Missing Justice

close. "I don't always think straight when it conics to you."

He placed his hands on my shoulders and smiled, then pushed a strand of

hair behind my right ear. "Consider me assuaged, Kincaid," he said,

kissing my earlobe. "Now call whoever the hell's been paging you. You

think I haven't notice you staring down at that thing?"

Johnson picked up on the first ring. "I got a call from the husband's

lawyer. We fucked up big-time. I need you to sign a warrant on Melvin

Jackson."

Portland's one of those towns that shuts down at 10 p.m. My Jetta was

one of the few cars on the Morrison Bridge, and I walked into MCT ten

minutes after I left my father's.

Johnson was standing at the printer, proofreading pages as they

spooled. "This is just about done. The search is for his apartment,

and he's also got a Dodge Caravan registered to him."

"Back up. What the hell's going on?"

"The husband's people dug up something we missed. They're back there,"

he said, gesturing to an interview room down the hall.

"They're here?"

Then, with his usual spot-on timing, my ex-husband walked into the

room. "Detective, I oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. You're

looking well, Samantha."

"I know." My worn-out Harvard T-shirt and jeans didn't make the best

ensemble for our first post-divorce face-to-face, but confidence is the

ultimate accessory.

He, on the other hand, hadn't changed out of the suit he'd worn for the

press conference. And, sure enough, close up, I was able to confirm

it: the red power tie was the one I'd placed in his stocking on our

last Christmas together.

"No introductions necessary, I see," Johnson said.

"Samantha and I went to law school together "

"And were briefly in the same marriage," I added.

Johnson looked amused, and Roger seemed uncomfortable. Score.

"I'm at Dunn Simon now, Samantha. I wasn't sure if you'd heard."

"Saw it on the news, in fact, about half an hour ago." I couldn't

stomach letting him know I'd read about his move from Nike to the

Portland powerhouse firm in the Oregon State Bar bulletin a year ago.

"The firm made me an offer I couldn't refuse," he boasted.

"From what I remember, Roger, there weren't a lot of offers you could

refuse."

"Nice to see you haven't changed."

"Nope, but apparently you have," I shot back. I just couldn't help

myself. "I wasn't aware that Dunn Simon was in the criminal law

business."

"It's not, but Townsend Easterbrook's not a criminal. He's the

attending surgeon at OHSU, another one of our clients. He doesn't need

a defense attorney. He needs someone to dig for evidence, and no one

does that better than a civil litigator."

Johnson saved us from what was about to turn into a Dunn Simon

marketing speech. "Well, alright-y, then. Glad the two of you could

catch up. I was just telling Samantha that you preferred to wait until

the DA had signed off on the warrant."

"I'm sure you understand, Detective, that given the course of the

investigation, my client would feel better knowing for certain that the

warrant has been approved. I'll wait until it's finished."

I knew from experience that there was no point arguing with Roger. What

he lacks in personality he makes up for in tenacity. I was surprised

he didn't insist on reading the document over my shoulder. Instead, he

retreated back to the interview room.

Johnson's affidavit was nothing pretty, but it was a rush job and

contained what it needed: Melvin Jackson's pending appeal, his letters

to Clarissa Easterbrook, and this was the biggie the documents

confirming his recent employment as a part-time landscaper at the

Glenville office park.

"Jesus, Johnson," I said, signing the cover form on the DA review

line.

"I know. It's bad."

I didn't care if he knew. This was unbelievable. "How in the world

could we have possibly missed this? You have the employee lists; you

have Jackson's file. You're tracking down a crotch grabber, but you

need the husband to hire a fucking lawyer to find Melvin Jackson's name

sitting right there?"

"We were stupid, but we weren't that stupid. Remember I told you that

we got the list of workers from the unions?" I nodded. "Well, we did

it through the unions because when we asked the site's foreman for a

list, he told us which unions were doing the work. Apparently, though,

the contractor for the build is allowed to use some nonunion labor,

which he didn't exactly advertise at the site. Melvin Jackson was one

of the nonunion guys. Landscaping."

"So how did a bunch of Dunn Simon pencil-necks figure it out?"

"Luck." Johnson didn't know me well enough yet to know that I think

luck is for whiners. He did know me well enough not to leave it at

that. "When I talked to Townsend last night,

I told him we'd look into people who worked at the site as part of the

investigation. He probably mentioned that to his lawyer, but the

lawyer didn't start with the foreman to get a list of employees; he

started with the company that owns the property. Turns out Dunn Simon

represents them too. One big happy family."

"Well, it's signed now, so you can send them all home for the night. I

hope you'll understand if I don't stick around for the goodbyes. What

judges are on call duty tonight?"

"Maurer and Lesh."

"You should be all right with either one of them. Maurer's got kids,

but Lesh is probably still up. Loves the Daily Show. Call me if you

have any problems."

"Sure thing."

He stopped me as I was walking out. "Hey, Kincaid. Thanks for

understanding. We'll make up for it tonight."

"Sounds like it could've happened to anyone." In truth, I wasn't

convinced there hadn't been some sloppiness, but he was beating himself

up enough as it stood. Laying off felt like the right thing to do,

given our afternoon confrontation. "I'm just glad someone caught

it."

"Well, between me and you, considering the someone? That shows real

class. And, just to prove I know I got some time out in the doghouse,

that's all I'm gonna say about your old law school friend back there.

That could've been hours of material."

More like days, but he didn't know the half of it. "Much appreciated,

Ray. You be careful on that search. Jackson's desperate."

When I finally got home, it was too late to call my father. I checked

the machine; no messages.

Vinnie was waiting for me in bed with a note tied to his collar.

I recognized Chuck's scribble. "I couldn't fit through Vinnie's doggy

door so I guess it's another night alone. Sweet dreams."

The best I could do was no dreams, which was as good as it was getting

these days. Unfortunately, the slumber didn't last long. Five hours

in, Jack Walker called to fill me in on the search.

"You guys find anything?" I asked, groping for the lamp.

"You could say that. This thing's ready to go."

I asked him to walk me through it from the start.

"Lesh agreed to sign the warrant as a no-knock," he explained, meaning

they could enter the house without knocking first. "So we call out the

emergency response team just in case the entry goes bad. Never know

with the kids and all.

"We kicked the door. Jackson's asleep on the couch. His three kids

are sacked out in the bedrooms. We took them out into the hallway to

secure the apartment and get the scene under control."

"Handcuffs?" I asked.

"Just for Jackson. He was one unhappy camper about us waking the kids,

and we didn't want him going mental on us." Under the circumstances, a

court would go with that.

"Then what?"

"Once we secured the apartment, our first priority was placing the

kids. We had SCF on-site with a foster placement ready, but Jackson

wigged when he saw them coming. He was a complete wreck, pretty much

offered to confess if we'd call his mom."

"He admitted it?"

"Hold on. I wrote it down verbatim." I heard him flip some pages.

"Here it is. "You're here for me. This don't involve my kids. I'll

show you what you came for; now just let them stay with their nana.

These kids been through enough.""

"Holy shit."

"It gets better. SCF calls the mom did it right there in front of

Jackson so he'd know we weren't jamming him. We tell him she's on the

way and even let the kids lay down in the apartment next door while

they're waiting. So then Raymond goes, "All right, Melvin. We're all

stand-up here. Now what were you saying about showing us what we came

for?" Melvin says, "It's in the van. Keys are on the table."

"We leave backup watching Melvin and the apartment while we head out to

the parking lot with the keys. We slide open the door, step in, and

find six gallons of mocha cream paint."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Not in the van. So we go back up to the apartment and say to Jackson,

"I guess you've been watching the news, Melvin." He must've lost his

desperation by then, knowing that his mom's on the way for the kids. He

tries to play it cool and is all, "The news? Man, I don't know what

you're talking about, the news." And I said, "You must've known we

were looking for the paint, Melvin. You just told us where to find

it." And so then he admits that he knew we'd been looking for the

paint."

"Anything in the apartment?"

"Oh, yeah. Melvin keeps a great big fat file on his eviction case,

including copies of all the letters he sent the vie. We also found

some drafts of letters he must not have sent, and those were even

worse. We bagged 'em up already, but I wrote down here that one of

them said, Maybe someone should show you what it's like to lose

everything, bitch. Guess he decided that wasn't likely to get him

anywhere."

Neither would her death, but murder is rarely rational.

"Then Melvin's mom shows up. And let me tell you, Mama Jackson is a

major piece of work. Came damn close to waking up the entire floor.

Kept screaming at us to get her boy out of those handcuffs. We were

trying to calm her down. Then

Raymond walks out of the back of the apartment with a hammer looped

over his pen."

"What hammer?"

"I'm getting there. I thought I was supposed to give you the facts in

the order they happened."

Cops love to fuck with lawyers, even when they're prosecutors, and, as

much as Walker loves me, I am still a prosecutor.

"Ray found a hammer stashed on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.

Looked like it had been wiped down, but you could still see a little

blood. The crime lab's checking for sure. We should have an answer by

morning."

"So what happened when Jackson saw that you found the hammer?"

"That's what was fucked up. It wasn't so much what Jackson did; it was

what the mother did. She went absolutely nuts. Hands on the hips,

doing the sassy head thing: "I knew this wasn't no routine search. This

here's about that white judge. I been trying to tell this fool the

police gonna be knockin' on his do', but, no, Melvin, you got yo'self

too busy to listen." Then she starts homing in on Johnson, going off

about how he planted the weapon and how could he turn his back on his

own people, that kind of shit."

"Can't be the first time you guys had to deal with a pissed-off

mother."

"Sure, you get used to it, but she took our attention away from

Jackson. No one got a chance to see his reaction when he realized

Johnson found the hammer. There's something about that first look,

that expression on their face when they realize you've got 'em. It's

too bad you can't get that look into evidence, right there for the

jury. Because the minute you see it, you know. You know it in your

gut, This is the guy. And we missed it."

"Oh, come on, you know it's your guy anyway. You got the weapon, the

paint, the letters. You said yourself that Jackson practically

confessed."

"I didn't say he was getting off. Shit, the guy's toast. But it's the

look, Kincaid, and the mom kept us from seeing it. You've got no clue

what I'm talking about, do you?"

I did, actually. There's a thrill no, it's nothing short of a high

when you've got the defendant on the stand, you're building a rhythm

with him on cross, and then you ask the karate chop question, the one

you've been headed for from the very start. But you sneak up to it

through the back roads, taking every possible detour, so no one knows

it's coming, least of all the defendant. And when he realizes there's

no good way to answer it, he gets that look. He flashes back to his

attorney warning him to stay off the stand. Then to him telling the

attorney, "That bitch ain't got nothing on me." And then he pictures

what you both know is coming, the jury reading that verdict. It's a

look of panic and utter hatred.

An arrest without the look was like hitting it out of the park without

the crack of the bat. Or a perfect drive off the tee without feeling

the ping of the ball against the sweet spot of your club. For Walker,

this case clearance was purely utilitarian.

"Maybe it's not too late for you to get the look," I told him. "Is

Jackson talking?"

"Doesn't look like it. He's the type who would have, but once the mom

was done giving Johnson the black-pride trip, she started in on Melvin

about a lawyer." Walker slipped back into his Mama Jackson routine.

'"Don't you be talkin' to that Uncle Tom and his cracker-ass police

buddies. You get yo'self a public defender." Before you know it,

Melvin's lawyering up."

"How clear was it?" I asked. Thanks to the Supreme Court, the police

are allowed to ignore a suspects reference to an attorney if it's

ambiguous.

"Couldn't get any fucking clearer: "I want a lawyer." "

The four magic words. We couldn't touch him. If we were going to get

anything else out of him, it would have to be through his

court-appointed lawyer.

"It's all right," I said. "We don't need it. The statements he made

before he invoked will come in, and they look bad, especially with the

threats. Assuming the crime lab finds the vies blood on the hammer,

he's done."

"I got to say, given our fuckup earlier, it felt good to nail the

bastard. Johnson's down there now booking him at MCDC, and I'm writing

up the reports." Jackson would spend the night in the Multnomah County

Detention Center so he could be arraigned tomorrow morning. "We're

both running on empty right now and have a back load of comp time. Call

us tomorrow if you need follow-up, but I don't think either of us will

be at the precinct. My wife's gonna leave me if I don't eat a meal

with her and the girls soon."

"She'd rather have you at the house than the OT? Must be true love,

Walker." And it was, too. Take a look around a detective squad, and

the cubicles are filled with comically enhanced mug shots, doctored rap

sheets, and the occasional pinup. Walker's is filled with photographs

of his wife, Sandy, and their houseful of daughters. I'd never met

them, but I'd followed their lives through pictures from the wedding

day to their Six Flags vacation last August.

"Still don't know how I got so lucky." I was touched that Walker would

express that kind of sentiment to me. Then came the follow-up. "From

what I hear, I could've wound up with a prick like Roger

Kirkpatrick."

"Just for that, Walker, I'm starting a list of tomorrow's follow-up

work. Some for you for saying that, and some for Johnson for telling

you about it."

We both got a laugh out of it. "See?" he said. "I wouldn't have said

it if I didn't think you could handle it."

"Sure you would." These guys think I don't know what they put some of

my coworkers through. "Now get some sleep and enjoy your day off.

We've got more than enough for arraignment tomorrow. Just tell the

crime lab to call Chuck or Mike with the lab results, OK?"

"Done. You're going Agg Murder, right?"

With what we had, proving Jackson killed Clarissa wouldn't be hard. But

to get an aggravated murder conviction, I'd need to prove that the

murder occurred under one or more special circumstances.

I knew what Walker was really asking, but answered the question

narrowly to avoid the discussion. "I'll plead it tomorrow as an agg,

probably based on the vic's status as a judge."

Walker wasn't interested in legal theories. He knew you could file

aggravated murder charges without seeking the ultimate sanction. "But

will your office go for the death penalty?"

"I'm sure that will be discussed. Whatever happens, it won't be my

decision."

It was the same cop-out I used whenever I wondered what would happen if

I ever got a death penalty case, and I tried to find comfort in it as I

hung up the phone. As opinionated as I am, this issue is one of the

few that leaves me scurrying up the nearest fence.

When I finally fell back asleep, it was only because I convinced myself

that Jackson's sad circumstances and lack of a prior criminal record

would limit the stakes of the case to a life sentence.

Seven.

It was there in the pile of custodies the next morning. My first Major

Crimes Unit call-out had been cleared and was ready for issuing. Unit

rules be damned; I grabbed the file off Alice Gerstein's desk so I

could prep the complaint against Melvin Jackson before turning to my

screening cases.

For now, I kept the complaint simple, one count of aggravated murder

and one alternative count of plain old garden-variety murder. Pleading

the case as an agg murder requires a special circumstance. If Jackson

killed Clarissa during the commission of either a kidnapping or rape,

that would qualify. But there were problems with both theories. We

had the condom and the ME's opinion that Clarissa's clothes were put

back on her after she was killed, but we didn't have the traditional

indications of rape. Clarissa's shoe and the paint provided

circumstantial indications that Jackson pulled Clarissa into the van

before he killed her, but if he killed her during the struggle and then

put her in the van, it wasn't a kidnapping.

I avoided both possibilities and instead used Clarissa's employment as

an administrative law judge as the special circumstance. As long as

the jury believed that Melvin killed Clarissa because of her official

judicial duties, that was enough.

I passed Frist in the hallway as I was walking to the printer to pick

up the complaint.

"We need to talk about that cluster fuck of a press conference last

night on the Easterbrook case. The guy was nice enough to confine his

bitching to the bureau, but Griffith's still gonna want a briefing."

"I think we're OK from that end. The husband's attorneys turned over

some information last night, and the police arrested Melvin Jackson a

few hours ago." I left out the part about one of the attorneys being

my ex-husband. Although people in the office knew I was divorced, only

a handful of them knew who the ex was. One of the advantages of

keeping your own name. "When I left MCT last night, the husband's

people were playing nice. I think the press conference was a wake-up

call."

"Looks like it worked. Jackson's the disgruntled tenant?"

I nodded.

"What did they find on him?"

I told him about Dunn Simon's list of nonunion labor at the office park

and the evidence the police found when they executed the search

warrant. "I was just doing the complaint. Do you want to see the file

before arraignment?"

"You know you should have called me, Kincaid."

"I thought you told me to run with it until we got to proceedings."

He looked at me skeptically.

"There's nothing to worry about, Russ. Everything's under control."

In light of how things had come together, he couldn't argue with that.

"All right, let me see the complaint." He took a quick look. "Good

call. If you add in a rape charge, it might cloud the motive. Most

newbies would've thrown in every theory they could think of."

"You only need one when it's good," I said. "I'm going to head over at

two for the arraignment. I assume you don't need to come with me."

"The DA at the Justice Center can handle it, Kincaid."

"Nope. It's my first arraignment on an agg murder. I'm doing it

myself."

"Are the screens done?"

"They will be soon."

"All right. Don't forget to call Duncan."

I didn't need to. When I got back to my office, I had a voice mail

from Duncan's secretary asking me to come down to his office.

Terrific.

He had seen the press conference. Even worse, he had gotten a phone

call from Dennis Coakley. Dennis must have slept on it and woken up

even angrier.

I tried to calm him down by telling him about the Jackson arrest, but

the distraction proved temporary.

"What exactly did we talk about in here yesterday?" he demanded.

"Duncan, I know you're upset, but please don't talk to me like I'm in

kindergarten."

"When you act like a child, Samantha, you get treated like a child."

I couldn't help it. I exhaled in a way that might have sounded like a

scoff. "I can't believe you actually just said that. Does anyone

really say that?"

"Watch it, Sam. You're a good attorney, but I won't have my people

talk to me that way."

Threatening to fire me was the typical trump card around here, but now

I had one of my own. "Or what, Duncan? You're going to fire the woman

who almost got killed last month on the job because she ruffled some

feathers trying to find the madman who's snatching women off the

street?"

"Don't even think about playing that game with me. Next thing you

know, you'll be the talented young attorney who was never the same

after that shooting."

The entire time I'd worked here, I'd always caved when it came down to

the last shove. If I was going to stick around, it was time to set

some boundaries. I couldn't spend the rest of my career being lectured

on a daily basis.

"I guess what it comes down to is how bad you want me to apologize. I

refuse to suck up to Dennis Coakley."

"You are so off base. This is not about Coakley, it's about your

respect for me and the authority of this office. I asked Dennis what

time you hauled him over for the pissing match. You went straight from

here to Lesh's. You didn't listen to me at all yesterday."

"You're forgetting the part where I went off on my detective about the

polygraph request and then called you to make sure everything was

fine."

"See, only you could turn that phone call into something that helps you

here. You didn't mention anything about Coakley, did you? It's always

bits and pieces of information from you, Sam, and it's getting old."

"OK, so maybe I could have mentioned it to you then while we were

talking," I conceded, "but I won't apologize for what I did to get

those files. It was important, and Coakley was being an ass."

"Well, at least you recognize that it wasn't exactly masterfully

executed internally." We were finding just enough common ground for

our egos to cling to as we brought the conversation down to a calmer

level. "I don't know, Sam, maybe I put you into this a little too

quickly. I called Lesh. He did his best to cover for you, but I could

tell he was worried about you too. And we haven't even talked about

this press conference. Wasn't that your ex-husband?"

I nodded. Duncan's memory ran deep.

"I think I should pull you off," he said. "Maybe out of MCU entirely,

but definitely off this case."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, Duncan, but if you do either of those

things, I won't want to work here anymore. And I won't go quietly."

Whether it was because he valued my work or feared what I could do to

him in the media, the threat actually worked.

"Then here's the deal. This is the last time we have one of these

talks. You start thinking about the ramifications of what you do, or

you're going to have to go your own way."

"Deal," I said, with a salute. It was as much as either of us could

hope for right now, but at least we were talking instead of yelling.

"Christ, your ex-husband? There's stubborn, Sam, and then there's just

plain masochistic."

"Think of it this way. I guarantee you: No way does Roger Kirkpatrick

call you to complain about this case. It would take all the fun out of

torturing me."

"I'll take some comfort in that, then. All right, if you're staying on

this thing, we'll need to schedule a conference with the death penalty

committee to talk about what sentence to seek."

That's right. We've got a death penalty committee. It's not as bad as

it sounds. When Duncan ran for district attorney in this liberal

county, he acknowledged that he was personally opposed to the death

penalty but nevertheless promised to administer it since it was Oregon

law. The purpose of the committee is to have the same group of

attorneys all experienced career prosecutors evaluate every aggravated

murder case in comparison to previous ones and try to achieve the

impossible: the even-handed application of the death penalty.

"I'll send out an e-mail looking for times," I said.

"They usually take about ninety minutes. And invite the family to come

an hour after we start. I guess we'll need to go through the husband's

lawyers now that he's represented. And, remember, I don't care what

your ex did to piss you off. Be civil."

I worked like a fiend all morning so I could run off some of my

resentment at noon. I changed into my workout clothes in the

eighth-floor locker room and was warmed up by the time I got to the

river. I decided to bump it up from my usual flat three-mile loop

along the Willamette and did a five-miler around the west hills

instead.

I slowed to a jog after a brutal half mile up a steep incline. I was

out of breath and wishing I'd brought a water bottle when I realized I

was just a couple of miles from Susan Kerr s house. I decided I had

time for a short detour.

I recognized the Expedition in the driveway with the OHSU parking

permit. My immediate reaction was to wonder what Townsend was doing at

Susan Kerr's in the middle of a workday. Then I realized he wouldn't

be back to work this soon after his wife's murder. So how suspicious

was it for him to be here? The two of them did, after all, have a

friendship through Clarissa and were both stomaching the same loss.

Maybe they were talking about Jackson's arrest.

Remembering Duncan's ultimatum, I held off on interrupting them and

decided to add Townsend's visit to the list of things I needed to

discuss with Susan Kerr.

By the time I made it down the hill, into the courthouse, and out of

the locker room shower, I had just enough time to tuck my damp hair

into a clip and walk across the Plaza Blocks to Jackson's

arraignment.

The Plaza Blocks' official designation as a park is a bit of an

overstatement. They're nothing more than two city blocks of grass with

a few trees and some benches. In the mid-1800s, the two blocks

epitomized a quaint vision of city life, providing a forum for citizen

oration and assembly. The south block, Lownsdale Square, was the

gentlemen's gathering place, while women congregated safely in the

north side Chapman Square.

These days, the one thing that distinguishes the Plaza Blocks from some

of the more remarkable downtown parks is their location beneath the

seventh floor of the Justice Center, otherwise known as the Multnomah

County Detention Center. Once word got out that MCDC inmates had a

view of the park, the plaza blocks became home to more than their fair

share of singing, sign holding, and breast flashing.

Although it was just after lunch, it was still pretty early in the day

for your average criminal's loved ones, but one young devotee was

already out. She was probably in her twenties but looked older.

Several years of chain smoking, combined with regular methamphetamine

use, is hell on the skin. She wore skin-tight dark-blue Wrangler

jeans, a thick brown belt with a heavy gold buckle, and patent-leather

stilettos. A spaghetti-strapped red lace camisole revealed a

multicolored tattoo of a large eagle in the cleavage of her impressive

bosom. She was yelling, "I got this for you, Darryl! It stands for

freedom, baby! Can you see it?" The refined gentlemen of Lownsdale

Square would not have been pleased, but I decided I liked her.

I took the stairs to JC-2, the courtroom for the two o'clock

arraignments. There was a stir when Judge Levinson called for Melvin

Jackson. Given the continuous news coverage on the case, even the

courthouse regulars were curious. Jackson's orange jail uniform was

accompanied by handcuffs and leg shackles. Apparently he hadn't been

on good behavior since his booking.

It showed. His hair was matted, and his eyes were blearier than the

usual first-morning bloodshot. I suspected pepper spray.

Jackson qualified for court-appointed counsel. Because this was an

aggravated murder case, the attorney was sure to be good, a member of

Oregon's capital defense bar.

This afternoon's lucky winner? Graham Szlipkowsky, public defense

veteran and colorful courthouse regular. Graham is probably fifty and

tries cases in corduroys and tennis shoes. With salt-and-pepper hair

cut like a mop and a matching beard, he looks more like a Muppet than

one of the city's most experienced trial attorneys. He told me once

that his mother insisted on the waspy first name to even out his Polish

father's last name. As a result, neither of his names quite suits him,

and everyone calls him Slip instead.

Slip's a straight shooter, perfect for this case. He didn't need the

glory of a high-profile trial and would be smart enough to know the

situation was hopeless. After some unsuccessful motions to suppress

the critical evidence, he'd be looking for a plea to avoid a death

sentence.

The appearance should have been perfunctory. A quick waiver of speedy

trial rights from Jackson, a token request for bail from Slip, and

Judge Marty Levinson would order the defendant remanded until trial.

Any other result at an agg murder arraignment was largely

theoretical.

On the other hand, there's something about me and theoretical

possibilities that seems to click. After the usual brief conference

with his client, Slip asked Levinson for additional time in light of

"some unusual circumstances." A rookie defense attorney would've been

torn a new one, but Slip had enough earned credibility that the judge

deferred.

Great. For my own satisfaction, I'd walked over for a routine hearing

that was technically the responsibility of the JC-2 DDA. Now that I

knew "unusual circumstances" had arisen, I had to stay. You don't know

from waiting until you've spent time in a courthouse. Doctors?

Mechanics? The DMV? Forget about it. I settled into a seat at the

front of the galley while the assigned arraignment deputy moved through

more routine matters.

Seven arraignments and forty minutes later, Slip informed the clerk he

was ready to go back on the record in Jackson. I took my place again

at counsel table, called the case, and asked the judge to hold the

defendant without bail.

As expected, Slip contested the request.

"May it please the court, Graham Szlipkowsky for the defendant, Mr.

Jackson. Your honor, my client respectfully requests that the court

consider alternatives to remand without bail. We recognize that the

charge of aggravated murder triggers a presumption of no bail, but it

is, after all, merely a presumption. Mr. Jackson has no prior

criminal record and is the single father of three young children who

require his care."

So far, so routine. And so hopeless. It was the next part of Slip's

request that must have reflected the forty-minute recess.

"Regardless of defendant's custody status pending trial, Mr. Jackson

does not waive his right to a prompt hearing of probable cause. We

request that a preliminary hearing be scheduled at the earliest

possible date so that my client can contest the charges immediately. He

sees no need to await a trial date."

Levinson was neither impressed nor amused. He took off his glasses,

scratched his bald head, and said, "You're kidding me, right?"

Most people have heard of prelims from the high-profile California

cases. They're mini-trials to determine whether there's sufficient

evidence to hold the defendant over for trial. The federal system and

just about every state uses the less burdensome, more secretive grand

jury process instead. Oregon, as usual, had forged a third way: a

theoretical procedure for conducting preliminary hearings that never

actually took place. As a result of confusing court decisions and

years of local practice, indictment by grand jury was the routine.

Jackson did not, however, want to do this the routine way.

"I would never kid, your honor." Slip was good at handling

cantankerous judges.

"You've explained to your client that the State's burden at a

preliminary hearing is considerably lower than at trial?" Levin-son

asked. The question was more for Jackson's sake than Slip's. "That

all the State has to do is show probable cause? And that the Court is

required to draw every possible inference in favor of the State?"

"I've explained that all to him, your honor. Mr. Jackson's highest

priority is to be with his children. He is afraid he'll lose his kids

if he doesn't nip these charges in the bud. He knows it's an uphill

battle, but he wants at least to have that chance. As your honor well

knows, the grand jury process is even more lopsided."

The prosecutor runs the show with the grand jury. No judge, no defense

counsel, no defendant.

"Your honor," I said, "I already have this case scheduled for grand

jury. He has no right to a preliminary hearing."

"But he's not indicted yet, is he? And now he's asking for a

prelim."

I tried to explain that wasn't how it worked, but Levinson wanted to

keep his docket moving.

"I don't see the harm, Ms. Kincaid, and I don't want to leave all

these people waiting here while the two of you argue about it. Friday,

JC-Three, at nine o'clock. I assume you can make it, Ms. Kincaid?"

"Of course," I said, since that was the only acceptable answer to a

question that had used you in the collective sense. Judges assume

prosecutors are fungible. If I had open-heart surgery scheduled for

that morning, I'd have to find someone else. Fortunately, I did not.

Neither did Slip. "I can clear my calendar, your honor."

"Very good. As for bail, nice try, Mr. Szlipkowsky, but, unh-unh, I

don't think so. Remanded."

I told myself there was nothing to worry about. Beating charges at a

prelim is unheard of.

I passed Russ on the way back to my office. I was beginning to think

the man lived in the hallway.

He looked at his watch when he saw me. "You spent an hour and a half

over there to do one arraignment. I need to find you some more work,

Kincaid."

I told him about Jackson's request for a prelim and the Friday hearing

date.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. We don't do prelims."

"Try telling that to Levinson while he's behind on his docket."

"Well, we can't be ready to put on evidence by Friday morning. Did you

ask for more time?"

"No."

He looked frustrated.

"It would've been pointless, Russ, and it's just a prelim. Weapon,

threats, paint, statements. Done. It'll take two hours."

"Let's see," he said, ticking my points off on his fingers. "Hammer:

no blood tests yet; threat: every judge gets them, including whoever

you draw for the prelim on Friday; paint: you need an expert or else

Jackson's just a laborer with a can of beige paint; and statements: you

better hope they come in. I know your guys were out there just for the

warrant, but a lot of judges will say Jackson was under arrest the

minute the cuffs came out."

Jackson hadn't yet been Mirandized when he admitted knowing that the

police were there about the paint. His statements would be admissible

only if the court believed that the police had handcuffed Jackson to

restrain him temporarily during the search rather than to arrest him.

"You worry too much," I said. "The threats are motive, and I'll line

up a paint expert. That's enough for probable cause right there, and I

guarantee you the crime lab will find a blood match on the hammer. The

only problem is I'm supposed to have discovery to Slip by the end of

the day. There's some evidence suggesting the victim was having an

affair, and I think we need to turn it over."

I had been hoping to have more time to mull over Tara's revelation, but

Jackson's request for the quick prelim forced the issue. The failure

to turn over exculpatory information could lead to a reversal down the

road.

"Christ." Frist rubbed his temples. "Exactly what kind of evidence

are we talking about?"

I told him about Tara's visit. It was more than mere rumors; according

to her sister, Clarissa admitted she was contemplating divorce because

she was in love with someone else.

"You don't know who the someone else was?" he asked.

"Not with any certainty, but we've got a theory." I told him about the

calls to T. J. Caffrey.

He started shaking his head before I had even finished. "I'm not sure

I'd tell the defense about any of that. Even if she was having an

affair, there's nothing concrete tying it to the murder, and you don't

know for certain who the guy was. A few phone calls don't mean

anything."

I understood his argument. The rules on disclosure allow the

prosecution to hold back just about anything that's arguably innocuous.

But with the growing numbers of innocent men being freed from prison in

cases where the prosecutor sat on information, I tend to fall on the

side of broader disclosure.

I explained my analysis to Frist. There was both physical and

testimonial evidence suggesting that the victim may have been having an

affair, and the phone records showed that the calls between Clarissa

and Caffrey made up the bulk of her cell phone usage. I wouldn't turn

Caffrey's name over to Slip directly, but I'd give him the phone

records and a report about Tara s statement so he could decide for

himself if they were relevant.

"Suit yourself," Frist said, "but if this case goes to trial, and he

tries to turn your victim's supposed boyfriend into his one-armed man,

you'll regret it."

"You're dating yourself. Satanic cults are the 'other guys' of

late."

"You're pushing your luck, Kincaid, but I'll go along with you anyway.

Duncan's going to want to call Caffrey as a courtesy," he said

resignedly. "I'll tell Duncan; you take care of the husband. We don't

want him learning about this at the prelim."

Great. Getting information to Townsend meant a phone call to Roger. In

the hierarchy of pleasantries, I ranked it just beneath walking a plank

of nails into a shark tank.

"And, speaking of the prelim," I said, "tell me I can do it without

you."

"I'm afraid I've got no choice, Kincaid."

I started in on my spiel about how wasteful it was to use two attorneys

on a prelim, but he interrupted. "No. I meant I don't have any choice

but to let you go solo. I've got thirteen victims coming in on a

sex-abuse grand jury. Some chick who ran a home day care didn't notice

her boyfriend diddling all the kids."

I never wanted to get used to these cases.

"I'll do it by myself, then. Don't worry. It will be fine." I

started to walk away, then realized I'd forgotten something.

"Oh, can you do a death penalty meeting tomorrow at two? Duncan told

me to get everyone together."

"Yeah, I'm clear. And, for the record, Sam, I would have let you

handle the prelim anyway. You're doing a good job."

An unqualified compliment at the District Attorney's Office? For me?

Either Frist was a different kind of supervisor or I was becoming a

real jerk.

I picked up the phone to call Roger but couldn't bring myself to ignore

the message light on my phone.

It was Chuck. "Hey, babe. Good news back from the crime lab. Give me

a call."

I hate those messages that keep you hanging. Either tell me what you

need to tell me or ask me to return the call. I was eager for the lab

reports but felt obliged to get the call to Roger over with.

I dialed the first six digits of his number before tapping on the

handset for a new dial tone. A call to Susan Kerr would allow me to

procrastinate a little longer. I still needed to talk to her about

Tara's suspicions that Clarissa was seeing someone else, not to mention

her little visit this afternoon from Townsend.

When I identified myself, she jumped right in.

"I'm so happy you called. I was going to see if there's anything I can

do after Townsend's press conference last night. I was in bed by then

and couldn't believe what I saw in the paper this morning. I didn't

even know he had a lawyer."

"Neither did we."

"Would it help if I called someone at the mayors office to support the

bureau? I know I was a bit critical of how the police handled the

situation with Townsend Monday night, but I think you're all doing a

great job."

I assured her that I appreciated the offer, but there was no need for

her to pull strings. "But, since you brought it up, do you have any

idea why Townsend would rail against us like that?"

"No, and it shocks me."

"He didn't mention it when he was at your house this afternoon?"

Wow. I hadn't planned on blurting it out that way. Very Perry

Mason.

Unfortunately, it didn't have a Perry-Masonian effect. Instead of

breaking down and sharing a lifetime of secrets with me, Susan Kerr

made me feel like shit.

"Are you actually having Townsend followed or something? My God, are

you watching my home? Maybe Townsend was right to rail against you, as

you put it."

I immediately launched into a back pedal, explaining that I had passed

her house on my regular run and happened to notice his car.

"If you had simply asked like a regular person instead of ambushing me,

I would have told you all of this anyway. What I was about to say was

that I can only chalk up the press conference to the fact that Townsend

just hasn't been himself since well, since, Clarissa was found. He's

been drinking more, and sometimes he'll start rambling incoherently. My

best guess is that someone from work might have suggested it, because I

know it didn't come from me or Clarissa's family.

"As for his visit this afternoon, if you must know, I initially

suggested it, hoping to pull out some of the old Townsend. When he's

in work mode well, everything else sort of fades away. I've been

helping him with some fund-raising for the hospital's pediatric wing

and thought it might help him to put his mind back into that for the

afternoon. But of course he told me about the arrest, and one thing

led to another. I wound up crying away another afternoon, while he sat

like a zombie on the sofa. So, no, we did not talk about the press

conference."

I didn't know what to say. I floundered around for an appropriate

apology, finally lamely offering that I was sorry for her loss.

She sighed. "I know. I can tell you care, and I do appreciate it. My

God, I thought it was hard when I lost Herbie, but to have a loss like

this I don't know how Townsend will ever get over it. Quite honestly,

I'm beginning to question his stability. He doesn't seem to be

thinking straight."

Her worries about Townsend made it even harder to share what I'd heard

from Tara. I omitted T. J. Caffrey's name for the time being.

"Boy, you are full of good news today, aren't you?" Her attempt at

levity didn't change the fact that she wasn't having any of it. "I

know I've already told you this," she said, "but Clarissa and Townsend

had a perfectly normal marriage. Well, about as normal as it can be

given how hard the guy works. But, trust me, if there was something

wrong, Clarissa would have told me. And, my God, if she was cheating "

She laughed at the mere thought of it. "She'd definitely tell me

before she'd say anything to Tara."

"I'm just trying to reconcile Tara's information with everything else

we've heard," I explained. "Why would Tara make something like that

up?"

"Perhaps she misinterpreted something Clarissa said. We all vent about

our husbands now and then, don't we? And Tara can be very

melodramatic."

"She seemed fairly certain about Clarissa's meaning," I said.

"Just because she was sure doesn't make her right. And even if

Clarissa was fooling around which I'm sure she wasn't what use is there

in bringing it up now? I understood from Townsend that you had a

mountain of evidence against this Jackson guy."

"We do," I said, "but we still need to cover our bases. I don't want

the defense springing something on us down the road because we were

afraid to ask the tough questions."

"Well, you've asked them, and my answer hasn't changed. Clarissa

wasn't like that, and I hope you'll leave it at that. If the police go

to Townsend with this, it could send him right over the edge."

Tara had expressed the same concern. Townsend might be the one in

charge at the hospital, but apparently, in other areas of his life,

those closest to him felt the need to be strong on his behalf.

"I know you're worried about Townsend," I said, "but I hope you're not

holding back information you think would hurt him. Tara already told

me that's why she initially didn't say anything about this."

"I am most definitely not holding back with you. If anything, I feel a

little guilty for mentioning Townsend's irrational behavior. But I

don't want to hear anything else about Tara's little suspicions. This

son of a bitch Jackson killed my best friend. You just told me a

second ago that it was basically a sure thing. But instead of anyone

asking me about her life or what she was like or how wonderful she was,

you just want to make sure she was a good wife."

I did my best to explain how important the questions were to the case,

and she did her best to say she understood. But I nevertheless hung up

feeling like the worst kind of bottom feeder.

I probably should have waited before calling Roger, but I didn't.

"Roger Kirkpatrick." I could picture him in an office high above the

Willamette, feet on his desk, answering the phone on speaker to avoid

wasting his valuable time on extraneous hand movements.

"Roger, it's Samantha."

"I assume you're calling about Easterbrook?" He still hadn't picked up

the receiver.

"Good guess, since I've never called you about anything else in the

last three years. Now unless you've once again got your hands where

they don't belong, pick up the damn phone and get me off speaker."

I heard a click and then his voice was directly in my ear. Perhaps I

should have left well enough alone. "I had hoped you'd either squelch

the hostilities, Samantha, or remove yourself from the case."

He had no idea how much I had squelched. There was a time when I

wanted to rip his guts out in public if not literally, then at least

through well-placed billboards announcing that Mister Communitarian was

a cheat and a liar. He liked to think his charitable donations and

board memberships made him a good person, but Roger Kirkpatrick was a

thief of the worst kind, no better than a con man. His grift began

with the hours he spent with Nike's newest spokesperson, the

aforementioned volleyball pro. It was only after weeks of inner debate

that I had finally asked him if I needed to worry. Surely, he had

noticed that she was seventy-two inches of legs, breasts, muscle, and

tan. Negotiations, he assured me.

And, with that, I had given him my trust, not just in the general way a

wife trusts her husband, and not even just in the way I trusted Roger.

I had given him the trust I have in myself, in my own ability to judge

a man who looks me in the eye and tells me he's for real.

Yes, Roger had gotten off easy. If I seemed a little brusque, he was

going to have to deal.

"I wanted to make sure you knew that Jackson requested a prelim," I

said. "It's Friday morning. I'll need Townsend there at eight-thirty,

just in case."

"I know," he said. "I sent a paralegal over this morning for the

arraignment. I told Townsend to expect to be there. If you don't

mind, I'll be with him."

"Suit yourself. Easy billables, I suppose." Eventually, Town-sends

retention of a defense attorney would look terrible in front of a jury,

but it would be irrelevant to the judge who handled the prelim. "We

also would like him to meet with us before we make a final decision

about whether to seek the death penalty."

He assured me they'd both be at the meeting the next day.

"Is that everything?" he asked.

"Johnson needs to talk to Townsend. Some evidence might come out at

the prelim that could be disturbing." I told Roger about the

nonoxynol-9, my conversation with Tara, and Clarissa's phone records.

"That's a hell of a lot to dump on a guy, Samantha. Your cops didn't

think to mention any of this to him earlier?"

"Don't blow this out of proportion. This is the usual way it's done.

We guard the information, but in the end the family hears it first from

us. The only thing that's making this hard is having to go through you

to get to our victim's husband."

"When Johnson asked him the other night about barrier methods, Townsend

assumed there must have been a sexual assault."

"We still don't know," I said. "Maybe the nonoxynol's Jackson's.

Either way, Tara seems to think Clarissa was seeing someone else. Think

what you want about the phone calls."

"I'll tell him myself," he said.

"I want to send someone over, Roger. You can pick whomever you're most

comfortable with, and you can be there. But I want a cop to tell him."

It was the first step to bridging the gap between Townsend and PPB, an

accomplishment that would help the rest of the case run smoothly.

Roger wasn't having it. "I'm not trying to be an ass, Samantha, but

don't tell yourself you're doing this for Townsend. There's not a man

in the world who'd choose to hear something like that from a cop

instead of someone he at least knows is on his side. You want the cop

there to see his reaction, and it's totally unnecessary. Townsend's

cleared. I'll tell him myself."

I had to admit it with Townsend's alibi and poly, there was no

compelling justification for having a detective present when he heard

the news. "Fine," I said, "but some words of advice?" He was silent

during the pause. "When you break the news to Townsend, try to be a

little more subtle than you were with me."

I hung up, angry at myself for losing my cool. I wrote a memo for the

file about my conversation with Tara and sent a duplicate and the phone

records to the discovery desk. Now that Townsend would be getting the

news, I could make the disclosure to Slip.

I needed a pick-me-up. Fortunately, I had saved the best call for

last. Chuck answered at MCT.

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you," he said. "You find my note

last night?"

"Pretty cute. I'm not sure Vinnie enjoyed being the messenger, though.

Looked like he tried to chew it off of his collar."

"He was probably trying to eat the damn thing. Greedy mutt snarfs down

anything within a three-foot radius."

"Takes after his mommy that way. Now, as much as I'm enjoying

deconstructing my little man's eating habits, can you please share the

good news? I didn't appreciate the cliff-hanger."

"I am pleased to announce that Heidi Chung, famed PPB crime lab

specialist, will testify that blood on the hammer Johnson took from

Jackson's apartment belonged to Clarissa Easterbrook. The ME says it's

consistent with her injuries."

"Yes! I knew we'd get it." Even so, I felt relieved to have the news

officially in. Establishing probable cause against Jackson would be a

breeze.

"Ah, but there's more," he said. "A little surprise to end your day

with."

I kicked my door shut with my foot and dropped my voice low. "It's not

exactly a surprise if you tell me about it ahead of time."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Kincaid. This surprise is from

Chung. She got Jackson's prints from his booking. Matched his right

index and middle to two of the unidentified latents on the

Easterbrooks' door knocker."

I let out a small scream. It always felt good when a case came

together, but it was particularly satisfying to have my first murder

case wrapped up with a tidy little bow on top. I told him to ask the

crime lab to get the reports to me ASAP so I could include them in

Slip's discovery package.

"Now," he said, "if you want to get back to that conversation you

started a second ago, I'm up for it. But I charge two ninety-nine for

the first minute and one ninety-nine thereafter."

"As tempting as that sounds," I said, "I think I'm in the mood for

something a little more personal."

"I could probably handle that. Maybe come up with a surprise or two of

my own."

"You're on. Seven o'clock, my house. Bring your toothbrush. This one

might be an overnight."

Eight.

With the evidence in against Jackson and the charges formally filed, I

finally got a taste of a regular MCU morning on Thursday. It was just

like a morning in DVD, but instead of grinding out morning drug

custodies, I was churning through the night's assault arrests.

As required, I finished the misdemeanor screening cases first. I held

back only one to issue as a felony. Robert Jenkins, a

thirty-seven-year-old man with a prior trespass conviction at an

elementary school, was tackled by the father of a four-year-old girl

after the father found Jenkins taking pictures of his daughter at the

park. The girl remained clothed the entire time, but Jenkins had

manipulated her into various poses that revealed his Chester the

Molester ways. When the responding police officer perused the other

shots in the guy's digital camera, he found forty photographs of eight

different kids. Bent over, legs spread, fingers in their open mouths;

the details varied, but the gist was always the same. Jenkins admitted

to the officer that he used the pictures to pleasure himself sexually

and did not consider them to be art.

A single line at the end of the police report hinted at the problem

with the case: "I decided to arrest the suspect for harassment, since

he touched the vie to achieve the desired pose, and such touching was

offensive under the circumstances." It wasn't obvious what to charge

the defendant with, but I wasn't about to let a guy like Jenkins off

the hook with the misdemeanor of harassment.

I flipped through the penal code to confirm my recollection, but the

child sex abuse laws all required physical contact or at least nudity.

I reread the victim's statement. For the photograph of her straddling

the slide, she said Jenkins told her to climb up the ladder, then

pulled her feet on either side of the slide before she went down. She

said the slide hurt her skin and she didn't know why she couldn't keep

her dress beneath her legs. The officer noted some redness on the

backs of her thighs. Good enough for me. An assault on a

four-year-old is a felony, and I had an appellate case saying a red

mark is enough to get an assault charge before a jury, which I'd pack

full of parents. Jenkins could make all the arguments he wanted about

strict statutory definitions, but the charge would stick.

I sent a follow-up request to a detective I knew in the child sex abuse

unit asking him to run Jenkins's other photographs by the DARE officers

who worked the schools near the park. Even if finding the other kids

didn't lead to more charges, telling the parents seemed like the right

thing to do. They were probably convinced that the "don't talk to

strangers" talk had been enough to protect their kids. It never is.

Thanks to a grand jury appearance and an overdue response to a motion

to suppress, I didn't finish reviewing the rest of the custodies until

nearly noon. I apologized to Alice as I put them on her desk. For her

to finalize the paperwork in time for arraignments, she'd have to work

through lunch.

"The least I can do is bring you something," I offered. She told me it

wasn't necessary. If the attorneys here paid for lunch every time they

screwed over the staff, we'd all be broke, and they'd all be fat. But,

after the polite amount of argument, she accepted.

Alice estimated she had another hour of work, so I decided to take in a

quick run. Jessica Walters was also in the locker room and asked if I

wanted to join her for a loop around the waterfront.

Whenever I run with someone new, I let them set the pace. We were

clocking about an eight-minute mile, which was comfortable for me, but

I couldn't tell if she was holding back.

We crossed the Willamette over the Morrison Bridge, saving the

prettiest, downtown side of the loop for last. Once the noise of the

bridge was past us and we had dropped down to the river's edge, she

asked me if I had ever tried to run with the office's Hood-to-Coast

team.

The Hood-to-Coast is Oregon's annual relay race from Mount Hood to the

Pacific coast. At one time, there had been an official District

Attorney team. When Duncan found out that the members wore T-shirts

bearing electric chairs, one for each defendant the runner had placed

on death row, he pulled the plug.

I reminded Jessica that the group was no longer the official office

team, making no effort to hide my sarcasm.

"Whatever. Have you ever run with them?"

"I didn't think I was eligible." My impression was that a team member

needed to have a reliable eight-minute mile, the ability and

willingness to drink mass quantities of alcohol, and a penis. Two out

of three didn't cut it. "In any event, I figure you choose your

battles." If I was going to become the office's rabble-rouser, it

wasn't going to be for the privilege of running with a group that likes

to polish off the day by watching each other light their gas.

We had started a subtle incline but hadn't dropped the pace. Jessica

didn't say anything until the path flattened out again.

"How's the evidence against Jackson looking?" she asked. She was

winded but could still get the words out.

I gave her the abbreviated version. "I know the case is strong, but

ever since I issued it, I've been finding myself getting worried. Frist

thinks I might regret telling the defense about the affair."

"It's your first murder case," she said, "so you're worrying more than

you need to. It's normal. You'll feel great by the day of trial."

She was right. A case is always strongest at the beginning, when all

you've got is what the police have given you. As you move toward

trial, your job and the defense's is to pick, poke, and prod at every

last thread, any possible wrinkle that might turn out to be the glove

that won't stretch over the defendant's hand. But by the first day of

trial, you've tucked in the loose strings and ironed out the wrinkles,

and the case is clearer than ever.

"I also still wonder why she was calling you," I said, "and if it had

anything to do with the murder. Maybe because of the gang unit? Do

you work with public housing at all?" It wasn't unusual for us to work

with other agencies on long-term crime reduction plans.

She shook her head. "The community prosecution unit will call HAP

sometimes if they know of a problem in the projects, but we stay out of

that stuff in the trial unit. Hard enough to get cooperation on cases

without getting people worried about losing their apartment."

When I didn't respond, she looked over at me and laughed.

"You need to chill out, Kincaid. It's just a phone call. I called

twenty people this morning, and if someone chops me up in little pieces

tonight, I guarantee you it won't have anything to do with any of

them."

"It just seems weird to call someone you don't know, leave a message,

and not say what you're calling about," I said. "And that number she

left you was her cell, by the way."

"It was?" Jessicas tone told me she found that unusual too.

They say murder cases are like any other criminal case, but with one

important difference: Your most important witness, the victim, is gone

forever. The reason for Clarissa's phone call was lost with her death,

along with all the other information she took with her.

We picked up the pace as we passed the courtyard at the north end of

the waterfront, then began the slow jog through downtown back to the

courthouse. She stopped at the Plaza Blocks to stretch, and I put in

about thirty seconds with her before I grew impatient. My doctor says

I've got the heart of a healthy horse but the bones of a

ninety-year-old man. Regardless of his warnings, I still spend every

exercise minute I can spare going after every calorie I can burn.

"I stuck Alice Gerstein with some last-minute custodies and told her

I'd bring her back some lunch, so I better get a move on," I said,

explaining my abrupt departure.

"Don't let Frist know you're being so considerate," she said. "Makes

everyone else in the unit look even worse."

I was happy to find the Mexican food cart parked outside the

courthouse. I got fish tacos on corn tortillas for me and a chicken

burrito for Alice, then climbed the stairs to the eighth floor to

polish off my workout.

Alice accepted the bag with the burrito in it and thanked me. "Sorry

to break this to you, but you've got another visitor."

Still out of breath and in my sticky running gear, I was in no

condition to have a meeting. "Who is it?" I asked.

"Melvin Jackson's mother. She's been here about twenty minutes."

"Can you tell her to schedule an appointment? I'm a mess, and I have

some work I need to do before the death penalty meeting on that

case."

"I'll do it if you want me to," Alice said, "but I can tell you right

now it won't be pretty. She threw a fit when I told her no one was

here to talk to her. We finally calmed her down by telling her you

were on your way back."

"We don't usually meet with a defendant's family members. Maybe she

should call the defense attorney."

Alice was patient, but the look on her face reminded me of that plumber

I'd hired when I told him to try adjusting the flu shy chain doohickey.

"I tried that," Alice said, "but I believe her response was, "I don't

need to talk to some lazy-ass public defender. I need to talk to the

lady who's buying all this bullshit about my son.""

Given Walker's description from the night of Jackson's arrest, it

sounded like the last two days had actually done wonders for Mrs.

Jackson's forbearance.

"Fine. I'll be ready in a few minutes."

When I'm not distracted by the television, the refrigerator, or singing

in the shower, I can get ready in seven minutes flat. It's one of the

advantages of never learning how to put on makeup or do my hair. A

shower, a hair clip, and a change of clothes are all I need to

transform back into my regular everyday self.

Martha Jackson was in the reception area, shifting in her seat and

tsk-ing every time someone walked by for a reason other than to see

her. She was short for her weight, a trait that was only accentuated

by the hot pink lilies on her dress that appeared to bloom from her

generous bosom and broad hips.

I managed to get my name out, but she was off and running before I had

a chance to offer her some water and a seat in the conference room.

"You got a hundred lawyers in this office. How come I got to wait half

an hour to talk to someone about a case that's been on the news every

day of the week?"

I tried to explain that not all the lawyers work on each individual

case, but she was looking for a fight.

"You trying to tell me you'd leave someone waiting here if they ready

to say they seen Melvin Jackson do it?"

"Is that what you're here to say?" I asked.

That did the trick. "Hell, no. No way Melvin could kill that woman."

It was exactly what I expected to hear, and I herded her into a

conference room while she repeated it every way she could think to say

it. I hoped the closed door would at least buffer the outburst that

was sure to greet the bad news: I wasn't going to drop the charges and

send Melvin home with her.

When she was done saying her piece, I did my best to say mine

sympathetically. For all I knew, she had nothing to do with her son

turning out to be the kind of man he was.

"I can't pretend that I understand how difficult this must be for you,

Mrs. Jackson, but the police have compelling evidence suggesting that

your son, as hard as it must be for you to accept, was responsible for

Clarissa Easterbrook's death. I would not be doing my job if I ignored

that evidence simply because a loving mother told me her son was

innocent. If he claims he's innocent, he has his own attorney to help

him defend against the charges. You might want to call his lawyer and

see how you can help."

In a capital case, the bulk of the defense work often goes into the

penalty phase. If Slip could calm Martha Jackson down long enough to

put her on the stand, a mother's plea for mercy can sway a jury to

spare a son's life.

"Oh, trust me, I'll be talking to that man too, but I know there's only

so much he can do. Only you people can shut off this assembly line of

a court system once it gets to going. You say you wouldn't be doing

your job to ignore evidence, but let me ask you this, Ms. Kincaid.

Isn't part of your job to pay attention to evidence that's looking you

right in the face?"

Given the circumstances her son was in and my role in that process, I

showed her more patience that I normally would. "Of course it is, and

I'm doing that."

"You probably went to some fancy law school, didn't you?" she asked.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Mrs. Jackson."

"I'm pointing out that you a smart woman, but you only looking at what

you want to see."

I was getting frustrated. She was going to have to come to terms with

this eventually, so it may as well be now. "I'm very sorry for your

situation, but, ma'am, you know where the police found the murder

weapon, and your son's fingerprints were on the victim's front door."

"C'mon now, my boy was just trying to get the woman to talk to him. He

wanted to sit down, look her in the eye, and ask how in the world

someone can lose his home and children because of something his cousin

did."

"And maybe he finally found a way to do that." I immediately regretted

saying something so mean-spirited, but it seemed to be exactly what

Martha Jackson expected.

The fire in her voice was gone. She clicked her tongue against her

teeth and shook her head. "I don't know why I

bothered. Y'all just ain't usin' the heads God gave you. How that

poor lady's death gonna help my grandchildren? You see a colored man

and assume he ain't got sense, just an animal lashing out at the

world."

I was angry at the accusation, but knew that nothing I said would

change either her perception of the criminal justice system or the many

events in her lifetime that were responsible for it. "I'm sorry, Mrs.

Jackson, but I can't help you." I opened the door to show her out.

She had one more thing to say before she left. "Melvin's living in

Section Eight one step above begging on the streets for a reason. Why's

he all the sudden got regular work at some fancy office development?

And wouldn't you know that's where your poor missing judge turns up.

Believe what you will about my son, but y'alls the ones ain't

thinkin."

She walked past me through the doorway and headed for the elevator. I

assumed she didn't need an escort.

Russ Frist was standing outside the conference room.

"Melvin Jackson's mother," I explained.

"Alice told me about her when I got back, but I didn't want to walk in.

Sounded like you had everything under control."

"Sure, if you consider being an insensitive prick having things under

control," I said. "It's not her fault her son's in a jam."

"More hers than yours, Kincaid. Let it go."

Letting things go never was my forte.

At two o'clock, the members of the death penalty committee gathered to

decide whether Melvin Jackson should live or die if convicted. Even

the boss himself showed up, joining Russ Frist, Jessica Walters, Rocco

Kessler, and me.

Rocco Kessler spoke first. His real name is Richard, but somehow the

macho nickname grew out of his initials. Knowing him, I suspected he

engineered the transition himself.

I hadn't seen him since leaving DVD, where he was most memorable as the

supervisor who wanted me fired. He must not have missed me much, since

he took his chair in the conference room without so much as a hello.

"Let's get this show on the road. Duncan wants to keep things moving,

and I plan to stick to the format we've always used." The dearly

departed Tim O'Donnell had previously chaired these meetings. "The

husband's coming in at three, Kincaid?" he asked.

I nodded. "He's the only one. The trip downtown's too hard for the

parents, and the sister just called her kids are having a meltdown and

she couldn't pawn them off on her folks. For what it's worth, my gut

tells me they'll go either way on the sentence. They know nothing's

going to bring Clarissa back."

"Okay, then. Take as long as you need to tell us about the case and

the defendant, this" he looked down at his notes "Melvin Jackson. What

we usually do is just go around the room and give our initial

impressions, then go from there."

I finished in twenty minutes, spending only half of that on the

evidence itself. What made this meeting a difficult one wasn't the

question of Melvin Jackson's guilt but the balancing of two seemingly

irreconcilable images of the man. I tried to give it to them straight,

covering both the aggravated nature of the crime and the sympathetic

story of a father with no prior criminal history beating a lifelong

addiction to keep his children.

Rocco asked Jessica to speak first.

"I think this is one of the hardest cases we've seen. At first blush,

it's got death penalty written all over it. The guy snatches a woman

off the street, for Christ's sake. But when you think about it, the

reason those cases give you such a visceral reaction is that you think

of a sex offender. You think of the Polly Klaas or Dru Sjodin cases.

Melvin Jackson's not one of those guys. He's not a predator. And we

also don't have any prior acts of violence; I'd be inclined to seek

life."

Rocco looked to Russ.

"I'd go death penalty but accept a plea to life. We might not know

exactly what Jackson did to her, but the ME says the vies shirt was off

when she was beaten. We also know he stalked her. I see where you're

coming from, Walters, but to me this isn't just some guy who snapped.

Think of what it must have been like for the victim in those final

moments, taking her clothes off for him. That's more than

garden-variety murder."

Rocco jumped in next. I was getting the impression he forgot I was

there. "I'm with Frist," Rocco said. "The guy might not have any

priors, but that just means no one caught him before. Even by his own

sad story, he's a doper who thinks he deserves a medal for choosing his

kids over heroin."

Jessica shook her head. "Forget for a second that Melvin Jackson's a

black man who lives in public housing and Clarissa Easterbrook's an

attractive, wealthy judge."

Rocco accused her of playing the race card, and the room broke out in a

cacophony rivaling Crossfire. Duncan made a time-out sign with his

hands and told everyone to let Jessica finish speaking, but Jessica

held up her hand. "Never mind."

I, however, minded. She had a valid point, and they should at least

take it into consideration. If this was going to be my case, I

couldn't be afraid to speak up.

"Jessica's right," I said. "When a defendant looks like Melvin Jackson

and the victim looks like Clarissa Easterbrook, that alone pushes

buttons we might not even know we have."

Rocco didn't want to hear it. "That's a PC load of crock, Kincaid."

Aah, sweet memories of my former boss. "Jackson's race has got nothing

to do with this, and I don't want to hear another word about it."

"Well, that's all you're going to hear about if Jackson's not

comparable to other capital defendants. You tell me: Have we ever

asked for a death sentence against a white defendant with no prior

violence?"

The immediate silence at the table was answer enough, but it wasn't the

right one for Russ and Rocco, who began walking through individual

cases, struggling to compare them to Jackson's. Duncan chose to stare

at the ceiling. I couldn't tell if he was seeking spiritual guidance

or picturing himself under fire by civil rights protesters on future

campaign stops.

We were still debating the case when Alice Gerstein rapped on the door

and peeked in. "Dr. Easterbrook and his lawyer are here whenever

you're ready."

From what I'd heard, the usual goal of these meetings was to make the

decision before the family arrived, then use the rest of the time to

get the family on board. But Duncan wasn't going to make Townsend wait

while we continued to argue.

"For now, we'll hear what he's got to say. If I make a final decision,

I'll let everyone know. We may just have to meet again."

I moved to the empty chair between Rocco and Russ. It might have

seemed like a thoughtful gesture so Townsend could sit next to his own

attorney. In truth, it was to ensure that Roger didn't sit next to me.

I wasn't sure I could resist the temptation to kick him in the shins if

he irritated me.

With constituents in the room, Duncan ran the floor. He got about as

far as any government lawyer short of the solicitor general would have

before my ex took over. Roger Kirkpatrick is and always has been a

power lawyer.

"We appreciate your having Dr. Easterbrook here so he can communicate

his views in person. I'm sure you understand that this is not an easy

thing for him to talk about."

As much as Tara and Susan had emphasized Townsend's deterioration, they

had nevertheless understated it. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale;

he looked at the table when he spoke, barely registering our presence.

He mumbled something about being against the death penalty, hating

Melvin Jackson, and being a doctor, before Roger spared him and us

further embarrassment.

Roger placed his hand on Townsend's shoulder. "It's OK. Let me see if

I can explain what you told me earlier." He shifted his attention to

the rest of us. "Townsend has struggled this week with a new emotion a

hatred of Melvin Jackson that is more intense than anything I'm sure

any of us has felt before. When he first heard Monday about the

evidence found in Jackson's apartment, his instinct, and I'm being

frank here, was to kill Jackson himself."

Townsend didn't currently look capable of let alone driven to revenge,

but maybe the change was further proof of what this week had been like

for him.

"I spent a lot of time calming him that night, talking to him about the

court system and convincing him that the case was strong enough that I

was confident your office could convict. I left his house Monday night

certain that he would be lobbying you to pursue this prosecution as a

capital case. But when we talked the next day, Townsend told me he'd

been up all night, trying to picture what the rest of his life would be

like if Jackson were dead or if Jackson were in prison. And, he's

convinced the right outcome is a life sentence not just to spare

Jackson but to spare himself. He's a doctor in the business of saving

lives and was quite frightened, I think, of the emotions that

Clarissa's death triggered in him. I don't think he could live with

himself if another human being even one as despicable as Jackson were

put to death, even in part to console him. Townsend, do you have

anything you want to add?"

From appearances, I wouldn't have thought that Townsend was even

listening, but he responded to the question. Sort of. "Clarissa's

gone. She's not coming back."

I had heard of similar cases, even stories of the families of murder

victims going to bat to save the defendant. But I couldn't begin to

understand it. I wondered if they ever saw the videotape of that guy

who killed all those nurses in Chicago. After his capital sentence was

reversed by the Supreme Court, an investigative reporter caught him on

camera in prison, taking drugs, talking up the joys of prison sex, and

boasting to his fellow inmates about the ways his victims begged for

mercy before he strangled them. The death penalty might not be a

deterrent and might cost a hell of a lot more than a life sentence, but

it meant that a victim's parents never had to go to sleep at night

wondering what their kid's murderer was up to. Townsend was telling us

to ignore the only factor that made me hedge on the death penalty a

survivor's need for what's lamely referred to as closure.

Duncan had launched into "the speech," the one every prosecutor gets

used to giving, the one where we promise to take into account the

person's feelings about the disposition of a case but explain that the

ultimate decision needs to be on behalf of the entire citizenry. Roger

cut him off.

"I've explained all that to Dr. Easterbrook already, Duncan."