To Catch the Moon (24 page)

“There’s a small matter I thought I should
bring to your attention.”

There were no small matters where a Hudson
was concerned. “Yes?” he prompted.

“The woman who is assisting you on my
husband’s case ... Alicia Maldonado, is it?”

“Yes?” By now Kip’s tablemates would have
noticed that he was frowning.

“Well, I understand, of course, that she’s
just doing her job, but she paid a visit to a friend of mine to
confirm that I stayed overnight at her house the night Daniel was
killed.” She paused to sigh heavily. “Kip, the police had already
spoken to my friend over the weekend and, I must say, taken up a
great deal of her—”

Damn!
Kip clenched his cell phone.
Joan Gaines would never understand why her whereabouts had to be
confirmed. But why the hell hadn’t Maldonado warned him about this?
Better yet, left it to him to handle it?

“—Courtney Holt? You know the name?” Joan was
saying. “Her husband is Lawrence Holt, the attorney. Of course I
explained to—”

Double damn!
The Holts were donors, or
at least they had been. Maybe he could have his secretary send them
flowers to apologize? No, he realized instantly, that would look
like favoritism, and he had to avoid that appearance at all
costs.

This whole case was so damn complicated! He
would’ve been so much better off if Daniel Gaines hadn’t been
murdered. Then Gaines would have become governor, and who knew how
he might have helped Kip then? It was so frustrating Kip could
barely think straight.

He forced himself to sound calm. “Joan, I do
apologize for the inconvenience to your friend. And you can rest
assured that I’ll talk to my aide about it this very
afternoon.”

Another sigh. “I would be so grateful, Kip. I
would just hate if any of your supporters thought your office
wasn’t handling my husband’s case properly. It would be such a
shame.”

Joan hung up shortly afterward. Kip watched,
almost blind with fury, as the Hispanic waiters buzzed among the
tables clearing plates and distributing the custardy dessert. He
could have throttled Alicia Maldonado right then and there.

“All rise. The court is now in session.”

Judge Timothy Pade banged his gavel. “Good
afternoon” was exchanged all around, and the few dozen people—most
of them press—in Superior Court Four reclaimed their seats.

Since Treebeard’s arraignment happened to be
the first item on the docket, Alicia was already in position at the
people’s table, Penrose at her side. At the defense table to their
left sat Treebeard and Jerome Brown, a natty figure in a
black-and-white houndstooth sport jacket and perfectly creased
gabardine slacks. In front of Alicia hulked the black binder filled
with three-hole-punched case notes. With the police report,
Treebeard’s DMV history and lengthy rap sheet, evidence form, and
other paperwork that went into bringing a homicide case to trial,
the binder was as big as a VCR. And twice as heavy.

Which meant, of course, that Alicia had
hauled it up the six flights of stairs from the first-floor D.A.’s
office, Penrose climbing unencumbered by her side. No courthouse
staff ever used the elevator. It was a creaky, unreliable piece of
equipment that moved at roughly the speed of the county
bureaucracy. For some reason Penrose had seemed very keyed-up, his
steps unusually jerky, his face flushed. She’d felt duty-bound to
ask him whether something was wrong. He’d pushed out, “You’re damn
right something is,” through clenched teeth, then twisted his
features into a cheery smile as they passed the potential voters
lined up on the second floor for jury duty. Alicia knew she’d hear
what had him all riled up before the day was over.

Whatever was going on with Penrose, Louella
had scored a victory just before lunch. She’d gotten a judge to
allow her to subpoena Joan Gaines’ cell-phone and credit-card
records for December. So before long Louella would have her hot
little hands on what might provide some interesting insights into
Joan’s activities the night of her husband’s murder.

“I’d like to think I’ve become tremendously
newsworthy,” Judge Pade deadpanned. “Maybe you all heard that I
finally broke par.” Halfhearted chuckles broke out in the rear of
the gallery, the area set aside for the media. A bearded,
even-keeled veteran of the Monterey County justice system, Pade
didn’t look as if he expected a more rousing response to his tepid
attempt at humor. “But I know better.” He waved a hand at the
gallery. “I imagine all of you are leaving after the first item of
business?”

Another round of chuckles. A man called out
“Yes, sir!” Alicia twisted in her chair, trying to be casual,
trying to scan the occupants of the press rows without looking too
obvious. She realized quickly she hadn’t succeeded. There sat Milo
Pappas, second to the last row on the left, looking straight at her
and wearing an
I know who you’re looking for and you just found
him
grin.

Damn
. She pivoted back around to face
the bench. Momentarily she was catapulted back to third grade at
Our Lady of Lourdes Elementary, where every morning Sister Gonzaga
gave Alicia her only reprimand of the day for squirming in her seat
trying to find Hermano Bautista, an eight-year-old bad boy of the
best kind. Somehow Hermano had always seemed to know she was
looking for him, too.

“Let us dispense, then,” Pade said, “with the
first item on this afternoon’s agenda ...” and the bailiff piped up
without missing a beat: “The People versus John David Stennis.”

At the defense table, a jumpsuit-clad
Treebeard rose to his feet, his ankle manacles clattering. As form
required, Jerome also rose, as did Alicia and Penrose. Behind her,
Alicia could hear the soft whir of camera equipment as the only
still photographer and TV cameraman allowed inside the courtroom
focused their lenses on the accused.

The attorneys stated their names for the
record. The charges were read. Pade asked Treebeard if he
understood them, and Treebeard said he did. Alicia thought Jerome
looked relieved and guessed that he’d been worried his client would
refuse to speak that day.

Pade stared at Treebeard. “On the count of
murder in the first degree with special circumstances, how do you
plead?”

It seemed to Alicia that everyone stilled.
From her position on the right side of the people’s table, she
leaned forward to see around Penrose and get a better look at the
defendant. Treebeard dropped his chin to his chest and shuffled his
manacled feet. The thought flashed through her mind that maybe he
was a fabulous actor playing out this moment for all its dramatic
worth. Finally he raised his head and stared straight at the judge.
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

As they’d all expected. She relaxed. But then
Treebeard went on talking, which sent a palpable wave of surprise
through the courtroom.

“I’m not just pleading not guilty.” His voice
took on the hostile edge Alicia knew so well. “I’m honestly not
guilty, Your Honor. I didn’t do it.”

“That’s enough, John,” Alicia heard Jerome
murmur, and watched him lay a hand on his client’s left arm.

“No, I mean it.” Treebeard’s voice rose. He
shook off Jerome’s hand. “Somebody set me up. I didn’t do it.”

Judge Pade raised his voice, though he gave
no other indication the defendant was out of order. “The
preliminary hearing will be held Monday, January thirteenth, 9 AM.
Next case.” He banged his gavel on its little wooden stand, which
seemed to agitate Treebeard further.

“No!” he shouted, and shook Jerome off with
such force the lawyer was knocked backward a few feet, crashing
noisily into one of the chairs at the defense table. The still
photographer and TV cameraman scooted up to the bar to get closer
to the action. “Can’t I get a word in edgewise here?” Treebeard
yelled. “What the hell kind of justice is this?” Now two armed
guards were on him, trying to manhandle Treebeard out the side door
into the defendant holding area. But Treebeard squirmed and kicked
and shouted, looking for all the world like the kind of crazed
maniac who would shoot an arrow through Daniel Gaines.

Alicia watched the display with a sick heart.
It gave her not one iota of satisfaction, though it would help her
win the case. Treebeard had single-handedly turned his own
arraignment from a nonevent into a top news story, one that would
convince most Americans he was a guilty man.

Yet when she saw this angry, impotent side of
Treebeard, she thought him less likely to be guilty of murder than
of gross stupidity. If Treebeard had been framed, whoever picked
him as the mark had made an inspired choice.

*

Milo stared at Alicia’s profile and saw
nothing in the play of expressions on her face that he would have
expected. Instead of triumph, he read regret. Instead of
vindication, sadness.
She’s honestly not convinced Treebeard did
it. She wasn’t just feeding me a line when she said the case wasn’t
all sewn up.

But if not Treebeard, who? He pictured
Alicia’s face as she sat across from him at the Mission Ranch bar.
Almost always it’s somebody close to the victim
. In his
memory, her face was still, thoughtful.
Spouse, family,
friends
.

Milo remained seated on the hard wooden
bench, watching Treebeard get dragged through the courtroom’s side
door. Spouse? It simply wasn’t possible. Joan wasn’t capable of
murder, literally wasn’t capable of it. For good or ill, she was
too much of a hothouse flower to be able to drive an arrow through
a man’s heart. At least any way other than metaphorically.

Again Alicia’s voice reverberated in his
memory, this time cold, resentful.
You mean because she’s from a
wealthy family? Because she’s the daughter of a governor?
No.
Because she’d never had to do anything difficult in her life. And
killing your husband, even if you desperately wanted him dead, was
difficult.

His fellow reporters were filing out. He
stood to allow those in his row to exit, and came face-to-face with
D.A. Kip Penrose, who was grinning at him broadly and holding out
his hand. Milo took it and glanced at Alicia, grim-faced at her
boss’s side. “Milo, good to see you again,” Penrose was saying.
“I’m gratified to see that WBS has you covering this important
story.”

Milo didn’t let himself say any of the things
that sprang to his mind. Penrose was gratified? Because Milo was on
Newsline
and
Newsline
was the hottest prime-time
magazine on the air and the D.A. would dearly love its national
exposure? “Certainly,” was all Milo could make himself say, but
that was apparently enough for Penrose, who gave him a comradely
slap on the back and preceded him out the courtroom door. Alicia,
Milo noted with disappointment, was already gone.

The reporters were setting themselves up in
the corridor for an impromptu press conference. There was only one
cameraman, serving as the pool, who would provide dubs of the day’s
video to the outlets requesting it. Milo joined the throng,
spiral-bound reporter’s notebook in hand. Penrose was faster than
the defense attorney at stepping up to the lone mike. He bent his
head and cleared his throat. The cameraman turned on his light,
bathing the D.A. in a wash of illumination. “Rolling,” the
cameraman said, and immediately Penrose began talking.

“Kip Penrose, K-I-P-P-E-N-R-O-S-E, Monterey
County district attorney. First let me make a statement.” He paused
to arrange his features into solemn lines. “The case against John
David Stennis, who calls himself Treebeard, is extremely strong.
This afternoon’s arraignment is an important first step in bringing
a barbarous murderer to justice, but much remains to be done. In
the preliminary hearing in ten days’ time ...”

Milo tuned out, already bored. Penrose would
offer no interesting insights, even if he had any, which Milo
doubted. Alicia hadn’t even bothered to stay for the performance, a
sure signal of just how dreary it promised to be. And if by some
chance Penrose, or later the defense attorney, did let fly
something notable, Milo would hear it on the pool tape.

He sidled away from the mob, stowing his
reporter’s notebook in his overcoat pocket. His feet led him down
the red-tiled stairs to the first floor, where across the central
hall was the unprepossessing glass-door entryway to room 101, the
district attorney’s office. He stared at it, then traversed the
hall, pulled open the door, and gave his most winning smile to the
twenty-something red-haired receptionist who sat behind the
reinforced glass partition window. She—the gatekeeper who buzzed
visitors through a locked door into the sanctum sanctorum—smiled
back.

“I have a 4 o’clock appointment with Deputy
D.A. Maldonado,” he lied, and flashed his laminated, all-purpose
press pass for effect. “My name is Milo Pappas.”

“I know who you are.” She smiled again.

Milo smiled again, too. “I’m a little early,
but would you be kind enough to let me in? I’d like to make a swing
past the men’s room and would rather not use the facilities out
here.”

“I understand completely,” she said, and
buzzed him in. That was that. Milo saw no sign that she alerted
Alicia to his imminent arrival, so he would maintain the advantage
of surprise.

What did he want?
he asked himself as
he strode down the narrow corridor as if he knew where he was
going, peering into each of the minuscule offices he passed. Well,
he wanted to see Alicia. He wanted to talk to her. Give asking her
out another whirl. Maybe this time he could convince her that
dinner, just the two of them, wasn’t so out of order. But she was
nowhere in sight. Many of the offices were shut down for the
night—lights out, desks cleared. Not surprising, given that it was
late afternoon on the thirtieth of December. He did find a men’s
room, where he made the promised pit stop, then resumed his
circumnavigation of the office.