“This is all pretty convenient, wouldn’t you say?” he suggested right off the bat. “An eleventh hour witness to corroborate your mother’s story. Who’s idea was it for you to come forward with this totally off-the-wall story?”
“It was my idea,” Julie said. “I heard on the television when you tried to make my mom out to be a cold-blooded killer, and I knew I had to come here and say what I saw.”
“And you expect this jury to believe you?”
Julie looked over at the twelve jurors and four alternates who were fixed on her every word. “I don’t know any of these people,” she said with the reality of a thirteen-year-old. “And they don’t know me. If I knew them, then I could probably answer that question. If they knew me, then they’d know I’m telling the truth.”
***
Doreen Mulcahy was the next witness to take the stand. “Julie talked to me the night of her mother’s fall,” the housekeeper confirmed. “She came to me shortly after we got home from the hospital in Port Angeles. I’d driven out to pick the children up, as Mr. Durant was staying with his wife. Julie was so worried that something would happen to her mother while she wasn’t there, she didn’t want to leave.”
“Did she say why she was so worried?” David inquired.
Doreen nodded. “She said it wasn’t an accident. She said her father made her mother stumble and fall off the mountain. She said she saw him do it. And she didn’t understand why.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Well, at the time, with everything that was going on, I thought she was probably mistaken about what she saw. Children can have very vivid imaginations, you know. It wasn’t until after that truck ran Mrs. Durant off the road that I started having second thoughts.”
“And do you remember what the date of this conversation was that you had with Julie?”
“I remember exactly when it was,” Doreen said without hesitation. “It was Father’s Day night of last year.”
“Thank you,” David said.
***
“Did you like Mr. Durant?” Sundstrom asked, rising from his seat and approaching the witness.
“He was a good man to work for,” Doreen replied. “He paid well and he treated me fairly.”
“You worked for the Nicolaidis family before coming to work for the Durants, didn’t you?”
“For Mrs. Nicolaidis, until she died.”
“And then you moved from Ballard to Laurelhurst?”
“Yes.
“Quite a step up, wasn’t it?”
“Housekeeping is housekeeping, wherever the house is,” Doreen said. “Truth be told, I liked Ballard better -- smaller house.”
More than several of those in the courtroom giggled at that, and one of the jurors even nodded in understanding.
“I take it you like your job?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“And you’d like to keep it?”
“I have no plans to leave.”
“But if Mrs. Durant is convicted here, she’ll go to prison, and there won’t be any need for you.”
Doreen frowned. “That would be a pity.”
“So you have every reason to want to keep your employer out of prison, don’t you?”
“I have to admit, I never thought of it in quite that way,” the housekeeper replied, “but yes, I’d like to see Mrs. Durant cleared of all this nonsense.”
“Enough to lie to this court about a conversation with her daughter?” the prosecutor suggested.
Doreen Mulcahy was nobody’s fool. “To be honest, I don’t know how anyone would be able to answer that question,” she replied. “And luckily, it doesn’t matter, since the conversation with Julie did take place, exactly as I’ve testified that it did.”
“Redirect, Mr. Johansen?” the judge inquired as Sundstrom took his seat.
“No, Your Honor,” David said. “The defense rests.”
Twelve
Julie Durant’s testimony was the lead story on the evening news, and the headline in the morning papers. It was the topic of conversation around office water coolers, in neighborhood bars, and on commuter ferries.
But Clare didn’t care about any of that. It had been months since she read the papers or turned on the television.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked her daughter. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw what happened?”
“I was scared,” Julie admitted.
“Scared of me?”
“No . . . scared of Dad.”
Clare put her arms around her daughter and pulled her close, rocking her slowly back and forth, letting her cry, saying nothing.
After all, what was there to say?
***
Erin’s phone was ringing as she entered her apartment.
“We got a match,” Eddie Ridenour said without preamble.
“Who is it?”
“Some two-bit loser from Lacey. His rap sheet’s pretty long, but it’s mostly petty stuff.”
“Lacey,” Erin murmured. “Richard Durant grew up in Lacey.”
“Interesting, perhaps,” Eddie suggested.
“Thanks.” Erin said. “I owe you.”
“Don’t worry,” the analyst said with a chuckle as he hung up. “I’ll collect.”
***
Erin rang the bell at her partner’s West Seattle home at eleven o’clock in the evening. “I’m so sorry to bother you this late,” she apologized to Jean Grissom when Dusty’s wife answered the door.
“That’s okay,” Jean assured her. “He’s just getting ready for bed. Come on in. I’ll get him.”
“Sorry to bother you so late, partner,” Erin said, when Dusty, in bathrobe and slippers, shuffled into the living room, “but this was important.”
“That’s okay,” Dusty said. “What’s up?”
Erin pulled the booking card of one Ryan Purdue out of her briefcase. “Take a look,” she said.
Dusty eyed the photo. “Why do I know I’ve seen this guy before?” he muttered.
Erin pulled another sheet out of her briefcase. “You tell me,” she said, thrusting the police sketch made from Clare Durant’s description of the man in the black truck under her partner’s nose.
He whistled softly. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “Right down to the sideburns.”
“Comes from a trailer park in Lacey,” Erin told him. “And guess who he went to high school with?”
Dusty heaved a sigh. “We better have a little talk with the captain,” he said. “And then maybe a chat with Mark
