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.
'You ready to go out into this?' Sam asked her. She had her hand on the doorhandle, but didn't look as though she was prepared just yet. Huddled into an oversized down jacket, Sam looked tiny and vulnerable.
'I think the real storm's going to be inside,' Diane said. 'Are you all right?'
'Sure,' Sam said, too quickly.
'You're nervous.'
A nod.
'Don't worry. I won't blow this. I say what happened and they try to shake my story, which they won't be able to do, and then we leave and this whole thing is behind us, and they put that bastard in jail where he belongs.' She looked over at Sam, still inside herself. 'That's not it, is it?'
Sam shook her head.
'Wes Farrell?' Diane had learned all about Sam and Wes.
Another nod. 'I'm going to hate him after he questions you. I know I am. That's all. And I don't want to.' She blew out a quick breath. 'It's just the end of something. The final end.'
'I'll be gentle with him,' Diane said, then patted the other woman's leg. 'Let's go, okay?'
They crossed Bryant, leaning into the wind, and came to the steps of the Hall, where Sam held open one of the huge glass double doors and they entered into the cavernous, open lobby.
Or not directly. First, a makeshift plywood wall funnelled visitors toward a doorframe, to the side of which sat a desk manned by two uniformed policemen. A couple of reporters had stationed themselves outside the courtrooms to be ready for just such arrivals, and they attached themselves to the two women, asking the usual inane questions as they fell into the desultory queue for the security check.
Diane was wearing designer jeans, a couple of layers of sweaters and a heavy raincoat, a large leather carry-bag slung over her shoulder. Moving forward with the line of people entering the Hall, trying to respond politely to the reporters and stay close to Sam, it didn't register to Diane that the doorframe was the building's metal detector until she was walking through it, setting off the beeper.
'Oh shit,' she said, as the policemen stopped them, took the carry-all from her and put it on the desk and told her to step back through the entrance again. 'No, wait.' Reaching for the carry-all, trying to take it back from him. 'We'll just go back and put this in the car. I'll just-'
But it was too late. The policeman, alerted by the weight of it, had already pulled it open and was reaching inside. 'Everybody else! Hold it! Step back!'
'What?' Sam asked.
'You!' The cop had Diane by the arm and was moving her away to the side. 'Get over there, put your hands against that wall. Do it! Now!' Then, to his partner, gesturing to the line forming behind the doorframe. 'Keep them back. Get on the phone and get a female officer down here.'
'What is this?' Sam demanded. 'What's going on?'
Diane started to turn around. 'I know-'
But the officer yelled at her again. 'Against that wall! Don't you move!' Then he lifted his hand out of the oversized purse.
He was holding a small, chrome-plated handgun.
At about the same moment, back in their office across the street, the mood had shifted from relief at getting a piece of Michael Ross to fury at Wes Farrell's decision to abandon his character witnesses.
Dooher was fuming. 'What do you mean, you're resting? We've got to call Jim Flaherty.'
Farrell was calmly shaking his head. 'We're not calling Flaherty. We're not doing character.'
'We have to do character, Wes. Character wins it for us.'