Page 25 of The Writer

When Saffi looks up, Judge Berman is staring at her.

“I asked you a question.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. Can you please repeat that?”

“What happened with the grand jury yesterday?”

“I filed a postponement of one week.”

Geller Hoffman puts up an exasperated hand. “You can’t expect my client to sit in a cell while the State licks its wounds.” He holds up a folder containing the medical examiner’s findings. “In light of this new information, we’d like the court to revisit bail.”

Saffi points at Morrow. “She was covered in blood, Your Honor!”

Hoffman makes a show of shaking the folder. “Not hers. Not the victim’s. The State doesn’t even have a murder weapon. What it does have amounts to nothing more than a random kitchen utensil found at the scene. My client’s prints aren’t even on it.”

“Nobody else was near that apartment at the time of death. Nobody but the defendant. Security footage proves that. We believe the blood belongs to the victim and there was a lab error. We need time to retest.”

Hoffman shakes his head. “Your Honor, this is what I mentioned the last time. It’s clear my client didn’t do this, yet the prosecutor’s office and investigating officers are laser-focused on her. They haven’t looked at a single other person. They have no theories. They have… nothing.”

A copy of the ME’s report is open on Judge Berman’s desk. He has the data from CSU too. He flips through it all again before turning to ADA Saffi with a sigh. “A grand jury would toss this, and you know it. Obviously, that’s why you asked for more time, but Mr. Hoffman is right—you can’t keep his client in a cell while your team attempts to patch the extensiveholes in your case.” He closes the folder and slides it off to the side. “I’m setting bail at two hundred and fifty thousand, and that’s generous; it should be zero. You need to drop these charges and issue an apology.”

Saffi swallows the lump in her throat. “The State requests the defendant surrender her passport with bail. For reasons previously stated, she is a flight risk and has the means to disappear.”

Geller Hoffman rolls his eyes. “Your Honor—”

Judge Berman cuts him off. “It’s not unreasonable to ask your client to stay in the country as the police investigate the murder of her husband. Suspect or not, she needs to remain accessible. She will surrender her passport as a condition of bail, and it will be promptly returned to her if the State drops these charges or the grand jury fails to indict.” He frowns at Saffi. “You’ve got one week. Get it together, Counselor.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DECLAN GLARES AT the television in the squad room, unable to look away. If he could somehow reach up through the screen, grab Geller Hoffman by his perfectly knotted tie, and yank him through, he would. Hoffman is standing on the courthouse steps (no doubt on a milk crate or two) preaching to the throngs of press and court lookie-loos like some messiah come down from the mountaintop to spread the word. Denise Morrow is at his side, no longer in the orange jumpsuit. Now she’s wearing a conservative tan dress and an equally conservative off-white coat with a subtle floral print near the knee-length hem. Her makeup has been expertly applied, accentuating her dark brown eyes. Her chestnut hair is swept back in a loose ponytail. This carefully crafted look is meant todisarm and draw you in. And it is working, even as Hoffman rattles on; every eye is on her.

“Now that we’ve moved beyond this nonsense,” Hoffman continues, “maybe the police will spend some time searching for the person who actually killed my client’s beloved husband. Unfortunately, the incompetence they and the prosecutor’s office have demonstrated doesn’t exactly inspire faith.”

“Oh, fuck him,” Declan mutters, clicking off the television. “She fired a round at the responding officers. We should charge her with that. Keep her behind bars until we sort this out.”

Cordova is at his desk, his eyes closed, thinking. He’s leaning so far back in his rickety old wooden chair, it’s in danger of toppling over. “She fired a round in self-defense at someone attempting to enter her home moments after she found her husband dead. If ADA Saffi was even willing to go that route, Hoffman would tear it apart. What you just saw is us losing the public’s trust. We don’t tread lightly, he’ll crucify us in the press. You read the email from CSU?”

“Baby steps. My mind is still trying to process the termbeloved husband. The press knows about the cock socks, right?”

“The what?”

“Baby bags. Raincoats. Jimmy caps.”

Cordova opens his eyes and stares.

“The condoms we found,” Declan explains. “Jesus, Jarod, expand your vocabulary. Feed your brain. It helps keep you sharp.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

“Is anyone talking about infidelity?”

“Depends on the network. If they’re Team Morrow, they’ve decided David had a perfectly logical explanation for carryingcondoms. The conspiracy theorists are claiming we planted them. I’m guessing Hoffman put that out there.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.” Declan nods at Cordova’s computer. “What’s in the CSU email?”

“They found wool on David Morrow’s clothing. Trace amounts in his hair, on his skin, and in the blood surrounding his body.”

“Wool? From what?”

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