State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller (33 page)

But she knew this was no longer about her. It
was about
him
.

Keeping her voice steady, Beverly asked
before she went any further, “Would you like to have an attorney
present?”

“What for?” Manuel asked, as if he hadn’t the
faintest idea.

“For anything you say to me that could be
used against you,” she told him clearly.

Manuel licked his lips. “I don’t need no
lawyer tellin’ me what to say. I’ll tell you
everything
I
planned to do to you if they hadn’t come to your rescue. Before I
sliced you up, I would’ve made you suck my—”

O’Dell placed a firm elbow to Gonzalez’s
chest, causing him to heave. “You watch what the hell you’re saying
when talking to the lady, you son of a bitch! Or I’ll rearrange
your face so even you won’t recognize it. No one will ask any
questions when I say you ran into a door or two.”

Manuel smoldered, glaring at the
detective.

“It’s all right,” Beverly said in a level
voice, even if she was glad O’Dell had intervened on her behalf.
She was used to this type of bullying from inmates who saw this as
possibly their last chance to exert some fear and intimidation.
Unlike before, this time she was strictly in the driver’s seat. “Do
you know a man by the name of Rafael Santiago?”

Manuel showed no sign of such in his blank
stare at her. “Rafael who?”

“
Santiago
,” she repeated.

“No, I don’t know no Rafael Santia—whatever
the hell...” He grinned wickedly. “Why? He some Latino gangsta or
somethin’? Or just another Latin lover like me?”

Beverly had the feeling he was mocking her.
And giving all Latinos a bad name in the process. But there was no
reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth.

“Have you ever heard of Judge Sheldon
Crawford?”

Manuel rubbed his chin. “Who hasn’t? Ain’t he
the judge who was shot to death a few weeks ago? Heard his old lady
got somethin’ for her trouble, too.”

“What else did you hear?”

He looked confused. “What the hell does any
of this have to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing,” Beverly was willing to
admit. Or perhaps everything.

Stone was less accommodating, narrowing eyes
at him. “Just answer the damned question, Gonzalez!”

Manuel regained his cool. “I read the papers.
I know they arrested some dude for blowing away the judge. So
what?”

“But you’ve
never
heard of Rafael
Santiago?” she inquired again.

“I already answered that one!” he retorted
curtly.

“You’ll answer it as many times as she asks,
asshole!” blared O’Dell.

Manuel widened his eyes. “Never met the man,”
he said simply.

Either he’d never read about Santiago’s
arrest or he was lying, Beverly mused. But why would he lie? What
would he gain by lying about not knowing Santiago?

She gazed across the table. “Have you ever
met a woman named Crystal Lynley?” It was Maxine Crawford’s real
name. Admittedly Beverly was grasping at straws here. There was
certainly no reason to feel that even in her former life in the
sex-for-sale business, Maxine had ever come across Manuel Gonzalez.
But it was worth a try, just to be sure.

“Don’t know. Is she as pretty as you?” Manuel
showed his teeth, running a tongue across them lasciviously.

O’Dell snarled at him, making Gonzalez lose
the flippancy and salaciousness in a hurry.

“I know lots of women,” he bragged. “But I
don’t know no Crystal Lynley. Should I?”

“What about Maxine Crawford?” she
pressed.

Manuel considered the name before responding,
“Ain’t that the judge’s wife?”

“You tell me?” Beverly’s jaw tightened. “Do
you know her?”

Manuel gave her another vulgar look. “I’d
sure like to. Maybe you can have her drop by for a visit. I hear
that black bitches are the best in bed.”

Beverly glanced at the detectives, wondering
what they were thinking. That she had wasted her time? And
theirs
?

She was beginning to feel they might be
right.

“Do you own a handgun?” she asked Gonzalez,
mindful that the gun that killed Judge Crawford had yet to be
recovered. Who was to say that Santiago didn’t pass it to Gonzalez
when finished, or vice versa?

“Don’t you do your homework,
Beverly
?”
he taunted her. “Guns are dangerous. Some innocent kid might get
caught in the crossfire. Knives are more my speed. That way you
have more control. You get to pick out a whore and carve her up
like a turkey. You know what I’m sayin’,
Miss
Assistant
D.A.?”

“I think I do,” Beverly said under her
breath.

She was reasonably convinced that Manuel
Gonzalez, sick and pathetic individual that he was, was not
connected with the murder of Sheldon Crawford and sexual attack on
Maxine Crawford.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The People versus Rafael Santiago trial began
the first week of January. Seven women and five men sat on the
jury. Both sides had carefully screened them, each seeking every
edge they could get. Beverly was confident that she had the people
she needed to produce a guilty verdict.

And she had a defendant who, by his very
nature, fit the composite of a killer you might find in a college
course called Violent Homicide 101.

Beverly sat at the prosecution’s table
alongside Gail Kennedy, stealing a moment or two to go over the
case while waiting for the judge to make his entrance.

An innocent glance at the defense table and
Beverly saw K. Conrad Ortega conferring intently with his client.
Rafael Santiago looked almost like a different man from the one she
had first seen in a lineup. His hair was cut shorter with a part in
the side, making him look almost preppy. He wore a sharp blue suit
that under other circumstances could easily have given the
impression that he was a successful businessman.

Would the jury buy into this?

Or would they see through the facade to his
true
character?

“It’ll be strange seeing Grant on the bench
as a judge,” remarked Gail, wrinkling her nose.

“Not half as strange as it will be for him
seeing
us
in action as prosecuting attorneys,” laughed
Beverly. In fact, she had butterflies fluttering in her stomach,
though not sure if they were the normal ones that came at the start
of every trial or if they were a direct reflection of this
particular trial.

This defendant.

This case.

This courtroom.

This
judge
.

She and Grant had spoken little about the
trial, almost as if to do so invited trouble at a time when they
were trying to get past recent tests to their relationship outside
the courtroom. For her part, Beverly expected Grant to be a fair
judge, if not extra tough on her and himself.

She accepted the challenge, wanting only to
have the chance to present her case and let the jury decide guilt
or innocence.

When the court clerk announced Judge Grant
Nunez, everyone rose respectfully. Beverly could tell that Grant
was in his element, with his black robe worn over a gray wool suit
that she had helped him pick out last week. His head was freshly
shaved and seemed to actually give him a more judicial look.

They exchanged warm glances that only they
could read into before he allowed everyone to be seated.

Beverly’s first witness was Maxine Crawford.
The two had remained cordial even after Beverly learned of her
shady past and willingness to spy on her husband to try and save
her own neck. And collect what was left of his estate after the
government took what was theirs.

What would I have done had I been in her
shoes?

The question was impossible to answer, since
Beverly could not imagine having ever taken the route that led to
Maxine now being in the witness box.

Maxine sported a new hairstyle, wearing her
blonde tinted hair in a flat twist. Beverly thought it gave her an
air of sophistication and went well with a khaki suit and white
blouse with ruffles. It made her look like a school teacher, which
always played well with juries.

“What happened on the night of October
twenty-ninth?” she asked the witness without preface.

Maxine sat poised and demure. “My husband and
I were attacked,” she said pointedly.

“Your husband was Judge Sheldon Crawford?”
asked Beverly with an eye on the jury.

“Yes.”

“And where did this attack take place?”

“In our bedroom.”

“Please explain to the court the nature of
the attack on your husband.”

Maxine gulped. “My husband was shot to
death,” she said painfully.

“While you were in bed?”

“Yes.”

Beverly gazed down at her. “And how many
times was Judge Crawford shot?”

“Three.” Maxine closed her eyes for a moment,
as if saying a prayer.

“Did you see the man who shot your
husband?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is that man in this courtroom?”

“Yes, he is...”

“Can you point him out to me and the members
of the jury please?” Beverly requested.

Maxine lifted her finger and pointed it
squarely at Rafael Santiago.

“Thank you,” Beverly told the witness,
satisfied that she had held up well thus far. “No further
questions.” She would recall her to the stand later.

Ortega stood, buttoning the jacket of his
brown suit. “Mrs. Crawford,” he began, “you testified that you were
in bed during the time your husband was shot. Can you tell the
court what you were doing?”

Beverly flew up like a rocket. “Objection!
This is totally irrelevant!” she snapped, even if she didn’t
entirely agree that it was.

“Sustained!” Grant peered at Ortega. “I don’t
think we need to go there. Keep your questions where they should
be, Counselor.”

Ortega pursed his lips. “How far were you
from the person who shot your husband?” he asked the witness.

Maxine considered this. “About five feet,
more or less.”

“Well, is it more or less?”

She looked at Beverly. “Five feet.”

“Was the light on?”

“No.”

“So you were able to see this person who
fired the shots with the light off from five feet away?” the
attorney questioned.

“It was still light outside,” Maxine
responded nervously. “I could see his face...his body—”

“It was around seven o’clock that your
husband was shot,” said Ortega. “Correct?”

“Yes,” came a tentative reply.

“Well, as far as I know,” Ortega attacked
her, “it’s pretty dark in Eagles Landing after six o’clock in late
October. Too dark for most of us to be able to make out anyone
clearly in a room with no lights on—”

“Objection!” Beverly was steaming. “Your
Honor, he is
not
qualified to know what she saw in the room
that night. Nor can his speculation on what constitutes
pretty
dark
be presumed to be the gospel insofar as lighting
conditions in a house. Besides, our eyes can adjust to even ‘pretty
dark’ light, enabling us to see what’s before us.”

“Sustained,” blurted out Grant. “Mr. Ortega,
there has been no indication that inadequate lighting was a factor
in this crime. I think the witness had sufficient illumination to
be able to see the man she identified as having shot her
husband!”

“He cut the light on...” Maxine blurted
out.

“What?” Ortega fixed her face in a moment of
confusion. “But you just told this court there were no lights on.
Are you changing your story now?”

Maxine gulped while holding his gaze. “You
asked me if the light was on when he shot my husband. It wasn’t.
But then he turned it on before he raped me.”

Ortega rolled his eyes skeptically. “Now why
would he do that, Mrs. Crawford? Especially when you consider that
he let you live. Not the type of thing you’d expect from a man who
just murdered your husband and wouldn’t want you to identify
him.”

Maxine sighed, turning her eyes at the
defendant and back to his attorney. She explained tearfully what
only now had come to her, “He said he wanted me to see him and
remember what was about to happen for the rest of my life. Then he
made me suck on his penis while holding the gun to my head...”

Ortega grimaced and for a moment was
speechless before saying tonelessly, “No further questions, Your
Honor—”

Grant nodded and eyed Maxine sorrowfully.
“The witness may step down.”

Beverly watched Maxine walk away. The two
exchanged glances and Beverly silently applauded her for standing
up to Ortega and helping their case at the same time with an
important piece of information they had not previously discussed,
but was powerful for the prosecution in going after Rafael
Santiago.

* * *

Beverly next called the Medical Examiner for
Wilameta County to the stand.

Doctor Julia Duval was a middle-aged woman
with platinum blonde hair swept up in a chignon. Silver glasses
hung low over blue eyes.

“Dr. Duval, can you tell us the results of
the postmortem examination on Judge Crawford?”

“Certainly,” she said evenly. “Sheldon
Crawford died from a gunshot wound to his face, just above the
right cheek. It caused a massive rupture in his brain.”

“And what other injuries did he sustain?”
Beverly asked.

“Aside from his face being shattered, Judge
Crawford was shot once in the lower back, fracturing his spine,”
explained the witness, “and another time in the upper back. This
one caused extensive internal damage, including a punctured lung
and several cracked ribs.”

Beverly winced, though she managed a smile at
the doctor and thanked her.

“Just a couple of quick questions, Dr.
Duval,” said Ortega, approaching her. “What was the approximate
time of death?”

“I’d say between seven and seven-thirty.”

“That’s P.M.?”