Witness for the Defense Read online

  Witness for the Defense

  A Kali O’Brien Legal Suspense Mystery

  Jonnie Jacobs

  To David and Matthew, who have taught me so much and enriched my life beyond measure

  Copyright © 2001; Digital Edition 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Prologue

  The shot wasn't loud. Nothing more, really, than a sharp pop. Another pop followed maybe thirty seconds later. Barely discernible above the background din of a busy city.

  Alexander Rudd wouldn't have thought twice about it if he'd been anywhere else. On any different errand.

  He pulled the blue windbreaker across his chest in an effort to shield himself from the late-night fog—and the certainty that gunfire had erupted not more than fifty feet from where he stood.

  Rudd cursed under his breath. He didn't need this. Not now. His legs moved of their own accord, away from the spot on the narrow street where the shots had been fired.

  Getting involved was out of the question. It would mean explaining what he was doing out at midnight in a part of the city where he had no business being. The proverbial can of worms. Once the lid was opened, there'd be no putting it back.

  He couldn't. Not now.

  But how could he walk away?

  Rudd pressed against the building, cloaking himself in shadow. He stood still, ears alert, eyes watchful.

  The street was empty. Dimly and unevenly lit, although lights shown sporadically in the surrounding houses. And quiet. Even the wind seemed to have settled. In the distance, the roar of a motorcycle, the screech of sirens, the slamming of a car door. City sounds. Oddly comforting.

  Funny, he felt no fear. Just the high-tension anxiety of moral dilemma. Clinging still to the thin edge of darkness, Rudd heard the soft tread of rubber-soled shoes, caught a glimpse of movement in the narrow sliver of public stairway on the other side of the road.

  Street thugs, he told himself. A drug deal gone bad. Urban rats.

  He tried to still the voice in his head, the voice that urged him to offer help. If there was a life in balance, he could tip the scales. Wasn't that what his own life had once been about?

  Once.

  A long time ago.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rudd caught the blur of movement heading his way. His heart quickened. He slipped into the tiny alcove of the building's entrance.

  A darkened figure hurried past not ten feet from where he stood. Crossed briefly through the soft glow of a lone street light, and then once more into the cloak of night. But not before the picture had imprinted on Rudd's mind.

  No city ruffians, after all.

  Rudd wanted to slip away, forget he'd been here tonight. Forget the sound of gunfire. It wasn't anything that concerned him.

  Except for that life that might be hanging by a thread.

  Again, he cursed silently and crossed to the downhill side of the street. A stream of light angling from an opened doorway caught his eye. He hesitated, then started down the path that led to the entrance.

  And then he saw it. Just inside the doorway, the crumpled form of a human body.

  Rudd approached cautiously. A pool of blood had already begun forming on the tile floor below. He felt for a pulse, and found none. The flesh was still warm, but it wouldn't be for long.

  The load of Rudd's moral dilemma lifted. There was nothing he could do.

  CHAPTER 1

  There are things you know before you know you know them. If I'd been listening to those cautionary whispers instead of silently debating my options for lunch, I might have turned Terri Harper away on the spot. Advised her to seek representation elsewhere.

  As it was, she sat across from me, separated by the width of my faux-walnut desk, and regarded me earnestly with eyes the color of a summer sky.

  “All we need,” Terri said, “is someone to guide us through the legalities.”

  She tucked a strand of blond hair, highlighted by the hands of a professional, behind her ear. It was a gesture she'd made repeatedly since arriving at my office ten minutes earlier. Habit or nervousness? I couldn't decide.

  “Mere paperwork and legal hoops,” she added. “Nothing more.”

  I nodded, not convinced. Clients rarely understood that mere paperwork was an oxymoron. That every clause in a legal document, every word, in fact, was fraught with potential pitfalls.

  Terri fingered the thin gold chain around her neck and smiled. She appeared to be in her early thirties, about my age or maybe a couple of years younger. A cotton sweater of warm taupe was draped casually around her shoulders, softening the formality of her linen slacks and white silk shirt. The diamond on her ring finger was the only thing about her that wasn't classically subdued.

  “You come highly recommended, Ms. O'Brien. And I'd feel more comfortable working with a woman.”

  That was, as far as I could determine, my only real qualification for the job. “There are attorneys who specialize in adoption, who've got a network of contacts—”

  “But I told you, we've already found a baby. That's the hard part. Believe me.” Terri Harper's voice was girlish and dusted with the remnants of country twang, belying the model-like features and aura of sophistication that made such a striking first impression.

  “It's an awful experience. An emotional roller coaster.” The smile was gone. Her lovely features grew pinched at the memories. She looked down at her nails. “All those letters we sent out. Our life, our souls, reduced to a single sheet of advertising copy. And the waiting. The false hopes and leads that went nowhere ...”

  “That's why I was suggesting an attorney with experience in private adoptions.”

  Terri shook her head. “They don't understand either. For them, it's just a business transaction.” She again tucked the errant honey-blond strand behind her ear. “Besides, that part is all behind us now. The mother, the birth mother that is, likes us. Really likes us. And she's committed to placing her baby for adoption. I'm sure she won't change her mind.”

  I looked out my office window to the blanket of gray that was just now beginning to break. Full sun was still an hour away. Summer in the city, Bay Area style. But at least here in Oakland we'd eventually see the sun. The same couldn't be said for the folks across the bay in San Francisco.

  “How old is the baby?” I asked Terri.

  “She isn't born yet. Melissa's due in a couple of weeks. Melissa Burke, she's the birth mother.”

  A couple of weeks. That was manageable. And maybe a couple of weeks on the other end. I'd just finished a big trial and there was nothing major looming on the horizon. Except bills. Straightforward and short-term were just what I was looking for. Breathing room. Money to tide me over until the rest of my life sorted itself out.

  Terri leaned forward. “Steven had only nice things to say about you.”

  “Steven?”

  “Cross.”

  My chest tightened. A name from the past. A name I'd had a hard time relegating to history. Dr. Steven Cross had been an expert witness in a big case about seven years ago when I was still with Goldman and Latham. He'd advised us behind the scenes on another case a couple of years later, just before his wife and daughter were killed by a hit-and-run driver. I'd sent him a sympathy note and received in return a printed acknowledgment with a hand-scrawled thanks for caring. I still had the note, but we hadn't spoken in the five years since. I was sure it was for the best.

  “He's the one who gave me your name,” Terri said. “He knew I wasn't happy with the attorney we used before.”

  “Before?” I pushed the memory of Steven fr
om my mind.

  “A year and a half ago we were all set to adopt a little boy.” Terri's voice broke and she paused, looking down at her hands until she'd regained her composure. “We'd brought him home, sent out announcements and everything, and then the birth mother changed her mind. Decided to marry the baby's father after all.”

  I'd read of such cases. Out of the thousands of adoptions that went smoothly, those that didn't were the ones that made headlines. California law streamlined the process in an attempt to avoid just that sort of heartbreak, but there were no guarantees.

  “How terrible for you,” I told Terri.

  She nodded, took a gulp of air.

  It was, I imagine, a wound that never healed. Which brought me back to her relationship with Steven Cross. Steven was a psychologist, formerly a consultant to the FBI, and now associated with UC Berkeley, but he probably saw private patients as well. I wondered in which role Terri Harper had made his acquaintance.

  “What's your connection with Dr. Cross?” I asked.

  With a quick brush of her hand, Terri again looped her hair behind her ear. “He's my brother,” she said.

  “Ah.”

  “Half-brother really. His father died when he was eight. His mother married Arlo a couple of years later and I came along ten months after the wedding.” She capped the explanation with a smile, like she'd been down that road many times before.

  “How's he doing?” I knew I would be better off not asking, but I couldn't help myself.

  “He's doing okay,” Terri said after a moment. “All things considered.”

  In general I shied away from clients with strings to friends or relatives, but Steven Cross wasn't really a friend. Certainly not anymore.

  And I could use the income.

  I uncapped my pen. “Let me get some information, and then we can map out what needs to be done. Does Melissa Burke live locally?”

  Terri nodded. “In fact, she's living with us at the moment. It works out great because we know she's taking care of herself— not doing drugs or drinking or anything. You worry about stuff like that. I've been going to doctor appointments with her, too. And we're doing Lamaze training together.”

  “You and Melissa?”

  “And my husband.” Terri had the tact to laugh. “I know it sounds strange to people who haven't been there themselves. But open adoption involves rethinking lots of commonly accepted notions. It takes some getting used to, for everyone.”

  Frankly, I wasn't sure I'd have been up to it myself, either as prospective parent or birth mother. I was thankful I'd never been in a position to find out.

  “How did you hook up with Melissa?”

  “My guardian angel was working overtime. I swear, it would never have happened if somebody up there didn't care.” Terri fingered the braided metal watchband at her wrist. “Losing Christopher was devastating for us. It put a lot of strain on our marriage.” She paused and looked out the window. “There were some rocky times. But we finally pulled ourselves together and started in again with the newspaper ads, the letters to physicians, the ads on the Internet...”

  “The Internet?”

  “You want to cover all the bases. Anyway, we steeled ourselves for the inevitable crank calls and rejection. We'd barely gotten started when my husband broke a tooth. The dental receptionist remembered we'd been interested in adopting before. Her niece happened to know Melissa. The whole thing just fell into our laps.”

  “Amazing how that works.”

  “It is. Some things are just meant to be.”

  We covered the remaining points quickly. Terri's answers were concise and to the point, a far cry from what I get with some clients who ramble on, telling me everything but what I want to know.

  Melissa Burke was nineteen. She'd come to California from a small town in Ohio last fall in order to establish residency for instate tuition. She'd been sharing an apartment in Berkeley with three others until she'd joined the Harpers in their Pacific Heights home across the bay. At the time of the move, she'd quit her job making sandwiches at a local deli. The baby's father was a young man Melissa had known casually. There was no ongoing romance between them. Never had been. He had no interest in the child, and was relieved to be off the hook.

  The Harpers and Melissa had already worked out the most troublesome aspect of an open adoption—the continuing role of the birth mother. Melissa wanted annual photos and updates, but no actual contact. The Harpers were more than happy to oblige.

  “You must be thrilled to know you're going to have a baby soon,” I said when we'd finished.

  “Thrilled doesn't begin to describe it. Some days I have to pinch myself to make sure it's not all a dream.” She practically glowed with pleasure. “I know you'll want a check, a retainer.”

  “If that won't be a problem.”

  “No, not at all.” She reached for her purse. “Oh, I almost forgot. My husband's attorney suggested this affidavit. The man is obsessed with petty details.”

  Suddenly I was wary. “Your husband's attorney won't handle the adoption?”

  “I wouldn't want him to. He's a grump who hasn't a drop of human blood in his veins.” She pulled out a letter and handed it to me. “My husband couldn't come today but he signed this statement so you'll know we're together on this.”

  Buff-colored paper of the finest quality. Embossed letterhead. But what jumped out at me was the name at the bottom.

  Terri Harper was the wife of Ted Harper, former star quarterback for the 49ers and now the voice and face of TelAm Communications, hot new contender in the digital phone arena. His roguish smile graced billboards and print ads, but it was the sexy television commercials that swelled the ranks of his female fans.

  Now that I knew who the players were, I remembered the earlier adoption fiasco well. The Harpers had fought to keep the child, but the law was squarely against them. That didn't stop the media, particularly the tabloids, from exploiting every possible twist and drawing the story out as long as possible.

  “Will a thousand be okay?” Terri Harper asked. “I can make it for more, if you'd like.”

  “That will be fine.”

  She handed me the check. I hesitated a moment before I took it.

  An adoption was an adoption, I reminded myself. But I had the feeling there'd be a lot of eyes watching this one.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hey, boss.” Jared stuck his head into my office. “Was that who I think it was?”

  “Depends on who you thought it was.”

  “Ted Harper's wife?” It came out sounding more like a question than a statement.

  “Right.”

  “Wow.”

  “And I don't like to be addressed as boss.”

  “So you've said.”

  I crossed my arms and looked at him. “Jared, listen to me. You may think that passing the bar exam is the only hurdle between you and success, but not pissing people off is equally important. Especially not your boss.”

  He grinned. “See, you said it yourself. You're the boss, so what's wrong with calling you that?”

  “A few active brain cells will also stand you in good stead.” I tried for a glower but found myself fighting the urge to smile.

  Jared Takahashi-Jackson was working for me while awaiting bar exam results, the second time around. His failure to pass the first time was not actually his fault but the result of an overturned big rig that closed all but one lane of the Bay Bridge the second morning of the exam. And Jared, of course, hadn't timed his trip with any margin for surprises.

  Jared was bright and hardworking, but not at all willing to temper his youthful brashness with anything akin to brownnosing. He was, in many ways, a male version of the lawyer I wished I'd had the courage to be at his age.

  “So,” Jared said, leaning against the doorjamb, “are we handling a divorce here? Or maybe a postnup? Please don't tell me it's something dull like a testamentary trust.”

  “They're adopting a baby.”

  “T
he kid from before?”

  I shook my head. “A newborn.”

  “Lucky kid.” Jared looked almost wistful. His childhood had been anything but privileged.

  “I think the Harpers consider themselves the lucky ones.”

  He rolled his eyes, like let's not get sappy about this, and started for the door. Then he turned back. “We don't have to do a lot of... of baby stuff with this, do we? I mean, we're not going to have an office full of pregnant girls crying their eyes out or anything?”

  “We're just doing the paperwork.”

  Eat my own words.

  <><><>

  I met with Melissa Burke the next day at The Barnacle, a restaurant along San Francisco's Embarcadero. As supportive as the Harpers might be, I didn't want them breathing down our necks while we talked. I had some rather pointed questions to ask Melissa, and anything less than absolute truthfulness would only sow the seeds for disaster down the road.

  I picked Melissa out of the crowd immediately. A middle-America schoolgirl not long out of braces and gym shorts, with a bulging tummy and downcast eyes. Her hair was a muddy blond, shoulder length with feathered bangs. One hand was thrust into the pocket of a stylishly cut maternity dress, no doubt purchased by Terri. With the other, she clutched her pocketbook as though it tethered her in a roiling sea.

  “Melissa?” She looked up. “I'm Kali O'Brien, the attorney hired by the Harpers to handle the adoption.”

  She extended a hand, her expression wary. “Pleased to meet you.”

  I'd reserved a table by the window, with a view of the water looking back toward Oakland and Berkeley. It also offered a bit more privacy. I'd worried initially that meeting in a public place might be awkward for her, but when I'd spoken with Melissa yesterday by phone, she'd leapt at the chance for lunch.

  “This is really nice,” she said now, primly unfolding her napkin onto her lap. “Very fancy.”

  “The food is good, as well. Or it used to be at any rate. I haven't been here in a couple of years, so we'll see.”