John Lescroart - Guilt

'Oh, I see what you're saying. I guess so. Yes.'

'Maybe another ten, twenty, thirty feet away?'

'Maybe. I don't know. I saw the car…' Balian paused.

'So how far were you from the car, Mr Balian? More than sixty feet, correct?'

'I guess.'

'More than eighty feet?'

'Maybe.'

'More than a hundred feet?'

'Maybe not that much.'

'So perhaps a hundred feet, is that fair?' Farrell smiled at him, man-to man. There was nothing personal here. 'Now, when you saw this car from perhaps a hundred feet away-'

'Objection.' Jenkins had to try, but she must have known the objection wasn't so much for substance as it was for solidarity. Her witness was beginning to shrivel.

Farrell rephrased. 'When you saw this car from across the street, was it at the beginning of your walk or more toward the end of it?'

'The end of it. I was coming around back to my street.'

'And so the street-lights were on, were they not?'

After another hesitation, Balian responded about the street-lights. 'They had just come on.'

'They had just come on. So it was still somewhat light out?'

'Yes. I could see clearly.'

'I'm sure you could, but I'm a little confused. Haven't you just testified that you walked for an hour, and when you got back to your house, it was dark? Didn't you tell that to Ms Jenkins?'

'Yes. I said that.'

'And this street you live on – Casitas – is it a long way from the Murrays' house, where you saw this car, to your own home?'

'No. Seven or eight houses.'

'And did you continue your walk home after you saw this car in front of the Murrays'? You didn't stop for anything, chat with anybody?'

'No.'

'And you've said it was dark when you got home?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then, I'm simply confused here – maybe you could explain it to us all. How could it have been light, or as you say, just dark, when you were seven or eight houses up the street?'

'I said the lights were on.'

'Yes, you did say that, Mr Balian. But you said they were "just" on, implying it was still light out, isn't that the case? But it wasn't light out, was it? It was, in fact, dark.'

'I said the street-lights were on, didn't I?' he repeated, his voice now querulous, shaking. 'I didn't tell a lie. I saw that car! I saw the license plates. It was the same car I saw the next day.'

Warfare, Farrell was thinking. No other word for it. He advanced relentlessly. 'And it was a brown car, you said, didn't you? You knew for sure that the car you saw the previous night had been brown because it had the same license plates.'

'Yes.'

'When you first saw the car that night, could you tell it was brown in the dark?'

'What kind of question is that? Of course it was brown. It was the same car.'

'Couldn't it have been dark blue, or black, or another dark color?'

'No. It was brown!'

Farrell took a moment regrouping. He walked back to the defense table, consulted some notes, turned. Then. 'Do you wear glasses, Mr Balian?'

The witness had his elbows planted on the arms of the chair, his head sunken between his shoulders, swallowed in the suit. 'I wear reading glasses.'

'And you see perfectly clearly for normal activities?'

'Yes.'

Twenty-twenty vision?'

Another agonizing pause. 'Almost. I don't need glasses to drive a car. I've got fine vision, young man.'

'For a man of your age, I'm sure you do. How old are you, by the way, Mr Balian?'

Chin thrust out, Balian was proud of it. 'I'm seventy-nine years old, and I see just as good as you do.'

Farrell paused and took a deep breath. He didn't want Balian to explode at him, make him into the heavy, but he had to keep going. A couple more hits and it would be over. 'And then the next day, at what you knew was a murder scene, you saw a similar car in a driveway to the one you'd seen the previous night, in the dark, after you'd had a couple of drinks, and Lieutenant Glitsky showed up and suddenly it seemed it might have been the exact same car, didn't it?'

'It was the same car!'

A subtle shake of the head, Farrell indicating to the jury that no, it wasn't. And here's why. 'When was the first time you talked to police, Mr Balian?'

'I told you, the next day.'

'And Lieutenant Glitsky asked if you'd seen anything unusual in the neighborhood, right?'

'Right.'

'And you told him about the car, and Lieutenant Glitsky pointed to the brown Lexus parked in Mr Dooher's driveway, and asked you if that was the car, didn't he?'

'Yes.'

'And it looked like the car, didn't it?'

Balian sat forward, tired of all this. 'I'm pretty sure it was the same car.'

Farrell nodded. 'You're pretty sure. Thank you.'

One of Archbishop Flaherty's predecessors had organized The Corporate Santa Claus Party to give a year-end tax incentive for businesses to help provide toys, games, clothes, and various other Christmas presents for the underprivileged children in the city and county of San Francisco. This year the St Francis Yacht Club was hosting the event, which was the society set's unofficial launch of the season's hectic party schedule. Over 300 guests – the cream of the city's business community – had gathered for an evening of dining and dancing to big-band music.

Mark Dooher, in his tuxedo, was in his element, among friends. The room, like the people in it, was elegantly turned out. Dessert and coffee had been cleared away and the band had kicked into what some guests had decided was a danceable version of Joy to the World.

Christina had been amazed and gratified by the volume and apparent sincerity of expressions of support and sympathy for Mark. Now they were alone at their table. She held his hand under it.

'Look at Wes,' she said to Mark. 'It looks like he's finally having some fun.'

The bark of Wes Farrell's laughter carried across the room, even over the band. Everybody who wanted to buy Wes a drink had succeeded, and he wasn't feeling much pain.

Dooher looked over benevolently. 'He deserves it. He's been doing a hell of a job, but the guy's been killing himself. I didn't really know – even knowing him my whole life – that he had all that fight in him. I think he's going to have himself a career after this.'

Christina squeezed his hand, was silent a moment, then said, 'I don't know if I am.'

Surprised, he looked at her. 'What do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'I don't think this is the kind of law I want to do.'

'Why not? You're getting an innocent man off. Don't you feel good about that?'

'Sure, I feel great about that. But how it has to be done.' Her free hand reached for the salt shaker and poured a small pile of it on to the linen, then traced circles with what she'd poured. 'Last night I couldn't get my mind off poor Mr Balian, how he looked when Wes got finished with him. And bringing up that stuff with Lieutenant Glitsky… I know it has to be done. They got it wrong, but-'

'I can't tell you how much good it does me to hear you say that again. I thought you'd given up faith in me.'

Again, she squeezed his hand. 'You were right,' she said. 'It is faith. There's unanswered questions about almost everything else in life. It's just here they seem so ominous.'

'I know. Sometimes, the past couple of months, they almost had me thinking I did it after all. I mean, I remembered being at the driving range. I remember coming home and finding Sheila. But when I first heard about Balian, or the blood, I wondered where those things could have come from. Maybe I blanked, went sleepwalking, something. Maybe I did it.' He squeezed her hand. 'But I didn't. I can't blame you for having your doubts.'

'It's just so hard to see these other people – Glitsky and Mr Balian and Amanda Jenkins – doing what they do. I have to think they really believe they're right.'