Judd was hitting his stride now, saying intently to Morales, “Do you remember in Nausea when the protagonist says about himself, ‘You plunge into stories without beginning or end: you’d make a terrible witness. But in compensation, one misses nothing, no improbability or story too tall to be believed in cafés’?”
“Are you saying this has happened before?”
“Oh, yes. But I never reported those dreams. Who would believe that I saw a future murder? But I had to report this one or go crazy. Because I think I’ve seen the victim before.”
“Tell me about the victim,” Morales said. “Do you know her name?”
“No. I think I’ve just seen her at Whole Foods.”
Conklin sat back and listened for any changes in the tall story he had heard before. Dr. Judd told Mackie Morales about the woman with the blond hair with roots, the sandals, and the blue-painted toenails choosing a pint of chocolate chip ice cream before she was gunned down—at some time in the future.
“I heard the shots but I didn’t wake up,” said Judd. “This woman put her hand to her chest, then took it away and looked at the blood. She said, ‘What?’
“And then her legs went out from under her and she slid down the door of the freezer, but she was already dead.”
Morales said, “And do you have any idea why she was—I mean, why she will be shot?”
“No, and I don’t think she saw the person who shot her.”
Perry Judd sighed deeply, put his hand on Morales’s arm, spoke to her as though they were alone together in the room.
“Miss Morales, this is what it is like for me, exactly what Sartre wrote in the voice of Antoine Roquentin: ‘I see the future. It is there, poised over the street, hardly more dim than the present. What advantage will accrue from its realization?’ You see? This is how it is for me.”
Conklin was disgusted. This whole story was about Dr. Judd. He was a flaming narcissist, a diagnosis that didn’t require a degree in psychology to make.
Conklin said, “What’s the address of the store?”
Dr. Judd gave the address in SoMa, only a few blocks away from the Hall, definitely a case for Southern District—if the murder ever really happened, or would happen.
For the second time in ten minutes, Conklin thanked Dr. Judd and told him that if they needed to speak with him again, they’d be in touch.
“He’s a hard-core nutcase, right?” Conklin said to Morales when Perry Judd had left the squad room.
“Yep. He’s delusional. Could be he’s crazy enough to kill someone, though.”
Conklin thought Morales made a fair point. But if Judd was getting ready to kill someone, there was no way to stop him. You can’t lock someone up for having a dream.
Chapter 10
MERCIFULLY, JOE AND the baby were both sleeping. In the same room. In the same bed. At the same time. It was unbelievable, but true.
I filled Martha’s bowl with yummy kibble and brought in the morning paper from the hall.
The headline read: FAYE FARMER DEAD AT 27.
I didn’t stop to make coffee, just spread the paper out over the kitchen counter. The shocking story had been written by my great friend Cindy Thomas, charter member of the Women’s Murder Club, engaged to marry my partner, Rich Conklin, and a bulldog of a reporter.
Unrelenting tenacity can be an annoying trait in a friend, but it had made Cindy a successful crime reporter with a huge future. Her story on Faye Farmer had shot past the second section of the paper and was on the front page above the fold.
Cindy had written, “Fashion designer Faye Farmer, 27, known for her red-carpet styling and must-have wear for the young and famous, was found dead in her car last night on 29th Street and Noe.
“Captain Warren Jacobi has told the Chronicle that Ms. Farmer had been the victim of a gunshot wound to the head. An autopsy has been scheduled for Tuesday.”
It was almost impossible to believe that such a bright, vivacious young woman was dead, her promising life just … over. Had someone taken her life? Or had she killed herself?
I kept reading.
The article went on to say that Faye Farmer lived with football great Jeffrey Kennedy, who was not a suspect and was cooperating fully with the police.
I’d watched Jeff Kennedy many times from the stands at Candlestick Park. At twenty-five, he was already the NFL’s best outside linebacker. His defensive skills and movie-star looks had made him an immediate fan favorite, and at a guaranteed thirteen million dollars a year, he was the league’s fifth-highest earner.
Faye Farmer had been photographed with Kennedy frequently over the last couple of years and had been quoted as saying she was going to be married—“to someone.” The way it sounded, she wanted to get married to Kennedy, but he wasn’t at the until-death-do-us-part stage.
I was dying for more information. This was what’s termed a suspicious death, and my mind just cannot rest until a puzzle is solved. Of course, from where I was sitting at the kitchen counter, I had no more information than anyone else who had read the Chronicle’s front page this morning.
I was just going to have to tamp down my curiosity and get over it.
I put down the paper, then dressed quickly and quietly. I leashed Martha and went down the stairs, thinking I’d start off slowly, see if I could run a half mile, melt off a little of the twenty-five pounds of baby fat I’d added to my 5-foot-10-inch frame. I’d always been a bit hippy. Now I was a bit hippo.
Not a good thing for a cop.
The sun was still coming up over the skyline when I locked the front door behind me. But as I was about to set out, my attention was caught by a woman who was sitting behind the wheel of a rental car parked at the curb. She spotted me, too, got out of the driver’s seat, and called my name.
I had never met her, never wanted to.
And now she’d waylaid me.
There was no place to go. So I stood my ground.
Chapter 11
I DIDN’T KNOW June Freundorfer, but I knew who she was. My eyeballs got small and hard just looking at her in the flesh.
She wore a slim gray custom-tailored suit, had perfect wavy brown hair, and a smile as bright as if she soaked her teeth in Clorox. In brief, she was an attractive forty-five-year-old power babe and she had history with my husband.
Here’s the history.
Agent Freundorfer had been Joe’s partner at the FBI. She was promoted to the FBI’s Washington field office about the same time Joe was hired as deputy director of Homeland Security, also in Washington, DC.
June still lived in DC and until recently, Joe had been flying there regularly to see his government-agency client.
I hadn’t known about June, but a few months ago, while I was pregnant with Julie, a photo of Joe and June appeared in the Washington Post’s society page. June was looking up at Joe with twinkling eyes, a flirty look, and they were both in evening wear.
Joe insisted that there was nothing to the photo, just a charity benefit he’d gone to under pressure. He’d caught a flight back to San Francisco that same evening.
Then June called Joe’s cell phone and I picked up. I announced myself, asked a couple of pointed questions, and June admitted that she was involved with Joe, but that Joe really did love me.
I went bug-nuts.
Joe said that June was lying, that she was trying to make trouble for us out of jealousy, and I can honestly say she wasn’t just trying, she succeeded.
I threw Joe out of the house and changed the locks. He slept in his car, which he parked outside the apartment, just about where June’s car was parked now.
It took a while for me to believe in Joe again, but I love him and I had to trust him. And I totally do.
But now, those old suspicions returned as the beautiful Ms. Freundorfer came toward me, carrying a little turquoise shopping bag from Tiffany.
Martha read my body language and stood at my feet with her head lowered and ears back, ready to spring.
“Lin
dsay? You are Lindsay, aren’t you?”
“Joe isn’t around, June. Did you call?”
“So I don’t have to introduce myself. Joe always said you were smart. Anyway, I brought a gift for the baby,” she said. “Did you have a boy or girl?”
“We have a daughter.”
June smiled graciously and handed me the bag. And I took it because to keep my hands at my sides would have been childish. I even thanked her for the gift, a thank-you that was less than sincere and wouldn’t fool anyone, especially an FBI agent.
June said, “What’s the baby’s name? I’d love to see her.”
“It’s not a good time, June.”
It would never be a good time.
She said, “Oh. Well. Best of everything, Lindsay. Best to all of you.”
She returned to her car and after she’d waved good-bye and her taillights had disappeared around the corner, I opened the turquoise bag and undid the white ribbon around the small box inside.
June had given Julie a sterling silver rattle.
Very nice.
I took the rattle, the wrappings, and the unopened card and dropped it all into the trash can on the corner. Then I went for a run with Martha.
I ran. I hurt everywhere, but still I ran. Three miles later, Martha and I were back at our front door. I was soaking wet, but I felt something like my old self. It was a beautiful morning. I was married to a wonderful man and I was the mother of a healthy baby girl.
June Freundorfer be damned.
Chapter 12
THE COURTROOM WAS so packed that members of the press were standing together like matchsticks at the back of the room. TruTV cameras rolled, and Yuki saw Cindy Thomas sitting four rows back on the aisle.
Cindy winked at Yuki, who smiled before turning to say, “Your Honor, the people call Mr. Graham Durden.”
A tall black man in his late fifties entered the courtroom from the rear, looking straight ahead as he walked purposefully up the aisle and through the wooden gate to the witness box. He was sworn in, then took his seat.
Yuki greeted her witness and began with questions that established his identity and his role in the case.
“Mr. Durden, what is your address?”
“Fifty-seven Lopez Avenue.”
“Is Mr. Keith Herman your neighbor?”
“Yes. He lives directly across the street from me.”
Yuki noticed that Durden’s hands were shaking. It was understandable. The man was a witness against a killer. If Keith Herman got off, Graham Durden would still be living directly across the street from him.
“Mr. Durden, did anything unusual happen on the morning of March first last year?”
“Yes. I’ll never forget it.”
“Please tell the court about that morning.”
“I had gone out to get the newspaper off the porch and I saw Mr. Herman carry his daughter’s dead body out to his car. I could tell that Lily was dead. He put her into the backseat and drove away.”
There was a gasp in the gallery, a satisfying intake of breath, and the jury appeared absolutely gripped by what they had heard.
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did the police question the defendant because of your phone call?”
“Yes. The day after I called nine-one-one, I was asked to come into the station for a lineup. I positively identified the man who put the body of Lily Herman into his car.”
“Do you see that man here today?”
Durden said he did, and at Yuki’s request he pointed to the man sitting next to John Kinsela at the defense table.
“How well do you know Mr. Herman?” she asked.
“I’ve known him for about five years. I knew Lily since she was three. She likes my dog, Poppy. They used to play on my lawn. I know the man’s car, too. Lexus. A 2011 four-door sedan.”
“So you are absolutely sure that the man you saw on the day in question, the man putting Lily Herman into the back of the Lexus, was the defendant, Keith Herman?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Durden. I have no further questions.”
Yuki returned to her seat at the prosecution table. There was some foot shuffling in the gallery, and people coughed on both sides of the aisle.
Judge Nussbaum scratched his nose, made a note on his laptop, then said, “Mr. Kinsela, your witness.”
Chapter 13
JOHN KINSELA STOOD. He didn’t snort or mug for the jury. In fact, he looked quite grave as he faced the witness.
“Mr. Durden, have you ever testified in court before?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a little nerve-racking, isn’t it?”
Yuki thought it was a question meant to rattle the witness, but it allowed the jury to see defense counsel as sympathetic, treating the witness with respect. If she objected, she could irritate the jury.
“I’m feeling fine,” said Graham Durden. He folded his hands in front of him.
“Good. Now, Mr. Durden, you swore to tell the truth, and yet in truth, you weren’t a hundred percent sure that the man you saw on March first was Mr. Herman, isn’t that right?”
“It was Mr. Herman. I know Mr. Herman.”
“You told the police—and I’m reading from the transcript of your phone call to nine-one-one—‘I’m ninety percent sure that the man getting into the car was Keith Herman.’”
“I said that, but it was a figure of speech. It was definitely him. And Keith Herman was carrying Lily out to the car. Put her body into the backseat.”
“What kind of car was that again, Mr. Durden?”
“A late-model Lexus sedan, 2011.”
“And what color was the car?”
“Black.”
“Now, you told the police it was a dark-colored Lexus, isn’t that correct?”
“Black is dark. I should know.”
There was a smattering of nervous laughter in the gallery. Yuki wasn’t concerned. Graham Durden was a high school principal. He was about as credible a witness as there was. He had described the car as “dark.” And yes, black was dark. He had told the police he was 90 percent sure he saw Herman. He was being careful.
“So just to be sure we’re both on the same page,” Kinsela said, turning to give the jury a good long look at the gravity of his expression. “You saw Mr. Herman put his daughter into a dark Lexus sedan on the street outside his house.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you get the license plate number?”
“That car is always parked right there. I know the car.”
“Yes or no: did you get the license plate number of that dark Lexus, Mr. Durden?”
“No.”
“Now, as to the body of the girl you say you saw the defendant bring out to the car: did you one hundred percent identify that body as Lily Herman’s?”
“One hundred percent,” Durden said angrily. “One hundred percent.”
“And how do you know she was dead?” Kinsela asked mildly.
“Her head was hanging back. She was limp.”
“Could she have been asleep? Did you feel her pulse?”
“What?”
Yuki said from her seat, “Your Honor, counsel is badgering the witness.”
Judge Nussbaum said, “Overruled. Mr. Kinsela, pick one question and ask it again.”
Chapter 14
YUKI FELT TREMORS as the ground shifted beneath the witness box. Graham Durden darted a look in her direction, and she could see from the tight set of his lips that he was angry.
Durden didn’t like to have his integrity questioned. And Kinsela was working him over with the finesse of a fishmonger wielding a boning knife. Yuki had rehearsed with Durden, warned him that Kinsela would try to impeach his testimony. Durden had assured her that he felt confident and steady, saying repeatedly, “I know what I saw.”
Kinsela said, “Okay, Your Honor. I apologize for running on like that. Mr. Durden, how did you know that th
e child was dead?”
“She looked dead.”
“She looked dead. And how far were you from the man who put the child into a dark sedan?”
“I saw them from my front steps. Fifty yards.”
“Fifty yards.” Kinsela paused to let the jury think about fifty yards. A hundred and fifty feet. Kind of far away. Then he said, “And did you have an unobstructed view, Mr. Durden?”
“Yes.”
Kinsela walked to an easel, yanked down a piece of paper, and revealed an aerial photograph of Lopez Avenue between Sotelo and Castenada. The easel was positioned so that both the jury and the witness could see the image clearly.
Kinsela said to Durden, “Is this a photograph of your street?”
“Yes.”
“And this house marked A—is this your house?”
“It is.”
“This house marked B. It’s Mr. Herman’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see between your house and Mr. Herman’s house?”
“The street.”
“Yes, we all see the street. And do you see trees? A line of trees on both sides of the street?”
“I could see Keith Herman plainly, carrying his daughter in his arms, putting her into the backseat of his Lexus—”
“You saw a man putting a girl into which side of the car, Mr. Durden? The side of the car facing your house? Or did he open the door on the side closest to the Herman house, so that the car was between you and the action you’ve described?”
“I saw Keith Herman carrying Lily.”
“Please answer the question, Mr. Durden.”
“He put her into the car on the side nearest his house.”
“Okay. Thank you. Now, after that … when the man you saw that morning got into the driver’s side of the car, his back was to you, wasn’t it, sir? How could you possibly tell that it was Keith Herman, and not another man of average height and build, getting into a dark sedan?”