Steve Martini - The Jury

“And what did you say to Epperson?”

“I told him I didn’t know why the police kept questioning me.”

“And what did he say?”

“He couldn’t figure it out either. He said he couldn’t think why anyone would want to hurt Kalista. He said he knew that we’d had some disagreements, but that he was certain I had nothing to do with her death. He didn’t hold me responsible. I know he didn’t. And believe me, if he had any suspicions he would never have talked to me.”

“Why not?”

Crone suddenly looks away as if maybe he’s crossed the line, said something he shouldn’t have.

“Listen,” I tell him. “If you’re holding something back, now’s not the time. We can’t represent a client who is holding out.”

“It’s not something that’s important,” says Crone.

“Let me decide that,” I tell him.

He thinks about how he’s going to say it, tries to measure his words, then just blurts it out: “Epperson was in love.”

I don’t say anything, but he knows the question.

“With Kalista,” he says.

“Next you’re going to tell me the feelings weren’t mutual?”

He seesaws his head back and forth on his shoulders as if he’d rather not say, then does. “She liked him. They were friends.”

“But nothing more.”

Crone shakes his head.

“And Epperson was looking for more?”

“He wanted to marry her.”

“Did he ever ask her?” says Harry. Something we might confront Epperson with on the stand.

Crone now gets out of the chair on the other side of the glass. He is in a small, enclosed cubicle, the guard on the other side of a closed door. I can see the uniform through the acrylic partition that separates us and the glass in the door over Crone’s shoulder.

“Don’t talk with your back to us,” says Harry. “They can read lips.”

Crone turns around. “He’d tried to give her an engagement ring.”

“Epperson?” I say.

He nods.

“She turned him down.”

“When?” asks Harry.

“About three weeks before she disappeared.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?” I say.

“Because it had nothing to do with her murder.”

“How do you know that?” asks Harry. “It seems to me only two people could be as certain about that as you seem to be: Epperson if he didn’t kill her, and if he didn’t whoever did.”

Crone ignores him. “Kalista took her troubles to a friend, an older woman at the center; the friend came to me. She told me Kalista didn’t want to ruin a good friendship with Epperson.”

“When?” I ask.

“A few days after he tried to give her the ring.”

“Who was the intermediary?” asks Harry. “The older woman?”

“Carol Hodges.”

Hodges has already taken the stand in the state’s case. She was one of the witnesses to the argument between Crone and Jordan in the faculty dining room the night Jordan disappeared.

“She was close to Kalista. She thought maybe I could help.”

“How could you have helped?” I ask. “You and Jordan were at war. She’d taken the working papers from your office. She’d filed a sexual harassment complaint against you.”

“At the time, Hodges didn’t know that.”

“Hodges thought I could talk to Bill, try to make him understand that she simply didn’t love him, but that she wanted him as a friend. I did what I could.”

“You talked to Epperson?” I ask.

He nods.

“Where did he buy the ring?” asks Harry.

“What?”

“The engagement ring.” Harry has a notepad open on the counter in front of him, pen at the ready.

“I don’t know. Why is it important?”

“Did he show it to you?”

“No.”

Nothing we can check out. No evidence with which to confront Epperson on the stand. With Kalista Jordan dead, anything Hodges has to say on this point is hearsay.

“Did Epperson ever talk to anybody else at the center, maybe somebody he might have confided in?”

“Some of the younger staff,” says Crone, “a few of the younger guys ran together, partied.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us sooner?” I ask.

“Because I was sure he didn’t kill her. He was in love with her.”

“Yes, and she’d rejected him,” says Harry.

“He didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?”

All we get is a shrug and a stare from the other side of the acrylic.

Harry wants to talk outside, where Crone can’t hear. He tugs me by one arm. I tell Crone to sit tight. Harry and I step outside and close the door on our side of the cubicle, and stand there to make sure that the guard doesn’t take Crone away.

“Question is,” says Harry, “do we talk to Epperson now or hit him on the stand?”

“We have nothing to hit him with. You think you can run down the ring?” I ask.

“If it exists.”

“You don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore. Gotta admit it’s pretty far fetched, this woman coming to him to do his impression of Cyrano. How many jewelers do you think there are in San Diego?” he asks.

“I’d start in La Jolla, out near the center, work my way this way. Try the places around where Epperson lives.”

Harry nods, a sour look on his face. This is a thankless task. He now has a full plate, following the audit trail for Crone’s research and delving into Epperson’s love life.

“We have an approximate date for the purchase of the ring. Besides, maybe there were other people at the center who saw it. He may have shown it around. Young man in love,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Just my line of work.” I can tell what Harry is thinking: Crone sending him out chasing geese.

We step back inside. Crone has calmed down enough to sit, waiting for us at the acrylic partition.

“If we wanted to talk to Epperson,” I say, “how would we go about it?”

Crone thinks about this for a moment. “Aaron, I suppose. I could have Dr. Tash call him.”

“It would have to be voluntary. Epperson’s conversation with us. No inducements,” I tell him. “If he doesn’t want to talk, he has to be told that he is free to decline.”

“Understood.”

There is no doubt that if we talk to Epperson, Tannery will find out, and will explore the conversation with Epperson on the stand. Anything that looks like duress would cut against us.

“Do you want me to call him? Aaron, I mean.”

I nod.

Crone picks up the jailhouse phone and waits for the operator to answer. “Bill’s the only one who can set this straight. I don’t understand why he won’t talk to you.”

“He’s been told by prosecutors to stay clear,” says Harry.

“Can they do that?”

“They can tell him he doesn’t have to talk to us if he doesn’t want to. If they wink and nod in all the right places, most witnesses get the message. Don’t complicate your life if you don’t have to. The rest is up to him,” says Harry.

“Then maybe he just doesn’t want to get involved.”

“He is now,” I tell him.

“Well, absolutely. And he’s going to have to tell the truth.”

“Yeah, that’s what we need. Some truth telling,” says Harry.

Crone takes this as the shot it is intended to be, but doesn’t respond.

“I need to have a call placed.” The operator is on the line. “No, it’s a local area code. Yes, it’s at the request of my lawyer. He’s here. You want to talk to him?”

The jail operator must have said no because Crone doesn’t ask me to pick up the receiver on my side.

At this moment he is all energy and enthusiasm, finally something he can do in his own defense. He gives the operator the telephone number from memory, Tash’s office number at the center.