“Good news or bad?”
“Neither. I've just been looking over the reports you sent on Terri Harper's arrest. We're going to be busy in the months ahead.”
“I know. See if you can track down addresses for two of Weaver's buddies. Clyde Billings and Len Roemer. They're probably local though not necessarily in the city.”
“I'll get right on it. Any luck with the DA?”
“I haven't even been able to speak to him yet.”
Nick made a noise of sympathy. “A power play and Shalla holds all the cards.”
“Right. But I've got an appointment in the morning. With luck, we'll be able to work out something on bail. That's Terri's biggest concern right now.”
“Must be rough on her being in jail with a little baby at home.”
“The judge wasn't much concerned with Terri's emotional comfort, or the baby's.”
“You at the office?” he said.
“In the car. Interstate 80 near the Carquinez Bridge.”
“If you want to continue on into the city, I'll spring for sushi. Gail had to work tonight and I don't feel like cooking.”
“I'd love to another time. Right now I'm about trafficked out.” And I had another stop I wanted to make before calling it a day.
The apartment where Melissa had lived pre-Hannah was in Oakland near the Berkeley border. A three-story building with only six units, it sat in a mixed neighborhood of single-family homes and larger apartment houses. Melissa had told me she'd met Bram through a downstairs neighbor named Hank. Only last names were listed on the directory, so I started with unit one. A woman answered.
“I'm looking for Hank,” I said.
“You've got the wrong apartment. He's next door in unit two.” She slammed the door in my face before I had a chance to apologize.
I rang the bell for Hank's unit.
“Who is it?” he yelled over the sound of a television car commercial.
“You don't know me but I need to talk with you. I'm a friend of Melissa Burke's.”
“Whatdy'a want?”
“Can you open the door? I'd like to speak to you in person.”
I heard some muttering, then, “Okay, okay.” The television volume dropped and the door opened.
As it turned out, Hank did know me. He was Bram's friend, the photographer.
We both did a double-take.
“Uh-oh,” Hank said with a smirk. “Here comes trouble.”
“Sorry to bother you. Melissa told me she used to hang out here. It was how she met Bram. I didn't realize you were the man who'd come to my office.”
Hank's T-shirt was about two inches too short for his girth. A roll of white flab darkened with belly hair protruded above his belt. He eyed me skeptically. “A minute ago you said you were a friend of Melissa's.”
“I am.” More friend than adversary at any rate.
He leaned against the open door. “What is it you want?”
“To talk about Bram.”
“Why should I talk to you? Bram was a friend of mine.”
“Then you want to see his killer punished, right?”
“Punished and tortured.” He gave an incongruous smile.
I ignored the smile. “I'm looking for information about Weaver and people who might have had disagreements with him.”
“Your client had a major disagreement with him.”
“People besides my client.”
Hank laughed. “Hell, half the people who knew him had conflicts with him. The half that didn't thought he walked on water. Bram didn't pull any punches.”
I nodded. “I'm interested in specifics, though.”
Hank's eyes dropped to my chest, then returned to my face with a twitch of his mouth. He stood back. “You might as well come in.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. I wanted to hear what he had to say.
The apartment was bachelor basic. A living-dining area and open kitchen. Hank's ex-wife had obviously gotten most of the furniture, assuming they'd had any. There was a futon sofa, a pair of mismatched chairs, a chipped laminated dining table, and a newish-looking, black lacquer entertainment center. The walls were hung with matted and framed photos of nude women— some artistically rendered, most befitting Hustler magazine.
“You want a beer?” Hank asked. “I was just about to get myself another when you rang.”
“I'll pass. You go ahead, though.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a can of Budweiser. I pulled my gaze back from the wall of photographs. It made me uncomfortable to be in the same room with them.
“You've been admiring my work?” Hank asked.
“Just killing time.”
“I'm always looking for new models. You interested? The pay can be pretty good.” Another smirk. “Depending on the type of photograph.”
“Not good enough,” I said, waiting until he sat on the sofa, then choosing the chair farthest from his. He set his beer on a table marred with water rings. I couldn't imagine why Melissa and her roommates had wanted to party here.
On second thought, I could. They were nineteen.
“What was your connection to Bram?” I asked.
“We belonged to the same church.”
“Church?”
“Metaphorically speaking.” He rubbed his chubby cheek, raking several days growth of stubble. The unshaven look might have been cool in Hollywood, but on him, it was most unappealing.
“What does that mean, metaphorically speaking?”
“We had a lot in common,” Hank explained. He took a slurp of beer. “Including a mutual friend, which, to answer your question, is how I knew Bram.”
“How long had you known him?”
“A couple of years.” He gave me an amused look. “Men don't keep track of stuff the way women do. How long they've known someone, when and where they met, what each of them was wearing, probably even what color the bathroom wallpaper was. They can tell you every fucking detail. And they usually do.”
I didn't rise to the bait. “Were the two of you close?”
“Close. See, that's a woman's term.” Hank rested his arms on his stomach. “We'd play poker, take in a basketball game now and then, shoot some pool. Sometimes we had conversations along the way but mostly we simply shared a good time.”
“Do you share Weaver's political and social views, as well?”
Hank shrugged. “Some, not all. I don't think Bram himself agreed with everything he said. He liked controversy. The more people he offended, the happier he was.”
Great, countless motives for murder.
“The callers who criticized him, the letters to the editor berating him—Bram ate it up. And when the book came out, heck, he loved it when the women's groups picketed his signings. Got him lots of press. Some great photos too. It was a riot to watch.”
Perspiration had beaded on Hank's forehead and the band of exposed flesh around his middle had grown wider. The thought of standing before his camera, clothed or not, made my skin crawl.
“Did you see much of the girls upstairs?” I asked.
Hank sat up straighter. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Melissa said she and her roommates came here to party. That's how she met Bram.”
“It's a new group there now. Summer, you know, they all scatter.”
“Nineteen is a little young for you guys, isn't it?”
He again reached for the beer. “What is it with women and age? Nineteen is legal.”
“Was Bram dating anyone else?” Not that I'd have called his fling with Melissa dating.
“He was seeing a woman, a real looker, but they broke up, I think.”
“Recently?”
“Coupla months.”
“You know her name?”
“Ranelle.”
The same name Ted had come up with. “Last name?”
“If I knew, I've forgotten. She lived out in the Sunset. But it wasn't anything serious. Bram had been burned on
ce. He wasn't stupid enough to make the same mistake again.”
“Then why did he want the responsibility of a child?”
Hank's expression turned serious. He leaned forward and tugged at his shirt. “Hard to tell. He brought his son around a couple of times, but never paid him an ounce of attention. Plopped him down like he was a suitcase or something. 'Course the kid didn't exactly make it easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“He's a geek. Isn't that what they call them now? A loser. Skinny kid with Coke-bottle glasses. You'd think the least his mother could do was get him contacts.”
“Or his dad,” I said pointedly.
“You mean Bram? I doubt the thought ever crossed his mind.”
Yet had he lived, Bram would have ended up with Hannah. So much for legal justice. “When did you last talk to Bram?”
“That afternoon, before he was killed. I called to tell him I couldn't make it.”
“Make it where?”
“A bunch of us were going out to shoot some pool and then grab a bite before Bram's show. I had to bow out on account of my sinuses. I felt like shit.”
“Did he say anything about expecting a visitor later that evening?”
“Nope.”
“Or about anyone being angry with him.”
“Just your client.”
“He mentioned Terri specifically?” This was the kind of testimony that could hurt us at trial, despite its being of questionable probative value.
“Not by name. But it was clear what he meant.”
“What did Bram say exactly?”
Hank shrugged. “That she'd threatened him, that she gave him the ice queen glare when he came for his visit.”
Hank had finished his beer, his third from the number of the cans on the table, and was leering at me in a way that made my skin prickle. “I bet you photograph well,” he said.
“Terribly.”
“I don't believe it.”
“I've seen the evidence.”
Hank's lips parted in a smile. “You've just never experienced the hands of a master.”
Right. No doubt he envisioned his hands-of-a-master persona extending beyond photography. I stood up, thanked him for his time, and headed for the door.
“Don't think for a minute that your client didn't do it,” he called after me. “I've seen her kind before.”
And I'd seen his.
CHAPTER 16
District Attorney Ray Shalla was as much politician as lawyer, and like most San Francisco politicians, he reveled in mixing with the rich and famous. But he was also ambitious. In light of recent allegations about double standards in prosecutorial diligence, he was now intent on playing an evenhanded game of hardball.
It was unfortunate that Terri's case happened to be crossing his desk when it did.
“I've got a conference call in fifteen minutes,” Shalla said when I sat across from him Friday morning. His office was large and lined on two sides with books. A framed photo of himself with Bill Clinton hung on the wall behind him, a collection of diplomas and awards over the credenza.
“I'll talk fast.” I smiled.
He didn't.
“Terri Harper,” I said, getting directly to the point. “I'd like to see if we can't reach an agreement about bail.”
Shalla leaned back in his chair. He was square-shouldered with a full head of black hair and olive skin. Despite the puffiness around his eyes, he was an attractive man in an old Hollywood kind of way.
“As I recall,” he said, “the matter has already been addressed by the court.”
“But the court could reconsider.”
“Why should it? This is a murder charge.” Shalla tugged at the sleeve of his suit jacket, an elegant and expensive, perhaps even custom-tailored, navy pinstripe.
“The court has discretion,” I reminded him. “Terri Harper has a six-week-old baby at home. Think of the child if not the mother.”
“Funny, I don't recall running for the office of social worker.”
“She's not a flight risk,” I added. “And she's hardly a threat to the community.”
“That's a matter on which reasonable people may disagree.”
I chose not to, and continued my argument. “Nor is the presumption of guilt so great as to prohibit bail.”
“Again, our perceptions differ.” This time he allowed himself a thin, smug smile.
I couldn't tell if he was posturing or speaking from inside knowledge. Nothing I'd seen so far pointed to a heavy presumption of guilt.
“Let's be up-front about this,” I said. “You're using the case for your own agenda. You want to show the public that you cut no favors for people with wealth or influence. Throw Terri Harper in the face of your critics to get them off your back.”
“That's hardly fair.”
“You're the one who's not being fair.”
“I'm simply doing my job. You asked for bail. My office recommended against it. The judge ruled. You can go back and ask again, but we're not going to change our position.” He leaned forward slightly, his manner cordial. “Now, where we might be able to reach some agreement is in terms of a plea bargain.”
“No way.”
He frowned. “You haven't seen all the evidence yet.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
A nod of acquiescence. “You'll get copies of our files as soon as we put everything together.”
“That's good, since it's the law.” I kept the sarcasm light. “When do you suppose that might be?”
“It's a cumbersome process, there's no getting around it. And, of course, new facts emerge as we go along.”
“Such as?”
He folded his hands on the desk. His nails were smooth and manicured. “The white animal fur they found on Weaver's body, for example.”
I felt my skin prickle. “What about it?”
“It matches the sheepskin seat covers in Terri Harper's Explorer.”
And Terri's Explorer fit the description of a vehicle a witness had placed a block from the crime scene on the night of the murder. I felt a dull ache beginning at the base of my skull.
“She's not the only person riding around on a sheepskin seat cover,” I pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, “she's not. And taken by itself, it might not mean much. But you take enough tiny scraps, tape them together, and pretty soon you've got a complete picture.”
But if you taped them in a different way, you'd wind up with something altogether different. That was my job. To show the jury a different, and better, way to combine all the evidentiary pieces.
At the moment, however, I had a different objective. “You won't reconsider your position on bail?”
“I wouldn't be doing my job if I did. You, on the other hand, wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't at least consider a plea bargain.”
Before I could respond, Shalla looked at his Rolex and stood. He moved from behind his desk and ushered me toward the door. He walked with a slight limp as the result of an old injury, but his stride was still commanding enough to carry me along.
“It's been a pleasure meeting you, Ms. O'Brien.” He closed the office door as soon as I was through.
<><><>
“The decision's final?” Terri sat on the other side of the dirty glass partition, clutching the phone so hard her knuckles were white. She looked as though she hadn't slept in days.
“We can go back to court and ask the judge to reconsider, but I don't hold out much hope.”
She stared bleakly at the pocked counter on her side of the visiting booth. “So what now?”
“We prepare for trial.”
“Trial. Oh, God.” Her voice was choked, as though it hadn't previously dawned on her where this was headed.
I felt my own throat grow tight. It was always hard to represent clients I liked, and I genuinely liked Terri. Would have liked her even if Hannah hadn't been in the picture. But she was, and that gave a personal dimension to the case I felt in my gut,
even if I couldn't fully understand it.
“You could enter a plea,” I told her.
“What does that mean?”
“Admit guilt to a lesser charge. Maybe voluntary manslaughter.”
Terri's eyes widened in protest. “But I didn't do anything!”
“They might cut you some slack on sentencing.”
She hesitated. “I'd still have to spend time in jail?” Her voice plaintive, barely audible.
“Yes, you would.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I can't do that. I need to be with Hannah.”
“The risk of going to trial is that we could lose. You could spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Terri swallowed. “But I didn't kill him.”
“It's not an easy decision, Terri. And you don't have to make it right now.”
“It is easy. I'm not going to plead guilty to something I didn't do.” There was a fiery determination in Terri's voice that hadn't been there earlier. That was good; it helped to be a fighter.
“Whatever the sentence,” she added after a moment, “I wouldn't be part of Hannah's life. I can't let that happen.”
“There are no guarantees, Terri.”
She nodded. “How long before we get to trial?”
“The law says you can demand a trial within sixty days, but—”
“That's almost two months from now!”
Two short months from an attorney's point of view. “Terri, almost no one exercises their right to a speedy trial. It's not a wise thing to do. The longer we wait, the more time we have to prepare. Also, it's harder for prosecution witnesses to be sure what they remember.”
“But I don't want to wait.”
“Terri, listen to me. This is your freedom we're talking about. Maybe for the rest of your life. You don't want to rush things.”
“Don't tell me what I want,” Terri snapped. “I'm opting for an early trial. I have that right.”
“Yes, you do, but—”
“If my math is right, we've got fifty-two days left.”
<><><>
Steven was due in my office at three o'clock. At two-thirty I combed my hair and freshened my makeup, then berated myself for being such an ass. What did it matter how I looked? To prove to myself I didn't really care, I studiously avoided looking at my reflection again during the intervening half hour. By the time Steven arrived, however, my stomach was tied in enough knots that I knew I wasn't fooling myself.
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