Proof, page 20
“Except they have a motive. To rescue the child from a broken home.”
I give Jeff a level look. “One thing is clear, Mr. Advisor. There are too many moving parts in this case, too many things that don’t fit. And my client keeps lying to me by omission. I am going to go with my gut and ask Cy to have the police to fingerprint the tiller.”
“Be it on your head,” says Jeff, and exits the room.
CHAPTER 42
IT’S TAKEN TWELVE DAYS TO organize the visit to the shed in Britannia Bay where the boat is stored. I called Cy after learning Tess was adopted. I explained the grease on the tiller and the apparent lack of fingerprinting. “If Kan didn’t fingerprint, then there weren’t any fingerprints to be had,” he huffed. “Kan will never agree to this.” It took a few more calls, but yesterday Cy called me to tell me today is the day.
I grab a coffee, blow a kiss at my sleeping child—Edith will be taking her to daycare this morning—and head for the office in sleeting rain. The time 7:10 on my dash startles me; what happened to the woman who, three months ago, didn’t rise before ten? I stand at the door of Truitt and Solosky in the semi-darkness and grope for my keys. The woman who, two months ago, wouldn’t come near the office now can’t stay away. I need to fix this obsession with Tess, but I don’t know how.
I turn the lights on and park myself behind my desk. I check my emails. Right at the top, Richard’s message leaps out at me. His buddy in the CCTV section checked Damon out and sees no reason not to let him look at as much footage as Damon’s boredom threshold can tolerate. Good news; if there is anything to ferret out, Damon will do it.
My iPhone pings. Eight o’clock: time to get moving if I’m going to make it to Britannia Beach by nine. My stomach clenches. Jeff is right, Richard is right, I am foolish to ask for a fingerprint that may convict my client. I find my car in the parking lot and head west.
Cold rain sheets the windshield all the way.
I pull up in the parking lot outside the shed. To judge from the covey of vehicles, I’m late. I recognize Richard’s pickup, note the presence of three police cars and a forensics van.
I find my umbrella and step out, my Sorels splashing in a car-size pool of water. I pull my down-filled coat tighter against the driving rain and move toward the police officers huddled under an overhang by the door. No one greets me.
I flip my umbrella shut and look up. Officer Constable, the woman who supervised the first search, glares at me from narrow ice blue slits. Two other cops—presumably the forensic team—stand heads bowed and shivering against the rain, unable to manage even a nod. Even Richard looks glum as he greets me. It’s clear they all would rather be somewhere else than at this bleak shed on this bleak shore, huddled in the pelting rain.
Behind us, I hear an engine and turn to see who has arrived even later than me. A black car, no markings. The door opens, and the long form of Detective Kan unfolds itself from the driver’s seat. He slams the door behind him and hunches toward the assembled group, hands in his pockets, bare head slanted against the torrent. Impeccable as always, white shirt and blue tie beneath his open trench coat.
He gives me a nod. “Ms. Truitt.”
I wave Richard up and introduce him. “Richard Beauvais, helping me on the defence.”
The assembled group waits while Officer Gzowski makes a note in the book where she records all vital things, enters the date, time, and second on the security sheet, cuts the plastic ribbon around the lock and, inserting her key, gives a shoulder push to the steel door.
I step inside toward the battered boat, a sepulchral shadow in the gloom of the shed. What am I doing here? They will find what they find. I look at Kan, hunched over the boat. Now I’ve picked up on the tiller, he wants to check it out for himself.
Kan motions to the broken tiller, and the team in hazmat suits and gloves start their work. Photos. The application of sprays and mysterious substances. Translating whatever they see to iPads. The team works efficiently, but it takes time. After an eon, they step back and start packing their kit.
I move to the side of the boat, peer down at the slatted seat. Kan hovers two feet behind to make sure I don’t touch anything.
“That’s where you found the hair?” I ask, pointing to the circle that marks the spot where the hair was found.
“Yes.”
“I would like them to fingerprint the area around the circle,” I say. “The top surface, the edges, and the bottom.”
“They checked it the first time,” Kan says.
“In case they missed something.”
Kan shrugs, motions the team back. They’re half-packed, but if they resent the new order, they don’t let it show.
“We’ll let you know what we find. It will take the lab a couple of days.” He looks at me from hooded eyes, his lip twists down. “Contact me if you find any more holes in my police work.”
“You can count on it, Detective,” I say brightly, as we step outside. “As a matter of fact, there is one thing I’ve been wondering about. Three boats were reported missing. You say this is the one from the Yacht Club. I assume you’ve followed up on the other two?”
“We have,” says Kan. “We brought the owners of all three boats to have a look at this.” He nods at the wreck. “The owners of other two said this boat was not theirs.”
“Have you positively identified this boat as the one that went missing from the Yacht Club?”
Kan’s eyes narrow. “The owner says it appears to be the same boat. Unfortunately, neither the boat that went missing from the Club or this one have identification numbers. We have a number on the engine but the owner’s records didn’t give us anything. The owner—name is Vince Stoddard—gave a statement. It’s in the Crown’s disclosure, when you get around to looking at it.”
“When Cy gets around to sending it,” I snap back.
“Not my problem,” says Kan. He slides into the seat of his car and slams the door.
Richard walks me to my car. “Why the hell did you ask them to print the seat?” he growls.
“A hunch.”
CHAPTER 43
MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, AND I’M back at Kate’s house.
Once, she called me every day; now she’s silent. I haven’t heard from her since Jeff and I hauled her into the office to explain the results of Tess’s hair analysis. When I call her, no one picks up. Kate’s continued silence nags at me. I don’t know yet if I’ll put her on the stand, but I want to be able to if necessary.
Yesterday I received Dr. Pinsky’s report on Kate’s mental status. Like every other psychiatrist in this town, he’s up to his ears in life-and-death cases and puts his legal files on the back burner unless they’re urgent. Sussing out Kate’s complicated mental state for a trial months away didn’t make the grade until recently.
I’ve worked with Pinsky for years; he’s bailed me out in more than one trial. I imagined his long face and rimless glasses as I perused his report summary. History of anxiety depressive illness; now stable on suitable medication. Mildly paranoid, tends not to trust people. Some evidence of compulsive behaviours. Appreciates the consequences of her acts and has a clear sense of right and wrong, although scores high on the deception scale, i.e. definitely capable of lying if so motivated. And then a note in brackets: [Subject has been under enormous stress due to recent events, namely the disappearance of her daughter and the charges she faces. Her ability to cope and aid her own defence is a testimony to her strength of character.]
So Kate is sane and functioning within the normal range. Which doesn’t mean she’s not deceiving me. Maybe she’s holding back on me intentionally, maybe it’s a symptom of the inability to trust Pinsky mentioned.
I decided to make a house call.
Half an hour later, I was pulling up before Kate’s house and pushing through a wet gust of wind to her door. I hit the bell. While I wait, I cast my eye around the small forecourt. No lurkers, no people waving placards. The web surfers who hate her haven’t found her house yet, thank God.
The door opens a crack, the chain secure. The green-brown iris of Kate’s eye surveys me. She hesitates, like she’s not sure she should let me in, then disengages the chain and pulls the door open.
“Why are you here?” she asks. Her bitter voice has an undercurrent of apathy.
I step in and shut the door behind me. “I came to fill you in on developments about the case.” It’s nagging at me that I made the decision to go for the fingerprint on the tiller without consulting her. It’s a choice that could convict her, and I should have put it to her, but in my pig-headedness, I pushed through. They could haul me before the Law Society for this, maybe disbar me. Too late to tell her now; all I can do is hope for the best. Another reason to pray the fingerprint they find doesn’t belong to Kate.
“I’ve told you, I don’t care about the case. Only Tess.” She stares at me. “Let’s be frank. When you told me you didn’t believe me, insisted I see your Dr. Pinsky, I realized you are not my friend. I thought you believed me, thought you were on my side. But you are not my friend.”
“How did you get on with Dr. Pinsky?” I ask. I’m interested in her take on his visit.
Kate shrugs. “I’ve seen a few shrinks in my life. He fits the mold. Caring on the outside, all the while scheming how to throw you under the bus. My current guy is the only one who ever wanted to help me.”
“Perhaps I should talk to him,” I say.
Kate’s lips press into a thin line. “Perhaps you should.”
I nod. Kate is upset with me, and it’s my fault. I took her case on like my own. I bled for her, swore to find her child for her. I over-promised, and now I’m pulling back to what I should have been from the beginning—her lawyer. Don’t get too close to your client, rule number two.
“Let’s go upstairs and talk,” I say, nodding to the glass stairs behind her.
Kate turns listlessly and starts up.
We settle in our usual chairs. Her face is a blank mask.
I decide to confront her hostility head-on. “You are right, Kate. I am not your friend. I am your lawyer. I am working for you. I am working to keep you out of prison for the rest of your life. To do this, I need to ask questions, dig up things you would rather keep private.” I pause. “I have to take an objective view of where we are. Maybe you haven’t lied to me, but you have been withholding information—about Trist moving Tess to Vegas, about the true lows of your mental illness, about Tess’s parentage. And your hair on the boat—well, we’ll see how that turns out. The point is, my job is to do what’s best for your case, not what you want.”
She makes no reply.
“And another thing. You need to tell me everything, Kate, even if you don’t think it’s important. I’ll be the judge.”
She sits silent, considering.
“Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.” Her face is bleak.
“I know this is hard for you. How are you?”
“I’m scared,” she says in a small voice.
“Why are you scared?”
She turns her head away, surveying me from the corner of her eye. “Why should I tell you? You’ll say I’m paranoid. But if you had the media on your back for years, if you had to live with all the evil things they’ve said, you might understand. It was bad enough before Tess disappeared, but now, since they charged me, it’s unbearable.
“I try to ignore it, block it out,” she goes on. “But one evening I went on social media. I know you told me not to, but I thought it couldn’t be worse than what I’d already heard.” She swallows. “But it was. Way worse. It was—obscene. I shut it down within ten minutes, but what I saw was enough. Too much. Now it’s in my mind all the time. The things they say I did—” She breaks off, shaking her head. A tear steals down her cheek.
“Maybe I’m crazy, but sometimes I think they’re after me. I watch for cars following me, and sometimes I think I see them. I’m afraid to pick up the phone, so I don’t.” She halts. “Some of the tweets—there was a whole conversation saying I’m evil for not pleading guilty. They say I’ll get off on a technicality like that Casey girl in Florida did.” She halts. “I keep thinking about her. The jury acquitted her, and the public outcry was crazy. She had to take a new identity. Even if you get me off by some miracle, Jilly, what future do I have?”
She looks at me bleakly. “Some of what they say on the web is so evil, I can’t help but think they’d lynch me if they had the chance. And Jilly, I don’t know how to say this, but some of the tweets were about you, even mentioned your little Claire.”
I feel a stone where my stomach should be. I lost Mike to a criminal who thought I had crossed him. Will I lose Claire for defending Kate?
“These people are evil, Jilly.”
I nod. “You mentioned you’re afraid to pick up the phone. Why is that?”
“Once when I answered, I heard a man’s heavy breathing. He wouldn’t speak. The next day, it happened again. It freaked me out. I don’t know who it was, how he got my number. And then, last night, there was a message, You are evil. End this and plead guilty. There was more, but I didn’t listen to it all.”
“Did you erase the message?”
“No, but I should.” She points to the phone on the desk. “It’s still there.”
“Don’t erase it,” I say. “I’ll report it, have the police investigate it.”
Kate nods, bows her head in silence. Maybe she’s paranoid, maybe she’s scared to tell me everything. Maybe I would be the same in her shoes.
I think of Dr. Pinsky’s final footnote. “You are strong, Kate. I know that by now. Just to get through your days, your nights, would be something most people could not manage. But you are managing. You are hanging on.”
“Tess keeps me going. I tell myself she’s still alive; I tell myself I will find her. If I keep sane, if I keep on the good pills and off the bad ones, I’ll find her.” Her eyes slip to the keyboard. “I spend my afternoons practising a song I will sing to her. Brahms’ Lullaby.”
She crosses to the keyboard, sits down behind it. She plays a few chords, and her voice floats out, tremulous, but clear.
Lullaby and goodnight
With roses bedite
With lilies o’re spread
Is baby’s wee bed.
Kate’s fingers slip from keyboard, and she gives me a small smile. “It needs more work.”
“It was lovely.”
Kate’s gaze moves off and out the window. “Tess is alive. I will see her and sing this song for her.”
I pick up my bag and head down the stairs, scrunching my eyes against the tears.
CHAPTER 44
BACK AT THE OFFICE, I call Cy.
“Cy, the web is full of hate talk against Kate, and now she’s receiving threatening phone calls. She needs protection immediately.”
“What’s this all about?”
I tell him enough to make him sit up in his chair across town. “I can’t do this, Jilly—I’m a prosecutor. We’ll have to bring Kan in. I’ll have him come to your office.”
I hang up and phone Liz’s daycare. Liz seems surprised; I’m not one of those parents who calls in every half hour. “Just wanted to see how Claire is,” I say.
Liz chuckles. “Something up, Jilly? I can assure you Claire is fine, although I’m having difficulty keeping her from trying to climb onto the tabletop.”
I laugh and sign off. I think of Mike, bloody on the floor the night he died. If anything were to happen to Claire… I push the thought from my mind.
An hour later, Kan pushes through the double glass doors. His eyes scan our modest outer office—Is this what defence digs look like? Maybe he thought I spend my days in one of the glossy glass towers uptown. Debbie, who seldom gets to see a cop, much less a real detective, ushers him into my office with aplomb. “Have a seat. Coffee coming right up.” Then, with a glance to me, “Message for you when you’re free.”
Kan folds his frame awkwardly into my Eames client chair, his bulk rising over its delicate arms. His face is impassive. “What is this about, Ms. Truitt?”
I tell him about Kate’s telephone message. No, I didn’t listen to it, but I think his people should. Do an assessment. Perhaps they can trace it. And the web, they should monitor it as well. He takes it in, jotting notes in a small book as I proceed.
“One more thing,” I say. “Some of the online talk mentioned me, my daughter. Claire.”
Kan makes another note in his mysterious book.
I wait. He’s going to say he doesn’t see any danger, this is another defence ploy to divert him from what matters. A ditzy accusation by an over-excited female lawyer. Still, I can’t be making this all up. The web is what it is, and I’m asking him to check out a real message on Kate’s phone.
He looks up. “I’ll send someone over to check the message and see if we can trace it. And for the rest—you must know we’re monitoring Kate.”
The minimum, I think. Not even an offer to put a guard on the house. “You disappoint me, Detective. Let me put it this way. It’s fashionable for lawyers these days to talk about the precautionary principle,” I say. “The idea is that if something bad could happen, you don’t let it. They’re usually talking about the environment, but let’s apply the principle to this case. Assume someone is tailing Kate. Assume someone is leaving threatening phone calls. Assume public outrage is running high against her. What precautions should we take?”
He looks at me stonily. “Nothing,” he says. “Do nothing.”
I don’t hide my anger. “Really, Detective?”
“If we applied the precautionary principle to the internet, free speech would be over, Ms. Truitt. We live in a mean world, but we also live in a free country. We can’t shut this stuff down. The police can’t even monitor most of it. Privacy protection. But let’s get to your real concern. Does the hateful internet chatter mean your client’s in danger? The answer is no. The messages are nothing but the usual bilge and vitriol, people spewing out their frustration and anger and concern. They’re just words. They won’t touch Kate—or you.”
