Judgement Calls

indicted, she was quick to admit her lies. She'd say, real

matter-of-fact, "Oh, that. Well, yes, you're right, I wasn't exactly

honest with you on that one." She always replaced it with some other

lie, but each time she dug herself a little deeper, giving us a little

more of the truth." O'Donnell smiled and shook his head, recalling the

case, then suddenly seemed to remember he'd been talking about the

earrings. "Same thing applied with the earrings. She admitted

planting them right away once she was confronted."

"Did she say how she knew Jamie wore earrings like that?"

"Not until someone asked her. That's how everything worked with her.

She said she saw the earrings listed on her copy of the warrant when

the police went to the house to execute it, and she happened to have a

pair of earrings that fit the description, so she snuck into Taylor's

toolbox and put them there. We knew it was bullshit right off the bat.

First of all, the list of potential evidence in that case was long,

like it is in any homicide. The earrings were mentioned on one line

six pages back.

"Second, the only description in the warrant was for gold hoop

earrings. If Landry had planted real ones, we never would've known

they weren't Jamie's. The mom says they were identical same diameter,

same width of the metal.

"And finally, I was there when the police executed the warrant. Don't

get me wrong, here. Those MCT guys are as dim-witted as any other

Keystone Kop, but I was there and they at least know how to execute a

fucking warrant. Margaret Landry was not wandering around the house

planting evidence while we were there."

I'll never understand why some people have to temper any comment that

could possibly be construed as a compliment with an insult. I suspect

they think it makes them look knowledgeable. I think it makes them

look mean. If I was lucky, O'Donnell would never feel compelled to

rise to my defense.

"So the only way she could've known to plant those particular earrings

would be if she had seen them," I said.

"Exactly. In fact, of all the details Margaret provided that

corroborated her confession, it was the earrings that most convinced me

of her guilt. On a lot of the other facts, she tried to say at trial

that Forbes had coached her. But the earrings were such a perfect

match, she couldn't explain how Forbes could've coached her about a

pair of earrings in that kind of detail. And she admitted planting

them. I hammered on that in my closing argument, and I'm convinced

that the jury agreed there was no way for Landry to get around those

earrings."

"So what happened when you found out the earrings weren't Jamie's?" I

asked.

"That's when this whole thing changed. I made the call to send Forbes

back in to talk to her. He was a rookie, but he'd developed a good

rapport with her, and we needed to know what the hell was going on.

Forbes told her that was it we were going to stop working with her. She

started crying, saying that he had to believe her and she knew Taylor

did the girl. Forbes did a good job, actually. Stayed tough, told her

he didn't want to hear any more from her, you get the drift. So then

Margaret blurts out that she knows Taylor did it, because she saw him.

Gives the whole confession right there, so no one but Forbes was there

to hear it."

"How big of a problem was that for the case?" I asked.

O'Donnell shrugged his shoulders. "Hell, in retrospect, it was a

problem. He seemed like a kid, didn't have a lot of experience, and

held too many pieces of the investigation together. The defense made

it sound like Forbes was a climber using this case to become a star in

the bureau. Fortunately, the defense didn't realize that Officer

Forbes was none other than Charles Landon Forbes, Jr. I think the jury

figured out that a governor's son doesn't need to manipulate an

investigation to get where he wants to go in city government."

"What about physical evidence? Anything to corroborate the

confession?" I asked.

O'Donnell shook his head. "Zilch. Zimmerman was missing for months

before the body was found. No DNA, no hair, no fibers. We were lucky

to have a firm ID and cause of death. Her license was in her pocket,

and we used dental records to confirm it. ME called the strangulation

based on damage to the small bones in her neck." O'Donnell looked at

his watch. "Hey, I hope this has been helpful, but I really gotta

run."

"Shit, I was hoping you could tell me more about that confession. You

around tomorrow?"

"Nope."

Asshole didn't even pretend to explain. The big boys around here take

off on dry days for golf, and the DA pretends he doesn't know about it.

I guess I'd gotten the maximum amount of help a person can get out of

Tim O'Donnell in a day. Actually, this might be it for the month.

"Alright, I can probably get the rest from Forbes. Thanks for the

help."

As I was walking out of his office, I heard O'Donnell mutter behind me,

"Hey, you should thank me for not finishing the rest of the story. Now

you've got an excuse to be alone with Chuck Forbes after hours."

I spun around and glared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to

mean?"

"Hey, fire down, Kincaid. I thought you had a better sense of humor.

The staff up here goes nuts over the guy every time he's in here. I

was just having some fun with you thought it wouldn't hurt you to spend

some time with the guy."

I decided he was telling the truth. He didn't know anything. "That's

something I don't joke around about. I don't date people at work,

especially cops."

"Alas, Kincaid. It's our loss."

As I started to walk out of his office, I stepped back and asked, "Oh,

by the way, do they have anything yet on that letter? It would help

shut Lopez down if I could show that we got the right bad guys in the

Zimmerman case."

Looking down at his desk, he studied an open magazine. "Letter's still

at the crime lab. If we find out who sent it, I'll let you know."

I imagined myself saying, At the lab, my ass. I hear the lab got

diddly. Instead, I nodded. "I'd appreciate it."

"Now get back to your trial," he said. "Let me know how it turns out.

Bad enough that you took it to begin with. You better not crash and

burn."

I tried not to let his gloating piss me off, since he did stay past his

normal five o'clock punch-out to help me. But his help was something

of a mixed blessing. Now if my case went down in flames, he could say

he filled me in on what I needed to know about the Zimmerman case and

had warned me from the start. No pressure.

Eleven.

Lisa was giving a statement to Dan Manning outside the courthouse when

I walked out of the building. I wished I'd gotten to him first. No

doubt he was already envisioning this case as his first Pulitzer, or at

least a true-crime paperback and a made-for-TV Sunday-night movie.

While Lisa spun a story involving sex, double crosses, and justice

delayed, I was left to make a lame and predictable statement that the

defense was reaching for tall tales out of desperation and that I

trusted the jury to weigh the evidence impartially and ascertain the

truth. Not exactly headline material.

Grace met me at the door of her loft apartment in the Pearl District

with a big hug and an even bigger glass of cabernet. I had called

ahead from the office, so she knew I was in a bad way.

When she was quiet after I finished relating the events of the past few

days, I looked at her with exaggerated disappointment. "Grace, as my

lifelong best friend, you are under a standing obligation to feed my

outrage. Right now, for example, you should be stringing together a

litany of insulting names for my archenemy, Lisa Lopez." Nothing.

"Here, I'll get you started: Snake. Slime. Skunk. Skank. I'm only

on 5. You want to start with the t's?" Still nothing. "Grace?"

She woke up from her daze and looked me in the eye. "Before I say

anything about your case, I just want to clarify something. You're

back with Chuck?"

I rolled my eyes and did my best to voice exasperation. I sounded like

Kendra. "You don't have to say it in that tone, Grace."

"Well, Sam, it's pretty much the tone you seem to reserve for him."

"And that's usually after a couple of martinis when I'm angry at him

for breaking my heart. This time feels different, Grace. We've both

grown up a little, and he's doing more than just trying to flirt his

way into bed with me. He's really opened up to me about this trial and

the Zimmerman case, and he's great with Kendra "

She interrupted me. "What? You think because he brings CDs and Happy

Meals to your witness that you're going to have little babies together

and live happily ever after? Jesus, Sam, Chuck's a nice guy, but look

at the twits he goes for. Not to mention the fact that he makes your

life chaotic, and you hate chaos."

"Maybe some chaos would be good for me."

That made her laugh. "You're kidding, right?"

When I didn't smile at that, she rubbed my forearm, which was resting

on the table. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. You do what's right for you, and

I'll support whatever that is. Just be careful. I'm worried about

you."

"Yeah, me too, but I want to do this." I changed the subject. "So,

can we move on to the trashing of my nemesis now?

She smiled, but I could tell she was feeling serious. "It just seems

strange," she said.

"There's nothing strange about it, Grace. Lisa Lopez is completely

scummy slime and has absolutely no ethics. She'll do anything to win,

even for a dirtbag like Derringer."

"But you said yourself that she sat there passively through your entire

case."

I tried not to reveal my impatience. "Right," I said slowly, "but now

it turns out she was doing that so she could hide her ridiculous theory

until the last minute, when I'd be caught off guard."

"But, Sam, look at the big picture. When did she think of this? The

anonymous letter to the Oregonian wasn't printed until the middle of

your case. If she got the idea from the letter, what was her plan

before then? It seems too coincidental that she just happened to be

putting on a lame defense and then decided in the middle of the trial

to capitalize on this anonymous letter thing."

I could see where she was headed. "Right," I said. "I've thought

about that too. It explains why she seemed up to no good ever since

the start of the trial: she was planning to tie the case to the

Zimmerman murder all along, and the anonymous letter happened to come

up right before her opening."

"Which is also a major coincidence," she said.

"It's really not, Grace. Think about it: the Supreme Court announced

it was upholding Taylor's sentence right before my trial started. Lisa

heard about it and saw a convenient defense. The anonymous letter was

also a reaction to the court's decision, probably by some death penalty

opponent or someone just looking for attention. Two totally unrelated

decisions, but both pretty predictable in hindsight. Taylor's the

first real test of Oregon's death penalty; it was bound to attract some

nut jobs

Grace nodded in agreement, and I moved on to bad-mouthing Lisa Lopez as

we finished the bottle of wine. As usual when I visited Grace, I left

feeling better than when I arrived.

On the way home, my cell phone rang. The caller ID read private. Real

helpful. Maybe if I hadn't answered, I would have at least had a

recorded message to give the police.

"Long dinner, Kincaid. Were you and that hot little friend of yours

doing a little eating out up there? If I'd known, I might've followed

you up."

The voice was vaguely familiar, but too muffled to place. "Who is

this?"

He was already gone.

I spent the weekend reviewing the Zimmerman file behind locked doors.

Between checking out every sound, double-checking my alarm, and

periodically turning off the lights to look out my windows, I didn't

feel even half prepared when I headed back to court on Monday

morning.

One thing had become clear to me, though: There was no doubt that the

entire case against Margaret Landry and Jesse Taylor turned on Landry's

apparent inside knowledge. Either she had something to do with the

murder or someone had told her these details. No wonder the defense

had turned the focus to Chuck.

As furious as I was about Lopez's dirty tricks, the fact remained that

there was no evidence tying the assault on Ken-dra to the Zimmerman

murder. I also had what is known in the legal world as a butt load of

evidence against Derringer Kendra's ID, the shaved pubic hair, the

detailing of his car a day after the assault, and the fingerprint. It

would be harder work than it first appeared, but I still had a solid

case.

Also, the weekend media coverage was better than it might have been

under the circumstances. Manning's piece appeared as a sidebar to a

follow-up story on the Zimmerman case and anonymous letter. The

feature story didn't contain any new information, just a summary of the

case against Landry and Taylor and an update on their status in prison.

She was a model prisoner who counseled young women; he was a head case

who spent most of his time in solitary.

Manning's sidebar couldn't add much. Just that a defendant was

claiming during his trial that whoever killed Jamie Zimmerman had

committed the crime of which he stood accused. Seeing the assertion in

black and white, without any evidence to support it, made me see how

truly lame it was.

At 9:30 a.m. on Monday, when Lesh took us back on the record, I settled

into my chair for what promised to be a long morning.

Jake Fenninger was Lisa's next witness. Fenninger was the patrol

officer who popped Kendra last Christmas when she was working up in Old

Town. Kendra had already talked about the arrest on direct during my

case-in-chief, but Lisa's hands were tied. She couldn't get into the

Zimmerman case until she plowed through the witnesses she had included

on her defense witness list, most of whom had nothing to say other than

that Andrea Martin might be a trespasser. Compared to them, Fenninger

was riveting.

Lopez walked Fenninger through his background before he started to get

hostile. Fenninger was another New York transplant. He'd worked in

NYPD's infamous street crimes unit before joining PPB a few years ago.

Considering where he got his training and the fact that his dad was

reportedly a hard-line Irish detective from the throw-down school of

the NYPD, Fenninger was a pretty good cop.

I suspected he'd moved west to escape the pressures of being an old

school cop and sincerely wanted to do the right thing on his beat.

Unfortunately, I think he still bought into Giuliani's propaganda that

a "zero tolerance" approach to street crime was for the good not only

of the community but also of the suspect. It can be true in some

instances, but Fenninger had gone too far with Kendra.

Once Lopez had gone through Fenninger's background and current duties

with PPB, she turned to Kendra's Christmas arrest.

"In your role as a patrol officer in Old Town, did you have the

opportunity to encounter Kendra Martin on Christmas of last year,

Officer Fenninger?" Lisa asked.

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

Like most cops, Fenninger probably figured that using "ma'am" and "sir"

in his testimony might counter the stereotypes some people have of

police. They forget that anyone who's been stopped for speeding has

heard the same polite tone and still wound up with a whopper of a

ticket.

"And how did she come to your attention that day?"

"I was patrolling in my vehicle and noticed a girl on the corner of

Fourth and Burnside. She came to my attention because, quite honestly,

just about anyone walking around close to midnight in Old Town on

Christmas is probably up to no good, but she looked like she was only

fourteen years old or so. I figured she was probably a street kid out

working."

"And what do you mean by 'working," Officer Fenninger?" "Prostituting

herself. Exchanging sex for money." "So what did you do about your

suspicions?" Lisa asked. "I first saw her when I was headed west on

Burnside, so when I got to Fifth, I took a right turn, headed north to

Couch, turned right again, then headed south on Fourth so I could watch

her from my patrol vehicle." "What did you observe?"

"I saw the girl wave to a few cars that drove by on Burnside. A couple

of cars stopped, and she talked to them through the passenger window.

All the cars that she had any interaction with were driven by what

appeared to be men who were alone."

"Did you draw any conclusions from that?" "Yes. Given the time of

day, the fact that it was Christmas, the neighborhood, and the activity

that I observed, I believed that the girl was loitering to solicit

prostitution." Fenninger testified that he arrested Kendra for the

ordinance offense and then searched her and her purse, in what's called

a "search incident to an arrest."

Lisa held up a plastic bag with Kendra's purse in it, which I had

marked as evidence during my case. After looking at his police report

to refresh his memory, Fenninger confirmed that it appeared to be the

same type of purse Kendra had been carrying last Christmas. He found

heroin residue in the purse and added a charge for drug possession.

Instead of booking Kendra as a prisoner, he wrote the charges on a

ticket and took her to juvenile hall to have her processed as a

runaway. It was a nice thing for him to have done for her.

Lisa asked him whether he seized the purse as evidence. Fenninger said

he should have, but that Kendra started crying, saying it was a

Christmas gift from her mother. So he shook the residue into a baggie

instead and let her keep her purse. Jesus, no wonder the juvie DA had

dumped the case. Even the arresting officer seemed to think it was

chippy.

I didn't have much for Fenninger on cross. "Officer, do you know who

assaulted Kendra Martin last February, two months after the arrest

you've testified about? .. . Do you know anything about where Frank

Derringer was when Kendra was attacked? ... In fact, have you ever

even seen the defendant before today?" No, no, and no. I thought the

jury would see that Lopez had no legitimate reason for calling

Fenninger.

Next was Kerry Richardson, the so-called loss prevention officer at

Dress You Up, who was called to testify about Andrea Martin's trespass

arrest at the mall. The testimony was completely irrelevant and

inadmissible, but I didn't mind letting Lopez waste time with evidence

that wasn't going to hurt me. Andrea hadn't been an important part of

my case anyway. She only testified about the extent and duration of

Kendra's injuries, facts that were established by other evidence too.

Richardson testified that he was sure he saw Andrea conceal something

inside of a shopping bag back in November before she left the store. He

told the store manager, Geral-dine Maher, and the two of them

confronted Andrea in the mall. However, they didn't find any stolen

goods on Andrea,

and Richardson hadn't actually seen Andrea steal anything. So instead

of trying to prosecute Andrea for shoplifting, he had asked Maher to

issue a trespass warning, telling Andrea she'd be arrested if she came

back into the store. When he saw her again in January, he called the

police.

My cross was quick.

"Was Ms. Martin convicted for shoplifting merchandise in November from

Dress You Up?" No. "Was Ms. Martin even arrested for shoplifting

merchandise in November from Dress You Up?" No. "Do you have any

information to provide to the jury regarding whether Frank Derringer

raped and attempted to murder Andrea Martin's daughter, Kendra, last

February?" No.

I couldn't help but give a look to the jury after I finished my cross

of Richardson, just to make sure they got the point. I'd never seen

such a desperate defense.

My confidence began to feel misplaced when Lopez rose for redirect. "A

point of clarification, Mr. Richardson. You testified that you

couldn't actually see what Ms. Martin stole in November, but that you

were left with the impression that she was concealing something, is

that correct?"

"Yes. Like I said, she was carrying a large shopping bag and it looked

like her hand passed over it and she stuffed something in there, but I

couldn't actually see what it would have been."

Lopez used the old trick of looking at Richardson curiously, like she'd

just realized something for the first time. "Interesting. You say

that it looked like she 'stuffed' something in the bag, not that she

merely 'dropped' something. Why is that?"

Richardson thought a moment. "Well, just the way her arms moved. It

was like she was struggling with the bag."

"As if the object she were placing in the bag were relatively large?"

she asked.

This was getting ridiculous, so I piped up. "Objection, your honor.

Leading and vague."

"Sustained."

This shows why I rarely object at trial. Once the leading question has

been asked, the damage has been done if there's a rapport between the

questioning attorney and the witness. Even though my objection was

sustained, Lopez followed up by asking Richardson, "What size would you

estimate the object to be that you thought you saw Ms. Martin conceal

in the bag?"

Richardson's response was predictable. "Relatively large. Bigger than

a pair of earrings or something. Maybe a shirt or something bulkier

like that."

Lopez then moved to the table at the front of the courtroom where the

physical evidence that had been introduced lay. She picked up the

plastic bag containing Kendra's purse. "I'm showing you a purse that

has been marked as State's Evidence Three, which prior witnesses have

identified as Kendra Martin's purse, a gift from her mother Andrea. Is

it possible that you saw Andrea Martin hide this purse in her bag last

November in Dress You Up?"

"Sure, it's possible."

After Richardson left the stand, Lopez called Geraldine Maher, the

store manager who barred Andrea from Dress You Up. I had expected

Lopez to continue her questioning about the supposed theft incident,

although I couldn't see why it would matter if Andrea stole the purse

she gave Kendra from Dress You Up. But Lopez had something else in

mind.

"Ms. Maher, as the manager of Dress You Up, are you generally

knowledgeable about the merchandise that you stock in the store?"

"Of course. We're a fairly small store, so I take pride in knowing our

inventory well." Never put it past a retailer to take advantage of any

opportunity to get in a free plug.

Lopez picked up the purse again. "I'm showing you a purse that's been

marked State's Evidence Three. Has Dress You Up ever stocked a purse

like this one?"

"Yes. We've carried that purse. I believe it's an Esprit."

Lopez pretended to check the small cloth label sewed on the side of the

purse. "Correct indeed, Ms. Maher. You do know your inventory." The

Home Shopping Network banter was killing me. What was going on here?

Lopez continued. "Could this purse have been on your shelves last

November, when Kerry Richardson thought he saw Andrea Martin steal

something from the store?"

"Yes. We would have gotten that in around June. I think we may still

have a couple in the store. It's a relatively popular style."

"So you had this style in stock last October, is that correct?"

"That's right. June of last year until at least the after-Christmas

sales, and we may have one or two left still on clearance."

"Ms. Maher, do you recall contacting Staffpower Temporary Agency to

count Dress You Up's inventory last October?"

"Yes, I do. We do inventory twice a year, in April and October. I've

been using Staffpower for a few years now."

At that point, Lopez handed me a piece of paper I'd never seen before

and then approached Geraldine Maher with a copy of the same document.

Defense attorneys are not required to show their documentary evidence

prior to trial. As I scanned the paper to make sense of it, panic set

in. But there was nothing I could do, and I was left watching Lopez go

to work.

"Ms. Maher, I'm showing you a document I've marked Defense Exhibit

One. What is it?"

Maher responded, seemingly as oblivious as I was about where this was

going. "It's a letter from Staffpower notifying me of the individuals

they hired to conduct our inventory last October, with the amounts to

be paid to each of them for their work. We pay the lump total to

Staffpower to distribute and do wage withholding, but this acts as a

sort of itemization of the amount."

Lopez continued. "Please read for the jury the sixth name on the

list."

There it was. Even Geraldine Maher was surprised. "Oh, it's Frank

Derringer, or at least according to this."

"And do you have any reason to doubt the accuracy of that list?"

"No, I do not. If it says that a Frank Derringer worked on our

inventory, then I suppose he did."

"And, to be clear, an inventory requires the person doing the counting

to handle the merchandise, is that right?"

"Yes, generally. They'd need to move stock around to count it

properly."

That was enough for Lisa. "No further questions."

Lopez had just managed to defuse my most compelling piece of evidence,

Derringer's fingerprint on Kendra's purse. Renshaw had already

testified that Derringer had worked various jobs, including

inventories, through temp agencies. And now Geraldine Maher's

testimony gave a plausible explanation for how Derringer's fingerprint

ended up on

Kendra's purse, if the jury believed that Andrea either bought or stole

the purse from Dress You Up.

Judge Lesh denied my request for a recess, so I tried my best to

control the damage. "You testified, Ms. Maher, that the handbag

marked as State's Exhibit Three is a popular style of handbag, is that

right?"

"That's correct."

"Where would I go if I wanted to buy a handbag just like that one?" I

asked.

"Oh, any number of stores. Like I said, we've got a few left, but so

would most of the major department stores and other women's boutiques

that carry that brand of purse. It wouldn't be hard to find one."

"So Dress You Up is the not the exclusive seller of that purse in the

Portland area, is that right?" I asked.

"Far from it." Good.

"Can you tell from looking at State's Exhibit Three whether it

originated in your store or in any one of the many other retailers who

stock it?"

"No, I cannot."

"And you never actually saw Andrea Martin steal anything from your

store, let alone this purse, did you?"

"No, I did not."

"So the purse marked as State's Exhibit Three could have come from any

number of stores other than Dress You Up?" She agreed. There wasn't

much more I could do for now.

During the break, I called MCT from my office. Ray Johnson picked up.

It took me awhile to explain the connection that Lopez was trying to

draw between Derringer and Kendra's purse.

Ray wanted to make sure he got it right. "So one of Derringer's temp

jobs was doing inventory at Dress You Up?"

"Right."

"And Lopez was able to show at least a possibility that Kendra's purse

came from there?" he asked.

"Right," I said. "A possibility. We know that the store carried the

purse and that Andrea gave it to Kendra. Lopez was able to show that

Andrea was in the store a month before Christmas, and there's at least

a possibility that she stole something the size of a purse when she was

there."

"So what you need," he said, "is something showing that the purse came

from another shop."

"That's the idea," I said.

He clicked his tongue while he thought. "Alright. Walker and I are

still tied up on this Zimmerman letter, so I'll check with Forbes and

Calabrese. Someone will do it, though, and we'll let you know what we

find out."

When I got off the phone, I noticed Tim O'Donnell waiting for me in my

doorway. He looked annoyed that I hadn't noticed him during my phone

call.

"Hey, Kincaid, how's that trial going?"

I didn't see any point in lying. "Pretty crappy, actually. My best

evidence was this guy's print on the vic's purse. Turns out he had a

temp job doing inventory, so he's claiming an alternative explanation

for the evidence."

"Bummer," he said. "Anything new about the Zimmerman connection?"

I couldn't tell whether O'Donnell actually gave a rip about my case or

if he was faking it to find out if there was anything he needed to know

for his investigation into the anonymous letter.

"I've got until tomorrow morning to file papers to exclude any evidence

relating to the Zimmerman case."

O'Donnell looked concerned. "Have you talked to the boss about making

that motion?"

"No," I said. It hadn't dawned on me to consult the District Attorney

himself about my trial. In our large office, it was rare that we had

any direct contact with the boss, let alone on individual cases.

"Well," he said, "this is something Duncan would want to know about.

He's feeling the heat on this Zimmerman thing. The last thing he needs

is for one of his deputies out there trying to prevent a court from

hearing evidence supposedly exonerating Landry and Taylor."

"But, Tim," I said, "Lopez isn't trying to exonerate Landry and Taylor.

She's trying to get Derringer off by confusing the jury and trashing

MCT. That evidence has nothing to do with my case."

"Sam, I'm trying to help you out. How about joining the rest of us in

the real world? I don't get it. You're so fucking smart, but you're

acting like some rube on misdemeanor row who can't see the politics

here."

I knew the politics, but I hadn't connected them to my case. Duncan

Griffith ran for DA as an opponent of the death penalty who'd make sure

that the law was at least enforced even handedly against the truly

reprehensible. In short, he got it both ways. The libs liked him

because he talked the talk against the death penalty, but no one came

after him on it, because he said he'd enforce the law.

O'Donnell had more advice. "Jesse Taylor is the first scheduled

execution this state has seen in decades. And we put him on death row,

Sam. This is the center of the storm.

If he turns out to be innocent, Duncan's got well, he's got a major

problem. The only way he's going to make it through is if he's one of

the good guys making sure we know who killed Zimmerman. If one of his

deputies looks like she's part of a cover-up, he's toast. If you don't

go to him with this, I will. The Zimmerman case was mine, and this

shit that's going down now is a hell of a lot more important than some

loser like Derringer."

"Yeah? Well, that loser basically tortured a thirteen-year-old girl

and then left her to die. I don't see much of a difference between him

and Jesse Taylor."

He looked frustrated, but at least his response seemed earnest. "Sam,

I wasn't saying Derringer was a good guy. Hell, maybe I was too quick

to write it off as an Assault Three. But be pragmatic. The boss's

political exposure on this Zimmerman thing is huge. You at least need

to tell him before you try to keep Derringer from getting into it in

your trial."

He was right. "I'll talk to Duncan when I get out of trial today." He

started to walk away, but I couldn't leave it at that. "You know, Tim,

you could be a little more careful about how you handle things, too. I

don't think it would help the boss's political image if the newspapers

heard that the head of his major crimes unit short-shrifts

thirteen-year-old sex-crime victims and tells jokes about incest."

O'Donnell rolled his eyes at me. "You want to make it around here,

you're going to have to tame those emotions. This isn't personal,

Sam."

The truth was that I didn't know why I'd snapped at him. He was being

helpful, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him I appreciated it. "We

done here?" I asked.

"Yeah. Come get me when you're out of trial. I want to be there when

you talk to Duncan."

I couldn't see any reason for him to baby-sit me when I talked to

Duncan, other than to show his authority, but it wasn't worth fighting

about. He was the supervisor of major crimes, had prosecuted the

Zimmerman case, and was heading the investigation into the anonymous

letter. With all those legitimate reasons for him to be part of the

conversation with Duncan, I wouldn't be able to convince him or anyone

else that he was only stroking his ego.

I couldn't concentrate after O'Donnell left my office. So instead of

staring at the Derringer file with my last remaining minutes of the

break, I ran out to the burrito cart in front of the courthouse. The

combination of fat and spice was just what I needed before going back

to court.

Unfortunately, the bliss was short-lived. Lopez called her next

witness, a guy named Travis Culver.

I stood up to speak. "Sidebar, your honor?" Lesh nodded, and Lisa and

I approached the bench. It was my sidebar, so my turn to speak first.

"Your honor, it was my understanding that Ms. Lopez would be

prohibited from calling witnesses other than those included on the

defense or prosecution witness lists. Mr. Culver was not listed as a

potential state witness, and the defense did not include him on its

witness list, either. I don't even know who he is."

Lesh sounded concerned. "I thought I'd made myself clear, Ms.

Lopez."

"You were quite clear, your honor," Lopez said. "I assure you that the

defense is complying with your order. Mr. Culver is the custodian of

records for the Collision Clinic, and the person holding that position

was in fact included in the state's list of potential witnesses."

"Right," he said. "That's the auto detail shop. The parties

stipulated to the admissibility of the invoice, which is" Lesh fished

around for his list of exhibits "State's Exhibit Five. So if we've got

the stip, why is Mr. Culver here?"

"Because," Lisa said, "he has relevant testimony that goes beyond the

stipulation of the parties."

There was nothing I could do. Anticipating the need to lay the

foundation for the Collision Clinic, I had indicated on my witness list

that I planned to call the business's custodian of records. As a

result, Lopez was allowed to call that person without notifying me in

advance. If his testimony was irrelevant, I could object after the

questions were asked, but there was no way to find out in advance what

he intended to say.

We retook our seats, and the bailiff called Travis Culver to the stand.

Culver's coiffure was the classic white-trash mullet. If you're not

familiar with the name, you're familiar with the look: a short regular

cut in the front, but with length in the back reminiscent of the great

eighties hair bands. Also known as the shlong, since it is both short

and long. Truly versatile. Culver finished off the look with jeans

that had a brown undertone from wear and dirt, and a nascar T-shirt

commemorating a race-car driver killed a few years back.

Lopez started by showing Culver the Collision Clinic invoice. Culver

confirmed that he owned the business, had filled out the invoice, and

had given it to one of his employees, who then cleaned, painted, and

reupholstered Derringer's car. The work was done the day after Kendra

was attacked, and Derringer paid Culver eight hundred dollars cash.

"Mr. Culver, we've heard testimony suggesting that the work on Mr.

Derringer's car only enhanced the market value of the vehicle by a

couple of hundred dollars. Do you agree with that?" Lopez asked.

"Yeah," Culver said, "that's about right. On a car like that, guy

might get a quarter, maybe half, of his money back on resale, so what's

that? About two to four hundred dollars, I guess."

"Is it unusual for a customer to spend that kind of money in your shop?

Money that won't be reflected in the market value of the car?"

"Nope," he said. "Auto body and detail work hardly ever pays off. Some

guy bumps you in traffic and dents the back of your car. Might cost

twelve hundred dollars to fix, even though the dent doesn't lower the

market value by that much. Fact is, I stay in business because people

want their cars to look nice. This car here was in good shape

mechanically, but it looked like " He avoided the expletive. "Well, it

looked bad. Now it looks a lot better. Real clean inside and out.

Lots of people willing to pay eight hundred dollars for that."

"Another thing I notice about this invoice," Lisa said, "is that the

work was completed on a Sunday. Do you normally work on cars on

Sundays?"

"No, we're usually closed," Culver said. Now, that was interesting.

"Why was the work done on my client's car on that Sunday?" Lopez

asked.

"Well," he said, "he had come in earlier that week to talk about

getting the work done. We were actually supposed to do it the Friday

before, but I had to call and cancel on him. A couple of my guys were

out, so we were behind on the cars in the shop that week. So I told

him we'd do it on Sunday. I do that sometimes to keep us from getting

backed up."

"So, if I understand you correctly, Mr. Derringer arranged to have his

car overhauled several days before you actually completed it. In other

words, he didn't call you that Sunday morning to get the work done in a

rush. Is that right?"

"Right," he said.

"And, in fact, he had originally planned to have the work done two days

earlier, on that Friday, correct?"

"Correct," he said.

There went my theory that Derringer had gotten the work done to cover

up physical evidence.

Lesh must have felt sorry for me, because he saved me from having to

cross-examine Culver empty-handed at the end of an already humiliating

day. Even though we were only halfway through the afternoon session,

he called it quits. Apologizing to counsel, the jurors, and the

witness, he explained he had an afternoon obligation and that we'd have

to resume the questioning of Mr. Culver the following morning.

The problem, of course, was that nothing was going to change overnight.

As hard as I'd tried over the years, I still hadn't found a way to

alter reality. Someday I was going to figure it out. Unfortunately, I

wasn't able to do so before returning to my office.

O'Donnell had left a note on my chair. Don't forget. Get me before

you talk to Duncan. TOD.

When the two of us arrived at Duncan's office, I could tell that

O'Donnell must have called ahead, because Duncan didn't seem surprised

to see us. I wondered if the two of them had already agreed on how

this would end.

Duncan Griffith is one of those men who manages to look young even

though his hair is full-on white. He somehow maintains a year-round

tan in Portland, Oregon, and I'd wager a bet that the teeth in what

seemed like a permanent smile are capped. He was as pleasant on this

day as he always appeared to be.

"Ah, my two favorite deputies. Come on in, you two. Make yourselves

comfortable." Griffith gestured to a setting of inviting leather

furniture.

The law offices depicted on television are for the most part

outlandishly unrealistic. Instead of the mahogany shelves and fully

stocked bars enjoyed by fictional prosecutors, I, for example, work off

a yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch, and when I'm lucky I can

scrounge a Diet Coke off one of the secretaries who has a mini-fridge.

Duncan Griffith's office was an exception, however. The walls were

lined top to bottom with volumes of the state and federal case

reporters, and dark leather sofas welcomed whatever guests were

fortunate enough to gain entrance into the inner fortress.

I'd only been invited here twice before, once for my job interview and

once during my second week with the office. I had quickly learned that

calling a sandbagging defense attorney a scum sandwich on shit toast

wasn't within the range of what Duncan Griffith defined as acceptable

deputy DA behavior.

He was being much nicer to me now than during that last visit. After

Tim and I were seated, Griffith leaned back against his desk and

crossed his arms in front of him. "So, Sammie," he said, "the

Oregonian tells me that the Zimmerman matter has come up in this rape

case of yours. Where's that stand right now?"

I gave him a quick overview and told him I thought that Judge Lesh was

receptive to a motion to exclude any evidence relating to Zimmerman's

murder.

Before Tim could open his mouth, Duncan said, "You're a good lawyer and

an aggressive prosecutor, Sam, and I appreciate you going after this

guy a hundred and ten percent. But we all need to keep our eye on the

ball here. The greater good. As an office, we need to get to the

bottom of this Zimmerman thing and make sure we've got the right

people. We're talking about the death penalty here. A man's life is

at stake."

"I realize that, sir, and I understand that our office is involved in

the investigation into the anonymous Oregonian letter. But that case

doesn't have anything to do with mine. The defense is trying to take

advantage of the publicity surrounding the Zimmerman case to confuse

the jury."

Duncan still hadn't stopped smiling. "I understand that, Sam, but

remember what I said. It's about the greater good. If you file that

motion, the front page of the newspaper's going to say that you're

trying to squelch a man's attempt to get to the truth. And I won't

have you dragging us into a cover-up."

O'Donnell had clearly primed the pump. Griffith was regurgitating the

spiel that O'Donnell had given me earlier in my office.

"What exactly are you telling me to do, sir?" I asked.

"Don't make this adversarial, Sam. All I'm telling you to do is allow

this defense attorney to have her say. You might need to do some

rebuttal, let the jury see that the two cases are unrelated. Tim, you

can get her up to speed on the Taylor file, right?"

Tim nodded. "We've already gone over it, sir."

"Good," Griffith said. When I didn't stand up at his sign that we were

dismissed, he continued. "No one's telling you to play dead here, Sam.

You know my rule of thumb in trials is to always stay above the fray.

If the defense attacks the police, let 'em do it. Never helps your

case if you look like you've got a personal stake in the outcome. Trust

me, your jury's going to have more faith in you this way. And, in the

long run, this office benefits."

"The greater good," I said.

"Exactly."

I felt neither great nor good after I called Lopez and Lesh to tell

them I wouldn't be filing a motion to exclude Derringer's defense. I

felt depressed.

Lesh's response had been simple. "Hey, it's your case. Thanks for

letting me know."

Lopez, on the other hand, couldn't just accept the gift for what it

was. She was convinced I was somehow tricking her. As a result, what

should have been a thirty-second courtesy call turned into a

fifteen-minute inquisition about my intentions. Hell, if I was lucky,

maybe she'd at least lose a little sleep that night wondering what I

had in store for her in the morning. Truth was, I was seriously

considering cutting whatever plea I could get if things didn't turn

around.

I called MCT to see if they'd had any luck tracking down Kendra's

purse, but no one answered. I tried Chuck's pager and entered my cell

phone number in case he didn't call right away.

I was burnt out and dying to leave, but I checked my voice mail before

heading out. Among the usual junk was a message from Dan Manning.

"Samantha, it's Dan Manning from the Oregonian. I was calling to see

if you had any response to today's events at trial and the alleged

connection between your case and Jamie Zimmerman. Also, I'd like to

talk to you about whatever role you might have in the Zimmerman

investigation. Give me a call."

I wrote down the numbers that he rattled off and hit the button to save

the message as a reminder, but I couldn't summon the energy to call him

back. Besides, what was I going to say? I'm getting my ass handed to

me in trial and am going to have to cut a deal, but I think he's guilty

anyway? Not exactly spectacular spin.

The Jetta and I were crossing the Willamette River over the Morrison

Bridge when my cell phone rang. I recognized the number as Kendra's

and answered.

"You rang?" It was Chuck.

"You're at Kendra's?" I asked.

"Just pulled up. I guess you called Ray, trying to track down where

Kendra's purse came from?" he said.

"Yeah. Did he tell you why?"

"Not really," he said.

I struggled to think of the quickest way to describe what had been a

draining day in court. It's not easy to explain how the momentum of a

case can shift with just a few hours in trial. I had to jerk the

steering wheel back into line as I realized I'd been zoning out on the

lights reflecting off the river. I waited until I was over the bridge

and had merged onto the 1-5 to launch into it.

"The case fell apart today," I said. "Lopez brought in a guy from the

Collision Clinic. Turns out Derringer arranged to have the car work

done before the attack and the shop couldn't get it done until that

Sunday, so our theory about doing it to get rid of the physical

evidence is gone."

Chuck tried to assuage my concerns. "I don't think that part of the

evidence was that important, Sam. It made a nice icing to the cake,

but you should be alright without it."

"You're right that it wasn't the heart of the case. The problem is

that putting a theory out there and having it torn apart by the defense

is a lot worse than if we'd never floated it in the first place. It

gives the defense the momentum. And losing that piece of

circumstantial evidence makes the fingerprint even more important," I

said.

"I still don't know what the problem is there," he said.

I filled him in on Derringer's temp job doing inventory at Dress You

Up. "Without the print, all we've got is Kendra's ID and Renshaw's

testimony about the pethismograph." I had a tough time holding back

tears as I heard myself admit how bad things had turned in just one

day. "That's why I really need to know where Andrea got that purse.

How's it looking so far?"

"It's a long shot. I finally got hold of Andrea at work. She's not

supposed to get calls at the restaurant, so she was distracted and I

was having trouble explaining to her why it was important. Add the

fact that she freaked at the mention of Dress You Up, going off about

how they falsely arrested her well, you get the picture. Anyway, she

thinks she bought the purse at Meier & Frank. If not there, one of the

other big department stores, not Dress You Up. Problem is, she doesn't

have any credit cards and usually just pays cash."

"Any chance she's still got a receipt?" I asked.

"That's what I'm doing now. She says she usually just throws them out,

but sometimes she tosses them into a couple different drawers around

the house. I'm going to go through them. If I don't find anything,

I'll swing by the restaurant on the way home so she can sign a consent

form for me to get her old checks from the bank, just in case she

happened to pay by check. Other than that, I can't think of anything

else."

Neither could I. "OK, let me know if you find anything."

"You going to be OK tonight, Sam?" he asked.

Darn blasted tears were back again. "I don't know. It's just too

much, you know?"

"Then let me help you. If you need follow-up, I'm free."

What I really wanted was company. "Will you stay with me tonight when

you finish up?"

"Definitely. Easiest request I ever got from a DA. I'll call you on

my way out."

"And can you bring some pancakes?" I added. "The Hot-cake House makes

them to go."

Twelve.

It was almost midnight by the time Chuck got to my house, and we were

both exhausted. Not too exhausted to talk about the case while I

devoured my pancakes, or to have as good a round of hot and steamy sex

as a post-pancake lull will allow, but we were pretty exhausted all the

same.

Chuck had looked through the junk drawers at the Martin house, but, as

Andrea had thought, there was no receipt for the purse. Andrea signed

a release for her account information, and Chuck was going to check

with the bank in the morning for any checks that might match with the

purchase. He was also going to contact Meier & Frank to make sure they

stocked that purse before Christmas. That would at least verify

Andrea's recollection, and I could recall her to the stand along with a

Meier & Frank rep in rebuttal.

I must've killed the alarm the next morning, because I overslept. Even

though I let my hair dry in the car and parked at the expensive garage

across from the courthouse, I didn't have time for Starbucks. Now I'd

be having my ass handed me in trial with bad hair and office coffee.

Terrific.

When I ran into my office to grab my trial notebooks, I was greeted by

a nice big Post-it note on my chair: Sam Where are you? Don't bother

calling Lesh he knows you'll be late. Get down to Duncan's office

ASAP. TOD.

Now what? I grabbed my notebooks and took the stairs down two flights

to Duncan's office. I'd doubled my total number of visits there in

just two days. Not good.

When I arrived, Duncan's secretary waved me in and hollered, "Samantha

Kincaid's finally here."

Duncan sat alone at his desk. "Tim took off. Have a seat," he said.

"Sir, I'm sure this is important, but I'm still in trial," I said,

gesturing down with my head at the stack of books I was carrying for

court.

"Please, Sam, just have a seat. We called Lesh earlier."

I did as he said.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Duncan Griffith without a smile. He

looked worried. And mean. "Why didn't you tell me yesterday you had a

rotten case?" he asked.

My heart started to race as I struggled to collect my thoughts. Why

was he asking about my case again when we'd resolved everything

yesterday?

"First of all, I don't think it's a rotten case. The defense has had

some surprises, so it's no slam dunk, but I've still got a good enough

case to fight. Second, I was under the impression that we met

yesterday about the case as it relates to the Zimmerman issue. I

didn't realize that you wanted an update about the general status of

the trial."

"Sam, that kind of answer does squat for me right now."

I blinked and felt my lips separate but nothing came out. "Excuse me?"

I finally said.

"Jesus, Kincaid." Griffith shook his head at me. "Tunnel vision. A

real tunnel vision problem. You didn't get my point at all yesterday,

did you?"

"Yes, sir. Keep the eye on the ball. The big picture. The greater

good." Usually, I can manage to sound earnest even though I know I'm

being snide. This time, I just sounded snide.

"Damn it. Yes, the strength of your case matters when your bad guy's

telling everyone who will listen that he's the innocent victim of the

Keystone Kops and that some serial rapist is on the loose. It matters

even more when there's another guy on death row saying the same thing,

and a little old lady serving a life term backing him up. Jesus. You

made it sound yesterday like your guy was just taking advantage of the

publicity with Taylor. Now I've got to find out from the papers that

there's something to it."

Shit. I hadn't read the papers this morning, and I'd blown off

Manning's call last night. I decided it was better not to interrupt

Griffith's diatribe with information that made me look even more inept

and uninformed.

"Jesus, I started with the Softball, Kincaid, when I asked you about

your case. The bigger question is why the hell you didn't bother to

mention your little tryst with Chuck Forbes. You sat here in my office

and acted like this was a routine case with some incidental mention of

the Zimmerman matter. Now I've got this." He picked up a folded

Oregonian from his desk and slammed it down for emphasis.

When in doubt, bluff. It usually works. "Sir, I'm not sure how it

would have been relevant during our meeting yesterday for me to start

discussing my personal life, whatever that may be."

"And you still think that today?" he asked. Again with that damn

newspaper.

My only choice was to 'fess up. "I'm afraid I didn't get a chance to

see the paper this morning yet, sir. Like I said, I'm in trial, and I

was running late."

Griffith stared at me for a second. Then he started laughing.

"Oh. Well then, let me have the pleasure of being the first to

introduce you to the story that may very well end your career and mine.

Please, be my guest. Go over to the sofa if you'd like. It's quite

comfortable, and, I guarantee, that's quite an article. It might take

awhile."

I thought about rewarding the sarcasm by lying on the sofa as he

suggested, but I wanted to keep my job.

I unfolded the paper to a banner headline that read, Does Portland Have

a Serial Killer? A smaller line beneath it explained, Letter from "The

Long Hauler" Supports Theory Linking Current Sex Trial to Murder of

Jamie Zimmerman. There was a large photograph of a smiling Jamie

Zimmerman, with smaller booking photographs of Taylor, Landry, and

Derringer. The text below the pictures explained that, despite claims

of innocence, Taylor was on death row and Landry was serving a life

sentence for the rape murder of Zimmerman, and that Derringer claimed

that whoever killed Zimmerman must have committed the crime he was

accused of.

I had to read the article quickly, since Griffith was obviously growing

impatient:

Like the letter first disclosed by the Oregonian last week, the one

received yesterday arrived in an unremarkable white envelope bearing a

Roseburg postmark. The writer again claims that he and not Jesse

Taylor and Margaret Landry strangled Jamie Zimmerman. In this new

letter, however, the writer maintains that Zimmerman's murder was just

the beginning in what has become a string of grisly murders, scattered

throughout the Pacific Northwest and previously believed to be

unconnected. He also claims responsibility for a brutal rape that is

the basis of the trial of Frank Derringer currently being held in the

Multnomah County Courthouse. Calling himself the Long Hauler, the

writer identifies himself as a long-haul truck driver from Oregon whose

travels across the country have made it easy for him to kill five women

undetected.

I was surprised by the graphic detail reprinted verbatim in the paper.

At one point, the author explained that killing Zimmerman had ignited

an insatiable desire in him to kill. Six months after he strangled

Jamie Zimmerman, he couldn't withstand the temptation anymore, so he

picked up a prostitute at a truck stop in Ellensburg, Washington, and

strangled her with a leather belt while he orally sodomized her. I

kept reading.

Explaining his self-declared pseudonym, the writer says, "All the good

ones had a name. Son of Sam, Boston Strangler, Green River Killer.

Unless you think of something better, you can just call me the Long

Hauler."

In addition to detailed descriptions of the murders of Jamie Zimmerman

and four other women, the writer also describes his involvement in a

violent sexual assault upon a victim he refers to as "the girl who was

dumped in the Gorge last Feb[ruary]." He claims that, as he had done

prior to and since Zimmerman's murder, he went with a friend to look

for a prostitute to share.

He says, "I knew we were going to kill the girl when my friend couldn't

[achieve an erection]. He started working her over and it brought out

the urge in me. Maybe the Gorge is my lucky spot. That couple took

the fall for me after I did Jamie, and now the cops think some other

guy did the other girl. I guess the bad luck is that this time she

lived. (Ha-ha.)"

The writer's description of the incident closely matches the crime for

which Frank Derringer is currently on trial. Derringer is accused of

raping a thirteen-year-old girl and leaving her for dead in the

Columbia Gorge with an unidentified accomplice. During his trial,

Derringer has claimed to be the victim of a mistaken eyewitness

identification. Because of similarities between the offense and

Zimmerman's murder, Derringer has suggested that the crimes were

committed by the same person or persons.

I reached the end of the front page text of the feature story and

opened the paper to jump to the continuation. Apparently, the writer

gave detailed descriptions of the five murders, but the Oregonian was

declining to publish any potentially identifying information until law

enforcement officials verified its authenticity.

An exasperated sigh from Griffith reminded me that I was supposed to be

rushing. I closed the paper back to the front page and looked up at

him.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Was I disrupting your reading?"

"I was getting through it as quickly as I could," I said. "So the

paper agreed to keep the details quiet until we figure out if this

guy's for real?"

Griffith didn't hide his annoyance. "Yeah, IA's trying to find any

cases matching up to what this guy says. But I wouldn't concern

yourself with that right now."

I wanted to ask him why the bureau's Internal Affairs Division would be

investigating a potential serial killer, but I could tell Duncan wasn't

in the mood to answer any more of my questions.

"What are you willing to tell me about this thing with Forbes?" Duncan

snatched the paper from my hand and gave it a couple of hard creases,

exposing a smaller sidebar on the front page, then handed it back to

me. "That," he said for emphasis.

Dan Manning was a little shit. That was all I could think when I found

myself staring at the headline:

DA-DETECTIVE RELATIONSHIP CLOUDS DERRINGER CASE

The deputy district attorney prosecuting Frank Derringer is involved in

a romantic relationship with a lead detective in the investigation of

the murder of Jamie Zimmerman and the rape of which Derringer is

accused, the Oregonian has learned.

Samantha Kincaid of the Drug and Vice Division of the Multnomah County

District Attorney's Office is handling the current trial against

Derringer, who is accused of raping and attempting to murder a teenage

girl last February. The defense has raised the possibility that the

crime was committed by the person or persons who murdered Jamie

Zimmerman three years ago.

The Oregonian has learned that Detective Charles Forbes,

Jr." of the Major Crimes Team of the Portland Police Bureau, has spent

multiple nights with Kincaid at her home since the beginning of the

Derringer trial.

Forbes is a member of the team that investigated the case against

Derringer. He was also a central figure in the prosecutions of Jesse

Taylor and Margaret Landry, who have been convicted of Zimmerman's

murder. Forbes, the son of former Governor Charles Forbes, was the

only witness to statements by Landry that incriminated her and Taylor

in the murder.

When contacted for comment, Lisa Lopez, Derringer's lawyer, raised

concerns about the objectivity of the District Attorney's Office. "Mr.

Derringer has been trying to tell the police and the District

Attorney's Office that there is something seriously wrong here. One

girl is dead and another one brutally assaulted," Lopez said. "While

the real assailant runs free to write taunting letters to the media,

the Portland Police Bureau's Major Crime Team is so eager to close

cases that they're going after innocent people like Mr. Derringer. If

the prosecuting DDA is having a romantic relationship with this

particular detective, I have real questions about the fairness of the

process."

Ms. Kincaid did not return calls requesting her comments.

Little shit didn't begin to describe the enormousness of Manning's

shiftiness. He had clearly called late in the day and left an

innocuous message, betting I wouldn't call back. It always sounds

better when the media can say that someone didn't return calls.

"Duncan, if I had known, I would've returned his call. He didn't say

anything about this angle. You can listen to the message if you want

to. I saved it."

"Oh, that's great, Sam. That's really going to save my neck here.

"Hey, Oregonian, I want a retraction. Yes, my deputy's banging this

rogue detective, and yes, your reporter tried to call her about it

ahead of time, but it's really unfair that he wasn't clearer about his

angle." "

I guess it did sound a little whiny.

"Is there any way to deny the story, Sam?" he asked. He had calmed

down considerably and asked the question in a way that suggested he'd

already come to accept the answer.

"No, it's accurate," I said, still failing to comprehend how my

personal life had wound up on the front page of the paper and inside

Duncan Griffith's office.

Duncan walked around his desk and took a seat behind it. Maybe he

thought I'd blame the desk and not him for what he was about to do.

Maybe he just wanted a shield in front of him in case I became

hysterical.

"I'm taking you off the Derringer case. O'Donnell already notified the

defense and Judge Lesh this morning that the office was looking into

the information published in this morning's paper and that some changes

might be forthcoming. I'm going to put O'Donnell on the case. I

expect he'll be able to get an adjournment while we figure out what the

hell's going on. O'Donnell may need to consult with you on the file,

but you are officially off any case involving MCT. Do you have any

others?"

I wanted to walk out. No, I wanted to throw stuff at him, break a few

valuables in his impeccable office, and then walk out. Unfortunately,

I also wanted to keep my job. The reality was that I could still do

more good in this rotten office without the Derringer case than I'd do

at some private law firm fighting over money for energy and tobacco

companies.

"The Derringer case is my only MCT file," I said.

If someone had asked me the night before, I would've said I'd do just

about anything to rid myself of the case: I was going down in flames

and about to grovel for a plea. Now I wanted nothing more than to keep

my hand in the mix, at least in some small way.

"Duncan, I think it would be a good idea if O'Donnell and I met with

defense counsel together to cut a plea. If the defense thinks I'm

totally out of the picture, they'll think they've won. They won't want

to deal."

"Can't do it, Sam. You're out. And I'm going to make it damn clear to

O'Donnell not even to attempt to pressure a plea until IA tells us

where we are with this guy's letter. We got lucky that the Oregonian

withheld the specifics. That letter includes extremely detailed

descriptions of those murders. If IA verifies it, we've got a major

wing nut on our hands. "The Long Hauler." Jesus Christ, what a

fucking nightmare."

It's frustrating when people don't listen to you, but it's downright

infuriating when you know you're right.

"Why's IA involved?" I asked. "I thought Walker and Johnson were

leads on this."

Griffith shook his head. "No. Too much at stake now. The first

letter, anyone who read up on the Zimmerman case could've written it.

Looked like it wouldn't lead to anything, so the bureau thought it was

good enough to keep Forbes off it. If it turns out Landry and Taylor

are actually innocent, your boyfriend's in deep doo doo. Starts to

look like Landry was finally telling the truth when she said Forbes was

feeding her the details."

"But go back to what O'Donnell told the jury. Why would Chuck do that?

The governor's son can get through the ranks without framing people."

"See what I meant about bias, Kincaid? You're smart enough to see that

the whole governor's son angle cuts both ways. You could also say it

puts pressure on him to be a star, to stand out as his own man, make it

big in a way that no one could say it was because of the old man. And

hey, he probably thought she really did do it. He wouldn't be the

first cop to bend some rules to make a case stronger to get the bad

guys."

It did look different from that angle. Given what I'd seen good cops

do to help convict the guilty, why couldn't I believe that Chuck might

occasionally do the same? Even in high school, Chuck had resented the

inherent unspoken separation from his peers that came with being the

governor's son. If that pressure had been bad as a teenager surrounded

by the offspring of lawyers and doctors, what had it been like with

rookie patrol officers? If Chuck felt in his gut that Lan-dry had been

guilty and wanted to bring down a freak like Taylor, might he help her

along with a few details to shore up her story?

As I walked out of Duncan's office, I could barely stomach what I was

thinking. He was right. I couldn't be objective.

Since my regular caseload hadn't included MCT cases before the

Derringer file came along, you'd think life with my run-of-the-mill

drug and prostitution cases would have felt like a return to normalcy.

Instead, it just felt anxiety-ridden. I didn't think anything would

feel normal to me again until the bureau finished its investigation and