“Two break-ins before the murder and one afterward, all within a couple blocks of the house on Addison Street?”
“I looked into it, thoroughly. There was nothing to connect the burglaries to the murder.”
“One of the burglars was caught. He was booked and charged and is sitting in prison. Damian Sheetz. Did you go to the prison and interview him, try to get a confession out of him?”
“I was aware of Mr. Sheetz. I looked at his rap sheet. There was no history of violence. Just break-ins. And a bunch of shoplifting charges. Possession of stolen goods.”
“So he was stealing money and valuables from people’s homes and from stores, to pay for a drug habit. Tell me, Detective, what happens when a drug addict, desperate for a fix, breaks into someone’s house to steal something and is surprised to find the resident inside? Do they have a nice conversation? A cup of tea?”
“He would have run, not attacked her.”
“Because running away would be the smarter thing to do and, being a hard-up junkie, he’d have been thinking rationally, right?” Devlin objects, so I withdraw the question. “Speaking of drug addicts looking for money and things to pawn,” I continue, “please tell the jury what you did not find at the murder scene.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m talking about Ms. Yamura’s jewelry. And the money from her wallet. Did you think Mr. Hanson was strapped for cash? And what about Ms. Yamura’s laptop? That was gone, too. Did you think Mr. Hanson couldn’t afford a new computer?” I fire these questions so fast I’m out of breath by the time Walker stands and objects.
The judge sustains the objection. “One question at a time, counselor,” he scolds me, though I can see by the smile in his eyes that he’s enjoying my cross.
I turn back to Tredesco. “You can certainly see that Mr. Hanson has no need to steal a laptop computer.”
Tredesco smiles. “I’m sure your client could afford to buy a computer for every room in his mansion,” he says. “For every stateroom on his yacht. He didn’t steal the computer for its cash value. Our theory is that he wanted the computer for what was on it. Your client had a long-term relationship with the victim. Maybe they sent each other naughty e-mails. Or sex videos.”
I steal a glance at Devlin Walker. He smiles. I turn back to the witness stand. “And the money? The jewelry? Did you think Mr. Hanson was short of cash?”
Again, Tredesco is ready for me. “This is why we believe the crime was premeditated. He took the money and jewelry to make it look like a robbery gone bad. To use as a defense, like you’re doing for him now.”
I turn to the judge and object. “This whole theory should be stricken from the record. It’s all just so much speculation.”
Even before Devlin can answer me, Tredesco butts in. “It’s not speculation, Your Honor,” he says, lifting his finger up to the side of his nose. “It’s fifteen years investigating crimes.”
“The objection is overruled,” says Judge Henry.
I look back at the witness. “You testified that it struck you as odd that, when you asked Mr. Hanson where he was when Ms. Yamura was killed, he said he’d been in the office all afternoon. Do you remember that?” Tredesco says that he recalls the testimony. “You said his answer made you conclude he had to have known when she was killed, yet you hadn’t told him.”
“Exactly.”
“But Mr. Hanson had spent some time in the house before the police came. He’d have seen the body and seen that her blood was dried. He’d have known she’d been dead for a while.”
“I don’t know about that. Your client’s not a medical examiner. Or a police officer.”
I spend the next ten minutes grilling Tredesco about the 911 call, retracing my questioning of the uniformed officers. “So there’s no doubt that someone other than David Hanson knew about the goings-on at 1792 Addison Street and deliberately lied to the police to get them to show up when Mr. Hanson was still in the house.”
“I can’t say he lied. Maybe there was crashing, but nothing got broke.”
“Things were crashing but nothing got broke? Did you really just say that?”
Tredesco doesn’t answer.
“How can that happen? The same way two people can be shouting at each other when one of them has been dead for eight hours?”
“Objection,” Devlin says, an edge to his voice. “Hounding the witness.”
Judge Henry sustains the objection. “We get it, Mr. McFarland. Move on.”
“So we have this other person making the call. What efforts did you make to find out who it was and why he lied to the police?”
“We tried to trace the call, but it was made from a disposable cell phone.”
“A disposable cell phone? Like the ones drug dealers use?”
Tredesco leans over the stand at me. “Like the phones thousands of people use. Like maybe someone who wants to report a crime but doesn’t want any blowback.”
“Blowback?”
“Witness intimidation! It happens all the time in this city. Everyone knows about it. It’s all over the papers. It’s the biggest problem we have in making arrests. No one wants to come forward because they’re afraid.” Tredesco has scored a point with the jury, and he knows it. He leans back, satisfied with himself.
I quickly change the subject and trade punches with Tredesco for another few rounds, winning points, losing points. Finished with the detective, I turn toward counsel table. Then, as though I’ve just remembered something, I turn back to the witness. “Oh, one more thing. Your testimony about Mr. Hanson wanting his coffee heated up and asking for skim milk?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you suppose Mr. Hanson would ask for milk at all? Given that he’s lactose-intolerant and always drinks his coffee black?”
Tredesco blinks. He knows I “gotcha’d” him. So do the jurors, several of whom cross their arms and smirk. Devlin’s probably stewing. Like most by-the-book prosecutors, he doesn’t like Tredesco’s tricks. He’ll have a little talk with the detective, I’m sure, after trial.
It’s 12:30, and Judge Henry dismisses the jury for lunch.
“He hurt us,” Vaughn says.
“Yep. For all his smarminess, Tredesco gave the jury two things it lacked up to now. A reason for taking the computer and an explanation for why David would have stolen the cash and jewelry, too.”
Half an hour later, I’m sitting at the defense table, going over my questions for the next witness, Matthew Stone, the CSU team leader. I hear the door behind me and turn to see Vaughn racing for me, out of breath.
“You’re not going to believe what’s all over the news!” Vaughn exclaims. “Foreign-aid workers are coming forward claiming they’ve received millions in under-the-table humanitarian donations from Hanson World Industries. They say it’s been going on for years. The stories came out first on YouTube, but now they’re being picked up by the mainstream news outlets. And get this, two donations of two million apiece supposedly showed up in—”
“Let me guess,” I interject. “South Sudan.”