"And to simplify that testimony, this was determined by the direction of tidal flow, was it not, and the distance the body had reached prior to retrieval?"
"Something like that."
"Your Honor, if it please the court, I could reread-"
But the judge was not in a pleasing mood. "The significance of this presentation, Mr. Seppamosa?"
"Is in the nature of the numerals, Your Honor. Flashing. Which is exactly as the defendant, Mr. Neal, reported initially to police. The numbers of such clocks flash only when there's been a loss of power and the battery backup is insufficient. The clock resets to twelve midnight, and then begins to keep time again."
Retrieving a sheet of paper from his table, Seppamosa crossed the room toward the witness chair. "Ms. Matthews, I'm going to ask you to read one more item for the benefit of the court."
Mahoney stood up and properly objected this time, suggesting that Seppamosa was badgering the witness in asking her to read documents that did not pertain to her expertise in any regard.
Seppamosa defended his choice of Matthews because she was a respected member of the police community and could be trusted to tell the truth. He then offered to subpoena a variety of expert witnesses, if the court would prefer. "Clock manufacturers, power utility representatives ..."
The judge heatedly declined the offer, clearly rebuffing the man in the process, but Seppamosa was not to be deterred-he was a man with a mission, more alive and cheerful than any PD Matthews had seen stand before the court.
Matthews was directed by the judge to read the letterhead off the sheet of paper supplied to her. "The letterhead is for Puget Sound Energy. It appears to be a Web page printed or faxed to Mr. Seppamosa."
"The highlighted text, please," Seppamosa said, practically crowing by this point.
She read, "... an area that included all of Ballard, Wallingford,
Greenlake, and Phinney Ridge experienced a power interruption at eight fifty-nine P.M. on March twenty-second. This interruption lasted an average of three minutes, with the maximum lost time in Phinney Ridge estimated at seven minutes, twenty-seven seconds."
Seppamosa spoke loudly, luxuriating in his Perry Mason moment.
"I submit to the court, Your Honor, that this power outage switched off Mr. Neal's bedside clock at exactly eight fifty-nine. Subsequent to that, the power remained off an additional three to five minutes. Somewhere around nine-oh-four the power came back on-while Mr. Neal and Ms. Walker were still at Mr. Neal's mother's house having dinner-returning power to, and resetting the clock, which now began to track time as if nine oh-four were actually midnight. Mr. Neal did hear Ms. Walker on the phone. He did witness Ms. Walker out on the balcony. Mr. Neal did see the clock flashing-flashing, as it is reported in the statement he signed for the police, the very same statement they are claiming condemns him by invalidating his reporting the correct time of night-flashing the numbers two-two-two. Two hours and twenty-two minutes after the reinstatement of power by PSE at nine-oh-four, or, eleven twenty six
P.M." Your Honor. The very discrepancy the state is attempting to use to suggest guilt on the part of my client is in fact the discrepancy that proves beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Neal's original statement to the police was factual, entirely factual, and does nothing whatsoever to suggest my client in any way lied at any time to authorities. Nor has he at any time contradicted the window of time for this crime put forth by the state's very own expert witnesses."
The judge took this all in and directed her attention to the prosecutor's table. "Ms. Mahoney?"
"The state requests a continuance to review the material that has come to light."
"Continuance nothing, Ms. Mahoney," an annoyed judge declared.
"You've insufficient evidence, Ms. Mahoney. If the state wishes to try Mr. Neal, you'll need to start again."
She lowered the gavel lightly and released Neal on his own recognizance.
Matthews heard a commotion at the back of the room. She looked up to see Ferrell Walker leaving as fast as he could.
Three Blocks North of Safety
With Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" running in her head, Matthews abandoned the idea of a hotel room for a second night and returned to her houseboat, angry over losing ground at the probable cause hearing, angry at LaMoia for not anticipating the contradictory evidence put into play with the flashing clock, angry at herself for allowing Seppamosa to manipulate her and the facts to his client's advantage. She wanted a drink. She deserved the comfort of her own home-she was sick and tired of being told what to do.
She climbed the ladder like stairs to her tiny bedroom, weary from a long afternoon of meetings.
Meetings begot meetings-a tried and true axiom of police work. She wasn't looking forward to the following day. She poured herself an expensive glass of a near-perfect wine-again the Archery Summit Pinot-drew a hot bath, and settled into the idea of spending a mindless, somewhat inebriated night in front of the television. But as preparations for the bath continued, she thought about Margaret out on the streets and found it impossible to enjoy herself. She thought about Nathan Prair and the fact that he had yet to submit the report LaMoia had demanded be delivered-a report Matthews hoped would clear up whatever relationship had existed prior to the young woman's murder.
As she undressed in her bedroom, paranoia crept in, despite the fact that she'd covered every inch of glass in the house, whether by window blind or thumbtacked towel. Down to her bra, she couldn't bring herself to disrobe any further. Still partly clothed, she wrapped herself up in a robe and headed back down to the houseboat's tiny bathroom, where, with the door locked, she undressed. She caught herself folding clothes she knew were headed for the laundry and recognized the action as a warning sign-hairline fractures in her sanity. To make matters worse, she overreacted, knocking the stack of dirty clothes into the sink and stirring them up into a tangled ball.
Having forgotten her glass of wine, she donned the robe again and headed out to retrieve it, but found herself walking extremely slowly, attentive to every errant sound. Part of the problem for her came from the look of the place, the fact that covering all the windows had shrunk the space to a claustrophobic size. She resented the intrusion, her feeling forced to defend herself this way, the depressing darkness of the room with the lights along the lake removed from view.
Wine in hand, she relocked the bathroom door, intent on soaking away both the day's tensions and her increasing fear. Some sounds, some dirt found outside a window, a few strange phone calls from a disturbed kid-when she quantified the events of the past week they seemed nothing to get worked up about. Had she been on the receiving end of this list as a psychologist, she'd have wondered at the fuss. But being on the receiving end as a potential victim heightened the urgency in a way she had never fully understood before.
The piping hot water helped the wine go to her head, but the wine failed to quiet her imagination as she'd hoped. What should have been a few luxurious moments of peace found her swapping places with Melissa Dunkin bathing in the hotel room. Despite her being locked in a windowless room, she could feel a stranger's eyes feasting on her. Anything, anyone, could be out there at any time. There was no place that could be considered completely safe. She mentally reviewed locking both doors and all the windows, but she didn't trust herself. The bath itself seemed like a failed idea-it would lull her into a stupor, she'd come out of the bathroom a half hour later, dazed and dull, the perfect victim. Catching herself slipping back into paranoia, she reached for her wineglass-her medication-and missed, knocking it to the tile floor where it smashed at a volume twice as loud as it should have. Shards of jagged glass wall-to-wall awaited her bare feet. The spilled red wine looked like a pool of blood.