Evidence of Guilt (16 page)

What side? I thought glumly. That wasn't the thing to say to the defendant's father, though; not at this point Not with him seeming half-undone himself.

"We'll present our case at trial, where it counts," Sam said. "There's no point tipping our hand ahead of time. That would only give the prosecutor a preview of our defense strategy."

Jake made another swipe at his brow, then scanned the packed gallery of the courtroom. "This is disgusting," he said. "Voyeurism of the worst kind. Don't they realize a man's life is at stake here?"

Sam clasped Jake's shoulder. "Concentrate on giving Wes your support. Forget about the rest of it." He nodded toward the door, where a guard was bringing in Wes. "You'd better take a seat now."

The jailhouse overalls had been replaced by a well-tailored dark gray suit. The shirt was crisp, the tie an urbane diagonal stripe. With his face freshly shaven, his hair clipped and neatly combed, his tattoos well-concealed, Wes Harding looked like a different man. One who could almost have been standing in Curt Willis's place. Almost. Wes had the same self-contained air, but his expression was more sullen than cocky.

He took a seat at the far end of the counsel table, folded his arms across his chest and stared dead ahead. When Sam leaned over and whispered something in his ear Wes didn't bother to acknowledge the words.

The room quieted as Curt strode down the aisle and took his place at the prosecutor's table. He shuffled a few papers, passed a file to his assistant, glanced my way and

smiled. The smile of a wily fox. But in his eyes I saw a hint of anxiety, like a young boy with his heart set on making the team.

Judge Seaton entered, called court to session, then scowled over the tops of his glasses at the gathered crowd. Many judges--most judges, I'd venture to say--enjoy being in the limelight. Seaton did not. Fiftyish, with stooped shoulders and a face like weathered stone, Seaton conducted his courtroom with as little intervention on his part as possible. Not because of any fine-tuned philosophy of judicial restraint, but because he was about as timid as they come. The fact that he had a courtroom full of spectators and journalists watching his every move no doubt displeased him beyond measure.

Curt Willis, on the other hand, chose his poses carefully for full audience effect. This despite the fact that the only person he had to convince was Seaton. His opening remarks were eloquent and dramatic, although orchestrated more with an eye to the personality game than the law. Nonetheless, he was good. It was all I could do to keep myself from nodding in agreement.

Finally he called his first witness, the police officer who'd responded to the initial call. In the wake of Curt's questions, the officer verbally reenacted the scene, step by step. The medical examiner was next, followed by the county criminalist,

Curt had dropped the theatrics and was now building his case in a sound and straightforward manner. Occasionally Sam would stand and object to the phrasing of a question, which Curt would simply restate in another form. There was no new evidence introduced, no surprise eyewitness or shocking revelation. Not that I expected any. The prosecution only has to introduce enough evi-

dence to show probable cause. Curt was no more inclined to lay out his whole case at this stage than we were.

As the hearing progressed, I jotted notes to myself, looking for inconsistencies we might exploit at trial. Nothing, not even a toe hold. I might as well have been writing out my grocery list.

I'd instructed Wes along similar lines. If any of the testimony rang false with him or suggested a possible defense, he was to make note of it. He hadn't picked up the pencil once all morning. When Seaton called the noon recess I looked over at Wes.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well what?"

"You heard the evidence. This afternoon the prosecutor is going to argue that it all points to you."

"Yeah? Well, he's going to be wrong."

'Then how about you give us another explanation to throw to the judge."

A puff of breath, scornful and exasperated.

"We need our own version of events, Wes."

"I'm working on it, okay?" He pushed himself back from the table and stood. The guard was at his side in an instant. "If I come up with something," Wes muttered, "I promise you'll be the first to know."

I took a deep breath and held it for a minute. Attorneys who screamed in court were not regarded with favor.

Sam slipped his notepad into the scruffy brown briefcase he carried. "Willis is doing a decent job," he said.

"You sound surprised."

"Do I? I guess maybe I am. He has a reputation as something of a lightweight."

"This case is important to him. He sees it as his ticket to something bigger and better."

Sam smiled, but his eyes remained solemn. "This case is important to all of us." He turned. "Are you going over to Dr. Markley's now?"

I nodded. "I won't be long. I can't imagine the good doctor is going to give me much of her time."

Dr. Markley's office was located in a room at the back of her house. I entered through the side gate, as she'd instructed, and followed the flagstone path past the plum tree to the unmarked green door and rang the bell.

Dr. Markley was younger than I expected, probably in her late thirties. She had thick chestnut hair that hung in waves about her face. Her skirt was denim, topped with a loose-fitting jersey and applique vest. She looked like someone who'd be more at home canning the summer's harvest than probing people's psyches.

After directing me to a seat by the window Dr. Markley took the one opposite for herself. Her office was light and airy, definitely more comfortable than chic. There was a desk at one end, an overflowing bookshelf near the door and an assortment of large pillows along the wall. Something resembling an upholstered dentist's chair, sans instruments, stood in the far corner. A fat gray cat was curled in the chair's hollow. He lifted his head and yawned as I sat down.

"You wanted to ask me about Lisa Cornell?" Dr. Markley said. Her voice was soft and low, as unhurried as a feather floating in a still room.

I nodded. "I was hoping she might have told you something that would shed light on her death."

The doctor's gaze drifted to the garden outside before shifting back to me. "It's hard to lose a patient. Particularly one as young and full of life as Lisa."

"I understand she was seeing you in connection with recurring headaches."

"That was an issue, yes."

"An
issue? There were others?"

Dr. Markley sighed. "The whole area of confidentiality becomes murky when we're dealing with a patient who's been murdered. There are no ethical canons that cover a situation like this." She paused to smile. "Even if there were, I don't think I'd follow them if it meant letting a killer go unpunished."

I smiled back.

"On the other hand," Dr. Markley continued, "I can't simply go around repeating what Lisa told me in confidence. I have a responsibility to my profession, as well as to Lisa's memory. So if I sound vague, it's because I'm trying to walk a tight line. I hope you understand."

I did, and told her so.

"Lisa came to see me about her headaches. But the reason she ended up here in the first place is that medical science couldn't find a cause or cure. Emotional pain often manifests itself as physical pain. That's the avenue we were exploring."

"Get in touch with your feelings, that kind of stuff?"

A gentle laugh. "I hope there was a little more to it than that."

"But it wasn't simply a stress management class, then?"

Her expression was puzzled. "Not at all."

"Or a forum for handling chronic pain. It sounds more like group therapy of some kind."

"Well, yes, I suppose." She offered a wry smile. "Except it wasn't much of a group, just me and Lisa."

I sat forward. 'Just the two of you?"

"That's not unusual. Most therapists prefer to work one-on-one."

"But what about Wednesday nights? I'd understood you ran a support group for people who suffered from chronic headaches. One of the women from the group called Lisa the night she was killed. Lisa ended up canceling a date with her fiance because the woman needed help."

Dr. Markley looked perplexed. 'There were just the two of us. Lisa's standing appointment was Wednesday at six. Now and then we'd meet another time during the week in addition, but she always came on Wednesday evenings. How did you get the idea it was some sort of group?"

"From Philip Stockman, her fiance."

"I see." A frown creased her brow, then gave way to another smile, so faint it was barely visible. "Lisa must have presented it to him that way to keep the peace. He's apparently a..." She paused, looking for the right word. "... a man of strong opinions. He doesn't approve of therapy or, I might add, of therapists. Lisa's style was to avoid confrontation whenever possible."

"But what about this woman who phoned her?"

"I have no idea. Are you sure Lisa said it was someone from the group?"

'That's what Stockman says."

She held out her hands, palms up. "I'm afraid I can't help you there."

"From what you've said, it sounds like Lisa was willing to bend the truth to avoid confrontation. Do you think she might have invented the phone call the same way she did the group? Because it was easier than going into her real reasons for canceling the date."

"Perhaps."

'The white lie approach to carefree living."

There was that faint smile again. "You've never done something similar?"

"Sure." More times than I liked to admit. "But I can't imagine marrying someone I couldn't be honest with. Talk about setting yourself up for a dysfunctional marriage."

Dr. Markley pressed the fingers of her hands together. "People have different ways of handling conflict, different ways of working out the inevitable kinks in a relationship."

"And Lisa's was to avoid conflict."

"I shouldn't have told you that."

"Was that what you and Lisa were working on--her lack of assertiveness in relationships?"

Another faint smile. "Sorry, I'm not about to let you trip me up twice."

The cat stretched, jumped to the floor and meandered to the door, where it began meowing loudly. Dr. Markley rose and went to Jet him out.

"You sound as though you might have been there yourself," she said.

"In therapy?"

"I was thinking more in terms of assertiveness in relationships."

"Ah, that." The doctor was perceptive.

"It's not an uncommon problem. For women anyway."

Too bad I couldn't afford a professional visit. Given my history of failed relationships, I could probably have used some help. "You mentioned that Lisa's headaches were a manifestation of emotional pain. What sort of emotional pain might--"

That was a possibility we were exploring," Dr. Markley said evenly, "not a certainty."

I backed up and tried again. "Were you making progress?"

She sighed. "With the headaches, no. If anything, they'd become worse the last few weeks."

"But there was progress of another sort?"

"Lisa had a high level of unexplained anxiety. I had her keep a diary of thoughts and feelings associated with the headaches. I thought that might help unlock the source of her anxiety. The fact that the headaches were becoming more frequent might have indicated that we were close to finding the underlying cause."

"What kind of underlying cause are we talking about?"

"I'm not sure."

"Do you have any theories?"

There was the barest beat of hesitancy; then she shook her head. "Sorry, I don't."

"What about the diary? Was there anything there that might shed light on her death?"

"Lisa never showed me what she wrote. It was purely to trigger her own thinking."

"So she might have written about something that was bothering her? Something that ultimately led to trouble?"

"She might have."

"Did Lisa ever talk about Philip Stockman?" I asked.

"Of course."