Both Jack Hogan and Clifford Nance nodded.
Maria Oliva stood and walked to the witness stand. A bailiff produced a Bible and she placed her left hand on it. The bailiff said, “Do you solemnly swear that you will translate the testimony truthfully and accurately and to the best of your ability?”
She said, “I do.”
Judge Gantry said, “Mr. Hogan, you may call your next witness.”
Hogan rose and said, “The State calls Bobby Escobar.”
A side door opened, and Bobby emerged, following a bailiff. He ignored the crowd, the lawyers, and the defendant, and walked with some measure of confidence to the witness stand. He had been there before. A week earlier, before the trial started, Jack Hogan had brought Bobby to the empty courtroom and put him through a lengthy, grueling dress rehearsal. Hogan had fired questions at Bobby. Maria had interpreted. An assistant prosecutor had played the role of Clifford Nance, and even managed to yell at Bobby. He called him a liar! At first, Bobby had been rattled and uncertain. But as the day wore on, he began to understand the nature of testifying, and especially that of a brutal cross-examination.
When that session was over, Jack Hogan had confidence in his witness. Bobby, though, wasn’t so sure.
He swore to tell the truth and took his seat. Maria was in a folding chair next to him, also with a microphone in her face. The courtroom was silent and still. The jurors were gawking, waiting.
Theo had never seen nor felt such tension. It was awesome!
Hogan began with slow, easy questions. Bobby was nineteen years old and he lived with his aunt and her family. He was from El Salvador and had been in the United States for less than a year. He had crossed the border illegally to find work. Back home he had family — parents and three younger brothers — and they were poor and hungry. Bobby did not want to leave home, but felt he had no choice. Once in Strattenburg, he found a job at the Waverly Creek golf course, mowing grass and doing general maintenance. He was earning seven dollars an hour. He was trying to learn English but it seemed overwhelming. He had dropped out of school when he was fourteen years old.
Moving on to the day in question: It was a Thursday, a cloudy, windy day and the golf course wasn’t that busy. At eleven thirty, Bobby and his coworkers began their thirty-minute lunch break at the maintenance shed hidden on the Creek Course. As he often did, Bobby eased away from the others and went to his favorite spot beneath some trees. He preferred to eat alone because it gave him time to think about his family and say his prayers.
Jack Hogan nodded to an assistant, and a large aerial photo of the Creek Course’s sixth fairway appeared on the screen. Bobby took a red laser pointer and showed the jury exactly where he had been eating lunch.
His testimony continued: About halfway through his lunch break, he saw a golf cart speed along the asphalt path that hugs the fairway, then cut across it to a home that had already been identified as the Duffy residence. A man wearing a black sweater, tan slacks, and a maroon golf cap parked the cart next to the patio, got out, and reached into a golf bag. He removed a white glove and quickly put it on his right hand. There was already one on his left. He walked across the patio, stopped at the door, and took off his shoes. In Bobby’s opinion, the man was in a hurry. Sitting under the trees, between sixty and one hundred yards away, Bobby had a clear view of the man and the back of the Duffy home. At the time, Bobby thought nothing of it, though he was curious as to why the man put on the additional glove and why he left his shoes on the patio. Many of the people who lived at Waverly Creek played golf and stopped by their homes for whatever reason. A few minutes passed as Bobby continued with his lunch. He owned neither a watch nor a cell phone and did not know the exact time. No other golfer was on the sixth fairway of the Creek Course at that time. The man emerged from the house, quickly put on his shoes, took off both gloves and put them in his golf bag. He glanced around, evidently saw no one, then sped away in the direction from which he came. A few minutes later, Bobby returned to the maintenance shed. Lunch break was over. The foreman, Bobby’s boss, ran a tight ship and made them resume their work at precisely noon. An hour or so later, Bobby and a coworker were working on a sprinkler head near the thirteenth green, and he saw the same man as he arrived at the fourteenth tee box on the South Nine. The man looked around, saw no one, reached into his golf bag, removed something white, and placed it in the trash can. At the time, the man was wearing a white golf glove on his left hand, same as all right-handed golfers. Bobby couldn’t tell what the man put in the trash, but a few minutes later he rummaged through it and found two gloves — one for the right hand, one for the left. He explained that the boys who work on the course empty the trash twice a day, and that they routinely go through it, retrieving old golf balls, tees, used gloves, all types of junk. Bobby kept the gloves for a few days. When he realized the man was a suspect in his wife’s murder, Bobby gave the gloves to a friend who gave them to the police.
Jack Hogan walked to a small table next to the court reporter and picked up a plastic bag. He handed it to Bobby and invited him to open it and touch the gloves. Bobby did so, taking his time. When he was convinced, he looked up and nodded. “Yes, these are the gloves I found, the gloves left behind by the man in the black sweater, tan slacks, and maroon golf cap.” He set the gloves aside.
His testimony continued: Not long after he found the gloves, word spread through Waverly Creek that the police were swarming around a house on the sixth fairway of the Creek Course. A lady had been found dead! Curious, Bobby returned to the maintenance shed, then eased through the woods. When the rear of the Duffy house came into view, he saw the same man sitting in his golf cart, surrounded by policemen. The man was obviously upset. The police were trying to calm him.
Jack Hogan asked the witness if he’d ever met Pete Duffy. No. He and the workers were told to be polite to the golfers but never speak to them. Another image was flashed onto the large screen, one of Pete Duffy sitting in the golf cart, surrounded by policemen. He was wearing a black sweater, tan slacks, and a maroon golf cap.
Bobby had no trouble identifying him as the man who entered the house at approximately eleven forty-five, or halfway through lunch, and later tossed away the two golf gloves.
With great drama, Jack Hogan, said, “Your Honor, please let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Mr. Pete Duffy.”
“It so reflects,” Judge Gantry said as he glanced at his watch. Everyone had forgotten about the time; it was five ten. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess,” he said. Bobby had been on the stand for two hours and needed a break. His testimony was captivating, mainly because it was so believable, but the back and forth between the languages was exhausting for everyone.
“Looks like Henry plans to work late today,” Ike said.
“I thought he always adjourned at five,” Woods said, but then Woods never spent time in the courtroom.
“Depends,” Theo said, like a veteran lawyer.
Pete Duffy stood to stretch his legs. He looked frail and thin and his shoulders sagged. All of his lawyers were frowning. Clifford Nance huddled with Omar Cheepe and Paco, who were seated in the first row behind the defense. Few people left the courtroom; no one wanted to lose their seat.
At five thirty, Judge Gantry returned to the bench, but only for a moment. He explained that one of the jurors was not feeling well, and, since it was late in the day anyway, court was adjourned until nine the following morning. He tapped his gavel and disappeared. Bobby was escorted from the courtroom by two deputies.
Theo assumed he would be taken to a safe place and watched closely throughout the night.