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Mounting a Defense
Chapter 49
The courtroom door opened, and Jeff Williams entered. “Okay, folks, I have an update for you.”
“Can we wait for Dolores?” Christine asked. “She’s in the restroom.” Dolores emerged a moment later, as if on cue. Peter surrendered his seat to her. Poor gal. Her bladder must have been the size of a pea. Damned diabetes.
“The defense expects to wrap up its case tomorrow,” Williams said. “That means we’ll have summations on Wednesday morning. Depending on how long you deliberate on the verdict, we could be done as early as Wednesday afternoon or sometime Thursday.”
“Will the defendant testify?” Sheila asked.
“That’s up to him and his lawyer,” Williams said. He darted out with a reminder not to discuss the case with anyone and to stay away from the news media.
Ignoring that advice, Sheila said, “I can’t see him not testifying. If he can’t take the stand and say under oath that he didn’t kill him, what am I supposed to think?”
“I’m with you,” Larry said. Dammit. Another vote possibly lost.
Peter avoided eye contact with Christine and raced to leave the courthouse. The sun had broken through the clouds sometime that afternoon, creating a warm and bright evening. People poured out of offices and shops onto the street, ready for a break from too many gray days. He took deep breaths of wonderful, rain-washed air. Rather than head to the parking garage, he opted for a refreshing walk downtown.
Street performers filled the sidewalks, opening their instrument cases to catch donations while they performed familiar tunes. He passed a trumpet player whose execution was well on its way to mediocre. At least he used a mute. Peter dropped a quarter in the man’s trumpet case in silent thanks. Further along, an acoustic guitar player joined a violinist playing old tunes by the Electric Light Orchestra. They earned fifty cents. A group of kids had set up makeshift drums out of five-gallon plastic buckets, a square of plywood, and a trash can lid. That pulled a buck out of his wallet. At the rate he was going, he’d be broke before dinner. A U2 concert might be cheaper.
He turned south at the Park Blocks towards Portland State University. Students joined the beggars, businessmen and bureaucrats strolling in the evening sun. A group of students argued the finer points of Emmanuel Kant’s theory of causality, seated in a circle on the grass. Ah, to be so innocent and carefree again. But he’d never be innocent again. And carefree? Unlikely.
A block later he came within earshot of another small group of performers. The leader of the group, a white girl with sandy-colored hair braided into tight dreadlocks, asked for a request. “Amazing Grace,” someone yelled. Peter stopped to listen.
The young woman, dressed in a hemp skirt over a brown body suit, covered by a dozen sets of colorful beads of varying lengths hanging from her neck, looked the unlikely part of a Gospel singer. But she and her two male companions began clapping in time, one tapping on a tambourine. Moments later her mournful hum filled the air.
The scene and song rooted his feet to the sidewalk. He, Libby and Jimmy had performed the same song to a large crowd in their Sunday school’s annual spring variety show. Jimmy, then thirteen, already sang with a deep baritone; Libby, at eleven, a gentle soprano. Peter, only nine, had the high tenor of a young boy. Their voices blended in magical three-part harmony, and the togetherness they’d felt as siblings—not only performing at the show, but also rehearsing together in the days leading up to it—remained among his fondest childhood memories.
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound”
He closed his eyes. Libby’s sweet notes echoed in his mind instead of the students’.
“That saved a wretch like me”
A chill ran down his back, and not from the gentle breeze that rustled the pale green leaves overhead.
“I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.”
His body swayed in time with the clapping of the crowd. If only he could be saved... but he was still lost, mired in the guilt of his recent past. He was blind, too: blind to his future beyond the end of the murder trial. Getting to the end of the week might take a miracle.
The young woman exhorted the crowd to clap and to join in on the chorus. He slapped his hands together in time, and hummed the melody in a low baritone. A few others joined in too.
“Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And Grace my fears relieved
O how precious did that Grace appear
That hour I first believed.”
Was it Grace? No. It was jealousy. Anger.
He sang the chorus aloud, the words of the ancient tune springing forth from muscle memory. He heard cheers around him. He clapped his hands overhead and stepped from side to side in rhythm as they repeated the chorus. The whole crowd joined in.
“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.”
He no longer merely sang along—he was leading, the others following.
“I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.”
“Again!” shouted the girl dressed in beads. He belted it out louder.
“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.”
The tambourines and the crowd’s humming grew louder. He opened his eyes. Whoops and hollers emerged from the dancing crowd. He clapped his hands overhead. Someone, everyone, pushed him forward, into the open space shared by the three students. “Oh, yeah!” the tambourine player exclaimed. “Take it!” The young woman’s arm circled his waist. He closed his eyes again and clapped harder. His body swayed with feeling. He was no longer on the Park Blocks surrounded by passers-by—he was on stage with Libby and Jimmy, singing from the heart, inspired, for the first time in decades, by a faith in the possibility of redemption.
“Shall I be wafted to the skies
On flowery beds of ease?
While others strive to win the prize
And sail the bloody seas.”
Bloody seas. Awash in blood. Too true.
They returned to the chorus. Everyone on the sidewalk, everyone in the park sang together as a congregation. “Amazing Grace!” he cried out. “How sweet the sound!” He had moved past singing to chanting—preaching, even. Jimmy would have been proud. “That saved a wretch like me!”
“Sing it, brother!” The students yelled and clapped and banged the tambourine.
“I once was lost, but now—I’m found!” he shouted. “Was blind—but now—I see!”
The song over, the humming and tambourine-tapping stopped, but not the clapping. The crowd engulfed him, hugged him, and pressed against him, harder. No! He needed room. Space. Air to breathe. His face was hot and wet. From tears. He tried to wipe them away, but it was too late. They had all seen him cry.
He gasped for air, pushed back against the crowd. “Let me out!” he said in a low voice. When the crowd did not move, he let out a desperate cry, shouting over the crowd’s exuberance: “Let me out! Let me out!”
With a forceful shove, he broke free from the crowd. In his haste, he stumbled over a curb, but righted himself. “Come back!” the young woman cried out. “Where are you going?”
He had no answer. He was lost, and blind—a wretch in need of grace. But he did not believe.
Chapter 50
He drove up the parking garage ramp. Five levels, six. Finding a decent spot got harder every day. Seven...
Jury deliberations could begin that very day—and the way things stood, he was short on allies for a not guilty verdict. He could only count on Carlos and Stanley. Betty George remained a strong possibility. Christine could be swung, if she made it onto the jury, but that didn’t seem likely. With Christine came Dolores, unless Larry got to her. Three allies, then, maybe four.
On the other hand, only Larry and Alex seemed sure to vote guilty. Without Christine, Dolores would side with Larry. The others had been quieter about their perspectives on the case. They were all supposed to be undecided, and roughly half of them still were. If he could convince them, perhaps that would sway the others.
He pushed the “down” button for the garage elevator and leaned against the wall to take some weight off his legs. He’d have to take a lead role in arguing the case for reasonable doubt. He was hardly a debater, but he couldn’t imagine Carlos, Stanley, or Betty taking that role, either. Christine could be convincing—he knew that first-hand—but she might not be in the room. No, he couldn’t depend on any of them. It would be up to him.
The elevator doors opened. A half-dozen people squeezed together to allow him into the tiny elevator cab. The doors slid shut behind him. Sweat drenched him in spite of the morning’s chill. Heavy, noisy breaths escaped his open mouth.
“Dude, are you okay?” asked a teenage boy with a skateboard.
He tugged his collar in and out to fan his face. Hot, moist air escaped his shirt onto his neck and cheeks. The elevator dinged as it dropped past the fifth floor, then the fourth. Three more floors. Shit. He’d suffocate before reaching the ground.
The teenager’s eyes grew wide, then dropped to the floor when Peter stared back at him. An elderly woman with a large black purse gave him a worried look. He tried to say “I’ll be okay,” but the stale elevator air made him gag.
The bell rang again and the elevator slowed to a stop on the third floor. His weight sagged at the breaking momentum. His queasiness doubled. Easy, boy. Hold it in. The door opened and two bright-faced young women greeted them. “Any room for us?” one of them asked in a chipper voice. Without waiting for an answer, they stepped forward to squeeze into the crowded car.
“Here,” he said. “Take my spot. I’ll walk down from here.” He dashed forward, bumped into one of the women, and rushed past her. He tossed a quick “sorry!” over his shoulder and ran for the stairs. They probably stared after him, but he didn’t care. He drank in long gulps of air on his descent, trying in vain to clear his clouded mind.
In need of caffeine, he took a short detour to JavaTown and arrived in the jury room a few minutes after eight o’clock. He’d have made it on time had he taken the elevator, but he’d had his fill of those for a while. Nor could he move very quickly up the stairs. His legs felt like concrete blocks, and the hot lattes in each hand splashed out of a hole in the lid onto his fingers a few times, even at a slow walking pace.
He was the last juror to arrive. His face fell. Christine, huddled in the corner with Dolores, already clutched a JavaTown cup. “Do you drink lattes, Mr. Rodriguez?” he asked Carlos, seated toward the center of the table. “I seem to have an extra.”
“Sure.” Carlos smiled and accepted the gift. “Thank you, Peter.”
Peter sipped his coffee. “Well, we’re almost to the end of this ordeal.”
“I would not describe it as an ordeal for me.” Carlos sipped the latte. “But I pity those involved in the case. It must be terrible for them. Especially the defendant. Can you imagine being in his shoes?”
All-too-familiar dizziness washed over him again and he sat down next to Carlos. “Yes, I can. That would be terrible. Awful. Whether he did it or not. Don’t you think?”
Carlos tilted his head. “Are you going to be okay? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, panting. “I took the stairs a little too fast, and it made me a little dizzy.”
“Maybe we should relax and enjoy our coffees together in peace,” Carlos said.
“Sounds perfect.” He leaned back in his chair. Larry stood near the sink and stared at him, one bushy white eyebrow arched high on his forehead. Stanley was more discreet, but the accountant focused on him, too.
So much for blending in and not being noticed. Instead he seemed to alarm people. That never used to happen.
Then again, he didn’t used to be a murderer.
***
“THE DEFENSE CALLS RAUL Vasquez.”
An intense silence fell over the courtroom. Peter’s scalp tingled. So Vasquez would get his moment in the sun. He’d take the stand and declare his innocence, in all honesty, of course.
Peter envied him for that.
Connelly stood some ten feet from Vasquez with her hands behind her back. “Mr. Vasquez, were you and Alvin Dark competitors for the affections of Martina Aguilar?”
“Yes,” Vasquez said. “We both loved her.” Despite his heavy accent, he had very good diction, each syllable distinct and precise.
“Did Ms. Aguilar love you?” Connelly asked in a softer tone, a step closer.
“No.” Vasquez’s voice dropped a register. “She did not love me.” His gaze dropped to his lap, and he bit his lip, a sad expression on his face.
“To the best of your knowledge, did Martina Aguilar love Mr. Dark?” Connelly kept the same soft tone.
In a raspy whisper, Vasquez said, “Yes, she did. She told me this.”
“Were you jealous of Mr. Dark and his relationship with her?”
Peter cringed. Stupid question. Vasquez sighed. “Yes. I was jealous of him. I loved her. I wanted her to love me, too.”
“Did you ever let Ms. Aguilar know of your feelings for her?”
“I told her I loved her, more than once,” Vasquez said with passion. “I bought her gifts. I joined her church—even though it was a far drive for me. I wanted to be with her.”
“What sort of relationship did Ms. Aguilar say she wanted with you?”
“She wanted... to be friends,” Vasquez said. “Just friends.”
“How did this make you feel?”
“Like kicking his ass,” Alex whispered. Peter had to agree with Alex on that one.
“Very sad.” Vasquez echoed that sentiment in his tone and tilted his head back, tears visible in the corners of his eyes. “But I was happy I had met her and grateful that she liked me enough to be my friend, even though she already had a boyfriend.”
Peter rolled his eyes. No guy would be happy that the love of his life wanted somebody else. Skeptical expressions spread through the jury box. Damn, damn, damn. Vasquez’s testimony wouldn’t make things any easier.
“Did Alvin Dark know of your affections for her?”
Vasquez looked down again. “Yes, he knew. Everybody knew.”
Peter grunted. How humiliating. At least Marcia had the decency to try to hide her affair.
“Mr. Vasquez, did it make you angry that Mr. Dark pursued a relationship with Martina Aguilar, right under your nose, when he knew you were also interested in her?”
“Sometimes. But more sad than angry. Sad because she chose him over me.” Vasquez’s voice cracked as he finished.
“Other than the evening of November 17, did you ever take any action to confront Mr. Dark about Martina and express your feelings to him?”
“I mentioned it to him a few times. But he told me, Martina loves him and he loves her, so I should step aside.”
Connelly stepped closer, an arm’s reach from the railing in front of Vasquez. “Did you step aside?”
“No. I could not. I loved her, too.” Vasquez bowed his head and wiped away a tear from the side of his nose.
Air gushed from Peter’s lips. Lucky bastard. Vasquez felt free to shed shameless tears in front of others—strangers even. The son of Pastor Donald Robertson did not enjoy that freedom.
“Did you try to get Mr. Dark fired from Florentino’s?” Connelly seemed to want to steal all of the prosecution’s fire. Baldwin pursed his lips and stared at her.
“Yes.” Vasquez’s head remained bowed. “I set him up and I used Martina to help me. I am very ashamed of this. But I thought, maybe if he was no longer at Florentino’s, Martina would not see him as often, and I would see her more. Maybe then she would love me instead.”
Connelly took two sideways steps away from him, toward the jury. “Did it work?”
Vasquez shrugged and raised his head. “Well, he did get fired. But Martina did not fall in love with me. She got angry with me and would not speak to me. Then Alvin was murdered, and everybody blamed me.”
Ouch.
“Anything else? Did you call him, threaten him, in any way try to intimidate him away from Martina?”
“No. I am not that type of man.”
“Mr. Vasquez, did Mr. Dark ever confront you about Martina, or threaten you, or try to intimidate you in any way?”
“Only once,” Vasquez said, “in Florentino’s, the night he was killed. He said he knew I’d set him up to be fired and he was going to speak to Mr. Brown about it. I didn’t think he would, though.”
Connelly turned to face him again. “Why not?”
“Because I told him it would look bad for Martina, since she helped me. She might have gotten fired, too.”
“What else did Mr. Dark say to you that night?”
“He said to stay away from Martina, that she was off-limits to me now. I got mad then and I yelled back at him, saying no, he should stay away, to find someone–”
Vasquez covered his mouth.
“Mr. Vasquez?” Judge Green said. “Did you have more to say?”
After a pause, Vasquez said, “Yes. I told him to find someone... else.”
“Yeah, right,” Alex whispered. Peter wiped sweat off his brow. Peter guessed that Raul had told Alvin to “find one of his own kind.” But Raul couldn’t say that in court. He caught himself just in time, thank God.
Connelly took a deep breath and planted her feet in front of Vasquez. “Did Mr. Dark ever—on the night of his murder or at any other time—mention to you anything at all about having any information that could jeopardize your immigration status?”
“No.” Vasquez shook his head. “He never said anything about that.”
“He never hinted at such a thing, or even teased you about it? Threatened to ‘send you back to Mexico,’ anything like that?” Connelly asked. “Think hard, Mr. Vasquez, and take your time before answering.”
“I don’t need to take time. I know. He never did.”
Peter relaxed. Raul was pretty convincing. So much for the blackmail motive.
Vasquez recounted his argument with Alvin in the restaurant’s kitchen and parking lot. Then Connelly asked, “Did your vehicle ever strike Mr. Dark’s?” Her hand-washing motion, which had been absent for most of the day, resumed.
“Yes. Accidentally, in the parking lot. As he was leaving, I also tried to pull out at the same time. The front of my truck struck his car, and my engine stalled.”
“Did this collision cause damage to Mr. Dark’s vehicle, or to yours?”
“It dented the driver’s side door of his car. Later, when I was driving, I noticed my headlight was crooked.”
“Did you report this accident to the police, or to your insurance company?”
Vasquez hung his head. “No. I never got the chance. Anyway, he drove off right away.”
Connelly paused. “Did you follow him?”
“Yes,” Vasquez said. “At first, I wasn’t sure which way he had gone. I had to guess. I turned left from the parking lot. It turned out, so did he.”
“You caught up to him, then?” A step closer to Vasquez.
“Almost. I got to where I could see his car ahead in traffic.”
“How far did you follow him?”
“I’m not sure. It was about ten minutes.”
“Then you lost him?” She turned slightly away from him and kept her tone conversational.
“Yes. I was trying to pass someone who was right in back of him. When I got into the left lane, all of a sudden Alvin turned off and I couldn’t get over into the right lane quickly enough. So I missed the turn.” Vasquez’s tone was very matter-of-fact, as if reciting facts from memory.
“Did you happen to notice if any other car followed him on the turnoff?”
Peter held his breath.
Vasquez’ gaze turned toward the jury. “Yes. I saw a truck turn off after him—the one I was trying to pass.” His eyes settled on Peter. Stared at him, it seemed. “A silver Ford pickup, with Oregon license plates.”
Oh, shit.
“This silver Ford pickup,” Connelly said. “How is it you remember it so well?”
“I noticed it earlier in traffic, even before I tried to pass it,” Vasquez said. “Often it was behind Alvin’s car, as if it were following him too.”
Peter’s body shook. He fought to maintain control.
“Objection!” Baldwin said from his seat. “Speculation.”
“Sustained,” Judge Green said. “Strike that.”
“Did you get a good look at the driver?” Connelly asked.
Vasquez’s gaze swept the jury. For an eternity he looked directly at Peter again.
“No. Unfortunately not.”
Thank God. Peter let out his breath. He sucked in a few deep breaths, gripped his knees, and tried to steady his dizzy head. Ellen cast him an inquiring glance, but he avoided her eyes. Christine, too, watched him with a curious expression on her face. He snapped his face forward to the witness, ears burning.
Vasquez described his futile attempts to find the Camaro, but he didn’t know the area, took some wrong turns, and got lost. Peter shook his head. Close call. It could have been a three-way party out there. Or, worse, Vasquez could have showed up while–
He couldn’t finish that thought. His churning stomach warned him of the mess he’d make if he did.
Eventually, Vasquez drove up Old Fairview Road, he said, but apparently not far enough. He gave up, stopped by the side of the road, and popped open a bottle of rum. The booze, the late hour, and the long day at work conspired to put him to sleep. He woke up several hours later and headed to the Pig’N Blanket for some breakfast. Still tipsy from the rum, he hit a parked car on the way. He panicked and drove off without leaving a note or recording any information about the car he’d hit. After breakfast, he said, he went straight home.
Peter searched the floor for his notepad, without success. No matter. He didn’t need to make notes. Vasquez had no alibi. What he did have was a smashed car, motive, and opportunity. He was, in other words, very convictable—meaning, for Peter, very difficult to defend.
“One final question,” Connelly said. Sighs of relief abounded from the jury. It was nearly eleven and there had been no break. She strolled to her desk, then spun to face the witness. “Mr. Vasquez, did you kill Alvin Dark?”
“No, I did not,” he said.
Peter searched the faces of his fellow jurors and found mostly scowls and eye rolls greeting the defendant’s claim of innocence. An involuntary shudder racked his body. He’d gotten Raul Vasquez deep into this mess, and had no idea if he could get him out of it, or how.
Chapter 51
Malcolm Baldwin strode to within a few feet of the defendant on the witness stand and leaned his long frame over him. “Mr. Vasquez,” Baldwin said, “Prior to the arrival of Ms. Aguilar at Florentino’s, had you had any arguments or disagreements with Mr. Dark at any time?”
“No. We did not know each other well.”
“Generally, would you describe your relationship with Alvin Dark as a friendly one?”
Vasquez spread his hands and looked wide-eyed at his attorney. She gave him a tiny shrug as if to say, I can’t help you now.
“No,” Vasquez said. “He did not socialize with the kitchen staff very much. Mostly he was friends with the people who worked out front. The hostesses, waitresses, Mr. Brown, those types of people.”
“Mr. Vasquez, when you say ‘those types’ of people, what do you mean?”
Vasquez paused. “He preferred the company of the other white Anglos. Except for Martina.”
Baldwin turned to face the witness. “Mr. Vasquez, a number of witnesses have described you as a man who is normally very even-tempered. Would you agree?”
“Yes, Mr. Baldwin.” Several jurors wrinkled their brows. It seemed an odd tack for the prosecutor to take—more helpful to the defense than for his own case.
“You testified that you quarreled with Alvin Dark the night he was murdered. Before that night, had you ever had any loud arguments with anyone at Florentino’s?”
“No, sir.”
Baldwin took a step closer to Vasquez. “No major disagreements or fights of any kind?”
“No, sir.”
Peter sat up straight. He smelled a trap.
“So the arguments you had with Mr. Dark the night he was killed—both inside the restaurant, and again in the parking lot—this was very unusual for you, was it not?”
Vasquez, red-faced, took a moment before replying. “Yes, sir. But Alvin–”
Baldwin stepped closer. “So, after eighteen months at Florentino’s without a single incident, suddenly you have two very violent arguments in one night with Alvin Dark? Is that right?”
“Objection to the characterization of these arguments as ‘violent’,” Connelly said.
“Overruled,” Judge Green said. “Other witnesses have testified to that effect. Mr. Vasquez is entitled to disagree if he chooses. Please answer the question, Mr. Vasquez.”
“Yes, that is right,” he said.
Peter pounded his knee. Vasquez didn’t disagree with it being violent. Hopefully the other jurors didn’t notice.
“These arguments were triggered by two things, were they not?” Baldwin wandered away from Vasquez, along the jury box. “One is your rivalry for Ms. Aguilar, and the other, more immediate trigger, was that you had set him up to be fired. Isn’t this right?”
“Objection.” Connelly stood at her desk. “Argumentative.”
“Overruled,” Judge Green said. “The witness can testify as to whether these matters triggered the incident.”
“Yes, sir, that is right,” Vasquez said in a low voice. Connelly sank into her seat.
“Would it be fair to say, then, Mr. Vasquez, that things had reached a boiling point between you and Alvin Dark?”
Connelly stood again. “Objection. Question calls for a conclusion rather than a statement of fact.”
“I’ll give you this one.” The judge peered down her glasses at Connelly. “Sustained.”
Baldwin didn’t seem to mind. No matter. He’d made his point. Several minutes later he asked, “Mr. Vasquez, have you ever been in a fistfight?”
For a few moments, Vasquez’s heavy breathing was audible all the way over to the jury box.
“Objection,” Connelly said. “Mr. Vasquez’s prior history is not relevant to this case.”
“Your honor.” Baldwin faced the judge. “Ms. Connelly put several witnesses on the stand who testified about his past behavior as a peaceful man. Mr. Vasquez himself just testified to that effect. Is only that part of his past relevant?”
“Objection overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Vasquez.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have been in a fight before.”
“Prior to November 17, when was the last time you were in a physical fight with another man?” Baldwin resumed his wandering, as if engaging Vasquez in idle conversation.
Red-faced, Vasquez pressed his lips together. “About five years ago, in Mexico.”
“What caused the fight?”
“A man in my village tried to rob my house. I caught him. We struggled. I hit him, he hit me. I finally, ah, overtook him.”
Connelly’s hand-wringing hit a fevered pace, but she remained seated.
“Did you know this man?”
“I knew who he was. I did not know him well.”
“Just like Alvin Dark,” Sheila whispered. From the expression on Larry’s face, he seemed to reach the same conclusion.
Baldwin spun to face the witness. “Mr. Vasquez, isn’t it true that you beat this intruder unconscious?”
Vasquez nodded. “I knocked him out.”
“Was the man injured?” Baldwin asked. “Other than being knocked unconscious.”
“Yes.” Vasquez bowed his head.
“He had a concussion?”
“Yes.”
“A broken nose?”
“Yes.” Bowed lower.
“Stitches in his forehead?”
“Yes.” His face looked grim.
“From you punching him?”
Vasquez’s lip trembled. “From—the fight, yes.”
“Besides punching, how else did you strike him?” Baldwin pen-tapped his open palm.
Vasquez lowered his gaze to his lap. “I held his head in my hands, and I—I banged his face on a rock.”
“Ew,” a female voice said—Betty George, the elderly black woman. Peter winced. The man did seem to have a temper. Once riled, watch out.
Baldwin paused to rifle through a pile of notes on his desk. “Mr. Vasquez, has it been your intention to remain in the United States permanently?”
“Yes,” Vasquez said. “I would like to become a U.S. Citizen.”
Carlos’s eyes moistened. Good. That sealed his vote.
“You’ve been careful to protect the integrity of your immigration status, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve done my best to follow all the rules.”
Baldwin peered up from his notes. “Mr. Vasquez, do you know of any fellow Mexican immigrants who have been unable to remain in the U.S. because of irregularities in their reporting and compliance behavior?”
Vasquez squinted a bit. “Yes. A few.”
Baldwin stepped closer to Vasquez. “Even minor problems, at times, can put one’s status in jeopardy, isn’t that right?”
“Sometimes it seems so.”
Another step. “Mr. Vasquez, are you legally married to Gabriela Ricardo of Long Beach, California?”
Vasquez looked for help. “Objection,” Connelly said. “Outside of scope of the direct.”
“Sustained.”
“Have you been in touch with Ms. Ricardo since moving to Oregon?” Baldwin asked as if Vasquez had answered in the affirmative. Which he had, with his body language.
“Objection!” Connelly said. “Again, outside of scope.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Green. “Mr. Baldwin, please move on.”
Baldwin paused a moment. “Did Mr. Dark ever indicate to you he had information that could threaten your good standing as regarding your work visa in this country?” He had edged forward again, now only a few feet in front of Vasquez.
“No,” Vasquez said. “He never did.”
“Did Mr. Dark threaten you with this information when the two of you argued the night he was killed?” Baldwin’s voice rose.
“No!” Vasquez said.
A little louder. “Isn’t that why you confronted him?”
“No!”
Louder: “Isn’t that why you fought?”
“No!”
“Your honor!” Connelly shouted. “Counsel is badgering–”
“Isn’t that what got you the angriest? Not the loss of Martina Aguilar, but your possible deportment back to Mexico?” Louder, red-faced.
“No! No!” Vasquez shouted, rising to his feet.
Judge Green’s gavel smashed onto her bench top. “Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Vasquez, you will both keep your voices at conversational levels or you will be cited for contempt of court.”
“Yes, your honor,” Baldwin said, suddenly calm. “I have no more questions.”
Vasquez’s face remained flushed. Excitement and defiance showed in his face. Which is what Baldwin wanted the jury to see, Peter realized. An angry, emotional, screaming defendant—capable of murder.
Chapter 52
“I can’t believe it. Closing arguments tomorrow.” Christine twirled the stem of her wine glass on the table. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Peter sipped on a pint of dark brown ale. “We could be done as early as tomorrow night, depending on how long it takes to reach a verdict.” He glanced around to make sure no one could hear them. They were in a booth at the Dealer’s Choice, a dark, smoky bar two blocks from the courthouse. Still only four o’clock, the bar hadn’t yet filled with happy hour customers.
“I wouldn’t count on being finished tomorrow,” she said. “This jury’s all over the map. Unless everyone votes to convict right away.”
“Convict?” he said, a little too loud. He hushed his voice. “You think everyone’s leaning toward conviction?” He cracked open a pistachio from a bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth.
“I don’t know what anyone’s thinking,” she said with a sly smile, “except you, now.”
“Well, we haven’t heard the summations. I haven’t fully made up my mind.”
“Liar.” She grinned. “But so what? You’re decisive. There’s nothing wrong with that. I kind of like it, actually.”
He avoided her eyes. “Here’s to decisiveness.” They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks. He munched a few more pistachios.
“I hope I get to join you in the deliberations. Such an interesting case.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, I’m convinced you know more about this case than the rest of us.”
He choked and nearly spit out his beer. He coughed a few times to clear his breathing passages.
“Now tell me something,” she said at her regular volume. “Did you and your ex ever talk about what happened that night?”
“No.”
“Then how come you already knew she was out with that man?”
He sighed. “We talked about that. But not about what happened at the restaurant. I doubt she knew then that what she saw had anything to do with a murder.”
“Then there’s the pickup.”
“What about it?” Both hands gripped his beer mug. Christine held her wine glass in her fingertips and took occasional tiny sips.
“Well, you drive a silver pickup.”
“There are lots of silver pickups.”
“But not a lot of silver pickup owners whose wives were at Florentino’s restaurant with another man, who later becomes a witness to a murder trial... with her husband on the jury.” She leaned forward. “Peter, were you following your wife that night?”
He stared at her, his spine a column of ice. His mouth moved but formed no words. Sweat collected on his forehead.
“I thought so.” She leaned back with a satisfied smile on her face. “So tell me. Did you see the Camaro? Did Vasquez follow him down that road? Do you think he did it?”
He wiped his forehead. Whew. She still viewed him as a potential witness rather than the guilty party. “Let’s put it this way.” He readied his beer for another sip. “I intend to vote ‘Not Guilty’ tomorrow.”
“Well, same for me, then.” She finished her wine and set her glass on the table.
“That’s great, but technically you’re not able to vote, as an alternate.”
“Too true, dammit.” She glanced at her watch. “Hey, I have to go. Could you cover these drinks? I’ll get them next time.”
“Sure.” He munched another pistachio. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“Help me out.” She scooped packets of sweeteners from the table into her purse. “We’re low on this stuff in the jury room. Grab some from the next table, okay?”
“Jeez, can’t the county supply that? This seems kinda cheesy.”
“Suit yourself.” She slid out from the booth. “Enjoy your beer. I have to go running.”
He shook his head. What a character. He finished his beer, paid the bill and headed for his truck. On the way, his cell phone rang.
Frankie’s mother said in a meek voice, “Peter?”
“What’s up, Clara?”
She sniffled. “There’s been a terrible accident. Frankie’s been hurt. He... he may die.”
Chapter 53
Peter ran for the parking garage, cell phone still pinned to his ear. “He was unconscious when he arrived at Emmanuel Hospital,” Clara said. She sounded scared, but calm. She always seemed calm, even in the worst situations. “He’s in intensive care. They’re examining him now. Oh, Peter. I wish he hadn’t disabled his air bag.”
Frankie, Frankie. “How did it happen?” He crossed against the light. Two young men holding tambourines and a sandy-haired woman dressed in a hemp skirt tsk’d at him. “Careful, Grace-man,” one of the men said. They looked familiar for some reason.
“He took a sharp curve a little too fast on Sauvie Island,” Clara said. “His car spun out and he slammed sideways into a tree.”
“Had he been drinking?” He reached the garage and clambered up the stairs.
“I’m afraid he might have been. You know, he’s been so upset by everything that’s happened to him lately at work, and with Donna breaking up with him too.”
Now there was some spin. Things happened “to” Frankie. Donna “broke up” with him. “Speaking of Donna, have you told anyone at Stark’s?”
“No, could you do that for me?”
“You bet.” He puffed from his run up the stairs. “I’ll see you at the hospital soon.”
He circled his truck down the exit ramp and called the office. “Petey!” Jessica exclaimed. “Are you done with that court case yet? And how’s your face? Did you get a shiner from that pop in the kisser the other day?”
He touched his tender cheek. “What pop in the kisser? And no, the case isn’t over yet—but soon. Anyway, what I’m calling about is–”
“Hold on a sec, I’ve got another call. You wanna talk to Gregg? I’ll patch you through. How’s your mom, by the way?”
“Mom’s fine. Sure, patch me–” Music-on-hold interrupted. Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” Ouch. He wished he could switch the station.
“I was just heading out the door,” Gregg said a moment later. “What’s up?”
He eased his truck to the exit gate and fed his credit card into the automated attendant. “Frankie’s hurt bad. He crashed his car today. I’m heading over to Emmanuel now.”
“Frankie? That’s terrible!”
“What’s terrible?” Jessica shouted in the background. “What’s wrong with Frankie?”
He drummed on the steering wheel. The machine took forever to validate his card. Come on, come on...
“I’m gonna give you back to Jess,” Gregg said. “Give her the details and she’ll spread the word. I’ve got to be somewhere at six, but I’ll stop by there later. Keep us posted, okay?”
Jessica pummeled him with hysterical questions, again not waiting for his answers. He couldn’t calm her down, as he had little to tell her. “We’ll know more soon,” he said. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“The hell you will,” she said. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from that hospital.”
No doubt about that. “Do you have Donna’s number?”
“She’s right here,” Jessica said. “Can’t you hear her crying? We’ll see you there shortly.”
***
“FRANKIE HAS SUFFERED numerous broken bones and internal injuries,” said the fatigued, burly surgeon in the sterile waiting room at Emmanuel Hospital. “He’ll be heavily sedated the rest of the night. We’ll keep a close eye on him. His condition is serious, but I expect he’ll stabilize by morning.”
“Can he speak?” Peter asked. “I mean, uh, can we see him?” He put his arm around Jessica’s quaking shoulders. He didn’t feel so stable himself. Clara sagged into a hard vinyl chair to his left. Just to her left, two children played with colored blocks on a fake-wood laminate table while their worried young mother talked to someone on a cell phone in Spanish.
“Doubtful. He’ll be in recovery for at least a few hours, and in intensive care through tomorrow morning,” the doctor said. “He’ll be completely out most of the time. I recommend you all get some sleep.”
“I want to stay,” Clara said. She looked ten years older than the last time he’d seen her, two weeks before at her sixtieth birthday party. Her skin had turned as white as her hair.
“I’ll stay too,” Peter said. “I’ve not been sleeping well anyway. I might as well be here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jessica said.
“Me, either.” Donna stood to one side, her curvy, short frame hidden from view by the surgeon.
“Suit yourselves,” the doctor said. “But you’ll be better able to visit with Frankie tomorrow if you all get some sleep.”
They decided to take shifts, starting with Peter and Clara. He walked the others out to Jessica’s car.
“This is all my fault.” Donna sobbed into Jessica’s shoulder. “It’s because of me he’s fired, and–”
“Don’t you start!” Jessica said. “We’ve been over this. Frankie’s responsible for Frankie, not you.”
“Jess is right, Donna,” Peter said, his voice dry and weak. “Frankie made his own choices, including driving drunk today. We all could have done more to help him through this, but ultimately, Frankie put himself here, not us. All we can do now is stick by him, and pray.”
Pray. As if. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually prayed. He walked back toward the hospital entrance. His chest weighed a thousand pounds. He looked around. Nobody could see his face.
Sobs racked his body. Stress flooded through him, draining out of him like the tears themselves. On top of everything else going wrong in Peter’s life, now this. He chastised himself for that selfish thought, but he couldn’t repress it.
He rejoined Clara in the waiting room several minutes later. She gave him as much comfort to him as he gave to her, though he would never let on as much. For the next several hours, they swapped stories about Frankie, called his friends and relatives, and ate bland, stale sandwiches from a vending machine.
“You can see him now, very briefly,” the doctor said around 9:30. “He’s awake, but very groggy. If he talks at all, he probably won’t make much sense. But he’ll be able to hear and understand what you say. Say hello, be encouraging, and again, keep it brief.”
Clara went first. She emerged from the room after a few minutes, smiling through tears. “He’s going to be fine. He wants to see you, Peter.”
He took a deep breath, then entered Frankie’s room. He stood on one side of his bed, shocked to find his friend hooked up to more machines, tubes, and probes than Mom had been after her stroke.
“Urgh,” Frankie grunted. A faint smile spread across his weary face.
“Hey, buddy.” He squeezed Frankie’s hand and sat on the edge of his bed. He felt the slightest squeeze back. “Missed the turn, eh? I told you not to drive those crappy Japanese cars.”
“Urgh.” Frankie’s smile widened.
“You got a lot of people pulling for ya, buddy.” He choked up, but soldiered on. “You’re gonna have a lot of company tonight.”
“Ur-urgh.” Frankie groaned. He pointed at Peter, eyebrows high on his forehead.
“Surprised to see me?” he asked. Frankie nodded. “Hey, buddy,” Peter said. “I don’t give up on my friends. As my dad used to say, ‘The path to God’s Grace is to love his children.’”
“Argh.” Frankie rolled his eyes, then shut them.
“Don’t worry, we’ll let you sleep. You’ve got to be well-rested for those driving lessons I’m going to give you next week.”
Frankie smiled again and shook his head. He gave Peter’s hand another weak squeeze.
A nurse entered the room carrying a tray with a syringe and some other instruments on it. “You should finish up if you can. It’s sleepy time for our boy here.”
He held Frankie’s hand another long moment. “Your mom and I will be right outside, calling all your girlfriends and staggering their visits. No overlapping, I promise.”
Frankie shook his head again. “Dur-ur?”
“Donna was here earlier, and she’ll be back,” he said. Frankie’s hand went limp. “I think he’s asleep.” The nurse shooed him out the door. He leaned against the wall outside of the room and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t be such a bad idea for Peter, either. But he doubted it would come.
Chapter 54
“Mr. Baldwin, are you prepared to present your closing argument?” Judge Green asked when court convened on Wednesday morning.
“Yes, your honor.” Baldwin stood and approached the jury. Peter gnawed on his last remaining ragged fingernail, too deep, making it bleed. He hoped Baldwin would stumble, somehow. But he doubted it.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence in this case,” Baldwin said. “A case of savage murder in which Raul Vasquez took Alvin Dark’s life by beating him repeatedly with a metal bar. A crime of both premeditation and passion.”
Dammit! Peter closed his eyes. Nausea rose in his stomach.
“Premeditation was proven by the long, slow chase in a car. The defendant admits to this chase. He followed his victim down a desolate road and deliberately crashed into his car. He could have ended it there, but no. Then he attacked Mr. Dark’s Camaro, and, once that was destroyed, he attacked Mr. Dark himself.”
Too true. The dented metal and flying glass, far from sating his anger, only enraged him more, as his target cowered in what he thought was the safety of his car.
“The defendant’s intent—and his rage—is evidenced everywhere.” Baldwin stepped closer to the jury. “It is evident in the defendant’s actions of a few days before the murder, wherein he succeeded, through deception, in getting Alvin Dark fired from his job. It is evident in the jealous competition in which Mr. Vasquez engaged with Mr. Dark over the affections of Martina Aguilar, in the violent public arguments they had in the restaurant and again in the parking lot shortly thereafter. It is evident in the brutality of the act itself—and, in leaving the beaten body of his victim to bleed and die, in terrible pain, alone in the cold November rain.”
Rain? No. Cold, but not raining. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in spite of the heat. Physically he was sitting in a courtroom on a warm May day. Mentally he was in the woods on Portland’s eastside, six months before, the light long since gone from the sky.
Baldwin summarized the coroner’s testimony, then the forensic evidence, and displayed the key photographs again. The boiling in Peter’s gut intensified, and a sharp ache in his stomach grew. He cursed Baldwin. Get off this crap, he wanted to shout. Talk about something else—anything besides the brutality of the murder.
As if in answer to his silent plea, Baldwin switched gears. “As is too often the case, there is no eyewitness to this murder. So you may ask, why is the state convinced Mr. Vasquez is the man who carried out this horrible deed? Our answer is simple. Mr. Vasquez had the means, the motive, and the opportunity.”
Motive, maybe. He would have had opportunity, but... The pain in Peter’s gut swelled and he nearly cried out.
“First, as to means,” Baldwin said. “As we mentioned, Mr. Vasquez collided his car into Mr. Dark’s to initiate the murder. Did anyone see Mr. Vasquez collide with Alvin Dark? No. But he admitted that he followed Mr. Dark out of Florentino’s parking lot. His car was damaged from a collision the very same night, in a manner exactly consistent with the collision at the murder scene. Coincidence? Hardly.”
Peter frowned. Vasquez admitted to drinking heavily that night—no doubt due to his lingering anger at Alvin Dark—then driving and wrecking his truck. It was a miracle Raul didn’t get himself killed.
“But the collision did not kill Mr. Dark. For that an additional weapon was needed. A metal bar, the kind found in tire repair kits included with many cars, including Mazda pickups, the vehicle Mr. Vasquez drove.”
And Ford Rangers. Peter winced again.
“The means of this murder—automobiles and tire irons—are readily available to many people,” Baldwin said, “including Mr. Vasquez. It is, of course, unique that the front end of Mr. Vasquez’s car was damaged from a collision with Mr. Dark’s car—as the forensic evidence showed—that very same night. This evidence sets him apart as a man of suspicion in this case.
“But Mr. Vasquez also had opportunity—unique opportunity. We mentioned the car chase. Then, the defendant says, he lost his victim due to a quick turn and would have us believe he drove around east Portland for several hours while somebody else killed Alvin Dark.” An edge of sarcasm crept into Baldwin’s voice.
Somebody else killed Alvin Dark. Yes—someone who meant to follow a completely different man. Peter’s stomach hurt like hell now. His chills disappeared, replaced by a wave of warmth and sweat.
“Where was Mr. Vasquez during this time? Remarkably, he has no alibi. All that driving around, and no one stepped forward to say they saw him. Not to buy gas, a candy bar, anything. He says he fell asleep after drinking too much. Several hours later, he appears in a restaurant just a few miles from the murder scene, with a wrecked car, talking about being spurned by his lover.” Baldwin made brief eye contact with each juror.
“But let’s examine the facts.” He stepped to one side and cocked his head. “He produced no receipt and no witness for the purchase of his alcohol. He claims he collided with Mr. Dark in the parking lot at low speed, but none of the witnesses at the scene corroborated this story. He says he later hit another vehicle, but where is this vehicle? Where is its owner, claiming damages? There is no such claim, because there is no such car.” Baldwin punctuated his words by pounding his fist repeatedly into his open palm. He faced the jury again. “The only car he hit was Alvin Dark’s, on Old Fairview Road. Its owner could not file a claim, not because Mr. Vasquez left no note, but because its owner, Alvin Dark, was dead.”
Baldwin’s eyes scanned the jury again. Peter ducked his head. Yes, Alvin was dead, but at someone else’s hands, not Raul’s. Poor bastard. He’d regret not leaving that note for the rest of his miserable life.
“We know for a fact that Mr. Vasquez followed Mr. Dark down Old Fairview Road. A witness, you will recall, spotted his car parked along that road in the wee hours of the morning.”
Some witness. A homeless wanderer who barely knew what day it was.
“The defendant admitted as much in his testimony. Ladies and gentlemen, he was there, barely a few hundred yards from Mr. Dark’s wrecked car and dead body. Our witness arrived too late to see the crime committed, but he found both the victim and his killer still on the scene.”
Peter let out a nervous breath. Thank God Jacobs came by so late. What would Peter have done if the homeless man had come along earlier?
“Finally, as to motive,” Baldwin said. “Mr. Vasquez’s motives for killing Alvin Dark are twofold. One: Mr. Vasquez blamed Alvin Dark for stealing away the woman he felt was rightfully his— Martina Aguilar.”
Peter clenched his eyes shut again and leaned back in his chair. The pain in his abdomen swelled. Martina... Marcia... women wreaking havoc on the lives of their men.
Then he shook his head. No. Not Marcia, nor Martina, nor Raul. He did it to himself, and to Alvin Dark. The pain sharpened and spread through his chest. He gritted his teeth. That helped a little. Sort of.
Baldwin summarized Vasquez’s failed courtship of Aguilar. He emphasized the fact that Vasquez tried to use his shared ethnicity with Martina as wedge against Alvin Dark. He recounted Raul’s maneuverings to get Alvin fired and the arguments at the restaurant. He painted a convincing picture of Raul’s jealousy and his violent intentions against the victim.
“But then,” Baldwin said, “as the evidence showed, Mr. Vasquez had another, perhaps more compelling reason, to kill Alvin Dark.” He paused for dramatic effect. “As witnesses testified, Mr. Dark had recently learned some secrets of Mr. Vasquez’s past—things that would not only threaten the defendant’s attempted courtship of Martina Aguilar, but, more dire from Mr. Vasquez’s perspective, could result in his deportation back to Mexico.”
Vasquez’s face darkened. His hands curled into fists on the table in front of him. Brenda Connelly tapped him and gave her head a quick shake. Vasquez slid his hands off the table, out of view of the jury. But several jurors exchanged surprised glances, including Christine. Dammit. Vasquez needed to control his anger.
Baldwin summarized the testimony from the private investigator, Anita Calzano, and the INS agent, Dennis McCarthy. “Not only is Mr. Vasquez legally married—a secret he clearly did not want Ms. Aguilar to discover—but this and other anomalies in his past could threaten his status as a legal alien in this country.”
Baldwin paced before the jury. “This would have severe consequences for Mr. Vasquez. First, a complete disruption of his way of life. Second, separation from his one true love. Third, and perhaps most importantly, an end to his dream of the good life as a citizen of this country. A dream he did not want to surrender.”
The prosecutor paused to take a sip of water and check his notes. Sheila and Ellen exchanged glances. Dammit. The deportation motive hit home with them.
Baldwin returned to face the jury. “As we can see, Mr. Vasquez had means, motive, and opportunity to kill Alvin Dark. True, no one saw him conduct this savage, homicidal beating. But that’s not unusual. Most murders are committed without witnesses.”
Peter shifted in his seat. If someone else had been there, no way would he have beaten him with that tire iron. If only Raul Vasquez had managed to make the turn...
“Lacking an eyewitness,” Baldwin said, “we must piece together our case based on what a suspect did immediately before and after—and again, means, motive, and opportunity.
“Means and opportunity are easy to come by in this case. A car, a tire iron, a desolate road—anyone could have been there and done this. But nobody else with means and opportunity had a reason to kill Alvin Dark, much less two strong reasons.”
Peter leaned forward and held his stomach. He’d had no reason to kill Alvin Dark either. But kill him he did. Panting, he stared ahead with half-focused eyes, ignoring Ellen’s whispered attempts to find out what was wrong.
“Only one man had such motives. Only one man had means, motive, and opportunity: Raul Vasquez. That is the man who committed this murder. He must be convicted of this hideous crime. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when you examine the evidence, I am sure you will find Raul Vasquez guilty of murder in the first degree.”
The somber faces and nodding heads in the jury spoke volumes. Baldwin’s speech had been convincing—far too convincing. Peter doubted that Connelly would summon as much passion as the prosecutor. That was a problem—a huge problem, for which Peter had no answer.
Chapter 55
Back in the “holding tank,” the jurors took turns in the restroom and waited in silence for the coffee to brew. Even Larry refrained from his usual boisterous chatter.
“Dolores, I brought some special teas from home today, seeing as it might be our last day on the jury together,” Christine said. “Would you like to try one?”
“That would be lovely, dear.” Dolores patted Christine’s arm. “Make it strong, would you please? I didn’t sleep well last night.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
Christine stole a glance at Peter, then asked Dolores, “Should I add some extra sweetener to compensate?”
“Yes, please.” Dolores smiled. “Would you mind getting me some water, too? I’m very thirsty this morning.”
Peter sipped his weak coffee and wished Jeff Williams hadn’t banned the espresso machine. Christine’s mood seemed strange, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. There was always something kind of odd about her.
“Christine, would you mind making one more cup?” Peter asked. “I think I’ll join Dolores for tea this morning. I could use the extra caffeine.”
“Sure!” Her face appeared relieved. That, too, didn’t make sense. “How do you like it?” She pulled packets of sweetener from her purse.
“Strong, and sweet.” He yawned.
“Like your women?” She winked at him. “Coming right up.” She turned her back to him and prepared the tea. Moments later she set three steaming cups on the table and took her seat next to Dolores.
“Thanks.” Peter sipped the hot tea. Something else was wrong... ah. She didn’t bring Dolores her water.
“Yes, thank you, dear,” Dolores said. She didn’t mention the water either. Okay, then. She must have changed her mind.
“You’re both very welcome.” Christine stared at the table. She seemed nervous.
“My, this is strong tea,” Dolores said. “It’s so different than the kind we had last week.”
“Sure is,” Peter said. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but this one tasted stronger and more flavorful than usual.
“Well, the moment of truth comes soon,” Larry said. He sat next to Peter.
“I hope not,” Peter said.
Larry leaned back. “What the heck does that mean?”
He stared into his tea. He needed to stop saying things like that out loud.
Back in the courtroom ten minutes later, Brenda Connelly stepped in front of the defense table, smoothed her beige skirt and picked a flake of lint off her white blouse. She gave Raul Vasquez a quick smile and waited for his confirming nod, then took two short steps toward the jury and clasped her hands together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “Raul Vasquez did not kill Alvin Dark.”
Someone snorted. A quick search of faces suggested Alex. Christine looked away from him. She seemed nervous. At the far end of the box, Dolores rubbed her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face. Next to her, Larry’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.
“The prosecution has made a compelling case that Alvin Dark’s murder was brutal and premeditated,” Connelly said. “It was a vicious and horrible way to die.”
Vicious. Horrible. Enough of that!
“But the prosecution did not show that Raul Vasquez committed the murder. In fact, the prosecution showed that anyone could have committed this crime.”
Even someone on this jury...
Dolores leaned onto the rail in front of her seat. Her face had turned pale. She yawned, then whispered something to Larry. He gave her his water bottle and she took a long sip. Peter winced. He should have spoken up about her not getting her water earlier. Not good for a diabetic.
Christine turned away, with what seemed to be a guilty expression on her face. Or perhaps he was projecting his own guilt onto her.
“No one saw Raul Vasquez follow Alvin Dark down Old Fairview Road.” Connelly scanned the jury. “In fact, on one very important point, witnesses for the prosecution agree with my client. Mr. Vasquez missed the turn onto Old Fairview Road. Someone driving a silver pickup may have turned down that road, but not Raul Vasquez.”
Connelly’s attention settled on Peter for what seemed an eternity. He stared back, and willed her to look away.
Finally she did, but she looked troubled. He followed her gaze.
Dolores leaned far forward in her seat, hyperventilating, her face pale as a ghost. A moment later, she collapsed onto the floor.
Chapter 56
Larry Rogers bent over Dolores’s collapsed figure, his face red as a fire truck. “Get a doctor!” he said. “She’s having a diabetic attack.”
“Is she breathing?” Judge Green asked.
Dolores coughed and pushed herself up onto one elbow. Larry helped her to her seat. “It appears so,” he said.
“Do you have insulin?” the judge asked. Dolores gasped and pulled a syringe out of her purse.
“Court will recess for fifteen minutes ,” Judge Green said. “Bailiff, please assist the juror in whatever way she needs. Ms. Connelly, my apologies.”
Dolores unwrapped her syringe and injected it into the skin on her belly. Her breathing slowed and her skin color turned a light pink.
Christine, at the opposite end of the jury box, remained rooted in her chair. Her eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth with her hand. Odd... she wasn’t helping her friend in this moment of crisis.
“Give her some breathing room,” Jeff Williams said. “Everyone, clear out.” The other jurors shuffled into the jury room and snuck discreet peeks at Dolores on their way past. She remained in her chair, hyperventilating. Larry held her hand and talked to her in a low voice, too quiet for the others to hear.
Peter and Christine lagged behind the other jurors. He closed the jury room door behind her. “What happened in there?” he whispered. “What was in that tea?”
“What are you saying? You think I–?”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. Those full, bright red lips. “Don’t say it.”
Her eyes widened. “I need to use the restroom.” She darted away before he could respond.
He leaned against the counter. Alex poured a cup of coffee and pointed toward the restroom. “She’s pretty broken up over this, isn’t she?”
“Er... yeah. They’ve become very good friends in this past week and a half.” Peter frowned. “Poor Dolores.”
“I wonder if she’ll be able to continue,” Sheila said.
“Ah, sure she will,” Alex said. He sat at the table and joined the others in speculation about what might be wrong with her.
Peter sidled over to the trash can next to the coffee machine. Several sugar packets and three Sweet’N Low’s rested on top of a few napkins. When nobody was watching him, he grabbed one of the empty pink packets out of the can and turned his back to the room. He wet his finger, dipped it into the packet, and touched his tongue. He recognized the taste—all too well. From his tea. Christine had given him the tea with Sweet’N Low, and Dolores the one with the sugar. And, judging by Christine’s behavior, it was not an accident.
He dropped the Sweet’N Low packet. It fluttered toward the trash can. Before it landed, the restroom door opened. The breeze from the swinging door blew the pink wrapper off course. It landed on the floor. Christine stared at it, frozen in the doorway.
The expression on her face confirmed his suspicions. Her eyes narrowed and locked on his. She drifted toward him. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
He snatched the wrapper off the floor and crumpled it. “Just... ah... going over the evidence.”
“The evidence?” Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
“Yeah. You know. Of the trial.” He tossed the crumpled wrapper into the trash. She stared after it. Good. She knew that he knew. “How are you feeling?” he asked in his most compassionate voice.
“I’ll be fine.” Then, loud enough for all to hear, she added, “The real question is, how is Dolores?”
“She’ll be fine, we think.” The bailiff appeared in the doorway from the courtroom. “The insulin shot seemed to do the trick.”
Which Christine knew she’d have handy.
“Will she continue on the jury?” Sheila asked.
“No,” Williams said. “She’s going to see her doctor. We’ll need our next alternate to fill in her slot. I believe that’s you, Ms. Nielsen.”
“Oh.” Christine appeared surprised.
Yeah. As if.
“Yes, I—I believe that’s right,” she said. “But, where is Dolores now? Can we see her?” Christine’s concern for Dolores seemed real. Either that or she was one hell of an actress.
“She’ll be here in a minute, to gather her things,” Williams said. “Mr. Rogers is sitting with her. I’ll let her know of your concern.”
Peter sat next to Christine at the table. “Welcome aboard, fellow juror,” he said.
“Thank you, partner.” She glanced at the trash can.
His eyebrows raised. “Partner?”
She smiled. He could fake all he wanted, but her meaning was clear. What they knew about each other made them partners, all right. Partners in crime.
A moment later, Larry escorted Dolores into the room. She collected her things and gave Christine a long hug. They traded contact information with promises to call and visit. Christine showed no remorse about having risked her new friend’s health.
Jesus. Either the friendship was a scam—just part of Christine’s plan—or it was real, and this was how she treated all of her friends.
Peter shivered. Maybe she had a plan for him, too.
Chapter 57
Christine took Dolores’s seat next to Larry in the jury box. Brenda Connelly reiterated the main points from her earlier remarks, then took a step toward the jury. “Much was made of Mr. Vasquez’s so-called motive in this case. We are told he had not one, but two: the jealous, jilted lover, and the threat of being deported. But on closer inspection, neither of these issues rises to the level of motive for murder.”
She took a sip of water and peeked at her notes. Peter shifted in his seat. This would be the heart of the defense’s argument. Come on, Connelly. Be convincing!
“First, as to his alleged rage over being the odd man out in this so-called love triangle involving Mr. Dark and Ms. Aguilar.” Connelly paced along the rail in front of the jury. “Now, did Raul Vasquez act the part of the enraged, love-torn man, desperate and violent? Would he have any reason to believe that killing Alvin Dark would preserve his chance for romance with Ms. Aguilar?” She shook her head. “The answers are, no and no.”
Peter shook his head. Not good enough. A murderer didn’t need to act the part, nor be convinced that killing the other man would win her back. This he knew all too well.
“Yes, they argued,” Connelly said, “but an exchange of words is far from murder. Several witnesses to these arguments testified that they saw no exchange of blows between these two men. Even an exchange of blows is a far cry from murder.
“Was this an argument headed toward a brutal murder? I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is that what happens in your life?”
Yes. At least, once. His stomach tied itself in knots again. He pressed his palm against his abdomen to quell the turmoil.
“As to his so-called second motive—to avoid deportation—there is nothing to this story at all,” Connelly said. “First, Mr. Vasquez’s immigration caseworker testified, there were no problems in his papers, nothing wrong with his files. Second, none of it would threaten his immigration status. His marriage, employment, and location were already known to the INS.” She stole a quick glance at Dennis McCarthy, the red-haired INS agent, sitting in the back row of the gallery.
“Third, even if Alvin Dark did have some new secret information that would put Mr. Vasquez’s immigration in jeopardy, there is no evidence he shared it with him. If Mr. Vasquez didn’t know that Mr. Dark had such information, it could not have motivated him to kill him.”
Peter nodded. Good point. He’d press this one hard in jury deliberations.
“Nor did he have the opportunity, contrary to what the prosecution has claimed,” Connelly said. “The prosecutor provided no evidence he was ever at the scene of the crime.”
“Not true,” Sheila whispered. “The homeless man, Trey Jacobs, saw him there.”
Dammit! Another probable guilty vote. Connelly was losing them with her weak speech.
“Not only that.” Connelly took another tiny step toward the jury box. “Mr. Vasquez appeared at a public restaurant a few hours after the murder, still in the work clothes he’d been wearing since the night before. This was a brutal murder that sprayed blood in all directions. Surely some would have splattered onto the murderer. Yet the only thing on Mr. Vasquez’s white shirt was a few spots of food on it from his work at Florentino’s that night.
“If Mr. Vasquez was the killer, how could his shirt have escaped being stained with blood? The answer is, it could not have, because Raul Vasquez did not kill Alvin Dark.” She smacked her fist into her palm for emphasis, and paused to make eye contact with each juror. Peter avoided her intense stare. She didn’t seem to notice.
Connelly picked at the forensic evidence, calling it insufficient, then pleaded for the jurors to consider the terrible effect a wrongful conviction would have on Vasquez’s life. She closed with a simple appeal for them to remember their charge. “If there is no doubt in your mind, after all of this testimony, then I have failed my client, and for that I will go to my grave with shame. For he is an innocent man,” she said. “But if you harbor any doubts about his motive, his opportunity, or his ability to carry out this terrible act—if you see holes in the evidence that fail to convince you of his guilt—then you must vote ‘Not Guilty,’ and you must not convict him of this crime.”
Connelly delivered her final remark in a soft, serious tone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you. May your own clear conscience guide your deliberations.”
Peter shifted in his seat. A clear conscience was the one thing he did not have.
