“No, as I’ve already said.”
“Now, as to the noises you heard. Are you familiar with the sound of gunfire?”
“No. Not particularly.”
“In your testimony with Mr. Hardy you said that while you were in bed, you heard a report, and this is a direct quote, ‘like a firecracker. ’ Unquote. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, it is. I thought it might have been a firecracker. Or a backfire.”
“And yet you told Mr. Hardy that you definitely heard two gunshots, did you not?”
“I did.”
And here Stier, in his enthusiasm and lack of respect for this witness, made his big error. “So let me ask you this. How could you know they were gunshots?”
Hardy had asked Mrs. Bradford that very question in the hall and had fervently hoped Stier would be foolish enough to ask it in front of the jury.
“Well, they were identical sounds. And we know for sure that one of them was a gunshot from the alley across the street, don’t we? That’s when Mr. Vogler was killed, wasn’t it? Right when I heard the shots.”
Rule Number One, Hardy thought-you talk to every single witness yourself, every single time. Hardy saw Stier’s shoulders slump as some of the jurors came forward and the import of this testimony hit home. He turned hesitantly toward the panel, stopped, came back to the witness. He finally said, “But can you say for certain that the second sound was in fact a gunshot, and not a backfire, or even a firecracker?”
She thought about this for a second. “I can say for sure that the two sounds were exactly alike. If the first one was a gunshot, the second one was a gunshot. And vice versa.”
Stier decided to quit before he made it worse. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Lori Bradford got up from the witness chair. “And they really did sound like gunshots,” she added with a believability and sincerity that cemented her complete defeat of The Big Ugly.
The three partners-Hardy, Farrell, Roake-and Wyatt Hunt were at the Freeman Building after the close of business, gathered around the large round table in the Solarium considering options. The overhead lighting was on full against the encroachment of the misty darkness that gathered outside the glass panes. A bottle of red wine stood open on the table, although Gina’s choice was her Oban and Hunt, next to her, was having an Anchor Steam.
Hardy was running out of time if he wanted to get any sort of “other dude,” Paco or anyone else, into the consciousness of the jury. Before Ruiz had been killed, he’d half planned to call him as a witness both on the Paco question and to counter the allegations that there had ever had been anything romantic going on between Dylan and Maya. But now, of course, that option had been foreclosed by events.
Other witnesses for Maya’s defense were few, if any, and far between. This was why Hardy had grabbed so desperately at Lori Bradford. At least here was a real bone for the jury to gnaw at. Nothing in the prosecution’s case contemplated or explained a two-shot scenario, and that fact, if taken as fact, created a glaring hole if any jury member cared to look hard in that direction. But since there was no second bullet, nor casing, nor even gun for that matter, there was no guarantee, nor even a likelihood, that this would happen.
And as for Maya, her alibis were flimsy and unsupported. Nobody had seen her either kill anybody or not kill anybody. And there were still the huge and unresolved questions of why she had been at both murder scenes. The time, in Dylan’s case, and the location, in Levon’s, pretty well eliminated any consideration of the idea that she’d simply been in the respective neighborhoods. She’d gone to both places on purpose, apparently summoned-or setting up-the victims. And if she hadn’t gone by to kill them, then why?
“I’ve got to call her,” Hardy said. “Let the jury hear her story.”
“Maybe I’m missing something,” Gina said, “but what is her story? I mean, does she even have any explanation for why she was at these places?”
“Dylan called her, and then Levon called her.”
Gina sipped her drink. “And she just went? No reason? When was the last time she’d even seen Levon?”
“I know,” Hardy said. “It’s weak.”
“Weak’s one word for it.” Farrell leaned back in his chair. “You might just want to go to argument. I mean, the theory is that they’ve got to prove something and you don’t.”
Hardy reached for his glass. “I’d just like to give ’em something, anything at all.”
“Well,” Hunt said, “there was Lori.”
“And God love her,” Hardy replied. “But two shots kind of goes nowhere without another story to go with them. And that I don’t have.”
“How about Glitsky?” Hunt asked.
Hardy had informed them all of his lunchtime deal with Abe, but like everything else about this case, it was looking like anything Abe could bring to the party was going to be a day late and a dollar short. “We’re supposed to talk again tonight, but if he had anything live and pressing, I think I’d have heard.”
“Maybe you could call the homicide guys Abe put on Ruiz,” Gina offered. “Talk about another weed-related murder at BBW, this one while Maya’s in jail and couldn’t have had anything to do with it. There’s an element of doubt. Something else going on, at least.”
“That’s an actual thought,” Hardy said. “Although Abe would have me killed if I called his guys in the middle of this.”
“Yeah, but at least you’d be killed by professionals,” Farrell said, “so it wouldn’t hurt much.” He went on. “Braun wouldn’t let it in anyway. Ruiz is six months removed from our victims here. That’s a tough sell.” He took a healthy drink of red wine. “I’m back to closing argument. You’ve just got to argue that there’s no evidence. That’s all you can do.”
“Well, not to get picky,” Gina said, “but there is evidence. There’s Maya’s gun, her fingerprints on it, fingerprints on Levon’s doorknob.” She shrugged. “It’s not much, granted, but it’s hard to explain away. Any other jurisdiction in the state, given the motives, I think she goes down. Here, maybe you’ll get your one juror, but on argument alone, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
“Well, on that cheery note.” Hardy tipped his wineglass up and pushed himself back from the table. “I’m on all my phones all night if anybody gets any ideas.”
“The clerk, I’d bet,” Glitsky said, “was named Julio Gomez. Twenty-four years old when he died in ninety-five. The place was Ocean Liquors.”
Glitsky, going out of his way to stop by Hardy’s home, had interrupted his friend’s seemingly unending perusal of his trial binders, and now, just past nine o’clock, they stood in the kitchen waiting for the microwave to beep for Glitsky’s tea.
“Was there an investigation back then?”
“No,” Glitsky said sarcastically. “Homicide just decided not to look into this particular murder. It seemed like too much work.” A beat. “Of course we opened an investigation.”
“And?”
“And we closed it about a month later.”
“No suspects?”
“Not a one.” He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “I copied the file and brought it around for you, though as you can see, it’s a little thin.” Then, gesturing back to the dining room where Hardy’s binders were spread out on the table, “Not that it looks like you need much more reading material. I gather that’s your case in there.”
“What there is of it.” The microwave’s timer sounded and Hardy crossed over, took the cup out, and handed it to his friend. “Santé. How about witnesses?”
“Witness. One. You can see him in there. Old Asian guy, coming out of a bar across the street, twelve-thirty on a Tuesday night. And the fog was in, evidently heavy. Plus, he’d had a few. Anyway, he heard the shot, saw somebody run out of the store, get in a car, then take off.” He pointed down at the envelope. “It’s all in there.”