Witness for the Defense (18 page)

“I remember,” Sarah said and kissed him on the cheek. “Al dente.”

Joe’s smooth olive face flushed. “You let her get away,” he said and nodded to the space Sarah had vacated, “and you’ll answer to me.”

I winked at Avery. “Whatever you say, Uncle Joe.” I walked into the kitchen, leaving Avery to listen to Joe’s war stories about the days the Teamsters ruled the land—or thought they did.

Sarah was at the sink, filling a pot full of water, when I walked to the side of her and placed my arm around her shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, gently squeezing her. She turned to me and like metal drawn to a magnet, her deep blue eyes met mine. There was an awkward pause—as we waited to see what the other would do next. My resolve to stay on neutral ground was quickly melting away.

I gently pulled her into me for a kiss. Our lips touched and just as I was about to draw her into my mouth, we jerked apart. From behind came a purposeful cough—it was Avery.

“I just wanted to check on the sauce,” he said, seemingly more embarrassed than we were. He stirred the pot once. Before he left, he placed his finger over his lips as if to say he wanted to tell me a secret. “I didn’t cook the pigs’ feet,” he whispered. “Do you think he’ll notice?”

I had to chuckle. I should have known Joe would have made Avery cook his favorite recipe.

“Nah, I haven’t put pigs feet in for years.”

“Phew,” Avery said. He left the kitchen, shouting at Joe to see if he wanted another glass of wine.

Sarah nodded at her father as he walked away. “You know, this was his idea. He’s had it planned for weeks.”

I stared blankly into the middle distance, thinking. I was having a difficult time believing he’d do that for me.

“He really is fond of you. And, like your uncle,” she said, gesturing to the living room, where we could hear Joe’s booming voice, “underneath that rough exterior is a heart of gold.”

Joe had been my guiding light for most of my life. His presence had made me realize something I should have been aware of long ago. Avery Harris and his daughter, Sarah, really were good people.

“I can see that now,” I said.

Chapter 20

The Sav-on drugstore was located at the end of a long line of redbrick buildings, dwarfed by large redwoods to the rear. I’d wasted the last couple of hours sitting in my car, waiting to interview Carol Sealy, the cashier who’d sold Danny Barton the candy. The Gummy Bear wrapper had become the focus of my investigation. It was the one piece of evidence that directly connected Jared to the boy. And, it was crunch time. The trial was about to start and I hadn’t come up with anything to prove that either McBean or one of his men could have planted it.

Even though nothing about Jared’s case seemed to be falling into place, Sarah had been more successful with mine. Our plan to stall my trial had worked. She’d been able to put it off for a couple of months using Jared’s trial as an excuse.

I was just about to nod off when a loud hacking sound startled me. A thin, gray-haired woman with her hands cupped in front of her face was trying to light a cigarette against a persistent late-afternoon breeze.

She didn’t budge when I jumped out of the car and rushed up to her.

“These damn safety lighters,” she complained.

“Having a problem?” I searched my pockets for matches that I knew weren’t there.

“They make them this way to protect the kids, but hell, us old folks have the damnedest time. My skin’s so thin, I’m afraid I’ll cut myself every time I try to light the damn thing.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Could if you had a match.”

“Sorry.”

She furiously ran her thumb on the rough metal wheel until a flame appeared. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply “I haven’t seen you around here before,” she wheezed through a cloud of smoke.

“I’m from San Francisco.”

“Who around here isn’t?”

The thick haze of carcinogens attacked my face. I moved to one side so the wind wouldn’t hit me head-on. “Could I talk to you?”

“About what?”

“The boy who was attacked last month.”

“I’ve already talked to you cops.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then you must be a reporter,” she said, patting her windblown hair. “I don’t want to talk to any reporters.”

I hesitated, expecting the worst. “I’m not a reporter, ma’am. I’m an attorney.”

“A lawyer?” She scowled. “I definitely won’t talk to you.”

“It’s very important,” I said with a sense of urgency. “I represent the man accused of attacking the boy.”

“How can you do that?”

“Ma’am?”

“I just don’t understand how you people can live with yourselves.” She threw her half-finished cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. Interviewing witnesses can be really charming sometimes.

“I just want to understand better what happened that night.”

“Yeah, and you’ll twist and turn everything I say just to get the guilty S.O.B. off….I watch TV.”

It was obvious I wouldn’t get anywhere asking her to talk to me for either Jared’s or my sake, so I used the old standby. I’d take advantage of her natural sympathy for the young victim.

“Do you really want to put that boy through the trauma of having to testify?”

She looked at me sharply. “That’s not up to me.”

“In a way it is.” I explained. “If no one will tell me what they know, then how will I ever know what the truth is?”

“The truth is your client is guilty or they wouldn’t have arrested him.”

I knew she wouldn’t talk to me for sure if I tried to debate that point—so I didn’t. “If I’m convinced my client is guilty, then the young man won’t have to testify.”

“How’s that?”

“If what’s stated in the police report is correct, I’ll recommend he plead guilty.”

“Well, I can tell you that whatever that lieutenant put in the report is the truth.”

“You mean McBean.”

The old woman nodded, and her eyes narrowed as if she’d finally realized what I’d been saying. “Are you telling me the only way that boy won’t be forced to relive that horrible night is if your client pleads guilty?”

“That’s correct.”

She angled her head, thinking about it. She then withdrew another cigarette from the pack she kept in the breast pocket of her pink uniform. “Make it quick,” she said and held out the pack to me. “Like one?”

“Nah, just gave it up,” I lied. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Ah, these things won’t hurt you,” she said between hacks. “These are Carl tons, son. Only one-tenth of a gram of nicotine per smoke. Hell, a whole pack of these aren’t as bad as just one of those Marlboro cigarettes most of the kids smoke these days.”

“Is that so?”

I waited as she lit it, inhaled, and held the smoke inside her for several seconds like she was smoking a joint.

“Do you recall the night the boy was attacked?”

“You know,” she said, holding the cigarette in front of her face, studying it, “my father smoked Camels since he was twelve. Lived to be ninety-five. All this surgeon general stuff is a crock.”

The woman started coughing again. This time she couldn’t seem to stop. She bent slightly at the waist, holding her cigarette in one hand and a hankie up to her face in the other.

I didn’t want her to die on me right here. At least not until I had a chance to see what she knew. “Can I help?” I said. But before I could finish she placed the hankie over her mouth and spat God knows what into it. She straightened herself and looked at her burning cigarette, then took another drag.

“Don’t know what causes that,” she said, shaking her head. “Must be a lot of pollen in the air.”

“That time of year,” I supplied lamely.

“I remember the night it happened,” she said, once she had caught her breath.

Slowly, so as not to alarm her, I took out a small notebook. “How about what the boy was wearing?”

“I don’t remember the exact color of his clothes, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, ma’am,” I said, scribbling while she was talking. “But do you recall if he was wearing a coat and gloves?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “He was wearing a large overcoat. Does it say in that report what color it was?”

I could have cared less what the color of the coat was.

“The report describes the coat pretty well….I need to know more about the gloves.”

“What’s there to say?” She glanced over her shoulder. I could tell she had to get back inside.

“Was he wearing them in the store?”

“As a matter of fact, he was.”

“Are you positive?”

“I know what I saw,” she said. “The little darling had quite a time when I handed him the change. With those gloves he could hardly hold onto the coins. And that magazine,” she said and laughed.

“Magazine?”

“Right before he paid for the candy I saw him looking at a magazine.”

“Did you notice if he was wearing his gloves at that time?”

“Sure was,” she said. “And it was what was so funny.”

Too busy writing, I didn’t say anything.

“He was holding it upside down.” She chuckled.

Ignoring the humor, I asked her again, “He was wearing the gloves while he was reading the magazine?”

“I doubt if he was reading it if it was upside down,” she scoffed, obviously miffed that I didn’t so much as smile at what she thought was so funny.

“Was he?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why you think it’s so important. He was wearing those gloves from the time he walked in until the time he walked out.”

I wanted to kiss the old bat. But between her hacking and the smoke that enveloped her, I decided just to thank her instead. “I really do appreciate your time.”

She flipped her cigarette butt on the sidewalk. “I have to get back.”

“I understand.”

“By the way,” she said, backing up toward the door, “tell Lieutenant McBean he still owes me for that package of candy I gave him.”

“What package?”

“When he interviewed me, I gave him a package of those Gummy Bears,” she said. “You know, the same kind I sold to the boy.”

“McBean kept it?”

“Sure did,” she said. “And he never did pay for the damn things.”

I was fighting hard to hide a triumphant smile. “When did this happen?”

“The day after the attack. McBean and some uniformed officer were waiting to talk to me as soon as I came on duty.”

“Any idea what he did with them?”

“Damned if I know,” she said and the automatic door opened. “I’m going to call that S.O.B.’s boss, though, if he doesn’t get back here and pay for them.”

“How much?” I asked, pulling some loose change from my pocket.

“Buck fifty plus tax.”

“Will a dollar sixty-five do?” I said, handing it to her.

“I didn’t mean for you to have to.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll be seeing McBean soon.”

“Make sure he pays you back.”

“Oh, he’ll pay, all right. You can count on that.”

Chapter 21

“All rise,” Billy Danks, a solemn elderly clerk, bellowed as Judge Priest, dressed in a freshly pressed black robe, rushed up the wooden steps to take the bench. “The State of California versus Jared Reineer, Judge Mary Jane Priest presiding.”

Normally, I don’t get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach when a trial is about to begin, but Jared’s was different. It wasn’t because I was unfamiliar with the court, the players, or the seriousness of the charges. I had enough experience not to let any of that bother me. Rather, it was because of my strong belief in his innocence. As far as I was concerned, Danny Barton wasn’t the only victim in this trial. Jared Reineer had been locked up because of the act of a crooked cop. It was my responsibility to expose Lieutenant William McBean and return to Jared the freedom he, like everyone else, held so dear. A responsibility I didn’t take lightly.

To my right, Jared, dressed in one of Avery’s gray suits, turned to me with a strained look. Minus the beard, he was a sharp contrast to the wild-eyed paranoiac who, just a couple of months ago, had bawled like a baby as he lay in a pool of his own urine. He appeared the opposite of what I was sure Bragg would try to portray. On the other side of him, Sarah managed a stiff half-smile when our eyes met. She was wearing what she described as her jury suit—a classic gray wool with a snug, fitted jacket and skirt. It was just tight enough for the men to take notice, but not so tight that it would alienate any of the women jurors.

Sitting in the front row directly behind Jared, with his familiar stoic expression, was Avery. The sixty-five-year-old was tan and trim. A powerful man both in manner and appearance.

Jury voir dire had taken the better part of a week. The most difficult task when selecting a jury in a high-profile case is to find twelve individuals who, after having been bombarded with pretrial publicity, can still maintain an open mind. Since the moment Jared was arrested, the media had, without exception, slanted every report in favor of the prosecution. According to them, Bragg had all the evidence and the trial was nothing more than a waste of the county’s valuable time and resources.

However, Bragg and I knew differently. The only certainty was that the final outcome was uncertain. I’d won more than my share of cases that I shouldn’t have and vice versa. I was sure the same held true for Bragg. There was never a guarantee of what twelve people might do. It was a crapshoot under the best of circumstances.

Bragg, who was to the left of McBean, fidgeted nervously in his chair. If he should lose what his faithful believed was a certain victory, he could kiss any chance of becoming the next governor good-bye. His wealth and connections wouldn’t help him then. The pressure was on.

“I will remind the gallery that they are to be silent throughout these proceedings,” Judge Priest said, peering down from her lofty perch. She was tall and thin, yet broad shouldered like a swimmer. In her mid-forties, she wore little makeup, making her pale green eyes even lighter—more masculine. The book on Priest was that she was fair to both sides no matter what the consequence. She was exactly what was needed to preside over the most notorious case to be tried in Mendocino County since anyone could remember.

“Consider yourselves my guests,” she concluded, “and as such, I can have any one or all of you removed at any time.”