Until the Final Verdict (28 page)

“T
HE DEFENSE RECALLS
A
NDREA
L
AIN.
”

She wore expensive tan slacks, a beige silk blouse, and no makeup, and her long blond hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She wasn't smiling.

Griffith had her sworn, then apologized for interrupting another trip to Napa with her husband by subpoenaing her the night before.

“Ms. Lain, you previously testified that on January fifteenth of this year, you were senior flight attendant on British Airways Flight 287. Would you recognize the passenger who created a disturbance aboard that flight?”

“Yes.”

“Permission to approach the witness?”

When Keefe nodded his assent, Griffith handed Lain a photograph. “Is this the man?”

“It is.”

“Do you recall the man's name according to the passenger manifest?”

“Jeremiah Randall.”

“Would you also recognize the passenger who sat beside Mr. Randall on that flight?”

“Yes.”

Griffith handed her a picture of Eduardo Berroa. “Is that him?”

“Yes.”

“In your previous testimony you said he was older, with gray hair and mustache.”

“He was disguised. This is him.”

“You're certain?”

“Absolutely. I returned to the cabin after the disturbance to assure my passengers that everything was under control. He asked how Mr. Randall was doing.”

“Why didn't you mention this when you testified the first time?”

“I didn't remember until now.”

“Did you see Eduardo Berroa earlier during that flight?”

“Yes. I saw him standing beside my drink cart holding a Coke can, immediately before Robert Simmons collapsed.”

The room was silent.

“No further questions.”

“Questions, Mr. McCaskill?” Keefe asked. “Or may this witness be excused?”

“Excuse her.”

Griffith waited until Lain had left. “The defense
renews its motion that the Court order a judgment of acquittal of murder in favor of my client, on the basis that the evidence is insufficient to sustain a conviction on appeal.”

Keefe rotated his chair toward the prosecution. “I don't need to hear from you, Mr. McCaskill.”

He turned to the defense table. “The Court declares the evidence against the defendant, Kathryn Mackay, insufficient to sustain a conviction thereon, and orders a judgment of acquittal be entered.

“This Court further orders that Kathryn Mackay be reinstated from administrative leave immediately and returned to the position of Santa Rita County District Attorney.”

The courtroom erupted in a sea of flashbulbs and camera lights.

Griffith stuffed papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “The media's going to demand interviews.”

“I'll meet you in a minute,” she told him.

“Your Honor?”

Keefe sat back down at the bench. “Ms. Mackay?”

“I request that Mr. McCaskill be taken into custody for violation of Penal Code Section 128, procuring the prosecution and execution of an innocent person.”

McCaskill glanced around the room like a rat trapped in a maze, looking for a way out.

“Bailiff, arrest Mr. McCaskill,” Keefe ordered.

“You can't—” McCaskill started to protest.

Keefe cut him off. “I'll need a complaint filed by five o'clock this afternoon, Ms. Mackay.”

“You'll have it.”

“F
IGURED YOU WOULDN
'
T BE GOING TO LUNCH.
”
Dave set a fresh cup of Starbucks coffee on Kathryn's desk.

“You heard Keefe. I file my complaint against McCaskill by five
P.M.
or he'll be released.”

Dave flipped his hand dismissively. “McCaskill's not going anyplace. You should take some time off, put all this behind you.”

“The only way to do that is by getting my life back to normal, and that means working.”

Dave sipped his coffee. “You gonna indict Berroa for Simmons' murder?”

“Damn right. Tucker's, too. I'll convene the Grand Jury this week. I'm going to convict him of two murders as soon as you catch up with him and bring him back.”

“Me? I would've bet you'd do it yourself.”

“I learned my lesson the hard way.” She paused. “From now on, you do the police work and I'll do the prosecuting.”

“Deal. Will you ask for the death penalty?”

“No.”

“Berroa killed Simmons by poisoning.”

“I know, and I can admit it now—I agree with McCaskill that administration of a lethal dose of digitalis meets the legal requirement.”

“Berroa murdered Tucker and Simmons. Multiple murders is also a special circumstance. If anyone deserves the death penalty, he does.”

“I'd have agreed a few months ago. Not anymore.”

“California law calls for the death penalty for certain crimes. As DA, you can't ignore that.”

“When it comes to what charges are filed, California law vests considerable discretion in the DA. I'm not required to ask for a death sentence. The death penalty's inhumane—barbaric. For me, it was always about an ‘eye for an eye.' I'll never see it that way again.”

He stood and dropped the coffee cup into the wastebasket. “I oughta get to work myself.”

Before he reached the door, she stopped him. “Let's go out to dinner tonight, Babe.”

“Sure, where?”

“The Shadowbrook.”

T
HE CABLE CAR SCREECHED
to a stop at the Shadowbrook's main entrance. When the door slid open, a man was waiting on the landing.

“Good evening, Dave. Kathryn. Emma. I have your table ready.”

“Thanks, Ted, but we didn't make reservations.”

“It's taken care of. This way, please.”

The hostess smiled as they passed. “Hi, Emma.”

“Hi.”

“You know her?” Kathryn asked.

“She waited on us when we picked up the takeout.”

Ted escorted them to a window table overlooking the Creek and Village. Through the evening fog, the sun painted the horizon with bold, brilliant, overlapping
strokes of orange, yellow, and red. Abouquet sat in the center of the linen-covered table beside a bottle of Bargetto champagne in a frosty china cooler. With the evening light in the background, tiny bubbles leaped from the neck of the bottle like frightened fireflies.

“Your usual, Emma?” Ted asked.

“That'll be fine.”

“A Shirley Temple it is. I assume your parents prefer the champagne.”

Kathryn read the card from the bouquet. “ ‘Best wishes, Roger.' How did he know we were coming here?”

“He called this afternoon and invited us to join him and his wife. I told him some other time.”

The hostess brought Emma's Shirley Temple and filled two fluted, stemmed glasses with champagne. Dave lifted his glass and touched it first to Emma's, then to Kathryn's.

“To you.”

“To our family,” Kathryn corrected.

They sipped their drinks for several minutes. When the waiter came, Kathryn told him she hadn't decided.

“She always orders last,” Emma explained. “I'll have steak Diane, medium.”

“Very good. You, sir?”

“Prime rib. Rare.”

“What about you, ma'am?”

“Pacific Rim prawns for an appetizer and pestocrusted swordfish.”

“Excellent choice.”

“Mom, you're in a rut, that's what you had Saturday night.”

After dinner, they stood on the landing waiting for the cable car, shivering in the cool spring-night air.

“I need to go back inside,” Emma told them. “I'll meet you at the car.”

“For what?” Kathryn asked.

“To ask the hostess how to get a job like hers, and where to buy the dress.”

“You're too young to get a job,” Kathryn told her.

“What do you think, Dave?” Emma asked.

“Shoulda got a job years ago, you slacker.”

Dave started the car's engine and flipped on the heater. “Should we start looking for a new home, Babe?”

“Do we have to decide tonight?”

“Nope. When?”

“Next time we're lying on some tropical beach sipping piña coladas.”

“I
S IT ALWAYS THIS HOT
?”

“No, Señor.”

“When does it cool down?”

“At night.”

“I'd better have another one of these.” Dave held out his glass.

“Bueno, una mas piña colada. ¿Y tú, Señora?

“I'll stick with another frosty-cold bottled water,” Kathryn told him.

“¿Que?”

“Agua fría, por favor.”

“Sí, Señora.”

“You look great in your new bikini, Babe, but there's one problem.”

She shaded her eyes against the intense sun that,
as it dropped toward the horizon, bounced off the mirror-glass-smooth surface of Tangolunda Bay.

“What problem?”

“This place isn't topless.”

“Our room is.”

“What about our drinks?”

“Would you rather have another piña colada or me?”

“I wasn't thirsty anyway.” He held out his hand and helped her out of her lounge chair, then as he straightened up he smashed his head on the underside of the palapa.

“Ouch! Palm fronds aren't as soft as they look.”

They walked hand in hand up the winding, flower-lined path of the Camino Real Zaashila Resort Hotel. Dave stopped at the foot of the stairs that led to their third-floor villa, and held a bunch of delicate, fragrant white flowers to his nose.

“These things grow everywhere, and are the most beautiful things I've ever smelled. What are they?”

She tugged at his arm. “Aphrodisiacs.”

Afterward, they lay on the bed silently, then showered together and made love again under the cool water.

Dave pulled on fresh white shorts and T-shirt. “Where should we eat?”

“Let's take a taxi to La Crucecita, stroll through el zócalo, then eat at our favorite restaurant.”

“Which favorite—María Sabina or Los Portales?”

“You decide. Then let's pick up something at the bakery for tomorrow's breakfast before we head back to the resort.”

“Emma's right about you getting into ruts, Kate. We've done that every day for a week, aren't you tired of it?”

“No. We've made love every day for a week, but I'm not tired of that, either. I'd like to stop at the church before we head back to the resort.”

“We've already looked at the Virgin of Guadalupe painting on the ceiling of the church.”

“This time I want to pray. To give thanks.”

“For what?”

“Being so lucky. Freedom; Emma; you. Our new family.”

“You said next time we were lying on a tropical beach drinking piña coladas, we should talk about buying a place of our own. Wanta discuss it now?”

“Let's go back to our room, sit on the veranda, look at the ocean and enjoy our last night in Huatulco.”

After Kathryn prayed, they stopped at a plaza shop and bought Emma a hand-painted doll.

Dave slid his arm around her waist. “After we sit on the veranda awhile, do you want to make love?”

“Yes.”