uncertain how to begin. He was gentle, to his credit. He asked whether she
was sure about what she'd seen, whether the shiny thing could have been
something else, whether her father had told her what to say.
"No," Chloe said to the last one. "He told me to tell the truth. That's
different."
"You're very close to your father."
"Yes."
"And you know he's in a dispute with Mrs. Holloway."
"I know Mrs. Holloway climbed our fence with a syringe." Chloe looked at
him steadily. "That's not a dispute. That's what happened."
Porter sat down. Diane Holloway was staring at her hands.
The defense called Diane Holloway on the fourth day, and she took the stand
the way she had once taken the podium at HOA meetings — chin up,
shoulders back, navy suit immaculate, as if the courtroom were a room she
had been elected to run.
Grant Porter led her through the story with care: she had received a report of
a disturbance at the Beckett property — a neighbor had mentioned seeing
someone near the pool area who shouldn't have been there. Concerned,
acting well within the association's authority to inspect exterior conditions,
she had gone to look. The gate was locked — she couldn't say why, perhaps
it had jammed — and rather than leave a potential problem unexamined, she
had climbed the fence. The syringe, she said, she had found tucked beneath
the towel. She had picked it up in a panic, meaning to secure it, and then Mr.
Beckett had startled her, and she had fled because she was frightened and
78
embarrassed.
"I was trying to help," Diane said, her voice catching just enough. "I've given
years to that community. And now I'm being treated like a criminal for
caring about it."
Porter sat down with visible satisfaction. ADA Vasquez stood, buttoned her
jacket, and walked to the lectern without any notes.
"Mrs. Holloway," she said pleasantly, "let's talk about the inspection. You
wore a swimsuit to conduct it?"
"It was a hot day. I was — I had been at the lake house that morning."
"The lake house. And the waterproof pouch — also part of the inspection
uniform?"
Diane's smile thinned. "I wear it swimming. I forgot to take it off."
"You climbed a seven-foot locked fence instead of using the gate because the
gate — jammed?"
"I couldn't get it open."
"The gate," Vasquez said, "was examined by Detective Marsh the same
afternoon. It was locked, not jammed. It opened with the key Mr. Beckett
provided. Did you have a key, Mrs. Holloway?"
"No."
"So you never intended to use the gate."
"I intended to inspect the property."
"In a swimsuit, over a locked fence, carrying nothing but a pouch you forgot
to remove." Vasquez picked up a photograph and held it toward the witness.
79
"Do you recognize this?"
It was a lake-house photo, pulled from Diane's own social media: Diane on a
dock, laughing, the same waterproof pouch around her waist, turquoise
against her swimsuit.
"You wear it often," Vasquez said. "Now — the syringe. You say you found
it under the towel. But the pool camera shows you arriving with something
already in the pouch, removing it, and placing it under the towel. We
watched it this morning, Mrs. Holloway. The jury watched it. Shall we watch
it again?"
"No," Diane said quickly. Too quickly. In the jury box, the retired teacher
made a small note and underlined it — the third underline of the day.
Vasquez changed tempo, the way a good prosecutor does, letting the room
breathe before the next blow. "Mrs. Holloway, when Detective Marsh
interviewed you that Saturday, you said — and I'm quoting the report — 'I
was performing official association business.' What business, exactly,
requires a syringe?"
"I've told you. I found it there."
"Under the towel. That you approached directly, without searching anywhere
else. You walked past the entire yard, past the pool, past the patio furniture,
and went straight to the lounge chair, crouched, and reached under the
towel." Vasquez tilted her head. "That's not finding something, Mrs.
Holloway. That's retrieving something. There's a difference, and the camera
knows it."
Porter shifted in his chair but didn't object. There was nothing to object to;
the video was in evidence, and everyone in the room had seen it.
80
"Then let's talk about Thursday." Vasquez held up the pharmacy receipt.
"You bought sterile syringes at 9:42 a.m., two days before the 'inspection.'
What were those for?"
"My husband — Paul has — he takes medication." Diane glanced toward the
gallery, where Paul Holloway's seat sat empty, as it had every day.
"Injections."
"Paul Holloway takes injections." Vasquez nodded. "What medication, Mrs.
Holloway?"
A pause. "I don't remember the name."
"Your husband's medication — the reason you bought syringes — and you
don't remember the name."
"He handles his own prescriptions."
"Does he?" Vasquez set down the receipt and picked up another document.
"Because we subpoenaed his pharmacy records. Paul Holloway has no
injectable prescriptions. He hasn't filled any prescription at all in three
years." She looked at the witness. "So what were the syringes for?"
Diane's composure was visibly cracking now — the practiced
HOA-president stillness giving way to something faster and shallower in her
breathing. "I — I may have bought them for — general household use."
"General household use." Vasquez's voice stayed pleasant. "And the xylazine
residue in the syringe found under Mr. Beckett's towel — a veterinary
sedative — that's general household use too?"
"I don't know anything about that."
"You don't know how a syringe you bought Thursday ended up under a towel
Saturday, placed there by a woman in a swimsuit climbing a fence, who
81
happens to be you."
Porter was on his feet. "Objection — argumentative."
"Sustained," Judge Morrison said. "Rephrase, Ms. Vasquez."
Vasquez didn't need to rephrase. She moved to the money.
"Let's talk about GreenLine, Mrs. Holloway." She held up the audit
summary. "A no-bid landscaping contract at triple the market rate, awarded
to a company owned by your brother, Doug Raines. Phantom invoices. And
these —" she lifted a ledger page, "— 'consulting fees,' paid to you