But tonight the choreography was complete – the dance began in earnest tomorrow. He arranged his books, binders, pads and tapes neatly on his desk and turned out the light in his office and walked through his house.
He looked in at Rebecca, pulling up a blanket around her. The bedroom was bathed in blue light from the fish tank. In the kitchen, pots and pans hung neatly from overhead hooks; his black pan glistened on the top of the gas stove.
Moving forward through the dining room he caught a whiff of lemon oil from the polished table, then -unmistakable, seductive, mnemonic – the scent of Christmas tree and woodsmoke.
Frannie sat in the recliner next to the fire, feet up and hands folded over her belly. The only other light in the room came from the tree, blinking reds and greens and blues. Nat King Cole was singing quietly in German -‘Oh Tannenbaum.’ Hardy took it all in for a moment.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Frannie patted the side of the chair, and Hardy crossed the room and sat on the floor next to her. She idly ran her hand over his head, through his hair. ‘Have you thought about after this trial?’
‘Not much. I thought we’d have this next baby, get back to real life.’
‘Are you going to be happy with real life?’
‘I’m happy with this life, Frannie.’
The fire crackled. He knew what she meant. He was in trial time – everything assumed an importance that was out of proportion to day-to-day prosaic reality. She was worried about a recurrence of the letdown he’d gone through over the summer.
‘How far did it go with her?’ she asked.
He looked up at her. Her hand still rested on his head. Her face was untroubled and unlined, beautiful in the firelight. ‘I don’t want any details,’ she said, ‘and I appreciate you dealing with it yourself. I know what infatuation is and I don’t think we need to get each other involved in them. But I need to know how far it went.’
Hardy stared at the fire, suddenly aware that the music had stopped.
‘It’s funny, I thought it was Jane.’
‘No.’ He could embroider and skate around it but he knew what she’d asked. ‘It stopped in time. It didn’t happen.’
She let out a long breath. ‘I don’t know everything you need, Dismas, but if you can try to tell me, I’ll try to give it to you.’
‘You already do, Fran.’
‘I’m just telling you – whatever it takes – we stick it through together, okay? But you have to want me -’
‘I do want you. Hey, that’s why I’m here.’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘because that’s why I’m here.’
50
‘Good morning.’
Pullios looked nice – friendly, approachable, the girl next door. She wore low brown pumps and a tawny suit the cut of which minimized her curves. Shoulder-length brown hair framed a face nearly devoid of makeup. She smiled at one and all, pleasant, but on serious business.
‘I want to begin by thanking you all for your patience yesterday. It was a long day for all of us, and I’m sure we’ll have more in the days to come, but let me assure you that your presence on this jury is one of the most important duties that can be undertaken by citizens in our society, and your time and attention here is well appreciated.’
Hardy gave some thought to an objection right away -Pullios had no business massaging the jury; that was, if anyone’s, the judge’s role. But he knew you had to walk a fine line with objections. The jury also had to feel good about him, and if he objected to Pullios saying they were appreciated, it would no doubt be misunderstood.
‘Although, like a lot of important jobs,’ she continued, ‘the pay could be better.’
A nice chuckle. Even Chomorro smiled. What a nice person this prosecutor was. She walked back to her desk, moved a yellow pad, then turned back to the jury.
‘I’m going to tell you a lot about what we know about the defendant, Andrew Fowler, and the man he murdered, Owen Nash. I make the point that I’m going to tell you a lot because you are undoubtedly going to hear that…’
Fowler had poked him. Early or not, Hardy had to get on the boards sometime.
‘Objection, Your Honor.’
To his surprise, Chomorro nodded. ‘Sustained.’ He looked down at Pullios. ‘Just make your case, Counselor. This is your opening statement. Don’t editorialize.’
‘I’m sorry, excuse me, Your Honor.’ Gracious and unflustered, this one. She moved on. ‘Early in the morning of Saturday, June twentieth of last summer – a windy, blustery day – the victim in this case, Mr Owen Nash, boarded his sailboat the Eloise and prepared to take what would be his last sail. The prosecution will prove to you, ladies and gentlemen, prove beyond a reasonable doubt, that with him on the Eloise that morning was the person who would murder him – the defendant Andrew Fowler.
‘A former colleague of the defendant, a fellow member of the Olympic Club, will tell you that Mr Fowler had talked of making an appointment to see Mr Nash to solicit political contributions from him. This was the pretense for their getting together.
‘The evidence will corroborate that Mr Nash and his killer sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge and headed south down the coast. We have an expert in tides and currents who will tell you with a good deal of precision exactly where Owen Nash fell into the sea after being shot two times with a.25-caliber pistol. The coroner will explain that the first bullet struck Mr Nash just above and to the right of his penis, the second bullet went through his heart. An expert in bloodstains will describe how this second bullet sent Mr Nash over the rail of his boat and into the ocean, at first glance a very convenient circumstance for his killer.
‘We will show you that Mr Fowler is an experienced boatsman in his own right, that he could easily have kept the Eloise at sea until the evening, when he could have guided it back into the Marina, even in high seas. A meteorologist will describe the weather on that evening -there were high winds, and small craft warnings were out.
In this weather it is no surprise that there was no one at the Marina when Mr Fowler returned.
‘He tied up the boat, leaving it unlocked, and was not seen by another human being until he arrived at work, right here in this building, on the following Monday morning.’
Here was another objection, but this time Hardy merely made a note of it. Counsel wasn’t supposed to argue evidence in their opening statements.
Pullios didn’t use notes but she returned again to her desk, playing down any appearance as a superwoman. After checking her props, she turned and continued.
‘Rather than predict what the defense will contend relating to evidence in this case’ – here a nod to Chomorro, a smile to the jury – ‘I will tell you right now that the prosecution has found no one who can point to Mr Fowler and say, “That was the man I saw on the Eloise on June twentieth with Owen Nash.” No one saw Mr Fowler on the Eloise besides Owen Nash, and he’s dead.
‘ “Well,” you’re asking, “then why are we here?” We are here,’ she answered herself, ‘first, because Mr Fowler’s pattern of behavior over the course of several months cannot be explained other than by acknowledging his consciousness of his own guilt. Duplicity, deception, abandonment of the high ethical standards -’
‘Objection, Your Honor.’
Chomorro nodded. Two for two, Hardy thought, not too bad.
‘Sustained. Let’s stick to the evidence, Ms Pullios.’
She apologized again to the judge and jury. But it clearly didn’t rattle her. ‘The prosecution will demonstrate that Mr Fowler knew the precise location of the murder weapon on board the Eloise and that he had a compelling reason to kill Mr Nash – the oldest and most lethal motive in the world – jealousy. Mr Nash had superseded him in the affections of the woman he loved, for whom he subsequently risked – and this is a fact, not a conjecture – risked his entire career and reputation as a judge and a man of honor.