My Sister's Grave (Tracy Crosswhite, #1)(32)

“Is it unusual for you to not keep abreast of the local news?”

“Not unless it’s my Mariners or my Sonics.” Hagen had the easy smile of someone in sales and looked to be enjoying the spotlight. “I’m not much for picking up an out-of-town newspaper or watching the evening news when I get to my hotel. I usually look for a game.”

“So you were unaware of Sarah Crosswhite’s abduction?”

“I hadn’t heard about it, no.”

“Can you tell the jury how you did come to hear about it?”

“Sure.” Hagen turned to face the jurors, five women and seven men, all white. Two alternates sat in chairs just outside the railing. “I got home one night from an account at a reasonable hour, for a change. I was having a beer on the couch and watching my Mariners when a story came on during a break about a missing woman from Cedar Grove. I have a number of clients up that way, so I paid attention. They showed a picture of her.”

“Did you recognize the woman?”

“I’d never seen her.”

“What happened next?”

“They said she’d been missing a while, and they showed a photograph of her truck, a blue Ford, abandoned along the shoulder of the county road. That jarred my memory.”

“Jarred it how, Mr. Hagen?”

“I’d seen the truck before. I was certain it was the truck I saw one night when I was driving back home from visiting accounts up north. I remembered because not many people use the county road anymore, with the interstate, and it was raining hard that night and I thought, ‘Bummer of a night to have your truck break down.’?”

“Why did you drive the county road that evening?”

“It’s a shortcut. You learn them all when you drive as much as I do.”

“Did you remember the particular night?”

“Not initially, no. But I remembered it was in the summer because the storm surprised me. I’d even debated not taking the county road because of it. It’s dark. There aren’t any street lights.”

“Were you subsequently able to determine the night?”

“I keep a calendar of my appointments and went and checked. It was August 21.”

“Of what year?”

“1993.”

Hagen had his calendar in his lap. After introducing it into evidence, Clark asked that it be shown to the jury. Then Clark asked Hagen, “And do you recall anything else about that evening?”

“I remembered that I’d seen a red truck. It was driving toward me.”

“And why would you remember that?”

“Like I said, there were no other cars on the county road that night.”

“Did you get a look inside the cab?”

“Not really, no. But I got a good look at the truck. It was a Chevy stepside. Cherry red. You don’t see too many of those. It’s a classic.”

“What did you do then?”

“The news program put up a phone number for the Sheriff’s Office, so I called and told the person what I’d seen. I got a call back from the sheriff saying he was following up. So I told him what I just told you.”

“Did you recall anything else while talking to Sheriff Calloway?”

“I recall thinking that I had stopped to get gas and something to eat that night, and thinking that maybe if I hadn’t, I could have reached that girl first.”

DeAngelo Finn objected and asked that the statement be stricken. Judge Sean Lawrence, a big man with a full head of red hair, sustained it.

Clark left that final thought with the jury and sat.

Finn stepped forward, notepad in hand. Tracy knew DeAngelo and his wife, Millie. Her father cared for Millie, who had debilitating arthritis. Balding, Finn parted his hair low on his head and combed it over the top. No more than five foot six, the hem of his suit pants dragged on the marble floor as he made his way to the podium, and the cuffs of his jacket reached the palms of his hands, as if he’d bought the suit off a department store rack that morning and hadn’t had time to have it tailored.

“You say you saw this truck along the shoulder. Did you see anyone standing beside the truck or walking along the road?” Finn had a high-pitched voice that the expansive courtroom swallowed.

Hagen said he had not.

“And this red truck you claim to have seen, you didn’t get a look in the cab, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“So you didn’t see a blonde woman in that cab, did you?”

“I did not.”

Finn pointed at House. “And you didn’t see the defendant in that cab, did you?”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t catch the license plate number?”

“No.”

“Yet you claim to recall this truck that you admit you saw for just a fraction of a second on a dark and rainy evening?”

“It’s my favorite truck,” Hagen countered, the salesman’s smile returning. “I mean, cars and trucks are what I do for a living. It’s my job to know them.”

Finn’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His eyes shifted between his notepad and Hagen several times. After several uncomfortable seconds, Finn said, “So your focus was on the truck and you didn’t see anyone in the cab. No further questions.”