Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any way of determining who last wore that ski mask?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And do you have any way of knowing precisely how any of the hairs came to be on that sheet?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Could they have been deliberately placed on the sheet?”

  “Possibly.”

  “No further questions.”

  “We have enough,” Cameron said, ignoring the chairs and sitting on the credenza. Phoebe handed him a white deli sack and placed Ellen's on the table without looking at her.

  Ignoring her secretary's pique and the food, Ellen paced the length of the conference table. She was too nervous to eat. Their part of the hearing had gone well enough, even with Costello scoring a few points, but the afternoon would be Tony's show, and what little control she'd had in the morning would be taken from her.

  “We've got more than enough,” Mitch said, pacing the lane on the other side of the table. “Even if Grabko is tempted to buy into Costello's bullshit, there's more than enough weighing on Wright to push him into a trial. Grabko would never have the guts to cut him loose.”

  But how much nerve would it take, Ellen wondered, with the press shouting out all the things Garrett Wright could not have done? He could not have brought Josh home. He couldn't have taken Dustin Holloman or killed Dustin Holloman. That was the public's focus now—the monster at large. Grabko's decision was to be based on law, but he was just a man, as susceptible to rumor and pressure as anyone.

  “It's pretty clear which way he's leaning,” she said. “I haven't seen a judge give that much leeway in a pretrial since Perry Mason went off the air. I'm sorry he let Costello put you through that, Megan.”

  Megan sat at the end of the table, looking small and battered, as if the ordeal of the morning had caused her to pull in on herself. “I'm the one who should apologize,” she mumbled, eyes down. “I know better than to let some asshole lawyer punch my buttons.”

  The tension in her voice, in the set of her jaw, hinted at a torrent of emotion building up behind the walls Megan erected around herself. Ellen had seen it happen before. Cops made lousy victims. They were, by nature, control freaks; victims were stripped of all control, all pride, all dignity.

  “It's not your fault, Megan,” she said.

  “He made me look like a raving lunatic who'd say anything, do anything, to get that arrest on my record.”

  “Or like someone who was damn sure of her facts and set on convicting a guilty man,” Ellen countered. “It's all in your perception. People see what they want.”

  “We know what they want to see when they look at Wright,” Megan said. Nobody wanted to believe a man like Garrett Wright was capable of evil. And with the death of Dustin Holloman, the people of Park County would be even less willing to accept Wright as their devil.

  “So we have to prove them wrong,” Ellen said, her gaze direct, her meaning clear.

  Megan nodded. “Yes, we do.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The defense calls Dr. Garrett Wright to the stand,” Costello announced, setting the crowd buzzing, a noise that rose up to the high ceiling of the old courtroom like a swarm of yellow jackets.

  It appeared to be a bold move, playing his ace first, offering up his client for direct scrutiny and cross-examination. That the defendant himself would be testifying at all was highly unusual for a probable-cause hearing, but, then, nothing about this case was ordinary. Jay sat back with his arms crossed, considering the strategy. If Wright was the sociopath Ellen painted him to be, then he was a consummate liar, an actor with a role he relished—the mild-mannered professor, well deserving of public sympathy.

  Jay had to admit, he'd seen it before. A mind as cold as arctic ice; capable of charm, just as capable of murder. He had once sat opposite just such a man in a visitation booth in Angola Penitentiary one hell-hot Louisiana summer. A man who was pleasant, articulate on all the political issues of the day. Well-read, bright, with a sharp, sardonic wit. A man who had held three truck-stop waitresses hostage as sex slaves for three months, tortured them to death, then took up taxidermy and mounted their heads and breasts for his own private trophy room. D. Rodman Madsen, a sales rep for an irrigation-pump company, twice voted salesman of the year, and treasurer of the local Elks lodge. A killer behind the socially acceptable facade. No one who knew him had ever suspected.

  Garrett Wright took the stand and quietly recited the oath. In his blue suit and regimental tie, he gave the appearance of the quintessential young professional—attractive, conservative, educated. Jay could all but hear the gears grinding in the minds around him, the sly speculation, the denial, the disbelief. Even the judge looked down on Garrett Wright with barely concealed incredulity, as if astonished to find such a man before him as the focus of a court proceeding.

  Costello began by asking for Wright's litany of professional credits, the degrees, the résumé, then segued into his civic achievements before coming to the heart of the matter.

  “Dr. Wright, where were you on the evening of Wednesday, January twelfth, between five-thirty and seven-thirty P.M.?”

  “I was working,” Wright said mildly. “Researching documented case studies I thought might pertain to an ongoing study some of my students are involved in concerning learning and perception.”

  “And where were you doing this research?”

  “In a storeroom in the basement of the Cray building.”

  “On the campus of Harris College?”

  He gave a sheepish little smile. “Yes. I'm afraid I have more books than my office can hold. I've more or less taken over a room in the basement as an auxiliary office.”

  “Were you alone that evening?”

  “No. Todd Childs, a student of mine, was with me until about eight-thirty.”

  “And when did you first hear about the abduction of Josh Kirkwood?”

  “Later that evening. On the ten o'clock news.”

  “Do you know Josh?”

  “As well as I know any of my neighbors' children—enough to recognize him, to say hello.”

  “You know his parents?”

  “Hannah and Paul, yes. They're acquaintances of mine and my wife. Casual friends.”

  “Has there ever been any trouble between you?”

  “No. None.”

  “In fact, you spoke with Dr. Garrison several times after her son was abducted, didn't you? To offer sympathy, to give advice.”

  “Yes. In fact, I called her the night of the twenty-first to give her the name of a family therapist I know in Edina. It was clear the ordeal was taking a terrible toll on their marriage.”

  “And the press called on you several times after Josh went missing, to act as a consultant, is that right?”

  “Yes, although I told them repeatedly I have no expertise in the area of criminal behavior.”

  “Prior to the night you were arrested, were you ever questioned by the police regarding Josh Kirkwood's disappearance?”

  “Not as a suspect, no. They asked me some general questions—had I noticed any strangers in the neighborhood, had I noticed anything different about the Kirkwood household lately, that sort of thing.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “That I couldn't be of any real help to them. I spend most of my time at the college or in my office at home.”

  “And where were you the afternoon of Saturday, January twenty-second?”

  “Working. The new term began Monday. I was preparing.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Todd Childs was with me until about one-fifteen. I was alone after that. I went home briefly for a late lunch, around one-thirty, returned to campus about an hour later. Otherwise I spent the afternoon and evening in the Cray building.”

  “Arriving home at what time?”

  “Around nine-fifteen that evening.”

  “And will you please tell the court in your own words what occurred when you arr
ived home?”

  “I had just parked my car in the garage and started for the door into the house when I heard what I thought might be gunshots behind the house. I stepped out the door, saw a man running toward me. I thought he might be a burglar or something, some kind of criminal. So I jumped back inside with the intention of going into the house to call 911. The door burst open, and the next thing I knew I was being tackled and told that I was under arrest.”

  “You had no idea what was going on that afternoon and evening with regards to Agent O'Malley being kidnapped and assaulted?”

  “Of course not. How could I know anything about that?”

  “How, indeed,” Costello said, turning toward the gallery. “Dr. Wright, do you own a ski mask like the one we saw earlier in the prosecution photographs?”

  “I did at one time. I used to be something of a fanatic about cross-country skiing. I used to ski three times a week, regardless of the cold, but I haven't done that the past couple of winters.”

  “And do you have any idea what became of your ski mask?”

  He shook his head. “I don't know. I think my wife may have gotten rid of it at a garage sale.”

  “Do you own a handgun?”

  “No. I'm a strong proponent of gun control, as a matter of fact. I would never have a gun in my home.”

  “And finally, for the record, Dr. Wright, did you kidnap Josh Kirkwood?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you kidnap and assault Agent Megan O'Malley?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Wright. No further questions.”

  Ellen rose before Costello was halfway back to his seat. She marched smartly around the end of the table to take command of the stage. She had watched Wright and Costello weave their web, drawing in Grabko, drawing in the press. They played their roles to the hilt. It was her job to make the audience forget their performances, to make them forget Garrett Wright's history of selfless duty to the community, to stick her fingers through the holes in his story and rip the fabric of his lies to shreds.

  “Dr. Wright, this storeroom you use in the basement of the Cray building is in the northwest corner of the building, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “The first room at the bottom of the stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just off the first-floor landing of those stairs is an exit that leads past some trash Dumpsters to a small faculty parking lot. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “A very handy spot to have an auxilary office,” she said. “Easy to come and go quickly without being seen.”

  “Objection.”

  “I'll rephrase, Your Honor,” she offered, glad to make her point a second time. “Did anyone see you exit the Cray building on the night of the twelfth?”

  “I didn't see anyone.”

  “You told us one of your students, Todd Childs, was with you that evening.”

  “Yes, that's correct.”

  “Todd Childs and no one else?”

  “No one else.”

  “Dr. Wright, can you explain why, in his initial reports to the police, Mr. Childs said nothing about being with you that evening?”

  “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “How about on the twenty-second? Can anyone back up your statement that you returned to the Cray building after your late lunch or that you then worked until past nine o'clock that night?”

  “I was alone and unaware that I might need an alibi later,” he said dryly.

  There was the barest hint of amusement in his eyes as he held Ellen's gaze for just a second. The kind of look that suggested he was only letting her play at control. The idea twisted inside her like a worm boring through her confidence. The image of Dustin Holloman flashed behind her eyelids. some rise by SIN, and some by virtue fall . . .

  “And on the twenty-second,” she said, pressing on. “After Todd Childs left your office, you didn't see anyone, not another living soul, all day and half the evening?”

  “No, I didn't.”

  Ellen crossed her arms and arched a brow as she paced slowly in front of the witness box. “Doesn't that seem odd? As you stated, the new term was to begin the following Monday. Do you think you're the only teacher with an office in the Cray building who needed to prepare?”

  “I can't speak for my colleagues,” Wright said calmly. “Perhaps they were more well prepared than I. Or maybe the weather kept them from coming in to work. We were having a snowstorm.”

  “Yes, we were,” she said, nodding. “The weather was cold, nasty. Yet when Chief Holt arrested you, you were hot, perspiring. You were not wearing gloves. Can you explain that, Dr. Wright?”

  “I had just been subjected to a frightening experience, Ms. North. I'd heard gunshots, saw a man rushing toward me, a man who then broke into my garage and attacked me. That seems just cause for a little perspiration.”

  “And the gloves?”

  “I'd forgotten them.”

  “On such a bitterly cold night?”

  “I was tired. It was late.”

  “The windchill factor was six degrees.”

  “Yes, I cursed myself all the way home.”

  He gave her the look again. Intimate. Amused. Unnerving. Drawing her into a strange, shared moment that no one else seemed to see. Ellen turned her back to him and went to the prosecution table on the false pretense of consulting her notes.

  “Dr. Wright, Agent O'Malley testified that when she spoke with you in Professor Priest's office earlier in the afternoon, you were dressed in a shirt and tie and dark trousers. At the time Chief Holt arrested you, you were dressed head to toe in black. Why is that?”

  “I changed clothes when I came home for lunch,” he answered, unperturbed. “It was Saturday. I knew I was going to spend the rest of the day alone. I decided I might as well be comfortable.”

  “So you dressed up like a ninja warrior?”

  “Objection!” Costello shouted.

  “Sustained.” Grabko frowned at her. “Ms. North, you know better.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Ellen said blandly, turning away. “No further questions.”

  Murmurs raced through the gallery as she took her seat. Ellen knew what they were about. Why hadn't she confronted him? Why hadn't she hammered at him until he confessed—if there was anything for him to confess. The same questions courtroom newcomers always asked. The same ideas law professors beat out of their students early on. Garrett Wright would never confess on the stand. He would never admit to anything in a confrontation. He had his story, he had his act, and he would stick with them. She would end up looking a fool if she pressed him. There was no point asking questions if she knew the answers would be lies she couldn't break.

  “The defense calls Annette Fabrino.”

  The woman who took the stand had a softly rounded body and the face of a Raphael cherub. She looked out on the crowd like a deer caught in headlights, clearly unnerved at the prospect of testifying in front of an audience. Costello stepped close to the witness stand and attempted to put her at ease with a charming smile.

  “I have just a couple of questions for you, Annette,” he said kindly. “It won't take long at all. First of all, can you state for the record your home address?”

  “Ninety-two Lakeshore Drive.”

  “Just down the block from Dr. Wright's home?”

  “Yes.”

  “On Saturday the twenty-second, did you look out your front window around two-thirty?”

  “Yes, I did. My husband was supposed to have been home from a business trip around two, but he was late and he hadn't called. I was worried about his making it back at all because of the weather.”

  “What did you see when you looked out?”

  “I saw Dr. Wright go by in his car, headed south.”

  “Are you sure of the time?”

  “Yes. I was checking my watch every few minutes.”

 
“Thank you, Annette.” Costello flashed the smile again and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “That's all. Not so bad, was it?”

  A rose blush bloomed across Annette Fabrino's round cheeks.

  “Mrs. Fabrino,” Ellen began as Costello walked away from his witness, “your house is on the west side of the street, isn't it? The Tudor on the corner?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you state you saw Dr. Wright's gray Saab going south. That means the driver was on the far side of the car from you.”

  “Uh—yes.”

  “And it was snowing quite heavily that afternoon, wasn't it?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. It was really coming down. That was why I was nervous. I had heard the roads were getting bad.”

  “So with the snow coming down and the driver on the opposite side of the car, when you say you saw Dr. Wright drive past, did you actually get a good, clear look at his face?”

  “Well . . . ,” she faltered. “Well, no. Just a glimpse, I guess.”

  “You knew it was his car.”

  “Yes. It's the only one like it in the neighborhood.”

  “So it seems reasonable that you expected him to be the one driving,” Ellen said equably. “But could you say with certainty it was?”

  Annette Fabrino looked anything but certain. She glanced left to right across the courtroom, looking for reassurance from someone. She tried to settle her gaze on Costello. Ellen moved into her line of vision, not wanting to allow Costello a second to imply through his body language that his witness was betraying him.

  “I thought it was him,” she said hesitantly.

  “But could you swear it?”

  “No.”

  “No further questions,” Ellen said with a pleasant smile. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Fabrino.”

  “The defense calls Todd Childs.”

  The bailiff opened the door to the jury room and Todd Childs emerged. Costello had somehow managed the trick of secreting Childs into the courthouse over the lunch break. And that wasn't the only magic he had performed. He had taken Grunge Man and so transformed him Ellen had to stare for a long moment to be sure this was in fact Todd Childs. The ponytail had been clipped off at the nape, the flannel traded for a button-down oxford with a tie. Clean-shaven and clear-eyed, Todd Childs took the stand and the oath.