Part 24 (1/2)
”No, Your Honor.”
Devon turns to look at Dom beside her. What? She's not going to ask him any questions?
”Then you may step down, Mr. Bingham,” Judge Saynisch says. ”Thank you for your testimony.”
Dom's just going to let him leave? On TV, the attorneys never pa.s.s up a chance to cross-examine. Devon watches as Dom folds her hands carefully, places them on the tabletop.
Devon grabs up her own pencil and scrawls WHY NOT??? across her legal pad and slides it in front of Dom. Dom just presses her lips together, shakes her head, keeping her eyes on the judge.
”Mr. Floyd,” the judge says, ”are you prepared to call your next witness?”
”Yes, Your Honor. The state calls Mr. Ron Woods.”
Devon watches as another man walks up to the front of the courtroom and raises his right hand. Unlike the first, this man is somehow familiar to her. Short blond hair. Tall and muscular. His gait, Devon sees when he makes his way to the witness stand, exudes confidence and strength. He moves with an authoritative swagger, an earned one, and he's wearing a black suit and white s.h.i.+rt with a black tie. Like the stereotypical FBI types on TV, Devon thinks.
”Please state your name for the record,” Mr. Floyd says.
”Ron Woods.”
”And please state your current occupation, Mr. Woods.”
”I am a police officer for the Tacoma Police Department, a detective within the Homicide Unit of the Criminal Investigations Division.”
Devon feels a jolt. A police officer. Definitely not someone on her side.
”And did you hold this position on March the twenty-eighth?”
”Yes.”
When the man opens his mouth to answer the questions, Devon notices his teeth, the most prominent of his features, dazzling in contrast to his tanned face. Perfectly straight and bright white. And then suddenly she remembers everything-who he is, where she'd seen him before. He's the one, the guy who'd crouched on the floor beside her while she was on the couch That Morning. He'd smiled at her, tried to shake her hand. Asked her questions, ones she couldn't-or wouldn't-answer. Devon remembers her mom, angry and embarra.s.sed, pulling away the blanket. And Devon was left there, lying on the couch, cold and exposed.
”Yes,” the detective is saying now, ”I was called to the scene by the first responder, Police Sergeant Keith Cruz. Since the newborn was found in a trash can and enclosed in a plastic trash bag, requesting a detective from Homicide would be the appropriate next step. Hence, why I was called.”
”When did you arrive at the scene?”
”Approximately fifteen to twenty minutes after the ambulance had come and gone. The exact time, according to my records, was seven twenty-two A.M.”
The prosecutor then launches into a series of questions about what was going on at the scene when he arrived. The detective speaks confidently about how everything was running smoothly-how the area was cordoned off with police tape and the crime scene secured. How he'd inst.i.tuted crowd control and ensured all witness statements were taken. How he'd organized the officers at the scene to conduct a door-to-door search within a four-block radius of the trash can. ”The paramedics had estimated that the birth had occurred within the past two hours, three at the most, so time was of the essence,” the detective says.
”What did you hope to find during this door-to-door search?”
”Well, obviously, the mother. But at the very least, I hoped to uncover witnesses who may have heard or seen something regarding the incident-someone seen near the trash can or in the vicinity of the alley during the early morning hours. Or perhaps ID any pregnant women, suspected or known, living in the area. Anything, really.”
”Where did you begin your search?”
”I decided to concentrate first on the Kingston Manor Apartment complex.”
”Why did you choose to start there?”
”Because of its proximity to the trash can. The alley runs immediately behind the complex, and the residents of that apartment building use the trash cans placed back there. The number of residents living in the complex was a factor. The complex contains thirty units, so I figured the chances of uncovering an eyewitness or any helpful information there was pretty high.”
”Did you have another officer accompany you?”
”Yes, I took Police Sergeant Bruce Fowler, an officer present at the scene, with me.”
”And at what time, would you say, did you begin your search, Detective?”
”According to my records, we began canva.s.sing the area at approximately eight oh five A.M., give or take.”
The prosecutor's questions continue to come, and the police officer answers them, the two male voices melding together. So tedious, every little step discussed and a.n.a.lyzed. Dom is attentive, though. Devon notices that her brows are creased in concentration behind her wire frames, her teeth pressing into her lipsticked lips, leaving little dents.
Devon lets her mind drift back to That Morning. She's surprised with the ease that the memories flow: the dim room, the TV flas.h.i.+ng its morning drivel, stuff she never much cared to watch before, the sound off. How chilled and feverish she felt under the blanket, a blanket that she'd pulled from her bed at some point in the morning and dragged with her into the living room. She remembers her mom bursting into the apartment when she got home from work, then blathering seamlessly. She'd gone to answer the door later, flirted with some guys outside. The chronology is a fog, though, what happened when. And Devon, lying there on the couch under her blanket. Hiding and waiting.
Waiting? For what? For her mom to leave? For time to pa.s.s? Devon's not sure now.
”A woman in her early thirties answered the door to Apartment 213,” the police detective is saying now, ”and we had a brief conversation with her.”
”What was this woman's name?”
”She told us that her name was Jennifer Davenport.”
”And what was your conversation about?”
”Pretty standard, basic stuff. We told her that we were canva.s.sing the area, asking residents in the vicinity whether they had seen or heard anything unusual. She mentioned that she had just gotten home from work, so she hadn't been around during those early morning hours, but that her teenaged daughter may have seen or heard something as she had stayed home from school that morning.”
”Had you met Ms. Davenport prior to this conversation outside her door?”
”Well, during the course of our conversation outside her door, she reminded us that she had first spoken to me briefly in the alley earlier that morning. She'd said then that she had just stepped off the bus, coming home from work, and noticed all the police activity outside her apartment complex and had asked me a few questions about the incident. So, at that point in our conversation outside her door, yes, I did recognize that I had spoken with her earlier.”
”And during this conversation, did Ms. Davenport appear to be cooperative?”
”Very much so. She seemed . . . um, how can I put it? Very eager to help us out, I guess is how I'd describe her. Very friendly and open.”
”Then what did you do?”
”Well, I was interested in speaking with her daughter, so I asked Ms. Davenport if I could talk to her for a moment.”
The scene replays slowly in Devon's mind now. It's all there: Devon's mom leans closer to the man with the blond hair. Whispers something in his ear. Looks back over her shoulder, back at Devon lying on the couch. Turns again to the man. Giggles.
The man says something to her in return. Her mom moves aside, little tiptoey steps, rearranges her hair.
”Why did you want to speak to Ms. Davenport's daughter?”
”As an investigator, I am trained to go with my gut feeling. Given the fact that an unsupervised teenaged girl had stayed home from school because she was sick, combined with her residence being in such close proximity to where a baby had been found inside a trash can that very same morning, well, my gut was sending up a little red flag. But at the very least, I was hopeful that she may have seen or heard something that could help us with our search.”
”Did Ms. Davenport give you permission to enter her apartment and speak to her daughter?”