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  Pete Duffy held off the tears and did a superb job of describing the horror of hearing the news, racing home in his golf cart, and finding the police there. His wife’s body had not been moved, and when he saw her he collapsed and had to be assisted by a detective. Later, he was seen by a doctor and given some medication.

  What a liar, Theo thought. What a phony. You killed your wife. There is a witness. I have your gloves hidden at the office.

  Pete Duffy talked about the nightmare of calling her family, his family, their friends, and planning and enduring the funeral and burial. The loneliness. The emptiness of living in the same house where his dear wife had been murdered. The thoughts of selling it and moving away. The daily trips to the cemetery.

  Then, the horror of being suspected, accused, indicted, arrested, and put on trial. How could anyone suspect him in the murder of a woman he loved and adored?

  He finally broke down. He struggled to control himself and wiped his eyes and repeatedly said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” It was very moving, and Theo watched the faces of the jurors. Total sympathy and belief. Duffy was crying to save his life, and it was working.

  As his client tried to regain his composure, Clifford Nance decided they had scored enough. He announced, “No more questions, Your Honor. We tender the witness.”

  Mr. Jack Hogan stood immediately and said, “May I suggest a short recess, Your Honor?” A recess would break the action, take the jurors away from the emotional testimony they had just heard. And, it was just after three thirty. Everyone needed a break.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Judge Gantry said. “Then we’ll start the cross-examination.”

  Fifteen minutes dragged into thirty. “He’s running out the clock,” Ike said. “It’s Friday afternoon. Everyone’s tired. He’ll send the jury home and come back Monday.”

  “I don’t know,” said Woods Boone. “He might want the final arguments this afternoon.”

  They were huddled in the hallway, near the soft drink machines. Other little groups of spectators were waiting, watching the clocks on the wall. Omar Cheepe appeared and needed something to drink. He put some coins in a machine, made his selection while glancing at the Boones, then retrieved the can from the dispenser.

  Ike kept talking. “Hogan won’t touch him. He’s too slick.”

  “The jury will find him not guilty in less than an hour,” Woods said.

  “He’s walking,” Theo added.

  “I really need to get back to the office,” Woods said.

  “So do I,” Ike added. Typical Boones.

  Neither made a move because both wanted to see the end of the trial. Theo was just glad they were together and having a discussion, a rarity.

  There was movement down the hall, and the crowd began to shuffle toward the courtroom. A few had left during the recess. It was, after all, Friday afternoon.

  When they were inside and seated again, and quiet, Judge Gantry assumed his position on the bench and nodded at Jack Hogan. It was time for the cross-examination, and when a defendant was on the stand and a prosecutor had the right to question him aggressively, the result was usually pretty ugly.

  Jack Hogan walked to the witness stand and handed Pete Duffy a document. “Recognize this, Mr. Duffy?” Hogan asked, suspicion dripping from every syllable.

  Duffy took his time, looked it over, front and back, for several pages. “Yes,” he finally said.

  “Please tell the jury what it is?”

  “It’s a foreclosure notice.”

  “On which property?”

  “Rix Road Shopping Center.”

  “Here in Strattenburg?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Rix Road Shopping Center is owned by you?”

  “Yes, me and a partner.”

  “And the bank sent you that foreclosure notice in September of last year because you were behind in the quarterly payments on the mortgage. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what the bank said.”

  “Do you disagree, Mr. Duffy? Are you telling this jury that you were not behind in the mortgage payments on this property in September of last year?” Jack Hogan waved some more papers as he asked this, as if he had plenty of proof.

  Duffy paused, then offered a fake grin. “Yes, we were behind in the payments.”

  “And the bank had loaned you how much money on this property?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars,” Hogan repeated as he looked at the jurors. Then he walked to his table, put down one handful of papers and picked up another. He situated himself behind the podium and said, “Now, Mr. Duffy, did you own a warehouse on Wolf Street in the industrial park here in Strattenburg?”

  “Yes, sir. I had two partners in that deal.”

  “And you sold the warehouse, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, we sold it.”

  “And the sale took place last September, right?”

  “If you say so. I’m sure you have the paperwork.”

  “Indeed I do. And my paperwork shows that the warehouse was on the market for over a year, that the asking price was six hundred thousand dollars, the mortgage at State Bank was five hundred fifty, and that you and your partners finally sold it for just over four hundred thousand.” Hogan was sort of thrusting the paperwork in the air as he spoke. “You agree, Mr. Duffy?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “So you lost a chunk of money on that deal, right, Mr. Duffy?”

  “It was not one of my better deals.”

  “Were you desperate to sell the warehouse?”

  “No.”

  “Did you need the cash, Mr. Duffy?”

  The witness shifted weight and seemed a bit uncomfortable. “We, my partners and I, needed to sell the warehouse.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Hogan hammered away at Pete Duffy and his partners and their financial woes. Duffy refused to admit that he had been desperate. But, as the cross-examination grew stressful, it became obvious that the witness had been scrambling to prop up one deal while another fell through. Hogan had plenty of paperwork. He produced copies of two lawsuits that had been filed against Pete Duffy by ex-partners. He grilled the witness about the allegations in the lawsuits. Duffy adamantly denied he was at fault and explained that neither case had merit. He freely admitted that his business had been struggling, but clung to the position that he had been far from bankruptcy.

  Jack Hogan did a masterful job of portraying Duffy as a cash-starved wheeler-dealer who barely managed to stay one step ahead of his creditors. But linking his problems to the motive for murder was still a stretch.

  Changing subjects, Hogan began to position himself for another bomb. He politely poked around the issue of the Duffys’ troubled marriage, and after a few easy questions, asked, “Now, Mr. Duffy, you testified that you actually moved out, is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “And this separation lasted for one month?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a separation. We never referred to it as that.”

  “Then what was it called?”

  “We didn’t bother to give it a name, sir.”

  “Fair enough. When did you move out?”

  “I didn’t keep a journal, but it was July of last year.”

  “Roughly three months before her murder?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where did you live after you moved out?”

  “I’m not sure I actually moved, sir. I just took some clothes and left.”

  “Okay, and where did you go?”

  “I spent a few nights at the Marriott, just down the street. I spent a few nights with one of my partners. He’s divorced and lives alone. It was a pretty lousy month.”

 
“So you were just here and there? For about a month?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you moved back home, patched things up with Mrs. Duffy, and were in the process of living happily ever after when she was murdered?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Strike it. Here’s a question for you, Mr. Duffy.” Jack Hogan was back with the paperwork. He handed a document to the witness, and with one glance Pete Duffy became pale.

  “Recognize that, Mr. Duffy?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Duffy said, flipping a page, trying to stall.

  “Well, allow me to help. That’s a four-page lease for an apartment over in Weeksburg, thirty miles away. The lease is for a nice, two-bedroom furnished apartment in a swanky building, two thousand dollars a month. Ring a bell, Mr. Duffy?”

  “Not really. I, uh—”

  “A one-year lease, beginning last June.”

  Duffy shrugged as if he had no clue. “It’s not signed by me.”

  “No, but by your secretary, a Mrs. Judith Maze, a woman who’s lived with her husband at the same address here in Strattenburg for the past twenty years. Right, Mr. Duffy?”

  “If you say so. She is my secretary.”

  “Why would she sign a lease for such an apartment?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe you should ask her.”

  “Mr. Duffy, do you really want me to call her as a witness?”

  “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

  “Have you ever seen this apartment, Mr. Duffy?”

  Duffy was rattled and dazed and clinging to a slippery slope. He glanced at the jury box, offered another fake smile, then replied, “Yes, I’ve stayed there a couple of times.”

  “Alone?” Hogan barked with perfect timing and great suspicion.

  “Of course I was alone. I was over there on business, things ran late, so I stayed in the apartment.”

  “How convenient. Who’s paying the rent?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Mrs. Maze.”

  “So you’re telling the jury, Mr. Duffy, that you did not lease this apartment and you’re not paying the rent?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you’ve only stayed there a couple of times?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the leasing of this apartment had nothing to do with the problems you and Mrs. Duffy were having?”

  “No. Again, I didn’t lease the apartment.”

  To Theo, who knew the truth, Pete Duffy’s honesty had been severely questioned. It seemed obvious that he was lying about the apartment. And if he told one lie, then he would certainly tell another.

  Evidently, Jack Hogan had no way to prove how often Duffy had used the apartment. He moved on, to the subject of golf, and his cross-examination lost its steam. Duffy knew much more about golf than the prosecutor, and the two haggled and bickered for what seemed like an hour.

  It was almost 6:00 p.m. when Jack Hogan finally sat down. Judge Gantry wasted no time before announcing, “I have decided not to hold court tomorrow. I think the jurors need a break. I hope you have a quiet and restful weekend, and I’ll see you here at nine Monday morning. At that time, we will have closing arguments, then you will finally get the case. Again, the usual instructions. Do not discuss this case. If anyone contacts you and attempts to discuss this case, please notify me immediately. Thank you for your service. I’ll see you Monday.”

  The bailiffs escorted the jurors through a side door. Once they were gone, Judge Gantry looked at the lawyers and said, “Gentlemen, anything more?”

  Jack Hogan stood and said, “Nothing at this time, Your Honor.”

  Clifford Nance stood and shook his head no.

  “Very well. This court is adjourned until nine Monday morning.”

  Chapter 18

  For the first time in several nights, Theo slept well. He awoke late on Saturday morning, and by the time he and Judge staggered downstairs he was aware that a family meeting of some variety was under way in the kitchen. His father was at the stove scrambling eggs. His mother, still in her night robe, sat at one end of the table pecking at a keyboard and studying the monitor. And Ike, who, to Theo’s knowledge, had not been present in the house during the thirteen years Theo had been on the Earth, sat at the other end with the morning newspaper spread out before him. He was studying the classified ads and making notes. He was wearing a faded orange jogging suit and an old Yankees cap. The air was thick with the smell of breakfast and of conversations interrupted and unfinished. Judge went straight to the stove and began his usual routine of begging for food.

  Various versions of Good Morning were exchanged. Theo walked to the stove and looked at the food. “All eggs are scrambled,” his father said. His father cooked even less than his mother and the eggs looked a bit raw, at least in Theo’s opinion. He poured himself some grapefruit juice and took a seat at the table.

  No one spoke until Ike said, “Here’s a two-bedroom garage apartment on Millmont. Six hundred a month. That’s not a bad part of town.”

  “Millmont’s okay,” Mr. Boone said.

  “She makes seven dollars an hour and works thirty hours a week,” Mrs. Boone said, without looking up. “After taxes and a few necessities, she’ll be lucky to have three hundred dollars a month for rent. She can’t afford it. That’s why they’re living in the shelter.”

  “So where do you think we’ll find an apartment for three hundred bucks a month?” Ike asked with a slight edge to his voice. He did not look up, though. In fact, at the moment no one was making eye contact with anyone else.

  Theo just listened and watched.

  Mr. Boone said, “If it’s a garage apartment, then it’s probably a single owner. I doubt if they’ll rent to El Salvadorans or anyone else who’s not from here.” He thumped some eggs on a plate, added a toasted wheat muffin, and slid it in front of Theo, who quietly said, “Thanks.” Judge finally got some eggs in his bowl.

  Theo took a bite, chewed slowly, listened to the silence. Their disinterest in his involvement in whatever they were discussing irritated him. The eggs were too mushy.

  He finally said, “Apartment hunting, are we?”

  Ike managed to grunt, “Uh-huh.”

  El Salvadorans. Living at the shelter. The clues were adding up.

  “Woods,” Mrs. Boone said, still pecking. “Nick Wetzel advertises for immigration work. Is he a reputable lawyer? I’ve never met him.”

  “He advertises a lot,” Mr. Boone replied. “He used to be on television begging for car wrecks. I’d stay away.”

  “Well, only two lawyers in town mention immigration work in their ads,” she said.

  “Talk to both of them,” Ike said.

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “What are we doing here?” Theo finally asked.

  “We have a busy day, Theo,” his father said as he sat down with a cup of coffee. “You and I have a very important golf game.”

  Theo couldn’t suppress a smile. They played almost every Saturday, but for the past several days Theo had forgotten about his game. He, along with the rest of the town, had assumed that the trial would continue into Saturday and he certainly planned to be in the courtroom.

  “Great. When?”

  “We should leave in about thirty minutes.”

  Thirty minutes later they were putting their clubs into the back of Mr. Boone’s SUV and talking about how beautiful the weather was. It was mid-April, no clouds, temperature expected to reach seventy degrees, the azaleas were blooming, and the neighbors were toiling away in their flower beds.

  After a few minutes, Theo said, “Dad, where are we going?” It was obvious they were not headed to the Strattenburg Municipal Course, the only place they’d ever played.

  “W
e’re checking out a new course today.”

  “Which one?” Theo knew of only three in the area.

  “Waverly Creek.”

  Theo allowed this to sink in, then said, “Awesome, Dad. The scene of the crime.”

  “Something like that. I have a client who lives out there and he invited us to play. He won’t be around, though. Just the two of us. We’ll play the Creek Course, so maybe there won’t be a crowd.”

  Ten minutes later, they pulled into the rather grand entrance of Waverly Creek. A massive stone wall lined the road and disappeared around a bend. Heavy gates stopped all traffic. A man in a uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and approached them as Mr. Boone came to a stop and lowered his window.

  “Good morning,” the guard said, with a smile and a clipboard.

  “Good morning. Name’s Woods Boone. Here to play a little golf. Tee time at ten forty. Guests of Max Kilpatrick.”

  The guard studied his notes, then said, “Welcome, Mr. Boone. Put this on your dash.” He handed over a bright yellow card and said, “Hit ’em straight.”

  “Thanks,” Mr. Boone said, and the gates began to open.

  Theo had been through them once before, a couple of years earlier, for the birthday party of a friend who had since moved away. He remembered the large homes, long driveways, fancy cars, and front lawns perfectly landscaped. They drove along a narrow road shaded with old trees, and passed a few fairways and greens. The course was manicured, like something out of a golf magazine. At every tee there were golfers taking practice swings and on every green there were more bent over their putters. Theo began to fret. He liked nothing more than eighteen holes with his dad on an uncrowded course, yet nothing was more unpleasant than trying to hit a ball with a foursome waiting and watching impatiently from behind.

  The clubhouse was busy. Dozens of golfers were out on this fine day. Mr. Boone checked in with the starter, got a cart, and they began limbering up at the practice range. Theo couldn’t help but look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Julio’s cousin. Or maybe he just might see Pete Duffy himself, out for a few holes with some friends after a rough week in court. He had posted bond the day of his arrest and had never been near a jail cell.