John Lescroart

by The Hearing

  The gallery, seeing what it was, began its buzzing again, and kept it up as Hardy got to the stand. He raised his voice slightly. “Now Sergeant Thieu, do you recognize this gun?”

  Thieu took it, looked at the evidence tag, checked inside and nodded. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Would you please tell the court about it?”

  “This is a Glock .38 automatic that we found in the course of our search of Mr. Visser’s office in the lower left-hand drawer of his desk.”

  Hardy was aware of an increase in the noise behind him, but it abruptly ceased when Pratt’s voice cut through it, objecting. “The murder weapon in this case has already been entered in evidence. What’s the significance of introducing this new gun?”

  Hill looked the question at Hardy, who responded, “Your honor, the provenance of the murder weapon in this case has been a critical issue from the beginning.”

  “But this new gun is not the murder weapon.”

  “No, that’s true. But as your honor will see with my next witness, it bears on it.”

  “All right, I’ll allow it. Go ahead.”

  Hardy took a breath, blew it out in a rush of relief, and had the Glock entered into evidence as Defense J and excused the witness. Pratt chose not to cross-examine.

  Hardy stole a glance back out over the bar rail. The tension in the gallery was, he thought, palpable. Logan and Visser were sitting next to one another in the first row on the prosecution side. There wasn’t a soul in the courtroom who wasn’t aware of their earlier testimonies yesterday and today; Glitsky had whispered to him at the break that he had had them both reminded by the door bailiff as they attempted to leave earlier today that they were still under subpoena. If they needed so much as to go to the bathroom, another bailiff would be happy to accompany them.

  Jonas Walsh sulked in an aisle chair on the prosecution side, three rows from the back and another four behind Muhammed Adek and some of his friends.

  On Hardy’s side, Clarence Jackman and the Three Musketeers sat midway back, along with Treya and Glitsky, Gina Roake, a few other R&J associates. As Logan had left the stand at the beginning of the first recess, Hardy had seen that he obviously recognized Amy Wu from last night. He had charged back with a clear notion at least to verbally abuse her until Jackman stood up, intimidating and unmoving, and blocked his way. Similarly, before court had been called into session, Torrey had all but attacked Jeff Elliot for his Examiner article as his wife Dorothy, who’d finally relented about supporting her brother, had wheeled him up the aisle. Now a phalanx of Jeff’s fellow reporters surrounded both of them—a deal of the background white noise originated in this area. And finally, up close, front row center, sat Cole’s mother, who’d been in the same seat every day, who’d kept her son’s spirits alive with her jail visits and her unfailing hope.

  Now Hardy looked down at his client, gave him a small confident nod and called his next witness. “The defense calls Officer Gary Bellew.”

  Like Thieu, Bellew was a policeman, but the similarity between the gung-ho, brilliant Vietnamese homicide inspector and the young, surly custodian of the gun room of the evidence locker ended there. Bellew’s uniform hadn’t been cleaned or pressed in days and he needed a haircut, but then before this morning, he had had no warning that he would be appearing as a witness. More instructive was Bellew’s obvious resentment at his presence in court today. He seemed to project a defensive attitude, that somehow whatever he was made to disclose would turn out to be his fault. And, Hardy knew, in this he wasn’t all wrong.

  “Officer Bellew, can you tell the court your assignment at the present time?” Hardy kept the questions simple, nonthreatening. One following the other, falling like dominoes. “Is this assignment a rotating one?” “How long have you been in charge of the gun room down there?” “And what is its basic function?” “Who’s allowed down there?” “Is all evidence assigned to a specific case?” “Are there other guns kept there?” “How does that work?”

  Hardy got Bellew talking until the overt resentment began to settle out. Now the young officer was sitting back, answering matter-of-factly. “How does what work? Oh, the other guns? Usually some uniform comes in with a piece . . . a gun . . . that he picked up off the street, you know. If it’s not registered, he keeps it and brings it on down, no case assigned, so it’s not evidence really. It’s just a gun nobody should have.”

  “So what happens then?”

  “Then we log the registration number into this big book and throw the gun in a box.”

  “You throw the gun in a box?”

  “Yeah. We call it the piece box.”

  “The piece box. I see. How many guns are typically in this piece box?”

  “I don’t know for sure. When it’s full, maybe a hundred, something like that.”

  “A hundred guns. And this box is just sitting out where anyone can see it, or get their hands on the guns?”

  “Yeah, well, yeah.” Bellew sensed a criticism, but couldn’t draw a bead on it precisely. “But it’s not like anybody can get in there in the first place. You’ve got to sign in and then somebody’s with you every minute.”

  “So a person couldn’t come in, for example, and sneak an unregistered gun out in their pocket?”

  “No.” Shaking his head. “No way.”

  “You’d say that it would be difficult?”

  “Impossible.”

  “All right, then. Now these guns. What happens to them eventually, after they’ve sat in this piece box for however long?”

  “It’s usually a month, maybe a little more. Then they come and empty the box, we put the serial numbers into the computer, and crush the guns and melt ’em down. Then we start over.”

  Hardy had established a nice rhythm, and kept it casual as he strolled back to Freeman and Cole, lifted the ancient heavy book from the cardboard box and brought it to the stand. “Officer Bellew, at my request this morning, did you bring some documents with you to the courtroom?”

  “Sure. First, that’s the log-in book I was talking about.”

  Hardy wanted to get it completely straight. “The log-in book for firearms that are turned in by the police department and wind up in the piece box in the guarded evidence lockup downstairs here in the Hall of Justice, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And these entries are handwritten when the gun gets turned in, do I have that right?”

  Bellew turned a few more pages, closed it back up. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  “Excellent,” Hardy enthused. He had the book entered into evidence as Defense I and, still at the evidence table in front of the bench, he found an entry in the log and pointed to it. “What happened to that gun, Officer?”

  Bellew leaned over the entry, then back up to Hardy. “It was entered into the piece book on—”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Hardy interrupted. “I mean what happened to it after that. Eventually.”

  “It was crushed and destroyed.”

  “When?”

  “That would have been the end of last month. January.”

  “January,” Hardy repeated. “Officer Bellew, would you please describe the weapon we’re talking about here and read the serial number to the court?”

  “Sure. It was a Glock .38, serial WGA-15443889.”

  “Thank you.” Picking up the pace. “And just before this gun was crushed, at the end of January, you entered the serial number into the computer, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you, at my request, bring a printout of the computer log of all the guns crushed at the end of January?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “All right, then. Would you please find then, on the list, the Glock .38?”

  Bellew went down the list. The courtroom hung in a thick silence. It was obvious when he began looking for the second time. His face had begun to flush. “It’s not here.”

  “So this particular Glock .38 was not crushed, is that right?”

/>   Bellew was seeing his career flash before his eyes. “Oh, it was crushed all right. There’s no way this firearm was not crushed.”

  “All right,” Hardy said ambiguously. “Let’s leave that for the moment. Let me ask you this—to your knowledge, has Mr. Visser been in the gun room in the past month?”

  Bellew’s eyes went to the gallery. “Yes.”

  “To your personal knowledge, did he handle any of the guns in the piece box?”

  “Yes, but he put them back.”

  “He didn’t take a gun away with him? That would have been impossible? Is that what you’re saying? Did you personally see him replace every gun that he picked up?”

  “No, but he couldn’t . . .” Bellew stopped speaking.

  Hardy had crossed to the evidence table, and now was back in front of the witness. He had picked up the tiny North American Arms .25 caliber derringer. “I show you now People’s Four, Officer Bellew. This gun has been identified as the murder weapon in this case. Would you be so good as to read the registration number of this gun—under the barrel there—to the court?” Hardy handed it to the officer, who turned the gun over, squinting.

  Hardy moved back toward the evidence table, and Bellew read aloud. “NA-773422-25.”

  “Thank you.” Hardy held out one hand, and Bellew passed him the gun. Hardy then gave him the handwritten log-in book again. “Now, Officer Bellew, would you please read the entry from November fourteenth of last year, line four. The type of gun and its serial number.”

  Bellew got to the page, hesitated, looked up. Hardy nodded. “North American Arms, .25 caliber derringer, serial NA-773422-25.”

  The courtroom had been uncharacteristically silent as Hardy had led Bellew on this path, and now that silence ended with a restrained explosion of sound. And this time, Judge Hill acted to quell it promptly, gaveling the gallery down to a rumbling silence. He also gave a signal to the bailiffs, who moved out through the sides of the gallery to the back door. At long last, here was evidence that was both material and relevant. The Cadaver wanted to see where it was leading.

  And Hardy was ready to show him. “Officer Bellew, while you’ve got that book in your hands, would you please read the second line entry from January twenty-ninth, three weeks ago.”

  Bellew found it and was reading as Hardy walked again back to the evidence table, picked up yet another gun. “Glock .38 caliber automatic, serial number WGA-15443889.”

  Hardy stood in front of the bench holding the Glock in his hand. “Your honor, let the record show that Officer Bellew has read the serial number of the gun marked Defense Exhibit J. This was the weapon retrieved this morning from Eugene Visser’s office.” The gallery was buzzing again.

  Hill startled everyone with a sharp gavel. “Bailiffs!” He called out. “No one is to leave the courtroom!”

  Hardy turned to see Visser on his feet, stopped in his tracks a couple of steps up the center aisle. He turned back toward the bench, looked to Torrey and Pratt, to Hardy. One of the bailiffs from the back door came forward, but hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps when Visser took his seat and began whispering furiously to Dash Logan.

  39

  He didn’t get to whisper long, though, because Hardy called him back to the witness stand, and things got louder in a hurry. Dash Logan stood up next to him and announced that he was representing Mr. Visser and, seeing the way the defense was orchestrating this case, his client was taking the Fifth Amendment. Visser told Logan, loudly enough for everyone to hear, that he should shut up. He wasn’t pleading any Fifth. Nevertheless, Logan accompanied Visser to the stand.

  It was a tricky moment. Leaving aside Logan’s ethics and chemical problems, the man was an experienced trial attorney who would at least be effective in blunting or flanking Hardy’s attack. On the other hand, Hardy thought he might be able to back them both into a corner. He already had the murder weapon in Visser’s hands.

  The clerk reminded Visser that he was still under oath. Did he understand that? He grunted something like an acknowledgment which Hill made him repeat until it was a recognizable “yes.”

  “Mr. Visser,” Hardy began. “Can you explain how Defense Exhibit J, the Glock automatic weapon, got into your desk drawer?”

  “I have no idea,” Visser replied coolly. “I assume one of your cop friends planted it there.”

  “Really? You did not remove it yourself from the evidence lockup downstairs?”

  “No.”

  “You never touched the gun?”

  “No. Not once.”

  “So you did not treat the barrel and the grip with Armor All?”

  Finally, a slight reaction. Visser threw a quick glance at Logan, then came back front. “No.”

  Pacing a few steps to one side, Hardy appeared to be deep in thought. “Mr. Visser, you used to be a homicide inspector, did you not?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “So in that capacity, were you familiar with the use of Armor All as an agent to prevent fingerprints from adhering to surfaces such as the metal or grips of a gun?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s everyday.”

  “So you never touched the gun, Defense Exhibit J?”

  “Your honor,” Logan interrupted. “Mr. Visser has already answered this question. He never touched the gun.”

  Hardy spoke up. “I just wanted to give Mr. Visser a chance to consider that answer, your honor. So he’d be absolutely sure.”

  Logan gave Visser an almost imperceptible nod, and the witness answered. “I’m sure.”

  “I wonder, then.” Hardy adopted an exaggerated calm. He was about to take a calculated risk, a pure bluff, but it seemed necessary. The two guys were slick enough not to give anything away. He had to get one of them running, startled into a false first step. “I wonder how you explain the presence of your fingerprints on the bullets in the weapon.”

  Visser swallowed visibly, answering too quickly, grabbing at a police trick he did know. “I’m sure they transferred the print from the tape on the heroin bag. It’s the easiest thing in the world.”

  “Really?” Hardy smiled coldly and kept pushing. “How do they make a thumb turn into an index finger?”

  “I don’t know. They . . .” A flush was creeping up Visser’s face. His panicked eyes flicked again to Logan, who suddenly had nothing to say. “All right, but I . . .”

  “All right?” Hardy almost jumped at him. “All right you took the gun from the evidence locker? Is that what you’re saying now, Mr. Visser?”

  “Big deal,” Visser snapped.

  Finally Logan, a step too late, seemed to realize that Visser had been tricked. “Don’t say any more, Gene.” Then to the judge: “Your honor, my client will refuse to answer.”

  Hardy stepped quickly up to the stand, his voice urgent now. “Mr. Visser, let’s go to the murder weapon in this case. Did you get it the same way?”

  The witness didn’t answer. Hardy followed his desperate stare and turned to see Torrey with his head lowered, looking down at the prosecution table. Logan stood tongue-tied next to him. His allies were all abandoning him. “I never—” he began to blurt out.

  “Gene!” Logan warned him.

  “After you stole it, Mr. Visser, did you treat that weapon with Armor All as well so it wouldn’t hold your prints? Is that your standard practice?”

  Visser’s jaw was working under his jowls. It was far from warm in the courtroom, and yet sweat had broken on his high forehead. “I didn’t take that gun. You can’t prove that I did.”

  “I can’t? I think I just did,” Hardy replied evenly. He really didn’t care. He’d gotten what he wanted. Visser could deny until he was blue in the face, but he knew that the Cadaver was with him on the murder weapon. Now all that was left was to get that gun to Maiden Lane on February 1. “Your honor, I may need to recall this witness once again, but for now I’m through with him.”

  Hill gave Hardy a surprised look, then asked Pratt if she had any questions in cross-examination
. She did not.

  Visser and Logan hadn’t even gotten to their seats when Hardy turned back to the bench. “The defense would call Estelle Gold.”

  The sprightly Mrs. Gold was pushing sixty. She dyed her hair bright red to match her lipstick and nail polish. She combed it back, held by large clips, to show off the gaudy costume jewelry earrings she favored. Wearing a simple cotton housecoat under a down overcoat and no-nonsense walking shoes, she got up from her chair in Glitsky’s row and marched in a slightly bowlegged fashion past the last witnesses and up into the bull pen, while the gallery hummed with conjecture. Who the hell was she?

  Hardy wasn’t going to keep them waiting long to find out. “Mrs. Gold, can you tell us your profession, please.”

  “I’m a waitress, honey, and proud of it. Been a waitress for forty years and hope to go another twenty if my legs hold up, and I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sure they will, Mrs. Gold. Can you tell the court where you are working now?”

  “David’s Deli.”

  “On Geary Street?”

  “That’s right, honey. Same location for about a hundred years. David’s on Geary.” She nodded, adding, “Across from the ACT.” The American Conservatory Theater.

  “Yes, ma’am. That pretty well nails it down. And were you working there on Sunday night, January thirty-first, of this year?”

  “Yes, I was. I always work Sundays. Better tips than you’d think.” She played a bit with the back of her hair, shifted for comfort in the witness chair.

  “Mrs. Gold, did you personally know Elaine Wager, the deceased in this case?”

  Her face clouded over. “I certainly did.”

  “How was that? Was she a regular customer?”

  “Yes, sir. Never went more than a couple of weeks without she’d stop by for something. And always asked for me,” she added with pride.

  “And did she come to David’s on Sunday, January thirty-first?”

  Mrs. Gold nodded. “She was there most of the night in the very back booth.”