Kins stepped to the window. “I noticed in your witness statement you said you thought you heard a car backfire and looked out the window. I’m assuming it was this window?”
“That’s right. It was a bang, the way an engine will sometimes do that.”
“And you said that when you looked out the window, you saw a city bus?”
Rodriguez joined Kins and Faz at the window. “At that bus stop. Route Five.”
Kins smiled. “You’re familiar with it.”
“I rode that bus downtown and back for more than twenty years.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a paralegal at a law firm.”
“Do you recall what time it was when you heard the bang?”
“I didn’t look at my watch or anything,” she said.
In her witness statement, Rodriguez didn’t provide an exact time, but Kins hoped he could narrow it down using the city bus schedule, which he’d checked on the Metro Transit website that morning. “According to the schedule, that bus makes a stop at that location at 5:18 and then again at 5:34.” Angela Collins had called 911 at 5:39, so he guessed Rodriguez heard the shot at 5:34.
“That’s right. I would catch the 4:35 at Third and Pine downtown, and it would drop me here at 5:18.”
“Do you know if the bus you saw was the 5:18 or the 5:34?”
“I’m not sure. This was pretty upsetting.” Rodriguez massaged her temple.
“Take your time,” Kins said.
She closed her eyes, grimacing. Kins looked to Faz, who frowned and shrugged. He’d gotten the same answer.
“I’m sorry,” Rodriguez said. “I don’t . . .” She opened her eyes.
“What were you doing before you heard the noise?” Kins said, trying to ground Rodriguez in a task that might refresh her recollection.
“I was . . .” She looked to the window, then turned to a flat-screen in the corner of the room. “I was watching TV.”
“Do you recall what you were watching?”
“KIRO 7,” she said.
“Local news.”
“That’s right.” Kins could almost see the wheels starting to spin in her head. “I watch it from five to five thirty, then switch to World News Tonight on ABC. I was watching a story about housing prices rising on the Eastside. The noise startled me, and I went to the window to see what it was.”
“So that was during the local news, right?” Kins said. “Does that help you with respect to when you heard the shot?”
Rodriguez paused. “It does. It had to be the 5:18 bus.” She nodded. “It had to be. Didn’t it?”
Yes, it did, Kins thought.
And that raised a whole different set of questions.
The call came in to the Justice Center as Kins and Faz were leaving Emily Rodriguez’s home, and the operator diverted it to Kins’s cell. When Kins disconnected and told Faz that Atticus Berkshire wanted to bring Angela Collins in to give a statement, Faz summed up his disbelief.
“Right, and I’m going on a diet.”
But an hour later, Berkshire did indeed come in with Collins.
They were all seated at a round table in the soft interrogation room, Faz overwhelming his plastic chair, forearms folded across his chest and resting on his stomach. Angela Collins sat beside her father. She’d dressed in yoga pants and a loose-fitting sweatshirt. The bruising on the side of her face had become a mottled purple, yellow, and black.
“As I indicated, Detectives,” Berkshire said, “Angela is prepared to tell you what happened that night. You may ask her questions, but I may instruct her not to answer a question if I believe the question is inappropriate, and I may terminate this interview at any time.” He, too, was dressed casually, in a checked button-down, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Are those ground rules acceptable?”
Kins was in no real position to negotiate, but he also wasn’t about to accept Berkshire’s terms on video. He was still trying to figure out why Berkshire would allow his daughter to give a statement. He and Kins had speculated that whatever Angela Collins had to say, it would have been carefully rehearsed, and intended to further her anticipated self-defense argument.
“You’re willing to talk to us today with your lawyer present?” Kins asked Angela Collins.
She nodded.
“You have to answer audibly,” Berkshire said.
“Yes,” she said, touching her lip as if it hurt to talk.
“And you understand that this conversation is being videotaped and recorded?” Kins asked.
“Yes.”
“And, again, you agree to us recording what is said?”
“Yes.”
Kins was being cautious, even more surprised Berkshire would allow them to record the interview.
“All right,” Kins said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Angela Collins took a deep breath, grimaced, and exhaled. “Tim came to the house to pick up Connor. He was upset.”
“Tim was upset, or Connor was upset?” Kins was pretty sure she meant Tim, but he wanted to get her in the routine of answering his questions and prevent her from providing a soliloquy.
“Tim was upset, but Connor was also upset.”
“Why was Connor upset?”
“He didn’t like going to his father’s apartment.”
“Why not?”
“Tim was hard on Connor. He was always on him about something.”
Kins made a mental note to pursue that line of inquiry. Could the kid have snapped from persistent abuse? “What was your husband upset about when he came to the house?”
“He was upset that my attorney had asked for an increase in support.” She slurred the last word and again paused to touch her lip. “He said he didn’t have any more money to give me. He said I was already taking more than seventy percent of what he was clearing after taxes. He accused me of hoarding money.”
“According to the terms of a negotiated restraining order, your husband wasn’t supposed to go into the house,” Kins said, expecting Berkshire to object that Angela was there only to provide a statement. Berkshire, however, had his head down, taking notes on a pad.
“That’s right.”
“You let him in anyway?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Connor opened the door, and Tim forced his way in.”
“Did Tim hit Connor?”
“Yes, but not then.”
“What happened next?”
“Tim became verbally abusive. He said I was spending money on worthless things. That’s when he picked up the sculpture and began shaking it. He said it was a waste of money. I told him to put it down.”
“Where was Connor when this was going on?”
“I’d sent him to his room at the back of the house and told him to shut the door.”
“Then what?”
“The argument escalated. Tim got more and more worked up. I told him I was calling 911. That’s when he hit me with the sculpture.”
She said it matter-of-factly, like someone reciting lines but showing no real emotion. “Where did he hit you?”
Angela Collins touched the wound on the left side of her head.
“How many times did he hit you with the sculpture?”
“Just once. That’s all it took to knock me down.”
“Then what happened?”
“He kicked me in the stomach and started yelling at me.”
“How many times did he kick you?”
“I don’t know.”