Hardy: The Suspect Part 31

"Maybe we ought to send Wyatt down and see if we can get him to have a talk with this guy," Hardy said. "Find out where he was when both these women were killed, or killed themselves, if only to tell it to the judge in there."

"Not that that's going to matter too much at this stage," Farrell, ever helpful, added.

Struck by the phrase, Gina turned on him. "What do you mean by that, Wes?"

Farrell meant no offense. "I mean you'll have all these answers by the time you go to trial. You don't really need them for this hearing, where they're not going to make any difference anyway."

"Well," Gina said, "what if I'm not willing to concede that just yet? That this hearing is a lost cause, I mean. I killed them in there this morning."

"Yes, you did," Farrell agreed. "I never meant to imply that you didn't."

"But I'm going to lose anyway?"

Farrell held up his hands. "Hey, you might not."

Kymberly Gorman was smoking marijuana with her boyfriend, Trevor Stratton, in the Volkswagen camper van in which they'd lived for most of the past weeks, except for the few days after her mother's death when she'd stayed with her aunt Debra. The two young people were parked at almost the precise spot where Wyatt Hunt and Gina Roake had turned around during their jog that morning, in one of the parking s.p.a.ces where Beach Street dead-ended beyond the Maritime Museum at Aquatic Park. Although in theory a two-hour parking limit applied, in practice it was a good place to lay low, since very few cops ever ventured down the foreshortened street, and even the meter maids typically avoided the tight turnaround at the end, preferring to shoot up Polk Street for easier pickin's. Kymberly and Trevor's parking place was also less than six blocks from the Gorman/Dryden home, currently unoccupied.

Trevor Stratton was twenty years old. At six feet tall, 175 pounds, he was a well-built, good-looking kid in a slacker kind of way, at least when he got cleaned up. But like Kymberly, mostly he didn't see the need for that. Today, for example, he wore a wispy three-day stubble. His long hair was blonder than it was brown. Sporting tattered jeans and year-old ruined red tennis shoes, he was exactly the kind of guy Kymberly could never bring home to meet her mother, which made him perfect.

Not that it had been that hard, but Trevor had helped talk Kymberly out of actually attending college when she'd been on the verge of going away. He himself had started at university last year at USF, and had completed most of his freshman work. But his parents back in Illinois had never flown out to visit him, or asked to see his grades, and he realized that they never would, so he stayed for the summer, bought the van, and told his parents that he was living in an off-campus flat. So they sent him $1,500 checks for food and rent every month, which he picked up at a friend's apartment. It was a pretty great existence most of the time.

Except for having to deal with Kymberly's moods and stuff. But most of the time she was up for s.e.x, and her whole att.i.tude was radical and kind of cool. Plus she was a lot prettier than she thought she was. Really pretty, in fact. Trevor got a lot of points with most of the guys he knew for just being with her.

Except now, and for a couple of days now, she was in one of those difficult moods. Manic to the max. He didn't think she'd slept more than an hour or two per night since the funeral, when she'd been so depressed. Then this morning, deciding she needed to visit her father in jail. And that hadn't worked out, except to make her cold. Then they'd come out here with the van and had a few hits-trying to slow her down-but instead she got it in her head that they needed to play some music for tips, so they'd broken out his conga drum and guitar and walked down to the cable car turnaround. He'd strummed his acoustic guitar and sang a bunch of his own monotonic songs while she'd slapped the drum tirelessly for a couple of hours.

When Kymberly got going on something, she had tremendous energy. He had to give her that. And they'd made nearly twenty bucks, which was definitely worth it. But all of it had been in the steady drizzle, and while Trevor had worn his rainproof parka, he hadn't been able to talk Kymberly out of her flip-flops and T-shirt with no bra, which probably didn't hurt the tips.

But now, back in the van, she was whining again, still wound up and endlessly needy. He might have to try to talk her into taking some of the lithium, although it brought her down and got her off her high, when she'd get as boring as she was exciting now. She'd probably sleep for a couple of days if he did that, so he thought at least they ought to get it on one more time before she checked out.

"I just want to get some more clothes," she was saying. "I'm cold."

"Just use the blanket there, Kym. Here, let me wrap you up."

But she shrugged that off. "Too hot, too hot, too hot. Aren't you listening to me? Plus it smells bad. What did we do with those clothes I got with Debra? Did I leave them with her?"

"I don't know. I didn't see them."

"You did too!"

He shook his head. "You never brought them back here."

The suspicion was back in her eyes. Lately this seemed to be her fallback position with him. Not trusting him. When in truth he was the one providing for her-this ride, her food, her dope, her drink, her needs. But this was the thing, he knew, that made her so difficult at certain times and so kind of fascinating at others. You just never knew what her reality was going to be. And suddenly, now, she sat up, her stoned eyes flashing in anger at him. "You sold them, didn't you? That's what you did, Trev. You turned them back in at the store for the money."

"No I didn't, Kym. You never brought them back. You left them at your aunt's."

"I wouldn't have done that. I liked those clothes."

"You said you hated them."

"I did not. You're making that up." But something about it seemed to strike her as possible, if not actually true, and she shifted gears in that infallible way she had. "Let's just go up to the house."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? n.o.body's there. I've got my old clothes in my room, in my closet. I'm really cold, Trev. I'm not kidding. I don't want to get sick."

"You don't get sick from being cold. That's an old wives' tale."

"I don't care about that. And I don't believe it either." She was patting her pockets, feeling around in the pile of blankets and other stuff on the mattress with her. "Where are my keys? You're not the boss of me. I'm just going."

"Kym." He picked up the blanket from behind her and tried to wrap it around her shoulders. "We can't go up to your house. We just can't do that."

She grabbed at the corner of the blanket and pulled it off her again. "Where are my keys? Did you take my keys, too?"

"I didn't take them. You gave them to me."

"So give them back now. Do you even know where they are?" Yes.

"So where are they? You have to tell me. They're mine."

"They're ours, Kym. And they're in a safe place. Can't you leave this blanket over you, please? Just until you warm up. Then we can talk about it."

"But I want to go to my house and get my clothes."

"Kym. Your mother was killed there. Remember that? You said you'd never be able to go in there again."

"But I could now. My mom's not going to ..." Whatever the evanescent thought was, it had vanished. She sighed and said, "Anyway, you could come with me."

"I can't go in there, Kym. I can never go back in there. Don't you get that? If somebody saw me and knew that you were with me and then they got my fingerprints somehow, they might put me in jail."

"No! You can't go to jail, too!"

"I know. I know. But if anybody saw us there Sunday . . ."

"n.o.body saw us, Trev. It was in and out; I know the combination, we hit the safe, take the money ..."

"We should've taken all of it. And the gun, too."

"No! That would have really been dumb. I know my dad. He wouldn't have known exactly how much he'd put in the safe, but he'd notice if all of it was gone. And we don't need the gun. What do we need a gun for?"

"We could have sold it someplace. And there was just so much more there, Kym, for the taking. Stuff they never even would have missed, I bet. But now that chance is gone forever. We should have got more when we could."

But then she had that faraway look in her eyes again, and she went silent, now reaching for the towel and pulling it tightly around her, smell or not. "I knew you wanted to go back. It's so lucky you didn't go back." She reached out and touched his leg. "You didn't, did you? Go back."

"Of course not, Kym. You know I didn't. I told you that."

She recited the explanation as though she memorized it: " 'I stayed with Jen and you went to Jeremy's and bought this weed instead,' " she said.

"Right. With the money we got from the safe. And luckily I didn't go to your house, 'cause whoever was there might have ... I mean, I might have got in the way too."

"Like Mom did."

"Right. Just like that. But that's why I can't go back there now. They might think somehow I had something to do with your mother. Which I did not, Kym. I swear to G.o.d, I didn't."

Kymberly nodded and nodded, until the movement became so p.r.o.nounced that it turned into rocking. A tiny, frail humming started deep within her and in a few seconds had turned to a full-throated keening that Trevor had to m.u.f.fle by pulling her against him and holding her to his chest, rubbing her back, smoothing her hair, whispering soothingly to her. "It's okay, now, it's okay." And then, just as suddenly as the moaning had come on, it broke into a cathartic sobbing that wrenched at her chest and seemed to involve her whole body.

"Don't leave me," she cried. "Please please please don't leave me." Trevor continued to stroke her back. "I never would," he whispered close to her ear. "Never ever ever."

"Kym, this is Gina Roake again."

"How did you get my number?"

"Your father tried to call you this morning on my cell phone, so the number's on it."

"Okay. What?"

"Are you all right?"

"You always ask that, you know that?"

"I'm sorry. Bad habit. It sounds like you've been crying."

"What if I was? My mother's just been killed. I guess I can cry if I feel like it. Is that okay with you?"

Gina thought that there was no winning with this young woman. Biting her tongue, repressing a sigh that she was certain would be misinterpreted, she summoned her most neutral voice and said, "I'm on my way back to your father's hearing, and I have a question for you."

"I might not know the answer." She said something else that Gina couldn't pick up.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I was talking to somebody else. What's your question?"

"When you talked to your mother on that last Sunday, did you tell her you weren't going to school?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. I'm just asking. Your father wanted to know too."

"Why do you always say, 'your father,' like it was this big formal thing? Why don't you just call him my dad?"

"Okay, Kymberly, your dad wanted to know what you'd talked to your mother ... to your mom about. If it wasn't about school."

"Money. To tell her I was going to need money."

"Wasn't she sending you money?"

"Yeah, but that was directly to the dorms. I told her I met some people and we'd decided to rent an apartment instead, so she should just send me the money directly."

"And what did she say to that?"

"What do you think? That she wasn't going to do that."

"Did she say anything else?"

"The usual. Was I taking my pills? I shouldn't leave the dorms. Blah blah blah."

"So that was the whole talk?"

"Pretty much. She had to go out as usual, so she cut it short."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"She said she had an appointment."

"Did she say with who?"

"No. It was just the usual. 'I've got an appointment.' Covers for everything."

"Kymberly," Gina said. "Would you please try to remember if she said anything about who she was meeting. It might have been the last person to see her alive before she was killed. It might even have been her murderer."

Nothing again from the daughter. "She said she had an appointment, that's all. Hey, is my dad there? Can I talk to him?"

"He's in a cell behind the courtroom right now, Kymberly. He left you a message that maybe you can come see him this afternoon during visiting hours. He'd like that."

"Yeah, well," she said. "I don't know. You can tell him I took one of my pills. I'm getting a little tired. I'll see how I feel."

And without another word, Kymberly hung up.

Gina sat at the defense table, waiting for Stuart to be brought in. Judge Toynbee had declared the lunch recess a little early, and now a long afternoon loomed before her. Though it shouldn't have made any difference, she was acutely aware that the rooting section of her lunch mates had all gone back to their regular jobs. The fact that Dismas Hardy was going to try to get in touch with Wyatt Hunt and a.s.sign him to get some facts about PII and Bill Blair didn't quite make up for the irrational feeling Gina had that she'd been abandoned. Ridiculous, she knew. She was a big girl. But the show of support in the morning had been unexpected and very nice. She glanced back. Debra Dryden was still waiting in the hallway because Abrams had subpoenaed her and she had to stick around. In spite of Debra's strong and positive feelings for Stuart, to Gina she really didn't feel like much of an ally. And Jedd Conley's appearance this morning had evidently been token as well, since now there was no sign of him.

On the prosecution side, however, the only evacuees were the morning's two witnesses, Strout and Faro. At this very moment, Abrams was talking animatedly with Juhle, Clarence Jackman, and a couple of the uniformed cops who'd been out there all day. Suddenly, a general laugh broke out in the group, no doubt someone with a joke. Guys sure could find a way to laugh just about anytime, she noted. And, in fact, what wasn't for them to laugh at? They sure didn't have to prove much at this hearing; they were a united team; nothing was that serious anyway; it was a man's world.

Gina abruptly turned her back on the gallery, thinking f.u.c.k that noise. She wasn't going to let herself get sucked into that negative thinking. She might be alone here, all right, but she was a d.a.m.ned competent lawyer who'd beaten many a man before. And, she told herself, this time she had the truth on her side. Okay, guys, she thought, I'm ready. Bring it on.

31.

By its nature, a preliminary hearing tends to be short on narrative thread. There is no real opportunity for or tolerance of argument. In theory, the proceeding marshals and presents the evidence against a defendant in such a way that it speaks for itself. This structure, coupled with the probable-cause standard of proof, allows both sides to play a little fast and loose with witnesses and even, sometimes, with physical evidence, since no formal explanation of the relevance of the various elements of a case is required in advance.

This would probably be good for Gina when it came time to present her own alternative theories of her case-the connection of Caryn Dryden to Kelley Rusnak and to PII, the inadequate police interrogations of alternate suspects with strong motives and into Caryn s financial and personal lives, the rush to judgment on Stuart because he was the spouse-but it made it difficult to know how to deal with a prosecution witness such as Officer George Berriman of the Highway Patrol, a well-groomed, good-looking, friendly man on the sunny side of thirty.

Over Gina's continuing objections on relevance, Berriman's testimony put into the record that Stuart had been upset when he'd been pulled over on the Friday night before Caryn's death and that he'd said he was going up to the mountains for the weekend, because otherwise he might kill his wife, with whom he just had a bad fight. There wasn't anything Gina could do. It was what it was. Not devastating, but very far from helpful. But she thought she could make a small point or at least put in a dig to Abrams.

"Officer Berriman"-she stood again in the center of the courtroom-"in the course of your average working day, do you pull over many people and give them speeding tickets?"