Page 143 of Devil and the Deep Blue Fish

Until right now.

“Your Honor,” Ellery said, yanking his gaze to the judge in the front of the courtroom with an obvious effort, “besides having been a teacher of the moderate and severely disabled for over twenty years, Mrs. Kleinman has taken a compassionate interest in our defendant for several years and has an established relationship with his caretaker. While we will call Arturo Bautista, who runs the Sunshine Care Home, as our next witness, Mrs. Kleinman can speak directly to why it would have been impossible for the defendant to be where the police claimed he was at the time of the crime.”

“Overruled,” the judge said reluctantly, and Jackson caught the glare the man sent Arizona.

And he didn’t like it.

Judge Clive Brentwoodlookedlike everything a judge should be—tall, broad-shouldered, distinguished, with the tanned skin of a tennis or golf aficionado and a lion’s mane of gray hair tamed by the stylist’s comb. Brentwoodlookedlike he should be wise and educated and fair. His courtroom presence was formal and impeccable, much like the man himself.

But Ellery had groaned and cursed his luck when he’d seen that he’d drawn Brentwood to try the case in front of, because whereas much of Sacramento was progressive and most of the judges were fair and had the best interest of their constituents in mind, Brentwood was conservative down to his Ronald Reagan leather-soled oxford shoes.

Although he’d never been said to let politics get in the way of a fair ruling, it was still a blow to their case to have someone belonging to a party that seemed fundamentally against mental health and disability care. And they hadn’t seen much of his greatly vaunted “fairness” here.

The look he’d aimed at Arizona Brooks had not been friendly, although technically Brooks had done nothing wrong. Her mistake had been in giving Ellery a chance to voice Mrs. Kleinman’s qualifications as a judge of Mr. Halliday’s condition, and Ellery had taken full advantage.

Jackson eyeballed Arizona, who managed to put an apologetic face on things, but who didn’t—to Jackson’s eyes anyway—look sorry at all.

In fact as she sat down, Jackson saw her give Effie Kleinman a look that bordered on hope. Like shehopedMrs. Kleinman was the answer to Ezekiel Halliday’s prayers.

But Ellery was already questioning their witness, and Jackson’s attention was pulled—as it always was—to the magnetic personal force that was Ellery Cramer.

“So,” Ellery said, rephrasing for Arizona’s sake, because she was a colleague, “could you tell us why it would have been impossible for Mr. Halliday to have been the perpetrator who took Annette Frazier hostage?”

“Well, like I said, Zeke was sitting down, tending to his foot when I passed him. He was bleeding, and it looked like a fierce cut there, and Zeke doesn’t move well anyway.”

“Could you explain ‘doesn’t move well’?” Ellery prodded.

“He’s got something wrong with his muscles and joints—I think Arturo said it was caused by brain damage at birth, so cerebral palsy of some sort. He’s very flexible but not very strong and not very coordinated. If he was the dickhead with the knife who terrorized Annette Frazier, he would have needed to pass me up on the park pathways, and he did not. And he would have needed to have gotten a weapon from somewhere, and then done all of the things the witness for the prosecution said he did: wrap his arm around Annette’s chest, hold a knife to her throat, and threaten bystanders. His speech isn’t clear enough to threaten bystanders, and if he wrapped his arm around somebody’s throat it would be to help himself stay standing. I was there. I saw the guy they were looking for. He was young with brown eyes and brown hair, but that was the only resemblance. Zeke Halliday was not him.”

The silence in the courtroom was electric, and Jackson saw the witnesses for the prosecution looking at each other speakingly. The four policemen—Jackson had dubbed them “choirboys”—would not be able to actually speak because courtroom rules precluded it, but their eyeballs were talking daggers. Jackson managed to let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding for a month, ever since Arturo Bautista hadcontacted them on Zeke’s behalf to try to get his charge out of jail.

“Why doyouthink Zeke Halliday was arrested?” Ellery asked Effie, and Jackson’s eyes darted toward Arizona Brooks to see if she’d object to the question. She should have—it called for speculation on facts Ms. Kleinman could not know—but she didn’t, which told Jackson all he ever needed to know about how excited Arizona had been to prosecute this case.

“I think the cops got lazy,” Effie said, obviously hurt. “I think the bad guy got away, running through the park’s underbrush and down the irrigation stream, and whoever followed them encountered Zeke on the pathway and thought, ‘Hey, this guy’s obviously homeless. Nobody will give a crap if we arrest him, and that way we can say we tried.’”

Effie’s words rang throughout the courtroom, bitter and very true, and once again Jackson looked toward the prosecution to see if there would be an objection.

This time, when Arizona remained stubbornly silent, Ellery met Jackson’s eyes in question for a brief second before he turned his attention back to the stand.

“One more thing,” Ellery said, before turning the witness over to the prosecution. “You said Mr. Halliday had a wound on his foot. Was he wounded anywhere else?”

“No, sir,” Effie said, her eyes seeking out the officers sitting behind the prosecution’s desk waiting to be called in rebuttal.

“Were there any bruises on his face, neck, or on his arms?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there any blood besides his foot?”

“No, sir,” she replied, eyes narrowing.

“Objection,” Arizona said belatedly. “Where’s this leading?”

“We’ll have to talk to the next witness to find out,” Ellery said smoothly.

“Withdrawn,” Arizona snapped out smartly, and again, that glare.

Brentwood had been going to sustain, but Arizona hadn’t let him.

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