Other hints came back to him. He remembered Celine telling him she’d only been a member of Hardbodies! for six months – in other words, from about the time she’d stopped working out on the Eloise when Owen had started seeing May regularly. Surely the headbands on the boat -never claimed by May – had been Celine’s. So had the lifting gloves, one pair of which she’d no doubt worn when she had fired May’s Beretta.
As with Andy Fowler and May Shinn before him, there was no apparent physical link tying Celine Nash to the murder of her father.
He had been right, though he took little satisfaction from it – Owen Nash had been killed by a jealous woman. But the woman had been his own daughter. And if he had been sexually abusing his own daughter since – he supposed – their trip around the world together when she’d been six years old, or even earlier, he certainly deserved whatever punishment she could give him. He knew she had done it, and now he knew why. More accurately, he knew she had done it because he knew why.
He thought of his own adopted baby girl, then tried to imagine the immense physical and psychological damage Owen Hash’s abuse had visited on his own daughter, and suddenly he found he had lost any desire to see Celine punished – she had been punished enough, hadn’t she? She’d never get out from under the private stigma, never away from the pain.
Deep down, he didn’t even blame her.
But, though punishment might not be his motive, he still had to prove it to clear Andy Fowler, and Celine was nobody to underestimate. Earlier in the morning he had sent Frannie and Rebecca away, deriding himself for considering that Celine might be dangerous. Now he was glad that he had.
She had shot and killed her father. She hadn’t blinked at, and had in fact done her best to bring about, the false accusation of May Shinn. From the gallery she had daily watched the slow skewering of Andy Fowler, his once-distinguished career in ruins. She had clearly been prepared to take Hardy’s marriage down with her to get him off her scent.
Hardy still had Andy Fowler to defend.
The trial would have to go on. Pullios couldn’t let it go now and without a smoking gun, Hardy’s accusations of Celine at this stage would come across as rank courtroom shenanigans – it might at last get him the long-promised contempt citation from Chomorro.
‘The key is my only hope, Abe. She’s got to have the key.’ Glitsky had listened patiently, for him. He interrupted only about every ten seconds, tired of Hardy’s meddling, not liking to hear that Celine’s alibi – the one he had provided – was suspect.
‘Now it’s Celine?’ he asked at last. ‘Too bad Nash didn’t have a dog. After Celine’s trial we could indict the dog.’
‘Come on, Abe, I’ve run it all down for you. We need a warrant. If she’s got the key, if it’s at her house…’
Glitsky stopped him. ‘Big deal.’
‘It proves she could have gone to the Eloise on Thursday morning.’
‘Proves she could have. Please, this one time, give me a break, Diz. It doesn’t prove anything. It’s just another theory. You know that’s how they’re going to see it.’
‘That’s why we need the physical evidence. The key. With my testimony -’
‘If anybody believes you.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘Because, my friend, it is in your own best interests to make up something like this. Like the gun not having been there when you looked on Wednesday night.’
‘It wasn’t there, Abe.’
‘I’m not saying it was. The issue here, as always, is proof. And I’m telling you how it’s going to look. Can you think of any judge in the city who would issue a search warrant on this?’
Hardy was silent.
‘Okay, how about in all of America?’
‘All right, all right, I understand, Abe. But I’m telling you, Celine did it. I’m telling you why. What am I supposed to do about that? There’s no way Andy Fowler’s going down for this.’
‘I hate to tell you this, ol’ buddy, but you want my opinion – he is unless you get him off.‘
62
Coming in a little after nine, the size of the crowd in the gallery was daunting. Hardy wondered if someone had leaked the news that his witnesses might not be appearing, that they’d be moving right along to Andy’s testimony, then closing arguments and jury instructions. The verdict might even come in today, and the media wanted to be there.
His witnesses had been subpoenaed, though, and they were on hand: Glitsky in a coat and tie; Glitsky’s lieutenant, Frank Batiste; Ron Reynolds, his polygraph expert; Art Drysdale sitting next to Chris Locke himself. Hardy wasn’t too surprised to see David Freeman, down for the show. Celine was sitting in her usual spot by the aisle.
Abe, he realized, had been right. His job had never varied. He had to convince the jury that the evidence did not warrant a conviction. He had come up with an idea to get to Celine if he had to – he might have to prove that she was guilty in order to get Andy off- but he didn’t want to confuse the two issues.
Andy, in a dark blue suit, entered with Jane. Still hurt and angry at Hardy for the grilling he’d given her on Saturday about her relationship with Owen Nash, she didn’t come through the rail as she usually did.
Fowler, however, seemed to have forgotten Hardy’s outburst at him on Friday about his stance, the transparency of his attachment to May – and sat down calmly at the defense table.
From his vantage now, certain that his client had not killed anyone, Hardy was more equable about the judge’s attitude and appearance, much of which was, he decided, a brave front. This was an innocent man. He could seem to remain above it all if he wanted, if it made him feel better.
Hardy was also beginning to understand a little of what was behind Andy’s apparent sangfroid. The man had, after all, spent thirty years on the bench, and it was in his blood to believe in the jury system – there would not be a miscarriage of justice here, he didn’t kill Owen Nash, the jury would come up with the right decision. If he didn’t believe that, what had he been doing presiding over the system for three decades?
If Hardy wanted the jury to believe that Andy was more of a regular Joe, it was because he thought it would make him appear more sympathetic. Now he was realizing that the jury’s empathy with Andy wasn’t the issue either. In reality, there was only one issue: did the evidence prove he had killed Owen Nash?
The judge entered and everyone stood. Hardy went to the center of the courtroom and nodded at the members of the jury, then at the judge. Chomorro had given fair enough notice. ‘The defense calls Inspector Sergeant Abraham Glitsky.’
He turned to watch Abe come forward, catching a raised eye from Pullios at the prosecution table. Well, object all day, Betsy, he thought to himself. This is relevant and I’m going to bring it up.
Glitsky was sworn in, and Hardy, after establishing Abe’s credentials as an experienced homicide investigator, began.
‘For the jury’s benefit, Sergeant, would you tell us how an inspector such as yourself gets assigned to a homicide investigation?’
Glitsky sat comfortably in the witness chair, having been there many times. Forthcoming, competent, with nothing to hide, he looked directly from Hardy to the jury. ‘It’s more or less random,’ he said. There are twelve inspectors and typically we each handle between three and six cases, rotating them as they come in. If it gets a little unbalanced, Lieutenant Batiste might shuffle one or two around.‘
‘All right. Now in this random manner, did you happen to get the Owen Nash homicide?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘In that capacity, what was your role in collecting evidence?’
Glitsky gave it a minute’s thought. ‘I am in charge of coordinating all the physical evidence that we eventually turn over to the district attorney’s office if the matter is going to be charged. I also check on the alibis of suspects, potential motives. We look into paper records, bank accounts, telephone logs, anything we feel relates to the homicide. In this case I also supervised the forensics team that went aboard the Eloise, Mr Nash’s boat.’