“What choice do I have? Edwin runs the show.”
I think about this. “A leave of absence isn’t a bad idea, actually, so long as it looks like it’s your idea. You need to issue a statement that although you’re innocent, you’re taking some time off for the sake of your family, and also for the good of the company and its many employees. It’ll look selfless and high-minded of you. It’ll also tell potential jurors that you’re already suffering as a result of the charges brought against you.”
I call Vaughn, explain the situation, and ask him to draft something.
David asks if there’ve been any developments in the case. I tell him that, as a matter of fact, I’d just that morning received the prosecution’s materials. I tell David about Jennifer’s head injuries, her scraped knees, the blood traces on the basement floor where someone tried to clean up. David’s eyes never leave me as I explain it all. He doesn’t move a muscle.
After I finish, David waits for moment, then says, “But I didn’t clean the basement. I never went the whole way down.”
Which makes me wonder, If David didn’t put her back on the steps, then who did?
7
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20
The following week, on Wednesday, Susan and I are in the conference room talking about firm finances when Tommy and Vaughn come in together. We say our hellos, and I ask Tommy if he has anything new on the Hanson case. He lets me know that a cop he’s friends with in the Ninth District has confided to him that in the weeks before Jennifer Yamura’s murder, her neighborhood had been struck by a small crime wave of break-ins and burglaries.
“That could be pretty helpful to us at trial, right?” Tommy asks. “Supports the theory that she was killed during a burglary gone bad? It’d jibe with her computer and jewelry and cash being gone.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll have Vaughn serve a subpoena on the police department asking for all reports of break-ins and burglaries in that neighborhood during the six months before the murder—and since. We’ll see what we can flush out. Good work. Anything else? How about those three cops?” I ask, referring to the three cooperating police offers who had been named two weeks earlier.
“Word on the street,” Tommy answers, “is that Terrance Johnson is holed up in a hotel room downtown, being guarded by some cops assigned to the DA’s office. Lipinski’s spending his days drinking himself blind at a North Philly cop bar, daring them to come and get him.”
“And Lawrence Washington?” I ask.
“Off the radar. He’s the smart one.”
Susan looks at Tommy. “You really think the bad cops will actually try to kill those three?”
Tommy nods. “A message for anyone else thinking about turning state’s evidence. And three dead cops floating facedown in the Schuylkill River would be a pretty loud message.”
We talk a little more, then they leave me alone in my office. I think about the robberies in Yamura’s neighborhood and ponder whether I could persuade a jury to believe that Yamura was merely another random victim in Philly’s endless stream of murders. That David didn’t scrub the house because he’d killed Jennifer, but because he found her already dead and freaked out about being identified as her lover. But why would a home invader drag Jennifer back to the steps to wait for her to bleed out and die rather than simply run away?
Whatever tack I take, I’ll have to deal with the fact that David had no problem casually traipsing around the house one flight above the murdered corpse of his lover, perhaps for hours. Not something you’d expect a person to be able to stomach.
Unless he was a sociopath.
I’ll have to carefully plan my portrayal of David to the jury and craft a story to fit it. Reciprocally, I’ll need to figure out how to cast Jennifer Yamura herself.
I had met Yamura twice. The first time was at a black-tie charity gala sponsored by Project Home to raise money for the homeless. I was standing with Jack Lafferty, a chief inspector and one of only a handful of cops I could still count as friends after I’d left the DA’s office. Jennifer Yamura was petite, thin, and no taller than five two. She had slender arms, highlighted by her sleeveless blue-sequined dress, and tiny, well-manicured hands. Her face was round, with almond eyes titled slightly upward at the ends. Jennifer Yamura’s white teeth were flawlessly aligned, and the overall effect of her face was so striking that she could’ve been featured in one of those Korean Air TV commercials—except that her ancestry was Japanese.
She had planted herself in front of us and greeted Jack. “How have you been?”
“Well enough,” Jack answered coolly.
“And you’re Mr. McFarland, one of the rising stars of the criminal-defense bar.” Yamura said this with just enough irony to make it more cutting than complimentary.
“I’ve tried a few cases,” I said.
“Bet you have some good stories.” She smiled.
“Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “Looking for a story?”
“I’m here to support the cause. But, of course, I’m always looking for a story. You have one you want to share?”
I tried to think of something glib but fell flat.
Yamura persisted, asking questions about my practice. The inquiries seemed innocuous enough, but I got the distinct impression I was being studied, probed. Evaluated for my potential usefulness.
Jack turned to me after Jennifer Yamura had walked away. “That one’s radioactive,” he said. “She glows real pretty. Just don’t get too close.” He then proceeded to tell me all he knew about her. Jennifer Yamura was socially ubiquitous. She frequented cop bars as often as she attended high-end social events. She went to Flyers, Phillies, Sixers, and Eagles games. She attended all the city’s ethnic parades. She participated in and reported from the Broad Street Run in May and the Distance Run in September. And, of course, she attended all the political rallies, press conferences, and contentious city-council meetings.
“She seems to be everywhere, all the time,” Jack said. “On the hunt, trying to bag the big scoop that will land her in an anchor’s chair.”
I looked across the room to see Jennifer Yamura talking to the mayor. She touched his wrist, laughing at something he said.
“She seems enthralled,” I told Jack.
“I’m sure that’s exactly what she wants him to think.”
I shelve the memory and remind myself that Jennifer Yamura was someone’s daughter. That, somewhere, her parents are shattered by her loss.
This grim thought sends me back to the birth of my own daughter. I see Piper on the birthing table, squeezing my hand so hard I thought she’d break it, until the obstetrician lifted our tiny, purple baby into the air.