“You wouldn’t.”
“Would too.” Tamara sat down on the bed. “But this trial isn’t over yet. Maybe you could do something good.”
“I’ll take any ideas.”
“Well, for starters, they don’t have her going inside Levon’s, do they? And without that, what do they really have?”
“They have her lying, again, to the cops. They get her established enough as a liar, and it seems like they ought to be able to do that easily, then whatever she says on the stand comes across as untrue. And of course it also leaves the question: Why was she there anyway, at Levon’s, in the middle of the day?”
“He called her.”
“And she just came running? Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some variation of the blackmail again.” Tamara went into a small pout. “So then when you saw her, it must have been right after she killed him?”
“That’s what I’ve been assuming. And I think everybody else.”
“So how did she seem? Upset? In a hurry to get away? Any of that?”
Chiurco shook his head. “It wasn’t like that, Tam. It wasn’t like she posed for me. She was there at the door, turned around, and we were face to face for about a second, enough for me to notice her, but not much more. Then she was gone.”
“And you were sure it was her?”
“It was her, Tam. She admitted it, remember? And they got her fingerprints on the doorknob. I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I’m just trying to get you something to make you feel better.” Now with a little heat, “So maybe you could feel like you contributed to casting doubt on what happened. Like if you saw her trying the knob or something, maybe trying to get in, and she couldn’t, just before she turned and then you saw her as she was leaving.”
“I don’t think I’m going to change my story now. I saw what I saw. You want me to commit perjury under oath? I don’t think Hardy would want me helping that way.”
“No. It’s just that you happening upon her just at the one second . . . anybody would believe if you just got there a minute earlier and watched her trying to get in. I mean, Mr. Hardy could ask you that anyway.”
Chiurco wasn’t warming to this idea at all. His mouth had hardened down to a thin line. “And then I’d just say no.”
“Hey, don’t get mad at me,” she said. “You’re the one who started with how bad you felt about not being able to help her. I’m just saying maybe Mr. Hardy could make it seem as if you’d seen her not getting in. Then they don’t have that assumption anymore. You didn’t see her coming out exactly, did you? I mean, she was just there at the door?”
Suddenly, Chiurco slapped a palm down on the bed between them. “Hey! What’s this interrogation? What are you trying to get at here?”
“Craig! Nothing! I’m not trying to get at anything. I’m just talking to you. What’s your problem? What are you so uptight about?”
After fighting his emotions for a second he gathered himself and let out a sigh. “Maybe I’m uptight because I’m nervous enough about this to begin with. I’m not going to go changing my story, even a little, even if it might help her. That just gets me in trouble. With Wyatt, with Hardy, with everybody. I don’t see how you want me to do that. It’s tricky enough as it is.”
“What’s tricky?”
“Saying what you saw. Keeping it simple. It’s not as easy as it seems, especially when everybody’s all over you with these little details you never thought about. I got my story and I’m sticking to it.”
“The way you say it like that, it sounds like you made it up.”
“I’m not making anything up! Jesus, Tam, I can’t believe you’re saying this to me.”
“Well, I can’t believe you’re so touchy about it. It’s not that big a deal. We’re just talking.”
“No, we’re not just talking.” Now he sat up straight, off the headboard, pulling the blankets up around him. “And it’s way that big a deal! You don’t see that?”
“Not as big as you’re making it.” She stood up and walked across to the chair where she’d put her clothes. She slipped out of the robe and started to grab her underwear.
“What are you doing?” Chiurco asked.
“I’m going home. I think we’re done for tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” She had her jeans on, pulled her sweater over her head. “And while we’re at it, disagreeing about this and other stuff, I thought we’d decided we weren’t going to be smoking weed anymore.”
Now Chiurco crossed his arms, shaking his head back and forth, and went silent, rage and frustration smeared across his features.
“In case,” Tamara went on, “you think I didn’t notice or smell it or anything.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
“No? A quick toke in the bathroom with the window open? That’s not exactly lighting up in front of me.”
“I thought you’d be mad.”
“Correct, Craig. Mad at you for using it, and mad that you can’t stop.”
“I don’t want to stop, Tam. I’ve told you. I like it, is the problem. And I could stop anytime I want. Which maybe I don’t.”
“Maybe I’ll believe you when I see it start even a little. And meanwhile, this paranoia problem, don’t kid yourself. That’s the weed too.”
“Now I’ve got a paranoia problem.”
“Your testimony issues? We just had a fight about them? Hello?”
“You’re wrong. You’re just plain wrong.”
“I really don’t think so.” She crossed over to the door. “I really don’t, Craig. And in the meanwhile, I’m just plain gone.”
In the living room of his Marina mansion Harlen Fisk hit the remote switch and turned off the television right after the nightly news. He and Kathy had in fact made quite a splash by showing up today in the courtroom, and the networks had played it up in a gratifying way. The city wasn’t coming close yet to an election cycle, so in spite of the negative connotations being slung around about his connection to Joel’s development deals and his sister’s coffee shop, the general rule of thumb was that the more your name appeared in the media, the better your chances to get elected.
And getting elected was what Harlen was all about.
Still, he couldn’t help but be disappointed in his sister. As a matter of fact, disappointed was hardly the word.
Well, he told himself, I’m not going to think about Maya now—what her future might be like if in fact she got convicted and sent to jail. That wasn’t his fault; it was her doing. Her clueless, stubborn nature.
If she had only kept her mouth shut. That had been Harlen’s intent in putting her in touch with Hardy in the first place. A good lawyer should in theory have kept her from admitting anything that put her near any of the murders. But by the time she’d gotten with Hardy, she’d already told the police that she’d been out at church that morning, and somehow the fear that she’d be caught in that lie had led her to compound the injury by confessing to both the lie and her whereabouts near the time of the murder.
Which put her in their sights.
Stop. Don’t keep worrying this to death, he told himself. Get up. Go to bed.
But his body didn’t respond. He sat there with the reading lamp on next to him, his hands crossed over his comfortable-looking stomach, which tonight felt suddenly knotted with tension.
“Babe?” His wife, Jeannette, looking in. “Are you all right? Are you coming to bed?”
“In a minute.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“This trial. Maya. The whole thing.”
She came into the room, pulled up an ottoman, and sat on it. She was tall, solidly built, athletic, with shoulder-length blond hair encircling a wholesome, all-American face. “I’ll talk about it if you want.”
He smiled at her. “I would have thought you’d have been sick of it by now.”
“I might be sick of it, but I’m not too tired to talk about it
if you want to.”
He paused a moment. “I just marvel that she can be so dumb. Sticking with the story that she didn’t know much about the weed. I mean, come on, I knew about it, everybody knew about it.”
Her forehead creased in a look of concern. “I don’t think I knew that. You knew Dylan? How well did you know him?”
He waved that away. “I met him first when he was her boyfriend for a while when they were in college. Then again when Maya hired him, just after he got out of jail. I told her it was a mistake. And of course, she listened to me as much as she always does, which is not at all.”
“Harlen, come on. She listens to you.”
“Maybe listens, but doesn’t hear. I told her this dope stuff could be a problem a couple of years ago, told her to fire him. No chance.”
“Why not?”
“She was saving him, I think. This messianic complex she’s got. She’s got everything and she’s so lucky and so she’s got to help losers to balance the scales or something. Not realizing, of course, about the people who are covering for her.”
“You mean you?”
“Let me just ask you,” he said. “Who’s got her kids right now?”
“I don’t mind that. They’re good kids.”
“No argument. But they’re not ours, are they? And you and me, we didn’t sign on for the little darlings, did we?” Sighing, he went on. “She shouldn’t even be in this at all. I told her not to go down there. Six in the morning? I mean, what kind of hour for a meeting is that? And why do these things with her become my problems?”
“I didn’t know you’d talked to her. When was that?”
Again, he waved off her question. “The night before. She called and asked me what I’d do. I told her to call him back and find out what was so important, but again, naturally . . .” He turned a palm over, meaning she’d ignored his suggestion. He let out a long breath, his head shaking from side to side. “And then there’s this Levon thing too.”
“The other victim?”
He nodded. “Levon Preslee. Actually not a bad guy.”
“You knew him too?”
He faked a short-lived smile. “Hey, I’m a politician. I know everybody.”
“So what is this Levon thing?”
“He gets out of jail, he comes to my sweet little sister to help him out, since she helped Dylan when he got out. And if you haven’t guessed yet, these guys—Levon and Dylan—still talk to each other. So I know people, right? It’s what I do. So way back then I put him in with Jon Francona over at ACT, and it worked out pretty good until . . . well, until last fall.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. So, well, the point is, why I might be thinking about this stuff right now, and getting a little edgy about it, is Jon Francona died two years ago, so nobody in the world, besides my sister and you, has got or knows of any connection between me and Levon Preslee, and I’m just a little wee bit concerned that along with this forfeiture stuff we’re all wrestling with, somebody’s going to pull that up and wave it in my face too. And don’t get me wrong, I love the publicity and all, but I think that might actually do me some harm.”
“Well”—Jeannette reached out and put her hands on her husband’s knees—“nobody’s going to fault you for helping the poor man out all those years ago.”
“Nobody’s going to know, Jeannette. Nobody can entertain the thought even for a minute that I knew this guy from Adam.” He let out a last deep sigh. “I mean, I keep telling myself Maya put herself in this position. I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to let her get herself out of it. I can’t cover for her anymore, or else everything we’ve got is at risk.”
“Come on, hon. I think that must be a bit of an exaggeration.”
Harlen chewed at the inside of his cheek and pushed himself up out of his recliner. “Not really,” he said. “Not too much.”
25
Paul Stier’s first witness the next morning was San Francisco’s ancient medical examiner, Dr. John Strout. The good doctor had been a fixture in and around the Hall of Justice for over forty years and had appeared in court at least a thousand times, maybe more. Tall, with wispy white hair and positively gaunt instead of merely thin, he’d somehow evaded the mandatory retirement he should have taken the better part of a decade ago. But no one was pushing for it, because he remained highly and universally respected. His voice and manner retained a casual authority and easy affability that his Southern drawl only accented.
Now he sat back, comfortable, and waited while Stier positioned the poster board with the mounted autopsy photographs on the tripod next to the witness box, where both Strout and the jury could see. In many trials Strout’s testimony, which concerned itself with the cause and basic fact of a victim’s death, might have a huge impact on the verdict. The patterns of bruises on the deceased’s body could be highly significant. The shape of an injury could identify or eliminate an object as a possible murder weapon. Other, more subtle distinctions—blood alcohol levels, scans for various drugs or poisons—could be spun in myriad ways to cast doubt or lay blame.
But today, no one expected much in the way of fireworks from Strout’s testimony. In fact, after the previous day’s nearly unrelenting drama, the courtroom—sans mayor and supervisor—had nowhere near the buzz Hardy had expected. And this was a relief. After his conversation with Gina and Wyatt last night, he’d come to accept their mutual view that maybe Kathy and Harlen’s presence wasn’t doing his client as much good as they’d hoped.
So Strout’s testimony was going to establish conclusively that there were in fact two dead people, killed at the hands of another. Nevertheless, you never knew exactly what was going to come up in live testimony, and Hardy was paying close attention as Stier took the small pile of photos from the last juror to have viewed them, placed them with the other marked exhibits, and walked to the center of the room.
“Dr. Strout,” he said. “To begin with Dylan Vogler, the gunshot victim. Were you able to determine the time of death?”
“No.” He looked over to the jury box, speaking to them in an avuncular tone. “When the medical technicians arrived, he was warm to the touch. That suggests, for example, that he hadn’t been in the alley overnight, but I can’t say more than that.”
“What killed Mr. Vogler?”
“A gunshot wound to the chest.”
“Please describe the injury.”
Strout did so—the entrance, the exit, the track through the body—and Stier took it from there. “How quickly would an injury like this be likely to incapacitate the victim?”
“The bullet went in his chest and then right through his heart. Most people would collapse immediately from the injury and die shortly thereafter.”
“Doctor, would you tell the jury what defense wounds are?”
“Defense wounds are injuries typically sustained when the deceased tries to ward off blows or an attack. Injuries to the hands, for example, or forearms, usually. Sometimes to the legs.”
“Did you find any defense wounds on Mr. Vogler?”
“No.”
“Any abrasions, scrapes, cuts, or bruises to suggest he had been in a fight or struggle?”
“No. I can’t say there were.”
“In fact, did Mr. Vogler have any sign of injury of any kind except the gunshot wound that killed him?”
“No.” In other words, Hardy thought, Vogler either knew his attacker or was shot without any warning, or both. But Strout had one last word. “It was a pretty efficient killing.”
Hardy could have objected to this gratuitous comment—it wasn’t in answer to one of Stier’s questions—but it wouldn’t have accomplished anything, and he decided to let the prosecutor go on.
“Dr. Strout, moving on to the other victim, then, Levon Preslee. Again, can you tell the jury about the cause of death of this victim?”
“Surely. The victim died from injuries sustained by blows to the top of the head from some sort of a bladed object that cracked his skull, causin
g massive brain trauma and hemorrhage.”
“And were you able to determine, Doctor, what time it was when death occurred?”
“No.”
Hardy knew that this was a made-for-television question. The public had become so inundated with the pseudoscience of prime-time TV that they expected all sorts of forensic miracles. Stier simply wanted to dispel the popular notion that you could tell when someone was killed and that therefore the prosecution had been negligent in not presenting that evidence.
But Strout amplified anyway. “The body had achieved ambient temperature.”
“And again, same question as with Mr. Vogler, Doctor. Were there any signs of defense wounds on Mr. Preslee’s body?”
“No.”
“And how quickly did this injury kill Mr. Preslee?”
“Just about immediately. He would have been stunned and probably rendered unconscious by the force of the first blow and died soon after. Maybe not as immediate as the bullet through the heart, but pretty quick. Within a minute outside.”
Stier checked the jury to make sure they understood the violent, gruesome, bloody nature of this attack, which, if it had been perpetrated by Maya, painted her as a monster. But he wasn’t quite finished yet. “A couple of clarifications, Doctor. You said blows. How many times was the victim hit?”
“Twice. Although either one would have been plenty.”
Hardy saw the effect this small sentence had on the jury, as a couple of the members actually flinched, imagining the moment.
“And again,” Stier went on, “you said the blows were struck by a bladed object. Can you explain what you mean by that?”
Over the next ten minutes Stier and Strout nailed down all the details of the attack on Levon Preslee—the damage done and use of the dull edge of the cleaver, the attack from directly behind the unsuspecting and probably stoned victim. No surprise, Preslee’s blood tested positive for THC, the active ingredient in marijuana. Overall, Hardy thought, the effect of the testimony painted a coherent scenario of two apparent friends sharing a doob and then one of them going behind the other and launching a premeditated, grisly, and murderous attack.
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