Until the Final Verdict (26 page)

E
MMA CLEARED
L
IEUTENANT
A
LDRIDGE
'
S DESK
and started opening steaming containers.

“Boy, that smells good.” Kathryn inspected one of the containers. “The Shadowbrook!”

“It was Dave's idea.”

“What did you get us?”

Emma spread out the plates and silverware. “For appetizers, Pacific Rim prawns and Gilroy garlic fries.”

“Garlic fries! People will smell you coming even if they don't see you.”

Emma giggled. “Dave and Sam don't mind.”

Kathryn helped herself to a prawn and a garlic fry while Emma finished setting the table. “Umm, good.”

“The main course is your favorite—swordfish with pesto crust.”

She uncovered another container. “I got penne with smoked chicken.”

“Good choice,” Kathryn observed, then picked up another container.

Kathryn ate another prawn and three more garlic fries.

“They'll smell you coming,” Emma scolded.

“Touché.”

“Can we talk before dinner, Mom?”

“What about?”

“Dave said something good happened, that's why him and you are so happy, but he wouldn't tell me what.”

“Emma, that's terrible grammar.”

“I don't care, I want to know what happened.”

Kathryn thought about it. “I'm afraid of getting your hopes up, then disappointing you if it doesn't work out.”

“That's what Dave said. And he said I have to be strong for you, so I don't ask about it or cry when I come to see you. But sometimes I cry when Dave and I go home, 'cause it's hard for me, too. So if there's good news, I have a right to know.”

“Yes, you do. I cry, too, Em, for all of us. And you've stuck by me, so you do have a right to know. There's a man who says he knows I didn't murder Simmons.”

“How does he know?”

“He says he knows who did.”

“Then how come you're still in jail?”

“He has to tell Judge Keefe what he knows in court Monday.”

“Then they'll let you out?”

“I don't know. The man is in prison and might be trying to get out by lying. That's why we can't get our hopes up too much.”

“N
O WAY
!”
Kathryn clamped her jaws, crossed her right leg over her left knee, and bounced her foot furiously, then folded her arms over her chest and gripped each biceps in the opposite hand.

“Don't be so rigid.”

“What makes you think I'm being rigid?”

“Your fingers are turning white. When your mind's made up, you cross your arms and defy anyone to disagree. The last time I let you tell me how to do my job, it cost you. I won't make that mistake again.”

“I'm a lawyer, too, and I think it's a bad idea.”

“You aren't
your
lawyer, I am.”

“If you lay out the deal Randall got in exchange for his testimony before the jury hears what he has to say, they'll never believe him.”

“You'd rather I wait and let McCaskill bring it up? Have you seen Randall?”

She nodded. “On the airplane.”

“He looks a lot worse now—a skinhead cross between Charles Manson and Adolph Hitler, with a swastika tattooed on his forehead for good measure.”

“So?”

“If I don't bring up the deal, McCaskill will, and it'll look like we covered it up.”

“I'm not suggesting you cover anything up, just wait till the jurors have had a chance to hear him out before you bring up the deal.”

“How 'bout I let Keefe rehabilitate him. Judges have more clout with juries than defense attorneys.”

“How're you going to do that?”

“Don't worry, I'll take care of it.”

“Don't worry? Easy for you to say, it's my life on the line.”

“I'm your lawyer, Kathryn, you have to trust me.”

Judge Reginald Keefe surveyed the packed courtroom, ignored Kathryn Mackay, acknowledged her attorney, Roger Griffith, with a nod, greeted District Attorney Neal McCaskill, then ordered his bailiff to bring in the jury.

When they were seated, Keefe said, “Call the next witness, Mr. Griffith, if you have one.”

Griffith stood. “The defense calls Jeremiah Randall.”

McCaskill scanned the index to the defense investigative reports. “The defense didn't give me any discovery on Randall, nor is he on their witness list.”

“I didn't know Randall was a material witness until Andrea Lain testified last Thursday, Judge,”
Griffith answered. “We located him this past weekend.”

Griffith looked around and raised his voice to make sure everyone heard. “And considering McCaskill concealed Ms. Lain, the defense expects some latitude on this.”

“Judge—”

Keefe held both hands out toward McCaskill to stop him, then turned toward the defense table. “No speeches, Mr. Griffith. How long will this take?”

“We won't take up too much of the Court's time.”

Keefe sighed. “Very well, call your witness, but let's make this quick as possible. I want the jury to hear closing arguments this afternoon.”

Granz and his deputy had removed Randall's handcuffs and leg irons in the hall, but he limped noticeably because of the two braces under his orange jail jumpsuit. He looked like he had at Soledad: big, ugly, surly, and mean. He swore to tell the truth, dropped into the witness chair, leaned back, extended his stiff legs over the edge of the stand, and crossed his ankles.

“State your name,” Griffith told him.

“J.D. Randall.”

“What does J.D. stand for?”

“J.D.'s what I go by.”

“Indulge me.”

“Jeremiah Dwight.”

“Where do you live?”

“Now, or when I ain't incarcerated?”

“Now.”

“California Department of Corrections.”

“What is your occupation?”

“Now, or when I ain't incarcerated?”

Keefe leaned over the side of the bench and glared. “I warn you to not test my patience, Mr. Randall, because I don't have much this morning.”

“I'm an electrician when I ain't incarcerated.”

Randall's left upper lip curled, and he locked eyes with Keefe. “But right now I'm unemployed cuz I'm incarcerated.”

“For what?” Griffith asked.

Randall waited until Keefe broke the stare-down. “Parole violation.”

“For what crime had you been convicted and paroled, before you were violated?”

“Grand theft auto. Some”—he glared at Granz—“cop found a few chopped Harleys in my garage that weren't mine. I didn't know nothin' about 'em.”

“Was that your first conviction?”

“Nope.”

“Tell us about your prior convictions.”

“ 'Bout twenty years ago I got busted for an armed robbery, but I didn't know nothin' about it.”

“You were convicted and spent time in prison for that, right?”

“Right.”

“What else?”

“Did some time for ADW. Cops said I cut up some outlaw biker in a bar, but I didn't know nothin' about it.”

“Assault with a deadly weapon?”

“Yeah.”

“Why was your parole revoked?”

Randall shrugged. “Had a little trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Got drunk on an airplane. They said I caused a disturbance. Some—
cop
—found blow in the head after I passed out, but I don't know nothin' 'bout that.”

“By ‘blow' you mean cocaine?”

“That's what the cop said, but I didn't know nothin' about it.”

“You don't like police officers, do you?”

“Cops? You kiddin'?”

“I'll take that as a ‘no.' Prosecutors, either, right?”

“Snakes. Worse than cops.”

“How about judges?”

“Most of 'em used to be prosecutors.”

“I told you to make this brief, Mr. Griffith,” Keefe interrupted. “It's safe to assume a prison inmate dislikes everybody in the criminal justice system. If there's a point to this line of questioning, get to it.”

“If the Court will allow me the latitude we agreed the defense is entitled to, I will, Judge.”

“You'd better, and soon. Proceed.”

“You're not here today because you want to help my client, District Attorney Kathryn Mackay, are you?” Griffith asked Randall.

“Not hardly.”

“Why are you testifying?”

“I made a deal.”

“A good deal for you?”

“I wouldn't'a made it if it wasn't.”

“Did it require you to lie under oath—”

Keefe turned red. “Don't ask ridiculous questions, Counselor!”

“The defense is trying to make the point that—”

“We got the point.”

“Judge—”

Keefe turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, deals are made with criminals all the time to get them to testify, but you shouldn't assume that means they necessarily lie under oath.”

He returned his attention to Griffith. “Now get on with it, or I'll take over the questioning myself.”

Griffith turned to look at Kathryn, who closed and opened her eyes slowly, and smiled surreptitiously.

“Yes, Judge, thank you for making my point better than I could have.”

“Mr. Randall,” Griffith continued, “who put together your deal?”

Randall pointed. “That cop—Granz.”

“Santa Rita County Sheriff David Granz?”

“That's right.”

“Did he approach you, or did you approach him?”

“He came to Soledad.”

“Did he demand proof that what you're about to tell the jury is the truth, or did he just take your word for it.”

“Cops never take a con's word for nothin'. He wanted me to give him somethin' before he put together a deal to prove I knew what th' f—— and that I was tellin' the truth.”

“And, to get Sheriff Granz to make a deal, you ‘gave him something,' to put it in your vernacular?”

“In my
what?”

“Never mind. What did you give Sheriff Granz to convince him that what you're about to tell us is the truth?”

“The guy that snuffed Judge Tucker.”

Keefe dropped his reading glasses on the bench and, reaching for them, knocked his full water glass to the floor. Ice water fell on the court reporter and ran down the front of her blouse. She jumped up and shook it off while a roar spread the room like a hurricane gathering fury.

Keefe rapped his gavel. “Silence!” He leaned over the bench. “I warned you not to test my patience. When you repeat your answer, you'll knock off the smart-ass remarks and the jailhouse jargon, and respond in language the Court and jury understand. And if you perjure yourself, I'll personally see that you spend the rest of your miserable, no-account life in prison. Do you understand that?”

Randall dropped his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“You'd better.” Keefe turned to the court reporter, who was drying her transcription machine. “Read back the question.”

“‘What did you give Sheriff Granz to convince him that what you're about to tell us is the truth?'”

“I told Sheriff Granz who murdered Judge Tucker.”