Motion to Dismiss (37 page)

"He didn't see anything at all?"

"If he did, he sure can't communicate it." I filled her in on my conversation with Xavier. "I'm afraid we're stuck with simply picking away at the prosecution's evidence."

"And you don't think that will be enough?" Defeat was etched in her voice.

"I wish I could be more optimistic."

"What does Marc think?"

I hesitated, not happy about worrying Nina further. I decided, finally, that I had no choice. "You haven't heard from him the last couple of days, have you?"

"No. Why?"

I told her about the phone call that had lured Marc into the flatlands of Berkeley, and his subsequent beating. I also voiced my suspicions, starting with what Hal had told me and then tiptoeing around the terrible doubt at the core of my thinking.

Nina saw where I was headed immediately. "You don't seriously think he might have been involved in Hal's murder, do you?" Her tone was incredulous.

Gibson had told me they had two suspects in the case. But that didn't mean Marc wasn't somehow implicated. "When you look at the whole picture -- "

She shook her head vehemently. "No, there's got to be another explanation. Have you checked with the hospitals?"

"It wasn't until this afternoon that I really began to worry."

"I can take care of the checking," she said. "Making phone calls is one of the few things I can do from bed. You focus on getting Grady's case dropped, and try not to worry about Marc. He's done this before."

"Disappeared?"

She nodded. "Not come into the office for a couple of days, at any rate."

"Without telling you where he is?" I felt a glimmer of hope.

Nina pulled her hair back from her face. "Marc is a good friend. Like most men, though, he keeps things to himself. Sometimes he'd call, but not always. I learned not to ask."

I didn't feel like eating dinner, so I nibbled on cheese and crackers instead, and washed them down with several glasses of merlot. I didn't feel like working either. I sat by the living room window and looked out at the twinkling lights across the bay.

"You look troubled," Bea said, coming to sit beside me. "Is the hearing going badly?"

I gave her a resigned smile. "You might say that."

"It must be so much harder for you when you're representing a friend."

I nodded. Even though Grady wasn't someone I'd initially have classed as a friend, he was the husband of one. And someone whose strengths I'd come to appreciate.

Grady, Nina, Marc, Hal -- I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd let them all down.

"Sometimes," Bea said soothingly, "things really
are
beyond our control. You do what you can and try your best, but none of us is able to direct the course of events."

"Thanks." I squeezed her hand. "I'll try to remember that."

Taking the case file, along with another glass of merlot, I headed downstairs to work. I pulled out the police report and went over the crime scene step by step. I looked at my notes on the investigation and on the testimony to date. Once again I couldn't shake the feeling that the answer was there if only I could see it.

Finally, exhaustion caught up with me and I went to bed. Sleep eluded me, however. Instead, my mind replayed possible scenarios for the night of Deirdre's murder.

She'd been upbeat at work that day, made plans to meet her friend Judith the next evening to "celebrate her independence." I'd assumed she'd been talking about her breakup with Tony Rodale, but maybe it was Grady's payoff she was referring to. What did that tell me about her killer, or was it totally unrelated?

She'd come home, talked briefly with her sister, slipped out of her street clothes, and prepared a simple meal for herself and Adrianna. Then she'd busied herself baking cookies while waiting for Grady, whom she didn't expect until almost eleven.

Had she been expecting someone else as well? From the look of the kitchen, I thought she'd probably been caught unawares. But would she have opened the door to a stranger? Possibly. And that brought me back to the ultimate question -- who might want Deirdre dead?

It was after three in the morning when I drifted off to sleep. By then the germ of an idea began to form. Did I dare risk voicing it in court?

"The prosecution rests, your honor." Madelaine Rivera lifted her chin and walked purposefully to her table in front of the gallery railing. Although I didn't turn to look, I was willing to bet she made eye contact with members of the press.

It was only ten o'clock in the morning. Madelaine had wrapped things up quickly, so as not to undercut the strength of Adrianna's testimony at the close of court yesterday. It was a wise strategy. I'd have done the same.

Next to me, Grady was looking agitated. He leaned close. "Are you going to have me testify?"

"Not at this stage, for sure."

"But it's the only way to explain what really happened."

"Trust me on this."

"I need the case dismissed." Grady's voice was a low whisper, almost a hiss.

Judge Atwood gave us a cool look. "Are you ready, Counselor?'

"Yes, Your Honor." I shuffled papers and then stood slowly. "The defense would like to recall Sheila Barlow."

Judge Atwood's frown deepened. "You want to
start
by recalling a prosecution witness?"

"We would, Your Honor."

There was a rustling sound at the back of the courtroom. The media folks smelled something unusual in the wind.

"And we request that she be called as a hostile witness," I added.

Another wave of reaction from the courtroom.
Hostile witness
is an ominous-sounding term, but in legal parlance it means that the attorney can ask leading questions, as befitting cross-examination. Nonetheless, there was a palpable buzz from the back of the room.

As Sheila Barlow took the stand, I had a moment's doubt about the path I was about to lead us down. Although my sleep last night had been uneasy, and tangled with wakefulness, I'd woken this morning with a clear sense of what had been bothering me about the case all along. And now I was about to gamble on a hunch.

I approached the witness stand, hoping to put Sheila at ease. "I'd like to go over a few things from your earlier testimony, to make sure I understand it."

Sheila nodded.

"You testified that on the morning Adrianna called you to say that her mother was hurt, you were already up and had had your coffee."

"That's correct."

"So you got up that morning around, what, five-thirty, six?"

"Sounds about right. I don't recall exactly."

"Can you tell me why you were up at that hour?"

She adjusted the silver brooch at her throat. "I'm often up early."

"Even on Sundays?"

She looked at Madelaine, then away. "Sometimes."

"Did you set the alarm to wake you that morning?"

"I ... I don't remember."

Madelaine was on her feet. "Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning."

Judge Atwood raised an eyebrow my direction, inviting a response.

"I'm ready to move on anyway," I said, then turned back to address the witness. "When you arrived at the house, did Adrianna let you in?"

"No, I've got a key."

"The door was locked when you got there?"

Sheila Barlow licked her bottom lip. "It locks automatically when shut."

"How about the sliding glass door that opens onto the deck? Was that locked?"

She hesitated. "I don't remember."

"And Adrianna was in her room, is that correct?"

"Yes. I'd told her on the phone to go there and wait for me."

I weighed the moment, then let it pass. "So you found Adrianna in her room," I said. "And then the two of you went into the den, where you read to her and held her until the police arrived, is that correct?"

"I don't believe we read until after the police arrived, but in general terms it's correct."

"Did you check the rest of the house?"

"What do you mean?"

I gave a casual shrug. "To see if there were other signs of disturbance."

Sheila shook her head. "I guess I never thought about that. My main concern was comforting Adrianna."

"So you didn't go into the kitchen?"

"Correct."

"You didn't turn off the oven?"

She hesitated and glanced again in Madelaine's direction. "I don't remember."

"But you couldn't have turned off the oven if you didn't go into the kitchen, could you?"

She seemed to search her memory. "No, I guess not."

"Your sister was in the midst of baking cookies when she was killed. Yet when the police arrived, the oven was off. Who do you suppose turned it off?"

Sheila Barlow looked at me a moment, and then cleared her throat. "I don't know. Maybe I did it without thinking."

"But you just said that you hadn't gone into the kitchen. Are you changing your testimony?"

She took her time answering. "No. To the best of my recollection, I didn't go into the kitchen."

I turned for a moment to let my eyes roam the courtroom, drawing it closer. "Your sister was lucky to have such a conscientious killer, wouldn't you say? It's not often you find someone who commits murder and then carefully turns off the oven before leaving."

Madelaine jumped to her feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Defense counsel is badgering the witness."

"I don't think we've gotten to the badgering stage yet, Ms. Rivera."

Madelaine spread her hands, and added, "I also fail to see the merit to this line of questioning."

"If you'll give me a few more minutes, Your Honor, I think the importance of these questions will become clear."

Judge Atwood nodded. I suspected she was already catching a glimmer of the bigger picture. "You may continue."

There was a murmur from somewhere at the back of the room.

"Let's return to the kitchen," I said, handing the witness a photograph that had already been admitted into evidence. I pointed to a collection of baking supplies on the counter. "Can you tell me what you see there?"

"Flour, sugar, some spoons, a cutting board." Sheila's shoulders were hunched, her voice stiff. "An empty egg carton and a box of oatmeal."

"What about the brown plastic container next to the oatmeal."

Sheila chewed on her bottom lip. "It looks like chocolate syrup."

"Do you suppose your sister was using the chocolate syrup in her baking?"

A fractional shrug. "Adrianna likes chocolate."

"In oatmeal cookies?" I managed a tone of incredulity and didn't wait for an answer. "Does Adrianna like to eat chocolate syrup by the spoonful?"

A curt nod. "Yes."

Before I asked the next question, I sent a silent prayer to the heavens. "Is that how she takes medicine?"

There was a small change in Sheila's expression. "What do you mean?"

I could feel the tension in my temples. "Kids sometimes wash down bad-tasting medicine with chocolate syrup. Does Adrianna do that?"

Sheila's expression was pinched. "She might."

"She
might
?" My voice swelled. "Didn't Adrianna live with you for much of her life? I should think you would
know
how she took her medicine."

"Sometimes she takes it with syrup," Sheila said, making no attempt to hide her annoyance. "It depends on the medicine."

I breathed deeply. It was the answer I'd hoped for. "It depends on whether the medicine is flavored, you mean?"

"That's a consideration."

I took a step back. "Your sister had a prescription for Restoril -- a sleeping pill that comes as a gel capsule. Do you happen to know whether the powder inside the capsule is flavorful?"

"Objection." Madelaine was on her feet again, her arms flying in the air. "The witness isn't a drug expert. This whole line of questioning is preposterous."

"I was asking about Ms. Barlow's personal knowledge only."

Madelaine snorted. "What does the witness's personal knowledge about the flavor of
any
medicine have to do with the question before this court? Your Honor, I -- "

"Never mind," I said turning to Judge Atwood. "I'll withdraw the question."

I walked back to the defense table and made a pretense of checking something in my file. In truth, I was gathering my courage. My pulse beat so rapidly I could hear it pounding in my ears.

The courtroom was quiet with expectation. Grady sat stock-still, his eyes facing forward. He didn't look at me, only at Sheila Barlow.

I looked up from the page, took a breath, and addressed the witness. "Miss Barlow, would you be surprised to learn that your fingerprints were found on that bottle of chocolate syrup?"

"My..." She opened her mouth and shut it again, obviously caught off guard. Yet she made a quick recovery. "Not at all. Only the day before, I'd been at the house and made Adrianna a glass of chocolate milk using that same bottle of syrup."

"So it doesn't surprise you?"

Madelaine huffed in exasperation. "Asked and answered."

I nodded and called the court's attention to section IV(a) of the lab report concerning fingerprints found at the scene.

"Actually, Miss Barlow, your initial reaction was on target," I said. "There were no fingerprints at all found on the bottle of syrup. The rest of the kitchen was rife with prints -- baking is a sticky business. But the bottle of chocolate syrup had been wiped clean."

Sheila's face was flushed. She gave me a venomous look, then shrugged elaborately. "Deirdre must have cleaned it up. As you said, things get sticky."

I glanced at Grady. He was now watching me intently.

Abruptly, I swiveled to face the witness. "Isn't it true, Ms. Barlow, that you were at your sister's the night she was killed?"

Sheila recoiled as though she'd been slapped. "No."

"Isn't it true that Adrianna's 'dream' about the chocolate syrup wasn't a dream at all? You gave her the syrup with the powder from one, or more, of your sister's sleeping pills because you didn't want her to wake up and find her mother's body."

"No, that's not true." Sheila's voice had a thin, scratchy quality it hadn't before.