Okay. Then a week later, four days after we take down the tape, I find another hair. Looks like the lover’s. Let’s say the lab says it is.”
“Where do you find said strand of hair?”
“Caught between two crossing slats of wood. If the lover had been firing the murder weapon, that crisscross would be exactly where this lover of unspecified sex’s head would have been. Now, as a prosecutor, would you buy this suddenly appearing new piece of evidence? Would you use it?”
“Okay. Generally, all relevant evidence is admissible at a trial. But the circumstances under which the evidence was found are admissible too. In a case like this, the defense would argue that since you did such a bang-up job under ideal conditions the first time, it’s passing strange that you didn’t find that extra hair when you were so busy being meticulous.”
“They’d argue it was planted.”
“Right.”
“A lawyer like Paterno would argue that.”
“A lawyer like Paterno would cream us on that. We’d claim it was an oversight. Human error. Cops are human, and what in the world would be our motive for trying to frame this lover? Because we believe with all our hearts and souls that the lover is guilty? Ridiculous!”
“If you were prosecuting a case like this, what would you do?”
“I’d spend a couple of days scaring the shit out of the cop who says he found the hair, telling him that if he’s not a hundred percent sure that one of his colleagues didn’t plant it—I wouldn’t accuse him directly—he should forget about it because it could jeopardize our case, give the defense something to fight about. Then I’d sit back and think about it. Chances are, I wouldn’t risk introducing it unless the 376 / SUSAN ISAACS
rest of our case was very, very flimsy—but then I’d question the whole proceeding. But if our case was semi-solid, I’d still avoid using it. Look, that one hair makes the DNA testing an issue, and that would put our good evidence—the hair from the bed—into question. And who needs a lawyer like Paterno making the jury wonder how come a miracle happened after a week? From the D.A.’s point of view, a wondering jury is a dangerous jury. Reasonable doubt is a terrible thing.”
“Thanks, Sally-Jo.”
“So, imbecile, is it your hypothesis that Bonnie Spencer shot Sy Spencer or not?”
“Not.”
“That isn’t what I hear.”
It was touch and go whether Bonnie would let go of the phone or I’d break her wrist trying to get it out of her hand.
She finally let go, but the next thing I knew, she was making a dash for the door, frantic to get to the cops, turn herself in.
“Stop it!” I shouted. I had her in an armlock, but it was like trying to restrain a powerful guy, and her natural strength was reinforced by hysteria. “You didn’t do it, so what the hell are you—” She said something, but her words were swallowed up by huge, loud gasps and gulps of air. I held her, waiting for tears, followed by her fervent plea: Stephen, please believe me. Instead, I got an elbow to the solar plexus.
It knocked the wind out of me so badly that I let her loose.
I bent over, hugging myself, trying to catch my breath. Jesus, did it hurt.
At which point Bonnie asked, “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
Except I couldn’t speak. “Stephen? Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Oh, God.” Actually, the shock of sudden pain—and pain inflicted by the woman you’ve just declared to your now ex-fiancée is
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the woman you love—just lasted for a second. But I didn’t reassure Bonnie. I let her lead me to my bed, step by compassionate step, and ease me down. “Take it slow,” she warned. By the time I was flat on my back, she was under control again. “Can you breathe all right?” She peered into my eyes, maybe checking to see if the pupils were dilating.
“Stephen?”
“No,” I muttered, “it’s over.” She had to bend down to catch my words. “You broke my rib and there’s a huge splinter of bone that’s piercing my heart. I’m a dead man, Bonnie. Goodbye.” I reached out, grabbed her hand and pulled her so she was sitting beside me on the bed. “One last kiss.” She threw me a dirty look. “All right,” I told her. “Get hysterical again. Run. I’m not going to fight you. You’re too big.”
“Listen to me. I have to turn myself in. That Robby—I guess it’s Robby—is out to get me. If I stay here, he’ll pull something else.” Her voice started to rise again. “Let me go in now, while my lawyer still has a chance to make some sort of a decent case.”
“Get a grip on it!” She took a deep but tremulous breath.
“You can do it. I need you a little while longer. Once you’re arrested, there may be a problem with bail. Second-degree murder, and your roots in the community aren’t all that deep.
You’ll probably wind up in jail. Understand that?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a nice place. It doesn’t get a fun crowd, and they don’t show Bette Davis movies. You won’t like it. So if I can, I want to spare you that. But even more, selfishly, I need you a little while longer for consultation. Just till five. Five o’clock, you can call your friend Gideon, have him alert Bill Paterno, and you can set the whole process in motion. But let me just warn you, if you’re in the slammer, I may not be 378 / SUSAN ISAACS
able to contact you. Your lawyer is going to say, No cops.”
“But I could explain that you’re helping.”
“Bonnie, do you think a criminal lawyer is going to believe that a detective on the Homicide Squad has a soft spot for his client and will act in her best interests?”
“He might.” It disturbed me how naive she was, how God Bless America. She wanted to turn herself in,
