Witness for the Defense Page 2

  “How come?”

  A simple question to which I had at least ten variations of an answer. I opted for the short and sweet. “At one time I worked around here but I don't anymore.”

  That satisfied her.

  We made small talk while we looked over the menu. Though there were only fifteen years between us in age, I found myself feeling unaccountably old. Like a maiden aunt entertaining a long-lost niece. It wasn't a role I relished, though some days it seemed one I was destined to fill. A woman always on the periphery.

  I ordered a crab salad and Melissa had a club sandwich with fries. We both had the iced tea; I took mine with artificial sweetener while she loaded hers with two helpings of sugar.

  “The first thing you need to understand, Melissa, is that you're entitled to your own lawyer. At the Harpers' expense.”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “In theory, your interests and the Harpers' are not necessarily the same. The right to independent counsel is written into the law to ensure that you aren't being coerced into giving up your baby.”

  “I'm not being coerced.”

  “I believe that, but you might still want someone who is your advocate.”

  She shook her head. “The Harpers have been very nice to me. And I have no intention of keeping this baby. I want her to have a good home with parents who love her and all, but I don't want to be involved. Maybe it sounds selfish, but I want my own life. I want to go to college, have fun. I'm not ready to be tied down to a baby.”

  “That doesn't sound selfish, it sounds very mature.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Mature would mean not being in this mess to begin with.”

  She had a lot more faith in maturity than I did. “If you're sure about not wanting your own lawyer, I'll need you to sign a waiver.”

  “A waiver?”

  “Acknowledging that you've been advised of your right to counsel and declined.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “Sounds like that Miranda warning people get when they're arrested.”

  “The theory is the same.” The waiter brought our food and I waited until Melissa had taken a couple of bites before hitting her with my next question. “I need to ask about the baby's father,” I said. “I'll need his name and a way to contact him.”

  She dunked a French fry in catsup and ate it without answering.

  I waited. “Will there be a problem? Terri seemed to think he'd be happy to be freed of any obligations.”

  “Do we really have to involve him?”

  “I'm afraid so. You don't have to talk to him if you'd rather not. I can handle it myself. But we do need to notify him of the adoption and hopefully get a signed consent.”

  She ate another French fry in silence.

  “Even if he doesn't sign the consent,” I explained, “we can go ahead. But he has to be notified.”

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin.

  “Does he know about the baby, Melissa?”

  “That's all he has to do, sign a paper that says it's okay to place the baby for adoption?”

  “Right. And like I said before, even without his signature, it's okay as long as he's notified and doesn't protest.” This was a legality that provided for fathers who were wary about acknowledging paternity on paper. A not uncommon phenomenon.

  Melissa looked out the window. A pair of tug boats was herding a large cargo ship as it passed under the Bay Bridge. Finally she shook her head. “I don't think there will be a problem. Let me talk to him first, then you can do whatever is necessary.”

  I felt a weight I hadn't even been aware of lifted from my shoulders. I leaned back. “What was your relationship with him, if you don't mind my asking.”

  Melissa shrugged. “Wasn't much of a relationship. Just, you know, one of those things.”

  Unfortunately, I knew exactly. Only I'd been lucky enough, or smart enough, to avoid finding myself in her position.

  “Someone your own age?”

  She raised her eyes, gave me a funny look, then turned to again gaze out the window. “He's a couple of years older, I think.” Her tone put an end to further inquiry.

  We talked some about her home in Ohio (no, her parents didn't know about the baby and she wanted to make sure they never found out), about her plans for college (she wasn't sure what she'd major in yet, but not anything related to math or science), the decision to give birth (she was raised Catholic so abortion was never a consideration), and the Harpers. Melissa was clearly in awe of them, more, I feared, because of their wealth and reputation than because she thought they'd be good parents.

  “You're entitled to counseling,” I told her. “It's your right by law. And it might help you.”

  “I don't need counseling. I'm fine with what I'm doing.” She sounded almost defiant.

  “Okay. I'll draw up the consent forms. It's best to have a medical history, too. Then, after the baby is born, there'll be another couple of forms to sign. The rest of the procedure involves filing papers with the proper court. That's not anything you need to be involved with.”

  The waiter cleared our plates and handed us dessert menus. Melissa ordered a slice of chocolate mousse cake and milk. I had black coffee.

  Over dessert, Melissa oscillated between talkative moods, mostly about Ted and Terri, and periods where she was so quiet I felt as though I were being forced to deliver a soliloquy.

  “You want me to give you a ride somewhere?” I asked when I'd paid the check.

  “No thanks. I've got the Explorer.”

  Confusion must have registered in my expression because Melissa patted her belly and explained. “It's Ted's, but he hardly drives it. They let me use it whenever I want. Safety for the baby and all. They've even talked about letting me keep it when I leave.”

  No longer for the baby's safety, I gathered. “That's very generous of them.”

  So generous, in fact, it made me uncomfortable. While it wasn't unusual for adoptive parents to provide some limited financial assistance to the birth mother during the pregnancy—usually in the form of medical bills and housing—anything that smacked of baby buying was a crime. On the other hand, she was living with them, and use of a family car could hardly be classed as criminal.

  We parted at the restaurant entrance. “You won't forget to put me in touch with the baby's father, will you?”

  Melissa took a breath and shook her head. “I'll talk to him right away. I don't expect there to be a problem.”

  CHAPTER 3

  True to her word, Melissa called Thursday afternoon to say that she'd talked to the baby's father, Gary Ellis, and that he would come by my office the next morning to sign papers.

  He showed up about ten, looking painfully, and understandably, uncomfortable. He shifted from one foot to another and jingled the change in his pocket.

  “Thank you for coming by so quickly,” I told him, trying my best to sound reassuring. “This won't take long, and then you can put the matter behind you for good.”

  “All's I'm doing is saying it's okay for the baby to be adopted, right?”

  “Right. As a matter of fact, signing the consent relieves you of responsibility. After this, you're off the hook.”

  The news didn't appear to offer him much relief. He continued to avoid my gaze as he dropped into the chair I'd indicated.

  I slid the document across the desk toward him, and while Gary studied it, I studied him. He looked to be a few years older than Melissa, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, but he was still very young. About my height, with a beer gut and dark hair that needed both a barber's scissors and a vigorous shampooing. My first thought was that Melissa had to have been very lonely, or very horny, to end up in bed with Gary Ellis.

  He scrawled his name quickly, shoved the paper back across my desk, and rose, again thrusting his hands into his pockets. “That's it then?”

  “It would be helpful to have a health history.”

  He looked at me as though I'd suggested he strip for a complete
physical on the spot.

  “There's a standard form,” I told him. “Family history of diseases, allergies, that sort of thing.”

  “Uh-uh. Melissa said all I had to do was sign.”

  “Why don't you take it with you. It doesn't have to be filled out today.”

  He snagged the form from my hand and was out the door so fast it took me a moment to realize he was gone.

  I don't often slip into sentimentality, but I experienced a moment's sadness for the baby girl who would someday wonder about her birth father. I hoped she would never learn the truth.

  I jotted down a brief summary of the conversation and filed the adoption folder in the outer office. I was making due at the moment without a secretary. Without a lot of things, in fact.

  My tenure in the office was supposed to be temporary, an assignment to fill in for a friend from law school who had become ill. Our well-laid plans had begun to unravel almost at once, however, and temporary had stretched on for longer than either of us expected. I carried what was left of her case load, and had taken on a few clients of my own, but I felt as though I were treading water. Keeping myself afloat while I decided which shore to head toward.

  I'd returned to the Bay Area from Silver Creek, where I'd moved several years earlier and made a new life for myself—but that life hadn't worked out so smoothly either. Still, there was a limit to how long a person could live in limbo.

  I was getting ready to call Terri Harper to tell her that we had the father's release, when she called me.

  “Ted and I are having a small get-together this Sunday at our place in Napa. Very informal, just a few friends and family. If you're not already busy, why don't you come by. You'll have a chance to meet Ted, and you can bring the papers for Melissa's signature.”

  The Napa Valley, renowned for its many vineyards and wineries, also lays claim to some of the state's most idyllic surroundings. It took me about two seconds to mentally rearrange my plans for the day. I could pull weeds anytime.

  “I'd love to come,” I told Terri.

  “Great.” She gave me directions. “See you about eleven.”

  <><><>

  Jared was close to collapsing under the weight of his envy. “A party at the Harpers’! Geez. Can't I go as your date or something?”

  “Afraid not. But I'll give you a full report on Monday.”

  He looked glum. “No offense, boss, but it's not the same.”

  I handed him a file folder. “How about spending some time in the shadow of the limelight, then?”

  “Huh?”

  “I want you to do a bit of a background checking on Melissa Burke and Gary Ellis. Nothing exhaustive, but look into marriage records, general lifestyle, and so forth. I'd like to avoid any last-minute surprises.”

  He scratched his cheek. “Does that happen often?”

  “Statistically it's a very small percent, but that's little consolation when your case is the one that blows up.”

  <><><>

  Sunday dawned bright and warm, a rare event during summer in the Bay Area, where coastal fog often lingers until past noon. It was going to be downright hot in the Napa Valley.

  With the sky such a glorious blue, I passed on exercise class at the gym in favor of a brisk walk. I was counting on the fact that I'd burned off enough calories for at least two extra canapés.

  Driving north, I turned on the radio looking for something lively and festive. Something with solid rhythm and a quick tempo. What I got was the strident voice of Bram Weaver, talk show host with a mission. In Weaver's never humble opinion, feminism and the so-called “liberation of women” were at the root of everything wrong with society today. And in case his listeners hadn't noticed, there was plenty wrong.

  This morning, he was railing against women who refused to take their husband's name at marriage.

  “The greatest gift a man can give,” he bellowed, “is his name. I ask you, what kind of woman would refuse? Isn't marriage about two people becoming one? If she doesn't love you enough to take your name, fellows, think what trouble you're going to have down the road!”

  When a caller, a woman, suggested that a man might take on the wife's surname, he grew belligerent and launched into another of his tirades. “You women are all alike. You want to have your cake and eat it too. Give me special treatment in the job market, give me family leave, gimme, gimme. You never think about giving back.”

  I sometimes listened to Weaver's program, largely because it was such fun to argue with him in my head. Even on those rare occasions when I agreed with him in principle, I took umbrage at his single-focused, and largely misguided, attacks on women. It would have been easy to laugh them aside if he didn't also have a book on the bestseller list and a growing audience.

  I punched the buttons until I found a classic rock station, then sang along with the Beatles about yesterday as I headed up Highway 29.

  Following Terri's directions, I wound past acres of vineyards and old stone wineries, then turned and climbed into the hills. The grapes were beginning to hang heavy on the vines and the grasses beyond had turned to summer gold.

  The Harpers' house was set back from the road through a gated driveway, and overlooked the valley below. Actually, house was much too prosaic a word. Villa or estate would have been more apt. The main building was a sprawling structure that looked like something out of one of those glossy, twelve-dollar-an-issue magazines. The central portion of the house was constructed of heavy, natural stone reminiscent of the original wineries in the vicinity, though it had clearly been remodeled and updated. The remainder of the house was wood and glass—a more modern design that blended beautifully with the old stone.

  The Harpers' small, informal gathering totaled probably forty people, many of whom were dressed far more elegantly than met my definition of casual. Thank goodness I'd decided to wear rayon slacks and shell with a linen overshirt rather than the khakis and T-shirt I'd pulled from my closet initially.

  I stood in the stone-floored entryway and looked around for famous faces. Names I could drop to needle Jared. I didn't recognize a soul.

  Terri waved to me from the main room—a room built for throwing parties from the looks of it—just as a waiter held out a silver tray of bubbling champagne glasses. I snagged one and moved toward Terri. She was wearing black slacks and a white silk shirt that combined the best of sophisticated and relaxed.

  “Did you have any trouble finding us?” she asked.

  “Your directions were perfect.”

  “Good. There really aren't many ways to go so it's hard to get too lost.”

  We were standing by French doors that opened onto a deck. I turned an admiring eye to the view. “Your place is beautiful,” I told her.

  “It's a wonderful retreat. We bought it when Ted was still playing ball.” She laughed. “And still making big money. It's actually nicer than our house in the city.”

  She turned away to say a few words to a couple who were passing by. “Yes, we are. So thrilled. Nice to see you, too.”

  “You're busy,” I said. “I should let you get back to your hostess duties.”

  She gave me an impish grin. “I hate playing hostess. Most of these are Ted's friends, anyway.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He and my father wanted to check on some grapes. They should be back soon.”

  “Your parents live nearby?” I tried to recall if Steven had mentioned them. I didn't think he had.

  “In Carmel. We see them fairly often, and I'm sure we'll see even more of them after the baby is born.” She made the comment with a straight face, but I could tell by the glint in her eye that it would be something of a mixed blessing. “My mother adored Rebecca,” Terri added soberly.

  Rebecca. Steven's seven-year-old daughter. Dead, along with her mother, because some idiot had driven through a red light at close to fifty miles an hour. And he'd kept right on going.

  “I gather they're excited about the baby,” I said, pushing the memory
of the accident aside.

  Terri nodded. “Excited is putting it mildly. Some people don't feel an adopted baby is a real grandchild, but thankfully my parents aren't like that. They've been waiting so long I don't think they'd care if the baby arrived via UPS.” She looked at my empty glass. “Can I get you more?”

  “I should probably take care of work first. Is Melissa around?”

  “Upstairs. She said she was tired, but I imagine it's more that she doesn't like mixing with a bunch of people she doesn't know. I told her I'd send you up to see her when you arrived.” She hesitated. “You said the paperwork from the baby's father is complete?”

  “Except for medical information, which isn't required.”

  “What's he like?”

  “You've never met him?”

  She shook her head. “Melissa was so reluctant. We were afraid that if we insisted, we'd lose her. So all we know is what she's told us. To tell you the truth, I was kind of worried there might be a problem.”

  I described Gary Ellis in the most flattering light possible, but the fact that he'd finally given his consent was the attribute that outweighed all others in Terri's mind. Then I headed up a curving stairway to the second door on the left, as she had instructed.

  I knocked. “It's Kali. Can I come in?”

  “Sure. The door's not locked.”

  Melissa sprawled on the sofa in what appeared to be a library. The leather furniture and oriental carpets lent a heavy, masculine feel to the room. Richly stained wooden shelves lined one whole wall, though books were noticeably lacking. Two VCRs, a large-screen television, and a sound system filled the cabinetry instead. Melissa was watching a cartoon program I didn't recognize.

  “Terri said you had some papers for me to sign.” Melissa hit the remote and the wild screams from the screen went mute.

  “Right.” I sat in a chair kitty-corner from her. “Gary came to see me on Friday. I appreciate your getting in touch with him so promptly. I hope it wasn't too hard on you.”

  She kept her eyes on the television screen. “Not really.”