Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “What did he say?”

  “That. . . well, you know, that it was something the four of you had a stake in. But I got the impression that there were some sore spots where Bram was concerned.”

  “If you've got questions, ask Billings,” Hank snapped. “Let him explain since he's feeling so talkative.” He dropped the receiver back into the cradle with a resounding thunk.

  The phone rang again almost as soon as I'd disconnected.

  “Good news, boss.”

  “Jared? Where are you calling from?”

  “You wanted me to canvass Terri's neighborhood, remember?”

  The defense attorney's due diligence. No stone unturned.

  “Well, guess what? The housekeeper for the family that lives across from the Harpers says she remembers seeing Terri at home the night Weaver was killed.”

  “She remembers the night?”

  “Yep.” Jared sounded pleased with himself. “It was her birthday.”

  “What time did she see Terri?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “She's sure?”

  “Seems to be.”

  Hallelujah. It was about time we got a break. “Where's she been for the past month?”

  “Out of town. The family she works for spends the summer at Martha's Vineyard, so Mrs. Hassan goes to visit relatives.”

  I swiveled my chair sideways and leaned an elbow on my desk. “The neighbor who heard Terri's car in the driveway. Didn't she say that was about eleven-thirty?”

  “That's my recollection.”

  “It would be hard for Terri to drive to Weaver's, shoot him, and be back home by midnight.”

  “Unless she drove like a maniac. Besides, the woman who saw the Explorer with a plate like Terri's said it was a little after midnight.”

  I felt the glow of excitement. “You get a gold star for the day, Jared.”

  “Thanks, but I always liked the smiley face better.”

  <><><>

  I spent the next hour searching the Web, but discovered I hadn't the faintest idea how to locate a website by the folks who ran it. Finally, I called and left a message for Nick. Then I read my e-mail and typed out a brief note to my sister, Sabrina. I avoided talking about the upcoming trial, and about Steven, which left me with very little to say. I managed a couple of paragraphs nonetheless and felt virtuous, if not particularly creative.

  At six o'clock, I closed up the office, then spent longer than necessary in the tiny restroom down the hallway freshening my makeup and fluffing my hair. I was meeting Steven for a drink after work.

  When he'd called to suggest it the day before, I'd hesitated for less than a second. Whether this letting down of my guard was for the best or not, remained to be seen.

  We met at the Claremont in the Berkeley hills, a grand old hotel that had managed to hang on through lean years by parlaying its facilities into a conference center and its spacious grounds into a resort. The evening parking there was readily available and the after-work drink crowd more subdued than boisterous.

  Steven had a beer; I had a glass of Chardonnay.

  “I thought you were a red wine person,” he said when the waiter brought our drinks.

  “Depends on the occasion.”

  “There's a lot of that in life, I guess. Adapting to meet the moment, I mean.” His tone was philosophical and I assumed he was talking about more than wine.

  About us, maybe? I wondered, but his expression was grave, and there was nothing intimate about his manner.

  We were seated by one of the broad windows overlooking the bay. The sun was still well above the horizon, but a blanket of fog hung off the coast. The night would be chilly.

  “Good news for Terri,” I said, and relayed what Jared told me earlier.

  A spark of emotion flashed in his eyes. “Thank God.”

  I was struck by the intensity of concern. “Must be nice to have a sibling you're so connected to,” I said. “My sister and I have gotten to the point where we can now carry on a cordial conversation, but we're far from close. And neither of us talk much to our brother.”

  “It's a mixed blessing.” Steven's expression had gone flat. He took a sip of beer and gazed out the window.

  “Especially, I imagine, when one of you is in trouble.”

  He looked at me and I could see the fine lines around his eyes. Worry lines. Was it the sharp light of the setting sun, or had I never really noticed before?

  “We weren't always close,” Steven said. He reached for a fistful of nuts from the basket the waiter brought. “I used to tease Terri mercilessly. I can't begin to count the number of times I reduced her to tears. Or worse.”

  “You?” I tried to imagine Steven as an obnoxious older brother, and failed miserably.

  “Makes me cringe to remember some of the things I did. I think that's what got me interested in psychology to begin with— trying to understand myself.”

  “Were you successful?”

  He laughed with a trace of bitterness. “Distressingly so.”

  “You're being hard on yourself tonight, aren't you?”

  “Maybe I'm just burned out on humanity.” He lifted his glass in my direction and gave me a rueful smile. “With certain notable exceptions. Thank you for checking the police files and going to see Moran's widow. Martin confessed he'd twisted your arm.”

  “I was happy to do it, but I didn't learn anything useful.”

  “I looked at the file myself back before the department started circling the wagons the minute they saw me coming. I appreciate what you did all the same.” He held up a hand. “And if you say It's the least I could do,' I will jump across the table and give you a knock on the noggin.”

  I bit back the response that had been on the tip of my tongue. “You're welcome.”

  Steven had finished his beer and now signaled the waiter for another. “You want more wine?”

  “I'd better not. Got to keep my head clear.”

  He grinned. “Not on account of me, I hope.”

  “Don't flatter yourself,” I said with a smile. But once again he'd hit close to the mark.

  Steven leaned back in the heavy upholstered chair, turning serious again. “What rankles is that the investigation was subject to such bad luck. Maybe Moran wouldn't have found the driver, but he was at least putting forth the effort. And I got the impression he was getting somewhere. Then, out of the blue, he has a heart attack and it turns out he's a shitty record keeper. You'd think the department would demand better notes.”

  “I imagine they do, in theory.”

  Steven looked grim. “Yeah, for all the good it does. What am I supposed to do, bring Moran back from the dead and file a complaint against him?” He sighed. “Sorry, I don't mean to sound so harsh. I feel bad the guy passed away. And I'm grateful he gave the investigation as much as he did.”

  “His widow said it was important to him personally because they had a granddaughter the same age as . . .” I faltered, unwilling to speak Rebecca's name aloud.

  “You can say it,” Steven said, looking me in the eye. “You're not going to remind me of anything I don't already remember.”

  “The same age as Rebecca.” A granddaughter who was now twelve, whereas Rebecca would be forever seven.

  “My biggest gripe,” Steven continued, “is with the guy who took over for Moran. He wasn't interested at all. There was a gang killing that came down about the same time. The District Attorney's Office was actively involved in that. Shalla had just won the election, in fact. All the energy was focused on gang crime. Very newsworthy, very flashy. That's where his energies went.”

  Life, as the saying went, was a crap shoot. Even in arenas where it shouldn't be. The judicial system; the police system; systems in general. They could look like gold on paper but in the final analysis it came down to people and luck.

  And Steven had lost out on both counts.

  CHAPTER 26

  The weeks before a trial are always tense and jammed with last
-minute preparations. I made lists for myself, lists for Jared and Nick, then made lists of the lists. Some days I ate nothing; other days it seemed I ate continually, dropping crumbs of cookies and chips onto the keyboard while I worked. Loretta got her exercise thanks to Dotty, who started each day off with a healthy walk. For myself, healthy was a concept I put off until another time.

  I'd scheduled a meeting with Carla Hassan for two o'clock in the afternoon at the house across from the Harpers', where she was employed as a live-in housekeeper. This was easier, she said, than coming to my office since she didn't drive.

  She greeted me at the door then led me immediately down the hallway to the right and up the back stairs to her rooms on the third floor. “My employer knows you are coming,” she said, “but I feel more comfortable talking here. I hope that is okay.”

  “Fine,” I told her. “It's better, in fact, because I can see for myself how the windows of the two houses are aligned.”

  Carla Hassan looked to be in her late forties or early fifties. She'd worked for the same family for eight years and considered herself lucky to have found such a good position. Though not particularly animated, she was cordial and attentive. I thought she'd make a good impression on the jurors.

  I took a seat at one end of a small settee on the wall opposite her bed. “Tell me about seeing Terri Harper in the window the night Bram Weaver was killed.”

  “It was just before I went to sleep. I looked out and saw a light on in that room there.” She pointed to a corner room on the second floor of the Harpers'. “Mrs. Harper was walking the baby. She crossed several times in front of the window.”

  I peered out myself. In daylight, the Harpers' window revealed only a darkened reflection but I knew it would be different at night. “She had the light on?”

  Ms. Hassan nodded. “Not bright, but enough to see Mrs. Harper in the room with the baby. She came to the window and looked out. The baby was in a blanket against her chest.” Carla Hassan positioned her own hands as if burping a baby. “Like so.”

  We went over the timing again—she'd just finished the ironing, which she'd started after turning off the television at eleven o'clock. I established that Mrs. Hassan recognized Terri by sight and had in fact previously spoken with her and seen Hannah on the street. I explained what I would be asking of her at trial, and wrote down for her the directions to the Hall of Justice.

  “It's probably easiest for you to take a cab,” I said. “I can give you money now or reimburse you afterwards.”

  She lifted her chin slightly. “Afterwards is fine.”

  My interview with Carla Hassan had taken only about twenty minutes, half of the time I'd planned. I'd arranged to meet Lenore at the Harpers' in order to go over her testimony prior to trial. I was early, but I rang the bell anyway.

  Lenore answered the door herself and brushed away my apology for arriving ahead of time.

  “It doesn't matter,” she said. “I'm here. I was just getting Hannah her bottle.” There were dark circles under Lenore's eyes and her cheeks were sunken. Terri's arrest had been hard on her.

  I followed her into the kitchen.

  “You talked to the neighbor's housekeeper?”

  “I was just there. She'll be a good witness, I think.”

  Relief showed on Lenore's face. “It's about time something went right.”

  “I'd like to see the nursery, though. To make sure I understand the layout.”

  “Of course. Just let me test the temperature of Hannah's bottle and we'll go right up.” She took the bottle from the stove and sprinkled a bit of formula on her forearm in a time-honored fashion. Then she grabbed a couple of paper towels and we climbed the wide, carpeted stairway to the second floor. Steven was there, sitting in the rocker, with Hannah in his lap. He was singing to her softly.

  He looked up when we entered and stopped singing, but my mind had captured that first image and held it in a sort of freeze-frame. I felt a tiny ping in my chest like the release of a spring, and a renewed rush of sorrow for the loss Steven had endured.

  I'd known him as a lover and as a friend. Astute, perceptive, funny, but he'd been in many ways defined by the adult environment in which we'd traveled. This was something new. A man with an infant. Tender and loving. I wondered how much Hannah reminded him of his own daughter, and how he could possibly bear the memories.

  “Hi, Kali.” He rose. “Come take a look at Hannah. She's got the most amazing blue eyes. Just like Rebecca's.”

  I moved closer and peered into the folds of the blanket. Hannah's eyes were big and wide. She watched me with such intensity, I felt she might be able to read my thoughts. I sent a silent promise. We're going to get your mother home to you.

  “Why don't I feed her,” Steven said, “while you two go over what you need to.”

  “You have the time?” Lenore asked.

  “Of course I have the time.” Steven sounded almost grumpy.

  I stepped to the window and peered out toward Carla Hassan's room across the street. The glass was darkened by the glare from outside, but I recognized the tie-back curtains I'd seen when I met with Carla. At night, with interior lighting, it would be easy to see from one room to the other.

  Lenore and I headed back downstairs to the den. We sat on opposite ends of the sofa and I pulled out my notes.

  “I'd like to go over this once more. Aside from Carla Hassan, you're the only person who can attest to Terri's being home the night Weaver was killed.”

  Lenore was sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, hands folded. “She didn't go out at all.”

  “After the visit in my office, you came straight home?”

  “We stopped briefly at the grocery, but that was it.”

  “Did you watch television that evening? Read?”

  Lenore sucked on her cheek, thinking. “We had dinner, though neither of us ate much as I recall. We were both pretty upset about Weaver. We bathed Hannah, played with her some. Terri took a bath and went to bed early. Before ten. I wasn't up late myself.”

  “But she could have gone out after you went to bed.”

  Lenore shook her head. “I'm a light sleeper. And I was downstairs in the guest room. Near the garage. I'd have heard Terri leave.”

  “She gave you sleeping pills, though.”

  Surprise registered on Lenore's face. “How'd you know that?”

  “Terri told me.”

  “I didn't take them until much later. I prefer not to take them at all. It wasn't until about two in the morning that I finally gave in. And I still didn't sleep well.”

  “Terri said you were agitated.”

  Lenore hesitated, then nodded. “About Hannah.”

  “How did Terri seem to you that night?”

  “Worried. Sad. Scared.”

  “Angry?”

  A small smile flickered across Lenore's lips. “Not as angry as I was.”

  “What about the next morning? Were you surprised when Terri suggested you head home?”

  She shook her head. “I wasn't feeling well. I think I might have even suggested it myself.”

  Lenore was hardly an impartial witness, but I thought her testimony would help Terri. Especially since it corroborated what Carla Hassan had seen.

  But there was so much uncertainty in a trial. Blind luck even. So much that had little to do with evidence and logic. I looked around the Harpers' home, Terri's home, and wondered if she'd ever see it again.

  CHAPTER 27

  On the first Monday after Labor Day, I met with Terri in the small attorney-client booth at the jail. The weather was hot; the room stuffy and stale. I could barely breathe, but Terri seemed not to notice.

  “Tomorrow's the big day,” she said, sounding almost jubilant. Even through the smudged glass partition, and in spite of the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, she exuded energy. “Finally. For the longest time it felt like we'd never get to trial.”

  “Jury selection will take the first couple of days,” I reminded her.

>   “But at least we'll be doing something.” Terri leaned forward, not quite touching the glass. “I mean, I know you've been working all summer, but I've been just sitting here chomping at the bit. The waiting makes me want to scream.”

  “A trial puts it all on the line, though. It's not without risk.”

  “We've been over that, Kali. I'm not going to plead to something I didn't do. Not even for a reduced sentence.”

  “You should give it serious thought before you commit—”

  “I want to be Hannah's mother. I want to be there when she's growing up. I want my life back. A plea bargain isn't going to give me that.”

  I could understand. In her place, I'd have made the same decision. But going to trial was a gamble. She could walk away a free woman, a mother with an infant and a wide-open future. Or she could remain locked up for life. A woman with only a past.

  “I just want to make sure you've weighed the alternatives,” I told her.

  “I have. Believe me.” Terri rolled her shoulders, whether from aching muscles or the burdens she faced, I couldn't tell. “Have you seen Hannah lately?” she asked.

  “I saw her last week.” The baby's dimpled limbs had churned with delight as Ted gave her a bath. I'd been half afraid to hold her for fear I might never hand her back.

  “Ted says she rolls over now, and can scoot herself backwards along the floor. She'll be crawling before long.” Terri gazed at nothing in particular, her expression a mix of wonder and sorrow. “I've missed so much already.”

  “There will be years ahead to catch up.”

  “It's not the same.” Terri shook herself free from Hannah's image. “Tell me the truth, what are my chances?”

  It was a question always on an attorney's mind, but one we were never comfortable answering. “Decent,” I hedged.

  “How decent?”

  “The state's case will be based on circumstantial evidence. If we can show that their interpretation of the facts is only one of several possibilities, and I think we can, the jury will be hard pressed to convict.” Assuming the jurors didn't form an opinion before hearing the facts.