James Patterson - 10th Anniversary

“Dennis sent me to meet this ‘Mr. G.’ in the parking lot of Vons,” she said. “He gave me an envelope of money to give to this Mr. G., but when he opened it, he handed it back to me and said, ‘Tell Mr. Martin thanks but no thanks.’”

“This Mr. G. gave back the money,” Rich said.

Ellen nodded.

“So, you’re saying you met with a man you didn’t know because Dennis told you to do it. You gave him money — which he gave back to you, and you didn’t know why you were there. Is that your story?”

“I didn’t know he was an assassin until after the trial started and I read about him online. I was just a messenger. This is one hundred percent true.”

“You’re not in any trouble,” Conklin said. “We’re trying to piece some facts together.”

“So, tell us about the blond hair,” I said.

“It was a wig,” Ellen blurted out. “It belonged to Candace when she was having chemo. She threw it out and I took it. Dennis liked me to wear it sometimes. Do you want to see it?”

Ellen Lafferty headed down a hallway toward the bedroom.

“You really think this girl hired a hit man?” Conklin asked me.

“I don’t know. I know less now than I did when I woke up this morning.”

I picked up the sunset-lit, highly romantic photo of Ellen and Dennis Martin and ran it all through my mind again.

Had Ellen hired Guzman to kill Dennis? Was Ellen the intruder, and had she killed Dennis herself? Did Dennis set up the meet between Ellen and Guzman so that his private eye could document a Candace look-alike meeting with a hit man?

If so, had Candace killed her husband before he could kill her?

As I was turning over the possibilities yet again, Ellen came back into the room holding a black satin bag. She opened the drawstrings and shook out a blond wig.

“Mostly I just wore this when we made love,” she said.

I couldn’t hold back.

“Help me to understand you, Ellen,” I said. “Your lover liked you to wear his wife’s wig in bed? Didn’t you find that sick?”

Tears jumped to her eyes.

I muttered, “Crap,” under my breath. Was I ever going to learn to be the good cop? Conklin took the bag and said to Lafferty, “We need you to come to the station, okay, Ellen?”

“But — you’re not arresting me, right?”

Conklin said. “We want your signed statement to what you just told us.”

I hung back as Conklin walked Ellen out to the street. I called Yuki but got her voice mail.

I waited out the beeps, then said, “Yuki, I need a search warrant for Ellen Lafferty’s premises. Yes, we’ve got probable cause. Call me back ASAP. Uh — I think you’re going to thank me for this.”

I hoped I was right.

YUKI SAT BESIDE PHIL, the two of them in matching leather chairs across from Judge LaVan’s leather-topped desk. The room had been decorated in fox hunt-style: old prints of people in red coats on bay horses, and heavy wooden furniture against forest-green walls.

The judge’s eyes were red behind his glasses, and he explained in the fewest possible words why he had been out for three days.

“My mother had lung cancer,” he said. “She died. Badly.”

He nodded his head as the two attorneys said that they were sorry for his loss. Then he cleared his throat and went on.

“I don’t want any more of the crap that’s been going on in this trial. Ms. Castellano, you know how to ask a question without turning it into a summation. Mr. Hoffman, you know how to rein in your witnesses, so for God’s sake, just do it.”

Yuki wanted to object, but the judge was leaving no doubt about his intentions. He wanted the trial streamlined, and he wanted it over.

“Here are the new rules on objections,” he said, as if he were reading her mind.

“If you have an objection, stand up. I’m a smart guy and I was a trial lawyer for twenty years. If I can’t figure out why you are objecting, I will not acknowledge you. In that case — sit down.

“If I know why you are objecting, I will tell opposing counsel to knock it off. I don’t expect to have to do that.”

“Your Honor,” Yuki and Hoffman said in unison.

“No theatrics. No drama. No stupid lawyer tricks. I will levy fines. I will find either or both of you in contempt. Do you understand me?”

Neither Phil nor Yuki answered.

“Good. I’ll see you in court,” said LaVan.

“This is a joke,” Hoffman said to Yuki as they left Judge LaVan’s chambers and walked down the hall toward the courtroom. “He can’t tell us not to object.”

“Apparently he can today,” said Yuki.

Hoffman smiled at her and then said, “I’ve got a meeting. See you inside.”

PHIL HOFFMAN got to his well-shod feet, straightened his shoulders, and said, “The defense calls Caitlin Martin.”

At that, Candace Martin leapt up and screamed in his face, “No! Don’t you dare put my daughter on the stand! You have no right!”

LaVan slammed down his gavel and shouted, “Bailiff, please remove the defendant from the courtroom.”

“Candace. Sit down,” Hoffman said. “Your Honor, give me a word with my client, please.”

“Mr. Hoffman, I’m fining you eight hundred dollars. If you’d prepared your client, this could have been avoided. Bailiff! ”

After Candace Martin had been escorted from the room, the judge called for order, and when the room had quieted into an expectant hush, he asked the jury to ignore the interruption.

He reminded the jurors that they were charged with weighing the evidence, not the commotion, and that they were to draw no conclusions based on his decision to remove the defendant.

Then he said, “Mr. Hoffman, present your witness.”

Hoffman’s expression was neutral as the eleven-year-old daughter of Candace and Dennis Martin stood by the stand, was sworn in by the clerk, and took the chair inside the witness box. She had to struggle to get into it, and her feet didn’t quite touch the floor.

The judge turned toward the dark-haired girl in the flowered dress and blue cardigan, holding a matching handbag on her lap. He asked, “Ms. Martin, do you know the difference between a lie and the truth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I said that I’m the president of the United States, would that be a lie or the truth?”

“It would be a lie, of course.”

“Do you believe in God?”

Caitlin nodded.

“You have to say either yes or no. The clerk is typing what you say.”

“Yes. I do. Believe in God.”

“Okay. You understand that you have promised on God’s word to tell the truth?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good. Thank you. Mr. Hoffman, please proceed.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Caitlin — okay if I call you Caitlin?”

“Sure, Mr. Hoffman.”

Hoffman smiled. He had a nice smile. Nothing bad about it.

“Caitlin, I have to ask you some questions about the night your father was killed, okay?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Were you in the house when your father was shot?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who shot him?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell the judge and the jury what you know.”

“I did it,” Caitlin Martin said. Her eyes darted to the judge and then back to her mother’s attorney. “I killed my father. I had no choice.”

THE GALLERY EXPLODED in an uproar.

Jurors leaned forward, making remarks to one another, while reporters reached for their PDAs. Hoffman stood in the center of the well, his expression frozen, as if he’d just fired a gun himself.

Yuki wanted to rewind the last ten seconds and turn up the volume. Had Caitlin Martin just said that she killed her father?