***
“The hell you say,” Sundstrom cried the following morning. “Closing arguments start in an hour, and then this case is on its way to the jury.”
“But she may be telling the truth,” Erin argued.
“I’m perfectly willing to let the jury decide,” the prosecutor declared.
“Without this information?” Dusty pressed.
Sundstrom sighed. “Even if her husband was trying to kill her, it doesn’t necessarily mean she killed him in self-defense. He had no weapon and she was in no imminent danger, and that’s what I’m going to argue.”
“He has a point,” Dusty said as they left the prosecutor’s office and the courthouse.
“I know,” Erin conceded with a realistic sigh. “Maybe I just feel sorry for her. Knowing her husband wanted her dead is an awful thing to have to live with.”
***
Mark Sundstrom rose, buttoned his suit coat, cleared his throat, and turned to face the jury.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, you’ve heard a lot of testimony in the past several weeks,” he began. “Much of it contradictory, most of it conclusive. And soon, you’re going to go back into the jury room and sift through it all, and talk among yourselves until you arrive at the truth of what took place on that October night in Laurelhurst just over a year ago. It’s an awesome responsibility. Not only because you hold the future of the defendant’s life in your hands, but because you will be the final arbiter of what really happened.
“Was the death of Richard Durant nothing more than a tragic mistake, as the defense would like you to believe?” he continued. “Or was it self-defense, as the defendant herself would like you to believe? That is, of courses, if you don’t buy her tragic mistake theory? Or was it, as the People believe, nothing less than cold-blooded murder -- at the hand of a woman who simply took the opportunity to rid herself of an unfaithful, ungrateful husband? Well, let’s see if we can figure it out. Let’s take one more look at the facts of this case.”
For the next three-and-a-half hours, Sundstrom took the jury back through the past month, rereading testimony, revisiting exhibits, reviewing evidence. The jurors soaked it in. The spectators listened intently. The judge listened implacably. David Johansen made copious notes. And Clare sat with her hands clenched and her head bowed under the weight of it all.
“What corroborating evidence do we have that Richard Durant was trying to kill his wife?” Sundstrom asked as the lunch hour neared. “The testimony of an impressionable child who says she saw her father trip her mother. A child who has already lost her father and is now in jeopardy of losing her mother. Can we know for sure what she saw in the flash of a second? Or what she told a loyal housekeeper? Or what she now wants you to believe in order to save her mother? Remember, even the housekeeper didn’t believe her, Ladies and Gentlemen. That’s why she didn’t speak up before.
“But let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that Richard Durant did want his wife dead. He certainly didn’t intend to kill her that night. He knew the police were right outside, waiting to nab their stalker. He knew he couldn’t have gotten away with it. He walked into that bedroom carrying a suitcase, Ladies and Gentlemen, not a weapon. Clare Durant was not in any imminent danger from him. And she knew it. She shot her husband willfully. And how did she cover up her crime? She hid the suitcase before the police could get there, and hoped they wouldn’t notice. And she almost got away with it. If not for the diligence of the detectives on the case, she well may have.
“The decision is finally yours to make, and I’m perfectly content with that,” Sundstrom concluded. “Because our justice system is one of the best systems we have in this country -- where one is judged by a jury of one’s peers, who patiently sit and listen and watch, and finally discuss among themselves until they determine what really happened and who is to blame. Just as you have been studying the evidence presented in this case, I have been studying all of you, and I have total confidence in your ability to reach the right verdict.”
With a smile far more confident than he actually felt, the prosecutor took his seat.
***
It was almost one o’clock when Erin knocked on the fifth door in section D of the Lacey Trailer Park. Moira Purdue, a used-up woman in her late sixties, answered the knock and stepped out of the ancient mobile home, squinting into the sunlight.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Mrs. Purdue?”
“Yeah.”
“Mrs. Purdue, I’m Detective Erin Hall with the Seattle Police Department, and I’m looking for your son Ryan.”
“Ain’t seen him,” the woman responded.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Far away from here,” Moira Purdue told her. “As far away as he can get, I’ll bet. I ain’t seen him in must be at least a year. And I only saw him then because he was out of jail and out of money and had no other place to go.” She let out a hoarse smoker’s cackle. “If you find him, tell him not to come back next time, okay?”
“Would anyone else in your family know where he was?” Erin pressed. “It’s really important that we talk to him. It’s about the Richard Durant case.”
“You talkin’ about Ricky?” Moira said. “Him and Ryan was thick as thieves back in high school. Now that was a son to be proud of. Made good, he did. And didn’t forget where he came from, neither. Moved his folks to a fine house in Centralia, he did. Gave them a good life. Too bad what happened to him.”
“That’s just it,” Erin told her. “You see, if I can find Ryan, and he can help me out, there may be some money in it for him.”
“Money?” The woman perked up. “Well, if there’s money to be had, you should
