I don’t make a large salary.”
“Did you expect to cash in—that is, get rich—from marrying Keith Herman?”
“I knew he had money. But the only thing that was important to me was that we had a real relationship, with holidays together, and that I could be with Lily. I wanted to be able to go out into the open, to stop feeling bad because I loved someone else’s husband. And when I saw that I couldn’t have that, I tried to break it off with Keith many, many times.”
“And Keith pursued you, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“You testified that you changed your phone number. You moved out of your home.”
“Yes.”
“On the weekend of February twenty-eighth through March first, were you with the defendant?”
“No. I was not. I was alone in the hunting cabin my father left me in Oroville. I don’t have a TV there. I don’t even get a cell phone signal. I just wanted to be by myself.”
“So when the defense tells the court that Keith Herman was with you the weekend his wife and daughter were murdered, that’s a lie, isn’t it?”
The witness winced ever so slightly. Yuki took it to mean that Lynnette still loved Keith Herman.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s a lie.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lagrande. I have nothing more for this witness, Your Honor.”
Kinsela had nothing to add, a good move on his part, Yuki thought. If one juror believed that Lynnette Lagrande was a money-grubber and a liar, Kinsela had done his job.
Yuki watched Lynnette Lagrande step down from the stand. She had recovered much of her poise. Looking neither left nor right, she walked up the aisle and back out through the front door of the courtroom.
Had the jury believed her?
All of them?
Honest to God, Yuki didn’t know.
Chapter 38
CONKLIN AND I stood outside Tracey Pendleton’s front door. Her house was small and nearly identical to the surrounding cheap wooden houses, which had been built in the fifties.
School was out. Kids called out to each other as they biked along the patched asphalt on the poor residential street. Cars with loud radios and old mufflers sped past.
We had knocked on the door, peered through the dirty windows, and looked up and down to see if Pendleton’s Camaro was parked anywhere on Flora Street. It wasn’t.
It didn’t appear that the ME’s night-shift security guard was at home.
Conklin and I had our weapons out and were ready to execute the warrant that gave us the legal right to break down Pendleton’s door.
I stood back, looked under the cushion of the porch rocker, and found it just as Conklin kicked open the door.
“Oops,” I said, holding up the key.
Conklin called out, “Miss Pendleton, this is the police. Please come out with your hands over your head. We just want to talk to you.”
There was no response and no sound coming from the house at all.
The house had two and a half rooms—about four hundred square feet altogether—and I could see almost every inch of it from the doorway.
We were standing in the living room, which was furnished with a worn brown sofa and a sagging armchair. The TV was off, and the only movement was the upward spiral of dust motes in the dim ray of sunlight coming through the window.
Conklin went ahead of me and toed open the bedroom door. A moment later, he called, “Clear.”
I went ahead to the kitchenette, checked the broom closet, then called out to Conklin that the room was empty.
There was a pot of old food on the stove, one dirty dish, one glass in the sink. The refrigerator was empty, except for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. The garbage pail held two beer bottles and an empty can of Beefaroni.
Conklin came in and said, “Her suitcase is in the closet. I couldn’t find a weapon.”
He checked under the sink and found more vodka standing among the containers of Mr. Clean, Easy-Off, and Windex.
We went through the house again. There was no computer, no sign of pets. No purse. No keys. We searched the hamper, the
“Did you expect to cash in—that is, get rich—from marrying Keith Herman?”
“I knew he had money. But the only thing that was important to me was that we had a real relationship, with holidays together, and that I could be with Lily. I wanted to be able to go out into the open, to stop feeling bad because I loved someone else’s husband. And when I saw that I couldn’t have that, I tried to break it off with Keith many, many times.”
“And Keith pursued you, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“You testified that you changed your phone number. You moved out of your home.”
“Yes.”
“On the weekend of February twenty-eighth through March first, were you with the defendant?”
“No. I was not. I was alone in the hunting cabin my father left me in Oroville. I don’t have a TV there. I don’t even get a cell phone signal. I just wanted to be by myself.”
“So when the defense tells the court that Keith Herman was with you the weekend his wife and daughter were murdered, that’s a lie, isn’t it?”
The witness winced ever so slightly. Yuki took it to mean that Lynnette still loved Keith Herman.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s a lie.”
“Thank you, Ms. Lagrande. I have nothing more for this witness, Your Honor.”
Kinsela had nothing to add, a good move on his part, Yuki thought. If one juror believed that Lynnette Lagrande was a money-grubber and a liar, Kinsela had done his job.
Yuki watched Lynnette Lagrande step down from the stand. She had recovered much of her poise. Looking neither left nor right, she walked up the aisle and back out through the front door of the courtroom.
Had the jury believed her?
All of them?
Honest to God, Yuki didn’t know.
Chapter 38
CONKLIN AND I stood outside Tracey Pendleton’s front door. Her house was small and nearly identical to the surrounding cheap wooden houses, which had been built in the fifties.
School was out. Kids called out to each other as they biked along the patched asphalt on the poor residential street. Cars with loud radios and old mufflers sped past.
We had knocked on the door, peered through the dirty windows, and looked up and down to see if Pendleton’s Camaro was parked anywhere on Flora Street. It wasn’t.
It didn’t appear that the ME’s night-shift security guard was at home.
Conklin and I had our weapons out and were ready to execute the warrant that gave us the legal right to break down Pendleton’s door.
I stood back, looked under the cushion of the porch rocker, and found it just as Conklin kicked open the door.
“Oops,” I said, holding up the key.
Conklin called out, “Miss Pendleton, this is the police. Please come out with your hands over your head. We just want to talk to you.”
There was no response and no sound coming from the house at all.
The house had two and a half rooms—about four hundred square feet altogether—and I could see almost every inch of it from the doorway.
We were standing in the living room, which was furnished with a worn brown sofa and a sagging armchair. The TV was off, and the only movement was the upward spiral of dust motes in the dim ray of sunlight coming through the window.
Conklin went ahead of me and toed open the bedroom door. A moment later, he called, “Clear.”
I went ahead to the kitchenette, checked the broom closet, then called out to Conklin that the room was empty.
There was a pot of old food on the stove, one dirty dish, one glass in the sink. The refrigerator was empty, except for the bottle of vodka in the freezer. The garbage pail held two beer bottles and an empty can of Beefaroni.
Conklin came in and said, “Her suitcase is in the closet. I couldn’t find a weapon.”
He checked under the sink and found more vodka standing among the containers of Mr. Clean, Easy-Off, and Windex.
We went through the house again. There was no computer, no sign of pets. No purse. No keys. We searched the hamper, the
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