The Mia Quinn Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  He stepped back. “And now, without further ado, may I present you the case of Bill Jones. Mr. Jones has been charged with attempted murder in the shooting of a grocery store clerk. Both the clerk, John Doe, and a customer, Mary Smith, have positively identified Mr. Jones as the shooter. Mirroring real life, Mr. Hall will play the part of defense counsel, and Ms. Quinn will play the part of prosecutor. The witness they are interviewing will be played by your fellow classmate, Jocelyn Daugherty. And I will be the judge.”

  To a smattering of applause, Titus took the judge’s chair while Eli and Mia sat at their respective tables. The room was designed like a miniature courtroom. Jocelyn took her seat in the witness box. Eli got to his feet. “So, Dr. Daugherty, we met for the first time yesterday?”

  This was actually true, aside from the “Dr.” part. Jocelyn was in Mia’s class, and she and Eli had met to review her testimony.

  “Yes.”

  “And we’ve talked on the phone, of course?”

  “A few times.”

  If he were Mia, he would bring up how much the witness would be paid for testifying. The best defense was a good offense, so he raised the issue himself. “And, of course, Dr. Daugherty, you expect to receive compensation for the research that I’ve asked you to do and for your time appearing here?”

  She nodded. “I hope so, yes.”

  “But your compensation is not based upon whether we win or lose, is it?”

  “No, absolutely not,” she said firmly.

  Eli took her through a series of questions about how a witness’s testimony could be affected by the way questions were asked, by how lineups were conducted, or even by something as small as a cop’s facial expression or tone of voice. Jocelyn answered confidently.

  It was a line of questioning Eli had taken dozens of times in real life. He was trying to negate the eyewitnesses’ testimonies, not by impugning their character, but by showing that memory was far from a video camera that accurately recorded events for later review. That memory was, instead, malleable and suggestible.

  He went on for another ten minutes before turning the witness over to Mia.

  Mia strolled over to the other woman, but her first question was anything but casual. “A lot of people in your field—psychologists and psychiatrists—would say it’s just kind of a commonsense thing that you come in and testify about, right?”

  Jocelyn tried not to fall into the trap. “I think it’s misleading to say a ‘lot of people.’ ”

  Mia cocked her head. “Reputable people in your field say that, though, don’t they?”

  Jocelyn hesitated. “A few reputable people might express that opinion. A few.”

  “But basically what you testify about is not really hard science, is it? It’s more soft science, right?” Mia nodded her head as she spoke.

  Jocelyn caught herself before she was halfway through her first reciprocal nod. “I don’t think people in my field would call it that, no.”

  “You don’t?” After her rhetorical question, Mia didn’t pause. “Okay. In your vita, I see a list of the many articles and books that you’ve written. You’ve also testified in 171 trials. All of these have to do with all sorts of things around memory and perception, right?”

  Jocelyn was back on more comfortable ground. “Yes.”

  Mia took another swipe. “Is there anything at all about memory or perception that you don’t make money off of?”

  Indignation straightened Jocelyn’s shoulders. She was fully invested in her role. “There’s plenty that I don’t make money off of, like freeing innocent people from prison pro bono.”

  Mia cocked her head. “I’m sorry. What was that answer again?”

  “Some of my pro bono work is freeing the innocent.”

  “Are you here today pro bono?”

  A pause. “No.”

  Mia said, “When did you arrive in Seattle for this case?”

  “About four o’clock yesterday.”

  “And who paid for your plane ticket?”

  “The defense.”

  Mia leaned in. “Who paid for your hotel room?”

  “I did,” Jocelyn answered.

  Mia feigned surprise. “They’re not going to reimburse you?”

  “Well, I hope they will, but I paid for it when I checked out this morning.”

  “And where did you stay last night?”

  “At the Hilton.”

  Mia echoed her words. “At the Hilton.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at the students who were playing the part of the jury, inviting them to think about how nice a stay at the Hilton might be. After a moment she added, “And all of your meals, while you’re here in town, you’re going to be reimbursed for?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all the time you spent on the phone with the defense counsel—you get reimbursed for that?”

  Jocelyn was struggling not to fall into the trap of answering yes, yes, yes. “I hope to be compensated for my time, yes.”

  “And any research you did for this case, no matter how unimportant it was, you hope to be reimbursed for?”

  “I hope so, yes.”

  “What is your typical charge by the hour?”

  “Well, it depends. If I’m doing it pro bono, it’s nothing. I sometimes charge five hundred dollars an hour for my time.” Even the make-believe jury murmured a bit at the number.

  “Does that include while you’re on an airplane?”

  “Well, generally I charge for up to a maximum of twelve-hour days when I’m out of town.” Jocelyn shot Eli a desperate glance before trying to blunt the force of Mia’s charges. “Even if I spend sixteen hours on a given day, I would only charge for twelve.”

  Mia would not be deterred. “So that could possibly include time spent going to the bathroom in this courthouse?”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  “It could?”

  “It could,” Jocelyn finally conceded. On direct examination, she had calmly answered questions. But now she was flustered, and it wasn’t just that she was a law student playing an expert. Even a real expert would probably be reacting the same way.

  Mia summed it up. “So when you add all that up, plane ticket here, hotel room, meals, plane ticket home, telephone calls, any research, going to the bathroom, putting on your makeup this morning, sitting up there in that chair, the grand total that you’re going to submit to defense counsel when you’re all done with this is going to be how much?”

  If this had been a real case, Eli would have been sweating bullets by now. As it was, he made mental notes. And was oddly thankful that a public defender’s budget rarely ran to that kind of money.

  Jocelyn answered, “On the order of ten thousand dollars. Approximately.”

  The jury would now be considering the amount of work done and asking themselves if she was worth $10,000. And if she wasn’t, then why was the defense willing to pay for it? They would wonder if Eli was, in effect, buying her testimony.

  Mia was dismantling the witness, and there was little he could do to stop it.

  “You’ve already told us that you have testified over 171 times,” she said. “I guess the meter’s ticking. Is this 172?”

  After a pause, Jocelyn found her voice. “Approximately.”

  Eli jumped to his feet. “Judge, I object to the sidebar remark about the meter ticking. It’s disrespectful.”

  Titus said, “That’s sustained.”

  But the damage had been done, and everyone in the room knew it. As a witness for Eli, Jocelyn had shown that memory could be influenced by many things. But once Mia had gotten her hands on her, Mia had also shown that money could influence testimony.

  Maybe even buy it.

  CHAPTER 22

  When Mia came home from the law school and opened the front door, tendrils of eye-watering gray smoke swirled out, undulating under the porch light.

  She burst into a run. Where were the kids? Why wasn’t the smoke alarm going off? Coughing, eyes stinging, s
he followed the source of the smoke into the kitchen, where she found Gabe standing on a chair underneath the smoke alarm. He was holding the battery.

  “What happened?” A charred lump that looked like it had once been a white paper bag lay in the sink, floating in water gray with ash.

  “I was making popcorn for a snack.” He jumped down from the chair. “I guess it cooked too long.” He looked so nonchalant that Mia wanted to scream.

  Her heart began to slow down. “Where’s your sister?”

  “In the family room.”

  “How many times have I told you to wait by the microwave so you can hear if it’s stopped popping?”

  Gabe looked at Mia blankly, as if this admonition was falling on the same deaf ears her original advice had. Smoke was still curling from the vents of the microwave oven.

  “Never mind. Just turn on the fan and then open the front and side doors. Maybe we can get some airflow going.” On the way to the family room, she jabbed the thermostat button until it dropped to fifty-five. No point in trying to heat the outdoors.

  The smoke was making her cough, but Brooke seemed oblivious. At the sight of Mia, her face lit up.

  “Mommy, Mommy, look! I learned how to do a headstand.” Her pink pillow, the one with a cartoon princess on it, was against one wall of the family room. Brooke knelt and pressed the top of her head on it, her hands braced on the floor for balance. She kicked up her legs, got about halfway up, and then fell back.

  Undeterred, she demanded, “Hold my legs!”

  Mia thought of everything she had to do. The smoke that had to be shooed out somehow, the dinner yet to be made, the pile of unopened mail, the clothes that had to be washed if Brooke was going to have clean pants to wear to school.

  And then she remembered yesterday, of how she had thought she’d lost both Gabe and Brooke.

  “Okay, honey.”

  She stepped forward, and when Brooke tried again, Mia grabbed her legs and lifted them into place up so that the little girl was doing a headstand.

  “Wow! Look at you!”

  A huge grin split Brooke’s reddening upside-down face. “I know! I’m an expert at this.”

  “Great job!” Mia loosened her grip.

  “No! You have to keep holding me up, Mommy!” And then Brooke fell silent, seemingly content to work on setting the world’s record for longest assisted headstand.

  After what seemed like five minutes, Mia tried to twist her wrist to look at her watch, but Brooke listed sideways. Mia let go. As soon as her feet hit the ground, Brooke started to pout.

  “I want to do it again. I need you to help me stay up, Mommy.”

  “I can’t right now, honey. I have to make us dinner. And help your brother get the smoke out of the house.”

  “But I need you to help me now!” It was the simple logic of kids. For that matter, it was the simple logic of most of the people in Mia’s life. Frank didn’t care what else she had on her plate, just that she take care of the shopping cart case. Even Charlie wanted her to start digging into Scott’s past until it yielded up all his secrets.

  “It will have to wait until after dinner.” Which she had better make fast if she wanted to have Brooke bathed and in bed by a decent hour. Which meant checking the freezer and seeing what she had on hand that was heat-and-eat. Preferably nothing that needed to be microwaved.

  Gabe was still in the kitchen, but now he was swinging the door open and closed. She wasn’t sure how much it was helping, but the smoke was lessening. Or maybe she was just getting used to it. After rummaging through the freezer, she came up with some frozen orange chicken, Asian mixed vegetables, and precooked brown rice. God bless Trader Joe’s.

  “Why don’t you just concentrate on getting rid of the popcorn bag and cleaning out the sink?” she told Gabe. She put a frying pan on the stove, opened all three bags, and dumped them in.

  There were days she looked at his dark hair and eyes and saw Scott so strongly she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. But today she also thought of those boys on the videotape. A poor choice, an impulsive mistake—what fourteen- or fifteen-year-old didn’t make them? What good would trying those boys as adults do? She could fill Gabe’s ear with threats about what would happen if he didn’t look both ways, wear his helmet, pay attention to the popcorn in the microwave. But half the time, it seemed to her, the words slithered out his other ear without his even being aware of them. It was hard to believe that bringing the hammer down on those two boys would actually make other kids stop and think.

  But if it didn’t deter crime, then what was the purpose of the justice system, the institution Mia had dedicated her life to? Rehabilitation? In that case, only the juvenile justice system was really geared to try to straighten out wrongdoers, regarding kids as more malleable. Adult prisoners were largely forgotten, especially in these days of budget cuts.

  Or was the system really about punishment? She thought of the Old Testament, with its eye for an eye. Or one of those countries where thieves were still punished by having a hand lopped off. Could she justify locking up two kids for years and years for a prank gone wrong? Even a prank that had left a woman in a hospital bed? No matter what happened to them, it wouldn’t reverse Tamsin’s injuries.

  Gabe came back from throwing the burned bag in the trash. “Mom. I think your food’s burning.”

  She had been so engrossed in thought that she had stopped stirring. “Oops!” She avoided Gabe’s eye as she turned off the burner, then divided up the food. Would Brooke eat much of it? Doubtful. To supplement, she put a bagel on her daughter’s plate. What did they have for fruit? Was there some canned pineapple in the cupboard?

  The shelves were far less crowded than she remembered. Where were the chili and canned soup and even the SpaghettiOs only Brooke liked? Mia had to go grocery shopping, and soon. Did all fourteen-year-old boys eat as if they had a hollow leg they had to fill up first?

  Dinner passed in a blur. She got Gabe to load the dishwasher while she assisted Brooke in two more headstands, then gave her a quick bath and helped her brush her teeth. Mia was so tired that when she lay down by Brooke to read her a story, she worried she might fall asleep before Brooke did.

  She had finished one book and was about to start on another when Brooke looked at the photo of Scott that Mia had framed and put by the bed. Her round blue eyes swung back to Mia.

  “Are you still mad at Daddy?”

  CHAPTER 23

  What?” Mia asked as a bubble expanded in her chest. “I’m not mad at Daddy.”

  Did Brooke even understand that Scott was dead? Really dead? Sometimes it felt as if her daughter thought the whole thing was temporary.

  Brooke didn’t answer.

  “Do you think I’m mad at Daddy, honey?” It was getting harder to force out the words past the growing pressure. “Because I’m not.”

  Brooke just looked at Mia for a long moment, then closed her eyes.

  “Brooke?”

  “Be quiet, Mommy. I’m sleeping.”

  Are you still mad at Daddy? She was mad at Scott. Mad at him for dying. Mad at him for drinking. For drinking and driving and dying. And now she was mad at him for cheating on her. For spending money he didn’t have—had never had—to buy his girlfriend a diamond ring. And if Charlie was right, Mia would probably soon be mad at Scott for whatever secret had led to his murder.

  Before she went to bed, Mia made sure the house was locked up tight and the alarm set. Normally she only set the alarm when everyone was away from the house. But things were no longer normal, not even the new normal she had fallen into since returning to work. When she passed Gabe’s room she stuck her head in to say hello. He mumbled an answer, his eyes on his computer screen, but then he shook the hair out of his eyes and gave her a sweet smile.

  In her room she took a deep breath before opening up the copies of the reports that Charlie had made for her. But she saw only print and the freehand illustration of the accident scene that he had shown her earl
ier. He hadn’t copied the photos. Mia was grateful for that.

  The first page of the accident report contained the sketch of the scene, as well as boxes and blank lines that the responding officer had filled out. Mia’s eyes skittered over them.

  Weather condition: overcast

  Road condition: damp

  Restraints in use: no

  Airbag deployment: both driver and passenger side

  Accident classification: fatal

  The second page held the meat of the report:

  Summary of Accident:

  V-1, driven by Scott Quinn, was n/b in the n/b lane of Vollhanger Road, when his vehicle veered to the right, drove off the unpaved shoulder, then struck a tree, causing major damage to the right front end of V-1. There were no other vehicles involved. Quinn was declared dead at the scene. POI was 1150 feet south of the north curb line of Hillcrest Drive, and 7 feet west of the west curb line of Vollhanger Road.

  Responding Officer’s Statement:

  On 4-09-2013 at approximately 11:17 p.m. I was dispatched to a single-car accident in the northbound lane of Vollhanger Road. I arrived at scene within 10 minutes of the original call to find a 2007 Buick LeSabre with extensive damage off to the north side of the road. It was occupied by a deceased male. I photographed the scene, then the Medical Examiner’s Office removed the body and took it to the Coroner.

  I interviewed Alvin Turner, who stated that he was traveling north on Vollhanger Road when he observed a blue Buick LeSabre pass him at what appeared to be a high rate of speed. He honked his horn but was ignored. He said the driver appeared to be swerving. About 10 minutes later, he came across the Buick LeSabre, which had left the road and hit a tree. He stopped to assist the driver but found him deceased. He then called 911.