Witness for the Defense Read Free Page A

room. I slipped inside the gate at the bar, smiled weakly at the bailiff, and sat in one of several wooden chairs on the bench side of the railing. Judge Sherman Kellogg was peering down at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, which were perched precariously on his red bulbous nose. Even though he was presiding over a preliminary hearing in progress, he managed to find the time to acknowledge my presence with a scowl. As he well knew, I was supposed to be there at one-thirty, and it was after two. But knowing Kellogg, he’d probably been late taking the bench anyway. He’d no doubt gulped down several Tanquerays at his favorite watering hole, until his bailiff found him and managed to drag him away.
    “You look like hell.” Randy Rogers whispered, leaning into me from the seat to my left. Randy was one of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the county. He was wearing a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, accented with a red carnation.
    “And that’s a hell of a good-looking carnation you’re wearing today, Mr. Rogers,” I said. “I was wearing a nice yellow rose this morning, but I must have lost it in lockup. Just as well. It really didn’t go with my jacket anyway.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Off the rack, you know.”
    “Really funny, Dobbs.” Randy smirked. “I meant you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
    “Let’s just say I’ve had a better night’s sleep.”
    “Then you should fit right in with Kellogg,” he said, nodding toward the judge. “He not only looks half asleep, but he’s also slurring his words.”
    “So what else is new,” I said and turned to survey the courtroom. There wasn’t a seat to be had in the entire spectator section. Many, including some reporters, were forced to stand in the back of the room.
    “Why all the press? They arrest O.J. again?”
    “James Chandler’s prelim,” Randy said, as if that was something I should have already known.
    “Chandler?” I really didn’t care, but I was trying to take my mind off Bobby Miles and the terrible look of fear in his eyes.
    “It’s been on TV and in all the papers,” Randy said out of the corner of his mouth. “He’s the president of Chandler Industries. You must have heard of him. He owns half the damn shopping centers around here.”
    “Sure,” I whispered, not having the foggiest. “What’s the charge?”
    “Murder. Killed his only child.”
    “How old?”
    “Six months. Can you believe it?”
    “You work in this armpit of the world long enough, nothing surprises you,” I said.
    In front of us, Jerry Lipton, Division Three’s deputy D.A., was questioning a patrol cop. He was establishing that the officer found fresh blood in the baby’s crib.
    “I hope they fry the bastard,” Randy muttered.
    I chuckled to myself. It always amazed me how most defense attorneys—and I was no exception—prejudged every other attorney’s case, yet got very indignant when the press or anyone else did the same thing to one of theirs.
    “Well,” I said, “it sounds like Mr. Chandler has a lot of explaining to do….”
    Suddenly we both stopped talking. Our attention was arrested by a beautiful pair of legs passing directly in front of us on their way to the court clerk.
    I slowly surveyed the rest of her. She was small, but not fragile. Slim, yet perfectly shaped. The lighting in the courtroom seemed to center on her to the exclusion of all others, adding golden highlights to her shoulder-length hair. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with a world-disarming smile that she managed to flash for the old goat on the bench.
    When she turned to look for a seat, I instantly returned to earth. She was Sarah Harris, the daughter of retired Superior Court Judge Avery Harris. I had the misfortune of being assigned to his courtroom immediately upon being hired by the public defender’s office. Avery Harris was arrogant and gave no one, especially the lowly public defenders, any quarter. Always on