There are a couple of new faces in the front row, reporters from the police beat who are now picking up on the story of Crone’s trial as a sidebar to Epperson’s death. As Harry and I guessed, Tate is now calling for a coroner’s inquest, trying to spread accountability. If the coroner blesses suicide, Tate and his office are off the hook.
“All rise.” Coats sweeps out from the hallway leading to his chambers and takes the bench. He sits, adjusts his glasses and opens the file handed to him by his clerk.
“I understand we have an arrangement in this matter. Are all counsel present?”
Tannery stands and states his appearance for the record. I rise for the defense.
“It’s my understanding that you want to make a motion, Mr. Tannery.” Coats looking at him over the top of his glasses.
The prosecutor glances over at me as if perhaps I will save him. This was not part of the deal, but that has all changed.
“Your Honor,” says Tannery, “the people would like to move that the charges, all charges against the defendant in this case be dismissed, in the interest of justice.”
“So ordered,” says Coats. “The defendant is discharged. He is free to go.”
The outcry of voices behind us almost drowns out the judge’s order. Suddenly, just like that, two months of trial come to an end, no answers, no one convicted in Kalista Jordan’s murder, and David Crone is a free man.
The press swarm around the bar railing. Several of them head for the cameras outside. Tannery, still standing at his counsel table, is engulfed by pencil-wielding reporters.
“There will be a statement from the district attorney’s office. I have nothing further to say at this time.” I can see him as they press in around him, Tannery trying to get his papers into his briefcase, using it like a shield trying to push his way out of the courtroom.
When I turn to look up, the bench is empty. Coats has already disappeared.
Crone seems dazed, perhaps not certain what he has just heard. Several people from the audience come forward, leaning over the railing to pat him on the back, offer their congratulations. He turns, doesn’t recognize any of them, but smiles. He looks over at me.
“That’s it?”
I nod.
“It’s over?”
“Yes.”
One of the sheriff’s deputies comes up behind us and taps Crone on the shoulder. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll get your clothes, your personal possessions.”
When he stands, I’m afraid for a moment that he is going to collapse. He steadies himself with both hands on the edge of the table. Two of the other guards surround him and try to keep the press away. They still pummel him with questions.
“How does it feel?”
“Good,” he says. “Good.”
“What are you going to do now?”
Crone looks at them. He doesn’t have a clue.
“Will you be going back to the university?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you have anything to say to the police who arrested you, or the D.A.’s office?”
Crone just shakes his head.
Before they can ask any more questions, the deputies escort him toward the door leading to the jury room, where they disappear. From there they will take him back to the jail another way, not past the holding cells.
We are the last participants left, and the press descends on Harry and me. “Do you consider this a victory?”
“My client is free. I consider that a good result.”
“Do you have anything to say to Tanya Jordan, the victim’s mother?”
“What can I say? She has suffered the violent death of her only child. Of course she has our sympathies.”
I do not say this lightly, and in my mind’s eye, at that moment, I have visions of Sarah.
“I cannot imagine what it must be like for a parent to lose a child in that way, even a child who is an adult. We hope and pray that the law will find the individual or individuals responsible for this and deal with them accordingly.”
Harry puts the lid back on our last box of documents and sets it on the floor for the kid with the cart. One of the deputies will keep an eye on these until they are transported back to our office.
We fend off question all the way to the door, make our way through the reporters, out into the hallway. On the stairs outside we are confronted with microphones and cameras. One of the reporters asks for a statement.
“It is my belief that my client has been vindicated,” I tell them.
“Would you have rather had a verdict from the jury?”
“I am satisfied with the result. Any day your client goes home a free man is a good day.”
“Will Dr. Crone be returning to the university?”
“I’m assuming that he will, if he wishes to do so.”
“Will they take him back?”
“I see no reason why they wouldn’t.” I opt for diplomacy rather than candor.
One of the reporters from a local station has me repeat a couple of the sound bites so that her camera, which was not functioning at the time, can pick this up, recorded for posterity.
Harry and I finally work our way clear.
“A fair day’s work,” he says. “How did you know about the agent in the jail?”
“I didn’t. But I sensed that Tate had something or he wouldn’t have given in that easily.”
“What about the civil claim?”
“I think we should take it slow and easy. Give Crone time to put things back together. Who knows, maybe the university will take him back. If so, any economic claim would be limited. Besides, I don’t think he would have much of a case. They did find physical evidence in his house. There was evidence that he and Jordan had argued. There was certainly probable cause to arrest.”
“His attorneys’ fees alone are approaching seven figures,” says Harry. “You heard Coats in chambers.”
“An angry judge. Ask him to evaluate the case tomorrow, you’ll get a different answer. Besides, somehow I can’t see Crone suing. I think he’s had his fill of courtrooms for a while.”
Harry looks tired. “You want to grab a drink?” he says.
“I’d love to, but I have to pick up Sarah. I’ll give you a call at home tonight.”
He turns, heads toward his car, swinging his briefcase as he walks. From behind, looking at him in the fading light of day, Harry is the vision of a kindergarten kid on his way home from school.
chapter nineteen
I pick up Sarah at school, and we have dinner at the mall. She has plans to go to a friend’s house for an overnight birthday party, so we do some shopping for a present and head home. She gathers up her things, showers and changes while I hone my skills as a gift wrapper.
By seven-thirty I drop her off at her friend’s house and head for the office. I have learned to use downtime, when Sarah is away with others, to get work done so that I can maximize my time with her. My daughter is growing up in front of my eyes. There is not much time left. One day I will look and she will not be there, off at college or married.
I decide to straighten up the office, get a little work done so that I will be free to do something with her on Saturday.
The bright lights on Orange Avenue emit an ethereal glow in the evening mist that drifts in off the Pacific. Heavy traffic is backed up, Friday night, a constant stream of cars pulling into the parking lot across the street at the Del Coronado. Its wedding-cake roof, gingerbread and twinkling lights studded by palm trees, their palmettos swaying on ocean currents, exude an aura of fantasy; spiderweb to the flies of tourists.
On the other side of the street, the quiet side, the blue neon sign for Miguel’s Cocina flickers and buzzes as I walk under the adobe archway and through the garden leading to the office.
Harry and I are miles from lawyers’ row here. Instead we have taken a small cabaña in the courtyard amidst a number of other businesses. We peddle no image. If clients want to pay for such luxuries, they can do it across the bridge in the large high-rise firms of the city.