The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller

by Deborah Hawkins

  “I did, and I learned something you’ll like.”

  “Okay. The good news, then.”

  “The Rendevous does, indeed, have a surveillance system.”

  Kathryn felt her heart lighten. “Did you get the tapes? Do they help us?”

  “I didn’t get them. The police did. They questioned Tamra at the club the day after the murder. They questioned Ray-Ray, too. And they took the video tapes.”

  “So where are they?”

  “No one knows. The cops still have them. But Tamara said she and Tyrone were selling cocaine all night until the Rendevous closed. Then they did a few sales in the parking lot before spending the night at her house. And the surveillance cameras covered both the inside and the outside of the club.”

  “So Tyrone has some exposure for possession for sale?”

  “According to Tamara. But that beats life-without-parole murder any day.”

  “Agreed.” Kathryn drummed her fingers on her desk as she thought about this new development. “But she won’t testify?”

  “No way. She’d incriminate herself on the drug charge if she did.”

  “Then what exactly do we have to work with?”

  “Not much yet. But be patient. I’m going to find out if Ray-Ray had a backup camera doing surveillance that night.

  “If he did, and Tyrone is on that video, the cops have failed to turn over evidence that demonstrates our client is innocent. Maybe Sam McIntyre isn’t such a good guy after all.”

  “Hold on,” Joe cautioned. “We don’t know if they’ve withheld Brady evidence yet. And it’s too soon to blame the prosecutor. Look, as you know, I used to be a cop. Some of my partners didn’t tell the D.A. everything.”

  “Okay, I’ll let Sam off the hook for now. But I’m hoping there’s another tape, and Tyrone is on it.”

  “Me, too,” Joe said. “Me, too.”

  TRIAL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Monday, March 16, 2015, Edward J. Schwartz Federal Courthouse, U.S. District Court, Southern District of California, San Diego, 9:00 a.m.

  Mark and Hugh had chosen Millie Fletcher as their first witness. It had taken two weeks to select a jury, both sides heavily dependent upon the advice of their juror selection consultants. Kathryn had watched and listened as their psychological guru, Roger M. Thompson, Ph.D., rendered various opinions about which potential jurors looked sympathetic to their side. Above all, Bob McLaren was trying to keep women and men in their mid-thirties and early forties off the jury.

  The final panel was evenly split between male and female. McLaren had managed to get four corporate executives on the jury, presumably because they would favor Wycliffe. Hugh and Mark had stood firm for the inclusion of a forty-something accountant and a fifty-something retired school teacher. They also had a thirty-something mom who was going back to school. But McLaren had relentlessly bumped off the three nurses they had wanted very much to keep.

  During opening arguments, when Mark had played a montage of slides from Tom’s life, Kathryn had felt all the jurors’ eyes on her, sympathetic and curious. As the images rolled by, tears welled up in her own eyes and overflowed. Tom, tall and blonde, his athletic body perfectly outlined by his wetsuit, poised on his board to ride the waves. The two of them gazing at each other on their wedding day. Tom in his best going-to-court suit, threading his way through the throngs of reporters at the Pepe Jackson murder trial. The two of them in Paris on their fifth anniversary. Pictures from trips to Rosarito and Cancun. The life she’d had and loved flashed before her eyes on the courtroom’s big screen, and she realized she still loved Tom too much to let go and move on.

  Millie now sat poised and ready to testify. Kathryn knew that suit, the black and white no-nonsense tweed she wore on really important occasions. Hugh, sitting next to Kathryn at the plaintiff’s table, fingered the blue box in his pocket and envied the way she kept her eyes fixed on Mark. He wished he were first chair so that she’d be looking at him right now.

  “Please state your name for the record.” Mark looked relaxed and confident as he began.

  “Mildred Allen Fletcher.”

  “And what do you do for a living?”

  “I am the Head of the Public Defender’s Office in San Diego County.”

  “And how long have you been with the public defender’s office?”

  “Twenty-eight years. I’ve been head of the office for the past fifteen.”

  “And did you know Thomas Allen Andrews?”

  “Yes. He was a Senior Public Defender. He joined my office in 1997 with his wife, Kathryn.”

  Millie’s eyes met Kathryn’s but showed no emotion.

  “And was there something unusual about the Andrews?”

  “We’ve had couples in the office before, but it’s been a long time. We’ve never had a couple who went to Harvard.”

  “So it’s unusual to have Harvard graduates in your office?”

  “Yes. They can make so much more money in other jobs. Normally, we can’t attract them.”

  “So why did Tom and Kathryn decide to join you?”

  “Tom was the chief instigator, and Kathryn followed him. He felt they could do more good by serving the people who couldn’t afford a lawyer.”

  “And did Tom Andrews fulfill that ambition? Did he serve the poor?”

  “Without any doubt.” Millie nodded her head for emphasis. “He was tireless in his efforts to help his clients. He was one of the best, if not the best, defender in our office.”

  “Aside from you, of course?” Mark smiled, and she smiled back.

  “I believe in what I do, of course.”

  “Now tell me what sort of employee Tom was.”

  “Exemplary.”

  “Not even one single bad habit?”

  “Well, maybe one. He liked to surf. He’d been an international champion in high school. On mornings when he didn’t have to appear in court, he would surf before work. Sometimes that made him late.”

  “Not much of a vice?”

  Millie smiled. “Not at all.”

  “Do you remember when Tom became ill?”

  She took a sip of water from the plastic cup sitting on the edge of the witness stand. “Yes. It was in the spring, three years ago. We thought he had food poisoning. He went home early because he was nauseous.”

  “Was Tom under any additional stress that you were aware of in the months before he died?”

  “Well, the job of a public defender is always stressful,” Millie observed. “But Tom had a very high-profile murder case that began in February of 2012 and ended in March. I know he was under a great deal of stress during that trial.”

  Mark gave her a friendly smile. “You mean more than the stress a trial lawyer feels during a trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made this trial different?”

  “Pepe Jackson was accused of killing a San Diego police officer who had pulled a gun on Pepe during a routine traffic stop and threatened to kill him. Tom believed Pepe was innocent. The law enforcement community let everyone including the prosecutor know how unhappy they would be if Pepe was acquitted. Tom was under great stress to try to get Pepe a fair trial. He was facing a life without parole sentence, if convicted.”

  “And was Pepe convicted, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “No. It was Tom’s greatest victory, in my opinion.”

  Kathryn could feel the sigh of relief from the jurors at this news. Good, they were hooked by Tom’s story.

  “Now Mrs. Fletcher, if Tom had lived, how do you think his career would have progressed in your office?”

  Millie smiled and said in her soft, but powerful voice, the voice that could mesmerize a jury, “He would have had my job. Without doubt. Tom was the finest attorney in our office at the time of his death. And I would not hesitate to add, probably the best who ever worked for us.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.” Mark smiled at her as she left the podium. Kathryn sensed that the jurors were enthralled. So
far so good. She wondered if Tom’s spirit were hovering above them in his cheap Men’s Wearhouse suit, listening.

  Bob McLaren took his time settling at the podium that Mark had just vacated. The jurors grew restless and looked around the courtroom instead of at Millie still on the stand. Bad idea to lose the jury’s attention, Kathryn thought.

  Finally McLaren looked up at Millie and gave her what could only be called a cheesy smile. “Tell me, Mrs. Fletcher, what did you observe about the Andrews’ marriage?”

  “They were exceptionally close.”

  “They got along then? At least at work?”

  “They got along period.” Millie knew better than to let him push her buttons, but her voice was firm and invited no doubts. “At work and at home.”

  “So you were a guest in their home?”

  “Of course.”

  Those Christmas parties, Kathryn thought. No one had seen Shannon’s excessive attachment to Tom. No one but her.

  “And what about extramarital affairs? By either party?”

  “None!” Millie shot the word across the courtroom, leaving no doubt she was accurate and correct.

  “No further questions,” Bob McLaren said, and sat down.

  Our first witness went well, Kathryn thought with a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  Mark called Paul Curtis after lunch. Hugh fingered the box of emeralds in his pocket and was consumed with jealousy as Paul described meeting Kathryn at Harvard in 1994 and his feelings for her, but how her meeting with Tom had left him out of the romantic picture. As Paul talked, Hugh thought about the night he’d met Kathryn. If only he hadn’t been slightly drunk and hadn’t had an equally sloshed Logan hanging on his arm. His fingers worked rapidly back and forth over the smooth little box in his pocket, which had become part talisman, part symbol of his greatest wish. He was happy the jury was hanging on Paul’s every word. He was a handsome guy, Hugh reflected. Just the sort he could picture with Kathryn. Tall, blonde, confident. A lot like her husband. Did her heart lie in that direction? He couldn’t tell from her expression as she listened to Paul’s testimony. Deposition training had given her a real knack for a poker face.

  Kathryn herself grew jealous as Mark took Paul through Tom’s early life and had him tell the stories of all the years she had not been able to share with him. He explained their elementary school days of just hanging at the beach; their decision, when they reached middle school, to work on become surfing champions; and finally Tom’s decision to give up competitive surfing altogether when he met Kathryn.

  “He loved her. He really, really loved her.” Paul looked straight at Kathryn as he spoke. She knew he wanted her to forgive him, but so far she hadn’t been able to.

  “So you were not aware of any problems in their marriage?” Mark asked.

  “None at all.”

  * * *

  As with Millie, it took Bob McLaren an exceptionally long time to settle himself at the podium for cross-examination.

  Not surprisingly, he began with another cheesy smile. “So I gather you knew the deceased?”

  “I did.”

  “And you say there were no problems in his marriage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who is Steve Cooper?” McLaren asked. Kathryn felt her stomach tighten.

  “Steve grew up with me and Tom. The three of us were like brothers.”

  “But Mr. Cooper is no longer with us, is he?”

  “Steve died in August, after Tom died in June.”

  “And how did he die, Mr. Curtis?”

  “He drowned.”

  “But wasn’t he an expert surfer?”

  “Even experts have accidents.”

  “And did Mr. Cooper have a girlfriend?” Bob McLaren asked. Kathryn’s blood ran cold.

  Mark stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Cooper’s personal life is irrelevant.”

  Judge Weiner nodded. “Exactly, counselor. Move on.”

  “Your Honor, if you’ll permit me two more questions, I can connect this up and show how it is relevant.”

  “Very well. But no more than two. Would the reporter please read back the last question?”

  Through her rising tide of panic, Kathryn watched the reporter find the correct place in her notes and read the last question, “Did Mr. Cooper have a girlfriend?”

  “Steve had a lot of girlfriends. He was a very attractive guy.”

  “But was there one in particular at the time of his death?”

  Paul looked McLaren straight in the eye and said, “No.”

  “Okay, Mr. McLaren,” Judge Weiner intoned from the bench, “that’s enough fishing. Move on!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Monday, March 16, 2015, The Offices of Goldstein, Miller, Emerald Shapery Center, San Diego, 6 p.m.

  Kathryn sat at the table in the small conference room, sipping a glass of red wine and listening to Hugh and Mark post-mortem the first day of trial. Hugh was drinking his usual scotch. Mark was sipping coffee. He smiled at her as he poured cream into the cup.

  “Going to have a long night getting ready for tomorrow.”

  “Who do we have tomorrow?” Hugh asked.

  “Bruce Myers and Karl Martin, although I don’t think we’ll get to Karl until Wednesday. I expect McLaren is going to go after Bruce pretty hard on his conclusion that Myrabin caused Tom’s death. It’s technical stuff, so I have to do a lot of preparation tonight.”

  Hugh nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Kathryn watched him pour himself another scotch from the carafe on the drinks tray in the center of the table. Mark frowned. “Hey, go easy on that.”

  Hugh laughed. “Jose is driving, thanks to you. We’ve had a long day; I’m entitled.” He looked over at Kathryn as he spoke, and she realized not only did he want her approval, but he was desperately sad and lonely. Poor man. He’s gained the world and lost his own soul, she thought. She smiled back and tried to damp down her nerves about McLaren’s cross-examination of Paul.

  It was as if Hugh had read her mind. “Hey, McLaren’s desperate already! Fishing around about Steve Cooper and some unknown girlfriend. Judge Weiner really put him in his place on that one. Just stabbing in the dark to confuse the jury. Hah!”

  Kathryn’s stomach knotted at the same time she realized Hugh’s scotch was talking. Her phone vibrated, and she looked down to see a text from Paul.

  “Don’t worry. It’s under control. Want to talk?

  She hit reply and wrote, “Yes. Can you come by the house tonight at 7:30?”

  He responded, “Bad idea. They’re watching your place. My house, as soon as you finish up there.”

  She hit reply once more, “Okay.”

  She looked up to find Mark’s eyes on her. “Bad news?”

  “No. Its just my investigator with a report on something he’s found for one of my clients.”

  “Then we should wrap up,” Mark said. “I’ve got to start preparing for tomorrow. We can be happy about how it went today.”

  * * *

  Monday, March 16, 2015, 817 First Street, Coronado, California, 7:30 p.m.

  Paul opened the door, and she fell into his arms. Her heart was racing. All the panic she had fought back since the moment in the courtroom when Bob McLaren began to ask questions about Steve overwhelmed her. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she gasped for breath between sobs.

  Paul patted her back and said softly over and over, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

  She cried for a long time. All the tension of the months leading up to trial overwhelmed her, and she lost control. Finally she pulled away slightly and looked into Paul’s soft, blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He pulled her to him again and stroked her hair. “I understand why you’re upset, but don’t worry. They don’t know about Shannon.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Wait! First things first. Have you eaten?”

  “No.
I can’t.”

  “At least try. You know what a rotten cook I am. But I can scramble eggs. Come on.”

  Paul made passable eggs and toast and poured a Cabernet that made up for what the food lacked. They sat at the island in the kitchen and ate. Slowly Kathryn’s blood pressure and heart rate came back to normal.

  “Better?” Paul smiled across his empty plate.

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, that’s what I’m here for.”

  “You did a great job for us today.”

  “It was all true. You were Tom’s only love.”

  “But why was McLaren asking about Shannon?”

  “He didn’t mention Shannon by name, and she wasn’t Steve’s girlfriend when he died. She’d been moved out of his place since January.”

  “True. But I’m nervous because he was fishing.”

  “I know. But I’m telling you, no one but you and I know about Shannon. And neither of us is telling Wycliffe.”

  She smiled. The wine was making her relaxed and sleepy. “Okay. I feel better now.”

  “Good. Let’s go into the living room and watch something on Netflix. It will take your mind off things.”

  “No, I should go home. I’m exhausted. Thanks, though.”

  Paul’s face became serious. “Listen, call me paranoid or whatever, but I don’t want you at home tonight by yourself.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “I’ve got a hunch. A feeling. Like the one I had the day Steve died. Stay here tonight. Please.”

  “You think someone might try to kill me?”

  “Haven’t they already? More than once? Wycliffe got a pretty good look at your case today. And it’s very solid. Please, Kathryn.”

  “But I didn’t bring any clothes with me!”

  “Court doesn’t start until 9 in the morning. You’ll have time to go home and change. Besides, you don’t need to be alone tonight. You need someone to take your mind off of things.”

  She smiled, and remembered this was Paul, who loved her and who was her last living link to Tom. “Okay. Thanks.”

  * * *