John Lescroart - Hard Evidence

‘So what now? If you’re going to start seeing her again, do me a favor and at least wait until after the trial.’

‘We didn’t even discuss that.’

‘How did she behave with you?’ Hardy asked.

Fowler looked unhappy. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, it wasn’t very heartening, but, well, it was still good to see her, even if it seemed like the old feelings were gone for her. As though the whole experience had just worn her down. Everything, she said, had gone wrong for her, so it shouldn’t have been a great surprise that they’d stolen her coat, lied to her… She gave me the impression that… that she thought going on at all with her life was a waste of time. The whole question of her testimony didn’t seem to matter much, but if I thought it would be a help she’d try.’

‘Maybe she’s looking for something again,’ Jane said. ‘Maybe when this is all over…’

The judge nodded. ‘I suppose that’s what I’ve got to hope for. And that’s why I was late,’ he said, turning to Hardy. ‘I just couldn’t leave her that way, feeling so down. I… we just talked. I tried to convince her, especially if her money comes through, that there is a future.’

Hardy reached behind him and pulled the curtain, signaling for the check. ‘We’d better get back,’ he said.

Hardy thought the afternoon would have made a root canal look like a walk in the park.

In furtherance of her consciousness-of-guilt theory, Pullios called a succession of witnesses – including two Superior Court judges, several community leaders, a city supervisor and Fowler’s own clerk – and all of them testified that Andy Fowler had told them after the May Shinn trial had been canceled but before his own indictment that the first he had heard of Owen Nash, other than reading about him in the newspapers from time to time, was after his death. He had told one and all that he had no idea that Nash had been seeing May Shinn.

The only one Hardy saw fit to cross-examine was a Pat Shields, the silver-haired president of the Olympic Club, who had intimated that Andy Fowler and Owen Nash, as fellow members of the club, must have known each other.

Hardy had whispered to Fowler at the defense table. ‘Please tell me you really never knew Owen Nash.’

Fowler said he hadn’t, and Hardy, hoping at last he wasn’t being lied to, stood up.

‘Mr Shields,’ he said, ‘how long has Mr Fowler been a member of the Olympic Club?’

‘I’d say forever. Certainly longer than myself. He’s second generation.’

‘And Mr Nash?’

‘We’d been recruiting him for years. Quietly, of course, but… in any event, he joined about a year ago.’

‘So he was in the club for how long?’

‘A few months.’

‘A few months. He died in June and he joined in, when, November or December?’

‘Yes, I believe so. Around there.’

‘And did he come into the club every day?’

‘Well, we have two locations, you know, downtown and the golf course, so I couldn’t speak for both. But as to downtown, I’d say no, perhaps once a month.’

‘Six times?’

Shields lifted his shoulders. ‘Let’s say between five and ten. I didn’t count.’ He smiled affably. ‘It’s not like we keep tabs on members.’

Hardy turned friendly. ‘Of course not. The times Mr Nash came in downtown, did he come in for lunch or dinner, or to work out, or what?’

‘Mostly I’d say lunch, although that’s just an impression.’

‘All right. Well, let me ask you this. Did you ever see Mr Nash having lunch with Mr Fowler?’

‘No.’

‘Do you recall ever seeing Mr Nash and Mr Fowler in the club having lunch at the same time?’

‘No, not specifically.’

‘Not specifically? Do you mean you might have and you don’t remember? You just have an impression?’

‘No… I mean I didn’t see them together or at the same time.’ He glanced at the jury, showing signs of nerves. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’

‘Of course. How about sports? Squash, golf? To your knowledge, did Mr Nash play either of these with Mr Fowler?’

‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

‘Well, isn’t it a fact, Mr Shields, that the prosecution here asked you to check your reservations cards for both the golf course out by the ocean and the courts at the downtown location – tennis and squash – to see if Mr Nash and Mr Fowler had reserved time together?’

Shields frowned. Apparently this smacked of keeping tabs on the members. Even if one of them was on trial for murder, members were presumed to be gentlemen and were not to be checked up on. ‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘And did you do that?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I did that.’

‘And did you find any record that Mr Nash had ever played any of these sports with Mr Fowler? Or even in an approximate time span?’

‘No…’

‘In fact, Mr Shields, isn’t it true that you have no indication whatever that Mr Nash and Mr Fowler knew each other or spent time in each other’s company in any way at all?’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true.’

Hardy said he had no further questions.

Of course, it still didn’t prove Fowler had not lied to Shields about when he had known Owen Nash. Or if he had known Owen Nash at all. In fact, Hardy thought, here he had danced around with this man for the better part of a half hour and hadn’t really challenged his essential testimony in a substantive way. What was there to challenge? Like the other afternoon’s witnesses, Shields was a good man who no doubt was telling the truth. Fowler was a man charged with murder who was known to have lied in the past. Hardy could throw up smoke, but he doubted he could obscure that fact from the jury.

Glitsky came up through the gallery, pushed open the swinging door and strode into the courtroom proper. He was a well-known and respected police officer and his entrance, in itself, was not unusual. That he came to the defense table was, though not unprecedented, very much out of the ordinary.

Pullios was standing in what had become counsel’s spot in front of the bench. She was beginning to question Gary Smythe, Andy Fowler’s golf partner, fellow Olympic Club member and stockbroker. They certainly had done their homework – witnesses were coming out of the woodwork.

Glitsky leaned over, putting a hand on Hardy’s arm. Looking up at him, he thought he’d never seen the sergeant so drawn. There was a pallor underneath the pigment of his skin. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Hardy was reminded of cases of shell-shock he had witnessed in Vietnam. ‘Get a recess,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve got to talk, now.’

Abe Glitsky wasn’t given to histrionics. If he said ‘now’ he had good reason. Hardy nodded. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, interrupting Pullios, who had been in the middle of a question. She turned to face him, her expression unpleasant.

‘Yes, Mr Hardy?’ Chomorro said.

‘Your Honor, an emergency has come up. I wonder if the court would grant a short recess.’

‘Your Honor,’ Pullios fumed, ‘I’ve just begun with this witness.’

‘Ten minutes, Your Honor.’

Pullios gave Glitsky a questioning look.

Chomorro checked the wall clock. ‘If I give you ten minutes now we won’t have time on direct here.’ He took in the jury and gave them a weary smile. ‘How about if we call it a day today and pick up with Mr Smythe tomorrow?’

‘No,’ Glitsky said sotto voce to Hardy. ‘Don’t let them do that.’

Hardy stood. ‘That won’t be necessary, Your Honor. A couple of minutes will do.’

Which annoyed Chomorro. ‘Well, which is it, Mr Hardy? Do you want a recess or not?’ He directed himself to Glitsky. ‘What’s this about, Sergeant? Care to share it with the court?’