If any kind of significance came to attach itself to these details, and so far none did, he’d have to try to find out from Catherine. Maybe she knew how Missy and Paul had specifically connected. There had to have been a mutual friend or acquaintance. Hardy didn’t believe Paul had just picked Missy up somewhere, although, of course, that was also a possibility. Maybe Missy had in fact set her sights on Paul, just as his ex-wife and children suspected, for his wealth and standing.
The galling thing was that he didn’t even know why he was continuing with the exercise. Studying numbers, going over the monthly statements page by agonizing page. Deposits, withdrawals, deposits, withdrawals. At one point he looked up and said aloud, “Who cares?” But he kept up the routine. Halfway through, he made himself a double shot of espresso and brought it back to his desk.
No word at all yet from Wes Farrell.
When he finished he checked his watch again and saw that it was nearly nine. He stood and closed the folder, leaving it on the center of his blotter. All that work, like so much of trial preparation, to no avail. The worst thing about it, he thought, was that you very rarely knew what you’d need, so you had to know everything.
Cricking his back, he brought his coffee cup over to the sink, then crossed to the door and opened it. He vaguely remembered a knock on that door in the past hour or so, one of the associates telling him she was leaving, he was the last one left in the building if he wanted to set the alarm on the way out.
In the lobby, dim pinpoints of ceiling lights kept the place from being completely dark, but it was still a far cry from the bright bustling business environment it assumed during the day. Off to his right, through its immense windows, the Solarium’s plants and ferns and trees cast strange, shape-shifting shadows that seemed to move, which made no sense in the empty space. Hardy had once had some bad luck in the supposedly empty office, and now curious, he walked over and opened the door to the room. A small bird—sparrows got in through the side door from time to time—swooped down out of one of the trees and landed in the center of the conference table, where it eyed him with a distant curiosity.
Hardy flicked on the lights and walked around the outside of the room. At the door that led out to the small patch of ground that held the memorial bench they’d installed in honor of David Freeman, he stopped and turned. The sparrow was still watching him, too. Hardy opened the door all the way and went outside.
The sides of buildings rose on three sides around him. The “memorial garden” existed thirty-six feet above the Sutter Street sidewalk, with a grilled fence along the parapet on the open side. Hardy sat down on the Freeman bench. It was very still here, and quite dark, with only the barest of muffled sounds coming up from the city below.
He let his burning eyes go closed. His breathing slowed. The passage of time ceased.
And then, suddenly, wide awake, he sat up straight, hyperaware of the silence and emptiness around him. He brought his right hand up to his forehead, whispering,
“Wait.” Staring unseeing for another several seconds into the open space in front of him, his head pitched slightly to the side, he sat as if turned to stone. He dared not move, afraid that the still-evanescent thought might vanish with as little warning as it had arrived. He looked at it from one angle, then another, trying to dislodge the force of it. There was the fact itself, and then, far more important, there was what it meant. What it had to mean.
What it could mean nothing else but.
When it appeared that the idea had set—unnoticed by Hardy, the sparrow had flown out to the bench, then off into the night—he went back inside, closing the door behind him. Back at his desk, he hesitated one more moment before opening the folder again.
It was still there, the fact that had finally penetrated. The only significant detail in the mass of minutiae. Just where it had been before, and not a mirage at all.
30
“It’s not a trick question, Your Honor.” Hardy was in Braun’s chamber first thing in the morning, on three hours of sleep, and was aware that a bit of testiness had found its way into his voice. It didn’t bother him too much. “I’m trying to accommodate my witnesses, some of whom, Mr. Rosen might admit, have lives outside of the courtroom. If they are not going to be needed until tomorrow or even next week, I’d like to let them go home or back to their jobs.”
“Reasonable enough, Mr. Rosen,” Braun said. “Let’s answer Mr. Hardy’s question, shall we? Is Theresa Hanover your last witness?”
“I don’t know how long she’ll be on the stand, Your Honor,” Rosen said.
“Then it’ll be a surprise for all of us. What’s your problem here?”
“No problem, Your Honor. I like to keep my options open.”
Hardy knew that Braun was not a fan of sarcasm, and so tried with some success to keep the irony in his tone to an acceptable level. “If he changes his mind and calls another witness, Your Honor, you have my word I won’t appeal.”
Braun’s reaction showed that he’d come close, but after the quick squint at him, she directed her words to Rosen. “Defense counsel will not hold you to your statement here, all right? Now, barring last-minute decisions that you’ll have every right to make, do the people currently plan to rest after Theresa Hanover’s testimony is complete?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she said, “Mr. Hardy, you’ve got your witnesses here, I take it.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good, then . . .” She started to rise from her couch, pulling her robes around her.
But Hardy interrupted. “There is one other small point we need to discuss, though.”
With a frown and a grunt of disapproval, the judge lowered herself back onto the cushions. “And that is?”
“Before I begin my case in chief, I’d like to recall one of the state’s witnesses for further cross-examination.”
Rosen didn’t want any part of this, and shaking his head in disbelief at his opponent’s gall, he immediately spoke up in both outrage and indignation. “Your Honor! Mr. Hardy has had his fair chance to cross-examine every one of my witnesses, and now because perhaps he’s remembered something that he’s overlooked or should have asked the first time, he shouldn’t be allowed a second chance. He can just call the witness during his case.”
Hardy simply stood at ease, a bland expression on his face, his eyes on the judge. “Your Honor,” he said, “further cross-examination of this witness may materially change the way I present my defense.”
Rosen didn’t believe it. “Sure it will. So first we’re supposed to let you know who I’m calling today so you can accommodate your witnesses, and then I tell you and you’re stalling anyway.” Though he’d addressed Hardy directly, and not the court, Braun didn’t seem to notice this morning. “I don’t have any other witnesses in court today except Theresa and Sergeant Cuneo. Anybody else we’ll have to subpoena again. It could take weeks. Is it one of them?” Rosen asked.
“Do you want to play twenty questions?” Hardy asked. He turned to the judge. “This is ridiculous, Your Honor. I’ve already spoken to the witness just last night and he told me he’d be happy to come down and talk on the record. He is in fact in this building right now. I didn’t need a subpoena to get him to do it. He’s interested in the truth.”
This brought a guffaw from Rosen. “I bet.”
Braun turned on him. “Now that will be enough, Mr. Rosen. Mr. Hardy, who is this witness?”
“Dr. Yamashiru.”
“And you say he’s here now?”
“Outside in the hallway, Your Honor. I talked to him just before we came in here. There will be no delay at all.”
“And your cross-examination will focus on what he’s already testified to?”
“Yes, Your Honor. In light of these new facts. His testimony is of course central to the people’s case, and I believe these new facts will be critical if the j
ury is to reach a just verdict.”
“Would you care to share these facts with the court back here?”
“If it please the court, Dr. Yamashiru’s testimony will speak for itself.”
Rosen couldn’t hold back from addressing Hardy directly. “So now you’re withholding discovery?” Turning to the judge, “Your Honor, this is both blatant and outrageous.”
“But,” Braun countered, “legal. If he calls his own witness, he has to give you his statements, as you know. If he recalls one of yours, it’s just further cross and he doesn’t.” She turned to Hardy. “This had better be further cross, Counselor, and not new material.”
Braun wasn’t sure that she liked it, but Hardy’s motion specifically excluded questions that he might have neglected to ask through oversight or error the first time Yamashiru had testified. She knew that new facts sometimes did get discovered in the middle of a trial, and when they were legitimate, should be admitted. Braun let out a heavy sigh, gathered her robes around her again, and this time stood all the way up. “How much time are we talking about, Mr. Hardy?”
“A half hour, I’d say, at the most.”
“Mr. Rosen, any objection if he goes first? Get it out of the way.”
At last Rosen seemed to understand the way the wind was blowing. “If it’s really a half hour, Your Honor, I have no objection.”
It didn’t even take half of a half an hour.
Braun succinctly explained the situation to the jury, and then Hardy called back up to the stand the forensic odontologist who’d identified Missy D’Amiens by her dental records.
The clerk reminded Yamashiru that he was still under oath, and he said he understood that and sat erect in the witness box. He was a medium-sized, wiry man in his early fifties, well dressed in a dark gray suit and a modern-looking, multicolored tie. His attitude was of expectancy, even eagerness. Recognizing his patient Catherine Hanover at the defense table, he gave her a friendly, though discreet, nod.
Hardy noticed it and hoped some of the jurors had seen it as well. Anything to humanize the defendant. He held some loose papers in his hand—the “dailies” from the day earlier that Yamashiru had been on the stand testifying for nearly two hours. He’d studied them this morning at his dining room table just after he’d gotten up an hour before dawn. Now, in the courtroom, he stood six feet in front of his witness and bowed slightly. “Dr. Yamashiru, since it’s been a while since you gave your testimony, I wanted to review for a moment the thrust of what you said the last time you were here. It is true that Missy D’Amiens had dental work done at your office on several occasions between . . .”
Keeping it concise but detailed enough to jog the memories of the jurors who, like Hardy, had possibly slept through parts of Yamashiru’s earlier testimony, he brought the witness up to the present. “And you concluded, did you not, Doctor, based on your expertise and experience, that the dental records identified in your office as those of Missy D’Amiens correlated exactly with those of the female victim of the fire in this case?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Exactly?”
“Exactly. There was no doubt whatever.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Hardy took a surreptitious deep breath as he walked back to the defense table where Catherine sat staring at him with a laserlike intensity, a mixture of fear and faith. He hadn’t had time to meet with her before they got to the courtroom today, and even if he’d found the time to talk to her in the holding cell, he wasn’t completely sure he would have told her his plans. Until it was done, it wasn’t done, and he was loath to raise her hopes.
Walking back to his place in front of the witness, he said, “Doctor, did you yourself do any dental work on Missy D’Amiens?”
“No.”
Even through the security doors, Hardy was aware of the expectant buzz in the gallery. But he dared not pause. “No, you were not her dentist?”
“Not personally. She came to my office, but the work was done by my associate, Dr. Kevin Lee.”
“And is Dr. Lee still with your practice, Doctor?”
“No. He opened his own shop in San Mateo about a year ago.”
“Think back carefully, Doctor. Do you recall if you ever actually met Missy D’Amiens yourself ?”
It took Yamashiru twenty seconds, an eternity in a courtroom. “No, I can’t say that I did.”
“And yet you identified her records?”
“Yes, well, I had the records. I examined the records. They were in her name.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Back at the defense table, Hardy reached over and squeezed Catherine’s hand, and then straightened up and turned back around. He walked to the table off to the right of the jury box that held the prosecution and defense numbered and lettered exhibits. There he picked up the eight-by-ten original photograph of Missy D’Amiens that he’d introduced for his cross-examination of Maxine Willis as Defense Exhibit A. Turning again, he faced the judge. “May it please the court,” he said, “I am holding in my hand a photograph earlier designated as Defense Exhibit A. I’d like to pass it around the jury if I may.”
Hardy waited in suspended tension as the photograph made its silent way down the front row of six, then to the back row—man, woman, man, man. And at last it was back in his hand.
Taking another breath to calm his nerves, now jangling, he advanced right up to the jury box. “Dr. Yamashiru,” he said, “would you please take a careful look at this picture and tell the members of the jury who it is a picture of?”
“Yes, it’s Missy D’Amiens.”
“Doctor, if you never met her, how do you know that?”
“Well, I guess first because Inspector Cuneo told me it was her when he showed me the picture, and then of course I saw her picture in the papers, too.”
“Please think back, Doctor. When Inspector Cuneo showed you this photo, it was a single photo, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m sure it was.”
“And he didn’t ask you if it was Missy D’Amiens. He told you it was, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So, Doctor, you merely confirmed what the inspector already knew, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor, if I told you that your former associate, Dr. Lee, who actually worked on the patient, told me just last night that this was not the person whom he knew as Missy D’Amiens, would you have any reason to doubt him?”
Yamashiru paused again. “No.”
Behind Hardy, an audible gasp rippled through the courtroom. He heard Catherine’s restrained “Oh, God,” and one of the jurors swore under his breath. Up on the bench, Braun looked for a moment almost as though she’d been struck.
But Hardy didn’t savor the moment. He needed to nail it down for the record. “Dr. Yamashiru,” he said, “I’d ask you to please take another moment to look at this picture. And once again I’d ask you, outside of what you’ve read or been told, do you know who this woman is?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen her before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Has she ever personally been a patient of yours?”
“No.”
Suddenly, Hardy felt the strain go out of his shoulders. He drew a breath, let it out, and addressed the judge. “Your Honor, the defense will be adding Dr. Kevin Lee to our witness list.”
Catherine gripped his hand as he came back to the defense table. “How can that be?” she asked. “What does it mean?” She brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it. “Oh, thank you, thank you.” Hardy brought both of their hands back down to the table, covered hers with both of his, firmly. “Easy,” he said. “Easy. It’s not over.”
All around them, in the gallery as well as the jury box, pandemonium had broken loose and Braun was gaveling to get her courtroom back under control. To Hardy’s left, Rosen was on his feet as though he were going to ask some questions of Dr. Yamashiru, but he hadn’t yet moved from the prosecution’s table. Beside him, Cuneo slumped,
head in his hands. Their case was suddenly in shambles and everyone in the courtroom knew it.
Rosen threw a look over to Hardy, then brought his eyes back front. Gradually, as order was restored, Braun seemed to remember that she still had a witness on the stand. “Mr. Rosen,” she intoned, almost gently, “redirect?”
Shell-shocked, Rosen opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t manage a syllable.
Hardy saw his opening and decided to take it. Normally, in a largely pro forma gesture, the defense would make an oral pitch for a directed verdict of acquittal at the close of the prosecution’s case in chief. This 1118.1 motion asked the judge to rule that as a matter of law the prosecution hadn’t presented a sufficient weight of evidence to satisfy its burden of proof. Therefore, without the defense even having to present its case, the defendant should be released. In practice, the release of a defendant in this manner was a rare event indeed.
But it did happen on occasion. There was ample precedent, and Hardy thought that if ever a directed verdict were called for, it would be now. After all, Catherine was charged with killing Missy D’Amiens. If she wasn’t the victim in this case, if Missy wasn’t in fact even dead for certain, and that now appeared to be the case, then that charge against Catherine became moot. Even more satisfyingly, the botched identification of one of the victims underscored the ineptness and even prejudice of the original police investigation. If they couldn’t even get the victim right, how was the jury going to believe anything else they proposed?
The Motive Page 40
