John Lescroart - Guilt

'Yes.'

'And did you also hear Sergeant Crandall's testimony about the surgical glove found at the scene?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Well, then, Lieutenant, I must ask you. In your professional opinion, why did Mr Dooher wear this surgical glove if he knew – as he must have known – that his fingerprints were already all over the murder weapon?'

'To point to a burglar.'

'To point to a burglar?'

As soon as he'd repeated Glitsky's answer, Farrell realized it was a critical mistake. Glitsky jumped on it before he could stop him. 'Without the glove there's no evidence of a burglar.'

Farrell kept his poker face on, but these, suddenly, were bad cards. He couldn't let it rest here. 'And yet, Lieutenant, didn't Sergeant Crandall testify there were no fingerprints on the glove?'

'Yes.'

'There was absolutely nothing connecting this glove to Mr Dooher?'

Glitsky had to concede it. 'That's right.'

Farrell decided that wisdom dictated a shift of emphasis. This was where, Farrell knew, it was going to get serious in a hurry, and he took in a breath, slowing down, coming to a stop in the center of the courtroom. In the jury's eyes, here was a man wrestling with a moral dilemma.

Finally, he turned back to Glitsky, having come to his difficult decision. 'Lieutenant, do you ever wear surgical gloves when you investigate a bloody crime scene?'

Jenkins stood and objected, but Thomasino overruled her.

The Lieutenant nodded. 'Yes.'

Farrell saw no need to say more. He had larger prey in his sights. 'In the early portion of this year, and especially in the latter half of April, did you have occasion to spend a great deal of time in St Mary's Hospital?'

Jenkins slammed a palm on the table and was up out of her chair. 'Your honor! I object. What does that question have to do with the death of Sheila Dooher?'

But this time, Farrell wasn't going to wait meekly for a ruling. 'I'm afraid it has everything to do with it, your honor. Its relevance will become clear during my case. Either I make the point now or I'd like permission to re-call Lieutenant Glitsky at that time.'

The Judge's eyes were invisible under his brows. He called a recess to see the attorneys in his chambers.

Glitsky stayed in the witness box. There was no place else he wanted to go, anyway. No one he wanted to talk to.

Across the courtroom, Dooher and Christina had their heads together, conferring in whispers, their body language so intimate it was embarrassing. He tried to imagine Dooher objectively in that moment – a middle-aged white male in the prime of his life. He kept himself fit. He looked good. And clearly, he could attract a beautiful younger woman.

Studying him, Glitsky tried to imagine the moments of rage. Or had it been calm deliberation? How was it possible that none of it showed? And yet there was no visible sign, no way to see what Dooher had done except in what he'd inadvertently left behind.

And yet Glitsky knew.

Dooher looked up, perhaps feeling the long gaze on him. His eyes came to Glitsky for a fraction of an instant – flat, completely without reaction, as though Glitsky didn't exist – and then he was back in his conversation with Christina Carrera.

In the gallery, the huge crowds from the pre-trial had slimmed somewhat with the judicial rulings on what issues were going to be allowed, but still, every seat appeared to be taken, although just at the moment a knot of reporters had congealed around the bar rail. They smelled a fresh kill coming, and Glitsky was afraid it was going to be him.

'All right, Lieutenant. Do you remember the question I asked you, if you'd had occasion to spend a lot of time in St Mary's Hospital in the spring of this year, around the time of Sheila Dooher's murder?'

A wary look. 'Yes.'

'How many days?'

'I don't know exactly. Thirty or forty.'

Farrell was damned if he was going to ask why and get the sympathy flowing for what Glitsky had gone through. His wife had been dying of cancer. The jury didn't need to know that. For Farrell, this was a tough moment – personally he felt for Glitsky's grief. But so be it. He had to have the testimony.

'Were you a patient or a visitor there, Lieutenant?'

'A visitor.'

'And during those thirty or forty days, were you ever near a nurse's station?'

'Yes.'

'Did you ever witness blood being drawn?'

Glitsky knew where this was going, and cast a cold eye on Jenkins. But the attorneys must have slugged this one out in chambers. The cavalry was not on the way.

'Yes.'

'Do you remember ever seeing any vials of blood, sitting out on a tray, or a table, or at a nurse's station?'

'Yes.'

'And were these vials guarded in any way? Or under lock and key?'

'No:

'All right. Thank you, Lieutenant. That's all.'

Lunch was a somber affair.

A fierce, cold, wet storm had blown in off the Pacific while Glitsky had been on the stand during the morning, and Christina was standing at her window, watching the rain slanting down while her two companions sullenly finished their take-out Chinese.

She'd flown down to Ojai on Saturday morning, back again last night. She'd needed to get some perspective, get out of the glare of all of this. To a degree, it had worked.

But now the heaters had come on and smelled musty in the tiny room, and Mark and Wes still hadn't gotten back to the people they'd been before she'd kissed Mark on his doorstep.

That kiss had changed Wes profoundly. In spite of his skills in the courtroom, he appeared more distracted with every passing day, more upset with her and, especially, with Mark.

She wanted to shake Wes out of his doubts. She'd had her round of them on Friday, all about the blood. Glitsky's testimony had opened up another whole universe of possible explanations. Doubts had to be part of it – if the prosecution didn't have some decent facts, it wouldn't get cases past the Grand Jury. And hadn't Wes been the one who'd drilled into her the notion that the facts aren't as important as how you interpret them? Why couldn't he see that now?

She knew what was bothering Wes. This case wasn't about the facts to him. It was about his confidence in Mark. And the kiss had undermined that.

She turned from the window, about to say something, try to lighten things up, but just then the cop from the Hall knocked and said they were reconvening.

Emil Balian had dressed well, in a conservative dark suit with a white shirt and rep tie. Amanda Jenkins had paid for his haircut, which eliminated the unruly shocks of white hair which normally emanated, Einstein-like, from the sides of his scalp. Most importantly, Glitsky thought, he'd shaved, or someone had shaved him. Abe thought, all in all, he looked pretty good – respectable, grave, old.

Abe had met Balian on the day after the murder. With Paul Thieu, he'd gone back to the scene early in the afternoon and there was an elderly man in plaid shorts and Hawaiian shirt standing in the driveway. 'Saw all about it on the television,' he said without preamble as they'd gotten out of their car. 'You guys the cops?'

Balian introduced himself, saying he lived a couple of blocks over on Casitas. So this was the place, huh? Too bad about the lady. He'd known her a little. He knew just about everybody, which was what happened when you walked as much as he did. You got to know people, stopping to chat while they worked on their gardens or brought in groceries or whatever.

Emil worked for forty years as a mail carrier and just got in the habit of walking, plus he had a touch of phlebitis and he was supposed to stroll three or four miles a day, keep his circulation up.

Balian wasn't shy. He talked incessantly, telling Glitsky and Thieu all about his life in the neighborhood. He bought into St Francis Wood back when a working man could afford a nice house. Eleanor, his wife, had a job, too – and this was in the days before women worked like they do now. They hadn't had any children, so pretty much had their pick of neighborhoods. Money wasn't much of a problem back then, not like it is now being on a fixed income.