Conclusive Evidence

by Al Macy

  She laid a heavy brogue on. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying; and this same flower that smiles today tomorrow will be dying.”

  “Carpe diem.”

  “Exactly. It’s from the poem ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.’”

  “I’m confused. That would be relevant to you how?”

  “Ha ha. Pick you up at six?”

  I looked at my watch. “Better make it seven. I have some—”

  “Rosebuds to gather.”

  “Exactly.”

  Back at the office, Jen did not like that I was going on a date with Finn.

  “It’s just dinner, not a date,” I said.

  “Oh, my mistake.”

  “Stop pacing. You’re making my legs tired.”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want that. Wouldn’t want you to have tired legs on your dinner date.”

  “Good point. I always like to do some power squats between courses. Jen, I’ve never seen you like this. What’s going on?”

  She sat down and gave me her trademark stare.

  “That’s better. Inscrutable I can understand. This pacing business—” I fluttered my hand “—it’s like you’re someone I don’t know.”

  “Does Carly know you’re going out with Finn?”

  “Again, not a date really, and yes, she knows and approves.”

  “Approves?”

  “Yes. She feels that if Finn falls in love with me, she’s less likely to want to convict my sister.”

  “A little late for that, don’t you think? And love? It’s not a date, but she’s falling in love with you?”

  “Carly said that, not me. I don’t think Finn’s interested in me that way.”

  “Boss, you really are clueless. You haven’t noticed that most women are interested in you that way?” She swept her arm as if to encompass the entire population of the planet.

  “Including you?” I said it as a joke but was shocked when Jen blushed the color of Japanese cherry blossoms. Another new experience.

  Jen stood up and went to her office, slamming my door on the way. Then her door.

  Huh.

  * * *

  Down on the street, Finn honked the horn of her red—of course—Mazda Miata. She had the top up and the flashers on. It was 7:30. Finn was running on what we call “Humboldt time.”

  During the afternoon I’d gone over the witnesses on my list, putting them in the best order in case we got to that part of the trial. I called the hospital, but there was no change in Louella’s condition. I confirmed that I was on the approved visitor list for her; her daughter had taken care of that. Jen had recovered from her uncharacteristic snit, and we’d discussed which witnesses she’d take.

  I locked up and went down the stairs and out to the car. Was Jen right? Did this not-a-date have something to do with the case? Louella’s words also echoed in my mind: She’s sneaky. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. But perhaps I could get some information out of Finn that would help Carly. I can be sneaky, too.

  The passenger door popped open when I got to the sidewalk. I stepped in, and she pulled out immediately.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I didn’t want to seem like an eager beaver. How do you feel about prime rib?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Now I was reading double meanings into everything she said. Stop. Just enjoy the date, or the dinner, or whatever this is. It had been four years since Raquel died, and I’d been on only a few dates. This was starting to feel like one. “Where are we headed?”

  “The Sunset Restaurant at the Cher-Ae Heights Casino. Have you been there?”

  “Good choice.”

  The restaurant had high ceilings and a 180-degree view of the ocean. The timing was perfect—planned?—because the sun was setting. The tall pines in the foreground and Trinidad Harbor to the north had diners taking out their cell phones and grabbing postcard-like photos.

  One diner made sure that Finn was in the shot. I didn’t blame him. She wore an evening gown that pushed the limits of being overdressed. Of course, the bar for overdressed was pretty low in Humboldt. The dress was off the shoulder and black. The fabric was stretchy and emphasized her timeless hourglass figure.

  We both ordered the prime rib special, and she let me choose the wine. If she remembered my problem with debilitating hangovers, she didn’t show it. The food was excellent and got better as we burned our way through the wine. We didn’t touch on the case, even though we could almost see Tepona Point from our window table.

  During dessert, she squinted at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “Funny?”

  “You smiled at something.”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Bunk. Spill it.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “When you talk—” I started laughing “—when you speak, the tip of your nose wiggles.”

  “It does not, and I don’t want to talk about it.” She laughed along.

  We lingered, sometimes sitting in a companionable silence. I’d had most of the wine since she was driving. We watched the glow disappear from the sky, and she convinced me to try some pink frou-frou drink that included whipped cream, a pineapple section, and the obligatory umbrella. I couldn’t taste the alcohol. I have no memory of what it was called.

  We left the restaurant. She piled her feminine wiles on top of her persuasive skills—she was an attorney after all—and convinced me to go in and see her interesting home.

  “Just a quick look, and then I’ve got to get home.” The words felt funny in my mouth.

  Her home was indeed interesting. She lived in an A-frame cabin squeezed among giant redwood trees. Her slinky black dress didn’t match the rustic setting, and she must have agreed because she went in back and changed, asking me to add some more wood to the woodstove.

  When I turned, I found her sitting on the plush couch holding two drinks. She’d slipped into something more comfortable but no less slinky. The soft leggings seemed painted on, and her top would have her gotten her thrown out of any courtroom in the world.

  “Uh, no, Sibyl, I’ve had enough to drink already.”

  “There’s very little alcohol in this. I don’t think you’ll even taste it. It’s called a pearl diver. Just take a sip.”

  The firelight reflected off her hair, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the curve at the nape of her neck. How did she do that?

  One sip turned into another. Then one tiny kiss turned into another.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I woke naked in Finn’s bed, all the covers on the floor. “Finn? Gah!” Even the whisper of her name set off a scream of pain from my hair to my fingertips. I lay there paralyzed, trying to reconstruct the previous evening. I got nothing.

  Wait a second. The sun was shining through the redwoods. What time is it? She didn’t have a clock radio by the bed. I had to get up no matter how much it hurt. I got myself to a sitting position on the side of the bed and waited for the wave of agony to recede a bit.

  I pressed my palms against my ears. “Finn—Gah!”

  Where were my clothes? Not in the bedroom. I stood and had a thought. I picked up the glass from my side of the bed then reached over and took hers. I sniffed each. Goddamn it! Mine smelled of alcohol; hers did not. And had Finn stolen my clothes, making me a prisoner?

  I stumbled down the steep stairs from the loft. I was sure I’d seen a wall clock down there, now there was nothing but a light space on the wall. There. My pants. I picked them up. Phew. My phone was in the back pocket. Apparently, Finn hadn’t crossed the line into theft.

  Aargh! 8:30. I had to be in court in thirty minutes. I had no cell phone coverage. I couldn’t find a landline phone—hidden?

  A flood of helplessness washed over me. Instant depression. I’d been a fool. Stop! You know your perception of the world is skewed when you’re depressed. Alcohol makes it worse.

  I can do this. I slapped my face then gat
hered my clothes, finding everything but my underwear and one sock. I put on a pair of Finn’s socks instead and went commando. I would have to go straight to court. I combed my hair, but what could I do about my whiskers? They made me look like a homeless wino. I rummaged through her bathroom drawers and found a cordless Lady Remington. I stuffed it in my pocket and ran out the door. On the street I got my bearings. I was in the hills of Arcata.

  I went to a neighbor’s house and offered a hundred dollars for a ride into Redwood Point. He slammed the door. I didn’t blame him. Probably went to his phone to call the police.

  I started jogging down the hill and spun around when I heard a car coming. I waved my hands over my head, and the driver stopped and opened the passenger window. What to say?

  “I’ve been drugged and kidnapped, and I need to get to the police station in Redwood Point.” The police station was in the same building as the courthouse.

  The man, heavyset with a white beard, thought for a moment, then said, “Ah, what the hell. Get in.”

  “Thank you.”

  I opened the door and he swept soda cans, bug spray, and rolled-up newspapers from the passenger seat. I sat down, and we were off.

  “What really happened?” He fanned his hand in front of his face. “If you was drugged, it was with booze.”

  I gave him the full story—the true story—while using Finn’s shaver on my beard.

  “She the redhead? Lives in the A-frame?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. She can kidnap me anytime. There are some breath mints around here somewhere. And some deodorant. Help yourself.”

  It took a while, but I found the mints and a half-used stick of deodorant. Almost blind with the pain of my hangover, I put five mints in my mouth and slathered on the Old Spice deodorant. As soon as we had coverage, I checked the phone messages, all variants of Where the hell are you? I replied to Jen: Ten minutes!

  “Hey, I recognize you now. You’re that lawyer on TV. That murder trial. Your tie’s crooked, by the way.”

  He dropped me at the courthouse. I gave him my thanks and a twenty for the toiletries and fashion advice. 9:05.

  I ran up the stairs and collected myself in front of the doors to Courtroom 4. My pain level hadn’t dropped below eleven. It made it hard to think. The drugged-and-kidnapped excuse wasn’t going to fly with Stormy Stevens. My top goal was to not throw up.

  I took one final breath and pushed in. Jen had her eyes on the doors, and her relief was palpable. The judge’s bench was empty. What had happened?

  I shuffled up the aisle. I leaned over Finn, almost puking on her. “You’re going to jail for this.”

  She looked straight ahead.

  I sat down between Jen and Carly. Rubbing my head with both hands, I took shallow breaths. Don’t vomit. “Where’s the judge?”

  Jen spoke, making sure that Carly could see her lips. “She had some emergency. She’ll be here soon. You lucked out. What happened?”

  I leaned back so Carly could see my lips. “It’s all Finn’s doing. I’ll tell you later. Is there something here I could throw up in?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll get something. You can start without me.” Jen hurried down the aisle and out of the courtroom.

  Carly was writing furiously. She was leaning down with her hand over her face. F: no they’ll ? through it. C: I don’t care. Without ? ? bitch will walk. F: It’s all your ? I want no part ? ?. I’ll ? I knew nothing. C: Fine. You don’t know a thing. This ? work.

  I followed her gaze, and I figured it out. Carly was speech-reading Finn and Crawford. I nodded.

  I looked at the words and filled in the blanks: They’ll see through it. Without this we’re sunk. I’ll say I knew nothing.

  Jen returned with a plastic bag and some candies. “This is ginger candy. Suck on it.”

  “Do I smell like alcohol?”

  She waggled her hand. “A little.”

  “All rise.”

  After the preliminaries, Finn stood and went to the lectern looking fresh and rested. Not a hair was out of place. I recalled that at the restaurant she had taken that frou-frou drink with her to the ladies room. It had puzzled me at the time, but she must have poured it down the sink.

  She announced, “The People call Ms. Wendy Heron.”

  Jen and I looked over the witness list. Yes, she was there, highlighted as someone Louella was investigating.

  Ms. Heron was brought into the courtroom through a side door. She wore prison clothing, orange top and pants with an elastic waistband.

  Carly stiffened.

  Oh crap! I wrote, Cellmate? on my pad, and Carly nodded. At that point, the conversation between Finn and Crawford made sense.

  Finn led the woman, Ms. Heron, through the standard introductory questions, then asked, “Can you tell the court what Ms. Romero signed to you?”

  Heron spoke clearly, but with what I call a deaf accent. Some people might mistake it for a speech impediment. For example, the word “first” might sound like “firsht.” It was monotonic and throaty, the results of not being able to hear her own voice when she was young. The external components of her cochlear implant made a little bulge in her hair behind her left ear.

  “Carly was crying, and she said that she felt awful bad because she’d pushed her husband off a cliff, and he was dead.”

  By the time she’d finished her sentence, Carly had written NO on my pad.

  I stood and, against my better judgment, shouted, “Your Honor, they can’t be serious.” My skull exploded with pain and my stomach convulsed. I pushed my fingers against my mouth. I looked over to Finn. If she’s embarrassed, she’s hiding it well. Before last night, I’d never have believed that she could stoop to this level.

  Storm clouds dropped over Judge Stevens’s face, and she slammed her gavel down. “Mr. Goodlove, you will not raise your voice in my courtroom. I’ll see counsel in my chambers.”

  It took a few minutes for Judge Stevens to hobble back to her chambers. Finn, Jen, and I sat in the judge’s worn visitor chairs.

  “Mr. Goodlove?”

  “Your Honor, this stinks of the worst kind of fraud. It’s the oldest trick in the book. No doubt it will turn out that Ms. Heron, wherever she came from, has some sentence pending that will be significantly reduced because of her testimony. Even if my client had anything to do with this event—we can barely call it a crime at this point—she’d never have said anything like that to a stranger. I told her not to speak to anyone, and she has told me that she said no such thing.”

  “Ms. Finn?”

  She took a breath. “I’ll look into it. Detective Crawford just filled me in last night.”

  “Yet she was on your witness list weeks ago.”

  Not having a gavel, the judge slapped her hand on her desk. “You will not address opposing counsel, Mr. Goodlove. You talk with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. This thing makes me so angry.” I was itching to show her the transcript of Finn’s conversation with Crawford that Carly had overheard. But that would be the end of our ability to eavesdrop on them. Also, I became distracted because I’d just figured out how I could get access to Louella’s report.

  “All right. I agree this does not pass the smell test. But if you had Ms. Heron on your witness list, why were you unprepared for her testimony?”

  “My investigator got very sick and was unable to get her report to me.” I worried that revealing that someone had tried to kill Louella would result in a mistrial. With access to her report, combined with the theory that was growing in my mind, I felt we had a chance to win this thing. “Your Honor, may I ask for a recess for several days?”

  “We have already had too many delays in this trial. Ms. Finn?”

  “Your Honor, he had this witness on his list.” Finn put bored annoyance into the tone of her voice. “He’s had adequate time to figure out how to spin what his client said to her.”

  I said, “Your H
onor—”

  Stevens held her hand up, doing her traffic cop impersonation again. “We will stand in recess until tomorrow at nine. Will that give you adequate time to prepare, Mr. Goodlove?”

  Maybe. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  The judge pointed to Finn. “If I find you’ve engaged in any shenanigans or that Detective Crawford has, with your blessings, your career as a prosecutor will be finished. Finished! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is there anything you wish to say now?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Jen and I parked in front of Louella’s house. I’d put on a fresh set of clothes then brushed my teeth and shaved. I didn’t feel like a new man. I felt like an old one with irritable bowel syndrome, but I looked respectable.

  “I still don’t see how you’re going to get the report, boss. I knew—know—Louella, and I can assure you that she encrypted her laptop.”

  “You’ll get a kick out of this.” I looked around. No one was watching us.

  The screaming green sticker on the door read, “THESE PREMISES HAVE BEEN SEALED BY THE REDWOOD POINT POLICE DEPARTMENT PURSUANT TO SECTION 435, ADMINISTRATIVE CODE. ALL PERSONS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ENTER UNLESS AUTHORIZED BY THE POLICE DEPARTMENT.”

  I unlocked the door with the key Louella had given me years ago, then I led Jen up to Louella’s office.

  I shot my cuffs like a magician. “Watch this.” Around the back of her antique desk, I pushed and prodded.

  “What the hell are you doing? Looking for a secret—oh!”

  I’d found the unlocking trick, and a hidden door flipped down. Please be in there. I reached in and pulled out Louella’s laptop and unplugged it. She’d shown me the compartment once—it had a power cord inside.

  “Ta-da.” I put the computer on the desk and opened it up. In the center of the display sat a text entry box with “Enter Password” above it.

  “Right,” Jen said. “I don’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but …”

  I closed the secret compartment and winked at her. The act of closing one eye sent a spasm of pain through my head. “Now we go to the hospital.”