Motion to Dismiss (32 page)

"Yes, in addition to the missing pants -- "

I cut him off. "Detective Hawkins, certainly you aren't saying that there's anything unusual about people donating items of used clothing to charity?"

His brow furrowed. "No, not in general."

"And I'm sure you don't mean to imply that Grady Barrett is the only man with a size ten foot who drives a silver convertible?"

He glared at me and muttered, "No."

I managed an incredulous face. "Thank you, Detective Hawkins. I have no further questions."

The last of the morning's witnesses was Charles Berger, the name Madelaine had sprung on me in her opening statement. I rose to voice my objection to Judge Atwood.

"Your Honor, Mr. Berger's name was not included on the witness list we were given. This morning was the first I heard of him."

Madelaine was all sincerity. "The People weren't aware of his existence, either, until late yesterday. I didn't finish meeting with him myself until almost ten last night."

"You couldn't have tried to reach Ms. O'Brien?" Judge Atwood asked.

"I did try, Your Honor. I called Ms. O'Brien at her home as well as at her office. She didn't answer at either number." Madelaine made that in itself sound suspicious.

I wasn't about to explain where I'd been. "The defense requests time to prepare for cross," I said, more upset about sabotage than any real preparation. "We ask that the witness not be allowed to testify at this time."

"The witness is here today," Madelaine urged.

"He can come another day as well, can't he?"

Judge Atwood frowned. "This is a hearing, not a jury trial. Let's see what we've got. Then, Ms. O'Brien, if you think you need more time to prepare, we can bring him back."

With a sigh I slid into my chair at the defense table and leaned to whisper in Grady's ear. "It's the best we could reasonably expect."

"Why didn't you pick up the phone last night?" He sounded testy.

I ignored him. In truth, twelve hours' notice wouldn't have helped much. "You sure you don't recognize the name?"

Grady shook his head.

Madelaine called Charles Berger to the stand. He was a skinny, acne-faced kid of about eighteen. Dressed in tan slacks and a too-small jacket, he looked like a young boy being dragged off to church on Sunday morning.

Grady sucked in his breath. He may not have recognized the name, but it was clear to me that he knew the face. And that he wasn't happy to see Berger in court. It was too late to ask for an explanation.

After Berger was sworn in, Madelaine took him through the preliminaries. He worked as a bagger at the Safeway in Montclair, about five minutes from the house where Deirdre Nichols was killed.

"And were you working there the night of February twenty-eighth?" she asked.

"Yes, I was."

Madelaine walked back to the prosecution table and extracted a set of head-shot photos from her file. "I'd like to have these photographs entered as People's Exhibit A." She whisked them in front of my eyes and then past the deputy and judge.

"Objection, Your Honor. I haven't had time to examine the photos."

"I'll have another set made for the defense at the close of court today."

Business taken care of, she approached the witness. "Mr. Berger, did the police show you these photographs?"

He examined them briefly. "Yes."

"And were you able to identify one of them as a man you saw at the Montclair Safeway on the night of Friday, February twenty-eighth?"

"Yes."

"Tell us please, do you see that man in court today?"

"Yes, I do." He pointed to Grady, who was sitting as still as stone, eyes straight ahead. "That's him, there."

Uneasiness prickled my skin.

"Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to the defendant," Madelaine said, then turned again to address Berger. "Do you recall what time it was on the night in question when you saw the defendant?"

"Yes. It was about..." His voice squeaked and tried again. "A little before ten."

There were murmurs from the gallery. Next to me, Grady froze. I felt my own stomach knot. He clearly hadn't been working as late that evening as he'd claimed.

"You're sure it was the defendant?" Madelaine asked.

"Positive. I recognized him from when I did a report on ComTech in high school."

"So you knew it was Mr. Barrett at the time you saw him, even before the police questioned you?"

"Yes, I did."

Madelaine rocked forward on her toes. "Did you speak to him?"

"I think I said, 'Nice evening,' or something. The store manager likes for us to act friendly with the customers."

"Can you tell us what transpired?"

"I was getting carts from the lot. I saw Mr. Barrett pull up, park his car, and go into the store."

"What kind of car was he driving, do you recall?"

Berger glanced at Grady. "A silver Mercedes convertible. With the top down."

Another wave of murmurs from the back of the courtroom.

Madelaine let a moment pass. "And you said this was about ten in the evening?"

"That's right."

"Are you sure of the time?"

"I could be off by ten minutes in either direction, but not much more. I'd come back from my break at nine-thirty, and I know that I was bagging again by ten-fifteen."

She cocked her head. "So you saw Mr. Barrett go into the store at about ten?"

"Yes."

"Did you see him come out again?"

"Yes, just a few minutes later. He was opening a pack of gum."

Madelaine acted surprised. "That was it? No other groceries?"

"None that I could see."

Grady's leg was bouncing nervously under the table. I put my hand on his knee to quiet him.

"How did he seem?" Madelaine asked.

"Objection," I said, standing. "With all due respect to the witness's social acumen, he's not qualified to judge Mr. Barrett's mood.

Judge Atwood frowned. "Ms. Rivera is merely asking the witness to share his observations. She isn't requesting an evaluation of the defendant's feelings or thoughts."

But that, by implication, was what Madelaine was after.

Judge Atwood addressed the witness. "You may answer the question."

Berger looked at Grady and then lowered his eyes. "He seemed kind of nervous."

"What gave you that impression?" Madelaine asked.

"Little stuff. He kept looking over his shoulder, jiggling the change in his pocket. I don't know how to describe it exactly, but he looked tense and jittery." Berger paused and hazarded a smile. "Kind of like I feel right now."

Madelaine acknowledged his candor with a smile of her own. "Thank you, Mr. Berger." She turned to me. "Your witness."

"May I have a minute, Your Honor?"

"Take five." Nary the flicker of a smile.

Seething, I turned to huddle with Grady. "You want to tell me what this is all about?"

"I stopped at the store."

"A store practically in Deirdre Nichols' backyard. It's not exactly on the way home from your office."

A small shrug, which was more stiff than casual. "It's a store we go to."

"For gum?" I was barely able to contain my anger. Courtroom surprises were exactly what I'd wanted to avoid. "You could have stopped at the convenience store half a mile from your house," I told him.

"But I didn't." Grady's voice was flat.

Fighting the urge to scream at him, I whispered, "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"I never thought of it."

He never thought of it
. Grady was either lying or stupid, and I was pretty sure he wasn't stupid. "There's also the matter of time. You told me, and the police, that you were at work until after eleven."

He nodded, then swallowed hard. His face was pale. "I guess I misjudged the time."

Turning away, I pushed back my chair and addressed the judge. "May I approach the bench, Your Honor?"

Madelaine joined me in conference.

"This is outrageous," I said. "The prosecution can't wait until the last minute to come in with a witness this potentially damaging to the defense."

"She just did," Judge Atwood remarked coolly.

"What I mean is, I need time to prepare. This is a major prosecution witness whose identity was revealed to me only this morning."

Madelaine folded her arms. "I didn't set this up to deliberately sabotage you."

"It doesn't matter," I huffed. "The effect is the same."

Judge Atwood removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Since this is not a trial, and since I'm the sole trier of fact, I don't see the addition of a last-minute witness as a major problem."

"If you -- "

She looked at me sharply. "I'm not finished, Ms. O'Brien."

"Sorry, Your Honor."

"On the other hand, I can understand how an unexpected witness can throw you off." She paused and slipped the glasses back over her nose. "I'll excuse the witness at this time and allow you to recall him at a later date."

I let out a sigh of relief and returned to my seat at the defense table.

"We will take our lunch recess at this time," Judge Atwood said, addressing the courtroom. "Court will reconvene at one-thirty."

I was steaming. If I hadn't promised to meet Byron Spencer for lunch, I'd have used the time to berate Grady. Maybe even to punch him in the nose. Instead, I shoved back my chair and walked out of the courtroom without saying another word to him.

Spencer was waiting for me on a bench at a nearby city park. Or what had once been a park. Like so many open urban areas, it had become a haven for drug dealers, derelicts, and the homeless. The rest rooms were covered in graffiti and missing their doors, the sandbox smelled of urine, and the playground swings were nothing but knotted chains.

"I got us deli sandwiches," Spencer said. "And Cokes. One diet, one regular. Take your pick."

I went for the diet.

"I left early to pick up the food. Did I miss anything?"

Yeah, I thought, the floor just fell through. I shook my head. "Just the usual. One minute it looks good for the prosecution, the next minute for the defense."

Spencer unwrapped his turkey sandwich. "It's exciting watching this case unfold. Like television. Only better because it's the drama of real life." He sounded like a sixteen-year-old kid.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" I was still irked at Grady, and it carried in my tone.

"You remember our deal -- if I brought you something useful, you'd give me an exclusive when it's all over."

I nodded.

"Something substantial, none of these two-sentence quips. I want the real inside story."

"It depends on what you've got for me," I told him.

"Fair enough." He'd taken a bite of sandwich, and paused a moment to swallow it. He turned to face me. "Deirdre Nichols was working for the police."

"Wrong woman, Spencer. She worked at a hair salon."

He shook his head. "No, not working as in a job. Working with them as a snitch."

It was like being hit between the eyes with a sledgehammer. "A snitch?"

"An informant. You know, someone who feeds the cops information."

"I know what a snitch is. I'm just surprised. In fact, I'm dumbfounded."

He looked pleased. "So you didn't know?"

"Not at all. Any idea what it was about?"

"The cops are after a guy she was seeing."

"Tony Rodale?"

"Yeah, that's him. He's some kingpin of the drug world. They wanted to bring him in."

I felt as if the air had been squeezed from my chest. It was so far-fetched as to be ridiculous, but it also made sense. The pieces fit perfectly. "Do you have any proof?"

He shook his head again. "Not really."

"You must have
something
."

"I got this in strict confidence from someone who knows. Someone who doesn't blow hot air. I'm sure it's true."

"Jesus, Byron, you could have gotten it from the pope himself. But without proof it doesn't do me any good. It's just rumor."

"Her record's sealed," Spencer said. "But if you could find a way to check it, you'd discover two previous arrests on drug charges. The first was a slap on the wrist really, probation and counseling. The second one was about a year ago. A nothing sentence. This last one should have netted her some time, but the charge was dropped. That's because she agreed to cooperate with the cops."

I took a bite of my pickle.
Snitch. Drug deals
. It certainly opened up a wealth of possibilities with respect to her murder. Assuming it was true. "You don't have any information relating directly to her murder, do you? Anything pointing to someone besides Grady Barrett?"

"Afraid not. I'll keep looking though. I've got a couple of irons in the fire, so to speak."

"Good."

"See, I was thinking maybe her boyfriend found out about her being a snitch and all -- and killed her. That's what they do in movies."

And in real life, I added silently.

It had potential, at least as a starting point. No wonder they'd been in such a hurry to arrest Grady; they wanted Rodale out of the loop. It would certainly buy us some mileage with the jury, even if it wasn't enough to swing things our way at the preliminary hearing. Finally, the defense had some ammunition.

And then it hit me.

Hal's discovery. Had he uncovered the same information? Was that what had killed him? I fought a wave of nausea.

"What's the matter?" Spencer asked.

"Listen, what you've told me is interesting. Better than that, even. But it could be dangerous as well." I told him about Hal's murder.

"You don't know for sure that's why he was killed though," Byron said.

"True, but it sure makes sense."

"I'll be careful." He spoke with bravado, perhaps unaware that his face had gone pale. "A reporter doesn't turn his back on a good story just because he fears for his own safety."

Byron Spencer sounded at that moment very young and naive. And very idealistic.

I liked him all the better for it.

Sheila Barlow took the stand when court resumed after lunch. Her full gray skirt and crisply pressed white blouse accentuated the drabness of her appearance.