Witness for the Defense Page 14

  “Better office than you had at Goldman and Latham,” he said. “Less pretentious, not as sterile.”

  “Most everything you see is Nina's.” My law school friend whose illness had brought me back to the Bay Area from Silver Creek. I'd taken over her practice on what we all hoped was a temporary basis. As the weeks had dragged out, I'd added a few touches of my own—a clock radio, a bud base given to me by a friend, an electric fan—but I found Nina's office both functional and comfortable as it was.

  Steven dropped into the chair closest to the desk. “I was sorry to hear about the cancer. How's she doing?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Her coach certainly turned into a pumpkin, didn't it?”

  I nodded. Steven had met Nina through me. I wasn't anxious to start reminiscing about mutual friends and connections.

  “I'll give you a rundown on what we've got,” I said, all business. “Then you can go through the files yourself.”

  “Okay.” If Steven felt any awkwardness at the situation, he hid it well.

  I cleared a space at the corner of my desk for him to write. As he scooted the chair closer, I caught a faint whiff of something clean, like soap or shampoo. It wasn't a scent I remembered, and I was grateful.

  “I appreciate this,” Steven said. “Letting me help with Terri's defense. Makes me feel like I'm doing something at least.”

  “Terri was grateful to have your input.”

  “I hope it will prove useful. Anything more on bail?”

  I told him about my visit with Shalla that morning. “He's not going to budge. And I doubt we can get a judge to reconsider without support from the DA's office.”

  Steven flinched. “All Terri ever wanted was to be a mother. Now that she finally has a baby, she's behind bars. It's worse than punishment.”

  He looked as though he felt some of her pain himself. Or maybe, underneath, he was as nervous as I was.

  “She wants to exercise her right for a trial within sixty days,” I told him.

  “That's understandable.”

  “But foolish. We need time to prepare.”

  He gave a slight nod. “I take it you tried to explain the reasons.”

  “She wouldn't listen. I'm hoping you can talk some sense into her.”

  “I'll try,” he said with an edgy laugh, “but I think we're facing a sixty-day marathon.”

  “Fifty-two days at this point.”

  Steven rubbed his chin. “It's interesting that Shalla raised the idea of a plea so early in the process. You'd think he'd be eager for the publicity of a trial.”

  I knew what Steven was thinking. That the DA's case wasn't as strong as they thought going in. But I'd dismissed the notion as wishful thinking on my part.

  “Most likely,” I said, “they're looking to boost their conviction rate. And maybe to save the taxpayers some money.”

  “That would be a new one. Does Ted know that Terri's pushing for a quick trial?”

  “Not from me.” I hesitated. “Last time I saw him, Melissa was there.”

  Steven raised an eyebrow. “Can't say it surprises me.”

  “Why?”

  “Ted needs an audience.”

  “Do I detect a note of antipathy in there?”

  Steven shrugged. “He's not a bad guy. Just a little stuck on himself. And Terri seems happy.”

  “I suggested Lenore if he needed help.”

  “I'm sure she's already offered, more than once.”

  “She likes playing grandmother?”

  “That's putting it mildly. It used to drive Caroline crazy.” Steven looked away, locked in a moment's private thought. I could see the pulse at his temple throbbing.

  My own pulse had quickened too. I both did and didn't want to talk about that night.

  But when Steven turned back, he was focused on the moment. “Tell me what you've got.”

  “Here are the basics of the state's case.” I swiveled my chair to face the desk squarely. “They've got a witness who saw a car like Terri's a block from Weaver's house the night he was killed.”

  “What time?”

  “Around twelve-fifteen.”

  “Do we know when he was shot?”

  “One of Weaver's neighbors heard what he thought might have been shots sometime a little after midnight.”

  “Coroner got an estimated time of death?”

  “They're kind of fuzzy there.” Without corroborating evidence such as someone who'd seen or talked to the deceased, time of death was usually hard to pinpoint precisely. “In any case, the timing is close enough that it hurts Terri. Plus, the witness got a partial plate. NMO, same letter sequence as on Terri's car.”

  Steven's brow furrowed. A shadow of worry crossed his face. “What else?”

  “Wool, on Weaver's clothing. I'd assumed it was cat or dog hair, and that we could use that to bolster Terri's case since she doesn't have a pet. I just found out this morning that it's from a sheepskin seat cover, like the ones in her Explorer. That's the prosecution's theory at any rate.”

  “Those covers are popular with Ted's crowd. Popular with lots of people, in fact.”

  “I know, but taken with everything else, it looks bad.” I thought Shalla's analogy about piecing together a torn photograph wasn't a bad one. “There's also the gun,” I reminded him. “Terri says hers was probably stolen. But she never filed a report.”

  “It was stolen,” Steven said. “Or missing, at least. I remember last summer when Arlo wanted to take us all target shooting and she couldn't find it.”

  “Or didn't want to. You said yourself that she never liked shooting.”

  He shook his head. “She'd never have made Arlo angry if she could avoid it.”

  “I wonder if the jury will buy that.”

  Steven ran his palm along the arm of the chair. “That's the big spin, isn't it?”

  The biggest and most critical variable in the whole process. An unknown in which we had little say. “Terri will be a sympathetic defendant,” I said.

  “I sure hope you're right.”

  I reached for the file and handed it to him. “Take your time. You can use the conference room.” I hesitated just a moment before continuing. “I'm going to talk to Weaver's son tomorrow if you want to come along.”

  “Sure.”

  When Steven moved into the other room with the case files, I went back to work on the Hawkins pleading with a sense of relief. It had been awkward, but we'd pushed through it. Maybe Steven was right. It was time to let go of the past and to move on.

  CHAPTER 17

  Danny Weaver was clearly not happy about talking to us. “I got a paper to write,” he said, glowering sullenly. “This better be quick.”

  “We'll make sure it is,” I said.

  Steven and I had met him in the lobby of his dorm, then immediately moved outside to the privacy of the campus garden. His mother had called the headmaster, as she'd said she would, and cleared the visit. She'd also talked to Danny so he was expecting us.

  The three of us started down the path away from the dorm.

  “Pretty campus,” I said.

  “The school sucks.”

  “Why's that?” Steven asked.

  “Everyone who goes here is a loser.”

  “That include you, Danny?”

  “It's Dan,” he snapped. “Not Danny.”

  “Sorry.”

  Dan Weaver had his father's slight build, narrow face, and cleft chin, but he had his mother's liquid brown eyes, magnified by the thick glasses he wore. His hair was stringy and bleached, almost a flaxen yellow. He wore it pulled back in a ponytail, exposing a small tattoo on his neck. He kept his left hand in the pocket of his baggy cargo pants.

  “Why do you stay at the school if you don't like it?” Steven asked. “Are your parents making you?”

  The boy shrugged. “It's better than living at home.”

  He shuffled over to a picnic table on the grass and plopped down on the bench. His le
ft hand fiddled with something in his pocket. “I don't know what you think I'm going to be able to tell you, anyway. I hardly knew Bram.”

  Whether Dan knew Bram well or not, the boy had lost his father. “I'm sorry about his death,” I said.

  “Really?” Dan laced the comment with sarcasm. “I'm not.”

  Steven eased himself down on the bench next to Dan; I sat across the table from them. The wooden surface was sticky and sprinkled with bits of food.

  “You didn't like him?” Steven asked.

  “What was to like?”

  I brushed an ant from my arm. “You visited him, though, didn't you?”

  “A couple of times. Except it wasn't really a visit. He'd say 'let's get together' and then we'd wind up spending the evening with friends of his. Most of the time, he acted like a total jackass.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like he was Mr. High-and-Mighty. I think his friends were getting tired of it too. I heard them shouting at each other last time I was there.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?” I asked.

  “Just some stuff about outgrowing old friends, having his head up his ass, that sort of thing. Like one of them said, it wasn't like he was indispensable.”

  I could feel my inner ears pick up. “Who are these friends? Do you know their names?”

  “Guy by the name of Len. He's the one who seemed really pissed. And another guy, Hank, who's actually pretty cool.”

  I'd met Hank. The photographer with the hairy belly and the leer that seemed to undress you. And Judy had told me about Bram's childhood friends, Clyde Billings and Len Roemer.

  “Do you remember anyone by the name of Clyde?” I asked.

  A shrug. “Maybe. I wasn't really interested in who they were.” Dan shifted his body under the table, his left hand still hidden.

  “Did your dad ever mention Melissa Burke or the Harpers?”

  “Dad? My stepdad doesn't talk to me, and I didn't consider Bram my dad.”

  “But when he suggested the two of you get together,” Steven noted, “you went.”

  “I called him. And it was only a couple of times.” The tone was defensive, as though we'd accused him of something illicit. “My whole life I barely saw the guy, but when I came here to school, my mother thought just cuz we were living in the same city we'd suddenly share a bond or something. Doesn't work that way.”

  “You're right,” Steven said, “it doesn't. Bram was never there for you when you needed him.”

  Dan was quiet a moment, his sullen features drawn tight. He glared hard at the weathered and worn wood surface of the picnic table. “Doesn't matter,” he said finally. “Who needs a father anyway?”

  “Most of us would rather have one than not.”

  Dan ignored Steven and turned to face me directly. “About your question, Bram never said anything to me about the baby or about the Harpers.”

  “But he talked about Melissa?” I wondered if Dan had intentionally omitted the name after I'd included it.

  “I met her,” Dan said. “She lived upstairs from Hank.” He shifted his legs again and extracted his hand from his pocket. He was holding a tiny black and white mouse. “This is Herman,” Dan said. “You're not afraid of mice, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Herman was prince of the Third Kingdom before the evil master cast a spell on him.”

  “He seems to be taking it rather well,” Steven said without a hint of sarcasm.

  Dan held the mouse at eye level. “Not really. He's plotting revenge. Aren't you, Herman?”

  I glanced at Steven, whose expression hadn't changed.

  “How's he going to do that?” Steven asked. “Is he planning an attack?”

  “Nah, he's too small. That would never work. But he knows how to cast magical spells.”

  “That's good,” Steven said. “He knows you don't have to be big and strong to be powerful.”

  Dan grunted in disgust. “Spare the pep talk; I'm not a kid.”

  I shot Steven a questioning look. I wanted to ask more about Bram but all this talk about revenge and magic spells was making me nervous. I didn't want the boy to turn ballistic on us.

  Steven was no help. He acknowledged Dan's response with the glimmer of a smile and ignored me all together. I was on my own.

  “So Dan,” I said, “did you know that your da . . . that Bram was seeing Melissa?”

  “Sleeping with her, you mean. I don't think he ever saw her.”

  Spoken like someone who'd never been seen himself.

  Another boy was approaching from the west across the grass. He, too, was dressed in baggy cargo pants and a black T-shirt. The school uniform of the new millennium.

  “Listen,” Dan said, slipping Herman back into his pocket. “I gotta get going. But I'll tell you this, that lady, your client, she did the world a favor. 'Specially that little baby.”

  <><><>

  “He's one angry kid,” Steven said as we walked back to the car.

  “That kind of goes with being fifteen, doesn't it?”

  “Only to a point. Dan's beyond that.”

  “Probably with good reason.” I started the engine but didn't back out of the parking place right away. “It was interesting what he said about Weaver's friends.”

  “About them arguing, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Wouldn't hurt to talk to them. Do you have time to devote to a wild-goose chase?”

  “If I didn't, I'd make time.”

  “It'll probably end up going nowhere.” Already I was back-pedaling, thinking that maybe we'd spent enough time together as it was.

  The glint of a smile worked the corners of Steven's mouth. “Probably. But it's the only chance we have of finding that damned goose.”

  I used the cell phone to call Nick and got his answering machine. “Damn.”

  “Who are you trying to reach?”

  “Nick Logan, remember him?”

  “The guy who could do just about anything with a computer but get it to wash the dishes. Wasn't he dating a friend of yours?”

  Memory lane again. It wasn't a place I wanted to be. “They broke up ages ago,” I told him. I slipped the phone back into my purse. “Nick's not in. I guess we won't be chasing anything today.”

  We hadn't gotten to the corner, however, when Nick called me back. “I was taking out the trash,” he explained. “It always happens that way. I stick around the house all day and the phone never rings, but the minute I'm in the can or outside for something, I get a call.”

  “That's the beauty of answering machines. Did you happen to get addresses for those friends of Weaver's I told you about?”

  “Yep. I was going to give you a call this evening. Clyde Billings works in Silicon Valley. Not one of the guys who's made a fortune, from the looks of things. Lives in Mountain View. He's got a wife and two kids. A dog, too, if I had to guess, but that didn't come up.”

  I didn't even ask him where it would have come up. Nick had sources I deemed it prudent to know nothing about.

  “Len Roemer is closer to home,” he continued. “Lives in San Francisco, south of China Basin. This one's single. Works as a personal trainer at Fitness First downtown.”

  A computer nerd, a fitness buff, and a photographer who specialized in naked women. Weaver's friends were an odd assortment.

  “He's also a male stripper,” Nick added.

  “You mean for money?”

  Nick laughed. “Pretty good money, I'd bet. Mostly it's private parties although he occasionally fills in at one of the local clubs.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Roemer was arrested for indecent exposure about five years ago. He got a fine and probation. Billings is clean as far as I can tell. Here, I'll give you the addresses.”

  I motioned for Steven to grab a pen and paper from my briefcase. “Okay.”

  Nick read off the address and I repeated it for Steven. “Thanks. Talk to you later.” I disconnected and turn
ed to Steven. “Shall we start with Roemer since he's closest?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  <><><>

  San Francisco's China Basin is a testimonial to the potential of urban renewal. This southern section of the city fronting the bay had been, until recently, a wasteland of abandoned shipyards, empty warehouses, and industrial plants gasping their last breaths. Now it was a bustling enclave of modem condos, freshly minted parks, an ever-expanding choice of restaurants, and smashing views. As well as home to the new PacBell stadium.

  Len Roemer's piece of the district was not quite so gentrified. He lived on the fringe of the revitalized area, in a three-story building of live-work lofts. Instead of green grass and palm trees outside his windows, he had a PG&E substation.

  I didn't really expect to find him home on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer, but he answered the door right away. I could tell from the look on his face that he'd been expecting someone else.

  “I'm not buying and I'm not giving,” Roemer said. “I'm not converting, either.”

  He was probably in his early forties with dark, closely cropped hair, a square chin, and a body that was a little soft around the middle but otherwise lean and muscular. We couldn't miss seeing the body, either. He was dressed in short shorts made of a soft, clingy fabric and a sleeveless, mesh shirt that covered very little.

  Steven and I introduced ourselves. “We understand you were a friend of Bram Weaver,” I said.

  “Damn straight.”

  “We'd appreciate a few minutes of your time.” I explained our connection to Weaver.

  “I'm not talking to anybody working for that bitch who murdered him.”

  The venom in his voice stung. I tried to ignore it.

  “You think Terri Harper killed Weaver?” Steven asked.

  “I know she did.”

  I could sense the tension in Steven's posture. “How's that?” he asked.

  “She threatened him. She hated him. She wanted to steal his kid.”

  I spoke up. “Terri considers Hannah her child.”