Judgement Calls

"Depends how good a job they did. If it was a quickie, they might not

have gotten beneath the bumper and the lights. The cheap way to do it

is to tape those areas off and paint around them. If he got it done

after Saturday night, I doubt they did a thorough job. Problem is, I

can't tell anything in this light."

"I've got a flashlight in my trunk. I'll go get it."

When I got back, Kendra said, "How come he can use a flashlight but

can't chip some of the paint off?"

"He's allowed to look at anything in open view. Flashlights are fine.

Some courts even let you use stuff like night vision goggles without

getting a warrant."

"Hey, I've got something here."

Chuck waved us over. He was crouched down by the back bumper,

supporting his weight with one hand and aiming the light with the

other.

"It looks like this light tan stops right here at the edge of the

bumper." He was talking slowly, the way people always seem to do when

they're squinting. "Hard to tell exactly what color's behind there.

Dark brown, maybe. But it's definitely a lot darker than the new

stuff. Look over at the edge over here. It looks like they were kind

of sloppy taping the bumper here. There's a thin line of paint on the

metal right at the lip there. Can you see it?"

"Barely, but it's enough. So the paint job must've been done

recently."

"Definitely. Even if no one ever washes the thing, normal wear and

tear from the weather would at least break down that line a little bit.

That's real new paint, with a clear edge left from the tape."

That was enough for me. "Alright, we need to run the plates and make

sure it doesn't belong to some priest down the street. Assuming we

don't get something on the plate that changes our minds, let's order a

tow and get paper on it." The law permits police to tow a vehicle and

secure it while they apply for a search warrant. I asked Chuck,

"What's the best way to do this?"

"I don't have my phone with me. It's back in my car."

He was looking at me like I could change that. I'd proudly avoided

buying a cell phone for years. "You know I don't have one of those

things."

"Let's drive up the street to the gas station, and I'll call Southeast

Precinct to have a patrol officer come out and sit with the car until a

tow comes. What'll work best is if you drop me off at the Justice

Center. I'll start the warrant application while you drive Kendra

home, then you can swing back by Central to review the warrant. Up to

you whether you want to stick around for the search."

It must've been a slow night for crime. It only took a few minutes for

a patrol officer to meet us at Derringer's. Kendra and I dropped Chuck

off at the Justice Center, where Central Precinct is located. Then I

hopped onto 1-84 and headed back out to Rockwood.

I walked Kendra to the front door, then remembered Chuck's contraption.

We went around back, and I pushed on the back door hard enough to pull

off the tape, holding the knob tightly so the door wouldn't swing open.

Reaching my hand in at the bottom of the crack, I pulled out the glass

of water. It was still full.

"Are you going to be OK here by yourself, Kendra?"

She nodded. "Uh-huh. I'm used to it since Mom started working

nights."

"What time does she normally get home?"

"A little bit after eleven."

I looked at my watch. Kendra would only be alone for about an hour.

"OK. Make sure you tell her that's Chuck's car out front. He'll

probably have a patrol car drop him off so he can pick it up, so don't

get scared if you hear him leaving in the middle of the night."

"Alright."

"It was really nice meeting you, Kendra. You're a very strong girl to

be doing so well after what happened to you. I want you to know that

all of the police and I are extremely impressed and very proud of

you."

She was smiling with her lips together, which I suspected was as close

to beaming as Kendra got. "Thanks."

"One of the MCT detectives will come by Friday morning and pick you up

for grand jury, but I want you to know you can call me before that if

you want." I wrote my direct line on the back of one of my business

cards for her and then waited at the back door until I heard her lock

it.

Once I saw lights coming on inside the house, I pulled out of the

driveway. My car was racking up more miles tonight than it usually saw

in a month. I got back onto 1-84 and drove into downtown. Cones of

red and green rippled on the Willamette, reflecting the lights of the

Hawthorne Bridge. I grabbed a parking spot on the street across from

the Justice Center and took the elevator to the MCT offices on the

fifth floor.

Chuck was sitting at his desk, his attention focused on his computer

screen. He didn't hear me, and I paused a moment to take a good look

at him. I suddenly realized that for years I hadn't been seeing him

clearly. In my mind, he still looked like he had in 1978; he had

simply exchanged his football uniform for a badge and a shoulder

holster. But the twenty extra pounds of bulk he'd carried as a kid

were gone. His face was thinner, and lines had begun to mark his

forehead and the corners of his eyes, just as they had mine.

Working as a cop wasn't this year's sport. Whether he entered law

enforcement initially for the thrill, to rebel against his family, or

out of sincere dedication, he was in it now for real. With his

father's contacts, he could have taken any career path he wanted in

this city. But here he sat fifteen hours into his workday, at a metal

and cork board cubicle, in front of an outdated monitor, waiting for

his first lover to review his warrant so he could prove that a dirtbag

like Frank

Derringer had brutalized a thirteen-year-old heroin addict and

prostitute in a Buick built while we were still making out under the

Grant High School bleachers.

For the first time, I was seeing Chuck Forbes as a man, not as an icon

of a glorious time in my life that was over. I felt tears in my eyes,

blindsided by the sad realization that Chuck and I were no longer kids

and by the profound honor I felt upon finding myself walking a common

path with him as adults.

I hate that I get so sappy when I'm tired.

I must have made a noise, because Chuck stopped reading and looked over

his shoulder. Swinging his chair around, he said, "Hey, you, what's

the matter? Did something happen when you were with Kendra?"

I swallowed and got ahold of myself. "No, everything's fine. Just

zoning out."

"Good job with her tonight," he said. "It was nice to see you act like

yourself with someone on the job. Seemed to work, too."

"How's the warrant coming?"

I'd ignored his comment, and he had the good sense to pretend not to

notice. "Good. I'm done and just went over it again. If it's alright

with you, I incorporated by reference all the affidavits from the

warrant for Derringer's place, then I drafted a quick affidavit

containing all the new info we got tonight."

"That should be fine. Does the warrant authorize removal of the seats

and carpet if that's what the crime lab needs to do to look for

blood?"

"Yeah, it's got the works. The car will be in pieces by the time the

lab's done with it."

"What did you find out about the registration?"

"Plate comes back to a guy named" he grabbed a computer printout from

his desktop "Carl Sommers. Last time it was registered with DMV was a

couple of years ago. The tags expire next month. Anyway, Sommers

filed a statement of sale with DMV about seven months ago saying he

sold the car to a guy named Jimmy Huber."

"What's a statement of sale?"

"It's just a piece of paper from the registered owner saying he doesn't

own the car anymore. It's a CYA thing in case the buyer doesn't

re-register the car. Anyway, Sommers's sheet is clean, and it looks

like this Huber guy never did register the car."

"What do we know about Huber?"

"Hold your horses, now. I'm getting there. I ran Huber in PPDS. He

looks like a shit. Couple of drug pops and a bunch of shoplifting

arrests and domestic beefs. He just checked into Inverness in December

to do a six-month stint for kicking his girlfriend in the head in front

of their baby."

"Nice guy. What's his car doing on Milwaukee?" The Portland Police

Data System is a fountain of data derived from police reports.

"That's the good part. Looks like he knows Derringer's brother,

Derrick. PPDS shows Derrick and Huber together as custody associates

on a disc on last summer at the Rose Festival."

Your average drunken delinquent has at least a few downtown arrests for

disorderly conduct. For a certain type of man, the party hasn't begun

until you're screaming and puking your guts out in an overnight holding

cell.

As I looked over the PPDS printouts for Huber and Derrick Derringer,

something was bothering me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I

started thinking out loud. "So, Huber knows Derringer through his

brother and sold him the car. But Derringer was still in prison when

Huber got hauled off to Inverness."

"Right, but he could've given the car to the brother, who then gives it

to Frank when he gets out. The exact mechanics don't really matter.

The point is we can tie the car to Derringer through his brother."

He was right. In my exhaustion, I was losing sight of the big picture

and, as usual, convincing myself that I was missing something. "No,

you're right. It's good. You put that in your affidavit?"

"Yeah. I think I'm done with it. You want to read it and get out of

here? You look tired."

"I am. I don't know how you guys pull these crazy shifts. I'm about

to fall over."

"It's all about the adrenaline, baby." Chuck does a mean Austin

Powers. "You want me to rub your shoulders while you read?"

Grace's masseuse says I have a bad habit of storing stress in my

shoulders. Funny, I think I store it in my ass along with all the food

I pack down when I'm freaking out. But I do get big knots in my

deltoids after a long day, and Chuck's back rubs were heavenly. Turning

one down was painful. "Um, I don't think that's a good idea. We're at

work and everything."

"Your call. If it makes you feel any better, the bureau has a woman

come in once a month to do chair massages. It's just a relaxation

thing, not foreplay."

"I know. Thanks anyway."

I finished reviewing the warrant. It was a quick read, since we were

reusing the affidavits MCT wrote to get the warrant to search

Derringer's house. The only new material was the information Chuck had

added about the car.

"Looks good," I said, as I signed off on the DA review line of the

warrant. "Who's on the call-out list tonight?" The judges rotate

being on call to sign late-night warrants and put out any fires that

might arise.

"Lesh and Hitchcock."

Lawrence Hitchcock was a lazy old judge who smoked cigars in his

chambers and pressured defendants to plead out so he could listen to

Rush Limbaugh at eleven and then close up shop early to play golf. I'd

rather swallow a bag full of tacks and wash them down with rubbing

alcohol than risk waking up Hitchcock at eleven at night.

David Lesh was the clear preference. He'd been a prosecutor for a few

years after law school, then jumped ship to the City Attorney's office

to work as legal advisor for the police department. He was a couple of

years older than I was and had been an easy pick for the governor to

put on the bench a few years back. He had a good mix of civil and

criminal experience and was known throughout the county bar for being

as straight-up and honorable as they come. Best of all, he hadn't

changed a bit since he took the bench. He still worked like a fiend

and went out for beers with the courthouse crowd every Friday. Lawyers

missed talking to him about their cases, but we were better off having

him as a judge.

"Call Lesh," I advised Chuck.

"No kidding. I had that lazy fuck Hitchcock on the Taylor case,

remember?"

I always forget that cops know as much about the lives of judges as the

trial lawyers do. I suspected they gossiped about the DAs as well. In

this specific instance, Chuck had good reason to know about Hitchcock.

He'd presided over the very complicated trial of Jesse Taylor, a case

that had landed Forbes on the MCT. Taylor's sixty-five-year-old

girlfriend, Margaret Landry, confessed to Forbes that she and Taylor

had killed a girl.

When I started at the DA's office, Landry was the big talk around the

courthouse. The local news covered the case's every development. Most

stories started with the phrase, "A Portland grandmother and her

lover...." Headlines spoke of murderous Margaret. If you asked them,

most people who followed the case would tell you they were fascinated

that a sixty-five-year-old grandmother and hospital volunteer

eventually confessed to helping her thirty-five-year-old alcoholic

boyfriend rape and then strangle a seventeen-year-old

borderline-intelligence girl named Jamie Zimmerman.

Forbes had stumbled into the case fortuitously. Landry initially told

Jesse Taylor's probation officer that she read about Jamie Zimmerman's

disappearance in the Oregonian and suspected her boyfriend's

involvement. At the time, Chuck was working a specialty rotation,

helping the Department of Community Corrections track people on parole

and probation. If not for the cooperation agreement between the bureau

and DOCC, Taylor's PO might never have told the police about Landry's

suspicions, because Landry used to call him at least weekly to try to

get Taylor revoked. Her claims were always either fabricated or

exaggerated.

Despite his hunch that Landry was at it again, the PO mentioned the tip

to Chuck because this was the first time Landry had accused Taylor of

something so serious as a murder. Chuck and the PO had followed up

with several visits, and each time Landry changed her version of the

events leading up to her accusation. The two men kept returning in an

attempt to get her to admit that she was lying. But then she threw

them for a loop: The reason she was sure Taylor had killed Zimmerman,

she said, was that she helped him do it.

The continuing amendments to Landry's story after she was arrested only

served to whet the public's appetite. She subsequently retracted her

confession and accused Forbes of coercing the statements from her. But

after she was convicted by a jury, Landry confessed again and agreed to

testify against Taylor to avoid the death penalty. When Taylor was

convicted and sentenced to die in one of Oregon's first death penalty

cases, she once again recanted.

By then, however, common sense had prevailed, the hype died down, and

people realized that Margaret Landry's confession spoke for itself. The

grandmother who looked like Marie Callender was as deviant and sadistic

as any man who comes to mind as the embodiment of evil. Last I heard,

both Taylor and Landry were maintaining their innocence, and Taylor

still had appeals pending.

At the time, the public interest in the Jamie Zimmerman murder was

chalked up to tabloid curiosity. I didn't see it that way; in my

opinion, people were riveted because Margaret Landry scared them. When

they saw her interviewed, they saw their aunt, the woman down the

block, or the volunteer going door-to-door for the Red Cross. If she

could abduct, rape, and murder a young woman, then locking our doors,

moving to the suburbs, and teaching our children to avoid strange men

would never be enough to protect us.

Chuck's mind clearly had wandered in a different direction. "I had a

hard enough time swallowing a death sentence on a case I worked on, but

when it comes out of the court room of some ass like Hitchcock, I

almost hope it does get thrown out."

After decades without a death penalty, the Oregon legislature had

approved one in 1988. The relatively gentle jurors of Oregon had

delivered capital sentences to only a handful of people, and most

people assumed that those defendants would die natural deaths in prison

before Oregon's courts would permit an execution to be carried out.

Despite the unlikelihood of an Oregon execution, handling murder cases

in what was now theoretically a death penalty state still bothered

Forbes and other people in law enforcement with mixed feelings about

the issue. Like me, Chuck could not definitively align himself with

either side of the debate. Unlike most knee-jerk opponents, he

recognized that an execution could bring a kind of closure to a

victim's family that a life sentence could not. But he continued to be

troubled by the role of vengeance and the inherent discrimination that

too often lay at the heart of the death penalty's implementation.

"Where is that case anyway?" I asked.

"Last I heard, Taylor hated prison so much he'd fired his attorneys and

waived his appeals, but the State Supreme Court was still sitting on

it. I almost hope they throw the sentence out. As long as the

conviction stands, it's still a win for us."

Maybe Chuck had finally taken a position on the issue after all.

"Hey, enough of this. Why don't you head on home?" Chuck suggested.

"No, I'll stay here. I'm OK."

"You've got less sense than a thirteen-year-old. Do I have to talk to

you like you talked to Kendra?" He counted the multitude of reasons I

should go home on his fingers. "I probably won't even do the search

tonight. There was a shooting a couple hours ago up in north Portland,

so the night-shift crime lab team is probably tied up out there. The

car's in the impound lot, so it's not going anywhere. Go home. Vinnie

misses you."

Vinnie is my French bulldog. He moved in with me a couple of years

ago, the day my divorce was finalized. He gets upset when I stay out

late.

Chuck wrinkled up his face and pulled out his ears, like a mean-looking

pug with bat ears. In other words, he looked like my Vinnie. "I can

picture him right now. He's going, "Mmm, these curtains taste good.

This carpet looks a lot better soaked with a huge puddle of French

bulldog piss." " For whatever reason, Chuck had decided that if Vinnie

could speak he'd sound like Buddy Hackett.

"You're right. I'm going home. And the search can wait until

tomorrow. Don't you work too late either," I said.

"Aye-aye," he said, waving his hand in a quick salute.

I stopped as I was walking toward the door. "Will you be able to get

your car OK?"

"Yeah. I'll get a patrol officer to take me out there."

I turned around again at the door. He was making copies of the

warrant. "Hey, Chuck."

"Huh?"

"You're really good at what you do."

His face softened, and his eyes smiled at me. "Thanks. Back atcha,

babe. Now go home. You're only this sweet when you're tired."

I drove home smiling.

Five.

By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. Vinnie was waiting for

me at the door, very disappointed. In my head, I heard Chuck's Buddy

Hackett impersonation, scolding me for being out so late.

I threw off my coat, picked him up, made all sorts of embarrassing

cooing noises, and scratched him ferociously behind those big goofy

ears. When the snorts began, I knew he'd forgiven me.

Vinnie's basic needs are met when I'm gone. He has his own door in

back that goes out to the yard. An automatic feeder keeps him portly.

He's even capable of entertaining himself. I'm pretty sure he thinks

his rubber Gumby doll is his baby. But at the end of the day, he's a

momma's boy and needs me to talk to him.

Between work, keeping in touch with the few friends who are willing to

put up with me, and trying to burn off all the crap I eat, I have just

enough time left for my chunky little pal. I have no idea how other

people manage to be needed by whole other tiny little individual people

and still maintain their sanity.

I went into the kitchen and checked the level on Vinnie's feeder to be

sure he ate. He had. He takes after me that way. Every little

meat-flavored morsel was gone. I was sorry I missed it. Vinnie's so

low to the ground that he has to reach his neck up over the bowl and

then plop his whole face inside to eat. Then he picks out all the soft

and chewy nuggets from his Kibbles "N Bits. When those are gone, he

eats the dry stuff. When he really gets going, he breathes fast and

loud like an old fat man.

I must've been really hungry, because that mental image actually made

me think of food. I was torn between the refrigerator and my bed.

I was leaning toward the latter when I noticed the message light

flashing on my machine. I knew if I tried to sleep now, I'd be lying

in bed wondering who called. I hit the Play button and unpeeled a

banana that was turning brown and spotty on the counter.

"Sammie, it's your old man. Are you there? I guess not. Glad to see

you're out and not sitting at home alone reading a book with that

rodent you call a dog. Hi, Vinnie. You know I'm only kidding. You

can't help being ugly, little man."

I love it that my father laughs louder at his own jokes than anyone

else. I wonder if he knows the people doubling up around him when he

talks are enjoying Martin Kincaid's contagious delight with life and

not the substance of what he's saying.

"Anyway, baby, I hope you're doing OK. You got a hot date or

something? I was going to come by today and mow your lawn if it was

dry again, but old Mother Nature, she had other plans. I went and saw

a movie instead. I tell you, that Kevin Spacey is something else. You

have to see this picture. OK, I don't want to take up your whole

machine. You've probably got all kinds of men trying to call you. Some

real winners from down at the courthouse. I'm just giving you a hard

time, Sammie. You know I'm proud of you. You're a top-notch human

being. Give me a call tomorrow if you've got some time. "Bye."

I'd finished my banana by the time he hung up. The length of my

father's phone messages correlates directly with how lonely he is in

his empty house. My mother died almost two years ago, just seven

months after doctors found a lump in her right breast. As much as I

wish I had never married my ex-husband, the marriage had at least

brought me back to Portland, so I was here for my mother's last few

months.

In retrospect, it was quick as far as those things go, but at the time

it seemed like an eternity. Mom was as tough a fighter as they make,

but in the end the cancer was too much even for her. People like to

say that my father and I are lucky that she passed quickly, once it was

clear that treatment was futile. Maybe I'm selfish, but I don't

agree.

Since Mom died, I'd spent more time with my father as he adjusted to

life as a widower. He was doing as well as could be expected under the

circumstances. He retired from federal employment as a forest ranger

last year, so he has a good pension and reliable benefits. Without a

job to go to, he now finds comfort in his routine. He goes to the gym,

takes care of the yard, watches his shows, goes target shooting, and

plays checkers with his ninety-year-old next-door neighbor.

I see my dad at least every weekend. We usually catch a movie and then

wind up talking for a few hours afterward. Grace comes with us

sometimes. So does Chuck, when we're getting along. I think it makes

Dad happy to see me with friends he's known and liked since I was a

kid. He never did like Shoe Boy and thinks most of my lawyer friends

are snobs. Too bad I didn't inherit his good judgment.

It was much too late to call him back, so I got ready for bed, snuggled

into the blankets, and picked up a mystery I'd started the week before.

Vinnie followed me into bed, lying by my feet on his stomach with all

four legs splayed out around him like a bear rug. I only made it

through a few pages before I nodded off and dropped the book on my

face. There's a reason I only read paperbacks.

The sun shining through my bedroom window woke me the next morning

before the alarm. It was a nice change from a typical Portland

February, when the excitement of the holidays is over and the endless

monotony of dark, wet, gray days makes it hard to get out of bed. It

was just after six o'clock, leaving me enough time for a quick run

before work. I hopped out of bed, pulled on my sweats and running

shoes, and brushed my teeth before setting out on a four-mile course

through my neighborhood.

For the first time since October, I was able to look around clearly at

my neighborhood rather than squint through a steady fall of drizzle. As

I ran past the coffee shops, bookstores, and restaurants along the

tree-lined streets of my historic neighborhood in northeast Portland

called Alameda the brisk dry air stung my cheeks and filled my lungs.

Running clears my head and helps me see the world in a better light.

I finished up my fourth mile about a half hour later, and hung on to my

good mood while I listened to a block of "Monday Morning Nonstop Retro

Boogie" in the shower. One of the benefits of living alone is that you

can belt out the entire Saturday Night Fever sound track in the shower

if you feel like it, and no one complains, even if you sing like me.

Grace had recently convinced me to trade in my usual shoulder-length

bob for a wispy little do. When she dried it at the salon, my hair

looked like it belonged on one of the more glamorous CNN anchors. When

I tried it at home, I ended up looking like a brunette baby bird. It

wasn't too bad today, so I spruced it up with gel and slapped on some

blush and eyebrow pencil. I caught a quick look in the mirror. At

five-eight and through with my twenties, I still have good skin and a

single-digit dress size. Not bad. By the time I was done, I had time

to catch my regular bus in to work.

Southwest Fifth and Sixth Avenues constitute Portland's bus mall,

carrying thousands of commuters from various communities within the

metropolitan area through downtown Portland. I hopped out at Sixth and

Main and walked the two blocks to the Multnomah County Courthouse on

Fourth, stopping on the way to fill my commuter's mug at Starbucks with

my daily double-tall nonfat latte.

I was running a few minutes shy of the time the District Attorney liked

us to be here. But I was well ahead of the county's newest jurors all

summoned to appear for orientation at 8:30 a.m. and the county's

various out-of-custody criminal defendants scheduled for morning court

appearances.

I'm not sure which way it cuts, but I have always found it odd that the

criminal justice system throws jurors and defendants side by side to

pass through the courthouse's metal detectors and to ride the

antiquated, stuffy elevators. In either event, I beat the crowd and

didn't have to push through the rotating throng that would be huddled

outside the doors of the courthouse for the remainder of the day trying

to suck down a final precious gasp of nicotine before returning to the

halls of justice.

I made my way through the staff entrance, took the elevator up to the

eighth floor, tapped the security code into the electronic keypad next

to the back entrance, and snuck into my office without the receptionist

noticing I was a little late.

My morning and what was supposed to be my lunch hour were consumed by

drug unit custodies the police reports detailing the cases against

people arrested the previous night. The Constitution affords arrestees

the right to a prompt determination of probable cause. The Supreme

Court seems to think forty-eight hours is prompt enough, meaning an

innocent person might have to sit in jail for a couple of days until a

judge gets around to checking whether there's any evidence against him.

In Oregon, we only get a day, so we have to review the custodies and

prepare probable cause showings before the 2 p.m. JC-2 docket. If we

don't get them arraigned by the afternoon docket, they get cut loose.

Around two o'clock, just as I was getting antsy about not having heard

anything about the warrant, my pager buzzed at my waist. It was the

MCT number.

Chuck picked up on the first ring.

"How much do you love me?" he asked.

"Only men I love right now are Vinnie and my daddy. But you can tell

me what you've got anyway if you want."

"I'm not sure I believe you, but I guess it'll have to wait for another

day. Lesh signed off on the warrant last night, but like I thought, we

couldn't get the lab folks out here until this morning. You're not

gonna believe it. Not only did Derringer put a new coat of paint on

that P.O.S." looks like he had it completely overhauled. New carpet,

new upholstery, the works."

"How do we know it's new?"

"Stupid bastard must've forgotten to check his car when the work was

finished. We found the shop work order under the front passenger floor

mat. Got it done Sunday morning at some shop over on Eighty-second and

Division. Paid eight hundred dollars cash."

"So we don't have any blood evidence," I said.

"Nope. The tech guys had a lot of fun ripping out all of this

asshole's new stuff, but it doesn't look like any blood soaked through

to the cushions. But come on, Sam. What's a loser like Derringer

doing pouring that kind of cash into a thousand-dollar car? Didn't you

say the guy does temp work?"

"That's what his PO says. I didn't say it wasn't good. I just thought

the news would be better since you seemed so excited."

"I'm not done yet. I was giving you the bad news first. The lab

called me this morning." He paused to make me wait for it.

"DNA?"

"Damn, Sam. You're shooting a little high there."

"So no DNA," I said.

"No. What'd you expect? Kendra said the guy did it in her mouth.

Hardly ever get anything from that."

"Unless it happens to fall on some intern's navy blue dress, right?"

"Yeah. Bill definitely caught a bad break on that one. Anyway, we

don't have any DNA, but there is good news. They found a latent print

on the strap of Kendra's purse. They matched six points to

Derringer."

"Is the tech willing to call it on that?" I asked.

"Yes. I called her back to be sure. It's Heidi Chung. You know

her?"

"Yeah. She comes in on drug cases sometimes. Seems pretty good."

"She's a ten. Anyway, Heidi says Derringer's got some kind of broken

ridge on his right index finger that's pretty unusual."

Experts quantify the similarity between an identifiable latent print

left at the scene with a suspect's print based on the number of points

that match. When I was back at the U.S. Attorney's Office, the FBI

usually wouldn't call a match until they had seven points. But a match

can be called with fewer points when the ones that are there are

especially rare. Luckily, Derringer's prints were as screwy as he

was.

"OK, now that rocks. You just made my day."

"I knew you'd be happy. Not quite love, but I feel appreciated."

"It's huge," I said. "Good job finding that purse in the first place.

We've got that little shit."

We went over everything we had. Kendra's ID of Derringer, the

proximity of Derringer's apartment to the crime scene, the shaving of

his body hair, the car work, and now his fingerprint on Kendra's purse.

It felt like someone had pulled a sack full of rocks off my

shoulders.

The talk about Kendra's purse reminded me of my conversation with Mrs.

Martin. "Oh, speaking of Kendra's purse, we should probably get her

keys back to her. Her mom was going to get a new set made, but there

may be other things she needs."

"What keys?"

"Her house keys were in her purse. Remember? We had to leave the door

unlocked for her last night?"

"No, Sam, I don't remember. She said she didn't have keys and her mom

was getting a set made. I just assumed she didn't have any because she

hadn't been living there. Shit!"

"What's the difference? Just get the keys back."

"The difference is that there weren't any keys in the purse, Sam.

Fuck!"

Why hadn't I checked with him? I had just assumed. I replayed last

night in my head. When I drove Kendra home, I made sure that the back

door hadn't been tampered with, but I hadn't gone in with her. "Did

you call her? Have you talked to her today?" I said.

"No," he said. "I was going to as soon as I got off the phone with

you."

"Oh my God. What have I done?"

"Calm down, Sam. She's probably fine." He was talking fast now.

"Think. Is there any way Derringer or his buddies could get Kendra's

address from the court case?"

"No. No, the judge ordered the defense attorney to withhold the

address from Derringer, and Lisa wouldn't violate that. They know her

name, though."

"What about the mom's name? Do they have that?" he asked.

I thought through all of the filings in the case. "No. It's not in

there. Just Kendra's." Luckily, Martin was a common surname, so the

phone book wouldn't do them any good.

"OK. It's OK. Ray and Jack checked with her after we found the purse

to make sure she didn't have anything in there with her mom's address

on it. I was out there this morning for my car, and everything looked

normal. You stay calm. I'll call you right back."

I tried to calm down. She should be OK. If something had been wrong

when Andrea got home from work, we'd know by now.

Despite all the logical reasons not to worry, it was hard to

concentrate, so I distracted myself by checking my bottomless voice

mailbox. Along with the usual stuff, there was a message from

O'Donnell. "Hey, Sam, O'Donnell here. I waited around in your office

awhile, but I guess I missed you. Hope you're not still riled up about

the other day. The guys and I were just having some fun. Anyway, I

hear you did a number on the Derringer indictment. Since it was my dog

to start with, I thought I'd call in and see if you have anything new.

I assume you're going to have to plead it out at some point, right?

Those Measure Eleven charges aren't gonna stick. Give me a call when

you've got a chance and let me know where things stand."

For the same reason I always eat the vegetables on my plate first, I

went ahead and called him. Better to get it over with.

I gave him a quick rundown on where we stood.

"Shit, Kincaid. With only a six-point latent on the print, you're

toast without DNA. It's your case, but I'd plead it out quick if I

were you. Case like this, you might be able to squeak out a decent

deal before the guy realizes you're shooting blanks."

"I'll take it into consideration. Thanks. Anything else?"

"How's that vice angle going? Didn't Garcia say something about trying

to use the vie to get some intel on pimps?"

"Yeah, Tommy thought it might pan out. Turns out the girl hadn't been

working long. And what she did, she did on her own. I've got some

pictures she took of some other girls, but it doesn't look that

promising."

"Yeah, I saw those on your desk when I was in there earlier. Didn't

realize the connection. It's not too late to pull out, you know. You

could still dump the mandatory minimums and send it down to general

trial," he said.

"I'll keep that in mind." I got off the phone before I said something

I'd regret and turned back to my computer. Nothing could take my mind

off Kendra. I checked the time so I'd know when I'd waited long enough

to check in with Chuck.

After a long 78 seconds, Tommy Garcia popped his head into my office.

"Hey, Sammie. Quepasa?"

I sighed. "The Derringer investigation's on hyper speed It's coming

together, though. How about you?"

"I'm just over here for a grand jury. Got here a little early, so I

thought I'd check in on you. See how's your vic's doing."

"Kendra. Yeah, seems like a pretty decent kid, actually." I didn't

see any reason to alarm Tommy with the problem of the keys. "Speak of

the devil, though, I've got something for you." I found the

photographs Kendra had given me and handed them to him. "You might be

interested in these. Ken-dra's clique from the Hamilton."

He flipped through once and then went through them more methodically.

"A couple of these girls look real familiar." He leaned toward me and

pointed at one of the girls rubbing against the faceless man with the

Tasmanian Devil tattoo. I recognized her as Kendra's friend, Haley.

"This one's a real piece of work. Holly or Halle or Haley or

something."

"I think it's Haley."

He rolled his eyes, clearly tired of the indistinguishable trendy names

found among today's kids. "Anyway, she's one of the hard-core street

kids. She's about sixteen. Been on the streets at least four years

and lives the life in every aspect. Hates the police, caseworkers,

anything that's legitimate."

"Sounds like she'd have good information for vice."

"Man, are you kidding? She's like a matriarch out there. She knows

the kids, but she also knows who's plucking them off the buses and

streets to get them into it. Problem is, a girl like that ain't easy

to flip. She's convinced herself that her life is the one she wants,

not just what she got stuck with. She wouldn't take the road out even

if it were open to her."

"Well, she and my vie were pretty tight. I got the impression that

this girl sort of watched Kendra's back."

"I don't know, Sam. From what I can tell, this girl's all about

survival, so unless your vie had something for her .. ." He faded out.

"Hell, I guess it can't hurt to take a shot. Use your case as the in

with her?"

"It's up to you. I thought the pictures might help you out, but don't

take it as an indication that you need to do anything with them." Most

detectives would be offended if a DA tried to tell them to initiate an

investigation, but Tommy was worried about letting me down.

"Yeah, I might give it a shot. I'll let you know. You need these

back?" he asked, holding up the photographs.

"Nope. Hold on to 'em as long as you want."

As Garcia left the office, I snuck a look at the clock. Thirteen

minutes now. Why hadn't Chuck called?

Just as my self-imposed fifteen minute deadline was about to expire,

the phone rang.

Chuck knew to get to the important stuff first. "She's at home, and

she's fine." He could hear my relief. "I shouldn't have even

mentioned it to her. I think it scared her mom. She's saying some

things are out of place. I'm sure she's just getting used to having

Kendra around all day again. But she's still spooked."

"But there's nothing else suggesting anyone was in the house?"

"No. Look, it's fine, Sam. Even if they took the keys, I don't see

how they'd know where Kendra lives, and it doesn't make any sense for

them to go there just to poke around. I called one of the community

safety liaisons out in Gresham, to be safe. He's leaving the

department as we speak to relock the house on the city's dime. I'm

just pissed that I didn't put it together sooner."

"It's my fault. I'm the one who Andrea talked to about getting the

keys out of the purse. I should've made sure they were in there."

"No use blaming anyone now. Luckily it turned out OK." With our

temporary panic out of the way, he moved the conversation back to the

new evidence. "So, you happy about the case now?"

"Happy doesn't begin to describe it. I'm ecstatic."

"You want to grab a bite tonight? Celebrate the good news?"

"I was going to stop by Dad's tonight."

"Alright, some other time." He sounded disappointed, and I was

surprised to find myself feeling the same way. When we didn't want to

kill each other, I truly felt at home with Chuck. We'd known each

other so long that we were comfortable together in a way we didn't feel

with anyone else. At least, I didn't. From what I'd heard, Chuck was

never lonely for company in the evenings, but given how often his name

passed through the rumor mill, it didn't seem like he'd kept anyone

around long enough to get serious.

"You want to come with me? Dad always likes seeing you,

you know." The words were out of my mouth before I reminded myself

that, when it came to me and Chuck, there was a cloud for every silver

lining.

"Sure. Sounds great. Pick you up at seven?"

"Only if I get to drive the Jag," I said. If I was going to play with

fire, I may as well get some warmth out of it.

Just as I hung up the phone, it rang again. Maybe it was Chuck, having

second thoughts too.

"Kincaid," I said.

It was Judge Leeson's clerk. Maria Leeson had the unfortunate

privilege of being the presiding judge for the Multnomah County Circuit

Court, meaning she had to deal with all the miscellaneous shit that

none of the other judges had time for.

"The judge wants to know why you're not down here," she said.

"Because I'm here. And not there."

"You better get down here."

"What's going on?" I asked.

"You've got a case on the docket. State v. Derringer."

"For what?"

"Call," she said. Cases were on the call docket when they were about

to go to trial. Before a judge and courtroom were set aside, the

parties were supposed to show up and report the status of plea

negotiation and whether they were ready to go to trial. We usually

sent one DA to the call docket to report information for the entire

office. Poor Alan Ritpers was the current call DA.

"I gave all my trial information to Ritpers. The Derringer case just

got arraigned the other day," I said.

"Yep, and that's why you need to get down here," she said. "Lopez

called yesterday to have the case added to the docket, and Ritpers is

clueless. The judge wants you down here. Now."

I headed straight down, skipping the antiquated and over-stressed

elevators for the four flights down to Judge Leeson's courtroom. Lisa

was waiting near the defense table and rose when I entered the room.

"My apologies, your honor," I said. "I wasn't aware of the

appearance."

"Check your docket, Ms. Kincaid." Maria Leeson peered down at me over

the top of her half-moon glasses. "Alright, Ms. Lopez, now that we've

got a DA here who's heard of your client, tell me again what you're

asking for."

"Thank you, Judge Leeson. My client is currently in custody, unable to

meet bail imposed by Judge Weidemann during the arraignment. He wants

a speedy trial, and I'm requesting the earliest available trial

date."

Leeson pointed her glasses down at me again. "Ms. Kincaid?"

"The defendant waived his speedy trial rights at arraignment, your

honor. In light of that waiver, the State requests a trial date in the

usual course." Translation: let the defendant rot for a year while I

finish getting the goods against him.

"Did you waive at arraignment, Ms. Lopez?" Leeson asked.

"Only because of the limited ability to consult with my client, your

honor. I was appointed to the case at arraignment and only had so much

time before the case was called. Ms. Kincaid was requesting a no bail

hold, so, as you can imagine, my initial discussion with my client

focused on the release issue. Once that was decided, I didn't have

much choice other than to make the usual stipulations. Since then,

I've spoken further to Mr. Derringer. He can't make bail, and he

wants a speedy trial."

I did my best to argue that Lopez should've preserved all rights at

arraignment if she had any doubts, but we all knew that's not how it

works.

"Alright," Leeson said. "I'm allowing the defendant to withdraw his

waiver of speedy trial rights, meaning he gets his trial within thirty

days." Leeson held a hand up to the court reporter, indicating her

wish to go off the record. "You sure about this, Lisa?"

Invoking speedy trial rights was incredibly short-sighted. The

requests usually only came from newbies who'd never been in custody

before. I was surprised to hear that Derringer couldn't stick it out

while his attorney prepared for trial.

Lopez shrugged. "I've advised Mr. Derringer against it. What can I

do?"

Leeson arched her eyebrows and signaled for the court reporter to go

back on record. "Alright then, let's set a date. I got a bunch of

judges out for spring break in late March, so ... that means Judge Lesh

two weeks from Monday."

No way. "Your honor, this is an attempted murder case. There is

physical evidence that still needs to be tested. The state needs more

than two weeks."

"Too bad, Ms. Kincaid. I don't have anything else. If you can't

proceed when the case comes up for call before trial, Mr. Derringer

will be re cogged

I had to be ready for trial in two and a half weeks, or else Derringer

would be released on his own recognizance. Lopez's strategy was a

risky one. She was betting that we had only the evidence in the

initial police reports. Too bad for her; she placed the bet without

the benefit of the new evidence Chuck gave me. A quick trial date was

fine with me.

The change in schedule gave me a good excuse to revoke the dinner

invitation I had extended to Chuck. I broke the bad news to Dad and

worked late instead.

My pager buzzed the next day around one as I was inhaling fish tacos at

my desk. I could tell from the prefix that it was a bureau cell

phone.

"Garcia."

I recognized Tommy's voice. "Tommy, it's Samantha Kincaid. You page

me?"

"Yeah. I was out riding with patrol checking on hot spots, when

whaddaya know; your vic's friend, Haley Jameson, is sitting with a

bunch of the other street urchins outside Pioneer Courthouse."

At any given time, you could find a pile of homeless kids hitting

people up for money by the Max tracks on the north side of the federal

appellate courthouse, next to fountain pools decorated with stone

beavers, Portland's unofficial mascot.

"If you've got the time to walk down here, I thought your connection

with the vie might help me get a rapport with this girl. Otherwise,

I'm left saying that I know someone who knows someone."

I looked at the clock. "I've got time. Tell me where to meet you, and

I'll be right down."

Tommy met me at the southeast corner of the Pioneer Courthouse.

"So tell me about this girl," I said. "She been through the system?"

Garcia shook his head. "Nothing serious. Couple RJVs, loitering pops.

Spent a few nights at juvie, went through LAP a couple times."

I'd seen plenty of them before. Street kids rarely got picked up for

anything more severe than runaway juvenile violations, even though they

were often at the fringes of more serious crimes like robberies and

assaults. If they had any experience in the system at all, it was

usually for curfew violations, public drunkenness, loitering, or

runaway juvenile pops. Typical arrests for those kinds of offenses

resulted in a night at juvie, a trip back home or a foster placement,

and maybe a little court-ordered counseling. LAP stood for Learning

Alternatives to Prostitution. The probation department developed the

program a few years ago. Participants were supposed to learn

legitimate job skills and enough self-worth to stop seeing the sale of

sex as a good deal. It might be a good program for someone serious

about getting out of the life, but, like most court-ordered counseling,

it was treated as a joke by the people forced to go through it to avoid

jail.

"So what's the plan?" I asked.

"OK, here's how we need to play it. If we single her out of the group,

she's going to use us as a way to get props from her friends. We've

got nothing on her, so once she calls our bluff, it's over. I'll play

it nice and tell the group they need to stop blocking the sidewalks.

Get them to move on. Maybe we'll have a shot then at talking to her

alone. You act like you're my partner."

It was the last part I couldn't go for. I was pretty sure my boss

wouldn't approve of one of his deputies impersonating a police officer.

When Tommy was through teasing me about always following the rules, we

agreed I'd fall back while he tried to break up the group.

He wasn't in uniform, so a couple of the less savvy kids didn't realize

Tommy was a cop as he approached them. "Hey, man, spare some change?"

one of them asked.

"Not today, dude." Tommy flashed his badge. "But I do have a tip for

you. Mounted patrol should be coming by in a few minutes. Why don't

you guys hightail it out of here before they give you a hard time."

The one I was pretty sure was Haley piped up. "What do you care?"

"Honestly? I don't care whether you go to juvie or not. But the

officers doing the rounds today are coming up on reporting time, and I

got a bet with a buddy at the precinct that their unit's not going to

meet their enforcement quotas this month. Listen to me or not. It's

up to you."

That did the trick. The kids slowly started getting up, collecting

their blankets and bags, and walking in separate directions in smaller

groups. Haley started to cross the street to Pioneer Square. "Haley,

hold up," Tommy called after her.

She swung around toward us, throwing a large handbag over her shoulder

and placing her hands on her hips. "I knew you guys were full of shit.

Give me a break. Alright, man?"

Tommy held his hands up in mock surrender. "We're not here to hook you

up on anything. We wanted to see if you could give us some help with

something."

Hands still on her hips, she rolled her eyes and laughed to let us know

that the notion of cooperating with the police amused her. She nodded

in my direction. "Yeah, and what's she here for, fit me for my Girl

Scout uniform?"

I had some damn good tacos going soggy on my desk. The last thing I

needed was for some twit to patronize me, but I did my best to keep the

anger out of my voice. "I'm Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid.

Sergeant Garcia and I

were hoping you could talk to us about something that happened Saturday

night to a girl you might know, Kendra Martin. Take a minute with us,

and we'll buy you some lunch. You could probably use a bite to eat."

She raised her eyes toward Tommy with anticipation. He picked up on

the cue. "Twenty bucks to hear us out. Up to you whether you stay

after that."

The cash worked. We sat with her on one of the brick steps in Pioneer

Square and explained that we were investigating the assault on Kendra

Martin and thought she might have heard something on the street about

it. We didn't tell her that Kendra had told me that they were friends

or that I had pictures of her getting it on with the Tasmanian Devil

guy. She stared at us through hard eyes, lips pressed into a straight

line, as we described the violence inflicted upon Kendra. I thought I

saw her take a quick downward glance and a small swallow when Tommy

told her that a man named Frank Derringer had been arrested and

charged.

Tommy made a soft play to get information from her. "Anyway, I've

asked around the patrol officers and they tell me you know about as

much as anyone does about what goes on with the kids down here. If you

can give us anything on this guy Derringer, or any other guys who might

be into doing this kind of thing to a girl, we'd keep your name out of

it."

"I don't believe you, but since I don't know nothing about it, it don't

make a difference, does it?" Haley pulled the twenty bucks Tommy'd

given her from her front pocket and shook it in front of her as she

stood to face us. "Thanks for the twenty bucks, though. Losers." She

made the shape of an L on her forehead with her thumb and forefinger,

just in case we missed her point.

We didn't try to stop her as she walked away. It was clear that we

didn't have whatever it might take to get Haley Jameson to betray the

life she'd committed herself to.

"Lost cause" Tommy sighed "but, hey, at least we gave it a shot. I'll

flag it in PPDS for someone to call me if she gets popped for anything

down the road."

"Tommy, I know we were only using the case to get a conversation going

with her about vice, but I got the impression she knew something."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Possible. Guy like Derringer might get

around. But if there's something there, we're not getting it from that

girl."

Six.

I usually spend the day before a trial at my dining room table,

reviewing the entire file and practicing my open. I broke from habit

for Derringer. The case centered around Kendra Martin, and anything I

could do to boost her confidence on the stand would do far more for us

than a review of the file.

Everything had gone well in front of the grand jury. I got the

indictment in less than an hour, and Kendra did a good job with her

testimony. Afterward, to prepare her for the actual trial, I had shown

her a courtroom and even put her in the witness chair to run through

her testimony. But to make her feel as comfortable as possible

tomorrow under the circumstances, I wanted her comfortable with me.

It was an unusually warm day for the beginning of March in Portland, so

I decided to take Kendra to the zoo. I invited Grace, too. Kendra

seemed a little skittish about leaving her house, but she and Grace

seemed to hit it off from the start, and it was hard not to enjoy the

warm sun after months of chilling rain.

The Portland zoo is a natural habitat zoo. The advantage is obvious:

Instead of being confined in concrete bunkers surrounded by metal bars,

the animals get to roam freely on acres of land designed to replicate

their environments of origin. The downside is that the animals use

their oasis just as any reasonable person would if given the option: to

avoid any unnecessary contact with meddlesome humans.

As a result, our visits to the giraffe and lion areas were

unproductive. After staring at a boring mound of rocks for fifteen

minutes without a single indication of a lion's presence, I was ready

to pack it in to visit lizards, snakes, anything that was stuck in a

cage the old-fashioned way so that stupid humans could gawk at it,

whether it liked it or not.

Something passed through my field of vision, and I felt the hair on the

back of my neck rise. Turning around, I saw a man on a cell phone

standing outside the rain forest building. He wasn't looking in our

direction, but I realized I had seen him earlier at one of the other

exhibits and, come to think of it, he'd been alone then too.

I gave Kendra some money to buy us all red-white-and-blue ice pops

shaped like rockets. As I watched her walk over to the concession

stand, I lowered my voice. "Don't make it obvious that you're looking,

Grace, but you see that guy by the rain forest? On the phone?"

She snuck a little peek. "Sweetie, you do need to get yourself a man

if you're stooping that low."

I looked at the guy again. "Grace, no. Yuck. It's just isn't it a

little weird for a man to be at a zoo by himself?"

"Maybe his family's inside, and he left to make a call."

"I saw him earlier, though, and I think he was alone then too. It

didn't stand out at the time, but now I think he was looking at us over

by the lions."

"What lions?" She laughed.

"I'm not kidding, Grace. Maybe he's a little pervert who's at the zoo

to watch all the kids."

"Or maybe he's just some suburban dad who's trying to keep up with the

office while he's on daddy duty at the zoo, and he was looking at us

because we aren't so hard on the eyes." She slipped into a Mae West

routine.

"Hey, knock it off. I'm serious."

"No, Sam, you're paranoid. You've got crime on the mind, and you're

especially uneasy about Kendra today. If you're really worried, we can

go say something to security. Tell them to keep an eye on him."

I thought about it. "Nah, you're right." I looked back at the guy. He

was putting his phone away and walking into the rain forest. "I'm sure

he's harmless."

We polished off the rocket pops and headed toward the polar bears.

Grace and I were entranced, as usual, by Portland's swimming polar

bears, but I noticed that Kendra seemed a little distracted.

"You holding up OK, kiddo?" I asked.

She looked at me like I'd offered her broccoli, and then spoke

extremely slowly in the event I'd suddenly become extremely stupid.

"Um, yeah. Unless I'm missing something, the zoo's not exactly a high

stress kind of thing, Samantha."

She was playing tough, but I knew the trial was weighing on her mind at

least as much as on mine. "Very funny, wiseacre. Last time I checked,

I was going to be picking a jury tomorrow, and you were scheduled to

testify in a couple days. Do we need to talk about that?"

"No. I understand how everything will go. I'll be OK."

I was worried. I'd prepped her, but the trial would be her first

face-to-face with Derringer since the assault, and I suspected that she

had no idea of what was coming. I'd advised her that Lisa Lopez would

cross-examine her. She knew that Lopez undoubtedly would ask her about

her drug use and prostitution. We ran through a mock cross together,

but I couldn't bring myself to get rough with her on the issues of drug

use and promiscuity. I was hoping Lisa would pull her punches on these

issues. If she did hit Kendra hard, the jury might hold it against the

defense.

I gave Kendra's arm a little squeeze and said goodbye. "You take it

easy this week, OK? You're going to be fine." Grace was going to give

Kendra a ride home, but first they were going to make a stop at

Lockworks, Grace's salon.

It would be good for Kendra to see other women in careers more

satisfying than her mother's, and Grace has all the stuff good role

models are made of. She graduated magna cum laude with a business

degree from the University of Oregon. About two years into a marketing

job with a big company in town, she foresaw that Portland was

attracting a more cosmopolitan population than the city was capable of

servicing. She had been cutting her friends' hair since high school,

she had a great mind for business, her taste had always been

impeccable, and people had always been drawn to her. She took out a

loan, bought part of an old warehouse, and opened Lockworks in the

Pearl District. She lured the best stylists in the city by offering

them good benefits and a piece of the profits, and used her contacts to

recruit customers while she went to cosmetology school at night.

Lockworks is now the swankiest salon in town, and customers wait weeks

to get an appointment with Grace. Luckily, she still cuts my hair like

she did in high school, in her kitchen while we eat raw cookie dough.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed the cell phone dad

leaving, too. Except he still didn't have anyone with him. And he was

driving a brown Toyota Tercel. Did they let dads drive those things?

As he left the lot, I dug through my purse for a piece of paper.

Normally my bag's full of old receipts, but I'd just cleaned it out. I

pulled out the edge of a dollar from my wallet and scribbled down the

guy's plate number before I lost sight of him. Maybe I'd run it later

to make sure he wasn't a fugitive pedophile.

I had just enough time to drive back downtown to make the meeting I'd

scheduled with MCT. Immediately before a trial, I like to get the

principal investigators together to run through all the evidence and

review what we can expect from the defense. It was a practice I'd

followed in the federal system, where the agents support the case all

the way through the trial. Unfortunately, the local police are so busy

that it's hard to get investigative time on a case once it's been

indicted by the grand jury.

Lisa had given me a copy of her witness list just a few days ago. In

an ideal world, I would have asked the police to interview each of the

potential defense witnesses so we could lock in what they might say at

trial. All I was hoping for in the real world was an idea of who each

person was. From there, I would have to guess what the purpose of

their testimony would be.

I had finally broken down and bought a cell phone, and I

was still in that phase every new cell phone owner goes through,

finding reasons to use my fancy new gadget. On my way to central

precinct, I called MCT to make sure everyone was assembled as

planned.

It took awhile for an answer. "Walker."

I had to raise my voice to be sure he heard me over all of the whooping

and hollering in the background. "Detective Walker, it's Samantha

Kincaid. I just wanted to make sure we're still on for today. Any

news?"

"Hell, yeah, we've got news. Haven't you heard?"

I obviously hadn't, so he continued. "Oregon Supreme Court ruled in a

special session this morning that the State can stick the big needle to

Jesse Taylor. I wouldn't have thought those libs had it in them, but

we're finally gonna have an execution around here."

I said something about the state court being just the beginning. Even

though Taylor had waived appeals, his prior attorneys would still try

to go to federal court on their claim that Taylor was incompetent to

fire them and waive his rights. But, as the words came out, I could

think only of Chuck, having to nod politely as the rest of the guys

celebrated the ruling that brought a man he had investigated one step

closer to state-sanctioned death.

It probably didn't help that this was the case that got Chuck onto MCT.

After Margaret Landry confessed to Forbes, the police brought in MCT,

but Chuck stayed involved in the investigation. They must've liked

him, because they added him to the team about a year later.

At least he didn't need to worry about whether the police got the wrong

man. And it wasn't as if the defendant was possibly a redeemable guy

who made a split-second mistake during some robbery-gone-bad. Both

Taylor and Landry were unrepentant sadists. When Landry finally

confessed to Forbes, she admitted that she and Taylor wanted to find a

woman for a three-way. Taylor went to a biker bar and picked up Jamie

Zimmerman, whom Landry described as "a 'tard of some sort, but a hot

piece of ass." Back at their house, Taylor got rough with both women

and then began strangling Jamie with his belt. Landry helped him by

holding Jamie down while she was fighting. After Jamie was dead,

Landry performed oral sex upon her while Taylor masturbated. Then they

wrapped her body in their shower curtain and dumped her near the

Gorge.

And, despite Margaret's subsequent statement that she fabricated the

entire story to get her abusive boyfriend in trouble, I had no doubt

that she and Taylor were guilty. Her confession contained accurate

details that she couldn't have known unless she was involved somehow.

She had tried to explain the details away by saying that Chuck had

coerced her confession and had fed her the details she was missing. But

the jury had seen that the son of a former governor didn't need to set

up innocent grandmothers to get a good job in the bureau.

Although Landry never repented for Zimmerman's murder, she had avoided

the death penalty by agreeing to testify against Taylor after the jury

convicted her. She depicted herself as a do-gooder who volunteered

teaching ceramics at hospitals and treatment centers. She claimed that

she would've remained a law-abiding grandmother if it weren't for her

abusive younger boyfriend.

Jesse Taylor, on the other hand, had little to say in his defense. A

chronic alcoholic who suffered frequent blackouts, Taylor said he

couldn't remember anything he'd done that night, but didn't think he

ever met Jamie Zimmerman and didn't think he would ever kill anyone.

But he didn't think he'd pass up a chance at a three-way either. Great

defense.

That said, the certainty of Taylor's guilt and the pure viciousness of

the crime apparently were of little comfort to Chuck. When I arrived

at the Justice Center, he was waiting with Jack Walker, Ray Johnson,

and Mike Calabrese. The celebration over the Supreme Court's Taylor

ruling had died down, but Chuck still looked unnerved. I wanted to say

something about the news but had to settle for an empathetic glance

that I hoped he caught before I launched into new business.

"Hi, guys. Thanks for making time to go over the case. It helps me if

we're all on the same page before we start the trial."

Mike Calabrese shook his head and told me with a wave of his hand that

he wasn't bothered. He was a New York transplant, and eleven years in

Portland hadn't changed the accent a bit. "Listen, Sammie, I can't

speak for these guys, but me? I say there's no one better than you.

I'm tired of these DAs who stick us up there on the stand and assume we

know how it's gonna go. Most of them don't want to take time away from

their weekend, so me? I appreciate it, is what I'm sayin'."

I pulled out my trial notebook. "I thought we could start by running

through the evidence that each of you will be covering. Then we'll go

over the likely defense theories. You can help me out by making sure I

know who these defense witnesses are. Any questions before we

start?"

Jack Walker held up a hand. "Yeah. I don't mind or anything, but our

LT was a little peeved about all four of us being out to testify.

Usually they just have one from each pairing go to court."

The bureau has to pay cops time and a half for all off-duty work, so

this meeting wasn't cheap. "I want all of you to testify for a couple

of reasons. One advantage to this approach is that, subconsciously,

we'll defeat any kind of Who Cares attitude the jurors might have in

the back of their mind. Remember, they're not going to hear about

Derringer's prior unless he testifies, so they'll be seeing him on his

best behavior, in a suit, leaning over and writing notes to his

attorney. And, as much as we all like Kendra, some jurors might see

her as getting what a girl should expect when she's turning tricks for

dope. By having all of you testify, we'll be telling the jury that the

bureau cared about this case and put a lot of resources into it to get

a thorough investigation.

"By having each of you testify about a separate aspect of the case,

we're also distributing the credibility of the police investigation

among all four of you. If no single detective is seen as the lead,

Lopez can't get any mileage out of ripping one of you guys a new one.