Guilt

by John Lescroart

  Ross did the math and nodded. 'That's about right.'

  'Would that be about one ball every thirty seconds?'

  'About, yes.'

  Farrell glanced over at the jury, including them. 'Perhaps some members of the jury aren't familiar with how things work at a driving range. Would you please describe in detail your actions to hit each golf ball?'

  This seemed to strike Ross as mildly amusing, but he remained cooperative and friendly. 'I lean over, pick a ball out of the bucket, then either put it on a tee – they have a built-up rubber tee you can use – or lay it on the mat. Then I line up my shot, check my position, take a breath, relax, swing.'

  Farrell seemed happy with this. 'And then you do this again, is that right? Do you do this every time you hit a ball?'

  'Pretty close, I'd say. Yeah.'

  'And would you say hitting a golf ball is a fairly intense activity? Does it take a lot of concentration?'

  Ross laughed. 'It's like nothing else.'

  'You're saying it is intense, then, aren't you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Would you say you get yourself into almost a trance-like state?'

  'Objection. The witness is not an expert in trances, your honor.'

  Jenkins was sustained, but Farrell was doing a good job drawing the picture. If Ross had hit a ball every thirty seconds, going through his routine on each ball, and he was concentrating deeply on every swing… 'Is it possible, Mr Ross, that someone could have been hitting balls a couple of mats away and, concentrating as you were, you might not have noticed?'

  'No. It's not like you're not aware of what's around you.'

  'It's not? Then you recall how many other people were at the driving range that night, don't you?'

  Ross shrugged, discomfort beginning to show. 'It was a quiet night. Tuesday. Fewer than average.'

  'Were there twenty people there?

  'I don't know exactly. Something like that.'

  'Were they all men?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Could you give us a rough breakdown as to the races of the people hitting golf balls? Blacks, whites, Hispanics?'

  'No.'

  'Was there someone on the other side of you? Behind you, back toward the office?'

  'A couple of mats over, yes.'

  'Was this person a man or a woman.'

  'A man, I think.'

  'You think. How tall was he?'

  Ross was shaking his head. 'Come on, give me a break, I don't know.'

  Farrell came closer to him. 'I can't give you a break, Mr Ross. Hitting one golf ball every thirty seconds, is it your testimony that you are positive, without a doubt, that for the entire time you hit your large bucket of golf balls there was no one on the last mat at the end?'

  Ross didn't crack. He knew what he knew. 'That's right.'

  Farrell went and got a drink of water, giving himself time to think of his next line of questioning. By the time he was back at the witness box, he had it. With the bonus of a chance to put in a dig at Jenkins.

  'Mr Ross, since we have just this morning learned that you would be a witness in this trial, you have not spoken to anyone from the defense before, have you?'

  'No.'

  'Have you spoken before to anyone from the prosecution or the police?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you give a sworn statement to them about the testimony you're giving today that they asked you to sign?'

  'No.'

  This was about as far as Farrell could go in attacking Ross's credibility. He had to go fishing again. 'What do you study at college, Mr Ross?'

  A welcome change for Ross. He brightened right up. 'I'm a Criminal Justice major.'

  This surprised Farrell, but it didn't make him unhappy. Glitsky could almost see the bells ringing inside his head. 'Indeed. By any chance do you plan to pursue a career in law enforcement?'

  'Yes, I do. I'd like to go to the San Francisco Police Academy.'

  A pause, Farrell formulating it. 'Have you been following this case in the newspapers, Mr Ross? On television?'

  'Sure.'

  'You know, then, don't you, that your testimony is helpful to the prosecution here?'

  'Yes.'

  This was the best Farrell was going to do. He decided to quit while he was ahead. 'Thank you. No further questions.'

  CHAPTER FOURTY THREE

  Diane Price was less nervous than Sam Duncan, which was why she was driving. In the six months since she'd first come to Sam with her story, her life had changed.

  At first, Diane had been opposed to any public admission of what had happened between her and Mark Dooher – it had been her own personal tragedy, tawdry and shameful. She'd testify at the trial if she got the chance, but until then she'd keep a low profile, live her normal life with her husband and kids.

  She did not factor in the insatiable maw of the media, the hot-button buzz of her story, the fact that she was attractive, articulate and intelligent. Sam Duncan asked her permission to go to then-Sergeant Abe Glitsky and tell him about the rape – surely it was relevant to the murder charge Dooher was facing? He'd agreed and called in Amanda Jenkins, and within two weeks Diane had been identified and the notoriety had begun.

  The story in the Chronicle had been followed by an interview in People. Mother Jones put her on the cover and devoted half of their September issue to 'Life After Rape'. Diane had been contacted by a movie producer and signed an option agreement on her life story. She'd been invited to speak at least a dozen times, at first to small groups around San Francisco, but later to larger gatherings – a NOW convention in Atlanta, a Gender Issues Conference in Chicago, a Sexual Harassment seminar in Phoenix.

  And it was ironic, she thought, that all of this public discourse had been what had finally healed her private heart. Her husband, Don, stood by her through the fifteen minutes of her fame, and when the first flush had died down, they were left with their home and their family. And the bitterness that she'd carried all the years, that had finally prodded her to go to Sam Duncan's Rape Crisis Center in the first place, had been replaced by a calm sense of empowerment.

  She didn't need to talk about it anymore. She'd learned from the experience, albeit the hard, slow way, but she'd come to the belief that this was the only way people really benefited from pain or loss or hardship anyway – first by acknowledging it and then, over time, to see how it had changed you and fit those changes into how you lived.

  She became a regular volunteer at the Rape Crisis Counselling Center, working alongside Sam Duncan, helping other women, perhaps keeping them from going where she'd been. It was fulfilling, immediate, therapeutic.

  So today, what she thought would be her one last public appearance didn't worry her. Amanda Jenkins had called her early in the week and said she expected that Wes Farrell would begin calling his own character witnesses on Thursday or Friday and she would then be free to call Diane. Was she ready?

  And then, last night – Thursday – Amanda had said she ought to come down to the Hall of Justice by noon. The prosecution would probably be calling her to testify about Mark Dooher's character in the early afternoon.

  As it transpired, of course, Farrell had decided not to use his character witnesses, but there was no way for Amanda Jenkins to have gotten that word out to Diane Price before she left to come down. By the time the attorneys had come back to the courtroom from their extended meeting about Michael Ross in Thomasino's chambers, Sam and Diane were on their way.

  So she pulled into the All-Day Lot – $5.00/No In & Out – and the two women sat for a moment in the car. A fierce, cold and blustery wind whipped trash up the lane of the parking lot – a milk carton bounced along and out of their sight like a tumbleweed.

  'You ready to go out into this?' Sam asked her. She had her hand on the doorhandle, but didn't look as though she was prepared just yet. Huddled into an oversized down jacket, Sam looked tiny and vulnerable.

  'I think the real storm's going to be inside,' Diane said. 'Are yo
u all right?'

  'Sure,' Sam said, too quickly.

  'You're nervous.'

  A nod.

  'Don't worry. I won't blow this. I say what happened and they try to shake my story, which they won't be able to do, and then we leave and this whole thing is behind us, and they put that bastard in jail where he belongs.' She looked over at Sam, still inside herself. 'That's not it, is it?'

  Sam shook her head.

  'Wes Farrell?' Diane had learned all about Sam and Wes.

  Another nod. 'I'm going to hate him after he questions you. I know I am. That's all. And I don't want to.' She blew out a quick breath. 'It's just the end of something. The final end.'

  'I'll be gentle with him,' Diane said, then patted the other woman's leg. 'Let's go, okay?'

  They crossed Bryant, leaning into the wind, and came to the steps of the Hall, where Sam held open one of the huge glass double doors and they entered into the cavernous, open lobby.

  Or not directly. First, a makeshift plywood wall funnelled visitors toward a doorframe, to the side of which sat a desk manned by two uniformed policemen. A couple of reporters had stationed themselves outside the courtrooms to be ready for just such arrivals, and they attached themselves to the two women, asking the usual inane questions as they fell into the desultory queue for the security check.

  Diane was wearing designer jeans, a couple of layers of sweaters and a heavy raincoat, a large leather carry-bag slung over her shoulder. Moving forward with the line of people entering the Hall, trying to respond politely to the reporters and stay close to Sam, it didn't register to Diane that the doorframe was the building's metal detector until she was walking through it, setting off the beeper.

  'Oh shit,' she said, as the policemen stopped them, took the carry-all from her and put it on the desk and told her to step back through the entrance again. 'No, wait.' Reaching for the carry-all, trying to take it back from him. 'We'll just go back and put this in the car. I'll just-'

  But it was too late. The policeman, alerted by the weight of it, had already pulled it open and was reaching inside. 'Everybody else! Hold it! Step back!'

  'What?' Sam asked.

  'You!' The cop had Diane by the arm and was moving her away to the side. 'Get over there, put your hands against that wall. Do it! Now!' Then, to his partner, gesturing to the line forming behind the doorframe. 'Keep them back. Get on the phone and get a female officer down here.'

  'What is this?' Sam demanded. 'What's going on?'

  Diane started to turn around. 'I know-'

  But the officer yelled at her again. 'Against that wall! Don't you move!' Then he lifted his hand out of the oversized purse.

  He was holding a small, chrome-plated handgun.

  At about the same moment, back in their office across the street, the mood had shifted from relief at getting a piece of Michael Ross to fury at Wes Farrell's decision to abandon his character witnesses.

  Dooher was fuming. 'What do you mean, you're resting? We've got to call Jim Flaherty.'

  Farrell was calmly shaking his head. 'We're not calling Flaherty. We're not doing character.'

  'We have to do character, Wes. Character wins it for us.'

  'We've already won it. We don't need it.' Farrell was giving it a more confident spin than he felt after the nearly disastrous testimony of Michael Ross, which in spite of his cross remained a serious evidentiary chip for the prosecution.

  Wes wasn't going to tell Mark that the Archbishop had withdrawn as a witness unless he absolutely had to. The momentum had shifted, and Farrell's last and best hope was that he could save what he'd already accomplished. He still had a good chance to get Mark an acquittal. But he was holding all this close.

  Christina was standing by the doorway. 'I thought you could never get enough. You've said that a hundred times. And now we've just had a hit from this Ross character -I think we do need more, Wes.'

  'Well, I want to thank you both for your input, but unless you're going to fire me, Mark, this is my trial, and I'm done. We've won it. I've got a closing argument that's irrefutable. Christina, I'm sorry you don't get to cross-examine Diane Price. I'm sorry we didn't use you, and I believe you would take her apart, but I don't want any hint of bad character about Mark, not now. Even if we can refute. It's not worth the risk when we're so far up. You both have got to trust me here. I've done a pretty fair job so far. I promise you it's going to work.'

  But Dooher wasn't ready to give it up. 'How long have you known this, that you weren't going to call Flaherty?'

  'Frankly, Mark, I don't know. There was always that possibility, right from the beginning. I wanted to keep the door open as long as I could in case I needed him, but now it's my judgment that I don't. We don't.'

  Christina spoke up again. 'I'd like to know where they got Michael Ross. What was that about? How could he have been where he said he was?'

  'He wasn't,' Dooher said flatly. 'They made him up. Glitsky and Jenkins invented him.'

  Christina believed it, Farrell could tell. But it was more than any one witness or decision at this point – Wes knew that Christina had bought the package with Mark.

  If the facts didn't fit, then the facts must be wrong.

  As a defense lawyer, she was inexperienced; as a person, she was naive. And she made the novice's mistake. She confused Not Guilty – a legal concept that meant the prosecution had failed to establish guilt, with Innocent, a fact of behavior.

  But this was not the moment for these niceties. Farrell forced a relaxed tone. 'How Ross got to testify is a long and tedious story about attorney duplicity that I'd be happy to recount for you at our victory celebration. But meanwhile, I'd like to put this thing to bed before Jenkins pulls any more quasi-legal shenanigans out of her bag of tricks – ones that might hurt us.'

  One last shot from the defendant. 'You're sure we got it, Wes? This is my life here.'

  He forced himself to meet Dooher's eyes. 'I have no doubts.'

  By the lunch recess, news of the arrest of Diane Price for carrying a concealed weapon had spread through the Hall, along with the myriad theories attendant upon any event of this nature: she had been planning to assassinate Dooher; she was going to kill herself as a last, desperate cry for help; or maim herself as a publicity stunt.

  Diane's plea was that the whole thing was simply a mistake. She'd carried a gun for protection for years and years, since a few months after the rape. It was registered, even, though she had no license to carry it concealed on her person. She'd had no violent agenda. She simply hadn't realized that there was a metal detector at the entrance to the Hall of Justice.

  This explanation was, of course, dismissed by every law-enforcement professional in the building, and Diane was taken upstairs – Sam Duncan abandoned, scuffling to locate the Crisis Center's attorney. Diane spent three hours in custody before being cited and released on the misdemeanor.

  Every person in the courtroom – the gallery as well as the principals – was aware of the drama that had occurred outside during the lunch recess.

  With this as a backdrop, Amanda Jenkins stepped up and presented her closing argument. The facts, she said, spoke for themselves, and allowed for no other interpretation than that Mark Dooher had murdered his wife on the evening of June 7th. The defendant had not been at the driving range when he said he was. They had a witness who'd positively identified his car near his house when the murder had been committed, another witness who'd been twenty feet from where Dooher was supposed to have been, and had never seen him.

  Why hadn't he seen him? Because Dooher hadn't been there, ladies and gentlemen. He'd been home stabbing his wife, faking a burglary. The prosecution had shown the linear connection between the blood taken from Dr Harris's office on the same day that Dooher had been there – indeed, within minutes of when the defendant had been in the same examining room. And then later this same blood, not even close to the most common type of blood, and tainted with EDTA, had been splashed on Sheila Dooher's bed and body. N
o one else but Mark Dooher could have done this. The jury must return, Jenkins concluded, with a verdict of murder in the first degree.

  Farrell stood as though lost in thought, scanning the yellow pages of his legal pad, on the table in front of him, for a last second before pushing back his chair and finally positioning himself in front of the jury box.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, then took another step forward and lowered his voice. This was now simply a talk with these jurors, whom he'd come to know. Intimate and familiar. 'I remember that back in school, when I was first being taught how to write an essay, I had a teacher – Mrs Wilkins – and she said if we only remembered three things about essays, we'd get an A in her class.

  'First,' he held up a finger, 'first you write what you are going to say. Next you say it. Then, number three, you summarize what you just said.' He broke a smile, homespun and sincere. 'I'm a bit of a slow learner, but I got an A in that course. And ever since, I've been comfortable with that essay formula. Which is why it's lucky I'm a lawyer, I suppose, because that's a little bit what a trial is supposed to be like.

  'We've been here over the last couple of weeks listening to the evidence in this case, trying to see if we can resolve one question, and resolve it beyond a reasonable doubt: Does the evidence show that Mark Dooher, the defendant over there' – he turned and pointed – 'that Mark Dooher killed his wife?'

  Back to the jury, his voice now harsher in tone, though still at only the volume of whisper. 'I'm going to let you in on something, ladies and gentlemen. It does not. Not even close. Let's look for a last time at what the prosecution has given you to consider, what they say they have proven.' He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Glitsky and Jenkins.

  'A motive? Certainly, a man who apparently has been happily married for over twenty-five years to the same woman would need some overwhelming and immediate reason to decide to kill his wife in cold blood. The prosecution's theory is that Mark Dooher did it for the insurance money. Now, forget for the moment the fact that Mr Dooher is a well-paid attorney, that he owns a house worth a million dollars, and that his retirement is secure. Forget all that and focus on this question: Where's the proof of this motive theory? Did the prosecution present any witnesses supporting any part of it? They did not. No proof. No witnesses. A bald assertion with no basis in fact.'