Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  “Would you say, Mr. Fowler, that you are an avid camper?”

  The judge smiled. “No, not particularly.”

  “How many times, roughly, have you been camping in, say, the past year?”

  “Just the once, I’m sure of that.”

  “How about in the past couple of years?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I’ve only gone that once in the last few years. I’m a pretty busy man. Or have been . . .”

  “And yet last June, out of the blue, you suddenly decided to take a weekend off and go backpacking in the high Sierras?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you mind telling us where you ate on Friday night? Friday night was the night you left town, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. It was one of those spots up Highway Fifty above Placerville. I don’t remember the exact name.”

  “Do you recall what town it was near?”

  Fowler shook his head. “No, I’m really not too familiar with the area.”

  “Do you remember what you ate?”

  His frown grew pronounced. “I believe I ate a steak.” He tried some levity. “But since I’m under oath I won’t swear to it.”

  She kept at it. Was it dark when he had finished dinner? Where had he spent the night exactly? When did he hit the trailhead? What was his destination? How had he found it? What did he bring with him to eat on Saturday night?

  It was getting to him. “You know,” he said, “I didn’t give a great deal of thought to that weekend until after I was charged with this crime. It was simply a weekend away, not one to remember.”

  “Yes,” Pullios said, turning to the jury, “we can see that.”

  She moved along, as Hardy feared she would, to the stipulation about Fowler knowing not only that the gun was on the boat but exactly where it had been kept.

  “And this was after you had broken up, you found this out?”

  “Yes.”

  “When May Shinn wasn’t talking to you to the extent that you had to hire a private investigator to find out why she wouldn’t see you?”

  “Well, she talked to me that once.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “I don’t really know. I called and she happened to answer the phone. Usually it was set to her machine. But she picked up, so we talked.”

  “And just casually talking, she happened to mention that her Beretta was in the desk at the side of Owen Nash’s bed on board the Eloise?”

  “No, it wasn’t quite like that.”

  “Would you tell us, please, what it was quite like?”

  Hardy looked at the clock. She had at least another hour today and she was, to his regret, hammering at the evidence they did have, avoiding for the moment the entire consciousness-of-guilt issue, although he knew that too would come. Also, and perhaps worse, Andy seemed to be losing it a little, beginning to come across peevish.

  “Let’s talk about Mr. Turkel again. You’ve testified that you were curious about why Ms. Shinn was breaking up with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And so you hired Mr. Turkel?”

  Short questions, little tugs on the trousers. But they were doing the job.

  Fowler nodded wearily. “Yes, I hired Mr. Turkel.”

  “How much did he charge you?”

  “I think it was about a hundred and thirty-five dollars a day, plus expenses.”

  Pullios brought in the jury again. “One hundred thirty-five dollars a day. And did you pay for his plane fare out here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And back?”

  She brought out that he had spent over $1,500 to obtain detailed information on Owen Nash and May Shinn. “And now, having spent all this money, what did you intend to do with this information?”

  “Why, nothing. I just wanted to know, as I’ve explained.”

  “You paid fifteen hundred dollars to find out something about which you intended to do nothing?”

  “That’s right.”

  Hardy was nervous. Confidence eroding, his client, now into his third hour on the stand, eyes shifting from Pullios to Hardy to the judge, was coming across, body language and all, like a pathological liar.

  Pullios saw that, of course, and it led her naturally into all the real lies—to his friends, associates, to anyone who would listen.

  And then, finally, the litany of his admitted transgressions designed to show Andy’s consciousness of guilt. How long have you been on the bench? Did you swear a sacred oath never to subvert the judicial process? Have you ever previously recused yourself from a case? Oh? Several times? Were the grounds as strong as they were here? Had he ever even heard of another judge putting up bail for a defendant?

  On and on and on.

  Hardy took a page of notes, then gave up on it. Pullios wasn’t twisting the facts—she was using them very effectively to create a character and a circumstance that made murder not only seem consistent but inevitable.

  At a quarter to five she finished at last and turned Fowler back to Hardy for redirect. He only had one area to which he wanted to return, where he thought he might be able to repair some of the damage.

  “Mr. Fowler, was your conduct regarding the May Shinn matter investigated by the Ethics Committee of the Bar Association of California?”

  “Objection.” Pullios was sounding a little weary.

  Chomorro knew the end was in sight and cut Hardy a little slack. “Overruled.”

  Hardy repeated the question and Fowler, on the stand, nodded. “Yes, it was.”

  “And were you, in fact, disbarred for what Ms. Pullios has been calling your egregious misconduct?”

  Hardy knew that Andy had been reprimanded, but not otherwise disciplined on the Shinn trial issue. And even after Andy was indicted for murder, the Bar Association wasn’t going to disbar—or do anything—to a fellow attorney until he had been convicted.

  “No, I was not.”

  “Are you, in fact, as we sit here now, a member in good standing of the State Bar?”

  “I am.”

  “All right, thank you.”

  63

  Fowler had wanted to talk. Jane wanted to argue. Frannie, he was sure, wanted him to come home. Jeff Elliot had arrived in the gallery and wanted an interview.

  But Celine had been leaving the courtroom and there wasn’t time for any of that. He had stuffed his papers into his briefcase earlier and now, making excuses, pushed his way through the gallery and out into the hallway. She was fifty feet ahead of him as she left the building through the back door by the morgue.

  A cold night had fallen. The air still felt damp from the storm, although it had stopped raining. Hardy jogged to keep close. He too was parked in the back lot and got to his car about when Celine reached hers. He left the lot three cars behind her and followed her uptown across Market to Van Ness, then north to Lombard, always keeping at least one vehicle between them. He had to run only two red lights.

  On Lombard, as she turned west, he ventured closer in the lane next to her. She drove a little over the speed limit but not recklessly. For a moment as they approached the Golden Gate Bridge turnoff, he felt a moment of panic—he was wrong and she was going to Sausalito or somewhere, maybe to visit Ken Farris.

  But she took the turnoff, avoiding the bridge, and swung out through the swaying eucalyptus of the Presidio. He had never been to her house. He didn’t know where she lived. But he was certain she was going home.

  He might have guessed. Her house was less than three blocks from her late father’s palace in the Seacliff section, really not so far from his own house in distance, although light-years away in other respects. Celine’s place, however, was not a palace—it didn’t appear much bigger than Hardy’s.

  She turned into the driveway and he pulled up to the curb across the street and killed his lights.

  This, he knew, was a long shot, but it had come to him last night as the only possibility left to break the evidenc
e deadlock. If Celine still had her key to the Eloise, it would be over. It was the only explanation of the missing gun, how it had come back into the drawer after he had seen it empty on Wednesday night. What he had to do was get it, find it on her, in her possession.

  Ring the bell, knock her down, tie her up and search the house—but he couldn’t do that. He had to wait. She could be flushing it down the toilet, throwing it into the garbage. But he didn’t think she’d do anything like that. She’d want it out of the house, away from the area entirely. If she had it, her nature would make her get rid of it dramatically. He hoped.

  So he waited.

  A light went on in the upstairs window, her shadow moving across it. Even in the cold, he realized his palms were sweating. What was he doing this for? He should have somehow cajoled or forced Abe to come along. But here he was.

  He waited.

  The light went out, then another one downstairs. He heard a door slam, then a car door open and close, and he turned on his own ignition.

  With his lights off, he swung a U-turn and followed her back the way she had come on the El Camino del Mar. But she only drove for about three minutes before pulling into the darkened parking lot at Phelan Beach.

  The night was eerily still after the rain. Eucalyptus leaves scratched and clacked overhead; a foghorn bellowed from far away.

  Hardy had let her get into the trees before he parked by the entrance and started to jog, again, through the light forest.

  She had driven to the front of the lot, turned off her engine, doused her lights. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed spectacularly overhead in the clear night air. The door opened and she got out and, without turning or hesitating, started for the beach.

  A three-quarter moon reflected off the water, casting a light shadow as she walked unhurriedly across the sand. Hardy got to the edge of the beach and pulled off his shoes. She was halfway to the water when he broke into a run toward her.

  She heard. As he closed the distance, she turned.

  “Celine.”

  It was almost as if she had been expecting him. This was no generalized fear—she knew who he was, and seeing him she nodded as if to herself, then whirled with her right hand in the air.

  Hardy lunged for her wrist, caught it and closed his other hand around hers. God, he’d forgotten how strong she was! She pulled against him, kicking at his legs, his groin.

  He held her, never relaxing his grip on her hands, forcing himself to kick back, catching her at the side of the knee, sending her twisting down, falling on top of her.

  Still struggling, she bit into his arm near the shoulder. Spinning around, he forced his weight down on top of her. Her legs came up, trying to knee him, throwing sand over them both, into face and eyes.

  He rolled over onto her hand, holding it clenched tight beneath him, and began to pry at the fingers. With her other hand she reached up, digging her nails into his scalp. He felt the skin tear down into his neck.

  She was getting weaker. The vise grip of her hand slowly opened enough for him to feel what she held there, to grab it and roll away.

  He didn’t know if that would end it so he kept rolling until he got a little distance, maybe six feet, then came to his knees facing her, panting from the exertion. Celine still lay there in her tailored charcoal suit, now torn to rags.

  Gasping for breath, he didn’t take his eyes from her. He looked down at the key in his hand—attached to a little ring and a small block of wood. He knew without being able to see it that the wood would have written on it, either burned or indelibly marked, the word “Eloise.”

  Gradually he became aware of the lapping of the water against the beach. Celine turned onto her side and curled up in a fetal position. Her sobbing ignored him . . . It was totally private, and chilling. A keening for all she had lost, for all she never had.

  Owen Nash grinned into the wind as he brought the boom around. His cigar was out, half-consumed in his mouth. They had been out on the water for two hours and it was going to be all right. He had told Celine he was going to marry May. She would see, she’d eventually accept it. And now she could be free of him and the thing they’d begun so long ago that had bound them in guilt and lust for so long he couldn’t remember when it hadn’t been there.

  They had not talked much yet but he had always been able to control her, and now it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment.

  The door to the cabin opened and she came out, wind whipping that fine wet hair. He had started telling her as they were going through the Gate, together fighting the current and the wind. Afterward—okay, it shook her when she saw he meant it—she said she needed to be alone. Even with the rough seas, she wanted to go below and do some aerobics, let it all settle. Get loose. She had apparently taken a shower, and stood now in the doorway to the cabin wrapped in a Turkish robe.

  Barefoot, she came up another step onto the deck. The robe swung open and he caught a glimpse of the front of her, breasts and belly, her shaved pubis. She did not pull the robe closed, but came toward him unsteadily in the rocking boat, her eyes glazed, he presumed, from the exertion.

  Coming around the wheel, she pressed herself up against him, opening the robe. “Come below, Daddy.”

  He had to fight for his breath, for the control he swore he would have. “Honey, I’ve told you . . .”

  Her hand went down to him, caressing. “I know what you’ve said. I don’t care if you have her, but you’ve got to keep me. You’ve got to keep us.”

  She found him under the green jogging pants, and against his will, he began to respond. As he always did. Suddenly the boat heeled and pushed him up against her, both of them against the wheel. “Come below,” she whispered, holding him.

  But this could not go on—he would never let it happen again—he had promised himself and he had promised May. He had found something real for the first time since his marriage to Eloise. It was his last chance, and his selfish, beautiful daughter was not going to take it from him, as she’d taken Eloise years before, because of his weakness for her flesh.

  Hating himself, and hating her for what they’d both become, he pushed back against her. “No! No!” He shoved her hand. “I said it’s over, Celine! Goddammit, over, leave me alone.”

  She went down on the slippery deck, the robe spilling open around her. And then he saw it in her eyes: the hate he knew had to be there—you didn’t live this way without hate.

  Glazed but dry-eyed, she stared at him as if he were an alien force, then she gathered herself up, wrapped the robe around her and went below without a word.

  He had lost the wind, goddammit. His cigar was gone, too.

  The drizzle increased—visibility was about a hundred yards. He squinted through the mist, checked his compass, making sure he was on a south or southwest heading. He didn’t want to beach her. He listened for the telltale sound of breakers.

  She’d be all right, he thought again. It was the kind of thing that would take some time. He ought to have factored that in instead of just laying it on her. She’d get used to the idea eventually. He was sure.

  She emerged again a couple of minutes later, still in the robe, but more under control now. There—see?—he was right. She’d work it out. You couldn’t expect a woman not to try some histrionics.

  He was surprised to see her wearing her lifting gloves— she must have wanted to work off some of it. He thought it was getting to be time to head the Eloise back in.

  “Daddy.”

  He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t want to hurt her. If she were ready to talk again, he’d talk. Gently. He understood her. He came around the wheel and started walking toward her.

  She took the gun from the pocket of the terry robe and leveled it at him. He stopped, tried to smile, as he might with an errant child, reaching out one hand. “Honey . . .”

  She lowered her aim and fired. He felt a punch, then a pain deep in his groin. His legs went dead and he dropped to his knees, looking up at her with a surprised expre
ssion, at the tiny muzzle of May’s tiny gun. “My God, Celine, you’ve killed your father . . .”

  She shook her head. “Not yet, Daddy.” He saw the muzzle come up and settle on his heart.

  64

  FOWLER DIDN’T DO IT

  Not-Guilty Verdict Returned in Nash Murder Trial

  by Jeffrey Elliot

  Chronicle Staff Writer

  Former Superior Court Judge Andrew B. Fowler yesterday was found not guilty of the murder of financier Owen Nash. The jury deliberated less than two full days in returning the verdict in favor of the former judge, who had been a fixture on the San Francisco bench for over three decades.

  The trial marked a personal victory both for Fowler and for his attorney, Dismas Hardy, an ex-prosecutor for whom this trial marked a defense debut. Hardy insisted that he had never doubted his client’s innocence, that Judge Fowler had himself been a victim of infighting within the city’s judiciary.

  “There was never any physical evidence tying the judge to the crime,” Hardy said. “Of course that doesn’t mean the jury might not have found him guilty. But this verdict is a wonderful vindication of the system.”

  “We weren’t happy from the beginning,” said jury foreman Shane Pollett. “They’d already arrested someone else on pretty much the same evidence. It wasn’t that Fowler hadn’t done some bad things, but nobody proved he’d killed Nash. The prosecution had to prove Fowler killed Nash, and they didn’t do it.”

  This verdict marks the second defeat for the district attorney’s office surrounding the death of Owen Nash. Last summer the office charged Nash’s mistress, May Shinn, with the murder, but subsequently was forced to drop the charge when her alibi was corroborated by two witnesses.

  District Attorney Christopher Locke denied there was any “witch-hunt” of Judge Fowler. “The evidence,” he said, “and we looked at it very closely for several months, strongly implicated the judge. But the jury has spoken. That’s how it works. That’s the end of it.”

  Asked if he was going to pursue another investigation into the death of Owen Nash, Locke said that that was up to the police department. “If they bring us another suspect and new evidence, of course we’ll move on it immediately.” There are, however, no new suspects at this time.