Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Womanizing?” The word sounded old-fashioned but it seemed to fit.

  “I don't think so. I certainly didn't think so then. I wasn't so stupid I'd have put up with that. Billings is married. Kind of straight-laced and nerdy. Doesn't seem the type. Hank was married too, although his wife left him just before Bram and I broke up so I guess he might have been messing around on the side. Mostly, though, I got the impression it was just guys being guys. And some computer software company or something that they were trying to get off the ground.”

  “Computers?” Everybody and his brother, it seemed. At least in the Bay Area. High-tech startup was the gold rush of the new millennium.

  “I don't know whether they ever followed through.”

  Nick had reported a heated discussion between Weaver and Roemer over a business venture. “Could this idea for a company have become a point of contention?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Friendship and business. They don't always mix well.”

  “It wasn't something Bram and I talked about. From what I could tell, though, the four of them were pretty tight.”

  “Do you recall anyone Bram did have disagreements with?”

  She thought for a moment. “Half the female population?”

  “You talking about the Women's Alliance?”

  “Actually, I was joking. The interesting thing is that Bram could be quite charming. I realize now how manipulative he was, but he had the tender, soulful stuff down pat. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

  “I appreciate the call. Thanks.” Billings, Roemer, and Lomax again. And this time in connection with a software company.

  Saturday afternoon I slipped into a rayon print sun dress and sandals—the sort of outfit that sits in my closet all year waiting for one of the rare opportunities I have to wear such things—and headed for Steven's. A barbecue in the East Bay wasn't exactly a Renoir garden party, but I took along my wide-brimmed straw hat with the satin band as well. Like I said, it was a rare opportunity.

  When I'd known him five years earlier, Steven had lived in a tall Victorian on Broderick in San Francisco. He and Caroline had been in the final stages of a home remodel, but even with the missing baseboards and curtainless windows, their home had been stunning—although a little too lavish and decorator-perfect for my tastes.

  Now Steven lived across the bay in a small bungalow in Berkeley's Elmwood district, not far from my own place in the hills. The houses along the tree-lined street were small, but they had yards, which his place in San Francisco hadn't. I pushed open the squat, white picket gate, and climbed the few stairs to the entrance. The door was open. Two men were standing just inside, discussing some fine point of rock climbing. I made my way past them to the kitchen, where the buzz of activity was louder, taking in what I could see of the house along the way.

  It had potential, but Steven hadn't taken that route. Fresh paint, metal blinds, furniture that could have come off any budget showroom in the country. The place was well kept but not in any way remarkable.

  “Hey, Kali. Glad you could make it.” Steven was checking something in the oven, but he turned to give me an all-purpose hug and peck on the cheek.

  I'd told myself the smart thing would be to play it safe and skip the party. Working together on Terri's defense didn't mean we had to socialize as well. But every time I'd thought about calling to say I couldn't make it, I'd wavered. What harm could come of an afternoon barbecue?

  Now with the warm strength of that quick hug and Steven's familiar scent, I wasn't so sure.

  Steven tossed a pot holder onto the counter and introduced me to a nearby couple. After a moment's small talk, he was called away outside. The couple moved on.

  Beer was in an ice chest by the door, wine on a nearby table, along with bowls of tortilla chips and salsa. A dozen or so people were mingling in the kitchen and on the adjoining backyard patio. I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and began to make the rounds.

  The gathering was largely university people, I learned as the afternoon progressed, with a sprinkling of neighbors. I was a lawyer Steven had done some work for, I explained, though the conversation came inevitably to Terri. It seemed that everyone there was aware of the case, and Steven's involvement.

  As I moved off to refill my wineglass, a short, curly-haired man with a pronounced New York accent seized the opportunity to catch me alone for a minute.

  “You going to get Terri Harper off?” he asked.

  I offered an enigmatic smile. “I sure hope so.”

  “Me too. Her arrest has hit Steven hard. The two of them are very close.”

  “I know.” Since my own brother and I spoke maybe once or twice a year, the tenor of their bond made an impression on me.

  “Crazy business, this legal system of ours,” he said, reaching for a handful of chips.

  “How so?”

  “Don't get me wrong. I think it's far better than most. It's just that truth sometimes gets lost in the fray. You're a defense attorney. Your job is to argue as vehemently as possible for your client's innocence. But don't you ever wonder what truth is?”

  All the time. But my response was standard law school rhetoric. “It's not a question defense lawyers are supposed to concern themselves with. That's for the judge and jury.”

  “Yeah, I know. I understand the theory. But my professional orientation is in getting to the bottom of things. Peeling away the facades and lies in order to learn what's really going on. I'd have a hard time operating only on the surface.”

  I smiled, happy for an entree to a different topic. “Psychology, I bet.”

  “Yep. Steven and I go way back. We were in grad school together. Then I went east when he came west. I've only lived in the Bay Area about five years.” He shifted his wineglass and extended a hand. “I'm Martin Bloomberg.”

  “Kali O'Brien.”

  “I know.” Martin's round face pulled to a wide grin. “Steven's told me all about you.”

  I swallowed uneasily, but offered light banter in return. “Only the good stuff, I hope.”

  “What else could there be?” There was a hint of unspoken knowledge in his voice that gave me pause. How much of our past had Steven told him?

  “You knew him from before Caroline and Rebecca were killed,” Martin continued.

  “Right.” I was on edge, waiting for the verbal blows I suspected he might deliver. Martin was, as far as I'd been able to determine, the only one at the gathering who'd known Steven before the accident. And he'd hinted that he was aware of our relationship. I wouldn't blame him for a little pent-up anger.

  Martin seemed lost in thought for a moment. “You know the cops dropped the ball, don't you?”

  It was so far from what I was expecting, I wasn't sure I'd followed. “The cops?”

  “Investigating the hit-and-run. The first guy that had the case, Joe Moran, he seemed to be making an effort. In fact, he told Steven he'd made progress. But after he died, no one gave a damn. The case got reassigned and there was no follow-through.”

  “They may have done more than it appeared.”

  He looked at me with cynicism.

  “It's hard picking up someone else's case,” I explained. “And the chances of solving a crime, particularly one like hit-and-run, decline substantially after the first couple of days.”

  “I'm aware of that.” The skepticism remained. “That doesn't change the fact that they didn't pursue it like they should have. I was still in the East so I got most of this secondhand, but I know how frustrated and discouraged Steven was.” He paused. “Is, still.”

  I'd worked with enough victims' families to know that an unsolved crime was like an open wound. But I also knew that the closure families expected a conviction to bring was often elusive.

  “It changed him,” Martin said.

  “Changed how?”

  “It's not something I can put my finger on. He's still one of my best friends, but there's something missing. It's like there
's a black hole deep inside him that tugs at his soul. You don't notice it?”

  I shook my head. It made me realize how little I really knew Steven.

  Martin picked up another chip and dipped it in salsa. He studied me for a minute while he swallowed his mouthful. “Do you think you could get a look at the police file on the case?” he asked.

  “It's been five years,” I reminded him.

  Martin nodded. “Five years of Steven beating himself up. Five years of gradually losing his spirit.”

  “Even if he could find the driver at this point, you think it would make a difference to Steven?”

  Martin swished the wine in the bottom of his glass. “Maybe not. But I'm worried about him. Especially with Terri's troubles. That black hole I was talking about wasn't more than a pinprick until she found herself in trouble. Now it's like . . .” He smiled. “I don't want to get too far out with this metaphor, but it's like the bad stuff is gaining fast.”

  A woman with her hair pulled into a single braid joined us. Martin introduced me to his wife, Peg. She was short and round, with apple cheeks and a generous smile.

  “Steven's looking for you,” she told her husband. “He needs some help with the salmon.”

  Martin made a gesture of salute. He turned to me as he headed off. “It can't hurt to try.”

  “Let me guess,” Peg said. “Something to do with helping Steven.”

  “Your husband is worried about him.”

  “I know. So am I. But I think there's only so much any of us can do for him.” She brushed her hands against her skirt. “I hate to run off, but Steven put me in charge of the salads, and I need to get working on them.”

  “Can you use some help?”

  She smiled. “I'd love it.”

  We moved to the other side of the kitchen, where Peg set me to peeling and slicing an avocado.

  “Personally, I think Steven will be fine once Terri is out of jail.” Peg was wiping the nicked Formica counter top. She paused and raised her eyes to mine. “Assuming that happens.”

  I nodded. The idea of Terri spending the rest of her life in prison made me weak in the knees.

  Peg took a Jell-O mold from the refrigerator. “How's Terri holding up?”

  “Pretty well under the circumstances.”

  “She's a fighter.”

  I dumped the avocado pit into the garbage. “You know her?”

  “Only through Steven. We see her maybe a couple of times a year. Usually at one of the big family events.” Peg nodded to a framed photograph on the buffet. “Like that one this last spring. It was me behind the camera.”

  I wiped my hands and went to examine the photo. A headshot of Lenore and Terri grinning into the camera from the deck of the Harpers' Napa Valley home. With their sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats, they looked like they'd stepped from the pages of Town and Country.

  “That was the day Terri and Ted learned Melissa had chosen them to adopt her baby. We were all giddy with excitement. Lenore and Terri spent the afternoon making up lists of things the baby would need. I think they had six pages by the time we were all finished giving them input. And now…”Peg's voice trailed off. “It's hard to believe all that's happened since then.”

  And harder still to contemplate what was ahead.

  CHAPTER 24

  I dreamed of Steven that night, though we'd barely exchanged two private words the entire evening. It was one of those sexy, arousing dreams, painted in bold sweeps of color and emotion. Incredibly vivid and intense; totally illogical. The minute I awoke, I was embarrassed at the memory, but eager to recapture the feeling. It had been a long time since I'd felt that way in real life.

  But did I actually want to head in that direction with Steven? If he'd called me Sunday morning when I was still under the sway of my dream, I would undoubtedly have done something rash. But by mid-week, I again had both feet planted firmly on solid ground. I was lucky, I told myself, that he hadn't called. And I gratefully buried myself in work.

  <><><>

  “Nothing,” Nick said, peering at me over steepled fingers. He rested one leg on the corner of my desk. “No record of any business involving Roemer, Billings, Weaver, and Lomax. Not the four of them, not any pair of them. I checked official records as well as tapping into the gossip network. If these guys were into some sort of software or high-tech business, they've done a good job of keeping it quiet.”

  Nick had dropped by my office instead of calling because he was in the East Bay on other business. He'd brought bagels with lox and cream cheese—not the reduced-fat variety. And double lattes for both of us, whole milk instead of skim. For Nick, the calories didn't matter. He was a big guy, over six feet and athletic. With me, it was a different story. But I'd skipped breakfast and been ravenous all morning so I dug in anyway.

  “I guess it never materialized,” I said, using my finger to wipe up a smear of cream cheese.

  “Or is still in the early planning stage. There's plenty of opportunity for disagreement even at that stage. Maybe especially at that stage. It's just harder for outsiders to find out what's going on before the thing is up and running.”

  Assuming there was anything going on at all. Friends argued; it didn't mean there was enough animosity to lead to murder.

  Nick slid a thin stack of manila folders across the table. “These are reports on the key prosecution witnesses. No skeletons in anyone's closet, unfortunately. On the other hand, no one can positively place Terri at the scene of the crime.”

  “Any word on our friend Alexander Rudd?”

  Nick shook his head. “Vanished into thin air, as far as I can tell. Hasn't shown up for his job at Pizza Pizazz and hasn't been to his apartment.”

  “What about the accident where he supposedly died?”

  “Single car, rainy night. There was nothing ambiguous about the reports. Nothing untoward in his background either. No record, no impending bankruptcy, no nasty divorce. The guy was manager of an autobody shop. Lived alone, was active in his church, volunteered as part of the Big Brother program.”

  “So why fake his own death?”

  “No idea. I've only researched records so far. If you want, I can try to locate people who knew him at the time.”

  To what end? Rudd had piqued my interest, but in terms of our case, the only important thing was whether he'd seen anyone on the street at the time of the murder. Anyone besides Terri, that is. No point chasing after a needle in the haystack when you weren't sure it was even there. In any event, we had more pressing matters to address.

  “No,” I told him. “Better to put your energies elsewhere.”

  “Speaking of which ...” He reached into his briefcase. “Here's a preliminary report on the Coles. The gun that killed her first husband was a .44 caliber. Mrs. Cole was questioned, but never arrested.”

  “What about Mr. Cole?”

  Nick shook his head. “Name didn't come up in connection with the crime. No police record. No complaints against the plumbing business. No Explorer either. One of their cars is a Toyota Camry, the other, a dark-colored van. Might be that someone could confuse a van for an Explorer though.”

  “Is there a gun registered to either of them?”

  “No, but that doesn't mean much.” Nick slid another sheet of paper in my direction. “Here's what I've got on Suzze Madden. Thirty-eight, single, no car. Active in the gay and lesbian community. Arrested once for protesting, but that's it. Here's the interesting thing though—she's a gun fanatic. Active member of the NRA. Teaches a marksmanship class for women and has three guns registered to her. One is a .25 caliber Beretta. “

  I felt a jolt of excitement. “What about her connection with Bram Weaver?”

  Nick shook his head. “Nothing I found, but based on what Trimble told you, she was at least a thorn in his side.”

  “Maybe I should go see her myself.”

  “Better you than me, for sure.” He grinned. “I didn't fare so well with the other matter you mentioned.”
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  “Which other matter?” We'd talked about several.

  “The hit-and-run with Steven Cross's wife and daughter. The original investigating officer was a guy by the name of Moran. He may well have been making progress on the case, but he kept lousy notes. Anyone coming in after him would have had to start over, which is probably why the case fell through the cracks after his death.”

  I hadn't expected he'd find anything new, but the Bloombergs' concern about Steven had triggered my own. And since I'd been part of the initial problem, bringing some sort of resolution seemed the least I could do.

  “You're saying it was bad luck rather than police incompetence, then.”

  Nick swung a leg over the chair's arm. “It happens. Some of us are sprinkled with fairy dust; some aren't. Life's not fair.”

  “You should have been a philosopher.”

  “I actually thought about it. Until I took a philosophy course.” He grinned. “That cured me for good.”

  “There was nothing in the file that even hinted at what Moran learned?”

  “Just the witness statement you already know about. Young woman saw a light-color car. Gray or white. Maybe a BMW. No license number, no distinguishing marks aside from a KEEP TAHOE BLUE bumper sticker, and you know how common those are. Plus the crime scene and autopsy reports. No surprises there either.”

  Steven had talked to the witness himself. Even under hypnosis she hadn't been able to remember anything more about the car or the driver. “Pretty thin investigative report, considering we're talking about two lives.”

  “Moran only had it about ten days, and like I said, he wasn't much for keeping records.” Nick waded up his napkin and tossed it in the wastebasket. “His widow says she has a box of her husband's effects. She's happy to let us take a look. It's in storage, though, so we need to make an appointment.”

  “What kind of effects?”

  “From his desk, locker, that sort of thing. She says Steven Cross looked through them already so I doubt there's anything there.”

  Nick checked his watch, then rocked forward abruptly. “Gotta scoot. I'll keep digging on Weaver's buddies, see what turns up.”