Witness for the Defense (7 page)

Sarah and I were stunned by the sight of Jared huddled in the corner of the cold cell. Dressed in jail-house blues, he was shaking uncontrollably while sitting in a pool of his own piss. His head was cradled between his knees.

McBean grinned from ear to ear. “Never touched him,” he said and slammed the door shut.

Sarah walked straight to Jared. “Are you all right?” she asked, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.

Jared didn’t respond. Instead he covered his head with his arms, trying to shield himself from the forces that were converging on him. For the first time that day, I could tell that Sarah was shaken.

“Why don’t we see what they have?” I said, pointing to the police report she was holding.

Sarah sat on the edge of an old makeshift bed and began to read the report. I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between her pristine skirt and the dirty mattress. While she seemed unaffected by it, I wanted to sit anywhere but on that germ-infested thing. But after surveying the cell and seeing that the only other seat was a stainless-steel toilet caked with dried urine, I reluctantly sat next to her. The steel frame moaned with the added weight.

Sarah handed me each page once she’d finished with it. After giving me the last one, she studied Jared, who hadn’t budged.

“I don’t see why they think they have enough to even arrest him,” I volunteered.

Sarah gave me a quizzical look as if she didn’t comprehend my optimism. “You don’t?”

“Not really. The victim couldn’t pick him out of the six-pack.” I’d read that six photos were shown to the boy the day after he was attacked. One of them was Jared.

“But even without a positive identification, they have a strong case. They have a description of his car…But,” she said and hesitated as if in deep thought, “it’s the candy they found inside the car that really nails him.”

“Come on,” I said. “There has to be a hundred cars in this county that fit the vague description the boy gave.”

Sarah gave me a look as if to say, Think about it. “Not with a package of the boy’s gummy bears on the front seat.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t buying it. It was too pat.

“All I’m saying is we better see what kind of offer the D.A. will make him,” she said.

“No way.”

“Why?”

“Because I know something you don’t.”

Sarah had no idea what I was getting at. “Are you going to tell me?”

“The package of gummy bears.”

“What about it?”

“Only that I don’t remember seeing it there.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “When could you have possibly seen Jared’s car?”

“While waiting for you at the farm, I happened to look inside. And I sure didn’t see any package of candy in the middle of the front seat.”

Sarah gave me a perplexed stare. “You’re sure?”

“Hey, it’s not often you get to see a ‘56 Chevrolet. So I took a look. There was a bunch of junk in it, but nothing on the front seat. I’m positive.”

Sarah grimaced as she shifted her weight, causing the old bed to squeak. “You think someone planted it?”

“With McBean, anything’s possible.”

Sarah was having a hard time accepting the notion that the police would manufacture evidence. “You’ve been watching too much TV,” she remarked. “They wouldn’t do something like that.”

“It’s rare,” I said. “But it does happen. And that’s not only experience talking, but someone who has had McBean on the opposite side before.”

Sarah dropped her head and silently stared at the report in her lap. I knew she was overwhelmed by what I was saying and the responsibility she was about to take on. A case always looks its bleakest when you read the police report for the first time. The worst thing she could do was form any opinion until she fully investigated and understood all the facts.

“Play the devil’s advocate,” I said. “Don’t believe anything that is written in that report, whether it helps or hurts your client. Make sure you check everything out yourself.” I waved my hand at Jared. “And that includes anything he tells you,” I whispered. “That is, if you ever get him to talk.”

Sarah placed her hand on his arm. “Jared,” she said in a motherly tone, “you have to talk to me.”

He raised his head so only his eyes were exposed. They were dark and swollen and fixed on me. “Who…who’s that?” he said in a cowering tone.

“Hunter Dobbs,” she said. “Remember he was at the farm? He’s a criminal defense attorney from San Francisco.”

Jared looked quickly around as if it were the first time he realized he was locked up. “Where’s my necklace?”

“Necklace?” she asked, unsure of what he meant.

Jared’s eyes were bigger than saucers. “My leather necklace,” he stammered. “I want it back.”

If it wasn’t so sad, it would be almost comical. He had just been arrested for a very serious crime, facing the possibility of life in prison, yet all he cared about was some damn necklace.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Sarah’s voice was soft and understanding. “For now, I have to talk to you about what happened.”

“Nothing happened, so get my necklace back.”

Sarah’s confused expression lingered.

“They normally won’t allow you to keep any personal belongings once you’ve been booked,” I said, trying to help her out.

“But it’s part of me,” he said and jumped to his feet. “I’m nothing without it. You have to get it back.” Jared grabbed Sarah’s arm and yanked her toward the cell door. “Go get it!”

Sarah tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “Why won’t you help me get it back?”

I’d had enough. I gripped Jared just under the chin and forced him onto the bed. “Calm down,” I muttered fiercely into his ear.

As Sarah straightened her suit, I eyed her and circled my index finger to the side of my head. I was beginning to question how they could have allowed such a nutcase to live with them.

“I know you’re afraid,” Sarah said patiently, “but you have to talk to me.”

Jared glared at her. “Not until I get my necklace back.”

“Miss Harris will get your necklace back,” I said, sure there was no way that would ever happen. But if a white lie helped to get him to calm down and talk to us, it would be worth it.

Jared raised his head and gave Sarah an urgent look. “Can you?”

“Only if you’ll help me.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” he said.

Sarah reached for the report, which during the scuffle had fallen to the floor, and handed him a copy of Danny Barton, the victim’s, photo. “Have you ever seen this boy before?”

“Never,” he said without the slightest hesitation.

“Then can you explain how a package of his gummy bears could have been found in your car?”

Jared’s eyes darted around the small room before they settled back on Sarah. “Gummy what… ?”

“Gummy bears,” Sarah repeated. “It’s candy.”

Jared briskly shook his head. “No way. They’re lying if they say there was candy in my car.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d know what’s in my own car, wouldn’t I?”

“Do you know anything about the attack on the boy?”

Jared’s shoulders visibly slumped. He was tired of her questions.

“Everyone does,” he finally mumbled. “It’s been in all the papers.”

Sarah searched his face. “You’re sure you don’t know anything about the attack other than what you’ve either read or heard?”

“Positive,” Jared said and his expression abruptly changed back to one of desperation. “Tell them I’ll agree to talk if they’ll give me my necklace back.”

“No,” Sarah said. “Promise me you won’t talk to anyone unless I say it’s all right.”

He lowered his head, shaking it slowly.

“Promise,” she repeated.

“Okay,” he finally said.

I heard the rattling of keys in the hallway. I knocked on the cell door and waited for Sarah as McBean swung the door open. She gave me a half-smile as she passed. I knew what she had to be thinking. She had never handled a case close to this serious and I was sure she had her doubts. Child molestation was one of the most difficult cases a criminal defense attorney could be faced with. Taking on an experienced district attorney, a slick investigating officer, and combine that with a sympathetic victim, you have a mixture that would create anxiety in even the most seasoned trial attorney. And as Sarah would be the first to admit, she fell far short of that.

Chapter 7

Sarah asked me to find her father, who she thought would be trimming trees. She was on the telephone with the D.A. in San Francisco, to find out when they wanted to meet and discuss Bobby Miles’s baseless allegations. We were hopeful that once they’d heard my side, they would realize all they had was the word of a young, petrified kid, and they would fold.

I stepped out onto the broad expanse of the verandah into the cool evening air. Gleaming white wooden columns rose all around me to the second floor above. A waist-high lattice wall connected each to define the porch. I glanced at a porcelain tea set sitting on a wicker coffee table next to an old wooden swing. I felt like a character in a Tennessee Williams play.

“Hunter,” a man’s voice called. Judge Harris was standing in the middle of the stream in hip-length rubber boots, whipping a long fishing rod over his head. After one last graceful thrust, the line fell gently on top of the slow-moving water.

He motioned me forward with a nod of his head.

“Catch anything?” I yelled, trying to be friendly.

Except for the modish boots, he was dressed the same as when we’d left earlier that afternoon.

“Where’s Jared?” he asked as he slowly walked through the shallow water, reeling in his line.

“Still in custody.”

The judge stopped short of the water’s edge, dipped his hand into the water and pulled out a long shiny chain. On the end, three large fish struggled for oxygen. They appeared too big to have come from such a small stream, but what did I know?

“What happened?” he asked as he trudged his way up the rocky bank, trying to balance his fishing rod with his heavy catch.

Jared was Sarah’s client, and she was the one who should break the news. I changed the subject.

“Those are real beauties.”

The judge handed me the cold, wet chain. “Take them,” he said. The weight surprised me, and the twisting fish fell from my grasp to the dirt.

“Hold ‘em up,” the judge barked as he steadied himself with one hand on a large redwood and stepped out of his boots. “Don’t want any sharp rocks cutting into that sweet meat.”

“Sorry.” I pulled the silver-hued monsters off the ground.

“Let’s go clean them,” he said and walked past me, up to the house.

“But they’re not dead.”

“So?” he said as he waited for me at the back door of the house. “Haven’t you ever cleaned a damn fish before?”

“Of course,” I lied. It was if my manhood had been attacked.

He opened the door with a lingering smile. “Good, I’ll let yow do it.”

“Are you sure?” I said, hoping Sarah would walk in and rescue me.

The judge could tell I was out of my element. “I was joking,” he chuckled as he grabbed the chain and threw it into the sink.

Silently, he rinsed each fish, then tossed them, one by one, on a big wooden board where, with a cleaver big enough to decapitate Godzilla, he whacked off each head. Pausing only long enough to change blades, he ran a knife down their soft white underbellies and extracted masses of bloody guts.

Knowing I’d never be able to look at a tuna sandwich the same way again, I slithered to a large bay window off the dining area. I looked out at the trees silhouetted by the setting sun.

“Have you seen Sarah?” the judge asked as he wiped his fish-scaly hands with a blood-soaked towel.

“Must still be on the phone.” Next to where I was standing, an old grandfather clock caught my eye. It was getting late, and I was eager to begin my long drive back.

He opened the refrigerator door. “How about a beer?”

A beer? That was the missing ingredient to another banner day. Alcohol, a crooked cop, a judge who enjoyed taking a bite out of my ass every chance he got.

I nodded in the direction of my car. “Better not…I have to get going.”

“Nonsense,” Sarah said from behind me. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes darkened, she looked drawn from the grueling day.

The judge handed me a cold bottle anyway. “You’re not going anywhere until you have something to eat.”

I noticed several fish scales attached to the amber bottle as we walked into the living room. With my back to him, I removed the sticky debris with my fingers. “I really do have to get back, Judge,” I said.

“Damn it, Dobbs! I haven’t been in a courtroom for years. If you call me Judge one more time…”

Sarah smiled and plopped onto the sofa. “I believe he wants to be called Avery.”

Easier said than done.

“Sorry,” I said and turned to Sarah. “Did you set up a meeting with the D.A.’s office?”

“We’re meeting with Michael Patterson on Thursday.”

Patterson was an assistant to the San Francisco District Attorney. I knew him from Department G, where I had been assigned for four years. A Rhodes scholar from an ivy league law school, Patterson may have been one of the most intelligent attorneys I had defended against, but he lacked the most important attribute of a good trial attorney—street smarts. We had tried at least eight trials against one another, and he lost every one.

“He must have called in every marker he had to get assigned to my case,” I remarked.

“What did he have to say?” Avery asked Sarah.

“He wouldn’t discuss any specifics.”

Typical Patterson, I thought. I’d be kept in the dark until he had enough time to prepare his witnesses. I knew from experience he wouldn’t divulge more than he had to unless the press asked the questions. “We’ll probably have to read about it in the papers.”

“I don’t think so.” Sarah reached for the glass of white wine her father was handing her. “He’ll try to keep it quiet. He knows how easy it would be for him to end up with egg on his face.”

Avery walked to the fireplace and threw in a couple of small logs. “Is someone going to tell me what happened to Jared?”