James Patterson: 10th Anniversary

“Two weeks later Dennis Martin was murdered.”

“What did you do, Mr. Podesta?”

“I compared my picture of the man in the SUV to pictures on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. In my opinion, the man I saw talking to Dr. Martin was Gregor Guzman.”

“And why is Mr. Guzman on the FBI list?”

“Your Honor. Is this witness an FBI agent? What the —?”

“Sit down, Mr. Hoffman. The witness may answer to the best of his knowledge.”

“Gregor Guzman is wanted on suspicion of murder in California as well as a few other states and other countries. He’s never been arrested. I contacted the FBI three times, but no one ever got back to me.”

Yuki introduced the photograph of Candace Martin sitting in a dark sports utility vehicle with a balding man with a shock of hair at the front of his scalp. It was a grainy photo, taken with a long lens at night, but it appeared as Podesta described it.

“Thank you,” Yuki said. “That’s all I have for you, Mr. Podesta.”

“YOUR HONOR, SIDEBAR?” Hoffman said stiffly.

The judge waved the two attorneys in toward the bench and said, “Go ahead, Mr. Hoffman.”

“Your Honor, this witness is a private investigator. He’s not even a cop. His testimony is pure guesswork. Where is this so-called hit man? Why isn’t he on the witness list? How do we know why my client was seeing this man, or even if this person is who the witness says he is?”

“Ms. Castellano?”

“Mr. Podesta didn’t say he was an expert witness. He followed the defendant, who got into a car with a man who resembles Gregor Guzman. Mr. Podesta took pictures of a clandestine meeting between them. He compared the picture of the man in the SUV with photos of Gregor Guzman issued by the FBI. He made a match — in his opinion . That’s his testimony.”

“Mr. Hoffman, I’ve heard you. Now, please cross-examine the witness,” LaVan said.

Phil Hoffman addressed Joseph Podesta from his seat beside his client, trying to show the jury how little regard he had for the witness.

“Mr. Podesta, I don’t know which piece of fiction to begin with. Okay, I’ve got it,” he said before Yuki could object.

“First, have you ever worked for the FBI?”

“No.”

“Do you have any specialized training in the identification of contract killers?”

“I have a very good eye.”

“That wasn’t my question, Mr. Podesta. Do you have any specialized training in the identification of contract killers? Did you get this man’s fingerprints? Did you get his DNA? Do you have a tape recording of this assumed conversation?”

“Objection,” Yuki said. “Which question does counsel want the witness to answer?”

“I’ll withdraw all of them,” Hoffman said, “but I object to this exhibit. The quality of this photograph stinks and it proves nothing. In fact, I object to this entire testimony and move that it be stricken from the record.”

“Overruled,” said the judge. “If you’re finished questioning this witness, Mr. Hoffman, he may step down.”

“THE PEOPLE CALL Ellen Lafferty,” Yuki said.

The doors opened at the back, and a pretty, auburn-haired woman in her early twenties wearing a tight blue suit and a blouse with a bow at the neck came into the courtroom and walked down the aisle. She passed through the gate to the witness stand, where she was sworn in.

“Are you employed by Candace and the late Dennis Martin?” Yuki asked her witness.

“I am.”

“In what capacity?”

“I am the children’s nanny. I work days and live out.”

“How long have you worked in the Martin house?” Yuki asked.

“Just about three years.”

Yuki nodded encouragingly. “In your opinion, what was the state of the Martin marriage?” she asked.

“In a word,” Lafferty said, “explosive.”

“Could you give us a couple more words?”

“They hated each other,” said the nanny. “Dennis wanted to divorce Candace, and she was furious about it. She once told me she thought getting a divorce would be messy. It would hurt her children as well as her standing in the medical community.”

“I see,” Yuki said. The witness was describing a marriage held together by practical considerations rather than love, and Yuki knew the jury would understand that.

“Were you in the Martin house on the day that Dennis Martin was killed?”

“Yes. I was,” Lafferty said. She had kept her eyes on Yuki until this moment, but now she swung her gaze toward the defendant and fixed it there.

“Did something remarkable happen that evening?”

“Absolutely.”

“Please go on.”

Lafferty turned back to Yuki.

“I was getting ready to leave for the day. It was six o’clock and I was going to meet a girlfriend at Dow’s Imperial Chinese at six-fifteen. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and I was really looking forward to seeing her.”

“Go on,” Yuki said.

Lafferty said, “I was putting on my lipstick when Dr. Martin came home. She had a funny look on her face. Distracted, or maybe angry. I went into her office to ask her if everything was okay, and when I got there, she was putting a handgun in her desk drawer.”

“You’re sure it was a gun?” Yuki asked.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did Dr. Martin ever tell you she wished her husband were dead?”

“Many times. Too many to count.”

“Too many to count,” Yuki said pointedly to the jury.

“And did Mr. Martin tell you about his feelings for his wife?”

“He said she was cold. He used to say that he didn’t trust her.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lafferty. That’s all I have for this witness.”

Hoffman stood, his chair scraping noisily against the oak floor. He put his hands in his pockets and approached the witness, who stiffened her shoulders and looked up at him.

“Ellen. May I call you Ellen?”

“No. I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry. Ms. Lafferty. Did you think Dr. Martin was going to kill her husband?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“So, if you thought she was going to commit murder and you saw Dr. Martin with a weapon, why didn’t you call the police?”

Yuki watched Lafferty’s righteous indignation melt into an expression of grief.

She said, almost begging Hoffman and the jury to understand, “I wasn’t thinking about her that night. I was in a hurry. In hindsight, I should have called the police or warned Mr. Martin. I blame myself. If I’d done something, Mr. Martin would still be alive and the children would still have their father.”

The little boy’s wail cut through the air like a siren: “ Elllllll-ennnnnnnn .”

The witness leaned forward in her chair and called out across the well of the courtroom, “Duncan. Baby. I’m right here, sweetie.”

That’s when Judge LaVan went nuts.

YUKI TOOK THE ELEVATOR up to the DA’s offices, her mind still busy with the sound of the child’s scream and Judge LaVan’s reaction.

Christ. It was as if Duncan Martin had yelled, “ Stop beating me! ” There was a good chance Hoffman’s sympathy ploy had worked.

Yuki left her briefcase in her windowless office, made her way to the corner office facing Bryant Street, and knocked on the open door.

Leonard Parisi, deputy district attorney and her direct superior, asked her to come in and sit down.

Parisi had been nicknamed Red Dog for his thick red hair and his unshakable determination. He was a large, pear-shaped man of fifty with coarse skin and clogged arteries, but the expression on his face was just beautiful.