Evidence of Guilt (15 page)

Daniel smirked.

"She called that afternoon to say she wouldn't be able to make it. Apparently a woman from her support group needed some help."

I sat forward. "What support group?"

"The chronic pain group. Lisa suffered from headaches. The doctors couldn't come up with a cause. Couldn't do much to help her either. It was one of those mysterious maladies that baffles modern medicine. Anyway, she joined this group--I think they learned stress reduction techniques, shared ideas for coping, that sort of thing. I'm not much on this therapy stuff myself; in fact, I think it's a crock of you-know-what. Lisa thought it was important, though. And it was run by a doctor, so I figured there couldn't be too much voodoo in it."

"Was the group helping her?"

Stockman adjusted his glasses. "Not that I could tell. If anything, the episodes were becoming more frequent. And she'd started getting stomach pains as well as headaches. I wanted her to see a specialist at UC Medical Center in San Francisco. Offered to pay for it myself. But Lisa claimed she was getting a handle on things."

"Can you tell me more about this woman who needed help?"

"I'm afraid not. Lisa said she got a call from the woman. That's all I know."

"What about the woman's name?"

"Lisa never mentioned it."

"I wonder if the police were able to track her down."

Stockman shrugged, looked at his watch.

"You told them about the phone call, didn't you?"

"What's there to tell?" His tone was sharp. "Anyway, they didn't ask. They had their man."

Helene returned her empty cup to the tray. "I don't see what all this has to do with Lisa's death."

"If my client didn't kill her, someone else did."

"Surely you don't think it was her friend?"

"I haven't thought that far yet, but I'd like to talk to the woman. Do you know the name of the doctor who ran this group?"

"Markley," Stockman said with growing impatience. "Or something close to that. He has an office in Sierra Vista. The group met Wednesday evenings."

Mrs. Arabagucci's babysitting time. So much for that mystery. I'd been hoping for something more. Something that might have given us a solid lead.

"When Lisa called that afternoon to bow out of dinner how did she seem?"

Stockman looked at his sister, then back to me. "I didn't actually speak with her. Helene did."

"We didn't talk long," Helene said. "Lisa gave me a short message to give to Philip, which I did. There was nothing in any way noteworthy about the conversation."

Stockman glanced at his watch again. I could tell he was getting antsy, and Daniel had gone through the entire plate of cookies.

"One last question," I said. "Did Lisa ever mention a drifter called Granger?"

Stockman shook his head, but Daniel blinked to attention.

"Isn't he that crazy guy who's missing half his teeth?"

"You know him?"

"Yiik, get real. But I've seen him around--eating out of garbage cans." Daniel wrinkled his nose in disgust. "He hangs out in the woods behind the school sometimes. The guy's a total loser."

Stockman gave his son a stern look.

"I know," the boy said, raising the pitch of his voice, "people like that need our prayers not our censure, and you shouldn't open your trap until you've walked a mile in the dude's shoes. Well, let me tell you, you'd have to fumigate them first."

"Daniel, that's quite enough." Stockman offered me a thin, apologetic smile. He stood, signaling the end of the interview.

I thanked him for seeing me, which was an honest expression of gratitude. I'm not sure I'd have been as cordial had our roles been reversed.

The wooded area behind the high school was not my idea of an exciting place to spend a Sunday afternoon. There'd

been a time, many years earlier, when I'd considered the place a safe haven, and infinitely preferable to Mr. Dodge's math class. But even then I'd have drawn the line at squandering a fine summer's day on the place.

I brushed away loose debris from a log and sat, feeling more foolish by the minute. Daniel had said Granger
sometimes
hung out in the woods. And the boy didn't strike me as the most reliable source, in any event.

Overhead, a blue jay mocked me.

"Go pick on someone your own size," I told him.

The bag from McDonald's lay at my feet. I'd brought it along in the hope of luring Granger with the scent of grease and fried fat, but I knew that once I unwrapped it, the jay wouldn't leave me alone.

It was a warm day, even here in the shade. I wished I'd thought to pick up a drink for myself when I'd stopped for the burger and fries. A drink and something to read.

I reached for a stone and tossed it against the tree to my left. Bull's eye. I tried the one a little farther away and missed by a mile.

Was this what small-town practice had brought me? Was it what I wanted? To be sitting on a dusty, bug-infested log in an area of woods littered with candy wrappers, crumpled cigarette packs and used condoms? Maybe Curt Willis was right about wanting to get out.

Of course, I'd had the other. Would have had it still if things had gone the way I'd planned.

I picked up another stone and tossed it hard at nothing in particular. It landed without a sound. But would I be happier if I were still at Goldman & Latham? I wouldn't be wasting my Sunday hanging around the woods, that was for sure, but more likely than not I'd be working. Sitting at my desk in an office with sealed windows and poor ven-

tilation, wearing parity hose instead of jeans. And I'd be billing my time in ten-minute increments.

I started humming to let Granger know I was here. I also opened the bag and spread the contents on the log. The blue jay moved in closer, to the branch just above me.

At least my clients at Goldman & Latham had been guilty of nothing worse than unfair business practices or reneging on a contract. At the end of trial the judge would bang her gavel, a sum of money would change hands and that was that. Occasionally a client would wind up in jail, but never for very long, and certainly not on death row.

I stopped humming and started whistling, thinking that maybe higher-pitched sound waves traveled farther. It was either that or call for the man by name, as though he were a dog, and I refused to stoop to that.

The jay squawked impatiently, drowning out my loudest whistle. Disgusted, I broke the burger and fries into pieces and laid them out on the log.

"Bon appetit," I called to the bird, and left.

Two things surprised me when I looked up Dr. Markley in the phone book. The first was that the doctor was a she, not a he. The second was that she was a psychiatrist.

Had Lisa intentionally misled Stockman, or was he simply oblivious to the details in Lisa's life? Having heard his views on therapy, I could understand the former. But having once dated a supreme egotist myself, I wouldn't rule out the latter either.

Calling on a Sunday afternoon, I expected either an answering service or a machine. Instead, I got the doctor herself.

"My conversations with Lisa are confidential," she told

me after I'd explained why I was calling. "Even though she's dead, I have to respect her privacy."

"Yes, I know that. But you might still be able to help me."

I heard the shuffle of papers on the other end of the line. Dr. Markley mumbled something to herself, then said, "How about tomorrow at one? The patient I usually see at that time is on vacation this week."

Monday was the preliminary hearing. Although Sam would handle most the of arguments and cross, I hated to miss any of it.

"If Monday's not good for you," she said, "I'm afraid we'll have to wait until the following week. I've just returned from a conference and my schedule is backed up through Friday."

"Monday will be fine," I said. The judge would call a noon recess anyway. I wouldn't miss much.

"I doubt I'll be able to help," she said, "but I'm happy to do what I can."

The preliminary hearing is essentially the prosecution's show. They're required to demonstrate that they have enough evidence to try the defendant for the crime in question. Period. The proceeding is pro forma in all but a handful of situations, and ours, unfortunately, was not one of them. There wasn't a chance in hell the judge would dismiss the case at this stage, no matter how persuasively Sam and I argued.

Although our presence at the hearing was required, Curt Willis was clearly the man of the moment. And from the looks of things, not at all reticent about embracing the role.

Curt was holding an impromptu press conference on the courthouse steps when I arrived. Dressed in a new, well-tailored suit, with his hair stylishly trimmed and his briefcase in hand, he faced the bank of lights and microphones as though he were an old hand at stardom. His expression was earnest but relaxed. When he spoke to

reporters off the record he was probably even jovial. A man among men.

I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I could tell from his manner that he was playing to a simpatico crowd.

I tried to slip past unnoticed, but just as I made it to the top step, I felt the sudden, intrusive glare of a strobe light in my face. "Can you tell us something about Wes Harding's defense?" The voice was female, and not one I recognized. I turned and was blinded by a second flash.

Several women with placards jostled the reporter aside. "How can you defend a man who kills innocent children?" one of them shouted.

"Their blood will be on your hands," cried another, shoving her sign in my face.

The reporter tried again. "Is it true that you're only on this case as a token woman, to win jury support?"

Around me, a small crowd had begun gathering. A man with a television camera stepped to the front, following my every move like a bug-eyed cyclops. Another man bumped me from the left, almost deliberately. The women with placards began waving their signs and humming something that sounded like a funeral dirge. I caught sight of Helene Stockman behind them and wondered if she was part of their contingent.

As I moved toward the door, they closed in, faces tight with animosity. My stomach clenched and I worried that the scene might turn ugly.

"Did you know that your client is a Satanist?" one of the women shouted. "That he belongs to a cult that drinks the blood of the innocent?"

The reporter pushed her way toward me. "Ms. O'Brien, do you think--"

"No comment," I said, cutting her off.

With pen poised, she turned to the woman who'd spoken about Satan. Disgusted, I elbowed my way past them and into the building.

After the din out front the courtroom seemed unusually quiet. People packed the visitor's section in the rear, but they talked in hushed tones, as though they were in church. My footsteps on the old oak floor echoed loudly enough that I broke stride and tried to step more softly. The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself by breaking the stillness.

I saw Grace Harding sitting ramrod straight in the front row with Pammy. Sam and Jake were standing off to one side, talking. Andrea was nowhere to be seen.

Grace nodded at me as I passed by, but she didn't smile.

"I see you made it safely past the alligators in the alley," Sam said.

"Barely." I was still seeing spots from the flash. "At least Curt's happy. I think he must have sent personal invitations."

Sam nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised to see him handing out cigars when it's all over."

"You'd think those bloodhounds could find something more newsworthy to cover," Jake muttered.

"It's the nature of the business," I explained. "Importance is measured by sales figures and ratings. Murder is always a big draw." Particularly the murder of a woman and a child, I added to myself.

Jake pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow, then began tapping his foot with nervous energy. His suit was pressed, his shirt starched, his shoes polished, yet he looked like a man who was worn and frayed around the edges.

"Shouldn't you talk to them too?" he asked. "Listening to Willis, they're bound to get the wrong picture. I think they need to hear our side as well."