talking about. I told him I was just fucking with him, that the
picture didn't show his face or anything. But then he made me tell him
where Kendra's mom lived at so he could try to get the picture back."
I paused to tell the grand jurors about the key missing from Kendra's
purse and Andrea Martin's suspicion that some items were out of place
in the Martin home. I also showed them reports documenting the
break-in at my house, explaining that the photographs had been in Tommy
Garcia's possession until a few days ago.
"After you gave him Kendra Martin's address, did you ever talk to
Derrick Derringer again about the photograph?"
"Yeah. He told me I better get that picture back from Kendra. I've
been calling Kendra trying to do it, but Kendra will only talk on the
phone with me. She won't meet me anywhere, so I've been trying to
avoid Derrick." I mentally apologized to Kendra for doubting her.
"Haley, I want to show you another photograph now." I handed her the
DMV photo I had pulled of Travis Culver and reminded the grand jurors
that Culver was the owner of the Collision Clinic who had testified at
Frank Derringer's trial. "Do you recognize this man?"
"Sure, that's Travis," she replied.
"Do you know his last name?"
"Not before you told me. Street don't really care about last names,"
she said.
"How do you know Travis?" I asked.
"Regular out there on the street. Dates. You know."
"You mean he picks up prostitutes?"
"Yeah. The younger the better, it seems. I used to see him a lot more
about a year and a half ago. Guess I got too old for him and he moved
on."
"Have you seen him at all since Kendra Martin was attacked?" I
asked.
"Nope," she said. "Seems like he stopped coming around about that
time."
The grand jurors didn't have any questions, so I thanked Haley for her
testimony and excused her.
Next up was Travis Culver. I'd slapped the subpoena on him the day
before and received a call from an attorney within the hour. Lucky for
me, Culver had called the attorney he uses for the auto shop, a guy
named Henry Lee Babbitt who hung a shingle outside of his house and
called it a law office.
Since Henry Lee's usual fare was wills and uncontested divorces, he was
useless as a criminal defense lawyer. To begin with, I had to walk him
through the way grand jury subpoenas work. Culver'd be subject to
arrest if he failed to appear. Although he had the right to refuse to
respond to questions if he believed that the answers might incriminate
him, he had to show up, and he did not have the right to an attorney
during the grand jury proceedings. At most, Henry Lee could wait in
the hall outside the hearing room; Culver could ask for breaks if he
wanted to consult with his attorney at any time. You can see why the
defense bar says that grand jury proceedings are a prosecutor's best
weapon.
Henry Lee's request for an immunity deal was further proof of his
abject ignorance of criminal procedure. A good defense lawyer will
find out what the prosecution knows before even considering the
possibility of a deal. To do otherwise tips your hand. Henry Lee had
tipped his for good. I had told him only that I wanted to talk to
Culver about his testimony in the Derringer trial. In return, Henry
Lee had given up his client in the form of a hypothetical.
"Let's say hypothetically that I had a client who got wrapped up by
some bad guys into an ugly sexual incident, thinking the whole thing
was consensual?" he said. "And then what if, hypothetically, when it
turned out that the young woman hadn't in fact consented to this little
encounter, the client got blackmailed by the bad guys into a
cover-up?"
Henry Lee had watched way too many bad TV shows, and now I had even
better questions for Travis Culver.
Culver looked terrified as he took the chair in the middle of the grand
jury room. He was sleep-deprived and disheveled, and I could smell the
fear in his sweat as he passed.
At least Henry Lee had given him one piece of good advice; Culver
invoked his rights as soon as we got past his name and address.
"Do you know Frank or Derrick Derringer? Isn't it true that you
overhauled Frank Derringer's car on a Sunday, on short notice, to get
rid of physical evidence? Do you use the services of teenage
prostitutes? Did you and Frank Derringer rape and beat Kendra Martin
and then leave her to die in the Gorge?" That last one was what you
call a compound question, but no one was there to object to it, and
Culver wasn't going to answer anyway, so what the hell?
I kept going. "Isn't it true that you paid Derrick and Frank Derringer
to stage a sexual assault upon a young girl for your pleasure? And
that when, unbeknownst to you, the violence turned out to be real, they
threatened to reveal your identity unless you cleaned out the car and
offered false testimony in Frank Derringer's defense?" Another
horrendously compound question, but it worked. Culver was clearly
thrown off. I wish there was a way for the court reporter to
transcribe the look on a witness's face. This one said, How the hell
do you know all that? I wanted to respond, Your stupid attorney pretty
much told me, but I didn't.
Culver looked like he was thinking about answering the question but
then gave me the standard response. "On the advice of counsel, I
refuse to answer on the ground that it might incriminate me."
When I thought the grand jury had the gist, I excused Culver and
brought in my final witness, Lisa Lopez.
"On behalf of the grand jurors and myself, thank you for coming, Ms.
Lopez. I know how busy you are. You were the public defender assigned
to represent Frank Derringer, is that correct?"
"Yes. As you and I have discussed, it is highly unusual and extremely
questionable that you have brought me here by subpoena, and I have
appeared only on your assurances that you are seeking an indictment
against Derrick Derringer, and that my testimony will not be used to
secure new charges against my client, Frank Derringer."
Securing Lisa's presence here at all had required substantial
maneuvering. When I had explained the situation to her at her office,
after hours, she had immediately balked, citing attorney-client
privilege, work-product privilege, the duty of loyalty, and the duty of
zealous representation. She seemed offended when I responded, "Ethics,
schmethics," so ultimately I'd had to convince her that helping me out
was both ethically permissible and morally required. After lengthy
negotiations, she finally accepted service of the subpoena and promised
not to rat me out to my boss. The deal was that I'd ask only a few
questions, which we agreed upon beforehand. In response, she would
provide the exact answers we'd rehearsed in advance, including the
long-winded caveat she'd just provided as an introduction to her
testimony.
I continued the questioning as planned. "In your defense of Frank
Derringer, one theory you presented at trial was that the crimes
against Kendra Martin were committed by whoever killed Jamie Zimmerman,
is that right?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Ms. Lopez, I'm handing you a transcript of your opening statement in
the Derringer trial. Please read for the grand jurors the highlighted
passage."
She read from the transcript:
"The wrongdoing that has brought Kendra Martin, Frank Derringer, and
all of us together began about four years ago. Four years ago,
Portland police officers found the body of another troubled young girl
named Jamie Zimmerman in the Columbia Gorge. Jamie wasn't as lucky as
Kendra. She was murdered strangled after being raped and beaten. Like
Miss Martin, Jamie was a drug addict who supported her habit through
occasional prostitution. Like Miss Martin, she was raped and
sodomized. Police found Jamie's badly decomposed body less than a mile
from where Kendra Martin was located. Ms. Kincaid mentioned that
whoever committed this crime took Kendra's purse. Well, guess what,
ladies and gentlemen? Whoever killed Jamie Zimmerman took her purse
too, and it was never recovered."
I saw some of the grand jurors flip back into their notes, asking
themselves the same question I'd asked myself three days ago. "Ms.
Lopez, how did you know that Jamie Zimmerman's purse was taken and
never recovered? The police were unaware of that fact until just days
ago."
"I refuse to answer on the ground that the information is protected by
the attorney-client privilege and the work-product privilege," she
responded.
"Ms. Lopez, you understand that the attorney-client privilege protects
only information obtained in the course of communications between you
and a client, is that correct?"
"That's correct, counselor."
"The work-product privilege, on the other hand, applies to any
information you obtain during the course of working as an attorney on
behalf of your client. In other words, it covers not only
communications between you and your client but also information you
derive from research or interviews of third parties. Is that a fair
summary of the privilege?"
"Yes, counselor."
"It would be a violation of your professional ethics, wouldn't it, Ms.
Lopez, to assert a privilege that you did not actually believe covered
the information requested from you?" I asked.
"That's correct. I would not assert a privilege unless I had a
good-faith belief that the privilege applied to the requested
information."
"I want to be very clear here, Ms. Lopez." I paused for emphasis. "I
have asked you how you knew that Jamie Zimmerman's purse was taken from
her when she was killed. And you are refusing to respond not just on
the basis of work-product privilege, but also on the basis of
attorney-client privilege. Is that correct?"
"Yes, it is," she responded.
"I understand and respect your position, Ms. Lopez. Thank you for
your time," I said, excusing her.
When I announced that I had no further witnesses, the grand jurors'
questions began to fly. Was I arguing that Frank Derringer had killed
Jamie Zimmerman? How could that be, when we knew for certain that he
didn't kill at least two of the other women described in the Long
Hauler letter? Did I think Derrick Derringer was in on it? What
should they do about Travis Culver? Did this mean that Detective
Forbes coached Margaret Landry's confessions?
"I am asking you to indict Derrick Derringer on the following charges.
First, statutory rape based on Haley Jameson's testimony that Derrick
Derringer has had sexual intercourse with her. She is only sixteen
years old, and the photograph you saw corroborates her testimony.
Second, obstruction of justice and perjury for offering false testimony
on behalf of his brother, Frank Derringer. Third, conspiracy to rape
and murder. He may not have been present at the time that Kendra
Martin was attacked, but you have heard evidence suggesting that the
Derringer brothers conspired to rape and kill Kendra Martin to send a
message to other girls on the street that they'd better make their
payments, one way or the other.
"I am not presenting any charges relating to any of the murders
described in the Long Hauler letter, including the murder of Jamie
Zimmerman. Nor am I requesting charges against Frank Derringer or
Travis Culver." Double jeopardy protected Frank Derringer from being
charged again with the attack on Kendra, and Culver couldn't be
indicted by this grand jury, since he'd been brought here under the
compulsion of a subpoena. "I understand that it is difficult to
reconcile my theory of the charges against Derrick Derringer with some
of the extraneous evidence. The question for you to resolve is
whether, despite those complications, you believe a jury could find
Derrick Derringer guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."
I had blocked off the rest of the grand jury's afternoon so they would
not feel pressured in their deliberations. I gave them my pager number
and asked the foreperson to beep me when they'd reached a decision.
I passed Tim O'Donnell in the hallway on the way back to my office.
"Hey, Kincaid, I was just looking for you. Where you been all
morning?"
"Went over to JC-2 for a couple of arraignments. Crazy over there," I
said, looking down to make sure that everything was tucked away neatly
in my file.
So I wasn't sharing the sandbox anymore. Big deal. Playing well with
others isn't all it's cracked up to be. Besides, technically speaking,
I had done everything I was told to do. Frank Derringer was free, and
my actions had in no way jeopardized the exoneration of Margaret Landry
and Jesse Taylor.
As it turned out, O'Donnell still thought we were sharing.
"Just got back from OSP," he said, taking a bite of the bagel he was
carrying around. The Oregon State Prison was nastiness incarnate, but
O'Donnell was probably well past letting it affect his appetite.
"Landry and Taylor passed their polys. FBI guy says no signs of
deception to the three key questions."
The polygrapher had asked Taylor and Landry whether they abducted or
killed Jamie, wrote the Long Hauler letters, or knew the Long Hauler.
Passing the polys helped clear the way for their release.
For a second, I thought I felt a pang of guilt for not telling
O'Donnell what I'd done, but I decided it was hunger brought on by
watching him eat his bagel. The moment passed when he started chewing
with his mouth open.
"So what happens next?" I asked. As far as I was concerned, what
happened next was a big fat indictment against Derrick Derringer, but I
kept that to myself.
"Duncan's on a call to the governor now," O'Donnell said. "The only
question is whether to get Landry and Taylor out through the courts or
have the governor pardon them. Looks like a pardon, though. The
courts will take too long, and there's no guarantee we could even get
them out that way without an error at trial."
Believe it or not, what's known as a "mere" showing of innocence is not
a legal basis for setting aside a lawfully obtained conviction.
Instead, the defendant has to point to an error during trial that
affected the result of the case. Illegally seized evidence introduced?
Public defender fell asleep? Then you might have a chance at reversal.
But if the procedures were lawful, it's pretty much impossible to set
aside a jury's guilty verdict, even if you subsequently demonstrate
your innocence. Respecting the finality of the guilty verdict is the
only way to keep the courts from being flooded by convicts' endless
claims of innocence. Without a procedural error, Taylor and Landry had
a better chance of release through the governor's intervention than in
a court of law.
"Is Jackson willing to issue the pardon?" I asked.
"Looks like it. We've talked about a stipulation of police misconduct
as the trial error, but Duncan and Jackson are worried about a beef
from the police union," he said.
"Was Landry poly graphed about that? What did she say about Chuck?"
"Nada. The polygraph only covered the ultimate issue of factual
innocence. The examiner was worried about adding too many
questions."
The greater the number of material questions you put in a poly, the
higher the risk of either false signs of deception or inconclusive
results. So much for using modern technology to find out if the man
I'd been sleeping with was lying his ass off.
"Oh, and the FBI finished its profile. Pretty much what we expected,"
he said.
"Any theory as to why the guy wrote the letters now, after all these
years?" I asked.
"Probably because of the media attention. He might not have come out
on the Taylor stories alone, or maybe he would've waited until after
the execution. But the theory is that the combo of the Taylor and
Derringer stories was too much for this guy to resist. The profiler
compared it to the Unabomber sending out his manifesto after Tim
McVeigh stole his thunder."
"So how come we haven't heard anything from him since?" I asked.
"FBI says that's the kicker," he said. "Usually, a communication like
that is followed up with a body or at least more taunts. It's possible
there's another one out there, and he's waiting to see if we'll find it
on our own. Another possibility, of course, is that this guy's got his
own way of operating. Wait and see, I guess. Anything else on your
end?" he asked.
Oops. Now I was going to have to be a hypocrite on that whole lying
thing. "Nope," I said, mentally crossing my fingers. "The victim
understands what's going on. The family won't be making any statements
to the media. They just want to be kept in the loop." The truth was
that Kendra and her mom were so grateful for Kendra's continued
anonymity that they'd never contemplate making a statement to the
media.
But seeing as how I was already lying to Tim's face, there was no real
harm in letting him think the Martins might embarrass him publicly if
he dropped the ball.
I might not play well with others, but I was getting pretty good at
faking it.
My pager finally buzzed as I was taking a plea in Judge Weidemann's
courtroom.
"A problem, Ms. Kincaid?" Weidemann inquired, peering down over his
half-moon glasses. I was surprised that he was paying enough attention
to the proceedings to notice that I'd glimpsed down at the device
clipped to my waistband.
"No, sir," I responded. "Just waiting for a grand jury decision, your
honor."
"Not too much suspense to be found there. Who's today's ham sandwich?"
he responded. The defendant and his attorney, Frankie LoTempio, got a
laugh out of that one. A running joke among criminal defense lawyers
is that grand jury proceedings are so one-sided that grand jurors would
indict a ham sandwich if asked to by the prosecutor. The way I saw it,
if prosecutors were doing their jobs and only asking for indictments
that were warranted, grand jurors should be indicting all the cases
given to them. I doubted that Weidemann and LoTempio wanted to hear my
view, though.
"Well, seeing as how they're the grand jurors and I'm a judge, let's
finish up here before you head on up to them, if that's acceptable to
you, Ms. Kincaid?" Weidemann asked.
"Of course, your honor," I said, reminding myself once again that
displays of ingratiating deference come with the territory when you're
a trial lawyer. The rest of the sentencing was predictable, given
Weidemann's Solomon-like approach. I recommended an upward departure
from the sentencing guidelines, mentioning a few facts I'd noted in the
file that were mildly aggravating some packaging materials, a tattoo
hinting at a gang affiliation, the defendant's choice words for the
arresting officer. Then LoTempio cited a few lame reasons for
requesting a downward departure from the sentencing guidelines. In the
end, Weidemann applied the guideline sentence. The sentencing
guidelines provided 99 percent of all drug sentences and left little
discretion for the judge. Weidemann, though, had to feel like he was
doing something important, so everyone who appeared before him played
along.
When we finished, I ran up to the grand jury room on the seventh floor
and knocked on the cracked door before pushing it open. "You all
done?" I asked.
The foreperson, a seventy-year-old man in a T-shirt that said I still
love my harley handed me the slip of paper. A single check mark told
me they had true-billed the requested indictment by a unanimous vote.
"Some of us wanted to know if we'd be able to find out what happens in
the paper," he said.
"Oh, I think you can count on that," I said.
"Go get 'em, Tiger," he said. "And watch out for yourself."
Maybe grand jurors are a prosecutor's conspirators after all.
I had wasted no time getting the paperwork for the indictment to Alice
Gernstein. I thought I'd have to sneak it through while O'Donnell was
in court, but I got lucky. His legal assistant mentioned that
O'Donnell had left early to head down to his fishing cabin. The
superstar of office paralegals,
Alice had Derrick's warrant in the system by the following morning.
As it turned out, the rush hadn't done me a damn bit of good, because
three days later, Derringer still hadn't been picked up.
The plan was to find Derrick without tipping him off to the warrant.
Once he was in custody, I'd arraign him, confess my sins to Duncan, and
let the chips fall where they may. The arrest might force my boss and
the bureau to come up with a theory that explained all the evidence,
not just the evidence they liked.
I didn't say it was a great plan, just a plan.
The plan was looking even lamer now that I couldn't get even the first
step off the ground. I'd called in my markers with four different pals
in the Southeast district, but they hadn't seen Derringer at his house
or work all weekend.
At one point, I picked up the phone to call Chuck, but I quickly
replaced the handset. Since the showdown at my house, I must have done
this at least a dozen times.
Grace was always good at strengthening my resolve, so I asked her to
meet for lunch at a bistro that was halfway between the salon and the
courthouse. Once we'd placed our orders, I filled her in on my plan.
She wasn't pleased. "You realize, don't you, that you may very well
get fired over this."
It didn't sound like a question, but I answered anyway. "I sort of
figured that if Duncan tried to fire me, I'd use the grand jury
transcripts as leverage."
"And how, exactly, will the transcripts give you any leverage?" she
asked.
"The press looks at the JC-2 calendar every day to see who gets
arrested. When Derrick finally gets arrested, the media will start
asking questions, so Duncan will at least have to keep investigating
the Derringers and find out how they're involved with the Long Hauler.
If he tries to bury it and get rid of me, I could hint that I might
release the information presented to the grand jury."
We were momentarily distracted by the arrival of our food. Or, to be
more accurate, by the arrival of our extremely attractive waiter.
Apparently having sex on a semiregular basis over the last month had
altered my cognitive priorities.
"I thought grand jury proceedings were secret," Grace said, as we both
admired our waiter's extremely attractive departure.
"They are. Doesn't mean Duncan won't worry about the threat.
Prosecutors have been known to leak grand jury information when it
helps them. Look at Ken Starr," I said.
"So your big plan is a bluff?"
"I'm not sure about that, Grace," I said. "I think I'd actually do it
at this point. I mean, they convicted Landry and Taylor based mostly
on the fact that Landry knew things no one but the killer could know.
Now those same defendants are being released, and Frank got his case
dismissed, because the Long Hauler knows things no one else could know.
But it turns out that Frank had information too. How could he have
known Jamie Zimmerman's purse was stolen unless he was involved
somehow? And the Derringers' involvement in teen prostitution is just
too coincidental. I think Duncan will have to pursue it once I force
the issue with Derrick's arrest. If he tries to ignore it, I don't
have a problem with making sure that the press doesn't let him."
"And what does Chuck think about your plan?" she asked.
"He doesn't. I haven't told him."
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.
"Look, I realize that I might've had more pull with Griffith if I
hadn't been fooling around with Chuck." I paused. "To be honest,
Grace, I don't know what to think. I mean, I seriously doubt that
Chuck coerced a confession out of Margaret Landry, but what if he did?
That cocky independence of his could translate into some questionable
police tactics."
"Or he could be a perfectly honest cop, Sam. I thought it was that
cocky independence that appealed to you in the first place.
"No, I know. I just want to make sure that my judgment's clear on this
one."
"That's so unlike you, Sam. You're always so quick to say you're a
good judge of character. That every egg's good or bad, and you can
tell right off the bat."
"That is what I always say," I confirmed. "But what did Roger turn out
to be?"
"Well, blow me over. You're beginning to sound like someone who's
willing to accept some gray areas in her life."
I half smiled.
"And how's Lucky Chucky taking it?" she asked.
"He's not I mean, I haven't exactly explained it to him. In fact,
we're not actually speaking at the moment, I don't think. Which is a
bit inconvenient, because I want him to go pick up Derrick
Derringer."
There went that eyebrow again.
"And I miss him," I added.
Fifteen.
Before I left for the day, I checked in with my Southeast Precinct pals
to see if they'd had any luck, but there was still no sign of Derrick
Derringer. It's hard to arrest someone when you've asked the few
uniformed patrol officers working on it not to do anything that might
tip the suspect off, like knock on his door or ask for him at work.
I thought again about calling Chuck on my way home, but I held myself
back. I'd thought the evidence through backwards and forwards, but it
kept coming back to him. Either he'd coerced a confession out of
Margaret Landry, or somehow she'd managed to squeak through the
polygraph while someone else wrote letters to the Oregonian in an
attempt to exonerate her someone who had access to details about
unsolved crimes.
But something was bothering me about the letters too. It seemed
peculiar that the Long Hauler had confessed to every strangling case in
the Northwest Regional Cold Case Database that didn't involve DNA
evidence. Why did all the killings happen to occur in the handful of
states that cooperated in the database? And what were the odds that
every strangling without DNA in those states had been committed by the
Long Hauler? The perfect correlation struck me as odd. But every time
I felt like I was close to putting my finger on the missing piece, I'd
come back to the obvious: maybe Chuck just wasn't the person I thought
he was.
So I hadn't called him. I decided that if Derrick didn't get picked up
tonight, I'd call in sick tomorrow and sit outside his house until he
came home.
Maybe if I hadn't gotten so caught up in fantasizing about Derrick's
impending arrest scene, I would've noticed when I opened the door that
Vinnie hadn't waddled up to meet me. It wasn't until I was locking it
behind me and realized I didn't hear the alarm beeping that I
registered the deja vu. Bracing myself for another crack on the head,
I heard a familiar voice, the one that had called my cell phone the
night I left Grace's. "Welcome home, Samantha."
The good news was I'd managed to find Derrick Derringer. The bad news
was he was standing behind me with a very large gun.
"Why don't you join us in the living room?" He waved his gun to
indicate that I should walk in front of him.
The bad news got worse. Tim O'Donnell was tied to my Mission-style
chair, Frank Derringer sat on my sofa with the remote control, and
Vinnie was whimpering, presumably relegated to the pantry again.
I noticed, though, that Derrick was pacing behind the sofa, and Frank
was chewing the cuticle of his right thumb.
They were nervous, and I tried to take advantage of it by faking
confidence.
"Nice to see you were enjoying a little TV. Anything good on? I try
to stay away from the reality shows myself," I said.
Derrick wasn't amused. "Maybe that explains why she didn't listen to
you, Tim," he said, glancing at O'Donnell, who looked truly terrified.
"Has trouble with reality. Now, if I were you, sweetheart, I'd shut
the fuck up and have a seat."
"Stop it, Sam." A puddle under my Mission-style chair and spots on
O'Donnell's pants suggested that things had already gotten ugly before
my arrival. "This is some serious shit."
Derrick laughed at him. "Figure it out, ass-wipe. This bitch don't
listen, not to you, not to anyone. But you had to tell us you'd handle
everything, you'd get it all taken care of. But what the fuck happens?
Nimrod here," he said, gesturing to his little brother, "gets his case
dismissed, and I wind up under indictment. Well, I'm through letting
you and Frankie fuck this shit up. This shit ends tonight. My way."
"Look, I got you in just like you wanted," O'Donnell whined. "You said
you'd let me go if I was telling the truth about knowing her alarm
code. Let me out of here, and I won't say a word."
All that money for my super deluxe alarm, down the drain. If I got out
of this mess, I'd be smart enough not to use the security code from
work as my home password.
Derrick laughed again. "What are you gonna do, Tim, call a judge and
say I broke my word? This ain't some plea bargain, counselor. You
don't get to walk just 'cause you flipped on someone."
"Jesus, Derrick, I've done everything you wanted!" O'Donnell was
practically whimpering.
"No, you did everything you wanted!" Derrick was pointing the gun at
him now. "I thought the Zimmerman girl was behind us, and now dumb
fuck here goes and does it to some other girl, and you say you'll take
care of it again, but I'm the one who winds up getting fucked in the
ass."
O'Donnell was blowing it. The Derringers had been showing signs of
doubts about their plans, but now Tim was getting Derrick wound up, and
Derrick was reverting to his aggressive mode. I had to find a way to
make Derrick anxious again.
"Look, Derrick," I said, speaking very slowly. "I don't know what's
going on between you and Tim here, but killing us will only make things
worse. There's no murder beef on you right now. You kill us, and
you're going to feel heat like you never knew before on what do you
have, a few forgeries or something? Don't do this."
It didn't work. Now the gun was pointed at me. And Derrick was still
ranting. "Don't you pull that shit with me. You know exactly what's
going on here, and that's the whole problem now, isn't it? You
couldn't let it alone. You got a major hard-on for this case and
couldn't let it drop. Now this dumb-fuck DA's calling me, telling me
you got a fucking indictment against me."
I couldn't stop to figure out how O'Donnell knew about the indictment
or why he would tell the Derringers.
"Derrick, listen to me. The indictment was a bluff. Grand jurors will
indict anyone the prosecutor tells them to indict. I just wanted you
picked up so the police would talk to you about the case. I don't have
any evidence against you or your brother." I could tell he was
beginning to tune in, so I talked a little faster.
"Here's what we're going to do. Tim, as a supervisor at the
District Attorney's Office, you are on official notice that I am hereby
resigning from my position as a deputy district attorney. Derrick,
give me some money. A dollar, whatever, and tell me you want to talk
about your legal problems. Attorney-client privilege will protect
everything you say to me, OK? Let me talk to you about this."
Derrick was looking at me, not saying anything.
Frank couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Derrick, give it to her," he
said.
"Shut up, Frank," Derrick said. "She's full of shit, and she's gonna
die, so I don't give a shit about privilege."
"Think about it, Derrick." Frank was beginning to sound desperate.
"Just in case something goes wrong, the judge won't let her rat on
us."
"Yeah, well, nothing's going wrong," Derrick retorted, clicking the
safety off his gun and pointing it at me. "You're the one who leaves
people alive who are supposed to be dead, not me."
"Stop! It's not supposed to happen till after eight!" Frank yelled.
Hearing they'd apparently penciled in my death for a specific time made
me dizzy. Luckily, I seemed to have found an ally in Frank. He fished
a dollar out of the front pocket of his jeans and asked if that would
work for both of them.
"Derrick, do you accept my representation?" I asked.
"Sure, what the fuck? Three times I went down, I wanted to kill my
lawyers. Guess I can fulfill my wish."
I always wondered what it would be like to go into private practice.
This wasn't what I pictured, but I offered my advice anyway.
"Frank's got a free ride on anything that happened with Kendra Martin.
The trial started, so double jeopardy protects him. And there's no
physical evidence to link you to anything, Derrick. Not that I'm
saying you did anything, because I don't know that you did, of course.
And, on Zimmerman, two people have already been convicted, so that
pretty much creates reasonable doubt for anyone else the State tries to
charge down the line."
He was thinking about it, I could tell. What I couldn't tell was
whether his brain was big enough to comprehend it all.
"Nice try," he said, "but you left out my fucking eyewitness over
here."
"Your brother?" I asked. "Frank's not going to turn you in, are you,
Frank?"
This pissed Derrick off for some reason. He said, "I told you she was
full of shit, Frank. Don't pretend like you don't know what's going
on, bitch. My first mistake was letting Master Crime Fighter here live
when it turned out he was a DA and not some salesman from Idaho like he
said. Dumb and Dumber here meet each other in a chat room. So one day
Frankie tells me he knows a furniture salesman from Idaho who's willing
to pay big for a gang bang on a young' un We set him up with Jamie,
and next thing you know the girl's dead and, lo and behold, the
salesman's a DA. Should have killed you then, O'Donnell."
"Frank's the one who killed her, Derrick, not me," O'Donnell said.
"He's the one who got out of control. Luckiest thing that ever
happened to you was me being on call when her body was found. I got
you guys out of that jam, and I've been getting you out of this one."
O'Donnell was getting Derrick riled up again. "That's bullshit, man!
You helped yourself out on that first one, but now you've been screwing
us."
"Tim, you were involved in this and then told Landry what to say?" I
asked, trying to follow the conversation between the two of them.
"That's how she knew everything about Jamie?"
"I don't know how she knew, Sam, I always assumed it was Forbes. But I
ran with it and got the convictions, didn't I, Derrick? And, even
though we were supposed to be even after that, I've been trying to help
Frank out ever since. When he got popped in Clackamas County, it was
me who told him to argue consent instead of that stupid alibi. And it
got him a damn good plea deal, didn't it? I've been trying to get him
out of this one, too. I used information from confidential police
databases to write those Long Hauler letters. Even tonight, I've done
everything you asked. You wanted me to leave a message for Sam, I did
it. I got you the alarm code. I've helped you."
Tim obviously didn't care anymore about lying to me; he was doing
whatever he could to save himself before the Derringers killed me. His
pleas hadn't seemed to work.
"And now I'm under fucking indictment," Derrick said. "So it's time to
put this thing to rest."
"What message? I didn't get any message." I was frantically stalling
for time before they could implement whatever plan they had in mind.
"Yes, you did, and the police will find it with your bodies," Derrick
said.
Frank went into the kitchen and pushed a button on my answering machine
with his knuckle. I heard Tim's voice say, "Sam, it's Tim O'Donnell. I
just wanted to make sure we're still on for tonight to talk about the
case. If I don't hear from you, I'll be at your house around eight.
See ya."
Frank came back in, looking very proud of himself. "See,
Tim tells us that the FBI's waiting for the Long Hauler to make a big
splash. So he's going to come here tonight to kill you both."
Derrick laughed. "Yeah, Tim. Thanks for the imaginary friend. It was
brilliant. He'll take care of the two of you, and down the road we'll
take care of Haley and the Martin girl after we've turned them out for
a few more months. They'll just be a couple of dead prostitutes."
"Yeah, maybe the Long Hauler can write a letter about it," Frank added,
laughing with his brother.
They were psychopaths, but I had to give them credit. They were smart
psychopaths. My head was reeling. There was no Long Hauler. O'Donnell
had access to the Northwest Regional Cold Case Database. He'd written
the letters, carefully selecting details only from cases that lacked
DNA evidence. He'd probably mailed them when he was out of town at his
fishing cabin.
"Frank, Derrick," I said. "It doesn't matter that Tim was there when
Jamie died. There's a rule that says a co-conspirator's testimony
alone isn't enough to convict. Even if Tim testified against you, the
State would need other evidence to corroborate the testimony. There
isn't any. Anyway, he's the last one who's going to turn you in. It
implicates him too."
O'Donnell finally clued in. "She's right, Derrick," he said. "I'd
never testify against you, but even if I did, the rule she's talking
about would keep there from being any case."
The tag team approach seemed to be working. "You're better off blowing
town than killing us," I said. "You commit a double murder, and you're
looking at the death penalty. They won't just assume the Long Hauler
did it. They'll check for copycats, scour the files we were working
on. They'll find the pictures I have of you with Haley. They'll find
Travis Culver.
Once the police are done fishing around, you'll wind up on death row.
As it is, you can bail."
Derrick thought about it for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Nice
effort, but our previous counsel here already gave us some advice. I
tried like hell to get those pictures back to be safe, but O'Donnell
here tells me they don't show much. Hell, my face ain't even in 'em.
As for Culver, he'll be shot during a robbery gone bad at the Collision
Clinic."
"Derrick," O'Donnell said, "don't you think the police are going to put
it together? A witness, the DA, and the victim in Frank's trial all
turn up dead? Don't do this, man."
They needed to see that their plan was starting to fall apart. "The
police will find the transcript of the grand jury testimony against
you," I said. "They'll draw the same conclusions I did. Right now,
there's not enough proof, but with two dead DAs they'll put it
together. And the grand jury testimony will be admissible in court if
any of the witnesses are dead."
"What grand jury testimony?" Derrick asked. "Tim, you said there was
no record of a grand jury testimony. Is there or isn't there? Don't
you fucking lie to me!" he yelled, back-handing O'Donnell with the
gun.
Tim's head jerked to one side with the blow. When he sat back up,
blood was running from a cut beneath his right eye. "We don't have
court reporters for normal grand jury sessions, but you can request one
if you want to keep a record."
Derrick smacked him again in the same place, bursting the cut open even
wider. "Now you fucking tell me, man!" He pursed his lips, trying to
figure out his next move. "OK, bitch."
I assumed he was talking to me.
"You think you're so smart, but now I know you got a transcript, you're
gonna tell me where it is."
"It's at the office," I said.
"That's bullshit," Derrick said. "Tim tells me you been holding out on
him. He couldn't find the files in your office and tells me you've
been hiding them at home. Only way he knew you indicted me was a
secretary. Ain't that right, Tim?"
I looked over at O'Donnell. The right side of his face was swollen and
bloodied.
"Alice mentioned it to me," he said by way of explanation. "She
recognized the name and thought I should know about it."
In an office where I could never find anyone to help me, I'd managed to
find someone who was too competent. I should've known Alice Gernstein
wouldn't miss a beat.
It was clear that O'Donnell was losing his resolve to fight. It was
also clear that I wasn't digesting the new information quickly enough.
My first impulse was to be pissed at him for snooping through my
office, but then I remembered that this was a man who had helped kill
Jamie Zimmerman, sent an innocent man to death row, and led the
Derringers to me to save his own ass.
Derrick was behind me now, running the head of his gun along my
collarbone, pushing aside my hair to graze the back of my neck. "Tell
us where the transcript is, Sam, or I'm gonna have one hell of a time
on your buddy Kendra before she dies."
I resisted the urge to tell him I wasn't as stupid as O'Donnell. I
knew they were going to kill us and do horrible things to Kendra before
they killed her, whether I was helpful or not. I also knew that the
promise of those transcripts was the only leverage I had at this
point.
Luckily, I'd left my case file in the trunk of my car. "I've got them
locked in a safe," I said.
"Good girl," Derrick said. "Now where's the safe?"
"Upstairs," I said, "in the master bedroom."
"Aangh," he responded, like a buzzer on a game show, "wrong answer. I
personally tossed this place looking for your little friend's peepshow
pictures, and there ain't no safe."
"It's an old wall safe. It's hidden in the baseboard. There's no way
you'd see it."
I could picture Derrick searching his memory for the ransacking of my
bedroom, doubting whether he would have noticed an irregularity in the
oversized baseboards. He threw a note pad and pen at me from the
dining room table. "The combination," he said. "Where is it in the
baseboards?"
"Directly behind the bed," I said, as I scrawled down three numbers
that were all slightly off. If my guess about what was going to happen
was wrong, I could always tell them that the safe stuck sometimes.
Derrick snatched the paper from my outstretched hand and gave it to his
brother, gesturing with his head toward the stairs. "Here, take
these," he said, throwing him a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket.
Frank took the stairs two at a time. I heard a few thumps from
upstairs, followed by silence and a few more thumps. I tried not to
think about Frank Derringer being in my bedroom.
After a few more rounds of thumps, Frank scrambled back down the stairs
to the landing. "That bed is fucking heavy, man. I can't budge it."
I had sworn at myself many times for buying a solid maple bed that I
couldn't move without the help of a strong friend. But it had just
been added to the very short list of things I'd never get rid of. That
is, if I lived past eight o'clock.
Derrick was less happy with the news. "Jesus Christ, man.
Can't you do a fucking thing by yourself?" Then he looked around the
room, in search of Plan B. C'mon, pea brain, I thought, watching him
ponder the possible combinations. There's only one right answer
here.
His eyes eventually fell on me. He gestured toward the stairs with his
head and said, "You, go up and help." Yes! Good answer, Derrick, good
answer! "Try anything, and Ken-dra will pay the price," he yelled as I
went up the stairs, Frank behind me.
Frank was a lightweight. The bed was approximately four centimeters
from where I'd last left it. I walked around to the far side, saying,
"If we each take one leg of the. headboard and pull back, it's usually
the best way to move it."
I watched Frank take his position on the other side of the bed, and
then I crouched to my knees to reach beneath the bed ruffle and grab
the headboard. As Frank pulled against his side of the bed, I pulled
on my side with my right hand. With my left, I reached inside the top
shelf of my nightstand and pulled my .25-caliber automatic loose from
the tape that held it to the bottom of my drawer. I slid it onto the
floor next to me and then pulled on the bed hard with all my weight.
The bed jerked a few feet away from the wall. Frank rose from his side
of the bed and saw my gun aimed on him before I'd fired off the shot.
If he could've just stood still, the bullet would have hit him dead
center in the chest. Instead, he ran for the door quickly enough that
it caught him in the right shoulder.
I fired off a second shot but missed and hit the doorframe. Damn. Too
much time on the firing range, not enough chasing down wily targets.
Two quick shots rang from downstairs as I followed Frank to the door.
By the time I got there, he was almost to the end of the hallway
leading to the stairs. I fired another shot. I must've hit him,
because I heard a low grunt. I must not have gotten him good, though,
because he turned down the stairs, and my next shot ripped through the
shameless Warhol knockoff on my wall.
Assuming that Derrick would be waiting for me at the bottom, I took the
stairs with my back pressed against the inner wall. I stopped at the
last step before the landing, steeling myself to make the turn. The
pressure of my heart pounding against my chest was fierce, and I fought
to catch my breath.
I poked my head around the corner and then retreated to the safety of
the wall again. Keeping my back against the wall, I began moving down
the second half of the stairs. Tim O'Donnell was still in my Mission
chair, but now blood was oozing from a dark hole in his forehead. From
the looks of things, a second bullet had been fired into his groin.
As much as I'd practiced shooting, I'd never made a sweep through a
house before, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do next. Without
any other basis of information, I instinctively relied upon that most
reliable of sources, television.
From the landing, I could see that the front entrance and living room
were clear. I swung off the stairs in a half circle to face the back
of the house, my gun outstretched in front of me. Still clear.
The living room and Tim's dead body were to my left now as I faced my
dining room and kitchen. I reached down slowly, keeping my gun pointed
in front of me, and grabbed my purse. If I could just make it out the
front door and to the safety of my car, I'd be home free.
As I reached to unbolt the front door, I saw Derrick spring around the
corner of the dining room with his gun in front of him. He must've
watched TV as a kid, too. What he should've been doing was practicing
at the firing range, because he was a piss-poor shot. I heard the
mirror behind me crash as a bullet ripped into it.
I fired off two shots as I jumped across the hallway, over the top of
my sofa, and into the coffee table. I muffled a cry as pain shot
through my left side where I landed against the oak edge. I scurried
backward to get myself out of the pool of blood that was quickly
forming beneath O'Donnell and my Mission chair. The noise was blocked
out by the sound of the back door sliding open, followed by tires
squealing down the street.
I don't know how long I lay there, listening to myself breathe, trying
to convince myself that I couldn't hear anything else. Even Vinnie was
quiet now.
I finally mustered up the courage to crawl around the back of the sofa
and sneak a quick peek into the dining room. I'd done right by the
firing range. Derrick Derringer was on his back, two bullet holes
squarely in the middle of his chest. Apparently, it was OK for me to
move while I was firing, as long as my target stood still.
Based on the trail of blood through the dining room, into the kitchen,
and out the back door, I guessed that Frank had fled when he saw his
brother go down. More blood outside suggested that Frank was long
gone.
I freed Vinnie from the pantry as I dialed 911. Then I sat in a ball
on the kitchen floor holding him and my gun close to my chest until I
heard sirens pulling up to the house and fists pounding on the front
door.
Sixteen.
When I finally woke up the next morning, my whole body was on fire. I
was also sleepy and had a sore throat. By the time the police finally
left around two in the morning I'd related my entire story three
different times. First, I had to tell the patrol officers who
responded to the 911 call, so they wouldn't shoot me when I answered
the front door with a gun in my hand, two dead bodies behind me, and
bullet holes all over the place.
Then I had to give it to Walker and Johnson, who drew the MCT call-out.
They offered to page Chuck for me. I guess once your sex life's on the
front page of the newspaper, it's considered public knowledge. They
apparently didn't know the whole story, because they seemed caught off
guard when I asked them to call my dad instead.
Then I had to explain it all a third time to Griffith, who showed up
just as the medical examiner was zipping the body bag closed around Tim
O'Donnell's corpse.
"The Chief called me," he said. "He thought I should know that two of
my deputies were involved in a shoot-out."
By then, my narrative skills had gotten pretty proficient. The
Derringers' involvement in street-level prostitution. O'Donnell's
extracurricular interests, which led him from what he thought was a
staged fantasy with an underage prostitute to the murder of Jamie
Zimmerman. How Kendra's assault arose from the same scenario, but this
time with Travis Culver as the not-so-innocent dupe. Culver's lies
about Frank's car. O'Donnell's fabrication of the Long Hauler letters.
My night of shoot-'em-up action. I dumped it all on him. Except the
part where I'd given O'Donnell my resignation.
"You should've come to me with this, Samantha," he said. He looked
tired, and, in the light of my kitchen, the wrinkles that usually
seemed distinguished just looked old.
"I thought I did the right thing at the time. I knew O'Donnell was set
on killing the case, and I assumed you'd listen to him unless I had
some leverage."
He stood to leave. "You should give me more credit, Sam. I'm an
independent thinker, and now I'm going to go home to think." As he
headed out the door, he gave me a wave over his shoulder. "Nice house
you got here. See you in the morning."
I had assumed from his comment that I was supposed to go to the office
this morning, regardless of my sleep deprivation, sore throat, and
aches. It definitely beat being dead, though.
And at least I was safe from the Derringers. At my insistence, Walker
had dispatched patrol officers to watch Haley and Kendra while police
began their search for Frank Der ringer. I thought about doing the
same for Travis Culver, but as far as I was concerned, he could fend
for himself. The warning call I placed to Henry Lee Babbitt seemed
courtesy enough.
Around the time Griffith left, Johnson snapped his cell phone shut and
announced they'd found Frank.
"Was he dumb enough to go home?" I asked.
"Wherever he was headed, he never got there. Traffic responded to a
major one-car accident on I-Eighty-four. The car burst through the
railing at an overpass and flipped head first onto the concrete below.
Driver was dead by the time they cut the car open. They were searching
the car for holes, trying like hell to figure out where the bullets in
the driver's shoulder and ass came from, when they heard the APB for
Derringer on the radio."
"His butt?" Walker said.
"Yeah. Looks like that second bullet of yours went straight into the
man's left cheek, Kincaid. Must have hurt like a mother fucker when he
was driving on the freeway. He was probably squirming around trying to
take the weight off his bony ass when he lost control."
I hadn't been able to laugh with them about it then, but in the morning
shower, as I rubbed a bar of Dove on my own left bum, I could see the
humor, and I laughed until I started crying again.
A strange bubble of silence followed me through the courthouse as I
walked to my office. I guess no one knew what to say to me. This
morning's news had featured vague reports of a fatal shoot-out at my
house involving the Derringer brothers and O'Donnell. The reports
didn't explain that they were all trying to kill me, only that "police
were investigating."
When I got into my office, I checked my voice mail, hoping for a
message from Chuck. No luck. He hadn't called my home or cell,
either. I did, however, get a message from Griffith, summoning me to
his office.
When I got there, he handed me a piece of paper and asked me what I
thought.
It was a letter from Griffith to Governor Jackson, supporting the
pardon requests of Margaret Landry and Jesse Taylor. It explained that
all currently available evidence indicated that Frank Derringer and Tim
O'Donnell had killed Jamie Zimmerman during a rape arranged through a
teenage prostitution ring managed by the Derringer brothers. O'Donnell
had pursued the case against Landry and Taylor based upon the
circumstantial evidence that existed, possibly providing the
confidential information to Landry that eventually helped secure the
convictions. Then, when Frank and an unnamed suspect assaulted Kendra,
he'd done what he could to get rid of the case. When I thwarted his
efforts to issue it as a general felony, he fabricated the Long Hauler
by using confidential information he found about unsolved murders in
the cold case database and then ordered me to dismiss the case.
The memo went on to explain my discovery of the Derringers' connection
to the sex industry. After briefing Griffith, I'd obtained an
indictment against Derrick Derringer as the first step in an envisioned
investigation into the Zimmerman and Martin cases. Unfortunately,
O'Donnell had discovered the investigation and tipped off the
Derringers. They broke into my house, I heroically saved the day, and
Griffith would be pursuing any remaining culprits to the full extent of
the law.
It was accurate in the ways that counted, and at this point I really
didn't care if Duncan wanted to cover his ass. He was covering mine
too, and the end result was the right one. "Looks good," I said. "Will
Jackson issue the pardon?"
"It's a done deal," he said. "The governor's office will announce it
tomorrow, and Landry and Taylor should be out by that afternoon. We
need to talk about tying up the loose ends. We'll have problems going
after Culver. You know that, don't you?"
I told him I did, but he still seemed to think he needed to convince
me.
"Even if your victim can ID him, we're gonna have the same problems you
had with Derringer. No physical evidence. No corroborating testimony,
because everything you heard between the Derringers is hearsay. No
direct evidence of intent to kill. Not to mention the time that's
passed since the offense."
"I know," I said.
"You think this guy's attorney will go for a pre indictment deal?" he
asked.
"Depends on the terms," I said, "but, yeah. Culver's scared. Now that
he knows the Derringers aren't going to kill him, I think he'd like to
take his lumps and get it over with."
"Alright. I was thinking of something like Rape Three. Have him do a
few years but no Measure Eleven charges. Part of the deal could be a
scholarship account for the girl, since this guy's got a business.
How's that sound?"
We both knew Culver deserved to go away for good. The Derringers may
have pretended that the violence was staged, but it took people like
Culver and O'Donnell to choose to believe it. The reality was that
Griffith had come up with a deal that was the most we could hope for
under the circumstances. Sometimes that's as close to fair as we get
around here.
"I'll call Henry Lee with it. He'll be happy to hear he doesn't have
to try an actual case."
"Then why don't you take the rest of the day off? I'd say you've
earned it."
I turned back before leaving the office. "Tim said he didn't give
anything to Landry, that he assumed Forbes did," I said.
"She gets out either way, Sam. Unless you think Forbes is a long-term
problem, it's cleaner this way."
"I can't make that call right now."
"I know. That's why I made it."
I started to leave again but stopped at the door.
"Now what?" he said.
"Thanks, Duncan."
"Anytime, Deputy Kincaid."
I ignored the stares again on the way back out of the courthouse. Let
'em think I was in trouble. Tomorrow, I'd be a hero.
I wanted to go home and sleep for the next twenty hours, but there was
someone I needed to see.
Like most prisons, the Oregon Women's Correctional Institute had been
dumped in the middle of nowhere to avoid public outrage and plummeting
property values. The only other buildings within a three-mile radius
were two similarly ostracized yet essential enterprises, a casino and
an outlet mall. Needless to say, the combination made for an
interesting mix of soccer moms, prison families, and senior citizens in
RVs.
The guard brought Margaret Landry to meet me in one of the sterile
rooms used for attorney-client conferences. As I had requested, he
moved her in leg shackles and handcuffs.
When he brought her into the room, I said, "I don't really think those
are necessary, Deputy. Would you mind removing them and leaving us
alone? I'm sure Ms. Landry and I will be just fine here without all
of this."
If the guard ever got tired of corrections, he should try Hollywood.
His best attempt to look worried about my request was pretty realistic.
He removed the cuffs and shackles and left us alone.
I'd seen pictures of Margaret Landry, of course, but she'd aged
considerably during her two years in prison. Assisted by too many
cigarettes and too little sleep, she'd gone from looking well fed and
nurturing to haggard and crotchety.
After I introduced myself, she said, "I been dealing with someone in
your office named O'Donnell."
I dropped the bomb on her and announced that O'Donnell was dead. To
simplify things, I told her that Jamie Zimmerman's murderers had been
identified and killed, but not before they had shot Tim O'Donnell. I
figured it might be hard to earn her trust if I revealed that a member
of my office was a homicidal rapist. She'd get the details from
someone else down the road, anyway.
"Because of everything that's happened, you'll be getting out of here
tomorrow," I said.
"Where are they moving me to?"
"You can stay wherever you want. Maybe with your daughters until you
adjust to things. You're being pardoned, Margaret. You'll be free,
with no criminal record."
Her lower lip began to shake, and pretty soon she was crying.
When she'd finally stopped trembling, she lifted her head to the
ceiling. I couldn't tell if she was looking for answers or trying to
thank someone, but I could tell she hadn't felt however she was feeling
for a long, long time.
"I never meant this to happen," she said. "I kept calling the police
on Jesse, but wouldn't no one help me. When Jamie's body turned up and
I saw her in the paper, I thought I'd finally get that son of a bitch
out from under my roof, but they didn't believe me. They told me I
didn't have no corroboration." I kept digging myself in deeper and
deeper, and next thing I know I'm under arrest myself and can't take
any of it back."
"I feel bad for you, Margaret, but you put an innocent man in prison
and kept the police from looking for the men who actually killed Jamie
Zimmerman."
"Jesse Taylor ain't no innocent, but you're right about that last part.
As sorry as I feel for myself, I can't help thinking that them other
girls would be alive if I hadn'ta done all this."
I thought about letting her in on the truth about the Long Hauler, but
the fact of the matter was, her actions had cleared the way for the
Derringers to hurt Kendra and countless other girls. The rest of the
story was minutiae.
"The pardon will make it clear that you're innocent, Margaret. When
you get out tomorrow, you'll not only be free, you'll have your good
name back. It must have been awful for you these past years, having
people think you did something so horrible, knowing you were
innocent."
Her eyes started to well up again.
"And when you get out tomorrow, everyone's going to hear that you were
telling the truth at your trial. They'll know that that detective,
Chuck Forbes, helped you come up with corroboration to set up Jesse."
Mid-sob, she went silent, and I heard her breath catch in her throat.
It was time to ask the question that had brought me here.
"You knew her, didn't you, Margaret? You knew Jamie Zimmerman. That's
how you knew what kind of earrings to buy, how you knew her mother's
phone number?"
I'd seen the look on her face countless times. It's the look witnesses
get when they want to talk but they're scared, even though they know
you already know what they have to say.
"After what you've been through, no one's going to prosecute you for
trying to help yourself out a little on the stand. The only thing that
changes here is what people are going to make of Chuck Forbes, whether
they're going to assume he did something that maybe he didn't do. The
choice is yours, Margaret. You're getting out tomorrow either way."
She was tough, but one more push should do it.
"How'd you know her?"
"She'd come into Harry's Place sometimes when she was trying to go
straight." She started to explain that Harry's was the teen homeless
shelter, but I let her know with a nod that I was familiar with it.
"I went to Harry's for a while when I was volunteering for Art
Therapy," she said. "They sent us out to different nursing homes and
shelters to paint ceramics, arts and crafts, that kind of thing. Jamie
was such a sweet girl. She stopped coming in for such a long time, and
then I saw her in the paper. They found her body and they were looking
for information. I started wondering who could do something like that
to her. Then I started thinking that I lived with someone who could do
that. A few days went by, and they still hadn't found her. I thought
I could mess Jesse up with his parole officer, but then it just
snowballed. I thought it would look even worse if they knew I knew
Jamie, so I said I got it from that young cop. I'm so sorry. I'm just
so sorry."
I left her there crying. I needed the emotional energy for myself.
When I got to my car, I found a message from Ray Johnson on my cell
phone. He had run all the names of Frank and Derrick's known
associates. Turned out that one of Derrick's old bunkmates was on
probation for driving a brown Toyota Tercel with a suspended license.
He spilled his guts the minute he heard Derrick and Frank were dead. He
owed Derrick money and was repaying the debt by following me around and
reporting back to Derrick. Derrick used the information about my
whereabouts to break into my house, crank-call me, and feed the
Oregonian anonymous tips about my sex life. Funniest thing was, a
search of the guy's belongings turned up a dollar bill with his license
plate number scrawled on it. He must've followed me on one of my many
food stops.
I thought the guy deserved a life sentence for helping the Derringers
scare the shit out of me and publicly exposing my sex life, but in the
end I wasn't sure he'd done anything illegal. Maybe I'd think about it
later when my brain started to work again.
For now, all I wanted was to go home and go to sleep. But I had one
more thing to do. I sat in my car in the prison parking lot, staring
at my cell phone, before mustering the courage to dial.
The sound of his recorded voice was anticlimactic. I did my best at
the beep, but I knew it was going to take more than a phone call.
When I pulled into the driveway, he was waiting on the front porch. I
had a lot to make up to him, if he'd give me the chance. It would
start with a kiss on the forehead and, I hoped, a very long nap.
Acknowledgments
Judgment Calls is the product of the tremendous support I've been
fortunate enough to enjoy throughout my legal career and during my work
on this first novel.
I am especially grateful to my colleagues at Hofstra Law School;
Multnomah County Senior Deputy District Attorney John Bradley; Michael
Connelly, Jonathon King, and Maggie Griffin for convincing me my
manuscript would be finished; Jennifer Barth, editor-in-chief at Henry
Holt, for her incredible work, intelligence, and creativity; Philip
Spitzer, the most loyal and supportive agent on the planet; Scott
Sroka; and, above all, my phenomenal family.
Samantha's dedication and humanitarianism are modeled on the hard work
I observed among former coworkers at the Multnomah County DA's Office.
You know who you are.
About the Author
A former deputy district attorney in Portland, Oregon, Alafair Burke
now teaches criminal law at Hofstra School of Law and lives on Long
Island and in western New York. She is the daughter of acclaimed crime
writer James Lee Burke. Judgment Calls is the first in a series
featuring Samantha Kincaid.
A former deputy district attorney in Portland, Alafair Burke now
teaches criminal law at Hofstra School of Law and lives in Long Island,
New York. She is the daughter of acclaimed crime writer James Lee
Burke.