Chapter 52
Milton Wicker, the prosecutor, begins his case by calling Martina Hernandez, the housekeeper who found the body, to the stand. Martina is short, a bit plump, with dark hair streaked with gray. She’s in a plum-colored dress and sensible shoes. She claims the seat before us all and even from here I can see her visibly shaking. Considering she found her employer dead, and the world is now watching, this reaction shouldn’t feel off to me, but it does. There is something off and I don’t know what.
The prosecutor steps in front of her. “Please state your name for the court.”
“Martina Anna Hernandez.”
He presses his hands on the wood in front of her. “How are you doing, Martina?” he asks.
She brushes hair from her heavily wrinkled eyes. I guess her to be a haggard fifty, a hard living under her belt. “I’m not good. Mr. Warren is dead. How can I be good?”
“I know,” he says. “But we need to get him justice. We need to tell your story, okay?”
“Yes. I told you I will tell my story.”
“Tell us about finding Mr. Warren.”
“I’d gone to get groceries and returned to cook dinner. His favorite stew. He’d requested it for that night. He was locked in his study and when it was ready I knocked, but he didn’t answer. An hour passed and then two and I became worried. I returned and knocked again. Still no answer. I decided to risk him yelling at me and I opened the door. That’s when I found him sprawled on his desk—” She sobs and presses a fist to her lips. “He—his head was blown—hole—there was a hole and blood. A pool of thick blood. It looked thick. Like a horror movie.” She drops her hand. “I’m sorry. I just—I have nightmares.”
“Of course you do. The man you saw every day, your boss, was murdered brutally.”
“Objection,” Reese says. “Commentary leading the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge, a stout man in his late forties, says, before eyeing the prosecutor. “Move on, counselor.”
“Apologies, judge,” he says and refocuses on Martina. “How long did you work for Mr. Warren?”
“Twenty years.”
“How well did you know him?”
“As well as anyone,” she replies.
That’s a loaded reply I’m certain Reese will jump all over. The prosecutor doesn’t. He moves on. “How well do you know Dana Warren?”
“I watched her grow up since she was five years old. I know her very well. She was good to me.”
Another comment Reese can use.
“And to her father?” Wicker asks.
“He was a difficult man,” Martina replies. “Mean. He was mean.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“She gave what she got. She had to survive that man.”
“Did you give what you got?” the prosecutor asks.
“Well no, but—”
“That was a yes or no question,” the prosecutor says, cutting her off. “Did you survive?”
“Well yes, but—”
“That was again a yes or no question,” he says. “You survived and you didn’t have to give what you got. Did you ever consider killing Mr. Warren?”
“No, but—”
“Yes or no.”
“No,” she says tartly.
“How did Dana and her father get along?”
“Fine.”
“Fine as in good, bad, indifferent?”
“The way he got along with everyone.”
“Which is how?” the prosecutor presses.
“Badly. He got along with everyone badly.”
“Including his daughter?”
“Yes,” she confirms.
“Did you see Dana the day of the murder?”
“Yes,” she says.
“She saw her father that day?”
“Yes.”
“Did they fight?”
“They always fought.”
“Do you know what they were fighting about that day?”
“He wanted her to go meet with someone she didn’t want to meet,” she says.
“Who?”
“Some Prince from another country. He wanted them to date. Something about a business deal it would help make go through. That’s all I heard.”
And there it is, I think. Another reason for the boyfriend to kill the father.
The questioning goes on for another fifteen minutes before the prosecutor rests with the reserved right to recall the witness. Reese stands up and approaches Martina. “Hi, Martina.”
“Hi,” she says, softening with his greeting. God, he’s good. He’s so charming and she’s melting under the force of his attention.
“How many people did you hear fight with Mr. Warren over the years?”
“Hundreds.”
“How many in the past year?” Reese asks.
“At least twenty,” she says.
“In person?”
“A few. Often by way of the phone.”
“How many have you heard threaten to kill him or wish him dead?”
She considers a moment. “Six or seven.”
“How many in the last year?”
“Two.”
“Was Dana one of the two?”
“No.”
“Please tell us who those two people were.”
“Gerome Nichols and Sara Newton.”
“Who are they?”
“Gerome is a business acquaintance and Sara was seeing Mr. Warren up until a month ago.”
“You said Dana got along with her father about as well as he got along with anyone. Explain, please.”
“Mr. Warren was mean. He was really mean. He hated people.”
“And yet you stayed why?”
“He paid me three times what anyone else would.”
“So he was mean but generous?”
“I never considered him generous,” she says. “He used money to bribe us all. It was a tool for control.”
“Did he use his money against Dana?”
“He tried and she’s done well at the real estate firm she opened. She’s selling to the rich and famous.”
Which makes Dana look obsessed with money, I think.
“She’s making pennies to her father’s billions,” Reese points out.
“But she’s making it on her own. She told him that. I heard her many times.”
“Objection,” Wicker shouts out. “Hearsay.”
“Mr. Warren isn’t here to tell his story,” Reese says.
“Then save it for your client,” Wicker snaps. “Put her on the stand.”
Reese moves on. “Did you see Dana at the house the evening of the murder?”
“No. She left around eleven am.”
“And you found the body when?”
“Seven pm.”
Reese considers her a moment. “You practically raised Dana?”
“I did. I was there for her.”
“You protected her.”
“I did.”
“Do you think Dana killed her father?”
I blanch. This could go so wrong. I can’t believe he went there.
“No,” Martina replies. “Dana didn’t do this. I would bet my life on it.”
“Thank you,” Reese says, dismissing her.
Wicker stands up. “Do you have a job right now?”
“Yes. I still manage the house.”
“Who pays you?” he asks.
“Dana.”
“So you really can’t call your boss a killer. That’s all,” he says and sits down.
Reese stands up. “Judge—”
“One question counselor.”
“Two. I need two.”
“Two. Not three.”
“Have you lied under oath today, Martina?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I ask again, do you believe Dana killed her father?”
“No, I do not.”
I breathe out in relief and Reese sits down. The prosecutor calls the first of five police officers, who were on the scene and have little to offer but gruesome bloody details of a dead man, meant to refocus the jury on blood and murder.
When finally, the court is adjourned, I believe it’s a good day for Reese and all the other drama feels secondary. The room hasn’t even cleared when Reese calls me, “I know you have to write your column. We’re coming to the apartment to recap the day. I’ll meet you at the apartment after I debrief with Dana.”
“Perfect,” I say. “It was a good day. You wiped the floor with Wicker.”
“It was—acceptable. No better. I’ll see you soon.”
I reach the exit to the courtroom and Royce is waiting on me right along with Lauren. “He was good,” she says. “Really good.”
I glance at Royce. “You told her I needed her.”
“You do,” Royce says, all stoically.
Lauren wraps her arm around me. “Of course you do. Friends need friends when weird stuff happens.”
She’s right, but the fact that she’s here because of that pregnant woman brings back every bad feeling I’d suppressed this afternoon. In turn, my stomach churns, which seems to indicate stress is impacting me in my current condition.
We start walking and I’m sandwiched between the two of them. “I thought I’d go to the doctor with you in the morning,” Lauren says. “What time is it at?”
“Seven.”
“Seven it is. Why wasn’t Martina Reese’s witness?”
“I asked that when I sat in on a prep session,” I say. “Dana was confident in her and Reese wanted Wicker overly confident with her.”
“Interesting strategy.”
“Reese has a lot of interesting strategies,” I say proudly.
We reach the exit and one of Royce’s men, Savage, opens the door for us, giving me a wink. “Cat Summer. The one that got away.”
I laugh. “We only met once before.”
“Which is why you got away,” he jokes.
“I wouldn’t let Reese hear you say that,” Lauren warns. “You might be big, but he’ll beat your ass.”
I step outside with Royce and Lauren still by my side. We cut right toward the sidewalk that leads to the sedan waiting on us, when suddenly I hear, “Cat Summer.”
I look toward my name to find Debbie standing in the grassy area to the left. “It’s his baby you know. Tell him to call me or I’m going to the press.” She turns and starts walking away.
I have not one second of doubt in Reese. Not one. Anger surges through me and I launch toward her. Royce grabs my arm and so does Lauren. “Debbie!” I shout.
“Cat, damn it, “Royce bites out.
She whirls around.
“You’re lying, and I’ll write about it in my column. You will not scam us. You will not extort us.”
“Be careful what you say,” she says. “Or my payday may be by way of slander.”
She turns and leaves. I double over with nausea. Royce scoops me up and starts carrying me. “Reese,” I say. “I need Reese.”