Desperate Measures (38 page)

“I didn't include them in the report,” he said. He brought a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose.

She smiled sympathetically and waited. Then she asked, “So you considered the pencil important, but not the can or the toys. Do you have children, Detective?”

“Objection,” Novak said. “Irrelevant.”

“Sustained. Move on, Ms. Holloway,” Judge Mac said, but he was making notes, she saw with satisfaction.

“Detective, do you know where pencils like that can be purchased?”

“I don't know,” he said.

“All right. Did you notice how the pencil had been sharpened?”

He shook his head. “I didn't notice that.”

“Let's examine it now to find out,” she said. She removed the pencil from the evidence bag and handed it to him. “Does it appear to have been sharpened with a pencil sharpener?”

He studied it closely, then said yes.

“Can you see where the blades left marks?”

“Yes.”

“Now, when you participated in the search of Mr. Feldman's home, did you find many drawing pencils?”

“Seven or eight, maybe more.”

“Were they all Faber pencils?”

“No, there were different kinds, plus some Fabers.”

“Did you see a pencil sharpener anywhere in the house?”

“No. I didn't look for one.”

“In searching, you looked at everything in the studio, didn't you? Behind pictures on the wall, under drawers, behind cushions? It was a thorough search, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn't see a pencil sharpener. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

She took Alex's pencil from the evidence bag and handed it to the detective. “Will you examine this one that was removed from Mr. Feldman's house and tell us if it was sharpened with a pencil sharpener?”

“It doesn't appear so,” he said after turning the pencil around and around.

“Detective, was it sharpened with a knife?”

“Yes, I think it was.”

“Can you see distinct knife-blade cuts on the wood?”

“Yes.”

She put the pencil back in the bag, and started to walk to the defense table. Then she turned back to face him. “Detective Stedman, were you specifically looking for evidence that would implicate Mr. Feldman in the crime?”

“Objection!” Novak said angrily. “That's an improper question and she knows it!”

“He ignored other items that were equally out of place,” she said, just as hot as Novak was, “and homed in on the only one that could vaguely be related to Mr. Feldman. The implication is clear.”

Judge Mac tapped his gavel and said, “You're both out of line. No cross-dialogue, please. Objection sustained.”

She nodded, then asked, “Detective, when you arrived at the Marchand house, did you have a conversation with the deputies or the sheriff?”

“They told us the situation,” he said.

“You arrived with others? Who were they?”

He named two other detectives.

“All right. What did that conversation consist of?”

“They said there'd been a murder, and they'd done a little looking around. Not much more than that, I guess.”

“Did anyone mention that a deputy had gone to check on Alex Feldman?”

He hesitated, then said, “It might have been mentioned.”

“Try to remember, Detective. Did anyone mention Alex Feldman in any context?”

He had to blow his nose again, and she waited. “Someone said something like there was bad feelings on the part of a neighbor. He might have said his name.”

“Did he say that Alex Feldman was an artist?”

“I don't recall,” he said.

“Do you recall who said there might have been bad feelings?”

“I'm not sure. It might have been Calvin Strohm. He knew Gus Marchand, I think.”

“Did you know Calvin Strohm before that day?”

“Yes. We'd been on the same cases a couple of times.”

“What else did Deputy Strohm say about the neighbor?”

“Nothing, just that there were bad feelings.”

She studied him for a moment, and he began to search in his pocket for another tissue. She did not wait this time. “How did Calvin Strohm describe the neighbor?”

“I don't think he did,” he said, then he blew his nose.

“You mean he said there were bad feelings and nothing else?”

“He might have said the neighbor was weird looking, something like that.”

“Exactly what did he say, Detective?” she asked sharply.

Detective Stedman glanced at Alex for the first time, then looked away. “He said he was ugly as sin, and you wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley.”

“What else?” Barbara demanded.

“He said they thought he was into kiddie porn or something like that, and he'd been spying on Marchand's little girl.”

“Anything else?” Barbara asked icily.

“He said they thought his house had pictures of naked girls, little girls. Then Lieutenant Whorley told me to inspect the premises.”

She didn't move for a second or two, then she said, “And armed with that assessment, you went looking for evidence. And found a pencil.”

“Objection,” Novak cried. “Is that a question or an editorial? I ask that her comment be stricken.”

“Counsel's last comment will be stricken. Ms. Holloway, must I remind you of proper trial procedure?”

“No, Your Honor,” she said. “I apologize to the court. Detective Stedman, you were with the group who searched Mr. Feldman's house. Did you find any pictures of naked girls of any age?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Did you find any pornographic material?”

“No.”

“Did you find any pictures of Rachel Marchand?”

“No.”

“Did you find any pictures of any girls, naked or fully clothed?”

“No.”

“Was there a search of Mr. Feldman's computer?”

“Yes.”

“Was any pornographic material found?”

“No.”

“No more questions,” she said brusquely.

When she sat down, Alex murmured, “They had already decided that early.”

“Some of them had,” she agreed.

The next witness for the prosecution was Ben Hennessey, the boy who had driven Daniel home the day of the murder. Looking at him, Barbara kept thinking how very young eighteen was now. She had felt aged when she was eighteen, smarter than anyone else around, and invincible. Ben Hennessey at eighteen looked more like a child than an adult. His cheeks were downy and soft; he had curly brown hair and freckles, and a prominent Adam's apple. Perhaps that was a characteristic of teenage boys who grew in length before they started growing out. He did not look invincible; he looked nervous.

His account of the day of the murder did not deviate from the sob story she had read: they had all been laughing, joking, in good spirits….

Novak had the transparency set up once more and then pointed to the small circle on the road. “Is this where you indicated to the investigators that you stopped that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Honor, at this time I would like to advise the court that this spot is one quarter mile from the driveway to the Marchand house, and one quarter mile to the junction with the new road.”

Judge Mac glanced at Barbara; she said, “Stipulated.” He nodded to Novak to continue.

“You started the stopwatch the second Daniel started his run. Is that right?” Novak asked then.

“Not me. That was Petey Navarro. He held the watch.”

“Did you see him start it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what?”

“I started to turn the car around, but Mrs. Marchand came and I had to wait for her to pass.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what?”

“I started to turn again, and Ms. Franz came by and I had to wait for her to pass.”

“You knew her? You recognized her, too?”

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Then what?”

“I got turned around, and the watch was at four minutes and we started to count down the last minute. We got to thirty-two seconds when Daniel came back.”

“It was exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds after he left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what?”

“Well, he had to get in the car, and he was puffing and pretty hot, and I waited a few seconds for him to catch his breath, and then I took off. We went to The Station and ate, and then went over to the school to see the graduation.”

“Mr. Hennessey, will you describe to the court what The Station is?”

“It's a gas station with a deli, and they make hamburgers and stuff. People hang out there and eat.”

“Were there a lot of young people there that day?”

“Yes, sir. It was pretty crowded.”

“All right. Did you see anyone else on the old road while you were waiting for Daniel?”

“No, just Mrs. Marchand and Ms. Franz.”

“Did you see anyone or another car on the old road when you drove to the bridge and turned onto the new road?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know what time it was when you arrived at that spot where you parked and waited for Daniel?”

“No, sir. We were more interested in the stopwatch. I never looked at my watch.”

“When you arrived there, did Daniel get out immediately and start to run?”

“No, sir. We talked about it for a minute, set up the rules. You know, he had to be back in five minutes or we'd take off without him. And he made sure his shoes were tied, and Petey had to find the stopwatch and reset it. It was a minute or maybe two before he left.”

“And when he got back, how long was it before you started to drive again?”

“I don't know, half a minute maybe.” He looked very uncertain, as if he was not used to noticing time in such detail.

“Then you drove a quarter of a mile on that road to the bridge. How long do you think that took?”

“I don't know. It's slow because it's curvy, maybe another minute.”

“So altogether you think you were on the old road about seven or eight minutes?”

“I guess that's about right.” Clearly he had no idea if that was right or even almost right.

“The bridge is one and a tenth miles from The Station, isn't it?”

“I don't know for sure. About that.”

“Did you speed going to The Station?”

“No, sir.”

“So if you were driving sixty miles an hour, you'd cover that one mile and a little more in a little over one minute. Is that right?”

Poor Ben, Barbara thought; he looked more confused than confident.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Then you had to park your car and walk into The Station, another few seconds. Did you spend any time in the car before you went inside?”

“No, sir. We just piled out and went in.”

“Did you notice what time it was when you entered The Station?”

Ben nodded, considerably more at ease. “Yes, I did. The clock on the wall had twenty minutes to seven. I noticed because I remember thinking that was plenty of time to eat a hamburger and get to the school in time.”

And so it was cinched, Barbara thought when Novak finished with Ben Hennessey and turned to her with a slight smile. “Your witness, Counselor.” He had proved that during the crucial minutes, no one could have approached the Marchand house by road or by foot except through the woods from Minick's property, or by way of the forest and steep hill behind both Marchand's house and Minick's. She nodded and stood up.

She smiled at Ben Hennessey, who was regarding her warily. “Ben,” she asked pleasantly, “why did you stop at that point on the road instead of driving all the way to Daniel's house?” She walked to the transparency and put her finger on the red circle.

“Daniel asked me to stop there,” he said.

“Did he say why he wanted to get out there and run the rest of the way?”

“No, ma'am.”

“I see. Did it strike you as odd that he didn't want to be driven all the way home?”

“No.”

“Did you ever pick him up or drop him off right at his house?”

He glanced uneasily at the prosecutor's table, then out at the spectators, and finally back to Barbara, and shook his head. “No, I never did.”

“Why was that?” she asked.

“He asked me not to,” he said after a moment.

“He must have given you a reason at some point,” she said. “What was his reason?”

“I think his father didn't want him driving around with kids,” he said after a swift glance at the spectators.

“Have you ever been cited for a traffic violation?”

“Objection,” Novak called out. “This is getting far afield from his direct. Irrelevant.”

“It is relevant,” Barbara said. “The state's case rests heavily on those minutes Daniel spent going and coming from his house. It is relevant to learn why he did that, why he didn't get a ride all the way home.”

“I'll allow the question and answer,” Judge Mac said. “However, if it turns out to be irrelevant, I'll reverse that decision and strike it from the record.” He turned to Ben Hennessey and nodded. “You may answer the question.”

“You mean have I had a ticket? No, never.”

“What kind of car were you driving that day?”

“An 'eighty-seven Ford four-door.”

“Is it your own car?”

“No. It's my father's. He lets me drive it.”

“Stick shift?”

He said yes.

Barbara went to her table; Shelley handed her a model car, and she took it back to the witness stand. “Is this a model of the car you were driving?”

He grinned. “That's it, but mine is a little rusty, not shiny like that.”

She smiled and nodded. “When you pulled up to stop, which side of the road were you on? The creek side, or nearer the orchard?”