Executive Privilege

Oregon

Chapter Nine

Shortly after moving to Portland to take a job with Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton- Oregon ’s largest law firm-Brad Miller rented a riverside apartment with a view of Mount Hood. When he opened his bedroom shades on this balmy morning in late June he beheld the sun rising behind the majestic, snowcapped mountain and a crew of eight women stroking with vigor along the far shore of the Willamette River. It was a scene that should have brought a smile to Brad’s face but this morning he had a good reason for feeling sad and empty.

Brad had experienced good days and bad days since moving across the country for his job. The longer he was away from New York and the everyday sights that reminded him of Bridget Malloy, the more frequent were his good days, but today was the seven-month anniversary of the day Bridget had broken off their engagement, and there was no view, no matter how magnificent, that could prevent him from being depressed.

Brad showered away some of his gloom, dressed for work, and walked to his office, stopping on the way for breakfast at a favorite spot on Third Avenue. He usually grabbed a quick bite at home, but there was a lull in work at the office and he was in no rush this morning. He read the newspaper while he finished his eggs. The Yankees’ extra-innings victory over Boston helped take his mind off Bridget. Brad may have left the East behind, but he was a Yankee fan for life.

When he’d finished his breakfast, Brad walked several blocks to a thirty-story, glass-and-steel office building in the heart of downtown Portland. Reed, Briggs’s main entrance was on the thirtieth floor. The first person clients saw when they entered the spacious waiting area was a gorgeous receptionist who sat behind a magnificent polished wood dais that displayed the firm name in shiny metal letters. Behind the receptionist were several glass-walled conference rooms with magnificent views of three snowcapped mountains and the river. While they waited, the clients sat on soft leather sofas and thumbed through copies of U.S. News & World Report or The Wall Street Journal. It was on this floor that the partners made big deals for important people in huge offices furnished by interior decorators.

Brad did not take the elevator to the thirtieth floor. Junior associates entered Reed, Briggs’s hallowed halls on twenty-seven and walked down a dull, windowless corridor to a plain door, where they tapped in an entry code on a keypad affixed to the wall. Inside, the support staff sat in cubicles that filled the center of the floor, surrounded by the unimpressive offices occupied by the firm’s newest members.

Brad filled a mug with coffee in the lunchroom and carried it to his tiny office. A narrow window above his credenza looked down on the roof of a hotel parking lot. The rest of the office was filled to capacity by a desk, two client chairs, a gunmetal gray filing cabinet, and a bookcase stuffed with a set of the Oregon Revised Statutes and the tax code. Brad’s only decorations were framed copies of his college and law school diplomas.

Brad’s desk was usually stacked high with assignments from the partners, but when he’d left his office the night before he’d had fewer files than usual to work on. This was because the partner he’d been assisting had just settled the lawsuit that had taken up a good part of Brad’s time since he’d joined the firm. When Brad walked into the office he stopped short and groaned. Three new files covered his blotter. A quick look at the memo on top of the center file let him know that he was in for a late night.

Brad took a sip of coffee while his computer booted up. After checking his e-mail, he started going through a forty-page contract between a subcontractor and a construction company that was building condominiums on the coast near Lincoln City. He was on page seven when his intercom buzzed and the receptionist told him that Susan Tuchman wanted to see him. Brad sighed, placed a yellow Post-it on the paragraph he was reading, and headed for the stairs that would take him up to the thirtieth floor.

The associates had nicknamed Tuchman the “Dragon Lady” and the aerie where the Gods of Reed, Briggs ruled, “Heaven.” Brad could have ascended there on the elevator but walking up stairs was one of the few types of exercise he was getting since he started working fourteen-hour days. Some of the other associates jogged or exercised in a gym before work, but Brad was not a morning person. He did play an occasional game of tennis at the Pettygrove Athletic Club, where all the partners and associates had memberships, and he did get in a run or two on the weekend, but he’d noticed that the numbers on his bathroom scale had been inching up and he was finding it harder and harder to run down cross-court forehands. By the time he opened the door to the thirtieth floor he had made a vow to watch his diet and get in at least four hours of exercise each week.

Susan Tuchman’s corner office was an homage to minimalism. Two large windows met at one corner giving her a wraparound view of Portland. A black leather sofa stood against a third wall under an all-white painting. The senior partner’s desk was a large sheet of glass supported by aluminum tubes and the only items on it were an in-box and out-box made of polished metal and a thick file. The only cluttered space was a wall decorated with awards Tuchman had won from the Inns of Court, the American Bar Association, and other legal groups, and photographs of Tuchman with celebrities from the worlds of politics, business, and entertainment.

Tuchman was five four and rail thin. Her blond hair was free of gray thanks to chemistry, and a Beverly Hills surgeon of national repute could claim credit for her skin being as tight as plastic wrap. The senior partner was wearing a black Armani pants suit with a white silk blouse and a necklace of black pearls. She was forty-nine but she’d been a partner for ten years as a result of a series of victories for a pharmaceutical client and a tobacco company. Tuchman’s first husband had been an associate at another firm but she had divorced him rather than set up a situation where an opponent from her husband’s firm could move to have her taken off a case on the grounds of a conflict of interest. A second, tempestuous marriage to a federal judge had lasted only as long as it took Tuchman to process the difference in the income contributions to their joint bank account.

“Sit,” Tuchman ordered, indicating a client chair made of the same black leather as the couch and supported by aluminum tubing similar to the tubing that held up Tuchman’s desk. Brad lowered himself onto the chair cautiously, expecting it to tip over backward at any second.

“I’ve had some good feedback about you from George Ogilvey,” Tuchman said, mentioning the partner who had just settled the lawsuit on which Brad had been working. “He tells me you’re an ace at research.”

Brad shrugged, not from modesty but out of fear that any support he gave for George Ogilvey’s opinion would encourage Tuchman to add to his workload.

Tuchman smiled. “I’ve been trying to pick an associate for an interesting project, and based on George’s glowing recommendation, I’ve concluded that you’re the man for the job.”

With all the work Brad had already he didn’t need any more projects, interesting or otherwise, but he knew it would be wise to keep that opinion to himself.

“You know that Reed, Briggs prides itself on being more than a money factory. We believe that our attorneys should give back to the community, so we take on pro bono projects. The projects are exciting and give our new associates a chance to work one-on-one with clients and get courtroom experience.”

Brad knew all about these pro bono projects. They were good PR for the firm but they were also time-consuming and brought in no money, so the partners foisted them off on the newest associates.

Tuchman pushed the file that occupied the center of her desk toward Brad.

“You’re not from Oregon, right?”

“ New York. I’d never been on the West Coast before I interviewed for this job.”

Tuchman nodded. “Does the name Clarence Little mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Tuchman smiled. “Snap quiz, name the president of the United States.”

Brad returned the smile. “Christopher Farrington.”

“Well done. And you know he was the governor of Oregon before he was selected as President Nolan’s VP?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess I knew that.”

President Nolan had died of a heart attack halfway through his second year in office and Farrington had suddenly found himself president of the United States. Brad turned toward the photographs showing Tuchman schmoozing with important people and suddenly noticed how many contained a smiling Christopher Farrington.

Tuchman noticed where Brad was looking. “The president is a close personal friend. I was his finance chairman during his run for governor.”

“What does President Farrington have to do with my assignment?”

“Mr. Little has filed a writ of habeas corpus, which is now in the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. He is a convicted serial killer and he’s challenging a death sentence he received in Oregon. The murder took place while President Farrington was governor and the victim was the daughter of the governor’s personal secretary. The case created quite a stir here because of the tie-in to the governor but it may not have gotten much space in the New York papers.”

“I think I heard about it,” Brad said so Tuchman wouldn’t think that he was a typical New Yorker, who thought you fell off the edge of the Earth as soon as you left the five boroughs, but the case didn’t really ring any bells.

“The firm has taken on the representation of Mr. Little in federal court. I think you’ll find the assignment very challenging. Look through the file and get back to me if you have any questions.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Brad said as he stood.

“I’ll have the banker’s boxes with the rest of the file delivered to your office.”

Oh, no, Brad thought. Banker’s boxes were big, and Tuchman had just said that there was more than one. He remembered all the new work he’d just found piled up on his desk.

“Remember, Brad, this is literally a matter of life and death, and,” she added in a confidential tone, “it might get you up to the United States Supreme Court. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I’ll work very hard on Mr. Little’s case, don’t worry,” Brad said with great enthusiasm, which disappeared as soon as he was out the door of the senior partner’s office.

“This is just what I need,” Brad muttered as he descended the stairs. Not only was he loaded with work for other partners but he knew absolutely nothing about criminal law and cared less. He’d taken the required course in criminal law his first year in law school and a refresher course when he was studying for the bar, but he remembered almost nothing he’d learned. Then there was the added pressure of knowing that a person might die if he messed up. Of course, that person was a convicted serial killer, someone he had no interest in saving from the gallows. If the guy really did it, society would be better off if Little was executed.

“Why me, God?” Brad muttered as he shoved open the twenty-seventh floor door. When he received no answer, he concluded that either the Deity wasn’t interested in his problems or the Gods on the thirtieth floor were more powerful than whoever he’d previously considered to be the Big Boss.

Brad spent the rest of the morning and afternoon working on the contract for the Lincoln City condominiums. It was five-forty-five when he finally e-mailed a memo outlining the problems that the construction company faced to the partner who’d given him the assignment. He was exhausted and he toyed with the idea of going home, but he had too much work and the assignments were going to keep coming.

Brad sighed and ordered a pizza. While he waited for the delivery, he went to the men’s room, where he recycled the coffee he’d been guzzling and splashed water on his face. Then he grabbed a Coke for the caffeine from the lunchroom refrigerator and got to work on the banker’s boxes that held the files for Little v. Oregon. One box contained the fifteen-volume transcript of the trial and the nine-volume transcript of Little’s sentencing hearing. Another had files with the pleadings, legal motions, and memos. A third contained correspondence, the police reports, and miscellany like the autopsy report and the photographs of the autopsy and the crime scene.

Two hours later, Brad was still at his desk, casting anxious glances at a manila envelope that lay a few inches from him in the center of his blotter. The only dead body he had ever seen was at his great-grandmother’s funeral, and he didn’t have a clear memory of that because he’d been five when she died. He did know that his great-grandmother had died peacefully in her sleep. She hadn’t been tortured and chopped up like Laurie Erickson, the teenage girl whose autopsy and crime scene photographs were in the envelope.

Brad knew Laurie Erickson had been hacked to pieces and tortured because he’d just finished reading the report of Laurie’s autopsy. It was very unnerving and read a little like a graphic review of a slasher movie, which was one type of film Brad avoided like the plague. According to the medical examiner, the cause of Erickson’s death was no mystery. She had almost been decapitated when Clarence Little had hacked away at every inch of her neck with a machete or similar object, tearing the skin to ribbons; there was a subdural hemorrhage over the brainstem for which the examiner could find no source, and not satisfied with simply killing the unfortunate young girl, Little had sliced off several body parts after Erickson was dead.

The temptation to view photographs of the ghastly crime drew Brad to the envelope in the same way a freeway accident drew the eye of every driver who passed by. What argued against opening the envelope were the autopsy’s gory details and the fact that he’d recently ingested three slices of pepperoni pizza. In the end Brad’s morbid curiosity won out. He pulled the envelope to him, opened the flap, and slid the top photo out while averting his eyes so he didn’t have a clear view. Then he turned his head toward the photograph slowly so he wouldn’t have to take it in all at once. The picture showed a young woman with skin the color of wax who was stretched out naked on a stainless steel table with her arms at her side. It took Brad a moment to register the hideous nature of the wounds the poor girl had suffered. When he did he grew light-headed, his stomach rolled, and he wished he’d followed his instincts and left the autopsy photos in the envelope.

“What have we here?” Ginny Striker asked from the doorway. Brad jumped in his seat and dropped the envelope. A torrent of truly horrid pictures spilled onto his blotter.

“Eeek,” Ginny shrieked in mock terror. “Is that a plaintiff in one of our toxic spill cases?”

Brad’s hand flew to his chest. “Geez, Ginny, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“And a great worker’s comp case. Why are you looking at these disgusting photographs?”

“Susan Tuchman saddled me with a habeas corpus appeal,” Brad said. Then he waved a hand at the files that covered his desk. “As if I don’t have enough to do.”

“An associate’s work is never done. He must toil from sun to sun.”

Brad indicated the open pizza box. “Want a slice? These photos made me lose my appetite.”

Ginny grabbed a piece of cold pizza and a napkin and sat down on one of Brad’s client chairs. She was a few years older than Brad, a tall, slender blonde from the Midwest with large, blue eyes. Ginny was aggressive, funny, and smart and had started at Reed, Briggs a month before Brad arrived in Portland. During his first week on the job, she’d showed him the ropes. Brad thought she was cute but rumors of a boyfriend in medical school back east and his own tragic history with Bridget Malloy had kept their relationship platonic.

“I didn’t know you were so squeamish,” Ginny said.

“I’ve just never seen anything like this before. Have you?”

“Oh, sure. I was a nurse before I went to law school. I’ve seen more than my share of gaping wounds and internal organs.”

Brad blanched and Ginny laughed. Then she took a bite of pizza while Brad gathered up the gory photographs and stuffed them back in the envelope.

“What’s your case about?”

Ginny’s mouth was half full of pizza and it took Brad a moment to figure out what she’d just said.

“Clarence Little, my newest client, is a serial killer whose current address is death row at the Oregon State Pen. He’s there for murdering several women, including an eighteen-year-old girl named Laurie Erickson. I’ve been told that the Erickson case was very high profile out here when it happened because the victim was babysitting for the governor when she disappeared.”

“I heard about that! Wasn’t she snatched from the governor’s mansion?”

“That’s what they think.”

“They did a whole hour on one of the prime-time news shows about it. It was a few years ago, right?”

“Yeah, a year before Nolan picked Farrington as his running mate.”

“This is so cool, and why are you complaining? A murder case is way more interesting than the usual shit we have to work on.”

“I might find it as fascinating as you do if I had nothing else to keep me busy, but I’m swamped, and I’m also not that motivated to save the life of some degenerate who gets his kicks torturing innocent girls.”

“Point taken. So, you’re certain he did it?”

“I haven’t read the transcript-it’s twenty-four volumes-but I read the statement of facts in the brief that was filed in the Oregon supreme court after he got the death sentence. The state didn’t have an open-and-shut case, but it was pretty strong.”

“What happened?” Ginny asked as she grabbed a second slice of pizza.

“Laurie Erickson was the daughter of Marsha Erickson, who was Farrington’s personal secretary when he was governor. I think she worked at his law firm before he was elected. Anyway, Laurie was a senior in high school and she babysat for Patrick, the Farringtons’ kid, on occasion. The Farringtons were going to this fund-raiser at the Salem Public Library. The library isn’t that far from the governor’s mansion.

“Patrick was two at the time and he had a bad cold. He was asleep when Laurie started to watch him. You know the first lady is a doctor?”

Ginny nodded.

“Well, Dr. Farrington had gotten some prescription medicine that Laurie was supposed to give the kid if he was coughing when he woke up. The governor and his aide, Charles Hawkins, went down to the limo while his wife was in Patrick’s room telling Laurie what to do with the medicine. Dr. Farrington testified that she told Laurie good night a little after seven P.M.

“This was in December, so it was already dark when the limo left for the library. The security detail at the mansion didn’t see anyone lurking around the grounds, but the mansion is an historic building that’s surrounded by woods. It was built by a timber baron in the 1800s on several acres and refurbished after a fund-raising campaign in the late 1990s. There are a lot of ways someone can sneak onto the grounds. There’s a guard at the front gate, another guard who patrols the grounds, and some security cameras, but the system isn’t state-of-the-art.”

“So the guards didn’t see anyone come to the mansion after the governor left?”

“Actually, someone did. Charles Hawkins, the governor’s aide, returned around seven-thirty to pick up a sheet with statistics for the governor’s speech that he had forgotten to bring with him. Hawkins parked in the rear of the mansion and entered through a back door that’s used by the staff. He had to pass by Patrick’s room on the way to his office. Mrs. Farrington asked him to check on Patrick. Hawkins testified that Laurie told him that Patrick was still asleep. After that he got the paper and drove back to the library in time to give it to the governor.”

“Did anyone see Laurie alive after Hawkins left?”

“No, he was the last person to see her, other than the killer, of course. When the Farringtons returned that night Patrick was still asleep but Laurie was nowhere to be found. The grounds and the woods were searched, but the police couldn’t find a trace of her. A few days later, hikers found her mutilated body in a state park, miles from the mansion.”

“What do the police think happened?”

“There’s an entrance to the basement in the rear of the mansion. It was open when the police searched the place, and traces of Erickson’s blood were found on a laundry chute that emptied into the basement. According to the medical examiner, Erickson was small and thin enough to fit down it. The cops think Little came through the woods and entered the house through the basement, knocked out Erickson, threw her body down the chute, and took her out the basement door.”

“That seems like a lot of work.”

“The guy’s crazy. He probably thought it was a good plan.”

“How would he know she was babysitting? He’d also have to know about the laundry chute and that it was big enough to accommodate someone Erickson’s size. How did he know the layout of the mansion?”

“I don’t know,” Brad answered, annoyed that Ginny was playing detective.

“Why did the police arrest Little for Erickson’s murder if no one saw him go into the mansion or leave with Erickson?”

“The big thing was the pinkie. He’d kidnap the girls, kill them, then cut off their pinkies after they were dead. The police think he kept them as souvenirs but they never found them. Erickson was missing her pinkie, and she’d been cut up the way Little had mutilated the other victims.”

“The case still sounds weak to me.”

“You’re right. I think Little would have had a good chance to beat it if it was his only charge, but Little was arrested for killing thirteen girls, and the state had a very strong case in several of the other murders. They didn’t prosecute Little for Erickson’s murder until he’d been convicted of two other killings. Then the prosecutor introduced evidence from those cases at Little’s trial for Erickson’s death. The MOs were so similar that they pointed to one person committing all of the crimes.”

“What’s going on with his other cases?”

“The Oregon supreme court affirmed so-barring a miracle in federal court-he’s going to be executed.”

Ginny looked confused. “If he’s going to be executed twice why is he appealing this case?”

Brad shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Is there a chance he’s innocent?”

“Who else could have done it?”

“Hawkins was the last person to see her alive,” Ginny said in between bites. “One of the guards could have crept up the stairs when the others weren’t looking. And if Little snuck into the mansion, so could someone else.”

“Some other serial killer who just happens to have an MO identical to Clarence Little’s?”

“Good point.”

“Anyway, none of that matters. I can’t reargue the facts in a habeas corpus case. I can only raise constitutional issues that were argued by Little in the habeas corpus hearing.”

“Why does Little think he should get a new trial?”

“He claims that he had an alibi for the night Erickson was murdered and his trial lawyer didn’t pursue it.”

“So he’s going with incompetence of counsel?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have any case. The trial attorney testified at the hearing. He said that Little did claim that he had an alibi but wouldn’t tell him what it was. He says he kept pressing Little for more information but Little was always so vague that he couldn’t use an alibi defense.”

“What did Little say?”

“Not much. I read his testimony. He just asserted that he had given the lawyer enough information but he wouldn’t tell the judge where he was supposed to have been, and he fenced with the prosecutor. He comes across as real evasive in the transcript. The judge accused him of playing games with the court. He ruled that Little’s attorney was competent and that was that.”

“Are there any other issues?”

“Not that I can see.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Brad shrugged. “I guess I’ll skim the transcript and read all this stuff just to be sure. The guy is on death row. I’ve got to leave no stone unturned, right? But I think I’m just spinning my wheels. I’ll do some research. I owe the client that. If I don’t find anything I’ll meet with Tuchman and tell her we should advise the client to drop the appeal.”

Ginny wiped her hands and mouth on a napkin. “I have a brilliant suggestion.”

“About the case?”

“No, about life. It’s almost nine and you look like shit. I think the Dragon Lady can wait a day to hear your views on Mr. Little’s case, but I don’t think you can last much longer without a beer. So, I want you to pack up your case file and escort me over to the bar at the Shanghai Clipper.”

Brad looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time and his enthusiasm for work.

“That is a brilliant suggestion. You must have been top of your class.”

“I did ace drinking law.” Ginny stood up. “I’ll get my coat and meet you by the elevator.”

The Shanghai Clipper, an Asian fusion restaurant with a modern decor, was on the second floor of an office tower a few blocks from the Reed, Briggs offices. Large windows looked down on a section of the Park Blocks, a row of parks that started at Portland State University and stretched from north to south through the city with only a few interruptions. Brad and Ginny found a table in a dark corner of the bar next to a window and ordered beers and a few appetizers.

“Alone at last,” Ginny said.

“It is good to get out of the office.”

“You’ve got to watch yourself, pardner. A little overtime is okay, but you don’t want to court a nervous breakdown.”

“Is this advice of the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ variety? You worked as late as I did.”

“Touché.”

“Besides, it doesn’t much matter whether I’m at home or the office.”

“Whoa, you’re not feeling sorry for yourself, are you?”

“Actually, I am. Today is the anniversary of a really rotten event.”

The waiter appeared and placed between the lawyers two cold bottles of Widmer Hefeweizen, a selection of sushi, and a plate of fried won tons with a dipping sauce. When he left, Ginny cocked her head to one side and studied Brad for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and placed her fingertips on her forehead.

“I am seeing an image of a woman,” she said in a fake Hungarian accent.

Brad sighed. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“When a guy is morose it’s usually a safe bet that a woman is the cause.”

“You got me.”

“Want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

“Yeah, sure, why not bore you with my tale of woe. Once upon a time I was madly in love with Bridget Malloy. She was-is still I guess-the girl of my dreams. She’s smart and beautiful and she accepted my marriage proposal the third time I made it.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, I know, I should have taken no for an answer the first time, or at least the second time, but I can’t think straight where Bridget is concerned.”

“This story has to have an unhappy ending.”

“It does. We were going to be married after I graduated from law school. The hotel was rented, the save-the-dates sent off, the wedding planner hired. Then Bridget asked me to meet her for drinks in the restaurant where I’d proposed for the second time.”

Ginny put her hand in front of her eyes. “I can’t look.”

Brad laughed bitterly. “You’ve obviously figured out the punch line to this sorry joke. Bridget told me that she couldn’t go through with the wedding. I think she said something about me being a great guy who was sure to find someone more worthy and something else about not being ready to settle down, but I can’t really be certain. After Bridget dropped her bombshell the rest of the evening is a blur.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t handle this well.”

“Nope. At least not right away. I spent the next two days drunk or in bed. I was in really bad shape. But then the clouds cleared, the sun came out, and I had an epiphany. Bridget said she was too young to settle down and I decided she was right and that maybe I was too young, too.

“Before Bridget backed out of the marriage, we’d planned to live in my apartment in the city. I was on my third callback to four Manhattan law firms and I was going to take the best job offer and work my way up to partner while Bridget completed her masters of fine arts and pursued her dream of being a writer. We’d have a child or two and move to the suburbs where we’d both grown up. There was a large home in a wealthy area of the North Shore and a country club membership somewhere in the plan. Then middle age and retirement after the kids were finished with grad school. It was all very tidy and awfully similar to the lives our parents had lived.

“After I sobered up I looked back over my life. I’d gone to high school in Westbury, Long Island, and college at Hofstra, also on Long Island and not too far from home. Except for a trip to Europe with my folks and a trip to the Continent on my own after college, I’d spent most of my life on the East Coast of the United States. Now that I wasn’t on the marriage-career track anymore I asked myself why I should stay in Manhattan when there was a whole world out there. So, I went online and scoped out firms in Colorado, California, Oregon, and Washington state. When Reed, Briggs asked me to interview, I flew west and returned with a job offer. And here I am.”

“But you’re not completely over Bridget yet?”

“I am a good part of the time. Most of what I see in Portland doesn’t remind me of her. That helps. But every once in a while I’ll hear her favorite song on the radio or an old movie we watched together shows up on TV and it all comes back.”

“And there’s this anniversary.”

“Yup.”

“Is that why you buried yourself under Clarence Little’s files?”

“ Reading about the case helped me forget.”

“Until I pulled the scab off your wound. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It helped to talk about it. Getting it off my chest is better than holding everything in.”

“Glad I could help, then.”

“What about you, any tragic love affairs in your past?”

Ginny took a swig of her beer before answering. “I’m not sure.”

“And that means…”

“I do have a boyfriend. He’s in med school in Philadelphia.”

“That’s pretty far away.”

“Yes it is. We’re taking a break from each other to see if absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“At your suggestion or his?”

“My, aren’t you getting personal.”

“I spilled my guts. You can spill yours.”

“It’s sort of mutual. I mean, he proposed it, but I didn’t fight very hard.”

“How long have you been going out?”

“Freshman year of college.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah, but people change. Besides, that’s seven years of togetherness. Seven years is when the seven-year itch kicks in for married folk. There must be a reason for that, don’t you think?”

“So you’re in Portland to see if you miss him?”

She picked up her beer bottle and nodded.

“And…?”

Ginny shrugged. “I’m not certain. We talk on the phone a lot, and that’s nice. But I think he’s seeing someone.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged. “Matt’s a lousy liar. What bothers me is that I don’t care. I think I’m relieved, actually. Maybe he was right and we need to move on.” She sighed. “Time will tell. Tune in next week.”

Brad smiled. “We’re two pathetic losers, huh?”

“Speak for yourself, Bud. I see myself as someone on the verge of a new adventure in living.” She looked at her watch. “I also see that it’s way past my bedtime.”

Brad started to reach for the bill but Ginny beat him to it. “You bought the greasy pizza. This is my treat. You can get it next time.”

“Deal,” Brad said, knowing that Ginny was too strong-minded to back down and happy that she was thinking that there’d be a next time.

Chapter Ten

The trip down I-5 from Portland to the state penitentiary in Salem, Oregon ’s capital, took an hour. During the ride, Brad Miller’s thoughts seesawed between his upcoming visit with Clarence Little and the meeting he’d had two days before with the Dragon Lady. As soon as he’d completed his research, Brad had told Susan Tuchman that he didn’t think there was any issue in Clarence Little’s case that he could argue with a straight face to an appellate court. He’d assumed that Tuchman would tell him to file a motion to dismiss the appeal after writing a letter to Little explaining that he had no case. Neither of these actions would require Brad to come within fifty miles of his homicidal client. Instead, Tuchman had ordered him to drive to the penitentiary and explain his conclusion to the death row inmate in person. Brad had tried to convince his boss that he should be billing hours for the firm rather than spending nonbillable hours locked behind high concrete walls with someone whose idea of a good time was chopping off the pinkies of the women he’d murdered. Tuchman had smiled-sadistically Brad had thought-while explaining how client contact would aid his growth as a lawyer.

Brad’s knowledge of prison came mostly from movies in which brutal inmates either raped one another in the shower or took innocent civilians hostage during riots. The only criminal Brad could remember meeting was a tough kid in his high school gym class who-rumor had it-had gone to jail for stealing a car a year or so after graduation. The thought of being locked in with psychotic killers, deranged rapists, and violent drug dealers did not appeal to him in the least, and the idea of sitting across from a mass murderer made him very uneasy. The corrections officer who’d set up Brad’s visit with Clarence Little assured Brad that there would be bulletproof glass and concrete separating them, but Brad had seen The Silence of the Lambs and didn’t have complete confidence in the ability of law enforcement agencies to keep really wily serial killers behind bars.

The night before he drove to the penitentiary, Brad had a vivid dream about Laurie Erickson’s autopsy. In parts of his nightmare Laurie was on the slab, but in other lurid dream sequences there was a man who vaguely resembled Brad lying beneath the coroner’s blood-stained scalpel. Brad had startled out of sleep several times during the night, and each time he burst into consciousness his heart was racing and his sheets were damp with sweat. When he finally gave up on sleep at 5:45 A.M. he was exhausted and worried. By the time he parked in the visitors’ lot at the penitentiary he was a wreck.

Brad made certain that his car was locked before walking down the tree-lined lane from the lot to the front door of the prison. The sun was warm, and there was a light breeze. On either side of the lane were pleasant white houses that were once residences and now served as offices for the staff. It would have been an idyllic setting if the prison’s intimidating egg yolk yellow walls, topped with razor wire and guarded by gun towers, weren’t looming over the charming houses with their neatly trimmed lawns.

Brad walked up a short flight of steps to a door that opened into a waiting room tiled in green and lined with cheap couches covered in rust-colored upholstery that had been made in the prison. Two guards stood behind a circular counter in the center of the room. After Brad explained the purpose of his visit and showed his bar card and driver’s license he was told to have a seat.

Two heavyset older women occupied one of the couches. One was African-American and the other was white. They seemed to know each other. Brad guessed that their sons were in prison and they’d struck up a friendship during prior visits. A woman in her early twenties sat on another couch fussing with a boy who looked to be four or five. The woman was attractive but wore too much makeup. The boy was whining and straining against the hand that held him firmly. His mother looked harried and on the verge of using violence to make the boy do what she wanted.

Brad found an unoccupied couch as far from the mother and her child as possible and studied his notes for the meeting. The kid was screaming now and it was hard to concentrate so he was relieved when one of the guards walked over to a metal detector and called out his name and several others. The older women had headed for the metal detector as soon as the guard left his post behind the counter. The mother picked up her son and carried him to the end of the line the older women had formed. Brad joined them. When it was his turn the guard told him to take off his shoes and belt and empty his pockets before walking through the machine. When Brad had his belt and shoes back on, the guard led the visitors down a ramp. At the end of the ramp was a set of sliding steel bars. Their escort signaled another guard who sat in a control room. Moments later the gate rolled aside with a metallic groan and they entered a holding area. As soon as the first gate closed a second gate opened and the group followed the guard down a short hall where they waited while he unlocked the thick metal door to the visiting area.

A corrections officer sat on a raised platform at one end of a large open room crowded with more prison-made couches and flimsy wooden coffee tables. Vending machines dispensing soft drinks, coffee, and candy stood along one wall. A gray-haired man shuffled over to the coffee machine. It was easy to tell he was a prisoner because the inmates wore blue work shirts and jeans.

Brad waited until the women had talked to the guard before telling him that he had an appointment to meet with Clarence Little. Brad expected the guard to be impressed or horrified when he heard the name of Brad’s client, but he just looked bored when he called death row to request Little’s transport.

“You’re across the hall,” he said when he hung up. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes to get him down here. Do you want to wait here or in the noncontact room?”

Brad glanced briefly at the occupants of the visiting room, which he had expected to be filled with tattooed Hells Angels and wild-eyed psychos with shaved heads, but none of the prisoners looked threatening. Several men sat on the floor playing with young children. Others leaned across coffee tables holding whispered conversations with wives and girlfriends. Still, it made Brad nervous to be in close proximity to someone who’d done something bad enough to get him sent to prison.

“I’ll wait in the noncontact room,” he told the guard.

Across the hall from the general visiting room was another visiting area. Windows made of bulletproof glass were set in two of the walls. Behind some of these windows sat prisoners deemed too dangerous to be allowed in the open visiting area. Their visitors sat on folding chairs, and the conversations were carried on over phone receivers. At the end were two rooms barely big enough to accommodate a bridge chair. The guard opened the door to one of them and ushered Brad inside. The chair faced a glass window set in concrete blocks painted institutional brown. A slot for passing papers had been built into the bottom of the window and a metal ledge just wide enough to accommodate a legal pad jutted out from the wall underneath the window. A phone receiver like those Brad had seen the other visitors using was attached to the wall.

The guard left and Brad stared anxiously through the glass at a door that allowed entry into an identical room on the other side. There were no photographs of his client in his file and Brad’s imagination had created a murderer who was an amalgamation of Hannibal Lecter, Jason, and Freddy Krueger. The man who was led into the room by two corrections officers was five eleven, slender, and looked like an accountant. His brown hair was combed carefully so that the part was clearly displayed. His skin was smooth, his nose small and undistinguished. Gray-blue eyes examined Brad through plain, wire-rimmed glasses while the guards unlocked his ankle chains and handcuffs. One of the guards was carrying a folder. The edges were frayed and it was covered with writing. The guard handed the file to Little.

Neither Brad nor his client spoke while the guards were present. As soon as they closed the door behind them Little pulled his folding chair close to the phone and sat down. He placed the file on the ledge in front of him and picked up the receiver. Brad’s stomach tightened.

“Mr. Little, my name is Brad Miller,” he said, hoping that his client wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice. “I’m an associate at Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton in Portland. The firm was asked to handle your habeas corpus suit in the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit.”

Little smiled. “Your firm has an excellent reputation for doing quality work, Mr. Miller. I’m flattered that the court appointed Reed, Briggs to represent me. And I appreciate the fact that you’ve taken time from your busy day to visit me.”

Brad was relieved that Little was so gracious.

“You’re our client,” he said magnanimously, “and you couldn’t really come to our office, could you?” Brad asked with a smile, hoping that a little humor would lighten the depressing surroundings.

Little grinned. “I guess not.”

Brad began to relax. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Then he remembered that he hadn’t given the bad news to the mass murderer sitting on the other side of the glass.

“I came to Salem to discuss some problems I’m having with your case,” Brad started diplomatically.

“What problems?”

“Well, the writ of habeas corpus that you filed alleged incompetence of counsel.”

Little nodded in agreement.

“And the judge who conducted the hearing disagreed with you about the quality of your representation at trial.”

“He was wrong.”

“Uh, yes, I know that’s your position, but we have a problem. The United States Supreme Court wrote an opinion in a case called Strickland versus Washington. In that case they said that-and I’ll quote this”-Brad said, pulling a copy of the opinion out of his file-“‘a court deciding an actual ineffectiveness claim must judge the reasonableness of counsel’s challenged conduct on the facts of the particular case, viewed as of the time of counsel’s conduct. A convicted defendant making a claim of ineffective assistance must identify the acts or omissions of counsel that are alleged not to have been the result of reasonable professional judgment. The court must then determine whether, in the light of all the circumstances, the identified acts or omissions were outside the range of professionally competent assistance…’”

“I’ve read Strickland,” Little said.

“Good. Then you understand that you can’t just accuse your lawyer of screwing up. You have to tell the court very specifically what he did that constituted ineffective assistance.”

“I did. I told my lawyer that I had an alibi for the time that I was accused of kidnapping and murdering Laurie Erickson and he didn’t investigate my claim.”

“Okay, that’s the problem. There’s no question that your lawyer had an absolute duty to make a reasonable investigation of facts in your case that could establish an alibi-and he testified that you said you had an alibi-but he said that you didn’t give him any facts he could investigate. I’ve read the transcript of your habeas corpus hearing. The judge asked you where you were and you avoided answering the question. So, I guess the bottom line is that I don’t see any way we can win your case on appeal because the Ninth Circuit is just going to say that you didn’t make an adequate record to show your lawyer did anything wrong.”

“I still want to appeal.”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Little. I read the transcript of your case. Then I did a lot of research on this issue. After that I conferred with other attorneys in the firm. No one thinks you can win. It would be a waste of time to pursue your appeal.”

Little wasn’t smiling now. “How long have you been out of law school, Mr. Miller?”

“Uh, not that long.”

“And how many criminal cases have you handled?”

“Well, actually, this is my first.”

Little nodded. “I thought so. Tell me, are you still new enough to your chosen profession to believe in the pursuit of Justice?”

“Sure, of course.”

“And I take it that you wouldn’t approve of an innocent man being framed for something he didn’t do?”

“Of course not.”

“And you wouldn’t want an innocent man to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“No one would want that.”

“The person who murdered Laurie Erickson might.”

Brad frowned. “Are you saying you didn’t kill Miss Erickson?”

Little kept his eyes locked on Brad’s and nodded slowly.

“So you really have an alibi for the time she disappeared?” Brad said even though he didn’t believe a word of his client’s assertion.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why the big secret? If you had evidence that would have led to your acquittal why didn’t you tell your lawyer at trial or explain it to the judge at the hearing?”

“That’s a little tricky.”

“Look, I don’t want to sound judgmental but you seem to be evading my questions about your alibi in the same way you avoided answering the judge’s questions at your hearing. If you’re not honest with me I can’t help you.”

“Here’s my problem, Mr. Miller. There was a witness who could clear me completely, but my involvement with her would implicate me in another crime.”

“Mr. Little, what do you have to lose? You’re on death row not only for the murder of Laurie Erickson. You were sentenced to death for two other murders. The Supreme Court affirmed those convictions a week after your habeas corpus hearing. Even if I win this case, you’ll still be executed.”

“But not for something I didn’t do. It’s a matter of honor, Mr. Miller.”

“Okay, I can see where you wouldn’t want to let someone get away with framing you. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell your lawyer your alibi if you feel so strongly about this. Anything you told him would have been confidential, even if you confessed to another crime.”

“I assume that would hold for you, too?”

“Yes. I’m your attorney, so everything you tell me is confidential. If you tell me about a crime you’ve committed I’m forbidden by law to reveal that confidence to anyone. And I’m sure your trial attorney told you the same thing. So, why didn’t you tell him the name of the witness?”

“Because he’s an idiot. The court stuck me with a complete incompetent. I had no faith that he would follow up properly if I confided in him. And my other cases were on appeal, so I didn’t want to incriminate myself in another crime until I knew what was going to happen in those cases.”

Little hesitated. Brad could see he was going through some kind of internal struggle.

“There’s another thing,” Little said. “In order to prove my innocence I’m going to have to part with some cherished keepsakes. I just couldn’t give them up to that moron. Now there doesn’t appear to be a chance I’ll ever see them again unless it’s in court and they’re introduced as evidence. So I have nothing to lose by telling you about them.”

“You’ve just met me, Mr. Little. Why do you think I’m any smarter than your trial attorney?”

“Because the firm of Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton saw fit to hire you, and they don’t employ idiots.”

Brad sighed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but it may be too late for me to help you. I’m handling your appeal. An appeal is based on the record of the court below. We can’t introduce new evidence in the Ninth Circuit.”

“What if you could prove that I’m innocent? The authorities would listen to a lawyer from Reed, Briggs. If the police were convinced that I didn’t kill Laurie Erickson the governor would pardon me, wouldn’t he?”

“I really don’t know. I’m good at research, which is why I was assigned your case, but I’m not really up on criminal law or procedure. There probably is some way to help you if you can give me a way to prove you didn’t commit the murder.”

Little was quiet for a moment. Brad could almost hear him weighing the pros and cons of confiding in his new attorney.

“All right, I’ll take a chance. At this point, as you so aptly pointed out, I’ve got nothing to lose.” Little leaned forward. “On the night Laurie Erickson was kidnapped and murdered I was with somebody.”

“So you’ve said, but I need a name and a way to contact the witness.”

“Her name is Peggy Farmer.”

Brad wrote the name down on his legal pad. “Do you know how I can find her?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. She’s in the Deschutes National Forest about five miles from the parking lot of the Reynolds Campgound. On the evening the police insist I was kidnapping Laurie Erickson I was disemboweling Peggy.”

Brad’s stomach shifted and he felt like he might throw up. Little noticed his discomfort and smiled.

“She was camping with her boyfriend. They were deep in the woods; a very athletic couple. I followed them, eliminated her friend while he was sleeping, and played with Peggy until I grew bored. The confusion arises because no one has discovered the bodies. They’re listed as missing. There have been search parties, but I did a very good job of hiding them.”

“Mr. Little,” Brad said, trying very hard to keep his voice steady, “if Miss Farmer is dead how can she help your alibi defense?”

“You know about my pinkie collection?”

Brad nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Bile was already rising in his throat.

“If a forensic expert examined my collection he would find a pinkie belonging to Peggy, but he wouldn’t find one belonging to Laurie Erickson.”

An image of a Mason jar filled with pinkies flashed in Brad’s mind and he felt faint.

“Peggy’s roommate will tell you that Peggy and her boyfriend went camping Wednesday afternoon and were supposed to come home Friday night because they had a wedding to attend on Saturday. I worked Thursday and Friday. I called in sick on Wednesday. If I killed Peggy it would have to have been on Wednesday, and Laurie was snatched on Wednesday evening. I couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

This was way more than Brad had bargained for. He was supposed to be reviewing contracts and checking property records, not sitting inches away from a lunatic with a pinkie collection.

“I see this is a bit much for you,” Little said kindly. “You can ask the guard for some water.”

“I’ll be fine,” Brad insisted though he felt anything but.

“You don’t have to be brave, Mr. Miller. We all fall apart if our situation proves to be too much for us. Believe me, I’ve seen it firsthand.” Little got a wistful expression on his face. “Some of them cry and beg right away. Others curse and threaten. They try to be strong. But even the strong beg when the pain is too much.”

“Okay,” Brad said as he tried to maintain his dignity. “I’m going to leave now.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you. But I must remind you that you are my lawyer and you have a duty to give me a vigorous defense. Anything less and you could be disbarred.”

“Look, Mr. Little, this is the firm’s case. I’m just working on it. I’ll file a brief for you on the issues raised at your hearing but that’s it.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve given you a way to prove my innocence. If you don’t pursue it I’ll file a bar complaint then I’ll sue you and then I’ll go to the press. I’ll tell them you failed to help me because you were too frightened. How do you think that publicity will help your career?”

“You wouldn’t get anywhere with a suit or a complaint.”

“Maybe, but you’ll be front-page news because I am. No one wants a coward for a lawyer. Think over what I just told you then get back in touch and I’ll tell you how to find my lovely souvenirs.”

Brad walked back to his car in a daze and had trouble concentrating on the road during the return trip to Portland. The visions in his head shifted back and forth between Clarence Little’s collection of severed pinkies and Peggy Farmer’s disemboweled corpse. His emotions swung between anger at Little for putting him in a bind, an irrational fear that the convict would escape from death row and torture him to death, and curiosity about the truth of his client’s claims. Who better to frame for a murder than a serial killer? No one would take the protestations of a homicidal maniac seriously.

Halfway to Portland, Brad dialed his cell phone.

“Ginny Striker,” the voice at the other end answered.

“Hey, it’s Brad, Brad Miller.”

“Hi, what’s up?”

“Do you have time to meet me for coffee?”

“I’m kind of busy. Paul Rostoff gave me a rush job.”

“This is important. I’m really desperate for some advice.”

There was dead air for a moment and Brad held his breath. He’d called Ginny because she was very smart and had good judgment. Also, he couldn’t think of anyone else at the firm in whom he could confide.

“I guess I can use a break.”

“Can you meet me at the coffee shop on Broadway and Washington?”

“Brad, this is Portland. I can see at least a million places to get coffee from my window. Why don’t we meet someplace closer to the office?”

“I don’t want to risk running into anyone we know.”

“What’s going on, Brad?”

“I’ll tell you in twenty-five minutes.”

Ginny was nursing a caffe latte at a table at the back of the coffee shop when Brad walked in. He waved at her then ordered a black coffee and carried it to the table. He’d grown up drinking his coffee black and had yet to develop a craving for the lattes, cappuccinos, and other fancy coffee drinks to which Portlanders seemed addicted.

“I feel like Mata Hari,” Ginny said when Brad sat down. “Why all the secrecy?”

Brad looked around to make sure that no one from the firm was in the shop.

“I’m going to tell you about a confidential communication I just received from a client. You’re bound by the attorney-client confidence rules because we both work for Reed, Briggs, right?”

“Yeah, that’s how I understand it.”

“Because you can’t talk about what I tell you to anyone.”

Ginny ran her finger back and forth across her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she said with a grin.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, but you’re so serious. I thought I’d lighten things up.”

“You won’t be laughing when you hear what I have to say. I just got back from meeting Clarence Little at the state pen.”

“What’s he like?” Ginny asked eagerly.

“He’s worse than I imagined,” Brad answered. Then he told Ginny about his meeting. She wasn’t smiling when he finished.

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Ginny asked.

“I don’t know. The guy’s a freak. When he told me he’d disemboweled that poor girl he didn’t show an ounce of emotion. I thought I was going to throw up. I’m sure he found my discomfort amusing. Little is sick and he’s a sadist.”

“But is he a liar?”

“I don’t know, but if I had to bet I’d guess he was telling the truth. He seemed genuinely offended at being convicted for something he claims he didn’t do, and he was adamant about proving his innocence, even though it won’t do him a damn bit of good because he’s going to be executed anyway.”

“Why did you ask me here?” Ginny asked.

“I don’t know what to do. My assignment is to research and file Little’s appeal. It’s not to prove he’s not guilty. And, anyway, legally, his guilt or innocence doesn’t mean anything in the Ninth Circuit. The court’s only interested in whether his lawyer was incompetent. Even if I find the pinkies the court wouldn’t consider the evidence.”

“So don’t do it. Just write the brief.”

“Can I just do that? I am his lawyer. Wouldn’t I be incompetent if Little gave me proof of his innocence and I didn’t investigate? And what if I don’t investigate and he goes to the press? How would that go over at the firm?”

“I can make an educated guess,” Ginny said. “The partners loathe bad publicity. It discourages well-heeled clients from shoveling money into the Reed, Briggs vault. So I’d guess that you’d be thrown to the wolves.”

“That’s what I thought. But would they like it any better if I was responsible for the acquittal of the most fiendish killer in recent Oregon history?”

“Good point. At least they could argue that Reed, Briggs fights for its clients no matter how despicable they might be. That would endear them to the tobacco and oil companies.”

“So you think I should try and find the pinkies?”

“It sounds a lot more interesting than trying to find the meaning of the section of the tax code they’ve got me studying. And there’s something else you should think about. What if he is innocent and you could prove it? You’d be famous. You might get enough great PR to bring business into the firm and speed you on your path to a partnership. Then you’d be the one at five o’clock on Friday who hands out thousand-page files to the associates with weekend plans. Wouldn’t that be great?”

Brad sighed. “Please get serious. This whole thing is giving me a splitting headache.”

“I say you do it. Call Little’s bluff. Ask him to tell you where he hid the pinkies. If he’s screwing with you, you’re off the hook.”

“And if he’s not?”

“You dig them up. I’ll even come with you. I’ll be your trusty sidekick.”

Brad was suddenly suspicious. Ginny seemed a little too eager. He narrowed his eyes and studied her.

“What’s going on? How come you’re so anxious to get involved in my case?”

Ginny blushed, embarrassed. Brad thought it made her look adorable.

“I got interested in Laurie Erickson’s murder after we talked,” Ginny confessed. “Do you know Jeff Hastings?” she asked, naming another first-year associate.

“Sure. We’ve played tennis a few times.”

“Jeff grew up in Portland and went to law school here, and his folks are loaded. They’re members of all the right clubs and know everyone and are connected politically, so Jeff heard all the gossip about Christopher Farrington when he was governor.”

“What gossip?”

Ginny leaned forward and lowered her voice. “There were rumors that Farrington was fooling around with Laurie Erickson.”

“What! I don’t believe that. She was just a kid.”

“Do you know what a dirty old man is?” Ginny asked with a smirk.

Brad blushed. “I’m not an idiot, Ginny, but don’t you think the media would have been all over this with Farrington running for president?”

“I asked Jeff the same thing. He said Farrington’s dodged a bullet. There were rumors floating around about an affair but everyone clammed up after Erickson was murdered. One rumor was that Laurie’s mother was paid off. Supposedly, a lot of money changed hands.”

“I thought Farrington was poor. Where would he get enough cash to buy off a mother whose child was just murdered?”

“Farrington has wealthy backers, but the obvious source would be his wife. Claire Farrington’s family is rich. The Meadows made money farming in Eastern Oregon. Then they diversified into Japanese car dealerships, and they provided the seed money for some successful high-tech companies. After they got engaged, Dr. Farrington’s family financed Christopher’s first run for state office. If it was necessary to save her husband’s career, Claire could come up with the cash.”

“Is there any evidence that Farrington was fooling around, anything concrete?”

“Jeff says no, but he also says that if Farrington was screwing Erickson it wouldn’t be the first time he lusted after tender, young flesh.”

Brad grimaced. “You’ve been reading too many Harlequin romances.”

“Farrington may have been acting them out. Jeff says that a year or so before he ran for the state senate Farrington settled a PI case for a seventeen-year-old girl who was injured in a skiing accident. Supposedly, he brought over the settlement check in a chauffeur-driven limo stocked with champagne and who knows what else and celebrated with her in the backseat.”

“Where did all this come from?”

“The chauffeur. Jeff says Farrington’s driver was so disgusted that he went to the cops. Supposedly, the girl’s parents wouldn’t let her talk to the police, so no charges were brought. Everyone thinks they were paid off by Chuck Hawkins, Farrington’s hatchet man.”

Brad took a sip of coffee and mulled over the titillating information Ginny had just provided. The more he thought the more his brow furrowed.

“So,” he said finally, “your theory is what, that the president of the United States killed his babysitter to shut her up about their affair.”

“Hawkins could have done it for him. Jeff’s met Hawkins a few times. He says the guy is scary. He was some special ops guy in the military and still wears his hair like a marine. He and Farrington are supposed to be very tight. The word is that there isn’t anything Hawkins won’t do to protect the president and the first lady.”

“Okay. This just got way out of my league. I’m not going to accuse the president of murder. Not only would Reed, Briggs fire me but I’d never get another job as long as I lived.”

“Who said you had to accuse the president of murder? Didn’t you pay attention in crim law? When you’re defending someone accused of a crime you don’t have to prove who did it. You just have to show that there’s a reasonable doubt about your client’s guilt. The police will have the job of arresting Erickson’s killer if you convince them that Little didn’t murder her.”

Brad hadn’t paid very close attention in his criminal law class and he’d forgotten that his responsibility to Clarence Little wouldn’t extend to finding the real killer the way the lawyers did on TV and in legal thrillers.

“You’re right,” Brad said, relieved. Then he looked serious. “Don’t tell anyone else your theory about Farrington. It could get you in trouble.”

“I’m not crazy, Brad. And I was just playing devil’s advocate before. I have no idea who killed Laurie Erickson. But I still want to help you find out if there’s anything to Little’s claim of innocence.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, pretty please. The stuff they’ve got me working on is boring. I want a case I can get excited about.”

Brad frowned. “I need to think.”

“By all means.”

“I do appreciate your advice and the information you gave me.”

“No problem.”

“Give me a day or so to work this out.”

“Take all the time you want. But remember one thing. If Little is innocent and you stand by and do nothing about it, you’ll be helping the real killer get away with murder.”