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.


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