Dark Lady (40 page)

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Caroline glanced at her father. His gaze was inward, his face quite composed; perhaps Caroline alone could have read the satisfaction in his face. She turned to Mann again. “The question, Officer Mann, was whether, at the time you sent Ms. Allen to the hospital at Connaughton Falls, she was a potential suspect in some possible crime of violence.” Mann’s jaw worked. “Yes.”

“Based on her statement regarding where to look for James Case.”

Mann hesitated, formulating his answer. “That,” he said, “and the knife and blood and wallet.”

“But without Ms. Allen’s statement, you wouldn’t have known where to look, would you?” Mann’s face had closed now. “Not right away,” Caroline tilted her head. “Prior to Ms. Allen’s initial statement, did you test her for intoxication?”

“No.”

“How did she seem to you?” Mann glanced at Brett again; his expression softened a bit. “Slow. Kind of stunned.”

“Did she have a hard time speaking?”

“A little.”

“Have you ever arrested someone who was under the influence of marijuana?”

“Yes.”

“Was Ms. Allen’s demeanor like that?” Mann paused. “She seemed to have a hard time remembering words, and her speech was slurred.” Caroline moved closer. “Tell me, Officer Mann—about how long was it from your arrest of Ms. Allen until she arrived at Connaughton County Hospital?”

“Maybe two hours.”

“And was she then tested for intoxication?”

“Did you see the results?”

“Yes.”

“Was Ms. Allen intoxicated?” Mann folded his hands. “According to the report, Ms. Allen was at nearly twice the legal limit.”

“So that it’s fair to say that she was intoxicated the whole time she was with you?”

“I would say so.” Caroline nodded, satisfied. Not only was it clear that Brett had been intoxicated at the moment of the murder, but if the Superior Court followed the law, what Brett said before her trip to the hospital might be kept out of evidence. Even the evidence obtained through the two search warrants, secured because of her initial statement, could possibly be suppressed. It was time to address Bret’s final statement. “What is your understanding, Officer Mann, as to when Ms. Allen was tested for intoxication?” Mann’s eyes narrowed. “Pretty quickly, from the report. Maybe thirty minutes after getting there.”

“So about two o’clock?” I’d have to see the report again. But I think that’s pretty close.”

“And you and Officer Summers started questioning her around six-fifteen, correct? At least according to the tape.”

“Yes.”

“And before that, Sergeant Summers read Ms. Allen her Miranda rights?”

“True.”

“Did you also retest her for intoxication?” Mann hesitated. “We did not.” Caroline made herself sound puzzled. “So you don’t know whether she was still intoxicated?” Mann frowned. “She was a whole lot different by then—coherent, eager to talk.” His voice rose. “Before we questioned her, we called Dr. Pumphrey at the hospital—the one who tested her. He said that by four hours the effect should have worn off.”

“But the doctor didn’t see her before questioning, right?”

“No.”

“Or test her?”

“No.”

“Do you know when Ms. Allen had last eaten?”

“No.”

“Or slept?”

“No.”

“Did you give her any food?” For a moment, Mann looked chastened. “No.”

“Are you familiar with a chemical known as THC?” Another pause. “I know it’s in marijuana.”

“Do you know how it affects memory?”

“Not really, no.”

“Or how long it stays in the bloodstream.”?”

“No.”

“Or the extent to which the potency of marijuana may be affected by the prior use of alcohol, followed by sexual intercourse?” Mann’s mouth formed a stubborn line. “I’m not a doctor, ma’am.” But Caroline’s expert was, and he was prepared to say at trial that Brett could not have been sober and that her memory was inevitably confused. Quietly, Caroline responded, “I appreciate that, Officer Mann. Thank you.” Mann looked toward Towle, as if hopeful that this was over. His demeanor was different now—less conviction and idealism, stubbornness seeming to alternate with confusion. Still, Caroline was not quite done. “Tell me,” she asked, “during the time you spent with Ms. Allen, did you form an impression as to whether she was right-or left-handed?” Mann leaned back in his chair. “Left-handed,” he said finally. “And on what do you base that.”?”

“I remember she was always brushing the hair back from her face, like she was nervous or distracted. She’d use her left hand.” Caroline nodded. “Thank you, Officer Mann. No further questions.”

“You’re really good,” Brett said. Caroline felt anything but good; the adrenaline of the courtroom had evanesced, leaving only weariness and a certain vague depression. But Caroline did not believe in false modesty, and it was better to place more pressure on herself if it helped Brett through the hearing. “Yes,” she answered. “I am. And I did better than I’d expected.” They sat at a beat-up desk in a spare room at the Connaughton County Courthouse; court was adjourned for the day, and an officer waited outside to deliver Brett back to prison. But they needed to talk, Caroline knew, though perhaps Brett just needed time. Brett was quiet for a moment. “I felt a little sorry for him, though. The cop.”

“Maybe he wanted to help you, in a way. Or maybe he’ll just learn to lie next time. In San Francisco, he already would have.” Brett considered her. “Is that hard for you? Embarrassing someone like that?” Caroline shrugged. “You just don’t think about it. Lawyers can’t—if I did, where would you be?” Brett looked curious. “It’s like you can turn your feelings off. Like flicking a switch.” It was odd, Caroline reflected, how little she minded this girl’s probing now. “Is that so interesting?” she asked. “It’s not usual. At least not for a woman.” Brett shook her head, as if bemused. “You’re so unlike my mother it’s ridiculous.” “We had different mothers. Genes count for a lot.” For the first time, Caroline smiled. “You don’t have to understand everything, Brett. Or everyone.” Looking at Caroline, Bret’s face became softer. “It’s just so childish. Three weeks ago, I didn’t even know you. And now I depend on you completely, and I’m so damned scared.” How best to answer.”? Caroline wondered. “Being on trial does that to people,” she said quietly. “It’s part of the reason I am the way I am. Or, at least, try to appear that way to you.” Brett tilted her head, as if to see her from a different angle. “Who worries about you, Caroline?” Caroline gave a wry smile. “Why should anyone? I’m only the lawyer here.” Brett studied the desk. “Someday,” she said, “I hope we can just be friends.” Caroline smiled again. “That’s why I’m trying to spring you, of course. Because you’ve never come to San Francisco.” Bret’s face seemed to relax, and Caroline watched her imagine a place she had seen only in pictures. At another time, Caroline would have been content to sit quietly in her company. But there was far too much to do. “There’s something we’ve never really gone over,” Caroline said at last. “That telephone call to James. Just before you went to the lake.” Torn from fantasy, Brett looked down again; the memory led to a vortex of confusion, Caroline could see—or, perhaps, guilt. In a quiet voice, Brett asked, “Why is that important now?” But Caroline could not answer. “Just humor me,” she said.

Hours later, Caroline cracked open the window of her room. The air of a fresh summer night felt cool on her skin.

She could not sleep yet. On her desk, next to a mug of coffee, were police reports and transcripts of interviews—of Brett, Betty, Larry, her father, Megan Race. On top of that was Megan’s diary. She sat at the desk, reading the entries yet again. Even as she studied them, mentally extracting her cross-examination from Megan’s coiled script, this invasion made Caroline queasy. Too clearly, she remembered her own diary. Could recall across the years the entries after David vanished, in the months she stayed on at Martha’s Vineyard, estranged from her family, hoping still to hear from him: a litany of loss, longing, guilt, regret, rage—at her father, at Betty, and, most Of all, at herself. Until the hope faded and, with resignation and resolve, Caroline forced herself to imagine a new life. The diary stopped one page from the end. The day before she left for California, Caroline had burned it. Rising now, she returned to the window. Saw again the church, the white frame houses, the rolling hills. A snapshot from her memory. She had never thought to return here. Never thought that the decision she had once believed essential to that new life might, in the end, undo it. She had lied to Brett. With a longing as deep as it was pointless, Caroline wished that she could talk to someone. But it could not, in fairness, be this girl. And, in open court, Caroline would ruin what remained of her friendship with the other person who might understand. Three mornings from now, Megan Race would take the stand. Caroline returned to the desk and began making notes.

Caroline’s first image of the morning was Jackson, bending over the rail between lawyer and spectator, murmuring to her father. The moment was awkward, formal: a civil handshake; a few words from Jackson; her father’s slight nod; Larry and Betty pretending not to notice. And then Judge Towle assumed the bench, and Jackson called Sergeant Kenton Summers. From his first moments on the stand, Caroline saw that Summers would be difficult: as Jackson quickly established, he had sixteen years’ experience with the state police and an expertise in forensics, and had been lead investigator in twenty-seven homicides. The experience of court was stamped on his ruddy face—in the heavy lids, the calm cobalt eyes, a certain absence of expression. With his chestnut hair and still youthful face, Summers could not be much over forty, but he had the air of someone who was beyond surprise or anger. He gazed at the tape machine in front of Jackson. “Prior to your interrogation,” Jackson was asking, “how would you describe Ms. Allen’s behavior?” Before responding, Summers seemed to consider each response; it was a trick, Caroline sensed, to cover those moments when he was truly surprised. Now, quietly, he answered, “She was sober, coherent, and clearly followed our questions. As the tape will show.” As if on cue, Jackson punched a button, and the tape began playing. Summers’ voice filled the courtroom, calmly reciting the Miranda warnings. Next to Caroline, Brett listened, intent and pale, as she waived her rights. She sounded quite lucid. Save for Bret’s voice, the policeman’s soft questions, the courtroom was silent. As she approached the facts of the murder, Bret’s tone moved from hesitancy to dread. Perhaps only Caroline heard the pause as Brett recounted her conversation with James, omitting their fight. But while Brett listened to herself describe finding the body, voice trembling with a surprise and horror that seemed quite genuine, anyone could see the convulsion of her throat. And then the tape reached her incontrovertible lie. “Did James have other girlfriends?” Summers asked. “No.” Brett’s voice was shocked and angry. “There’s no way.” Listening, Brett was still. When? Caroline wrote on her pad, and then the tape ended. Someone coughed, and Jackson spoke again. “Did you begin by placing credence in Ms. Allen’s statement?” he asked. Summers nodded. “It was the only clear account we had. In fact, one of our main objectives was attempting to confirm what she told us.” It was clever, Caroline saw: Jackson would use Summers to show how much they had wished to believe Brett’s story. “Could you describe your efforts?” Jackson asked. “To start, there was the crime scene. We used six investigators, including two from the crime lab, to cordon off two hundred square feet around where the body was. Then we divided the area into ten-foot sections. For one week, we went through each section inch by inch.”

“What did you find?”

“That we could follow Ms. Allen’s path from the body clearly—there were broken branches, trampled underbrush, specks of blood on the leaves. But we found no such signs of a second person. With as much blood as Mr. Case lost, it would be almost impossible for the killer to leave the scene without traces of blood on leaves or shrubbery.”

Judge Towle watched Summers intently. “Did you take other steps,” Jackson asked, “to explore Ms. Allen’s claim of an unknown killer?”

“We did.” Raising a thick hand, Summers ticked them off. “We talked to neighbors and other people in the area, looking for sightings of strange people or vehicles anywhere near the lake. We found none. “We checked for reports of vagrants or break-ins, searched for signs that anyone had been living in the woods recently. Again, nothing. “We looked for evidence that James Case, as Ms. Allen claimed, was in trouble with some unknown drug dealer. But we found no evidence of a break-in at his apartment, or any stolen money. “We interviewed his neighbors, his landlord—anyone we could find who knew him. And we came up with no one who, as far as we could tell, had any motive to do what someone had done to this boy.” Summers paused. “Which was cut his throat so deeply that his head was more off than on.” This last was delivered with such matter-of-fact authority that, even for Caroline, it took a moment to register. “And on what basis,” Jackson asked calmly, “did you conclude that it was Ms. Allen who had done this?” Summers stroked his chin. “To start, there was the physical evidence. Other than Officer Mann’s, the only prints on the knife were Ms. Allen’s. “We found her fingerprints on the neck of the victim—but no one else’s except the EMTs. “Her prints were on the wallet—again, no others. “The only path from the scene, leaving traces of the victim’s blood, was hers. “The only hairs on the victim’s body were from Ms. Allen’s head and pubic area. “There were no signs of a struggle, and the only marks on his body—other than knife wounds—were scratches on his back. Which were accounted for when we found traces of his skin beneath Ms. Allen’s fingernails.

“A search of Ms. Allen showed the victim’s blood spattered on her hair and body, and established that they had had sexual intercourse.” For the first time, Summers looked directly at Judge Towle. “And yet the victim had never climaxed.”

“Were there other factors?” Jackson asked. Pausing, Summers frowned. “The nature of the homicide. In my experience, drug dealers don’t go around killing other drug dealers with knives. Too dangerous.” This was right, Caroline knew; next to her, she saw Brett’s eyes shut. “This had the look of a very personal killing,” Summers continued. “Driven by passion and anger, and not done by a stranger.”