“Can’t you ask the court for more time?”
“Oh, sure, you can ask,” Jackson said with a humorless chuckle. “Now, Mr. Braden, Maria Sanders was murdered at 7:15 p.m. on February 21st. The Lakers-Matterhorns game began that night at 7:30 p.m. At that hour, in the traffic, it would take at least twenty-five minutes to drive from the scene of the murder to the Chick Hearn Arena, and that’s without stopping to change clothes or anything else. If Robert Rand was in his seat at the tip-off there is no possibility he could be guilty of the crime with which he is charged. Do you remember specifically whether you were there at the start of the game?”
“Yes, I was,” Ted said confidently. Carl Gonzales had arranged for a wireless connection to his calendar at the office. He had spent hours after the pizza boxes were cleared away reconstructing his movements on February 21st. His sister had been visiting from San Francisco and he had taken his ten-year-old nephew Henry to the game. He remembered that there had been plenty of empty spaces in his favorite parking lot because they had gotten there early.
“Do you remember specifically,” the lawyer continued, “whether Mr. Rand was in his seat when you arrived?”
“He was not,” Ted said. “We were there early and my nephew Henry commented that he hoped nobody tall sat in front of him. A little while later, Rob came and sat down in front of Henry. Nobody was sitting in front of me, so Henry and I switched seats so he could see better.”
“Did anyone come later and sit in that empty seat?” Jackson asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Ted said. “I remember that Henry really enjoyed watching the game. I don’t think anybody sat in front of him the whole night.”
Jackson nodded. “Rob went to the game alone that night. Unfortunately, the friend who was to join him canceled at the last moment. Very unfortunately, as it turns out.”
Ted heard the skritch of the fountain pen on the legal pad. “So you and Henry switched seats when Rob arrived. Was this before the game started?” Jackson asked.
“Yes,” Ted said firmly. “Because as we stood up to switch seats, all the lights went off for the player introductions and it was almost totally dark. You know, they use all these lighting effects to bring out the home team.”
“Yes,” Jackson said. “Thank you, Mr. Braden. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll need you to be available at the courthouse on Wednesday and Thursday to testify. Bring something to read because we may not get to you until Thursday afternoon.”
“So they’ve arrested the wrong guy?” Ted said, rising from the couch.
“It would appear so,” Jackson answered.
“And you’re going to get him off?”
“That remains to be seen.” Jackson stood up. “The D.A.’s office has a fairly strong case. There’s an eyewitness to the crime. She’s identified Mr. Rand as the killer.”
C
HAPTER
4
Wednesday, May 17, 2056
E
mily Rand sat motionless as she listened to the witness describe the murder scene.
“And there were these steel pipes on the ground,” the woman was saying, “About three feet long, maybe two inches in diameter. They looked like they were for some sort of railing. Right in the corner of the parking lot.”
Merritt Logan turned a page in his notebook and rested his hand on the podium. “What were you doing at the time, Ms. Clybourne?”
“It’s Mrs. Clybourne,” the witness said icily.
“I’m sorry. Mrs. Clybourne.” Logan smiled apologetically.
“I’m proud to be married. I don’t agree with this idea today that no one gets married anymore.”
John Morley Jackson, seated at the defense table between Robert Rand and Dobson Howe, wrote something on his legal pad.
Logan tried again. “What were you doing in the parking lot, Mrs. Clybourne?”
Mrs. Clybourne leaned in to the microphone and spoke loudly, as if she were ordering lunch at a drive-through window. “I was backing out of a parking space,” she said.
“And what did you see?”
“I saw a man bending over the pile of pipes.”
“You saw this in your rear-view mirror?”
“Well,” Mrs. Clybourne adjusted her scarf. “At first I saw him through the side window in the back seat but then I pulled forward and headed away from him. That’s when I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him stand up with one of these steel pipes in his hand.”
“And then what happened?”
“I had to drive around the parking lot and come back in order to go out of the driveway where the stoplight was. I had to make a left turn. And when I came around I heard a woman scream.”
Merritt Logan scribbled something in his notebook. “Mrs. Clybourne, how old are you, ma’am?”
“I’m sixty-seven.”
“Do you wear glasses?”
Mrs. Clybourne looked insulted. “Only for reading,” she said. “I can see distances fine.”
“Would you recognize the man you saw in that parking lot?”
“Yes, I certainly would.”
“Do you see him in this courtroom?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you point him out?”
Mrs. Clybourne pointed a pale blue acrylic fingernail directly at Robert Rand. “That’s him,” she said.
Logan closed his notebook. “For the record, the witness has identified the defendant, Robert Rand,” he said. “No more questions.”
Emily looked over at Rob, thin and drawn after a sleepless week in the county jail awaiting trial. There had been no bail, not for the man the mayor called a vicious predator, a savage barbarian and an irredeemable monster. He looked shrunken in his dark blue suit, his skin a colorless gray, his eyes rimmed with black circles.
John Morley Jackson picked up his notes and stepped to the lectern.
“How do you do, Mrs. Clybourne,” Jackson said warmly. “My name is John Morley Jackson and I represent Mr. Robert Rand.” He smiled. Mrs. Clybourne nodded stiffly.
“Let me ask you, Mrs. Clybourne,” Jackson began, “The man you saw was bending over a pile of steel pipes on the ground?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Clybourne said into the microphone.
“So his head was down.” Jackson leaned forward to illustrate.
Mrs. Clybourne hesitated. “I could see him,” she said. She shifted slightly in her chair.
Jackson rubbed a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “What time of day was this, ma’am?” he asked.
“About seven o’clock.”
“Seven a.m. or seven p.m.?”
“Seven p.m.”
“And this was in February. It gets dark pretty early in February. Was it dark outside?”
“There are lights in the parking lot,” Mrs. Clybourne huffed.
“I see,” Jackson said agreeably. “So he was facing down, and you were backing your car out of a parking space. You saw him through the car’s back-seat side window.”
“Yes.”
“Are the windows of your car tinted, ma’am?”
Mrs. Clybourne looked at him quizzically. “They’re just regular,” she said.
“What year and make of car is it?”
“A 2052 BMW.”
“And it has the standard windows that came on the car?”
“Yes.”
“You know the government requires all automobile back-seat windows to have a UV-blocking tint to protect the passengers, especially children, from the sun, which can cause skin cancer.”
“Yes.”
“So your windows are tinted.”
“Yes, I guess they are.” Mrs. Clybourne was becoming impatient.
“So you saw a man with his head down, in the dark, through a tinted window, while you were backing your car out of a parking space. Were you moving fast?”
“No, I was very careful. It was a tight space.”
“Would you say you were concentrating on backing up?”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Clybourne said.
“So your attention wasn’t focused on the man you saw.”
Mrs. Clybourne’s eyes narrowed. “I know what I saw,” she said.
“And when you pulled forward and you saw the man in your rear-view mirror, you were further away from him than you had been before, is that right?”
“I was driving away from him, yes,” Mrs. Clybourne snapped.
“One more thing,” Jackson said, glancing down at his notes. “You mentioned that you don’t approve of couples who don’t get married. Are you aware that Rob and Emily Rand are not legally married?”
“Objection,” Merritt Logan fired out, “Relevance.”
“Your honor,” Jackson said innocently, “The right to impeach the credibility of a witness with evidence of prejudice is a foundation of the Anglo-American legal tradition.”
“Your honor, Mrs. Clybourne could not possibly have known Mr. Rand’s marital status at the time she identified him for police,” Logan countered.
The judge looked uncomfortable. “Objection sustained,” he said. “Let’s move on.”
“No more questions, your honor,” Jackson said. He returned to the defense table.
“Redirect?” the judge asked Logan.
Logan stepped to the podium without his notebook. “Mrs. Clybourne,” he said, “Would you say you got a good look at the man with the steel pipe in his hand?”
“Absolutely,” the witness said quickly. “I recognized him the moment I saw him in the line-up. I have no doubt at all.”
“Thank you,” Logan said, stepping back.
John Morley Jackson stood up at the defense table. “Mrs. Clybourne,” he said clearly, “Are you aware that my client is an actor?”
“I didn’t know it before this trial,” Mrs. Clybourne said.
“But you do know that Mr. Rand is an actor, and that he sometimes appears on television shows and in commercials.”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible that you recognized his face, not from the parking lot, but from seeing him on television?”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Clybourne said in a frosty tone. “I never watch television.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clybourne.” Jackson sat down again.
The judge made a note. “The witness may step down,” he said.
Emily leaned back against the wooden bench and closed her eyes. For an instant, it was all gone, and she was back with Rob and the kids at home, making chunky peanut butter sandwiches and negotiating over which movie to watch.
“Your honor,” the voice of Merritt Logan brought Emily back with a start, “The people call Bara Salvacion.”
Emily heard the clack-thap-clack-thap sound of high-heeled slides on the tile floor behind her. A young woman walked past her down the aisle and toward the witness stand. Emily had been right about the shoes. They were five-inch heels attached to a single band of black leather across the instep. Pencil-thin legs in nude stockings connected the shoes to a narrow body in a black elastic dress.
Bara Salvacion stepped up to the witness stand and turned around. The sight of her neckline drew an approving, if involuntary, sound from a male voice somewhere in the courtroom.
The witness was sworn in and immediately Merritt Logan was at the lectern, notebook open in front of him. “Would you state your name and spell it for the record, please?” he asked.
Bara Salvacion leaned forward toward the microphone and did so.
“Thank you,” Logan said. “Ms. Salvacion, are you acquainted with the defendant, Robert Rand?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And how do you know Mr. Rand?”
“He used to come over to my apartment two or three times a week.”
“What is the first date that he visited your apartment?”
“I don’t remember the exact date. It was in the fall. Last fall. September or October.”
“Do you remember the last date on which he visited your apartment?”
“Yes, I do. It was the day before he was arrested.”
“That was Wednesday, May 10th, of this year, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Mr. Rand visit your apartment?”
“So we could.... We were having an affair.”
“An affair.” Merritt Logan paused and looked at the woman with a visible trace of skepticism. He liked to get all the bad news out early. “He would come over to your apartment and you would have sex, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Rand ever give you money?”
“Yes, but I am not a prostitute.”
“I see, so you would have sex, and sometimes he would give you money, but the money was not for the sex. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Why did Mr. Rand give you money?”
“Because sometimes he would have packages of heroin delivered to my apartment.”
Emily Rand felt the courtroom detach from the ground and start to spin. She caught a moving image of Rob scribbling furiously on a legal pad. She gripped her temples and closed her eyes.
Merritt Logan turned a page in his notebook. “And what did you do with these packages of heroin once they were delivered?” he asked.
“I would keep them in a box inside my closet until he came over to pick them up.”