But the move to a trial by judge seemed futile as he read Jim Peters’s opening remarks. His first statements portrayed Mercante as a dangerously aggressive “playboy,” a man whose “very concept of women leads to serious questions about his state of mind at the time of the crime.” He promised to produce adequate testimony to demonstrate Mercante’s “everyday” behavior as potentially ripe for this kind of sexual crime. And the cornerstone of his prosecution, as he put it, was to produce a murder weapon clearly covered with the fingerprints of Mercante and reveal the results of paraffin tests, which would show that the defendant had in fact fired the fatal shot.
Weingarten’s opening remarks were brief and to the point: Azul Mercante was a good friend of the Shephards, especially of Colleen, and had visited the house in goodwill, with honorable intentions. According to Weingarten — and the assertion made Shephard sneer with contempt for the man’s stupidity — Wade Shephard had come home unexpectedly, and in a jealous rage fired at Mercante and instead hit his wife. He failed to address the fingerprints and the berium and antimony — the two telltale residues left by the explosion of gunpowder — that were found on Mercante’s right wrist.
Shephard read the testimony with a slow anger shifting inside him. But it was apparent to him, as he began the article on the next page, that Mercante couldn’t even hold up his end of Weingarten’s thin charade.
Murder defendant Azul Mercante, accused slayer of a young Laguna Beach mother this summer, was ordered gagged yesterday by Judge Francis Rubio.
Rubio’s action took place after Mercante continually interrupted the proceedings with violent outbursts directed at prosecutor Jim Peters. The judge told Mercante that any further outbursts would land him outside the courtroom of his own trial.
Mercante’s shouting came during the testimony of police researcher Dwayne Maxwell, who said that a paraffin test of Mercante’s skin shortly after his arrest was positive.
Mercante screamed that the berium and antimony found in his skin were there because he is an artist and the paints he works with contain these substances.
The trial is now in its second week.
With a giddy feeling of pursuit, Shephard flipped quickly to the next page of the scrapbook. It was now Weingarten’s turn to build a case, and he began by summoning several witnesses who testified that Mercante was in fact a frequent tennis partner of Wade Shephard and “apparently” a friend of both Wade and Colleen. Weingarten brought Wade to the stand on a Thursday morning. For nearly the entire day he questioned Wade’s relationship with his wife, with the members of his department, and finally with Mercante, whom Wade described as “a volatile man but apparently a good man.” He went on to state his shock in finding Mercante trying to accost his wife. Wade called their relationship one that was “building toward friendship,” but that he only saw Mercante as a casual acquaintance at the Surfside Club.
Shephard was not surprised to read that Mercante was a member.
Weingarten finished the day’s proceedings by bringing Dwayne Maxwell back to the stand to state that berium and antimony were common components in the paints used by fine artists and that such residues might stay lodged in human skin for “several days.” Mercante was carried screaming from the courtroom after breaking his gag, and was banished by Rubio for the next two days.
The two names that jumped off the next page brought Shephard a swirling sense of exhilaration.
The next day’s witnesses were Tim Algernon and Hope Creeley.
Hope Creeley of Newport Beach testified that murder defendant Azul Mercante had once tried to accost her in the spa of the plush Surfside Club in Newport Beach.
The 24-year-old Creeley, widow of drowned Surfside co-owner Burton Creeley, said that she lived in fear of Mercante following his attack on her at a Fourth of July party this year.
Mrs. Creeley was called to the stand by prosecutor Jim Peters, who has claimed throughout the trial that Mercante is a “dangerous sexual outlaw.”
Following Mrs. Creeley’s testimony, another Surfside member, Tim Algernon, said that Mercante often made suggestive remarks about women at the club and often expressed a desire “to have relations” with several.
The damaging testimony was brought by Peters to show that Mercante entered Mrs. Shephard’s home Sept. 9 with the “singular purpose of sexual assault.”
He is asking for the death penalty.
Shephard broke into a fresh sweat as he finished the article. Standing up on nervous legs, he lit a cigarette and took the scrapbook with him to the window. In the bright afternoon light that shot through the blinds, he scanned ahead to the final article on the trial of Azul Mercante, killer of Colleen. There was a picture of Mercante being led from the courtroom, his face glaring at the photographer.
He was judged guilty by Francis Rubio, and sentenced to life imprisonment at Folsom State Prison, California.
Rhythms that by now seemed ancient found their way back from Shephard’s memory.
Liars Burn and Little Liars
Burn First
And the long-delayed, but painfully obvious:
THIS BIBLE PROPERTY OF
FOLSOM STATE PRISON
Shephard brought the last rumpled Identikit sketch from his pocket and held it beside the hateful face in the photograph.
There was a difference. But with a pen from Helene’s nightstand, he drew — with shaking hand — a beard onto Mercante’s face in the newspaper, and the difference all but disappeared.
It was impossible: he knew that. But the harder he tried to listen to the voice of his own reason, the louder the roar inside him grew. He looked out at the rioting ocean, waiting for his ears to explode.
Part three
Twenty-two
He was playing the dark notes now: he could feel them in his nerve-heavy legs, hear them in his voice as he bought a ticket at the AirCal counter.
A few minutes later, the 12:40 flight from Orange County to Sacramento groaned into the sky. Shephard leaned back and watched the buildings tilt away below, shrinking as the landing gear thumped into place.
What if Hannover knew he was looking for a dead man? Or Wade? Or Tina Trautwein, who believed in getting deeper than the headline? He waited with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his sweaty hand, hoping the No Smoking light would hurry the hell up and go out.
When the jet leveled off, Shephard smoked and tried to take stock. He had two victims, three if he wanted to count Colleen — and he did. He had a motive. He had a suspect who’d been dead for half a decade. Shephard tried to imagine the lines he’d use at Folsom Prison, but they just didn’t play. Johnny Cash’s blues kept moaning into his mind instead. On the other hand, he thought, then listed the things that still seemed to make sense to him. Cal. The Jota. Ten stitches, holding nicely, Jane...
For the moment, a few other things would have to hold, too. He had left Helene’s apartment, locked the door, and told Mink she’d killed herself. The Newport Beach police would be calling on him, soon.
At the Sacramento airport he rented a car, making Folsom just after three in the afternoon. The town was quaint and somewhat sorrowful. He looked out at the old houses, Victorian and a little self-conscious, he thought. The prison was away from the city, a steadfast brick building with ivy-covered walls and an appearance of absolute lifelessness. The desk guard, one of those minor officials who take pleasure in bearing bad news, offered a crisp litany. “Can’t see the warden ’cause he’s home, and can’t see the assistant ’cause he’s busy. Can’t get into records without permission from one or the other. Sorry, detective.”