Finally, I tossed my remaining lunch into the trash and headed downstairs to the room where trial evidence was stored. After signing myself in, I took the evidence box to the table and went through it, as I had before, baggie by baggie. When I came to the purple sunglasses, I was again struck by the sense that they were somehow familiar. Had I seen Terri wearing them at some point? I closed my eyes and tried to call up her initial visit to my office, then moved to the afternoon not long after that I'd spent at the Harpers' place in the Napa Valley. Nothing clicked. I had a vague association of the glasses and blinding sunlight. But that was obvious—sunlight was the whole reason for wearing dark glasses.
Maybe I'd spent too much time mentally playing with the evidence in this case. It was sometimes hard to draw the line between memory and imagination, and perhaps I was simply confused.
I was back in the courtroom in time to offer a few words of encouragement to Terri. I managed to sound upbeat, in spite of the knot in my stomach.
Jared and Carla entered the courtroom minutes before the judge. I heaved a silent sigh of relief.
“Good job,” I whispered to Jared. “What did she say?”
“Not much. She wouldn't talk to me on the trip over. Mostly she clutched some sort of prayer book and muttered to herself.”
I turned to give Carla a reassuring smile. She avoided my gaze. Judge Tooley emerged from her chambers and opened the afternoon session.
“Your Honor,” I said. “Could I have a few minutes to confer with my next witness?”
The judge looked at me as if I'd bungled the punch line of a joke. “You just had a ninety-minute recess.”
“But the witness only arrived a moment before court reconvened.”
“Ms. O'Brien, you had months to prepare for this trial. Surely, you've had time to talk with the witness before now. Let's proceed.”
With some hesitance, I called Carla Hassan to the stand. She moved slowly, head bent. Maybe she was ill, I thought with a wave of guilt. She looked a little green around the gills.
“Mrs. Hassan,” I asked when we'd dispensed with the preliminaries. “Can you please tell us where your bedroom window is relative to the Harpers' house?”
“I work for people who live across street. I have two small rooms on third floor.” She spoke without inflection.
“From your window, can you see any rooms in the Harpers' house?”
“The corner. Upstairs. Is now the baby's nursery.”
“Did you see anyone there the evening of July 10?”
She hesitated. “About midnight, I look out and see light on in baby's room. Someone pick up baby and walk with her.”
“Did you recognize that person?”
Carla Hassan lowered her eyes. I could see the long, thick lashes against her cheek. “Then, I think it Mrs. Harper. Now, I'm not so certain.”
I was taken aback. “Mrs. Hassan, didn't you tell me that you recognized Terri Harper?”
“Maybe I think it her because that what I expect.” She paused. Her lips moved silently for a moment, then she added, “I cannot say for sure it Mrs. Harper that I see.”
I was living a trial attorney's nightmare. A witness who changes her story on the stand. My hands were sweaty, my throat dry. “What can you say for sure?” I asked, trying to keep my agitation in check.
Silence.
“Did you see someone in the room around midnight?”
“Yes.”
“A female?”
Mrs. Hassan looked at her hands. “I think so. But could be someone else. Mrs. Harper's mother maybe. She is staying there, I think. Or a friend.”
I turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I ask that the witness's comments be stricken.” Not that it would do any good. The jury had heard what she'd said, and Pelle would undoubtedly raise the possibility on cross.
The judge directed the court reporter and then advised the witness that she was to answer only the question put to her.
“Has something happened, Mrs. Hassan, that makes you less sure now than you were when we first spoke?”
Her eyes scanned the courtroom quickly, almost involuntarily, but she shook her head. “I realize now I was too hasty. I may have been mistaken.”
The response sounded canned, which I suspected it was. The big question was who had fed it to her, and why had she agreed? But I was afraid to push at this juncture for fear I'd lose more ground. “No further questions,” I said, stepping back to the defense table.
Pelle was in pig heaven. “Are you acquainted with the defendant's mother, Mrs. Hassan?”
“I have spoken to her. A few words here and there.”
“Can you describe her for us?”
Mrs. Hassan looked quickly at Lenore and then away. “Blond hair, slender. Young for her age.”
“The defendant is also blond and slender, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“So you might have seen the defendant's mother, and not the defendant, in the Harpers' house on the night of the murder?”
Pelle was hammering home the point—our witness was no longer sure it was Terri Harper she'd seen in the nursery. Our alibi, such as it was, didn't hold water.
“Is possible. Like I tell the lady attorney, I am not so sure anymore.”
Pelle smirked and sat down.
I had planned to put Lenore on next, but to do so now was out of the question. It would only add credence to the logic of Carla Hassan's confusion.
Instead, I called the marksmanship and gun safety instructor for the gun club where Arlo Cross was a member. A beefy ex-military man with clipped gray hair, he had given Terri shooting lessons at the time her father had given her the gun.
“She was a lousy shot,” he said. “And she wasn't interested in improving. Acted like she was afraid of the gun. It was clear she was there against her will.”
Under Pelle's cross, he conceded that the last of the lessons had been five years ago.
“Isn't it possible then,” Pelle asked, “that she could have become an excellent marksman since that time?”
“I suppose so, but it would surprise me. Terri Harper wasn't comfortable around guns and didn't much like them.”
“Are most of your clients comfortable around guns initially?”
The witness shifted in his seat. “It varies.”
“It's not unheard of, is it, for someone who is nervous around guns to become more relaxed about them? For that person's skills improve with practice?”
“Not unheard of, no.”
“Thank you.” Pelle sat down.
<><><>
When we were leaving the courtroom at the end of the day, Jared turned to me. “I think we need the cavalry, boss.”
“For what?”
“Didn't you ever watch Westerns? At the last minute, they come charging forward in a flurry of hoofbeats and trumpets, and save the day.”
“What we need is someone else to point the finger at.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
I shook my head. “I think I'll start with Melissa.” Despite Terri's reservations, she seemed the most likely substitute.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, huh?”
“Right. Call Nick. Have him recheck both of the Coles' alibis for the night of the murder. Tell him to keep digging on Weaver's three buddies, too. I'd like you to talk to Weaver's producer, see if Weaver might have stopped for a drink somewhere after work. And check the bars in the area. Find out if anyone remembers seeing him that night.”
“Guess we've got our work cut out.”
We certainly did.
CHAPTER 38
With the start of school in late August, Melissa had moved from her apartment into one of the dorms. She was finally getting the college experience she'd wanted. I wasn't happy about the prospect of dragging her back to a more troubled period of her life.
When I called, I reached a roommate who told me that Melissa was at her job, a work-study position in the undergraduate library. I headed to campu
s and asked for her at the main desk.
“She's on her dinner break right now,” a brunette with a winsome smile told me. “With that four-eyed weirdo who's got a crush on her.”
“Do you know when she'll be back?”
The woman checked her watch. “Should be any minute now.”
Instead of waiting in the library, I took a quick walk through campus. The law school, where I'd gotten my degree, was housed at the edge of the main campus, a five-minute uphill trek from the library. My head echoing with memories, I crossed Strawberry Creek and wound through Faculty Glade to the familiar doors of Boalt Hall.
I'd been so optimistic as a law student, so fired up with notions of truth and justice. Fired with romantic notions about love as well. How had I gotten so far off course?
My career wasn't floundering exactly, but neither was I a pillar of the legal community. Instead of a resume marked by pivotal accomplishments, mine lurched first one direction, then another. But it was the personal realm that most troubled me. It wasn't that I'd set my hopes on marriage, two kids, and a picket fence—in fact, I'd been known to scoff at the notion—but I'd always assumed that I would find someone with whom I connected. Someone who would be there for me, and I for him. Lover, friend, playmate, advocate. A companion along the winding and sometimes lonely road through life.
I thought back over the men I'd known, and with those memories I was once again brought face-to-face with my feelings for Steven. Sooner or later we'd have to discuss what had happened Saturday night. Talk through our past and explore the direction, if any, of our future.
Steven hadn't returned to court for the afternoon session. While I was in some ways relieved, I was also hurt that he hadn't made some sort of overture. But then, I chided myself, neither had I.
I started back, heading down Bancroft Avenue, then turned by Sproul Hall, the main entrance to campus. The evening sky was beginning to darken. Students crisscrossed the open plaza, some heading home, others to libraries and classes.
I was approaching the undergraduate library when I spotted Dan Weaver sitting on the steps with another boy about the same age who was pulling on a cigarette. They both had skateboards.
I waved and meandered over. “Hey, Dan, you get around.”
“As much as I can. You'd have to be nuts to stay at that shit-ass boarding school any more than you have to.”
“Berkeley's clear across the bay, though.” It was also a mecca for high school kids, so I shouldn't have been surprised.
He shrugged. “It's easy on BART.”
“My folks used to live in Berkeley,” the other boy said. “I coulda gone to Berkeley High if they hadn't moved.” Berkeley High School clearly scored higher points as a happening place than Pacific Academy.
Dan laid his skateboard across his knees and reached into one of the deep pockets of his cargo pants.
I remembered the mouse. “Did Herman come with you?” I asked.
Dan raised his head, and looked at me through narrowed eyes. I was struck by how much he looked like Bram. “Herman's dead,” he said in a flat voice.
“What happened?”
“He escaped from his cage and the dorm parents went totally krazola. They poisoned him.”
“How awful.” A loose mouse was probably a hazard when you were responsible for a houseful of kids, but surely they could have come up with something short of poison.
“They knew he was my friend,” Dan added. “But it didn't matter.” I could hear the pain in his voice.
“I'm sorry,” I said, and meant it. Strange as the kid was, there was an appealing vulnerability about him.
Dan opened his hand. I noticed a thin black friendship bracelet around his wrist. “Sunflower seeds, you want some?”
I didn't. Especially ones that had been in a pocket that might not have been washed since Herman lived there. And in the boy's hand, which looked as though it hadn't been washed any more recently. But I hated to turn down an offer of friendship so I took two from the top.
Dan turned to his companion. “This here's the lady that's defending my dad's killer.”
“Alleged killer,” I corrected. “She didn't do it.”
Another shrug. “Whatever.”
“I didn't see you in court today.”
“The teachers noticed I was gone.” He made a face and turned sarcastic. “Bad, bad me. Geometry theorems and verb conjugations, can't miss those or the world might come to a standstill.”
His buddy laughed.
Dan stood up. “Besides, it was kinda boring sitting there all day.” He motioned to his companion. “Hey, good luck. We gotta fly, like a kite.”
I went to the main desk and inquired about Melissa.
“She got back right after you left,” the young woman at the desk told me. “She's on the second floor, in ancient civilizations.”
“Huh?”
“We're reorganizing the stacks. Melissa is moving books.”
I found Melissa pulling books from the shelves and piling them onto a book cart. “Sorry,” she said, concentrating on the books and not looking up, “you'll have to go around.” Then she saw it was me. “Oh, hi, Kali. What are you doing here?”
She was looking good. She'd cut her hair and lost the weight from the pregnancy. Probably a few additional pounds as well.
“How are classes?”
“Great. My psych professor is incredible, and in English we're reading St. Joan, a play by George Bernard Shaw. I'm loving it. Me and my roommate get along fantastic. She's from Los Angeles. I'm going to go home with her over Thanksgiving.” Melissa was animated, her cheeks flushed.
“Sounds like you're enjoying yourself.”
She brushed the hair from her face and gave me a quick smile. “Finally.”
“That's great.”
She nodded. “For the first time in my life, I'm where I want to be.”
“Melissa, I hate to dredge up the past when things are going so well...”
“Then don't.” Her tone was almost playful.
“I'm afraid I have to. I need some answers.”
She went back to pulling books off the shelves, her mood subdued. “Bram's murder has nothing to do with me.”
“Terri might be convicted. You don't want that, do you?”
A moment's silence, then finally, “No.”
“Help me by telling me who Hannah's father is.”
She turned and snapped at me. “It's Bram. I told you that.”
“The tests say it wasn't,” I reminded her.
“The tests are wrong.” She pulled a dusty blue volume from the shelf and stacked it on the cart. Her hand was shaking.
“Is it Ted?”
“Ted?” Melissa's laugh was shrill. “Is that what you think?”
“I'm just asking.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn't that be something. Geez, me and Ted.”
“It's not so far-fetched.”
“You're crazy.”
“Maybe a one-night stand then, with some guy whose name you don't even know?”
“Puh-leese.”
“Melissa, I've done plenty of stupid things in my life. Nothing you say is going to shock me.”
She drew in a breath and hesitated. Then abruptly, her manner shifted and she turned her back on me. “I've told you who Hannah's father is. If you don't like my answer, tough. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do.”
I leaned an arm on one of the bookshelves Melissa had emptied. I could see the line of dust that ended where the books had stood. “Maybe you're right about it being Bram,” I conceded.
“I've been telling you that.”
“You didn't want him to stand in the way of the adoption,” I added. “And you didn't want him raising your daughter. That gives you a motive for killing him.”
“Me?”
“Think about it. There's a witness who saw a blond-haired woman a block from Weaver's place. And a dark-colored Explorer. They found white wool fibers at the scene. What's to s
ay it wasn't you?”
“Well, it wasn't.”
“Can you prove it?”
She gave a nervous laugh. “You're serious about this, aren't you?”
Desperate, was more like it. I nodded.
“I was on the phone practically the whole night.”
“With whom?”
She looked away. “Someone.”
“Last time I asked you, Melissa, you said you were home alone. Now you conveniently remember a phone call.”
She gave me a dirty look, as though I were the one who'd changed my story, not her. “Check with the phone company if you don't believe me.”
“Why don't you just tell me who you were talking to?”
“Why don't you just leave me alone. You're acting totally krazola over this.”
Krazola. I'd never heard the term before, and now twice in the space of fifteen minutes.
That's when I noticed the packet of sunflower seeds on the book cart.
So obvious, once you knew. Like that old saying—plain as the nose on your face.
I'd remarked to myself how much Dan looked like Bram. How they both had the same chin, like Hannah. Dan was here in Berkeley. Dan wore thick glasses. The woman at the desk had said Melissa was on her break with some “four-eyed weirdo who had a crush on her.”
“It's Dan, isn't it?” I asked, certain that I was right. “He's Hannah's father.”
She looked at me. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Like I'd tossed a bucket of water at her.
I expected her to deny it. To lash out at me in anger, or to challenge me with a dismissive laugh.
Instead, she slumped on the floor and buried her head in her hands. “I thought it was Bram. I really did. I never considered the possibility that. . . that...” Her voice grew faint.
“So it is Dan?”
Melissa looked up. “It must be. I mean, if the test is right that it isn't Bram.” She rubbed her hands over her arms, as though she were cold.
“Does he know?”
“Dan? I don't think it's even crossed his mind.” She was sobbing now, and shaking. “He's only a kid. They'll arrest me, won't they? There was a case in the newspaper not long ago. The woman went to jail.”
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