Guilt

'And how many balls are in a large bucket?'

The witness seemed to be trying to visualize a bucket. He smiled, helpful. 'I'd say eighty or a hundred.'

'A hundred golf balls. And is it true that you were at your mat, hitting these hundred golf balls for fifty minutes – eight twenty-five until about nine-fifteen?'

Ross did the math and nodded. 'That's about right.'

'Would that be about one ball every thirty seconds?'

'About, yes.'

Farrell glanced over at the jury, including them. 'Perhaps some members of the jury aren't familiar with how things work at a driving range. Would you please describe in detail your actions to hit each golf ball?'

This seemed to strike Ross as mildly amusing, but he remained cooperative and friendly. 'I lean over, pick a ball out of the bucket, then either put it on a tee – they have a built-up rubber tee you can use – or lay it on the mat. Then I line up my shot, check my position, take a breath, relax, swing.'

Farrell seemed happy with this. 'And then you do this again, is that right? Do you do this every time you hit a ball?'

'Pretty close, I'd say. Yeah.'

'And would you say hitting a golf ball is a fairly intense activity? Does it take a lot of concentration?'

Ross laughed. 'It's like nothing else.'

'You're saying it is intense, then, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Would you say you get yourself into almost a trance-like state?'

'Objection. The witness is not an expert in trances, your honor.'

Jenkins was sustained, but Farrell was doing a good job drawing the picture. If Ross had hit a ball every thirty seconds, going through his routine on each ball, and he was concentrating deeply on every swing… 'Is it possible, Mr Ross, that someone could have been hitting balls a couple of mats away and, concentrating as you were, you might not have noticed?'

'No. It's not like you're not aware of what's around you.'

'It's not? Then you recall how many other people were at the driving range that night, don't you?'

Ross shrugged, discomfort beginning to show. 'It was a quiet night. Tuesday. Fewer than average.'

'Were there twenty people there?

'I don't know exactly. Something like that.'

'Were they all men?'

'I don't know.'

'Could you give us a rough breakdown as to the races of the people hitting golf balls? Blacks, whites, Hispanics?'

'No.'

'Was there someone on the other side of you? Behind you, back toward the office?'

'A couple of mats over, yes.'

'Was this person a man or a woman.'

'A man, I think.'

'You think. How tall was he?'

Ross was shaking his head. 'Come on, give me a break, I don't know.'

Farrell came closer to him. 'I can't give you a break, Mr Ross. Hitting one golf ball every thirty seconds, is it your testimony that you are positive, without a doubt, that for the entire time you hit your large bucket of golf balls there was no one on the last mat at the end?'

Ross didn't crack. He knew what he knew. 'That's right.'

Farrell went and got a drink of water, giving himself time to think of his next line of questioning. By the time he was back at the witness box, he had it. With the bonus of a chance to put in a dig at Jenkins.

'Mr Ross, since we have just this morning learned that you would be a witness in this trial, you have not spoken to anyone from the defense before, have you?'

'No.'

'Have you spoken before to anyone from the prosecution or the police?'

'Yes.'

'Did you give a sworn statement to them about the testimony you're giving today that they asked you to sign?'

'No.'

This was about as far as Farrell could go in attacking Ross's credibility. He had to go fishing again. 'What do you study at college, Mr Ross?'

A welcome change for Ross. He brightened right up. 'I'm a Criminal Justice major.'

This surprised Farrell, but it didn't make him unhappy. Glitsky could almost see the bells ringing inside his head. 'Indeed. By any chance do you plan to pursue a career in law enforcement?'

'Yes, I do. I'd like to go to the San Francisco Police Academy.'

A pause, Farrell formulating it. 'Have you been following this case in the newspapers, Mr Ross? On television?'

'Sure.'

'You know, then, don't you, that your testimony is helpful to the prosecution here?'

'Yes.'

This was the best Farrell was going to do. He decided to quit while he was ahead. 'Thank you. No further questions.'

CHAPTER FOURTY THREE

Diane Price was less nervous than Sam Duncan, which was why she was driving. In the six months since she'd first come to Sam with her story, her life had changed.

At first, Diane had been opposed to any public admission of what had happened between her and Mark Dooher – it had been her own personal tragedy, tawdry and shameful. She'd testify at the trial if she got the chance, but until then she'd keep a low profile, live her normal life with her husband and kids.

She did not factor in the insatiable maw of the media, the hot-button buzz of her story, the fact that she was attractive, articulate and intelligent. Sam Duncan asked her permission to go to then-Sergeant Abe Glitsky and tell him about the rape – surely it was relevant to the murder charge Dooher was facing? He'd agreed and called in Amanda Jenkins, and within two weeks Diane had been identified and the notoriety had begun.

The story in the Chronicle had been followed by an interview in People. Mother Jones put her on the cover and devoted half of their September issue to 'Life After Rape'. Diane had been contacted by a movie producer and signed an option agreement on her life story. She'd been invited to speak at least a dozen times, at first to small groups around San Francisco, but later to larger gatherings – a NOW convention in Atlanta, a Gender Issues Conference in Chicago, a Sexual Harassment seminar in Phoenix.

And it was ironic, she thought, that all of this public discourse had been what had finally healed her private heart. Her husband, Don, stood by her through the fifteen minutes of her fame, and when the first flush had died down, they were left with their home and their family. And the bitterness that she'd carried all the years, that had finally prodded her to go to Sam Duncan's Rape Crisis Center in the first place, had been replaced by a calm sense of empowerment.

She didn't need to talk about it anymore. She'd learned from the experience, albeit the hard, slow way, but she'd come to the belief that this was the only way people really benefited from pain or loss or hardship anyway – first by acknowledging it and then, over time, to see how it had changed you and fit those changes into how you lived.

She became a regular volunteer at the Rape Crisis Counselling Center, working alongside Sam Duncan, helping other women, perhaps keeping them from going where she'd been. It was fulfilling, immediate, therapeutic.

So today, what she thought would be her one last public appearance didn't worry her. Amanda Jenkins had called her early in the week and said she expected that Wes Farrell would begin calling his own character witnesses on Thursday or Friday and she would then be free to call Diane. Was she ready?

And then, last night – Thursday – Amanda had said she ought to come down to the Hall of Justice by noon. The prosecution would probably be calling her to testify about Mark Dooher's character in the early afternoon.

As it transpired, of course, Farrell had decided not to use his character witnesses, but there was no way for Amanda Jenkins to have gotten that word out to Diane Price before she left to come down. By the time the attorneys had come back to the courtroom from their extended meeting about Michael Ross in Thomasino's chambers, Sam and Diane were on their way.

So she pulled into the All-Day Lot – $5.00/No In & Out – and the two women sat for a moment in the car. A fierce, cold and blustery wind whipped trash up the lane of the parking lot – a milk carton bounced along and out of their sight like a tumbleweed.