he took a swing at somebody.”

  Although our forty minutes with the police had gone more smoothly than I’d expected, they’d made it clear they were scrutinizing Grady closely. Deirdre, it turned out, had made a call to Grady’s office late on the afternoon she was killed. The police wanted to know why. When Grady claimed he’d never received the call, they scoffed, then pressed him again about the silver convertible, and the fact the little girl had seen a m
an near the side of the house.

  For the first time, they’d also brought up the handkerchief they’d found in the house where Deirdre Nichols had been killed. A handkerchief monogrammed with Grady Barrett’s initials.

  They were no doubt hoping that Grady would crumble, or accidentally drop some incriminating bit of information. He’d done neither, but I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that the case against Grady Barrett was building with the momentum of an oncoming train.

  And it wasn’t only the police. Reporters had been hounding Grady, and my own phones—both at work and at home—had been ringing off the hook. Nina was close to falling apart at the seams. I was glad Marc was back in town, even if his agitation did little to quell my own.

  He turned his attention back to the television and groaned. “This is terrific,” he said sarcastically with a nod toward the new face on the screen. “How low will they stoop to get a story?”

  I kicked him in the foot. “Shhh. I want to hear.”

  A gangling woman, identified by the reporter as Deirdre’s sister, Sheila Barlow, was looking earnestly into the camera. I recognized her as the same woman I’d seen in court during the hearing on the rape charge. Like Deirdre, her coloring was fair, but there was little family resemblance beyond that. She looked to be a few years older, but that might have been attributable to her unbecomingly permed hair and whippet-thin stature.

  “The police know my sister’s death wasn’t an accident.” Sheila Barlow spoke softly, but with vehemence. “They know it was murder, and they know who did it.”

  The reporter, endeavoring to sound spontaneous, asked, “Can you tell us who that person is?”

  “Absolutely.” Sheila Barlow looked straight at the camera. “My sister’s death came as a result of the rape charge she filed against computer tycoon Grady Barrett. He killed Deirdre to prevent her from testifying against him. I hope to God they’re able to put together a tight enough case that he doesn’t get away with it.”

  The camera panned to include the reporter. She tipped the microphone toward herself and said, “According to the police, there was no sign of forced entry. Would your sister have freely admitted the man she’d accused of raping her?”

  “Finally,” Marc grunted, “the woman uses her brain.”

  Sheila Barlow nodded her head in response to the reporter’s question. “Deirdre wasn’t mean-spirited at all. She was open and trusting. She never wanted to hurt anyone, even him. Ultimately, that was her downfall.”

  Sheila paused, then continued in a determined tone. “Grady Barrett got away with rape. The question now is whether he will get away with murder, as well.”

  As the segment ended, the camera cut to a panoramic view of the Barrett home. With its stone construction, slate roof, and circular drive cutting through the broad expanse of lawn, the place looked like a French chateau.

  In a voice-over the reporter concluded, “Grady Barrett has been questioned repeatedly by police, but to date has not been charged in the death of Deirdre Nichols.”

  Marc punched the seat cushion in disgust. “Story over truth. Anything to draw viewers. Don’t these people have any integrity at all?”

  “You’d rather do away with an independent press and rely on ‘official’ news broadcasts instead?”

  “What I’d like is a news report that sticks to the facts.”

  “Your version of the facts, you mean.”

  He smiled and let go of some of the anger. “You have to admit this coverage was pretty lame.”

  I nodded. But I worried that it might also be more accurate than Marc wanted to admit.

  Marc stood and flipped off the television. “You want another drink?”

  He’d called me from the airport that afternoon to suggest that I pick up pizza and meet him at his place, where we could talk uninterrupted. As it turned out, I’d done most of the talking while Marc rolled his eyes, muttered about shoddy police work, and grew increasingly irritated. Two tumblers of scotch hadn’t done much to relax him.

  I’d had only one, but I was feeling the effects. “Make it weak,” I said.

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I have a reputation as a lush?”

  He grinned. “Used to be you managed to keep up anyway.”

  “I’m tired.” I hadn’t realized until just then how tired I was. I stretched out my legs the full length of the sofa and sank back against the soft leather seat cushion. “I’ve got to drive home, don’t forget.”

  “You could stay here,” Marc said from the kitchen. I couldn’t tell by his tone whether this was an innocuous offhand comment or whether he meant something more by it. I passed it off by laughing.

  Marc handed me my drink. “That wasn’t a joke. You can even have the bed.”

  “How gallant.”

  “Only thing you have to decide is whether you’d rather sleep in it alone, or with me.” His smile was disarming.

  “I love the way men are so modest and unassuming.”

  He moved my feet aside so he could sit down again. “The voice of experience, I take it.”

  My response was noncommittal. I wasn’t in any mood for witty repartee, and I certainly didn’t want to discuss my romantic history with him.

  “I’m not sure I’m up to this,” I said after a moment’s silence. Then, thinking he might misunderstand, I hastened to add, “I mean if Grady is arrested.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone. We’ll both be involved.”

  I nodded. This was one of the things we’d discussed over dinner. Officially, I’d be lead counsel. But Marc would assist, devoting as much time and effort to the case as it took. That was what Grady wanted. Nina too. And there was a part of me eager for the challenge. But I still had misgivings.

  “Besides,” Marc added, “if they had an airtight case, they’d have done something by now.”

  I pulled myself to sitting position. “It’s not the prosecution’s case that bothers me. It’s that I feel manipulated. And I don’t trust Grady.”

  “You don’t honestly think he killed that woman, do you?”

  That woman. I hugged my knees and looked at him. Maybe it was men in general I didn’t entirely trust.

  “I know Grady seems brash and a little self-centered at times,” Marc said. “But he’s a good man.”

  “Maybe so. I don’t think he’s been completely honest with us about Deirdre Nichols though.”

  Marc brushed at his temples with his fingers. “He didn’t kill her. At the moment, that’s all we need to focus on.”

  If only it were that easy.

  He pulled my feet into his lap and massaged the soles, a gesture that was familiar from our time together during law school. “Hopefully, the cops will turn their attention elsewhere fairly soon, and we can put this whole episode behind us.”

  With a murmur of agreement I leaned back again against the arm of the sofa and closed my eyes. Scotch and exhaustion had made my head light. The warmth of Marc’s fingers sent a tingle down my spine.

  Marc’s hands moved to my calves, tracing an invisible pattern on my skin. I could feel relaxation spread to my entire body. “You never did say no,” he reminded me softly.

  “About what?”

  “About spending the night.”

  Marc had hurt me once. I knew I didn’t want to go through that again. I shook my head and answered, “No.” The response didn’t have the weight I’d intended.

  “I missed you when I was away,” he said.

  I had no doubt that he was handing me a line as bogus as the news coverage we’d watched earlier. But it got to me all the same. Too many nights alone nursing a broken heart, I guess.

  Marc leaned over and kissed me. Not a light kiss, but not a demanding one either. My resistance melted a little more. It would have been so easy to stay. Easy, and no doubt nice.

  I was still weighing my options, when Marc surprised me by sitting back with a shrug.

  “Okay,” he said. “But don’t let
it go to your head that I tried.”

  You didn’t try very hard, I thought to myself, surprised to find that I was disappointed.

  <><><>

  Despite feeling exhausted, I didn’t sleep well once I made it home. I was too unsettled by thoughts of Marc. Was he toying with me? His betrayal of our relationship during law school had left me hurt and humiliated. I’d gone into a tailspin of lost self-confidence that I’d been a long time pulling out of. I was determined not to let it happen again. Why, then, had I felt myself being pulled along, wishing that he’d been just a little more insistent that I spend the night?

  It was after four when I finally drifted off. I slept through my alarm the next morning and got to work later than I’d intended. Marc was already at the office when I arrived.

  “We’ve been inundated with calls from the media,” he said.

  “I hope you stuck with the ‘no comment’ response.”

  “More or less.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “One of the calls was from that kid with the camera last week.”

  I leaned against Marc’s file cabinet. “Byron Spencer? The one you were going to apologize to?”

  “I did apologize. Wrote a nice note that Miss Manners would have approved of. Sent him a check to cover his film, and then some.”

  Trying to buy him off, more like it. But maybe I wasn’t giving Marc the credit he deserved. “You talked to him?”

  “Briefly. I didn’t think our standard brushoff would sit well with him.”

  “How did he take the apology?”

  Marc gave me a crooked smile. “Better than I deserved.”

  The phone rang and we waited for Rose to pick it up.

  Marc kept his eye on the flashing light. “I finally told her not to put anyone through until she checked with us first.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “What we really need is to hold a press conference of some sort. Or at least issue a written release.”

  “Saying what?”

  “That Grady didn’t do it,” he said, exasperated. “Let him explain why he’s innocent.”