Vaughn talks on, but his voice fades into the background as I stare at the crime-scene photos. Jennifer Yamura, faceup on the stairs. Her white cotton T-shirt and tan shorts. The red strawberry bruising to her knees, caused when she crawled across the rough concrete floor. And the blood. Everywhere. Blood on Jennifer’s hair and clothes. Blood on the steps. Blood covering the concrete block at the bottom and all over the floor near the steps. And, though it doesn’t show in the photos, blood leading away from the steps on the basement floor, as revealed by the CSU’s luminol.
I now know from the video that David was the last of the men who visited Yamura’s house that day and who therefore had to be the one who happened upon her after she’d been pushed down the stairs and managed to start crawling away. He wasn’t the one who pushed her, but he was the one who dragged her back to the steps to bleed out. I wonder what David’s reaction was when he found her, how much time it took him before he decided to finish her off. It couldn’t have taken long; he was only in the house for five minutes.
“Mick? Mick?”
I look up and see Vaughn staring at me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Can we finish this tomorrow? I don’t feel great. I think I’m coming down with something.”
Vaughn says sure, no problem, but I can tell he’s wondering what’s going on. He gathers a few of the papers and leaves the room.
I look back down at the table, reach for the manila envelope containing the autopsy pictures. Now I see Jennifer Yamura’s face, empty of expression, eyes flat. The eyes of the dead. I have seen thousands of photographs like these. Pictures of dead men and women. Young, middle-aged, old. Stabbed, shot, strangled, even hacked to pieces. I long ago became desensitized to them. Just more evidence, to present to juries when I was a prosecutor, to argue against once I became a defense attorney. But the pictures of Jennifer Yamura jar me. I close the folder and slide it away. I close my eyes, take deep breaths, one after another.
Christ, this is awful. So fucking awful.
I get home around seven. Piper is pacing the kitchen, talking on her cell phone. Gabby is at the table, a piece of construction paper in front of her. Gabby’s crayon drawing is a tangle of yellow and green and brown, with jagged lines of black. Gabby sits with her left elbow on the table, her head in her hand. A familiar pose of frustration.
“Dad, can you tell Mom to get off the phone? She’s been on it forever.”
I look over at Piper, who turns away from me, then leaves the kitchen for the deck. Ten minutes later, she’s back. By now I am sitting with Gabby, helping her to finish her masterpiece, hearing why each color I choose and each stroke I make is wrong. Piper walks to the refrigerator, pulls out a casserole dish containing the leftover chicken soufflé from last night.
“Tommy wants you to call him,” she says.
“Is that who you were talking to?”
“I’m just going to reheat this, since you weren’t here last night.”
“What did Tommy want?”
“I told you, he wants you to call him.”
“I mean, what was he talking about with you for so long?”
She turns her back to me. “Just call him. Please.” She slides the leftovers into the oven. Closes the oven door, then walks past the table. “The timer’s set for thirty minutes. Set the table just for you and Gabby. I’m going upstairs. I’m not hungry.”
Gabby glances at me and purses her lips, then resumes drawing. “I don’t want chicken again,” she tells me. “Can you make spaghetti instead?”
I muss her thick, black hair. “Sure, why not?”
I start to stand, and Gabrielle asks me, “Daddy, why does Mommy cry all the time?”
I’m taken aback but try not to show it. I sit back down. “What do you mean, all the time?”
“Last night. Mommy made me go to bed early, and I heard her crying in your room.”
“Well, maybe her tummy hurt.”
“The night before, too.”
I look down, try to process what my daughter is telling me.
“No, honey. Mommy’s just not feeling well, that’s all. She’ll be better soon.”
But will she? Piper knows more, much more, than she’s told me. And in the end it’s all going to come out.
“Daddy? Daddy?” I hear Gabby’s voice in the distance and refocus my attention on her.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Are you sick like Mommy?”
“No, why?”
“Because now you’re crying, too.”
It startles me. But she’s right. Tears are sliding down the side of my face.
An hour or so later, Gabby has been fed, and she’s planted in front of the television watching one of her favorite videos. I lift my iPhone from the kitchen counter and tell Siri to call Tommy. He answers in just two rings.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Piper says you want to talk to me.”
“I want us to go see Mom and Dad.” Tommy and I have a tradition of visiting our parents’ graves every year, usually on Father’s Day. We didn’t make it this year because I was so wrapped up in the Hanson case.
“Sure,” I say. “As soon as the Hanson trial is over, we can—”
“I don’t want to wait,” Tommy interrupts me. “Let’s go this weekend.”
“Tommy, I’m getting ready for the trial. I can’t just . . .” I stop in midsentence. “All right. Saturday morning. I’ll pick you up; we’ll drive together.”
“If it’s all the same, I’m going to ride my bike,” Tommy says, referring to his beloved Harley.
“No problem. I’ll see you at the cemetery. How’s ten o’clock sound?”
Tommy says that’ll be fine.
“Hey . . . ,” I say before hanging up. “What’s going on with Piper? Gabby just told me she cries all the time.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“And what gives with the two of you? I feel like you’re both keeping something from me, and I don’t like it.”
Tommy pauses. “We’re helping each other through some things.”
“What things?”
Another pause. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
“I don’t like secrets.”
But the phone’s gone dead.
18
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3
It’s just after four in the afternoon. Vaughn and I are in the war room, finishing up our strategy session on the Hanson case. The table is cluttered with files, legal pads, photographs; the trash can overfilled with the remains of the lunch we ordered in from Marathon Grill. In the far corners of the room stand two aluminum easels supporting thirty-six-by-forty-two-inch pads of paper, on which are scribbled in black marker the names of each side’s potential witnesses. For the prosecution: arresting officers Tim Kujowski and Nicholas Pancetti; John Tredesco, lead detective; Ari Weintraub, medical examiner; Matthew Stone, CSU; Barbara King, David’s secretary; Albert Mays, manager of David’s garage.