Part 4

Frankie Trouble

Chapter 20

Dusk settled on the dogwood and chestnut trees lining the parking strip along Peter’s street. Gypsy, the neighbor’s dog, slept by the fence. He sneaked inside the house, welcoming the quiet. He set his phone on the table and noticed he had messages—he’d not turned the ringer back on after jury duty. As he checked voice mail, the light from his phone reflected on the rippled glass of his living room windows. Marcia had insisted on taking the curtains in the divorce. He really ought to replace them. Soon.

“I gotta talk to you, man,” Frankie said in the first message. “They told me not to come to work until the situation is resolved. That Donna, what a bitch. Anyway, call me back, okay? Well, I hope you’re having fun, hanging criminals.”

He wrote “Frankie” on the notepad by the phone and pressed “Next Message.”

“Peter,” Gregg said, “Call me at home tonight. And hey—I know you guys are friends, but whatever you do, do not talk to Frankie about this. You’re his boss and it’s important you maintain a professional distance.”

He snorted and wrote “Call Gregg first” on the notepad. Next message.

“Where are you, man?” Frankie’s speech slurred. “I tried your cell and got no answer. Call me, dude. Jeez.”

He sighed and went on to the next one.

“This is Christine. I wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly tonight. What you said triggered some bad memories for me. I can explain some time. Call me back if you like. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He jotted down her number. One more message.

“Mr. Robertson? This is Dr. Nuttbaum at Sunset. Your mother suffered another mild stroke and is recovering at OHSU hospital.”

“Aw, crap!” He swayed and stumbled against the couch. A siren sounded in the distance. With that and Gypsy’s barking, he couldn’t hear most of the message, except the end: “Call the hospital for more information.”

Screw that. He grabbed his keys.

He called Gregg on the way to the hospital. “What’s up with Frankie?”

“When’s this damn jury gig over?” Gregg asked.

“Next week sometime. Maybe later.”

“You’ve got to come back sooner. We’re two men short now, and you need to handle this situation with Frankie. What a mess.”

He sighed and changed lanes. “I will handle it if you’d kindly tell me what’s going on.”

“Have you talked to Frankie?”

He stopped for a red light. “Gregg, you can be one stubborn S.O.B. No, I haven’t. But I promise you I will, as soon as –”

“No! Wait for us to have a chance to talk. Only talk to him in an official capacity as part of the investigation. No off-line conversations. This is serious.”

“Frankie and I are best friends,” Peter said. “He’s tried calling me several times tonight already. He needs some support. I’m his best friend. I owe him at least a phone call.” The light changed, and he sped onto the Hawthorne Bridge on-ramp.

“We all love the big oaf, but this isn’t just flirting and goofing around,” Greg said. “He’s in it bad this time. He might face criminal charges. Frankie and I both need you to handle this professionally. You’re not only his friend—you’re his boss. Act like it.”

“I need to know more if I’m to do anything about this.” He jerked the wheel, too hard. “Shit! Sorry. Some jerk just cut me off.”

“You’re driving? Pull over and save everybody some grief.”

“Goddammit, I am not pulling over,” he said. “My mom had another stroke, and I’m on the way to the hospital. So if you want me to help with this situation, you need to tell me everything about Frankie’s case right now. I’ll work Saturday, and Sunday if need be, to straighten this out. And one more thing. My next phone call is to Frankie. That’s not negotiable. So start spilling your guts already.”

Gregg paused a beat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Take care of your mom. Don’t worry about Frankie. I’ll handle it.”

“Gregg. Talk to me. Now!”

“Don’t yell at me, Peter. I’m your boss.”

“If you were in my shoes, you’d yell too. Hell, you yell anyway.”

After a long silence, Gregg said, “Okay. Call me from the hospital. I want your full attention.”

“When I get to the hospital, my mom will get my full attention. So, fine. Have it your way. I’ll talk to Frankie without benefit of knowing what you know.”

“Don’t discuss the situation with him.”

“Dammit, Gregg!”

“Be his friend. Be supportive. But don’t promise him anything or tell him what you know. Okay?”

“I don’t know anything anyway.” He walked toward the hospital entrance and dialed Frankie’s cell. A low-volume beep warned that his battery was low.

“My man!” Frankie’s voice sang over the din of a noisy bar. “Where the hell you been all frickin’ day?”

“I’m on jury duty, remember?” He raised his voice, too. “Where are you, buddy?”

“I’m at Kell’s with a whole lot of new Irish friends,” Frankie shouted. “I love Irish people. Especially Irish women!” A chorus of cheers rose in the background.

His phone beeped again. “Look, my cell’s dying and I’m about to walk into the hospital. My mom had another stroke. It sounds like you’re feeling okay, though?”

“I feel great!” Frankie said to another round of cheers. “I’m making lots of friends. Did I tell you about all my new Irish friends?”

“You did, Frankie. Make sure one of them takes your car keys and gets you home, okay?” He stopped outside the hospital doors.

“Hey, will one of you nice Irish girls take me home tonight?” Frankie yelled. Several female voices laughed and yelled out “I will!” None of them had Irish accents. “All taken care of, buddy. Thanks for helping. Asking. Whatever. Ha ha!”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a good time.” His phone beeped again.

“Okay, Petey boy,” Frankie said. “You too. Give your mom a kiss for me, okay? Woo-hoo! I love red hair!”

Peter made his way to hospital reception. “My mom, Thelma Robertson, was admitted today.” A lump rose in his throat. “She’s probably in the stroke unit.”

“Room 3419,” the efficient, graying nurse said. “Through those double doors –”

“I know the way, thanks.”

He interrupted Mom’s final few minutes of “Oprah” and had to wait it out while Mom wept along with the show’s host and guest in a sentimental finale. Of course Mom had no idea what had upset them all so much. “Will you take me out for a walk?” she asked during the show’s credits.

“It’s raining out,” he said. “Do you want to wander around the halls a bit?”

“Of course not, Jimmy,” she said. “Did you bring my grandchildren this time?”

He winced. “It’s Peter, Mom.” He sat next to her bed and held her hand. She told him all about her imagined plans for the evening with her good friend Zoe, which he didn’t bother to correct. She rambled on about her childhood and called him “Don” or “Jimmy” most of the time. Her once firm, intelligent mind had slipped into some delirious childhood place. She babbled, wagged her head from side to side and wove her hands now and again to punctuate some memory or fantasy with enthusiasm. After about an hour he gave up on trying to penetrate her shrinking, regressive shell.

“Come on over and play again soon, Donald!” she said as he left.

The doctor on rounds, a young intern with curly copper hair and a splash of freckles across his nose, told him little more than he already knew. “The delirium may or may not recede,” he said. “This varies from patient to patient. We recommend keeping her here for a few days for observation.”

Peter’s body sagged. More bills. Insurance would help, but the co-pay would hurt. Medicare had refused to pay for the experimental procedure six months before, and his technophobic older siblings offered only token help with the bills. Now he’d need their help again, as his divorce would soon wipe out what little savings remained.

“If you have any further questions, don’t hesitate to call,” the intern said. Peter had several, but he waved the doctor away. The boy’s curls and thick brows reminded him too much of Marcia’s sketches of her new boyfriend.

A few steps from the hospital exit, a set of swinging doors opened and Angela Wegman rushed through, dressed in her usual scrubs. She made a grim face. “Mr. Robertson! Wait a moment, please.”

Uh-oh. “How’s my mom?”

She frowned. “When did you last see her, before today?”

“Sunday afternoon. After she goes to church, I take her to brunch and then, if the weather’s nice, for a stroll in the park.” To her quizzical stare, he explained, “In a wheel chair. She rolls, I stroll.”

“How nice.” A quick smile, then her frown returned. “Was she showing any signs of disorientation, speech difficulties, or dementia?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say. Even before the first stroke, she was losing her faculties. Really, ever since Dad died five years ago. She still has conversations with him, or sometimes she’ll call me by his name—‘Donald’.”

“Ah. She was asking for Donald a moment ago. I wondered who it might be.”

“Did she ask for me at all?” He braced himself.

She cringed. “Not in my presence. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” His voice broke. He leaned one shoulder against the drab wall of the hospital lobby.

She fished a card out of her purse. “We want to observe her for another day. Please call me tomorrow. I can update you more thoroughly then.”

“I’ll try. I’m on jury duty. We get a few breaks here and there.”

“Oh, really? What kind of case?”

“Criminal. Murder, in fact.”

Her gray-green eyes narrowed and she leaned closer to him. “Hang the guilty bastard.”

He blinked. “Why so bitter?”

“One of my oldest friends, Alvin, was brutally murdered last fall. If I ever get my hands on the son of a bitch that killed him...” She gripped his forearms. “He will be sorry he was ever born.” She let go and rushed through the double doors.

He slumped against the wall. It took several minutes for the chill to subside from his tingling spine.

Chapter 21

Peter rushed into Jury Room 315 at eight a.m. sharp the next morning, the final juror to arrive. Rain soaked the shoulders of his half-tucked shirt. Heavy black bags sagged under his eyes, and patches of black scrabble dotted his sweaty face. Christine, seated next to Dolores at the far end of the table, pursed her lips into a playful “tsk, tsk.”

Those lips...warmth rose from his neck to his face. Hell. Jury duty wasn’t all bad.

Larry toasted him with his “World’s Best Grandpa” mug. “Can I set you up with a cup of coffee, young man?”

“Yes, please.” He sank into a chair. Larry set a full cup in front of him and held packets of cream and sugar in his hand like a waiter holding a tray. Peter plucked the packets from the older man’s open palm. “Thanks. I’ll remember you in my will.”

“Cash tips now much preferred.” Larry grinned and plopped into the seat next to him.

Peter gulped down about half of the coffee, tasting none of it, before the bailiff called them into the courtroom at five after eight. He hung back while the others filed through the door, finishing the acidic brew in a few big swallows. Larry waited with him, savoring his coffee like a fine wine. “Rough night?” he asked after most of the jurors had shuffled past.

“Very.” His tongue felt like cotton. “My mom had her second stroke in seven months. I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Larry frowned. “I’ll keep the coffee fresh for you today. We’ll all need it if the testimony is as dry as yesterday’s.”

“I actually found it all pretty compelling,” Peter said. “Especially the part where the body was moved.”

“Body was moved?” Larry’s eyebrows arched high, a bell curve across his forehead. “I don’t remember that.”

Shit! “Um, yeah, well, I thought that’s what they said. Anyway, they need us in the courtroom.” He finished his coffee and darted through the open door.

Philip Brown, the apple-shaped manager of Florentino’s, took the stand. A thick mustache lined his upper lip and a ring of thin black hair crowned his round, shiny head. He wore gray slacks, a black vest, and a white dress shirt open at the collar.

Baldwin stood in front of the jury rail and pointed his pen onto the mess of notes visible on his legal pad. “Mr. Brown, how long had the defendant, Mr. Vasquez, worked for you at Florentino’s before the night of Alvin Dark’s murder?”

“Seventeen months.” Brown took two short, audible breaths through his mouth. “He started a month after me.”

“What was Mr. Vasquez’s job?”

“Dishwasher, originally,” Brown said. “But he was a very hard worker and a take-charge kind of guy. So about a year ago, I promoted him to supervisor of the night cleanup crew.”

Peter’s experience in food service could not have been more different. He’d worked as a dishwasher in a 24-hour diner in his junior year at college. Far from seeking promotion, he considered quitting every day—until Marcia took a job there waiting tables. Her pleasant company changed his entire perspective on restaurant work.

“How would you rate Mr. Vasquez’s performance as a dishwasher?” Baldwin asked.

“Very good.” Brown wiped his brow with a handkerchief, revealing dark blotches of sweat under his armpits. “He did his work and kept his mouth shut. We never had any issues with him back then.”

Not so for Peter. Once, his boss berated him for stacking dirty dishes onto the clean-dishes rack. Marcia had so distracted him, he’d forgotten to run the dishwasher.

Baldwin straightened his gangly frame and folded his hands behind his back. “Were you ever concerned about Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status?”

“No, Mr. Vasquez had his papers all in order when he came to work for us.” Brown wheezed again. “When I hired him, he was already working a day job on a farm somewhere. Dishwashing was his second job. Later, when I promoted him, I was very pleased to help him change over his green card.”

“How did you help him?”

“I became his employer of record. Signed some forms. That’s all.”

“Were there ever any problems during Mr. Vasquez’s tenure at Florentino’s?”

“Well, yes.” Brown glanced at Vasquez and wiped sweat from his face. “There was the issue of Martina Aguilar. She was our night hostess.”

“What was the issue between Mr. Vasquez and Ms. Aguilar?” Baldwin asked.

Vasquez glared at the witness. Brown avoided eye contact with him. “Ms. Aguilar started working for us just before Labor Day. Everything seemed fine between them, at first. Then, a few weeks before Alvin’s death, Martina complained to me about Raul.”

“What was the nature of her complaint?”

Brown wiped his head again with his wet hankie. “He was very jealous of any other man who would talk to her. He followed her around and insisted on walking her to her car each night. Things like that.”

Peter hid a smile with his hand. He used to do the same things with Marcia. But she’d always welcomed it. They often sneaked kisses in the food storage cooler... Connelly and Baldwin argued about something Brown had just said. Something about hearsay evidence.

“Martina complained to me that he used to follow her outside of work,” Brown said a few moments later. “Also, he demanded she not talk to other men, particularly Alvin Dark.”

The defendant fixed a steady gaze on Philip Brown. Vasquez appeared every bit the jealous man right then. Peter sympathized. Jealousy makes people do crazy things sometimes. Violent things.

“Did Ms. Aguilar lodge other complaints against Mr. Vasquez?” Baldwin resumed his pen tapping.

“Only that his constant attention interfered with her work,” Brown said. “She tried to present a dignified first impression to customers. That’s hard to do with a sweaty man in a food-stained apron hovering over her. After she complained, I spoke to him about it.”

“How did Mr. Vasquez react when you approached him on this issue?”

“He got very defensive. He said, ‘I’m the hardest worker you have,’ and said I was picking on him because he was Hispanic.”

“How did you feel about this accusation?” Baldwin asked.

“I was surprised.” Brown’s eyes grew wide. “We’d never had any issues of that sort between us before.”

“Can you give me an example of a non-Hispanic employee you dealt with in the same way?” Baldwin stopped the pen-tapping.

“Alvin Dark, also, flirted with Ms. Aguilar, sometimes at the cost of slower service to our waiters and customers,” Brown said. “When I spoke to him about it, he apologized and promised to fix the problem—and he did.”

Vasquez snorted. Connelly hushed him.

“Very well, Mr. Brown.” Baldwin checked his notes for the first time in several minutes. “When did Mr. Dark come to work for Florentino’s?”

“About six months before me. I’m not sure of the exact date he started.”

“What was Mr. Dark’s job at Florentino’s?”

“He worked weeknights for us as a bartender. He also tended bar downtown on weekends. Much better money there, I guess.”

“Was Mr. Dark a good employee?”

“As bartenders go.” Brown rolled his eyes. “Some of them can be real flakes.”

Peter nodded. Frankie worked as a bartender sometimes during the holidays for extra cash. Late nights with alcohol and pretty women led to too many absences from work at Stark’s.

“But Alvin wasn’t like that,” Brown said. “He was always on time, never missed a shift, never showed up or left drunk. He was real friendly, too. The customers and staff all liked him.”

“Were there any indications of a more personal relationship between them?”

“When he flirted with her, she seemed to like it,” Brown said. “The hostess station is near the bar by the front door. She often sat at the bar and chatted with him when we had no incoming customers. That’s what’d get Raul so jealous.”

“Did his behavior change after the night of the murder?”

Brown shrugged. “After the night of the murder, Raul never returned to work at Florentino’s.”

“Never returned?” Baldwin straightened his stance. “Why not?”

“Once the murder was discovered, the police were everywhere at Florentino’s. He musta known the cops were onto him.”

Connelly stood. “Objection.”

“Sustained.” Judge Green gave Brown a weary look. “Mr. Brown, please testify only as to what you actually observed, and refrain from conjecture about what others might know. The jury will please disregard Mr. Brown’s last comment. Clerk, please strike it from the record.”

Baldwin half-suppressed a smile. Furrowed brows filled the jury box. Despite the judge’s instruction, the impression Brown imparted would linger: Vasquez didn’t want to get caught.

“Mr. Brown, are you saying that Mr. Vasquez did not come to work the following day, before the murder was reported?” Baldwin asked.

“No, he did not.”

Vasquez’s fists clenched on the table in front of him, and his nostrils flared wide. A few jurors stirred in their seats. Christine peered at Vasquez, then cocked her head at Peter. Alex, a few seats to Peter’s left, hummed the chorus to the Warren Zevon tune, “Excitable Boy.”

Knots formed in Peter’s stomach. Vasquez’s emotional outbursts were turning the jury against him. If it continued, he could very well take the rap for this murder.

Peter’s murder.

Chapter 22

Malcolm Baldwin scratched a few checkmarks on his legal pad and took a step toward Philip Brown on the witness stand. “On November 17, the night of the murder, did you witness an altercation at the restaurant involving Mr. Dark and Mr. Vasquez?”

“Yes, sir,” Brown said. “It all started when Alvin showed up to collect his paycheck. Alvin had been, uh, let go a few days before.”

“Let go? You fired him?”

“Yes, sir.” Brown wheezed and interlaced his hands on the railing in front of him. “A few days before, I caught Mr. Dark drinking on the job. At Florentino’s, you drink on the job, and you’re fired. That’s automatic for us.”

“How did you discover he was drinking?”

Brown stared at the defendant. “Raul told me.”

Scattered “oohs” and “aahs” sounded in the gallery. A glare from the judge quieted them.

“Snitch,” Alex whispered.

Philip Brown grimaced. “Raul came to me and said, ‘Alvin’s Coke has rum in it.’ Turned out to be true. It was on his breath, too. So I fired him. I ended up tending bar that night.”

Baldwin flipped the page on his notepad. “Very well. Please describe the events at Florentino’s involving Alvin Dark and Raul Vasquez on the night of November 17.”

Brown coughed and emitted a raspy wheeze. “Alvin came in around 8:30, through the front door, where Martina stands. He sent a busboy to come get me,” Brown said. “Then he stays and talks with Martina. Well, it takes me a minute or two to find and sign Alvin’s final paycheck, so by the time I get out there, Raul is already out there, confronting him. The whole scene is taking place in front of customers. So I tell them to knock it off. I send Raul back to the kitchen, and Alvin comes back to my office with me.”

Peter hadn’t seen any arguments. But then, he’d focused on Marcia and Mr. Unibrow.

“What happened next?”

“We go to my office, I give him his paycheck, we chat a minute, make polite conversation. What do you say to a guy you just fired, right before Thanksgiving? He said it was all a misunderstanding, but he didn’t elaborate. Really took it well. I respected that about him.”

“You gave him the paycheck?” Baldwin asked, puzzlement in his voice.

“Yeah. I mean, that’s why he was there, right? I’m not going to stiff the guy.”

Baldwin flipped through the papers on his desk, his face flushed. “Are you sure?”

Brown nodded. “Positive.”

Peter gulped. That’s why the body had been moved. Sometime after he had left, somebody found the body and stole the paycheck. He wondered who would do such a thing.

Vasquez folded his hands under his chin. The corners of his lips curled upward.

Baldwin shoved a pile of papers toward his associate. She spread her hands and shrugged. Baldwin towered over her and stabbed at the paper with his index finger.

“Mr. Baldwin?” Judge Green leaned over her mahogany desk and peered over the wire rims of her glasses. “Do we need a recess?”

“No, Your Honor.” Baldwin straightened and faced her. “I just need a second.” He turned back to his associate and whispered into her ear. She turned beet red and dashed through the double doors at the rear of the courtroom.

The wind gusted outside, gray and angry. A wet leafy branch slapped against the window. Connelly skimmed through papers on her desk. The evidence list, Peter guessed. The check wasn’t on the list—because, no doubt, it wasn’t on the body.

Baldwin tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, straightened his plain dark tie, and stepped toward the witness. “After Mr. Dark picked up his paycheck, what happened?”

Philip Brown took a quick hit from an inhaler he slipped from his vest pocket. “He left the restaurant, through the rear, the employee entrance. Through the kitchen, in other words.”

“Past Raul Vasquez?”

“Yes. I remembered something I wanted to tell Alvin, so I followed him in.” Brown wheezed. “When I got to the kitchen, Raul was gone—outside, with Alvin. I could hear them shouting. So I went outside.”

The courtroom went quiet. All eyes focused on Philip Brown. Even the always-at-ease Larry Rogers leaned forward, his bright blue eyes riveted on the witness.

Sheila wrote something on her notepad. Peter had squeezed his into a crumpled mess. He smoothed out the heavy creases on his lap.

Baldwin’s bald spot glistened, and his eyes locked on the witness. Brown shifted in his seat. His eyes darted from the prosecutor to the jury, then to the judge and the defendant, and back to the prosecutor again. The pause in the questioning lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed like eons.

“What did you witness out there, behind the restaurant?”

“Alvin was by his car,” Brown said. “A red Camaro.”

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He wished he had something like Philip Brown’s inhaler to clear the pressure from his own lungs and chest.

“Raul was in his face, yelling at him, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying,” Brown said.

“Were other people around?”

“Yes, a few customers were leaving the restaurant, going to their cars. A man and a woman. They stopped to watch the action.”

A man and a woman. Marcia and... the home-wrecking scumbag. Because of him, Alvin Dark was dead. He twisted his notepad into a tight rope.

“Were there any other witnesses to the scene in the parking lot?”

“Martina came out right after I did,” Brown said, “and stood right next to me. I told her to go back inside, but she said, ‘No, Philip. They are fighting because of me.’ I couldn’t argue with that.”

Hmm. Maybe Marcia would have liked to see Peter fight for her.

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“Raul really leaned in on Alvin. Alvin had to lean back on his car to get away from his face. Raul jabbed his finger into Alvin’s chest and shouted at him, loud enough for us to hear.”

“What did he say?”

Brown wheezed again. “He said, ‘You touch her again and I’ll kill you.’” He cast a sweaty glance at Raul. A low buzz emerged from all quarters of the courtroom.

Judge Green rapped her gavel, and the silence returned, tension thick in the air.

“Are you certain those were his exact words?” Baldwin peered over at the defendant. “You said you couldn’t make out what he had been saying.”

Peter sat up straight. Clever. By asking him to reiterate now, Baldwin stole Connelly’s thunder. She’d have a much tougher time creating doubt later.

“Oh, I heard this part very clearly, as did Martina. She said –”

“Objection!” Connelly shot to her feet. “Hearsay.”

“Sustained,” Green said. “Mr. Brown, once again:  please testify only to what you saw, heard, or did.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Brown said, subdued. “What happened next is, Martina turned to me, very upset, and said, ‘Did Raul just threaten to kill Alvin?’”

“Very well.” A smirk flashed across Baldwin’s face. Connelly dropped back into her chair. “What happened next?”

Brown shifted in his seat. “Once again, I told Martina to go inside. She refused at first, so I pushed her back into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. Just then I heard a loud bang. I saw Alvin’s car a few feet away from Raul’s, but I couldn’t see any damage to either car. Alvin drove off, but he got slowed down by another car, an SUV, leaving ahead of him. Raul got in his car and yelled something to another man, the customer who’d watched the argument.”

“Was that the last time you saw Raul Vasquez?”

“Yes, until this morning in court.”

Baldwin bowed to Connelly. “Your witness.”

Judge Green leaned forward. “Do you need a break, Mr. Brown?”

“Yes, please.” He squirmed in his seat. “I’ve had a lot of coffee this morning.”

Larry’s chuckle sounded above the titters in the courtroom, breaking the tense silence of Brown’s testimony. “Very well,” the judge said. “This court will recess for fifteen minutes.”

The jurors filed into the jury room and, as usual, Dolores led the parade into the restroom. While the other jurors made small talk, Christine sat next to Peter at the far end of the table. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

He shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Listen.” She paused. “Sometimes I push pretty hard, like I did last night. But it’s not personal. It’s one of those things I need to learn to handle better. I’m working on it.”

“This whole Frankie situation is hard to figure out,” he said. “It’s not just another garden-variety harassment claim, if there is such a thing. Frankie’s my friend, and he’s Donna’s friend—and she’s my friend, too. It’s like family there at Stark’s.”

She smiled, a sad smile. “Families harass each other, too. Only we don’t call it harassment—we call it ‘Daddy’s little secret.’” A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and she looked away.

“Christine, I–”

“Forget it.” The restroom door opened. She dashed inside, cutting in front of a startled Sheila Kane, who gawked at Peter open-mouthed.

Peter avoided her gaze. Mysteries, indeed.

Chapter 23

Defense Attorney Brenda Connelly rose from her chair, drew a deep breath, and faced the witness stand. “That was quite the story you just told, Mr. Brown. Is it unusual for you to witness these sorts of romantic dramas at Florentino’s?”

Brown laughed out loud. “Oh, no. It’s like Peyton Place around there sometimes. But usually, nobody ends up dead.”

Connelly strolled around her desk. “Do these dramas often escalate into physical fights?”

“Not really. Arguments sometimes, some confrontations. But no fistfights or anything.”

“I see,” Connelly said. “So what you saw occurring between Mr. Vasquez and Mr. Dark in the parking lot on November 17th was not at all unusual, not a higher level of confrontation than you’d normally see between your employees?”

“I guess so,” Brown said. “It seemed like a lot of shouting, and a little pushing and shoving. It didn’t strike me as anything much to worry about, especially since Alvin wouldn’t be back working for us.”

Connelly stepped closer to the witness. “Had you witnessed previous confrontations between them?”

“A few arguments, but nothing physical,” Brown said. “As I mentioned, they both flirted with Martina a lot, and Raul was jealous. He got in Alvin’s face about it a few times.”

Another step closer. “Prior to the arrival of Ms. Aguilar, did you ever see them quarrel?”

Brown shook his head. “No. In fact, before then, I don’t think I ever saw them together.”

“Did Mr. Vasquez ever display any tendency toward violence in any other circumstance while working for you at Florentino’s?”

“No.” Brown leaned back in his chair. “He mostly seemed pretty even-keeled—until Martina came to work for us.”

Connelly knitted her fingers in front of her. “Very well. Mr. Brown, when you saw Mr. Vasquez and Mr. Dark together on November 17, did Mr. Vasquez ever strike Mr. Dark?”

“Not that I saw,” Brown said. “He really leaned in on him at the car, though. Raul has a way of getting right in your face when he gets emotional.”

Connelly edged closer. “But he didn’t strike him?”

“No.”

“Slap him? Push him? Grab his arm?”

Peter cringed. Beat him with a tire iron?

“I didn’t see anything like that.”

Connelly stepped to within arms’ reach of the witness. “Mr. Vasquez is accused of beating a man to death. Are you sure he displayed no physical violence toward Alvin Dark at that moment of great tension and emotion—even after he followed him into the parking lot?”

“I’m not sure if he hit him or not.” Brown wheezed again. “But if it happened, I didn’t see it.”

Ice crawled up Peter’s spine. Nobody saw him get violent with Alvin, either.

Connelly blew air out from her nearly-closed lips and took a step backward. She brushed a wisp of sandy, shoulder-length hair away from her face.

Just like Marcia, when she lies.

So many lies, so many deceptions. He’d dismissed them at the time, blaming himself for not understanding her meaning or for inattentiveness. Stupid, stupid.

He missed the next several questions and answers between the attorney and witness. He closed and rubbed his eyes, trying to force Marcia out of his mind.

“How much time elapsed, in your estimation,” Connelly said several minutes later, “between the time Mr. Dark drove off and the time Mr. Vasquez followed him in his car?”

Brown mulled that over. “Not long. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds?”

“Take your time, Mr. Brown. Remember, Mr. Vasquez had to buckle up, start the car, put it in gear, back out of his parking spot, drive through the lot and around the restaurant, then pull into traffic. How long would you say all that took? Another thirty seconds, maybe forty?”

“Hardly any time at all,” Brown said. “Raul was already in his car. Once Alvin pulled out, he tore through that lot and he was gone.”

“So, perhaps another ten seconds or so?” Brown tried to cut in but she talked over him. “Mr. Brown, did you see which direction Mr. Dark turned when he exited the lot?”

Left, goddammit. The same direction as Marcia.

“No,” Brown said. “The exit is out front. I was in the back. The building was in the way.”

“I see. So, since Mr. Vasquez was twenty-five seconds or more behind him, he could not have seen which way Mr. Dark turned when he left, correct?”

“It depends on the traffic. He might have seen him exit right ahead of him, or spotted him in traffic. It’s possible. Red Camaros are easy to spot.”

Easy to follow, too. Peter folded his arms across his chest. The Camaro had paused only a moment before it pulled out into traffic behind Marcia in her Explorer. He’d pulled out behind them without delay. He didn’t see another vehicle pull out, but in twenty-five seconds, they’d have been well ahead of Raul, out of sight of Florentino’s.

Had Vasquez managed to make the right choice and follow him through traffic to the scene, he could have witnessed everything. But if so, surely he would have spoken up—and he wouldn’t be on trial today.

Yet many other things didn’t add up, either:  the moved body, the missing paycheck, and Vasquez’s disappearance right after the murder.

“So, Mr. Brown,” Connelly asked, “you don’t know whether Mr. Vasquez turned in the same direction as Mr. Dark, or not?”

Brown squirmed in his chair. “No, I don’t know for sure.”

Connelly strolled toward the jury. “What is the speed limit in front of Florentino’s?”

“Thirty-five.”

“At thirty-five miles per hour, Mr. Dark would have been able to drive roughly a quarter of a mile in twenty-five seconds—about six Portland city blocks. Can you see down Division Street at night for six blocks and spot a particular car moving through traffic?”

“If it’s a red Camaro and traffic is light, yes, easily.”

Unless it veers off onto a side road... Peter’s chest tightened.

After several more unsuccessful attempts to poke holes into his testimony, Connelly walked around the table to her seat and said, “No more questions.”

Several jurors and spectators stirred in their seats and gazed longingly at the clock. Not Judge Green. “Redirect, Mr. Baldwin?”

Baldwin stood. He seemed taller than usual for some reason. “Very briefly, your honor.” Exhalations of protest hissed around the jury box. The prosecutor flipped through his notes. “Mr. Brown, to clarify:  how much time elapsed between Mr. Dark’s exit from the parking lot, and Mr. Vasquez’s exit?” Tap, tap, tap went Baldwin’s pen.

“Maybe ten or fifteen seconds. He really burned rubber getting out of there.”

“So all told, Mr. Dark had no more than a ten- to fifteen-second head start on Mr. Vasquez leaving the lot?”

“Objection!” Connelly jumped to her feet. “We have already established it was at least twenty-five seconds–”

“We have established no such thing,” Judge Green said. “Overruled.”

Connelly sank into her seat, fists clenched on the table. Baldwin repeated the question.

“Yes, that’s right,” Brown said. “It might have been only ten seconds. Probably closer to ten than twenty-five.”

Peter’s scalp tingled. Then maybe Raul did follow him. Ay-yi-yi.

Chapter 24

“The state calls Martina Aguilar.”

A dark-haired, elegant woman approached the witness stand. Although slight of build, her black knee-length skirt and long-sleeved white blouse amply demonstrated her hourglass curves. A wide-brimmed black mesh hat made her dark eyes seem mysterious, but contrasted with and lightened her brown skin. With her three-inch heels, she may have reached five feet two, but the heels did far more for the shape of her legs than her height. Alex had plenty of company ogling her.

“Please remove your hat while on the witness stand, Ms. Aguilar,” Judge Green said. Aguilar placed it on her lap.

The defendant gazed at the witness, his face long and sad. Aguilar avoided his eyes and focused instead on Baldwin, standing ten feet in front of her. The prosecutor seemed like a giant by comparison.

“Miss Aguilar,” Baldwin said, “Please tell the court when you first met Alvin Dark.”

“Last August twenty-ninth.” Her soprano voice carried a musical lilt and a hint of an Hispanic accent. “He was tending bar on my first night at Florentino’s. He was very kind to me.”

“What sort of relationship did you develop with Mr. Dark over the next three months?”

Vasquez’s eyes drooped, as did the corners of his mouth.

“We were dating.” Aguilar’s voice struck a minor chord, low and dangerous. “I guess you would say, he was my boyfriend.”

Vasquez’s head snapped away from her, like a Spanish dancer pretending to ignore his partner, or like a man slapped by a lady for being too fresh. The buzz in the courtroom drew a rap from Judge Green’s gavel.

Baldwin paused, like a conductor waiting for audience noise to quell before waving his baton. “Was this common knowledge among Florentino’s staff?”

“Nobody knew,” Aguilar answered, subdued. Vasquez shook his head, wearing the same sad expression as before. “We kept it away from Florentino’s.”

“Why?”

“We didn’t want rumors to spread. Or—jealousies.”

So, they wanted to keep it a secret. “Secrets are lies!” Peter’s father, Pastor Donald, used to shout. “Never lie!” But some things had to remain secret.

A sharp pain stabbed Peter’s forehead. He rubbed his temples, but the pain did not subside.

“Were you worried about any jealousies in particular?”

“Raul had a crush on me. We had spent some time together. Since we were the only two Mexicans working at Florentino’s, it was very nice to talk to him.” Vasquez nodded, still sad. Connelly tapped his hand and whispered in his ear. He looked away from Aguilar.

“So you kept it secret because you thought Mr. Vasquez might become jealous?”

Aguilar cast her eyes down. “Yes.”

“Did you ever date Mr. Vasquez?”

Vasquez turned back to watch her, an alarmed expression on his face. Aguilar avoided his gaze. It was like a tango, a love-hate dance with their eyes. Vasquez and Aguilar knew each other well—better than she would admit.

“Yes, but only as friends.” She took a deep breath. “Just friends.” A side step.

“Did Mr. Vasquez ever indicate to you that his interest went beyond friendship?”

“Yes, he did,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “He tried to kiss me a few times, and once, about two weeks before the night Alvin died...” She choked up and couldn’t speak for a few moments. When she regained her composure, she said, “I—I let him. Kiss me, I mean.”

Baldwin paused, a ploy to let the revelation resonate with the jury. It worked, at least on Peter. One night last December, he happened to see Marcia and her new lover kiss in the doorway of a café...His blood pressure rose. He now actively disliked Martina Aguilar.

“After he kissed you,” Baldwin said, “did you and Mr. Vasquez discuss your future relationship?”

“Raul told me he’d like us to be a couple. I told him I was already seeing somebody.” Aguilar fumbled with the hat in her lap. So she already had a dance partner. Then why the tight embrace with Raul? Peter fought rising anger and repressed the urge to spit.

“What was his reaction?”

“He became very angry. He asked who it was. I wouldn’t tell him.” Aguilar stared off to one side as she spoke. “He yelled at me, threatened to follow me, and said he would find him. Hurt him.”

Follow her. Find him. Hurt him. Peter’s stomach ached. He leaned over in his seat, supporting his head with his hands, elbows on his knees. Uncomfortable, but it masked the pain.

“Hurt him? Is that what he said?” Baldwin asked.

Aguilar’s lip trembled. Vasquez clenched his fists on the table, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Angry. So mad he could –

“Kill him.” Aguilar’s voice, though barely a whisper, was easy to hear in the hospital-quiet courtroom. “He said he would track him down and—and—kill him. With his ...” She dabbed her eyes with a dark blue kerchief. The entire courtroom waited in silence.

Peter sat up straight and took a deep breath. Vasquez’s pose mirrored his own:  jaw set, lips tight, teeth gritted, his hands open and tensed in front of him as if grasping something.

“With his bare hands,” Aguilar finished.

At this, the defense attorney noticed her client’s pose. She slapped his hands down and whispered in his ear.

Too late, judging by the expression on his fellow jurors’ faces. They’d seen the body language of an angry man, poised to strangle his victim.

Just like Peter’s, he realized with horror. Damn it! His hands plummeted to his sides. Luckily, the other jurors seemed focused on Vasquez and Aguilar rather than him—except for Alex and Christine. She winked at him and regarded him with a conspirator’s eyes. Her facial expression conveyed a “Can you believe this?” excitement.

Alex, though, studied him, one eyebrow arched high. He glimpsed down at Peter’s now-unclenched hands and cocked his head. Peter averted his eyes. He had to be more careful.

Several seconds passed. Baldwin seemed content to let Aguilar’s comment and Vasquez’s reaction register on the minds of the jurors. Finally, Baldwin cleared his throat and stepped toward the witness. “Miss Aguilar, did Mr. Vasquez do anything unusual in the next two weeks leading up to the murder?”

Like, follow you when you went out to dinner?

“Yes.” Aguilar’s shoulders quaked. “All of a sudden, he was everywhere—no longer just coming to chat with me at work. After that day, it was Raul here, there, everywhere.”

“He followed you?”

“Yes. He would suddenly appear in the market where I shopped, outside the salon where I got my hair done, in the Starbucks I go to in the mornings. Everywhere.”

“Did he, to your knowledge, see you and Alvin Dark together outside of Florentino’s?”

Aguilar glowered at Vasquez, then turned her gaze to the jury box. Peter stiffened. Her eyes drilled into him. “About a week after he made the threat to kill Alvin, he followed me to a restaurant where I met Alvin for lunch. I was surprised—usually Raul works both day and night shift on Wednesdays.”

“What did he do?”

The cavernous pools of her dark eyes bored into Peter, as if to lay him open and expose his horrible memories. He sat transfixed, unable to move. “He waited for us outside,” she said. “I saw him as we left. Alvin was driving his Camaro, and Raul followed us in his car.”

Finally she turned back to Baldwin and broke the spell. Peter sat back in his chair and took his first breath in eons. Sweat leaked from every pore.

“Are you sure he identified Mr. Dark as the person you were with?” Baldwin asked.

“Yes.” She set her lips in a firm line. “That night, at work, he said, ‘What are you doing with this gringo?’ He said ‘gringo’ like a swear word. He told me he loved me and that we were right for each other—right in front of Alvin. He told Alvin to stay away from me, or else.”

“Or else what?”

Vasquez sat rock-still, hands folded in front of him. Aguilar’s gaze locked on Peter again.

“He was very angry. He shouted, ‘Stay away from her, gringo, or I will follow you to a dark alley and kill you.”

Chapter 25

“I will follow you ... and kill you.”

Martina Aguilar’s words echoed in the silent courtroom. Peter shrank in his chair and wished she’d look at someone else—another juror, the defendant, anyone. But no—she picked him. Always him.

The stagnant, humid air became too thick to breathe. His shirt clung to his back and pinched his armpits. He closed his eyes, no longer able to sustain her glare, and massaged his temples. Surely they could all see the guilt on his face. Any moment now they would stop the trial, take him away, and his life would be over—ruined. The people he loved—Mom, Jimmy, Libby, Frankie—would disown him. He’d bring them nothing but shame.

He shuddered at the horrible prospect of prison, the loss of his home and community, and the shame. The shame, the guilt—he was already doomed to carry that on his conscience for the rest of his life.

Trembling, he opened his eyes. Nobody was looking at him after all. Everyone focused on the pretty Ms. Aguilar on the witness stand. He needed to do that, too.

“Mr. Dark was accused of drinking on the job.” Baldwin stepped closer to the witness and spoke in a softer tone of voice, more conversational. “Had you ever witnessed this behavior on his part before?”

“No, sir, I had not.”

“Was Mr. Dark acting differently? Strange in any way?” Tap, tap, tap on the legal pad.

“Alvin was not drinking.” Martina’s face reddened and her body snapped to rigid attention. “Alvin should not have been fired. It was Raul’s fault. His—and mine.”

The rumbling in the gallery outlasted two impatient gavel raps by Judge Green. Aguilar and Vasquez stared at each other, his gaze touched with a look of betrayal, hers with sadness.

“Please elaborate, Miss Aguilar,” Baldwin said, louder now.

“That drink was not Alvin’s,” she said. “Raul asked me to get him a drink. He was upset at me. I thought a drink might help calm him down. So I asked Alvin for a rum and coke—my favorite drink, so he wouldn’t suspect it was Raul’s. I meant to bring it to him, but then some customers entered and I needed to seat them. Raul never picked up that drink and never intended to. Instead he ratted on Alvin to Mr. Brown.” A sneer creased her delicate face.

“He simply left the drink on the bar for you to take at your leisure?”

“No. Alvin kept it behind the bar, where he prepares his drinks. Only customer drinks are left on the bar.”

“Were you present when Mr. Brown confronted Alvin about the drink?”

“Yes,” she said, red-faced. “Philip grabbed the drink and tasted it. He said, ‘Whose rum and Coke is this?’ Alvin said it was his—to protect me. Philip fired him on the spot.”

Baldwin angled his body toward the jury. “You didn’t speak up? Straighten them out?”

“I should have,” she said in a low voice. “But I panicked. Also I thought Raul would deny it. Then Mr. Brown might think it was my drink and fire me. I don’t know. I was confused.”

Peter let out a quiet hiss. Confused, hell. It wasn’t confusion, it was fear and selfishness. She stood by while her lover took the heat—heat that, in the end, got him killed.

“Did you speak with Raul about what happened?” Baldwin faced the jury more than the witness.

“Yes. Alvin left right away, and I confronted Raul.” She glared at Vasquez. “He said I must have misunderstood him—he didn’t want any rum. But he grinned like a dog eating garbage. So proud of himself.”

“Did this change your relationship with Mr. Vasquez?”

“Yes. I was very angry with him. I told Raul I would have nothing more to do with him if he was going to betray good people like this.”

Peter’s huff caught Baldwin’s attention. He didn’t care. Aguilar betrayed Alvin, too. Just like Marcia—well, almost. Close enough.

“How did Mr. Vasquez respond?” No pen tapping.

“He became very agitated and said he could not live without me in his life. He said he loved me and that I should be with him instead of men of Alvin’s type. He said I should not date a gringo, and that he and I were the same people—Mexican—so we belonged together.”

“And your response?” Baldwin turned almost completely away from her.

Aguilar raised her voice. “I told him, we are not the same people if his way was to hurt and deceive my friends. That I would stay with Alvin—not him.”

Just like Marcia:  a woman wanted by two men, who led one on until push came to shove—and then chose the other man. The interloper.

“How did Mr. Vasquez respond?”

Aguilar hesitated. “He ranted and raved, saying I was being foolish, and I should choose him instead. That Alvin was using me and would never love me like he would. He said he’d never accept it—he would do whatever it takes to win me back.”

Vasquez slumped in his chair. Tears flowed down his face. Peter’s jaw dropped. On trial for a murder he did not commit, Vasquez’s main concern was how this woman hurt him. Crazy.

“Did you have further contact with Mr. Vasquez between that night and the night of the murder?” Baldwin turned only his head toward her.

“Very little,” she said. “He called me and left long, rambling messages, saying he was sorry, and he wanted a second chance. He said I should rethink this, and that we would have a wonderful future together.”

“How would you describe the tone of these messages?”

“Very emotional. Remorseful, and angry at times. Really... desperate.”

Baldwin stepped to his desk and checked his notes. Peter’s shoulders tightened. His body ached from being held rigid throughout much of Aguilar’s testimony. He took slow breaths, but they only made him shiver with anticipation.

“On the night of the murder, when did you first see Alvin Dark?” Baldwin asked.

“Almost as soon as he entered,” Aguilar said. “He came to see me first, before Mr. Brown. At this point, we had nothing to hide.”

“Did Raul Vasquez see you together?”

“Yes. I told Alvin he should just get his paycheck and go, and that Raul was going to be angry if he saw him. Sure enough, he was.”

Peter uncrumpled his notepad. Of course Vasquez was mad. He saw his woman with another man. That can infuriate a man—make him angry enough to kill. To beat a man bloody, letting the rage pour through his swinging arms, rage relieved only by inflicting great pain on another. Rage that, perhaps, Raul Vasquez shared.

His victim’s face had registered shock when Peter swung the tire iron at him. Peter had assumed that the attack itself had surprised the man, but perhaps he’d been surprised only by the unknown identity of his attacker. A stranger, rather than his known enemy, Raul.

“Did you hear any of the argument in the parking lot between Mr. Dark and Mr. Vasquez?” Baldwin remained by his desk.

“A little. Raul told Alvin to stay away from me or he’d track him down and kill him. Alvin told Raul he was crazy, and to ask me who I want to be with. To stay away from both of us. Things like that.”

“Did you see Alvin Dark or Raul Vasquez leave the parking lot?”

“No,” Martina said. “I was inside by then.”

“When Raul didn’t come back to work that night, weren’t you worried?” Baldwin bounced one end of a pen off his palm.

“I didn’t notice it at first,” she said. “But Alvin called me while he was driving. He said he was going to go up to his cabin on Mt. Hood for a few days, to get away. I told him I’d join him, but he said no, he needed some alone time. Then, he said he was being followed.”

Peter froze. His chest was ready to explode.

Alvin knew he was being followed.

Chapter 26

The courtroom faded from Peter’s consciousness. All sights, all smells, all sounds left him—everything except the sight of Martina Aguilar’s bright red lips, straight white teeth, and thin, quick tongue.

The D.A. asked a question, but he couldn’t make out the words. He made up his own: Could Alvin Dark see Peter following him?

Martina’s lips moved in slow motion. He did not hear her words so much as channel them: “Yes, he did.” Oh, Christ. He tugged at his shirt collar. The air grew thicker, stuffier. Aguilar’s voice echoed again in his head: “He said he saw Raul’s truck, and recognized him.”

For some reason, Brenda Connelly stood up. Baldwin stood too, and said something about a “present sense impression.” The judge nodded and pointed at the clerk. They were talking about him. They were on to him.

He slid lower into his seat. Maybe they wouldn’t see him.

More vague noises emerged from the direction of the prosecutor. Gibberish.

“He specifically mentioned seeing Raul’s silver Mazda, weaving in and out of traffic, catching up to him,” Aguilar said.

Raul’s Mazda? Not a silver Ford Ranger? The two trucks were similar, almost twins. He took silent, shallow breaths. He hoped the other jurors didn’t notice his mouth hanging agape.

Connelly stood again. Her mouth moved but no words reached Peter’s ears. Baldwin aped her movements a moment later. Peter’s ears remained numb to Connelly’s voice, to Baldwin’s counter-arguments and Judge Green’s resolution of the dispute between the sparring lawyers. Instead he saw the red Camaro, using increasingly aggressive evasive tactics, and his own discreet attempts to follow. He searched his mental picture for Raul’s silver Mazda, but found nothing. Perhaps they’d lost him early, or Raul lost heart mid-chase. Or maybe Raul panicked when Peter’s Ranger entered the mix.

Martina Aguilar spoke again. “He very clearly described the truck. Silver, with a dark stripe, a late 90’s model with a slight dent in the hood. Raul had caused that dent himself—he had a habit of jumping up to sit on his hood, and he landed too hard one day.”

Baldwin mumbled another question.

“He followed pretty closely, but he was having difficulty.” Aguilar’s voice echoed in his head, low and rumbling like a man’s. “Alvin was trying to be unpredictable and hard to follow, hide in front of other vehicles, that sort of thing. But it’s hard to hide a red Camaro.”

Peter gulped. Alvin Dark probably tried screening his car from Raul behind Peter’s truck. Little did he know who posed the true threat.

Vague, irritating noises escaped Baldwin’s lips and rebounded off Peter’s ears. Aguilar’s lips moved again. The room shrank.

“At one point, he thought he lost him.” Aguilar’s voice seemed higher, less distorted. “When he turned onto Old Fairview Road, he said he saw Raul’s car go by in the rearview mirror. But up the road a ways, he saw headlights, and he said, ‘Raul’s picked up my tail again.’”

Not noticing it was a Ford Ranger rather than a similar Mazda pickup.

“We had to hang up then,” Aguilar said in response to whatever Baldwin asked her. “The signal was breaking up and Alvin wanted to have both hands on the wheel so he could get away from Raul.”

From me, Peter corrected her. Not him. Me.

“What?” Sheila elbowed him. “What do you mean by that?”

Oops. He must have said that out loud. “Nothing, nothing,” he whispered back. As he spoke, Martina Aguilar’s body reappeared behind her red lipstick, and his view expanded to include the courtroom, the judge, the prosecutor, and his fellow jurors.

His breathing steadied but remained labored. His parched mouth ached for water and his temples dripped with sweat. His fellow jurors seemed closer than before.

Vasquez came back into focus. He spoke into his attorney’s ear, his hands circling in the air. Peter knew what he was saying: He missed the turn. He didn’t follow him up there.

He relaxed his rigid back and pried his fingers off his knees. Poor Raul. He’d followed Alvin Dark just long enough to get spotted and give Peter cover. Vasquez, in effect, framed himself for this murder—a murder he intended to commit, but failed to execute. A murder Peter didn’t intend to commit, but did, on the wrong, doomed man.

“Did you hear from Alvin again?” Baldwin asked Aguilar a few moments later. His clear, baritone voice sounded normal again.

“No.” Aguilar shook her head.

“At that time, it had been over twelve hours since you’d heard from Alvin Dark. Were you concerned?”

“Not yet. As I mentioned, he said he was going out of town, and needed alone time. Also, he liked to sleep in.”

Peter wiped his sweaty forehead. Nobody paid him any attention, thank God—if they did, they’d find guilt written all over his face. Unlike his older brother, who could smooth-talk the devil into buying central heat, Peter had no poker face. In sixth grade, he denied writing “Susie sucks the big one” on the bathroom wall. For scribbling the insult, he received one detention. For lying he got three—and a beating from his father. Ever since, he’d always preferred to take his chances with candor, or silence.

Under these circumstances, silence seemed the wiser course.

Baldwin probed Aguilar further about the events of the days following the murder. After several minutes, he gave his notes a final scan and said, “No more questions of this witness, your honor.” An audible sigh of relief sounded from both the witness and the jury box.

Judge Green ordered a recess, and the jury hurried out. “That coffee’s running right through me,” Larry said, but he insisted that Dolores precede him into the restroom. “She’s diabetic,” he reminded them. The other jurors squirmed a little, waiting.

Peter approached the bailiff. “Mr. Williams, is it okay if I catch a little air?”

“Sure,” Williams said. “But don’t be late getting back. Murder trials wait for no man.”

He rushed out the door and broke into a slow jog down the courthouse hallway. He glanced at the elevator and smothered a gag. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly twisting an ankle at one point as his momentum built to an incautious, breakneck speed.

By the time he reached the exit, he was breathing hard, and with every breath he expelled air heavier than he inhaled. Only when he made it outside did the feeling of suffocation subside. He bent over to catch his breath and ignored the chattering urbanites passing by on their way to meetings, coffee shops and downtown boutiques.

Gray clouds filled the sky, threatening rain. Food wrappers, leaves, and torn newspapers swirled in the insistent chill wind. Nevertheless, sweat poured out of his overheated body. He gulped the fresh, cool air into his lungs, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and unfastened the next button on his thin cotton shirt. He shivered—whether from the cold or at the prospect of going back inside, he didn’t know.

He leaned against the gray stone wall of the courthouse and inhaled the familiar scent of second-hand smoke. Very familiar. Kools—Marcia’s brand. That reminded him—he hadn’t called her about Mom’s most recent stroke. As if she’d care.

Another whiff of smoke drifted past. He traced the smoke to an older gentleman, also wearing a “JUROR” tag on his belt, on break from a different case. Further up the street, however...

Like an apparition, Marcia walked towards him from the direction of the parking garage.

With a man. The man he’d thought he’d killed.

Peter collapsed against the courthouse wall. His stomach turned into a ball of thorny vines, old and dried and brittle, hurting in all directions. He felt cornered, like a hunted animal.

Marcia and her boyfriend hadn’t reacted to him yet. They probably hadn’t seen him. He still had a chance to escape this accidental meeting. They walked closer. At any moment they would spot him. They took another step, then another. She started to look up –

With a loud grunt, he tore himself away from the wall, and dashed inside the courthouse. There was no line at security. He fussed with his belt, emptied his pockets, walked through the metal detector—and set off the alarm. He nearly jumped out of his shoes. His shoes!

The bored security guard pointed at his loafers. “Take ’em off and try again.”

He did. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! “What now?” Sweat dripped from his face.

“Cell phone, watch? Ah, your Juror ID tag,” the guard said. Sure enough, it had a metal clip. Exasperated, he tossed the tag into a plastic tray and this time he made it through.

He scooped up his belongings, slipped on his shoes, and hurried up the stairs two at a time, organizing his things as he went, with mixed success. He shoved his keys into his pocket, but spilled half of his change on the stairs. He left it, kept climbing, and slid the juror ID string over his head. It caught on his ear. He flipped his head to free it. The plastic card whipped away from his chest and slapped his cheek and nose. Frustrated, he yanked the plastic string downwards. It scraped the back of his earlobe and the nape of his neck. He held the string in front of his chest to keep it from flapping into his face and climbed the remaining stairs.

“What happened?” Larry asked when he entered the jury room. “You get in a fight?”

“You’re bleeding,” Christine said. “On your nose.” She rose from the table reached out with a napkin to dab the offending redness away.

“I’m fine.” He waved her away. “I’ll take care of it.”

The restroom door opened and Alex came out. Stanley, waiting by the door, waved Peter in. “You need it more than I do. You look like you just ran a marathon.”

He felt it, too. He’d been sweating all morning, long before he’d run down and up the stairs. He dashed inside, closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath. The putrid smell of the lavatory gagged him. He covered his mouth with toilet paper and used his free hand to dab at the blood coagulating on the bridge of his nose.

Marcia, dammit. Of all people to show up here. Maybe she’d come to sign the final divorce papers. But then, she wouldn’t need to bring him. Peter’s heart pounded.

Except for Stanley, the other jurors had already returned to the courtroom when he opened the restroom door. “Ask them to wait for me,” Stanley said. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Will do.” A few jurors eyed him with curiosity when he rejoined them in the jury box. He flashed them a broad smile, took his seat, and avoided further eye contact.

Especially with the couple seated at the rear of the public gallery.

Marcia. And her new man, Mr. Unibrow.

He slouched in his seat and ducked his head low behind Sheila and Alex. As far as he could tell, Marcia hadn’t yet spotted him. He snuck another glance at the man next to her, noting his curly brown hair and confident blue eyes. He did look a lot like Alvin Dark.

Suddenly Marcia’s jaw dropped, and she clutched the curly-haired man’s arm. After a moment, her mouth formed silent words:  What are you doing here?

He wanted to ask her the same thing. Instead he played it cool. He turned away and pretended to listen to the mumblings in the jury box. When he stole a glance back, she was still gawking at him. He’d lost the stare-down. So much for cool.

The curly-haired man said something to her. She whispered something back and gestured toward the jury box. Their whispers caught the attention of Malcolm Baldwin, who signaled the bailiff. Williams escorted them both from the room. The big wooden doors closed behind them.

Moments later the door opened. To his relief, Martina Aguilar re-entered the courtroom and returned to the witness stand. Christine cocked her head at him, arched an eyebrow, and pointed at the door. He gave a tiny shrug, palms up. Her stare continued. Alex, too, locked Peter with a curious stare.

He turned away. He pretended—even tried—to listen to Connelly’s cross-examination of Martina Aguilar. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to hear about her love triangle any more, about how she could accept the love of one man, and give it to another. He closed his eyes. Then it was Marcia rather than Martina on the stand, giving excuses, telling lies, manipulating men, creating hurt and anger in her wake.

He shut his mind and his ears to Aguilar’s soft voice. Forget that. Marcia, his ex-wife, was somehow connected to this trial—and soon, he would find out why.

Chapter 27

Late in the morning, the courtroom darkened. Fat raindrops pelted the windows, and a strong breeze bent the tall branches visible through the glass. Martina Aguilar’s skin darkened as the sunlight faded into the bluish fluorescent glow from above. Brenda Connelly, standing nearby, blended into the neutral tones of her pantsuit.

“Did Mr. Dark actually see—or say he saw—Mr. Vasquez in the vehicle following him?” Connelly asked Aguilar.

“Yes,” Aguilar said. “He said, ‘That’s Raul. It’s got to be Raul.’”

Connelly raised her eyebrows. “Hmm. ‘It’s got to be?’ Not, ‘I see him?’ Or, ‘that’s definitely him?’”

“It was his car,” Aguilar said. “He described it to a T. Raul drove off in his truck from Florentino’s. It had to be him.” Vasquez, across the room, wagged his head at her.

Peter chewed a fingernail. Vasquez may have been there, but he had company in a silver Ford Ranger.

“Ms. Aguilar, do you know the license plate number of Raul Vasquez’s truck?”

“No.”

“Model and year?”

“Mazda B2200, 1996 or 1997.”

“To your knowledge, is there anything specific about those model years that make them stand out?”

“Not those model years, but Raul’s has the dent and one headlight points off to one side.”

“Ms. Aguilar,” Connelly said, “how many silver Mazda pickup trucks are there in the Portland metropolitan area?”

Or Ford Rangers...

“Not very many. That is, I don’t see many.”

“Do you think that Raul Vasquez has the only one?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Ms. Aguilar,” Connelly said, “you testified that you have been a passenger in Mr. Vasquez’s truck many times. Even you cannot be sure that if you spot a silver Mazda pickup in traffic that it is Raul Vasquez’s. Yet, you are somehow sure that Mr. Dark, who has never been in Mr. Vasquez’s truck, and who was talking on his cell phone with you while driving, could identify his vehicle in traffic, at night?”

Baldwin objected on so many grounds, Judge Green had to interrupt him in order to sustain the objection. No matter. Connelly had made her point. But Peter’s spirits lifted. If no one could positively identify the driver in pursuit as Vasquez, whom everyone had reason to suspect, then no one could identify Peter, either.

“Mr. Dark told you he saw Mr. Vasquez miss the turn, correct?” Connelly asked.

“Yes. That’s what he said.”

“Then he noticed he was being followed again. Was he positive it was still Raul’s truck? In the dark, on a winding, unlit road, he could tell it was Raul’s, and told you so?”

“He said, ‘There he is again.’ He also cursed.” Martina paused. “I don’t want to repeat that part.”

“No need.” Connelly’s smile broke the tension a bit. “But did he specifically say it was Raul’s truck? Or just that it was a set of headlights?”

“He said it was Raul.” Martina looked down at her hands.

Alex, Christine, and Dolores nodded. Larry squinted and puckered his mouth, and Stanley slouched with his arms crossed. Connelly had created some doubt.

Connelly said, “Ms. Aguilar, were you present when Mr. Vasquez told Philip Brown about Mr. Dark’s rum drink?”

“No,” Aguilar said. “Philip told me about it later.”

“Did you inform him then that the rum drink was Mr. Vasquez’s rather than Mr. Dark’s?”

“No.” Aguilar bowed her head. Her eyes darted from side to side. “I was confused and afraid of losing my own job. Alvin has other bartending jobs—I knew he’d be fine. Raul was my friend. I didn’t want him fired too. I didn’t know what to do. So I said nothing.”

She said nothing, did nothing...Peter shook his head. No, she did plenty. Left one man, deceived another. He clenched his teeth until they hurt. He needed air again, but even on a break, he couldn’t risk leaving the building, in case Marcia was out there again. He loosened the collar around his neck and tried to deepen his shallow inhalations, without success.

The clock read 11:38. They’d be here another twenty or so minutes, knowing Judge Green. Twenty long, suffocating minutes. He cursed his good-boy behavior during voir dire that kept him on this jury. He wanted to escape, and put this “civic duty” behind him forever. That, and everything that had happened since last November: Alvin Dark. Marcia. Red Camaros.

On its own volition, his hand reached toward the clock, twisting left as if to turn it back—way back, before the trial, before Marcia left him, before Mom’s stroke.

Before he became a murderer.

The judge raised her eyebrows at him, and at his hand, still extended toward the clock. How long it had been there he could not say. He dropped it, ears burning. Oh, great. Now the judge would think him wacko. Christine didn’t seem to notice, thank God.

Connelly pressed for more details about Martina Aguilar’s phone conversation with Alvin Dark on the night of the murder. Peter’s attention wandered in circles among the slow rotations of the clock’s second hand, Marcia’s empty seat, and the big double doors she’d walked through minutes before. Like the big wooden door she walked through when she left him. The night his life fell apart. The night he killed a man.

The clock’s second hand swept around again, edging closer to noon, to their lunch break. He urged it on, but this time he kept his hand by his side. Time to flee this room, to think about something other than what happened that night. To retreat and, once again, not be noticed.

A few minutes before noon, Aguilar stepped down from the stand and strode through the same double doors Marcia used an hour before. Vasquez’s eyes followed her.

Alex turned to face Peter. “Talk about a guilty look,” he whispered.

Peter’s eyes grew wide. “Who? Vasquez?”

Alex’s brows furrowed. “No,” he said in a spooky voice. “I mean... you!” He pointed a thick finger into Peter’s chest.

A moment later, Alex burst into laughter. “Dude,” he said, “you should’ve seen the look on your face just now!” He slapped Peter on the back and strode into the jury room.

Peter stood frozen for several moments, then dashed through the door after him. He had to know what his face had given away. But by the time he got there, Alex had disappeared.

Chapter 28

Christine caught up with Peter at the top of the stairs. Sweat dripped down his neck. His chest felt heavy, as if congested. “So, do we have a lunch date?” she asked.

“Um...could I take a rain check?” He gripped the thick wooden stair rail. “I—I have some things to do.”

“How about tomorrow, then?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, lifting them ever so slightly. As if they needed the help.

“Tomorrow’s great.” Don’t stare. “My treat.”

“You bet it is!” She affected a playful pout. “For a moment, I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten? Me? No, never. I never forget a promise.” He averted his eyes.

“I can tell that about you.” She inched closer. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I’m, ah, I’m fine.” Carlos passed them and waved. Peter acknowledged him with a nod. “Just a little distracted.”

“A little?” she said. “I’d say a lot. Anything you want to talk about?”

“Oh, you know. All the stuff we talked about yesterday. Frankie, my mom’s stroke...”

“I’m so sorry you’re going through this.” Concern clouded her face. She touched his arm. He jerked back at her touch. Her expression turned to surprise, a little hurt.

“I’m sorry.” His hand covered the spot she’d just touched. “I’m a little jumpy today.”

“I’ll say.” She retracted her hand. “Well, try to relax over lunch. Call your mom—it’ll cheer you both up. And try not to worry. At least not about Frankie. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He took a step down the stairs. “See you at 1:30.”

“Hey, one more thing.” She dropped down to the step in front of him. “I noticed you staring at a woman in the back row—the gal that left. Do you know her?”

He stared at her. “N-no. I don’t know who you mean.”

She frowned. “Okay, Mystery Man. If you say so.” She peered into his eyes another moment, then proceeded down the stairs.

He waited behind. Bad enough that Marcia had appeared on the scene, but for Christine to notice his reaction... He grasped the banister to steady himself. He shut his eyes for a minute, maybe two, until his dizziness passed.

He hurried out of the courthouse building, pulling on his jacket as he went. Overcast skies cooled the outside air, and a continuous drizzle soaked the street and sidewalk. He crossed the street mid-block into a small park and shuffled his feet through the damp grass to sit on a bench facing away from the courthouse. Cold droplets chilled his legs through his thin cotton slacks. He didn’t care. In fact, it felt good. He expelled the stale courtroom air from his lungs and inhaled the cool breeze blowing against his face. Office workers from nearby government and insurance buildings ambled past in search of a quick, cheap lunch. Eavesdropping on their conversation sure beat dwelling on his own tortured recollections. Better to hear strangers discuss their normal, boring lives than think about the mess he’d made of his own.

Easier said than done, though. His life was in chaos, especially his family life. His marriage had crumbled while Mom wasted away in the hospital. Jimmy and Libby constantly harangued him about her care, but seemed unable or unwilling to help. Like his father, they disapproved of everything he did—what they knew, anyway. Some parts they would never know, God help him.

He had only recently told his siblings about his impending divorce. Their shock and indignation, while predictable, doubled his despair. They adored Marcia. Instead of providing comfort and support, they blamed him. At first, anyway. Finally, last week, Jimmy wrote him a long letter to express his regrets and offer prayer. That helped.

Forget telling Mom. She was too out of it most of the time anyway, and he didn’t want to upset her during her rare coherent moments.

In any event, what truly troubled him—the murderous work of his own two hands—he could never share with them. Even with Frankie, his closest friend, he held back the most relevant details. He couldn’t trust any of them with his secret. This saddened him further, a feeling exacerbated by the isolation of the cold, dreary park.

Gray clouds peeked through the wet branches overhead. A chilly mist drifted onto his face, punctuated by the occasional heavier droplet surrendered by the leaves overhead. Portland’s omnipresent rain bothered some—Elizabeth, in particular, moved to sunny Sacramento to escape the depression it caused her—but he found it comforting. Even now he appreciated how the soft drizzle wended its way through the thick canopy, nourishing the lush green grass below.

It wasn’t raining on November 17, though, which is why he left no tracks.

He sighed. Everything always came back to that one night. Today, this week, the rest of his life—every day, from now on, would be defined by it. No matter what else he ever did, he would always live in its shadow.

He stood, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked along the concrete path, his eyes cast downward to his black Rockports, his wet laces loose but carefully double-knotted. Frankie had turned him on to the soft-soled shoes, dressy enough to wear to meet clients but comfortable enough for standing long days on the shop floor. Good old Frankie. Always there when he needed him.

Peter hadn’t returned that favor much lately. He’d promised to help his old friend, but he hadn’t really kept his promise. Frankie had screwed up, following his impulse, but then, so had he. The big difference:  Frankie got caught, and he hadn’t.

Yet, anyway.

He shivered, huddled his arms close to his sides and ducked his neck into the collar of his coat. Time to get indoors somewhere and find some lunch.

He claimed a tiny booth in a nearby sub shop, ate a bland turkey club sandwich and washed it down with over-sweetened fountain lemonade. Halfway through lunch, a familiar voice spoke in hushed tones behind him.

“I can’t go back in,” the woman said. “Seeing him in there was too spooky. On the jury, no less.”

Marcia! Lemonade shot out of his nose. He covered his face with a napkin.

“You have to go,” a man’s voice said. The other man. The would-be dead man.

Peter tossed his sandwich down on his tray. He’d lost his appetite. She had to go, the man had said. Baldwin must have subpoenaed her. She would not only return to the courtroom, but would testify. Things could not get worse.

He sipped his drink. He should leave. He tossed his crumpled-up napkin onto the brown plastic food tray and reached for his jacket.

“Can I clear this away from you, sir?” A cheerful teenage boy in a bright orange T-shirt and paper hat reached for his tray with a smile. Peter nodded and reached to set the lemonade on the tray. It teetered on the edge of the tray and toppled onto his lap. The flimsy plastic lid popped off the cup and the icy liquid doused his slacks.

“Damn!” He brushed the ice off his pants.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” The young man offered him a damp rag and a wad of fresh napkins.

“No, no, my fault.” He slid out of the wet booth and bolted out the door, away from Marcia and her boyfriend, hoping they hadn’t noticed him in the commotion.

Forty minutes later, outfitted with new Dockers from Nordstrom’s, he carried his lemonade-drenched clothes in a shopping bag in one hand and dialed OHSU hospital with the other. He avoided asking for Angela Wegman. He couldn’t bear it now, knowing her connection to Alvin Dark. As a result, it took most of the walk back to the courthouse to reach anyone who could update him on his mother’s condition: stable, conscious, not saying much, but responsive. She would be released back to Sunset Gardens the next day. “But you may want to check into getting her a higher level of care—perhaps a private nurse,” the intern said. As if he needed one more thing to do this week.

Then the courthouse loomed into view. Suddenly anything seemed preferable to the afternoon’s testimony.

Chapter 29

“Where is everybody?” Peter asked when he returned to the jury room at ten after one. Christine sat alone at the table, sipping coffee from a lipstick-smudged JavaTown cup. For a change, the long, narrow room seemed spacious. He sat next to her.

“Alex is in the restroom.” Her knee pressed against his. “The others all went their separate ways, I guess.”

The hallway door opened, and her knee jerked away. Carlos entered with Ellen, Peter’s courtroom seat neighbor, and Betty, the elderly black woman. Ellen and Betty sat across from Peter and Christine.

“No coffee?” Carlos lifted the empty pot.

“No Larry,” Christine said.

“Am I in the right jury room?” Ellen asked.

“I’ve been asking myself that all week,” Peter said.

“Yeah, you’ve seemed a little distracted at times,” Ellen said. Christine’s eyes widened.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m paying attention. I find this case very interesting.”

“Me, too,” Carlos said. He located coffee and filters in the cabinets and struggled a bit with the task of making a fresh pot. “I can’t wait for jury deliberations, so we can talk about some of this testimony. Especially this morning’s.”

“You like Martina Aguilar, eh?” Christine asked.

“Who wouldn’t?” Alex said, emerging from the restroom. “She’s a hotina!”

Carlos stopped pouring water into the coffeemaker. He shook his head, took a deep loud breath and resumed pouring.

“Careful,” Ellen said. “The last time a gringo hit on her, a man died.”

Glass crashed in the far end of the room. Peter bolted out of his seat and whirled in the direction of the all-too-familiar sound.

“Mierda!” Carlos held a white plastic handle in his hand. The shattered pieces of the coffee carafe littered the floor and counter. He unplugged the coffee maker and crunched across the broken glass toward the other jurors.

“I am sick and tired of the bigotry of this courtroom, and this country!” Carlos waved the carafe handle in the air. “The lawyers, the witnesses—now, the jury!” The stunned jurors stared, frozen in their seats. Peter slid back into his.

“It was just a joke.” Ellen pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry if it offended you.”

“Me too,” Alex said. “I just meant, I think she’s hot.”

Carlos tossed the carafe handle into a nearby trash can. He took a moment to collect himself. “No, it is I who must apologize.” He bowed his head. “It was inappropriate for me to shout, and to break this public property.”

“It was an accident,” Peter said. “No apology necessary.”

“Larry might disagree.” Christine smirked. “But you make a good point, Mr. Rodriguez. We should all be more sensitive.”

Carlos bent to pick up the pieces of broken glass from the floor. Ellen brought her notepad to him. “Scoop the pieces onto this,” she said.

“Thank you,” Carlos said. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess.”

“I’ll say!” Larry’s voice thundered in the doorway. “Reckon I’m out of luck with the coffee wagon today. Hey, let me help you.” He produced a whisk broom and plastic dust pan from the cabinet under the sink and had the glass cleaned up moments later.

“There’s still tea,” Christine said to Dolores, who had entered behind Larry. “Sit here and I’ll make you some.” She walked behind Peter’s chair to the sink, brushing her hand on his shoulder as she passed. His skin tingled at her touch. He glanced at her, but, walking away from him, she didn’t notice. Alex did and snickered. Warmth rose in his neck and cheeks.

“I will bring in a new carafe tomorrow,” Carlos said.

“Don’t do that. The county ought to provide it.” Larry put away the broom. “I’ll remind Mr. Williams.”

“You rang?” The bailiff appeared in the doorway to the courtroom, as if summoned. “Holy cow, where is everybody? It’s almost 1:30!” Three more jurors entered. “Missing four,” he said. “I guess we’ll be starting late this afternoon.”

“That’s okay.” Peter ignored Christine’s hostile glare. He could wait as long as it took for Marcia’s testimony.

They didn’t have to wait long. When the bailiff returned a few minutes later, the missing jurors had returned. “Great!” he said. “We’ll bring you back inside pronto.”

Christine sat next to Peter at the table. “So much for this judge being tough.” She fumbled in her purse. “She’s become such a pushover. People come in late and now she waits for them. What’s it going to take for someone to get kicked off this jury?”

Peter toyed with his wedding ring. “I dunno. Probably, someone gets sick or something. We’ve already eliminated folks with biases.” Well, most, anyway. He affected an air of indifference.

Christine’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in the shape of an “O”. “What did you say?” she asked in a whisper.

Sweat dripped from his scalp. “About biases?”

“No, before that.”

Thank God. “I said if someone gets sick, they would have to drop off the jury.”

“Yes, they would, wouldn’t they.” She grinned and tapped his knee. “Not that we’d wish that on anyone here.” She glanced at Alex, leaning back in his chair, and winked. Peter winked back. He wished Alex no harm, but he’d rather spend late hours with Christine than with him.

The afternoon session began with a lawyer’s conference at the bench. Judge Green seemed to be questioning the prosecutor. Baldwin spoke in hushed tones, waved his hands and peeked over his shoulder at the empty back-row seats where Marcia and her boyfriend had been.

Oh, shit. Marcia must have told the prosecutor who he was. Maybe they’d throw him off the jury, even charge with something, like contempt of court or jury tampering. There would be a mistrial, a new investigation. In a moment they would arrest him. He would take Vasquez’s place in the defendant’s chair and, like Raul, endure testimony from his former lover about his jealousy, his unknown whereabouts that night, and his silver pickup. Time to go. To run –

The heavy wooden doors at the rear of the courtroom opened. Marcia and her curly-haired boyfriend entered. Malcolm Baldwin clasped his hands together as if in jubilant, thankful prayer. Marcia sat next to her friend in the back row of the gallery. Nowhere to run, now. Peter cursed under his breath, louder than he intended. Christine cocked an eyebrow. He ignored her.

“The state calls David Simmons,” Baldwin said. Marcia’s friend shuffled forward. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Not Marcia. For now, at least, their connection remained a secret.

About six-two, with an athletic build, Simmons had an out-of-season tan and a full head of brown curls. Thick eyebrows converged over his nose, and his pocked cheeks betrayed a history of acne. But he was confident, calm, and self-assured—all things Peter would not be if he were taking the stand.

“Mr. Simmons.” Baldwin stood at his desk. “You were at Florentino’s the night of November 17, were you not?”

“I was,” Simmons said in a strong baritone.

“Were you dining alone, or with a companion?”

Peter ignored Simmons’s reply and provided his own: With another man’s wife. Marcia, in the back row, hid her face.

“Did you encounter the defendant, Raul Vasquez, that evening?”

“Yes,” Simmons said. “I first saw Mr. Vasquez inside the restaurant. I was coming out of the men’s room. He was standing very close to the wall in the hallway, peeking around the corner. I thought it looked a little strange.”

“What did you do when you saw him there?”

“I walked past him to the dining room,” he said. “Out of curiosity, I peeked back to see his face. Then I turned in the direction he was looking. I saw a young woman—the hostess—talking to Mr. Dark. He seemed to be eavesdropping on them.”

“Objection! Conjecture.” Connelly remained seated.

“Sustained,” Judge Green said. “Jury will disregard the final remark.”

Baldwin flipped to the next page of his notes. “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“About ten minutes till nine.”

8:48, to be precise.

“When you entered the parking lot, what did you see?”

“First, I caught up to my g- ah, friend, at her car, and t-talked with her for a f-few moments.”

Talked, sure. Communicated, all right. Probably without a stutter.

“Then,” Simmons said, “we heard some men’s voices. They were qu-quarreling. One had a Hispanic accent—the defendant.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Not at first. We were t-talking in her c-car.”

Liar. Peter grasped the sides of his chair. No doubt they used their lips and tongue, but not for talking.

“But I could tell they were angry,” Simmons said. “They were yelling. The defendant more than the other guy.”

“Could you see them?”

“N-not from the car. N-no sir.” Simmons stared at Marcia. Her hand fluttered in front of her face. No help there.

Baldwin hesitated. “Did you hear anything, any loud noises?”

“N-no sir.”

“Are you sure about that?” Baldwin’s ears and face turned bright red.

Marcia gave Simmons an almost imperceptible nod.

“Yes, I’m s-sure,” Simmons said.

Marcia smiled and brushed an imaginary stray hair away from her face.

Peter’s head grew light. Simmons just lied under oath—at Marcia’s direction. But why?

Chapter 30

“When you left the vehicle, what did you see and hear?” Baldwin asked, eyebrows arched.

“The defendant pushed the other man against a car,” Simmons said. “A red Camaro.”

Marcia sat erect in her seat. Her entire body swiveled toward Peter. He bit the insides of his mouth until it hurt. Do not look at her. Do not look at her.

“Then what happened?”

“The defendant poked the other man in the chest,” Simmons said. “He said to the other man, ‘I will track you down and kill you, man. Stay away from her,’ he said.”

Marcia jerked her head back toward Simmons and frowned. Peter relaxed a bit. The look on her face said it all: Simmons got it wrong. That, she couldn’t abide.

“How sure are you of that wording?” Baldwin turned redder by the moment. “Is that exactly what he said?”

“I may have it a little out of order,” Simmons said. “He may have said ‘Stay away from her’ first.”

“But you clearly heard the defendant threaten to hunt down and kill the other man?”

Marcia leaned forward, eyes wide with approval. He knew that look, too. It was “hunt down,” as Baldwin said, not “track down.”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said.

Larry and Carlos wrote in their blue notebooks. Peter crumpled his a little more.

Baldwin seemed to relax a little. “What happened next?”

“I returned to my f-friend’s car and advised her to leave right away, w-which she did,” Simmons said. “I noticed that the white guy had gotten into his car and was leaving, too. He –”

“Did you get a good look at the man’s face?” Baldwin asked.

“Yes, but very briefly.”

Frustrated frowns crossed the face of several jury members. “This guy’s confusing,” Alex whispered. Peter didn’t mind his rival’s discomfort one bit.

“Would you be able to identify him from a photograph?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Baldwin returned to his desk, and a moment later introduced another photo into evidence. “Is this the man you saw threatened by Raul Vasquez?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Simmons identified the victim, Alvin Dark.”

The clerk passed a copy of the photo to the jury. Whether from morbid curiosity or fastidious concern with detail, each juror took a long look at the victim’s face. Fine. Peter could wait. He knew that face all too well.

“After Mr. Dark exited the parking lot, what happened next?” Baldwin asked.

“Well, Marcia—er, my friend—had left just ahead of him,” Simmons said. At the mention of Marcia’s name, Peter’s neck muscles tightened, and his hands clenched in his lap. His body refused to relax. Certainly the other jurors noticed.

Sure enough, Christine bobbed her head toward the back row. “Marcia?” she mouthed. “Your ex?”

He screwed up his face, as if he didn’t understand. Christine pointed at Marcia, then at him, and slid an imaginary ring onto her finger.

Damn, damn, damn. His ears burned. He turned back to the witness.

“I crossed the parking lot to my car,” Simmons said. “As it happened, I was parked next to Mr. Vasquez.”

The photo of Alvin Dark reached him. He studied Alvin Dark’s face, and his genuine, carefree smile. Familiar, yet not the face he remembered in the Camaro: first in a state of bewilderment, then childlike fear... surprise and pain, then the blood...the beating...

He retched once, trying to be quiet, but didn’t quite succeed. Fortunately, nothing came out. He suppressed the billowing urge in his throat and passed the photo to Ellen. “Are you okay?” she whispered. He nodded, but held a hand over his mouth.

“Mr. Vasquez was in his car with the window rolled down, fumbling with his keys in the ignition,” Simmons said. “He seemed upset, so I asked him what was wrong. His car had stalled and he was trying to restart it. I told him to wait a bit, the engine was probably flooded. He thanked me and a few seconds later the car started.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He said, ‘That hibrido is stealing my woman. I cannot let him do this.’ Then he put the car in gear and left in a big hurry.”

Stealing his woman. Because of the asshole on the witness stand, Peter knew that feeling all too well. Marcia covered her mouth again, this time with both hands.

Her hands. Something was wrong.

“Did you see him turn out of the parking lot?” Baldwin asked.

“No. I know he turned left, because I did too, and I caught up with him at a red light. But then he tore off as soon as it changed, and I didn’t catch up with him again.”

Peter ground his teeth. So many times his path nearly crossed with Simmons. So many close calls.

“You didn’t catch up with him, you say, but could you see his car in traffic?”

“Yes, now and again.”

“How was he driving?”

“Aggressively,” Simmons said. “Way over the speed limit, changing lanes, tailgating, that sort of thing. He drove like he really meant to catch up with someone.”

“Objection. Impugning motive,” Connelly said.

“Sustained,” Judge Green said. “Jury will disregard Mr. Simmons’s last remark.”

Baldwin shuffled through his notes. “Did you follow him past the turn-off to Old Fairview Road?”

Marcia nodded. Simmons took the cue. “Yes, that was on my route home.” No stutter.

“As you passed this turn-off, did you notice whether Mr. Dark’s Camaro or Mr. Vasquez’s pickup truck took that turn-off?”

Peter leaned forward. His chest felt huge and hollow.

Simmons coughed into his hand and averted his eyes from Baldwin and the jury. “I saw two vehicles take that turn. The first was definitely a red Camaro. The second ... it l-looked like Mr. V-Vasquez’s vehicle. A silver pickup.”

“I have no more questions of this witness, your honor,” Baldwin said.

Peter leaned back in his chair and filled his lungs with stale air. Simmons was either lying or mistaken. Either way, he seemed to be taking direction from Marcia.

He hoped they were mistaken. If they were lying, they knew entirely too much.

Chapter 31

Judge Green ordered a brief recess. Peter took his usual seat in the jury room and slumped forward, arms crossed to form a pillow, eyes closed.

A hand pressed his shoulder. “Peter,” Christine said, “are you all right?”

He sat back and opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re worrying me. You seem troubled. Are you sure you’ll be able to continue?”

“Yes!” he said, sharper than he intended. “I mean—sure. I’m fine.” Behind her, Sheila pretended not to listen.

Christine sat next to him. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” She searched his face. He hoped his fear didn’t show.

“I know there’s something burdening you.” Her brown eyes grew soft. “Whatever it is, you need to talk about it to someone. I’m willing to listen. If not me, then another friend or a family member. You’ll be much better off if you do. Trust me.” She squeezed his shoulder, then dropped her hands to her lap. His mouth opened, then closed, wordless.

“Peter,” she said after several seconds, “please, say something.”

“Okay.” His voice sounded like gravel. He cleared his throat. “Really. I’m okay.” She was right. He should talk about it to someone. Someone he trusted—whoever that might be.

“It’s your mom, isn’t it?”

“It’s...Mom, and everything.” He rubbed his eyes. Damn. He’d known her less than a week and already he was lying to her. But the alternative—telling her he’d killed Alvin Dark—seemed a far worse option.

“Maybe your brother can help you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Yeah... I’ll talk to my brother tonight.” About Mom.

“Good!” She brightened. “Okay, well, I need a potty break. You relax a little, okay? You worry me.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with false bravado. “I’ll be fine.”

Fifteen short minutes later, Brenda Connelly strode to within a few feet of David Simmons on the witness stand. “When you were in your friend’s car,” she asked, “how much attention did you pay to the events outside of her vehicle?”

“Oh, not much,” Simmons said. “We were mostly p-paying at-t-tention to each other.”

Paying attention, hell. Understatement of the year.

“I see,” Connelly said. “So you couldn’t make out what they were saying?”

At the words “make out,” Peter’s whole body twitched. Snickers spread across in the courtroom.

“N-not while w-we were in the c-car. We just h-heard shouting.”

His knuckles whitened and crumpled the cotton fabric of his slacks. He could have caught them red-handed if he’d followed them into the parking lot. Instead, he waited—and a man died.

“So you heard no threats of any kind while you were, uh, talking in your friend’s car?”

Stop it, he wanted to shout. His fellow jurors seemed to enjoy Connelly’s word game and Simmons’s humiliation—and appeared oblivious to Peter’s.

“No, ma’am, Not until we got out—I got out of the car.” Simmons winced.

“Very well then.” Connelly returned to her desk and checked her notes. “Let’s revisit what you heard outside the vehicle.” She walked Simmons back through the argument between Alvin and Raul. Some jurors seemed bored. Mike Jeffries, the carpenter, followed a fly’s random struggle against the tall windows across the room. Sheila’s eyelids sank shut, and her chin drifted forward to her chest. Alex ogled a woman in the gallery. Only Stan and Dolores seemed to pay close attention, taking occasional notes in their blue notebooks. Peter had yet to take a single note in his. Maybe he should start. He picked it up off the floor, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, and opened the book to its first blank page.

“Did you see or hear anything else? A loud bang, perhaps? A crash?”

“I heard a loud noise, a bang of some sort. I thought maybe it was the restaurant workers closing the lid to the dumpster or something.”

“You didn’t see what caused the noise?”

“No, ma’am.”

Connelly frowned again. “Very well. How long did it take Mr. Vasquez to leave the parking lot after Alvin had left?”

Simmons furrowed his brow. “Mr. Dark left the lot right about the time I reached Mr. Vasquez’s car. We talked a bit...I’d say it all took place in about 45 seconds to a minute.”

Longer than Brown had thought. Simmons continued to add confusion to the mix.

“And how much later did you leave, after Mr. Vasquez?”

Marcia raised her left pinky finger, then the adjacent one, and used them to brush another stray curl away from her face. Her “I’m lying” tic. Usually, though, she used her entire hand. This time she used only her fingers.

Something seemed different about her fingers.

Simmons cleared his throat. “One or t-two minutes. Maybe more. I wasn’t actually trying to follow him, we just happened to be going the same direction.”

Marcia’s fingers danced through her hair again. A burst of sunlight lightened her curls and whitened the freckles on her arm. Yet nothing glistened where it should have—not a single speck of gold, nor the slightest flicker of tiny diamonds.

No wedding ring.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. The unanswered calls, her insistence on communicating only through lawyers should have told him: she moved on from him the moment she’d walked out the door six months ago. Still, seeing her naked finger made it real. The symbol of her commitment to him was gone.

In that moment, six months of hope, of pining for her, of harboring a fantasy that she would somehow, someday change her mind and come back to him, all seemed ridiculous. She considered them no longer married, no longer part of each others’ worlds. She was no longer his.

This day had to come, eventually. With their final divorce papers signed, it made sense she’d remove the ring. But he wasn’t quite ready to see it. Not yet. Not in the middle of all this. His eyes moistened. He blinked. No tears. No, no, no. Hold firm. Steady. Steady.

Christine cocked her head. She pantomimed sliding a ring onto her left hand, then pulling it off again, her hands flat against her stomach. A sly smile crossed her face.

He was so screwed.

Chapter 32

Peter’s breathing grew shallow and hot again. He loosened another button on his shirt and pulled the collar up to get air onto his neck. Ellen offered him a fresh bottle of water. He squirted some into his mouth. Water splashed onto his chin, dripped down his throat and soaked his white undershirt. Dammit! “Thanks.” He offered the bottle back to her.

“Keep it,” she whispered.

Maintain. Maintain. Somehow, maintain.

“When you caught up to Mr. Vasquez in traffic,” Connelly asked, “was Mr. Dark’s red Camaro visible to you?”

“Not at first.”

“When did you see it?”

“At the turn-off to Old Fairview Road.”

Fairview...? Oh, shit.

Connelly took a quick step toward the witness. “You said the second vehicle ‘looked like’ Mr. Vasquez’s pickup. Can you be certain it was his truck?”

“I... I’m pretty sure it was.”

Good boy.

“Pretty sure? Not absolutely certain?”

Peter leaned forward. Be certain. Be absolutely certain.

Simmons appealed once again to Marcia. No help there. “Not... absolutely certain, no.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons. No more questions.”

“Redirect, Mr. Baldwin?” asked Judge Green.

“Yes, your honor.” Baldwin pushed his body out of the chair. “Mr. Simmons, after you left the parking lot, how long did you drive before you caught up with Mr. Vasquez?”

“I’d say, a couple of minutes.”

“When in traffic, were you driving particularly fast? Over the speed limit?”

Simmons worked his lips a moment. “Um, n-no...”

“Was traffic heavy, or light?” Baldwin asked.

Heavy. Totally clogged.

“F-fairly light, as I recall,” Simmons said. “Plenty of distance between vehicles.”

“So if you had been trying to catch up to Mr. Vasquez, you would have had no trouble.” A statement, not a question.

“Objection,” Connelly said. “Leading the witness.”

“Withdraw the question.” Baldwin tapped his pen on the legal pad several times, checked his notes, rubbed his chin. The courtroom remained silent except for the hum of the clock on the wall and the faint clickety-clack of the court recorder’s keyboard.

“Mr. Baldwin?” Judge Green said.

Baldwin straightened. His pen dropped to the floor. He left it there. “No more questions.”

Simmons stepped down. Marcia shot one final glance at Peter, then strode through the courtroom’s giant double doors. Simmons grabbed his belongings and followed her out.

Peter sagged into his chair. She wouldn’t testify after all.

He raised his hand in a good-bye wave, not caring who saw. His body chilled a few degrees, his heartbeat returned to normal and he could breathe again.

He raised his left ring finger to his mouth, wet his knuckles, then tugged the gold band over the dampened joints. He held the ring for several moments, then slipped it into his pocket. His hand, naked for the first time in over six years, looked—and felt—foreign to him.

His hands had felt foreign to him once before: the night of the ... incident. Afterwards, parked in the truck on the side of the highway, he had stared at them, smeared red, not sure why. He’d washed them sore in that gas station restroom, then again the next day and every day for the next week, convinced he could smell blood on his skin, in the hairs on his arm, under his fingernails.

He checked them again. Clean. Blood-free.

And now, free of Marcia, too.

Simmons was the last witness of the day. “You’re free to go,” the bailiff said, and the jury room erupted in cheers. Peter rushed outside, but Christine caught up with him on the courtroom steps.

“Hey, you.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s happy hour. Let’s go grab a drink somewhere.”

He stopped to face her. “I can’t. My mom –”

“Can wait an hour. Come on.” She tugged at his sleeve. “I know a place we can talk privately.”

“Not today. Sorry.” He pulled free of her.

She pushed her face close to his. “Listen, buster. Explain this. How do you get on a jury for a trial where your wife’s boyfriend is a witness? She is your wife, right?”

A weary frown crossed his face. “Not any more.” He hustled down the walk.

“Wait,” she said. He didn’t wait. She ran a few steps to catch up. She took two steps for each one of his and still fell behind him. “Look,” she said. “You either stop and talk to me, or I march back in there and tell the bailiff what I know.”

“Which is what, exactly?” he asked without breaking stride.

“That you have a personal connection to this case. That your ex-wife’s lover was called as a witness. Come on. Do you know anything about this case other than what’s been presented in court? Because if you do–”

“Hold it right there.” He stopped at a “Don’t Walk” signal and faced her. “As you might imagine, seeing Marcia in that courtroom was an emotional experience for me. For that reason alone, I would be inclined to have a drink with you right now.”

He stepped into a gap in the traffic. Christine stayed with him. “However,” he said, “I have a very sick mother in the hospital, and a key employee, who also happens to be my best friend, is in a lot of trouble at work. So, I hope we can have that drink another time.” He dodged a noisy Saab, whose driver yelled at him to get out of the street.

“Tell me something,” Christine said. “Simmons was lying up there, wasn’t he?”

He stopped at the stairs to the parking garage. Smart girl. “You know, I think he was.”

“And your ex put him up to it.”

He nodded. “I got the same impression.”

“Why?”

He rubbed his chin. “Good question. I haven’t been able to figure that out, either.”

She stepped closer to him. The sweet scent of honeysuckle drifted over him. “She’s hiding something from you.”

He pulled his keys from his pocket. “But what? I already knew she was having an affair. So what if I learn some of the gory details now after we’re divorced? It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe she’s embarrassed?”

“Marcia? Not frigging likely.” After a few moments, he said, “Well, I should go.”

“What about that drink?”

He laughed. Persistent, this one. “You’ll just have to turn me in. Or, allow me that rain check.”

“Rain check it is,” she said. “Tomorrow. That’s better anyway—Fridays I don’t run.”

“Date night?”

“Something like that,” she said. “And don’t forget the espresso maker tomorrow.”

He grinned. “Bring good coffee. JavaTown.”

“Deal.” She extended her hand. He took it. She covered his hand in both of hers and held on for a moment. His arm tingled at her touch. They both squeezed a little harder. “You’re an enigma, mister,” she said. “I’m still trying to figure you out.”

“We’ve only known each other three days,” he said. “I’m not so hard to figure out. Give it some time.” Advice he should take himself.

He trudged up the garage stairs. Christine was right—Marcia had to be hiding something. She’d clearly remembered his taunt about the Camaro. No surprise there—she had photographic recall when she put her mind to it. Details overlooked in real time often returned to her later. Once, a friend came down with food poisoning after a fancy dinner outing. The next day, Marcia pinned the cause on a green salad with sprouts, the only thing nobody else had eaten.

Her memory now became his enemy. She had coerced her lover, the man who had stolen her from him, to lie in court—for reasons he could not fathom. She knew something. Knowledge was power—and the power was all hers.