Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “She was forty years old, Melissa.” Although technically it didn't matter. Adult was adult, and Dan was a minor. “I think your case might be perceived in a different light. But I'd certainly put a stop to it now, if I were you.”

  “I have! I mean, we're not. . . you know, sleeping together or anything. But Dan's like calling me, coming to Berkeley to see me, wanting us to do things together. I'm afraid to make him mad because he might tell someone.”

  That was always the problem with stepping over the line. “How did you end up with Dan?”

  She shook her head. “It just... happened. Bram used to bring him along to Hank's sometimes. That's how we met. Bram treated him terribly. And then one day Dan showed up without Bram, and we went to a movie, just for something to do. Next time he came over, we started goofing around, and . . . It was only that one time.”

  “That you slept with him?”

  She nodded. “Both of us were real mad at Bram, though for different reasons. I guess we were trying to get back at him, or something. And Dan is nice. He's a geeky kid and all on the surface, but he's probably the first person who's ever liked me. I may have been the first person who liked him, too. And I do, but not like that.” She made a face, as though she were looking at something grotesque.

  “Was it Dan you were on the phone with the night Weaver was killed?”

  She nodded. “It was right after his visit with Hannah, remember? Dan was so hurt that Bram was making this big deal about Hannah. He'd hardly ever sent Dan a birthday card, even. He called me during Bram's show to tell me to listen. Bram was going on and on about the importance of fathers, and how children need men in their lives.” She took a breath and exhaled slowly. “We were on the phone for a long, long time. I felt sorry for Dan. And I was lonely myself. You can check the records if you want. I'm sure the phone company keeps tabs.”

  I would, though I knew in my heart that she was telling the truth. Too bad, because she and Dan would have made good surrogate suspects.

  CHAPTER 39

  Bea and Dotty returned home a little before eight o'clock. I'd fixed myself a spinach omelet for dinner and had just finished cleaning up the frying pan when I heard them coming in.

  “I'm in the kitchen,” I yelled. “How was your trip?”

  “Wonderful!” they called out in unison. There was a flurry of dog barks and the rattle of luggage wheels on hardwood flooring. Then they appeared at the kitchen door.

  “I hit the jackpot,” Dotty said with a grin. “Sirens and lights and everyone was looking at me. I thought I'd broken the machine.”

  “She would have run off if I hadn't grabbed her arm/' Bea added. “Should have let her go and claimed the money for myself.”

  “I bought you a fancy dinner afterwards, didn't I?”

  Bea humphed with good-natured humor. “One measly dinner.” She turned to me. “How's the trial going?”

  “Could be better. I'm afraid I've got some bad news of a different sort, however.” I told them about Sophia Rudd's death. As I expected, Bea was shaken. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Do you know when the funeral is?” she asked.

  I hadn't even thought to ask. “I don't. I had a call from her son asking me to meet him Sunday afternoon, but he never showed up.” For the first time, I thought to wonder if he'd met with foul play as well.

  “I'll call the church in the morning,” Bea said.

  Dotty shook her head sadly. “You just never know when life is going to up and punch you in the face, do you?”

  They headed off to unpack and digest the news while I went downstairs to check my e-mail.

  Invitations to join “I'm so hot,” and “Barely eighteen,” at their respective websites, a couple of get-rich-quick proposals, notes from friends, one from a reporter with the suggestion we collaborate on a book about the trial, and a message from my sister, Sabrina, telling me to check her website for the latest in family photos.

  I deleted the spam, ignored the note from the reporter, and punched in responses to the personal messages from friends. Then I clicked onto Sabrina's web page.

  My sister is a technophobe. Well, actually, it's less that she is afraid of technology than that she hates challenges. But her husband gave her an easy-to-use digital camera for Christmas, and since then I've been privy to a steady stream of family photos. I clicked through the snapshots, rather quickly for the most part, paying only enough attention so that I could tell her I'd seen them.

  But one shot caught my eye. Sabrina and her sixteen-year-old son, mugging for the camera on the back deck of their home. She had her hair piled loosely on top of her head, and she shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand. My sister is better looking than I am, although there are people who find her appearance too polished. But what struck me about this photo was how strong the family resemblance was. I tried to imagine myself there on the deck with a teenage son. A husband ten feet away shooting pictures. For the first time that I could remember, I envied her life.

  I started to disconnect, then went back to the photo. Sun, deck, vista beyond. Mother and child mugging for the camera. It reminded me of the photograph I'd seen on Steven's bookcase. Terri and Lenore, taken the day they'd learned Melissa had chosen the Harpers to be the parents of her baby. Different setting, of course, but a similar feel.

  Suddenly, I remembered where I'd seen the purple sunglasses before. They weren't Terri's; they belonged to Lenore.

  My heart did a two-step. Could it really be Steven's mother who'd killed Weaver? She had the same coloring and build as Terri, and I'd noticed the flashy diamond on her ring finger. She doted on Hannah. That gave her as much a motive as Terri. And she didn't share her daughter's abhorrence of guns.

  The more I thought about it, the more the pieces fit. Reloaded ammo. Arlo would have access if he didn't actually reload it himself. And Lenore was staying with Terri the night Weaver was killed. She could easily have driven Terri's car.

  A film of perspiration prickled my skin. My mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. One thing I knew, I had to tell Steven.

  How would he react?

  I couldn't do this to him, I thought.

  Did I have a choice?

  I was shaking as I picked up the phone. My embarrassment about Saturday night paled by comparison to what was yet to come.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Yes.” Steven's greeting was curt, his voice sharp.

  “Hi, it's Kali.”

  His tone softened, but only marginally. “I don't have time right now.”

  “Steven, I'm sorry about the other night.”

  “Can we deal with this later?”

  There was such a flat quality to his words that I was sure he was angry with me. Or hurt.

  “That's not really why I called, anyway. I have to talk to you.”

  “Not tonight, Kali.”

  “It's about the trial. I know who killed Weaver.”

  He didn't even ask. “Tomorrow. We can meet first thing, before court.”

  “Steven, are you all right?”

  He laughed. A hollow sound that brought to mind the black hole of despair his friend Martin Bloomberg had talked about.

  Then he was sober again, sounding like the Steven I knew. “I'm fine.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I'm not upset with you, if that's what you're thinking. Sorry that we can't go back to what we had, though. So sorry.” His words were thick.

  “This can't wait until tomorrow, Steven. It's important. I could be over there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I'm on my way out. It's going to have to wait.” He paused. “I'm sorry, Kali. But it can't be helped.”

  He hung up before I could get another word out. I stared at the phone, half thinking he might ring back and explain his odd behavior. But the line remained silent.

  Did he have someone with him? That would explain part of it. But not the black edge of depression I'd detected. Maybe Steven was really over the edge. His friend was
worried about him. Even I'd seen glimpses of his dark moods.

  I tried to work, but I felt uncomfortable. Like my skin had shrunk. My mind wouldn't focus.

  Talking to Steven had scared me. I couldn't put my finger on why, exactly but there was an almost crazed tenor to his mood.

  Before I'd actually decided what to do, I grabbed my car keys and was heading down the hill toward Steven's.

  What if he wouldn't talk to me? What if there was a woman there with him? I didn't know how I'd handle it. But there was something going on that didn't feel right.

  I took Ashby down to College Avenue, cursing leisurely drivers and red lights, both of which I faced in abundance. I pulled onto Steven's street and parked in the first open space I found, near the end of the block. I headed for his house on foot. Partway there, I saw a dark figure scurry down his walkway.

  “Steven?”

  He didn't answer. Didn't even look my way. But the figure climbed into Steven's car, and in the brief flash of light when the door opened, I saw that it was, indeed, him.

  The car pulled away from the curb in a hurry, with a screech of tires. I trotted back to my own car, and followed. Maybe I was going to look like a fool when all was said and done, but there was no way I could turn around and head home at this point.

  Steven got onto the freeway, headed toward San Francisco. I stayed a couple of cars behind. When he got off at the Embarcadero, I did too, then slowed to leave more distance between us. He parked along the waterfront. A bustle of activity during the day, the place was deserted at night. I didn't see another person anywhere in the vicinity.

  I parked a little distance away and followed him out toward the ferry slip, staying in the shadows of the construction equipment parked along the way. My first thought was suicide, and I wondered if I would be able to stop him. But as I approached, I saw Steven take a seat on a bench. He was huddled in a heavy coat, the collar up around his neck to keep out the damp wind. I hadn't even thought to bring a jacket. I shivered and shook my arms in a futile attempt to stay warm.

  For several minutes I stood there feeling the icy fingers of night slice across my skin. Either I had to return to my car, or confront Steven. He wasn't acting like a madman exactly, but neither was he acting in a manner I would call normal.

  Nothing ventured, I said to myself, and called out his name.

  He looked up, startled. “Kali? What are you doing here?”

  “I was coming to your house, to see you. But you were leaving just as I got there.”

  “So you followed me here?” His voice contained something more than disbelief.

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Worried.” He made a funny sound, like a strangled laugh. “That's a good one.”

  “I was. Am.”

  This time he laughed for real, but there was nothing merry about the sound. “So am I, Kali. Real worried. But I'm worrying enough for both of us, so why don't you just go on home.”

  “I can't—”

  “Do it, Kali.”

  Steven—”

  “Now.”

  I hesitated. This wasn't the Steven I knew. I wanted to reach him. “Why don't we get a cup of coffee somewhere.”

  He shook his head, looked over my shoulder. “Go on. I'm not in a mood for company.”

  “Steven, I can't just leave you. Something's clearly—”

  He pulled his hand from his coat pocket and I saw the shimmer of smooth metal.

  “Turn around, Kali. Walk back to your car and go home.”

  I wasn't going to argue with a gun.

  But this was Steven with a gun. What was happening?

  Still facing him, I stepped back. I was shaking so hard now I could barely move. And it wasn't just the cold.

  “That's good, Kali. Keep going.”

  When I was maybe twenty feet from him, I again slipped into the shadows and started to sprint for the street.

  Then I saw another figure coming toward us. Tall and broad, with a slight limp. Instinctively, I knew who it was even before I saw his face.

  Why was Steven meeting with Ray Shalla?

  Or was it something else?

  I pulled back into the shadow of a construction crane, then inched out toward the plaza, taking cover in the darkness of the boat ramp. Shalla stopped short of where Steven was sitting.

  “So Rudd,” Shalla said. “We meet at last. Better you should have stayed dead.”

  Steven raised his head. “You shouldn't have fled the scene of the accident.”

  Shalla did a double-take. “Where's Rudd?”

  “I'm here in his place.”

  “You've talked to him?”

  “He called me Sunday.”

  When he was supposed to meet me at the Berkeley pier.

  “He told me about the damage to your gray BMW and the cockamamie story you made up when you brought the car to the body shop. Complete with its keep tahoe blue sticker. You were driving the car that killed my wife and daughter, Shalla, and you didn't even stop.”

  Steven's words hit me like a bolt of lightning. So that was Rudd's secret!

  “You can't prove that,” Shalla said. I couldn't see his face, but his voice was scratchy. Bravado mixed with alarm.

  “Close enough. Rudd took the evidence to Joe Moran, a dedicated cop. When Moran tried to talk to you, you killed him and made it look like a heart attack.”

  “You can't prove that either.”

  “And I'm betting you set the fire at Henzel's autoshop as well.”

  “You've certainly got an active imagination.”

  “Oh, I've got more than that.” Steven sounded like he was enjoying himself. “Rudd took copies of the photographs and work order home with him. They weren't destroyed in the fire, Shalla. He still has them.”

  “Not for long.” Shalla pulled a gun and held it on Steven. “You didn't really think I'd go for that 'let's make a deal' proposition Rudd suggested, did you?”

  It was only then that I realized I'd stopped shaking. My body was numb but fear was what had turned me to stone. What had Steven been thinking? That he could stand up to Shalla and convince the man to turn himself in?

  I slid my hand into my purse and found what I hoped was the emergency dial button on my cell phone. It was hard to tell, since I was working literally in the dark. The electronic beep was so loud it made me wince.

  “What was that?” Shalla asked.

  “What was what?” Steven either hadn't heard, or was doing a good job of covering.

  “That noise.”

  “The voice of God coming to get you.” Steven laughed.

  “I'll be gone by the time He gets here. So will you.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Come on,” Shalla said. “You're taking me to Rudd.”

  “Can't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don't know where he is.”

  My heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I started to move away and Shalla turned.

  “What's that noise?”

  “Jumpy, aren't you?” Steven said. “Must be the guilt.”

  Shalla looked over his shoulder again. “I can shoot you now and find Rudd on my own, if that's the way you want it.”

  “Won't be easy. When you showed up at the pier yesterday, Rudd got scared. He thought Kali had told you he would be there. What did you do, put a bug on her phone?”

  It took me a second to realize he wasn't talking spiders.

  “Shut up.” Shalla was growing agitated.

  “Anyway, that's why Rudd finally called me. He wasn't sure about Kali.”

  “What does he want?” Shalla asked.

  “Justice.”

  Shalla snickered. “Justice? Is it just that one moment of bad timing should ruin everything I'd worked so hard for?”

  “Is that what it was to you, bad timing? A man in your position should know better than to drive drunk.”

  “I wasn't drunk.” Shalla was angry, defensive. “Maybe a little over t
he limit, but not drunk. If your wife had looked to her left before she pulled through the intersection, she'd have seen me coming.”

  “Hit-and-run, Shalla. And two people died.”

  “I didn't mean for it to happen.”

  “What about Moran? Did you not mean for him to die either?”

  “Moran had evidence. He knew it was my car. I didn't have a choice.”

  “And Sophia Rudd? You shouldn't have touched Rudd's mother, Shalla. That's what made him finally come forward.”

  “The old lady was a mistake. All I wanted was to find her son.”

  Steven stretched one leg forward. “Her son, and the evidence, will be at the office of a reliable public official at eight in the morning, along with a television camera crew. Your future is about to take a tight turn for the worse.”

  “Better than yours, Cross. You'll be dead by then.”

  Fear stuck in my throat like a wad of wax.

  Steven smiled. “You may be right about that, Shalla.” The hand came out again. The gleam of metal. Only it wasn't a gun, but something small and square. “Shoot me and you blow yourself up as well.”

  “You wouldn't dare.”

  “Want to try?”

  Shalla looked uncertain. “What would be the point of killing us both?”

  “Justice.”

  Another snicker. “What's to stop me from simply walking away?”

  “You won't get very far. I'll throw myself on you and the result will be the same.”

  Steven's voice was so calm it was almost otherworldly. He had to be insane. He and Shalla were locked in a battle that allowed no winners.

  I needed to get away before I went down with them. Shalla would hear me if I tried to run. He'd shoot. I'd be a moving target, though. That gave me a chance.

  But it meant abandoning Steven. Could I do that?

  My fingers were numb from the night chill. My body achy from standing stone still in the shadow. I wasn't sure that I could still move, but I knew anything I tried would have to be quick. The slightest sound or shuffle from my direction, and Shalla would swing the gun and fire.

  As if I even had any idea what to try.

  Even as that thought ran through my mind, another took form. I'd spotted a long pole hanging from the railing near where I was standing. The sort of pole used in an emergency rescue of someone who'd fallen into the water. How to reach it without attracting Shalla's attention.