Missing Justice

Griffith gave me a look across the table at the use of his first name.

No one ever said my ex-husband lacked balls.

"Townsend, why don't you wait for me in the lobby?" When the door was

closed, Roger continued. "I've also explained to

Townsend that you shouldn't have a problem sticking with this as a non

capital case. You're in a liberal county where most people feel the

same way he does about the death penalty. In fact, according to our

research, your office seeks the death penalty in only a third of your

agg murder cases. Let me be blunt here; I'm not real impressed with

what I've seen so far in your office."

I shouldn't have changed seats. Talking me down to my boss was bad

enough. But doing it in front of my coworkers was definitely

shin-kick-deserving behavior.

"Until we essentially served Jackson to them on a platter, the police

were content to sit back and assume this was a textbook case of 'the

husband must have done it." I'm sure you have fine lawyers if given

the appropriate resources, but I also know what can happen when people

are overworked. Maybe to save resources, you go for the death penalty

hoping to plead it out to a life sentence. Given how this case

started, I would hope you would defer to Dr. Easterbrook's wishes. If

anyone has a right to dictate what happens to Melvin Jackson, he does.

If I feel like you've continued to ignore him, I'll follow up again

with the media."

When I was with him, I had actually been attracted to Roger's

confidence. I understood now why everyone else had called it

arrogance, and I felt responsible that he was unleashing it on my

office. I couldn't stand another minute of it.

"Even for you, Roger, you are totally out of control."

The table went silent. Roger looked smug, Duncan looked embarrassed,

every one else looked shocked, and I couldn't stop myself. "What kind

of person can take Townsend Easterbrook's pain and parlay it into

billable hours and a chance for a few minutes in front of the cameras?

Stop thinking about yourself for one minute and you'd realize that the

screw up you keep rubbing in our faces had as much to do with the

owners of the office park who happen to be your clients as with the

police."

"Samantha, you're embarrassing yourself," he said.

"No, she's not." It was Russ. "What's embarrassing is your attempt to

bully this office. You assume that because we're prosecutors, we're a

bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks. As for the bureau's delay homing in on

Jackson, your client wasn't exactly forthcoming. The cops had to get

their information from the workers on the site, and funny they seemed

to be under the impression that it was union work."

Talking about the Glenville development project brought Mrs. Jackson's

words back to me.

"Who is your client anyway, Roger?" I asked.

"I told you," he said. "Dr. Easterbrook came to us through OHSU."

He knew exactly what I was talking about. "Who's in charge of the

construction in Glenville?"

"I wasn't aware that the DA's office had taken over the operations of

the National Labor Relations Board. For what it's worth, the nonunion

work on the site was permissible."

"So tell me who the client is. I want to know how they came to hire

Melvin Jackson. From what I've heard of him, I'm not sure I'd want him

to mow my backyard, let alone hire him on a major development

project."

But Roger was done talking to me. He stood up and offered Duncan his

hand. "Duncan, unless you have any more questions, we'll be on our

way. Please let me know your decision once you've made it."

Then I got a glimpse of how Duncan Griffith had earned his political

reputation. When he took Roger's hand, I could tell his grip was firm.

"The decision was made before you interrupted me with the theatrics,

son. We'll be asking for life without parole. You might want to

consider knocking the last twelve minutes off Dr. Easterbrook's bill.

Now, if it's all right with you, I'll walk you out so I can thank your

client for coming in."

We were still rehashing the events of the meeting when Duncan returned.

"Anyone got a problem with that?"

No problems. "Very good then," he said, knocking on the table as he

walked out. "Oh, and by the way, Samantha, your ex-husband's a major

asshole."

I don't think Duncan realized he was dropping a bombshell. I

hightailed it out of the room while my coworkers were still begging for

the tawdry details of my short-lived marriage.

A few minutes later, Russ came into my office.

"I hope you didn't mind me sticking up for you back there. I know you

had everything under control, but, Jesus, what a prick."

"And they say chivalry is dead," I said.

"Yeah, well don't let the word out. I've got a reputation to

protect."

"Don't worry. One act of semi decency won't make a dent," I said,

smiling. "So I was surprised Duncan made a decision. You think it was

because of the racial politics or to appease the husband?"

"Christ, Kincaid, you're almost as bad as your limousine-liberal ex.

Duncan might have done it because he thought it was the right thing to

do."

I suppose with politicians it's the decisions that count, not their

reasons for making them.

"So how long were you guys married?" Russ asked.

I felt like I owed him at least the party line. "Not long. Things

were all right for a few years in New York, but they fell apart when we

moved to Portland." Then I surprised myself by not stopping in the

usual place. "We seemed to have a disagreement over the appropriate

use of his penis."

Russ almost spit out the coffee he had just sipped.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "A little too much information?"

"No, just a well, it was a funny way of putting it. You're not one of

those girls, are you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I know I haven't been any

kind oigirl since I was seventeen years old."

"Excuse me, Gloria Steinem. You're not one of those crazy women who

always goes after the bad boy, are you? First it's that guy, now it's

Forbes. You know something none of the other women around here know,

or do you just like to flirt with disaster?"

"I've known Chuck Forbes since I was fifteen years old, and he's

nothing like Roger Kirkpatrick."

The silence was not just uncomfortable. It made me wonder what

everyone in the office must be thinking. And saying.

"Sorry," he said, "it's none of my business. You ready for the prelim

tomorrow?"

I was grateful for the change of subject. "Piece of cake," I said.

"Was it just me, or did Roger seem reluctant to give us anything about

the owner of the Glenville property?"

Russ shrugged his shoulders. "He's probably no different from the rest

of those private-firm fucks. Acts like the big man, but when push

comes to shove he's scared shitless of his clients. You don't need it,

but if you're really curious, call one of the paralegals in the

child-support enforcement unit. They're pros at running down

property-owner records."

Maybe I would.

"If I don't see you, good luck tomorrow," he said. "Do you know who

the judge is yet?"

"Prescott."

"Got news for you, Kincaid. You could be looking at a long day."

Kate Prescott is the slowest judge in the courthouse. A big

fund-raiser for the Democratic Party, she came to the bench a year ago

from a large corporate firm. She tries to make up for her lack of

litigation experience by being thorough. I had a plea fall apart once

in her courtroom when a transexual prostitute who'd been through the

system a hundred times finally gave up on the process. In her words,

"Honey, if I knew it was gonna take this long, I'd have asked for my

trial. If I'm losing time on the street, it might as well be

interesting."

If Prescott didn't move things along, Jackson's prelim could be

painful.

"Page me if you need anything," Russ offered. "And, Kincaid, for what

it's worth, any guy who'd even think of stepping out on you is clearly

out of his mind."

Now that might ruin Russell Frist's tough-guy reputation.

Roger's show was not the only power play I'd have to contend with that

day. As I was getting ready to leave, Duncan called. Before he got to

the point, he had to dress me down for my outburst in the meeting.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, "it wasn't what you said that was the

problem. He deserved every word of it. But when I'm in the room,

you've got to trust that I'll handle it."

"Does this mean I'm fired?"

"I'll give you a Get Out of Jail Free card for that particular

outburst. Your reward for being married to the jerk. But, seriously,

over time I hope you'll stop trying to carry the load all on your

own."

"I'm independent, sir."

"Tell me about it. So don't freak out that I'm calling to give you a

heads-up. T. J. Caffrey just called. He's rabid. Seems your defense

attorney has subpoenaed him to the prelim."

I couldn't say I was surprised. Slip knew he stood little chance of

getting the case kicked at a prelim. He was trying to give us a

preview of the mess he'd create for us at trial. Fortunately, Duncan's

own trial experience wasn't too far in the past for him to recognize it

was inevitable too.

"I told him there was nothing I could do," he said, "but his attorney

wants a courtesy sit-down with you tomorrow morning. I told him you'd

oblige."

It gave me something to look forward to.

Nine.

Grace had left a voice mail while I was in Duncan's office. "Hey,

Sammikins. Want to grab some dinner tonight? And before you say

you're busy, I'm just warning you; you're turning into one of those

women who dump their girlfriends when they're getting laid. I'm

thinking cocktails and truffle fries."

That could only mean one place: 750 ml, a cool but cozy Pearl District

wine bar. Even though we were the only declasse martini drinkers in

the joint, the main attraction was the french fries tossed in white

truffle oil.

Grace likes her drinks the color of Maybelline nail polish, and this

week's preference was a ginger-infused something or another. Beach

vacations aside, I usually stick with the standards, switching

periodically between my favorite gin and my favorite vodka. Tonight,

Bombay Sapphire beat out Grey Goose.

I tried to fight Grace when she told the bartender to jazz it up for

me, but Grace just couldn't help herself. When a guy's that gorgeous,

she'll find any excuse to talk to him.

He turned away to muck up a perfectly good olive by stuffing it with

bleu cheese, and Grace's eyes were anywhere but on me. "Ahem, my dear,

but I do believe you accused me today of ignoring my girlfriend in

favor of the boy du jour."

"Well, in your case, that'd be the boy du decade."

It dawned on me that her jab was accurate. Literally. Truly

pathetic.

"Now does this mean we're going to have an evening without the boy

talk?" she asked.

"Unless you've got something."

She eyed the bartender again. "Not yet," she said, smiling and taking

another sip of her pink drink. In truth, Grace has a fairly routine

dating life, but she enjoys hamming up the sex goddess persona. "So

why didn't I hear from you last night? Another evening with Chuck?"

"I'm afraid so. We're moving toward boring domesticity remarkably

quickly."

I thought about mentioning the weirdness with my father, but talking

about it would only upset me more. The truth was, I knew I'd been

keeping myself busy to avoid calling him. Part of me was afraid he

might actually tell me whatever he was holding back. From the look on

his face the other night, it seemed pretty disturbing.

Instead, I talked about work, confessing my guilt over the accusatory

tone I'd used the previous day with Susan Kerr.

"Susan Kerr with sort of wild brown hair? A little older than us?"

"Wild to you, maybe, but take a look at who you're talking to.

Actually, she had it pulled back when I saw her."

"That's because her hair's completely uncontrollable. She's a

client."

"What do you think of her?"

"She's awesome my kind of chick. Did you really accuse her of sleeping

with her dead friend's husband? I don't even want to think about how

she handled that."

"No, luckily I kept that suspicion to myself and found out the visit

was perfectly innocuous. But I did ask whether she thought it was

possible Clarissa was having an affair."

"I suspect even that was enough to set her off." It was.

Grace shrugged her shoulders. "She always speaks her mind. She

started coming in probably a year before her husband died, right around

the time I opened. When word started to leak he was losing it, she was

ferociously protective. I remember her telling me about this one woman

who was the source of most of the gossip. Susan found out the cow had

a nasty little coke habit, cornered her in the gym, and threatened to

out her unless she started singing another tune."

"I didn't realize the two of you were so close."

"We're not," she said with a laugh. "But that's what Susan's like an

open book. Hell, she seemed proud of it, and why shouldn't she be? She

was sticking up for her husband. The sad part is, I heard later that

the husband got wind of what she'd done and had the nerve to take her

to task for it. Rumor is, Susan got so pissed at the ungrateful fuck

she flung his humidor of Cubans into the fireplace."

"I guess I'll try not to make her mad," I said. "She's worried that

the trial's going to turn into an attack on Clarissa's character."

"And, of course, there's no chance of that, right?" Grace asked

facetiously.

"Let's just say between Susan Kerr and you the other day at Greek

Cusina, I've gotten the message."

She touched my forearm and smiled. "I'm just giving you a hard time,

sweetie. I know you do what you can. What else has been going on? Oh

my God, I almost forgot to ask any run-ins with Shoe Boy?"

I gave her a blow-by-blow of Roger's visit to the office.

"You had quite the busy day today, didn't you? Have another

martini."

A second wouldn't kill me. "He's screwing up my judgment. I feel

total confidence in my case against Jackson. Then he pisses me off,

and I find myself wanting to complicate things, just so we're not on

the same side."

"Sorry, hon, but it doesn't sound like there's much to complicate. I

believe this one's what your buddies call a slam dunk."

I told her what Mrs. Jackson said about her son's sudden employment at

a well-funded suburban construction site.

Grace shook her head. "That's probably not unusual. Development out

there has gotten so out of control it's attracting some pretty low-rent

people. I wouldn't be surprised if some little outfit got in over its

head and tried to trim the budget by hiring the cheapest labor it could

find."

"Well, I'll tell you what complicates things. One of Griffith's

political cronies has been subpoenaed by the defense and is going to

raise a stink tomorrow."

"Holy shit, Samantha. If this case gets any hotter, you're going to

wind up on Court TV."

"No, Grace, you can't give me a new haircut." She was disappointed

that I'd seen right through her. It takes more than a martini or two

before I let her get too creative.

"So who's the crony?"

"I really can't say, Grace."

"Oh, yes, you will. You can't tell me a little, then not disclose.

Against the rules."

It was pretty sensitive information, but, hell, this was Grace. We

told each other everything. I even told her about my most embarrassing

trial story, the time I reached into my suit jacket for my Sharpie pen

and pulled out a Tampax instead. She never told a soul.

I leaned in so close to her ear that I almost fell off my bar stool.

She was shocked.

"Oh .. . my .. . God. And he's supposed to be such a do-gooder."

"Maybe they're all pigs."

"Don't be bitter," she said, throwing her maraschino cherry stem at me.

Chewing on another french fry, she said, "Now if you're looking for

coincidences, he'd be what you're looking for."

"Maybe I should have passed up that second drink, because I'm not

following."

"You know. The thing with the Metro Council."

I didn't know.

"A second ago, you said it was a coincidence that a fringy guy like

Jackson was working on the Glenville site. But the real coincidence is

that your defendant dumped the victim on a property that's smack dab in

the middle of a Metro controversy."

"What's that office park got to do with Metro?"

"I told you all about this at Greek Cusina. Remember? The second

Lockworks I was going to open? Not to be rude, Sam, but sometimes I

could swear that you can't chew and listen at the same time. And given

the way we eat, that could be a major problem."

"Hey! I was listening. You weren't sure if the growth was going to

continue, but prices were already high, so you backed off."

"Right," she said, "and the reason prices are so high is that everyone

thinks Metro's going to expand the urban growth boundary right in that

area. Hell, if Metro doesn't expand the boundary, I wouldn't be

surprised if prices actually fell out there."

"You didn't say anything about Metro before. They're not really going

to change the urban growth boundary, are they?" I asked.

"Do you pay any attention whatsoever to the local news?" she asked.

I'd gotten spoiled during the few years that my local paper was The New

York Times, so I haven't given it up. In theory, I'm extremely well

informed because I subscribe to it as well as the Oregonian. Grace,

however, knew my habit of getting absorbed in the Times crossword

puzzle before ever hitting the local paper's metro page.

"Of course I do," I said. "I know I was featured prominently in

several stories about a month ago. And Monday I watched Gloria Flick's

report on the Easterbrook case, not to mention Shoe Boy's press

conference."

"Man, Gloria Flicks annoying."

"Damn straight. It's the price I pay for being so impressively well

informed."

"So you must know that Metro is talking about expanding the urban

growth boundary."

Anywhere else in the country, that statement would sound a little like

You must know that Spock's Starfleet service number was S179-276. But

to people who live in my city, the urban growth boundary is the secret

ingredient in Portland's warm gooey cinnamon bun. The city's strong

neighborhood feel is what makes this place special, and those

neighborhoods would be gone by now if not for Metro.

I had read about proposals to expand the boundary by more than two

thousand acres but assumed it would never happen. Grace informed me

otherwise.

"The assumption is that it will happen. The population has exploded.

It will be a close vote, but everyone thinks the time is ripe for

expansion, and the place where it's most likely to happen is in

Glenville. The land outside the boundary there is nothing special, so

the theory is that Metro can hand it over to developers without pissing

off the greens too much. Unfortunately, the rest of the market shares

that same theory. For the last couple of years, buyers have been

gobbling up land in the area on the gamble that the growth's going to

spread. And from what you told me about your office park, it's right

at the line. I wouldn't be surprised if the same owner bought the

adjacent rural land."

"So if the line moves," I said, "the owner cleans up. And T. J.

Caffrey's one of eleven votes."

"Not only that, he's one of the swing votes. He's good on the

environment, but he's pro-business. In exchange for his vote, he can

probably set the terms about where the line gets moved."

That was definitely a coincidence. I was suddenly looking forward to

my morning meeting pardon me, my "courtesy sit-down."

I called it a relatively early night so I could get some work done at

home and rescue Vinnie from boredom.

The only message on the machine was from Chuck. "If it's not too late

when you get back, give me a call if you want me to come over.

Otherwise, have a good night, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Apparently, Grace wasn't the only one resenting the time I'd been

devoting to Chuck. Vinnie seemed pleased when I stayed put and

continued scratching him ferociously behind his goofy bat ears. When

he finally started in with his familiar snorting sounds, I knew I was

back in his good graces. I'd been so neglectful lately that I let him

stay on my lap with his Gumby while I prepped the Jackson prelim. If

only my father were so easy to assuage.

Maybe it was the second martini, but my thoughts kept wandering to one

of the seemingly inconsequential questions I would ask Ray Johnson as

background. "Where was Clarissa Easterbrook's body located?"

I fished my office phone directory out of my briefcase and left a

message for Jenna Markson, a paralegal in the child support enforcement

unit who was known for her dedication and investigative skills. Maybe

she could satisfy my curiosity.

Seven thirty a.m. was the time Duncan had promised, so there I stood on

Friday morning in the office's front lobby, waiting for T. J. Caffrey

and his lawyer. They finally arrived twenty minutes late, wholly

unapologetic for the delay.

I recognized Caffrey from the local paper, but I'd never seen him in

person. Probably around fifty, he was known for his casual garb, but

today he'd chosen a suit and tie that looked good with his

salt-and-pepper hair. He was a bit of a chubster, but I could see the

attraction.

The man running the show, though, was Ronald Fish. A high-priced,

high-power trial attorney, Fish was the guy CEOs called in a pinch,

whether it was for corporate mismanagement or a sixteen-year-old girl

in the backseat. He didn't even bother introducing himself. He was

big enough in the civil litigation world that he assumed every lawyer

in the city already knew who he was and maybe he was right.

I checked my posture while I led them into the conference room. In my

sling backs, I edged out the notoriously napoleonic power broker by a

full inch. He straightened his trademark bow tie. I chose to

interpret the nervous gesture as a very small leveling of the playing

field.

Make that a very, very small leveling. Fish was ready to go the second

I shut the door.

"I won't take up your time, Ms. Kincaid, because I know you've got a

court appearance to prepare for. I was hoping I could convince you to

support Mr. Caffrey's motion to quash the subpoena. Duncan sounded

amenable to it when I spoke with him yesterday."

I noticed that the spineless Mr. Caffrey had no problem letting his

attorney handle the talking.

"I believe what Duncan was amenable to was a meeting this morning at

seven thirty," I said, glancing at my watch, "as a courtesy to your

client. As you know, the decision whether to grant your motion is

entirely in the trial court's discretion."

I had spent the early morning researching the issue. There was no

clear correct legal answer to Caffrey's motion. Most important from my

perspective, there was no risk the court's ruling on the motion could

lead to a reversal of Jackson's conviction down the road.

"It seems patently obvious to me, Ms. Kincaid, that it would be in the

government's interest to prevent this Mr. Sillipcow "

"Szlipkowski," I corrected.

"Yes, this public defender, from deflecting the court's attention from

the very strong evidence against the defendant."

"That's one way to look at it, but I plan on staying out of it."

"I'm not certain how else one could possibly look at it."

"Well," I began, "one might look at the defense's subpoena as an

opportunity to make certain the state's not missing something we should

know about prior to trial. If, for example, your client was having an

affair with the victim and I'm not saying that he was then one might

believe it better to get that news out in court during the prelim,

rather than having a desperate defense attorney leak it to the media in

the middle of trial."

I watched Caffrey glance at his attorney. Clearly he could tell this

sit-down was going nowhere.

"Or perhaps," I continued, "one might see this as an opportunity to

make certain, outside of the presence of the jury, that the state isn't

missing some off-the-wall defense theory that might take off at trial.

Something like a connection between the victim being found in Glenville

and Mr. Caffrey's power to shape the future of suburban development

out there. I don't know, something like that. But, again, maybe it's

better heard now rather than later."

I didn't take my eyes off Caffrey's face. Nothing.

I had no idea what his wooden affect said about his knowledge of the

case or any possible connection between Clarissa and development in

Glenville. But I knew one thing: I'd never vote for T. J. Caffrey,

whatever his politics. There was no doubt in my mind that this man had

some kind of relationship with Clarissa. I had spent the week watching

Tara, Townsend, and Susan struggle with their profound grief. But here

sat Caffrey observing this discussion like a Wimbledon match.

I excused myself to prepare for court and walked them to the exit.

News crews from all four local stations were waiting in front of the

Justice Center. Fortunately, they weren't allowed in the courtrooms,

so they only polluted what the attorneys said before and after the main

event.

Slip and Roger were giving competing statements. Slip was accusing the

police and prosecutors (I guess that would be me) of rushing to

judgment to comfort a nervous public that was demanding a quick arrest.

Roger, on the other hand, was grateful that the police had finally

gotten around to catching the right man.

When the cameras rushed over to me, I gave them the standard

prosecutorial line. We're confident about the evidence, wouldn't be

going forward if we weren't, blah blah blah. Because of the ethical

rules that govern the public statements of prosecutors, we never get to

say the good stuff.

Once we were in JC-3 before Judge Prescott, it was a whole other story.

In a prelim, the prosecutor runs the show, since the only relevant

question is whether the state's evidence, if believed in its entirety

by a jury, could support a conviction. Slip most likely would try to

get some free discovery by squeezing in as much cross-examination as

Prescott would tolerate, but he'd know there was little to gain by

grandstanding this early in the process. Roger was completely

irrelevant, sitting next to Townsend with the other observers. I

couldn't help but wonder how much he was charging.

I wheeled my chair toward Slip. "You subpoenaed Caffrey, huh? I

assume you know that he'll move to quash."

"His lawyer wants to wait until I actually call Caffrey to the stand.

He's probably making sure it's not a bluff. I told him I'd call him

when you were done presenting your evidence, so they wouldn't have to

wait."

"Hate to break it to you, Slip, but I doubt your courtesy's going to be

enough to win Ronald Fish over."

"I'm a good guy. What can I say?"

Prescott took the bench and called the case. Every other judge in the

county lets the prosecutor call the case, and we do it in about five

seconds flat, the words so routine that the court reporter has no

problems keeping up with the pace. But Prescott treated even this

routine function like a constitutional moment.

When she was finally done, it was my turn for a quick opening

statement.

"Thank you, your honor. Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid for

the state. As your honor is well aware, the only question here is

whether the state has sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over

for trial on the pending Aggravated Murder charge. The ultimate

decision regarding the defendant's guilt must be made by the jury at

trial, and the jury is entitled to make its own determinations about

credibility. Accordingly, the standard for today's hearing requires

the court to credit as true all testimony that benefits the state, and

to discredit any contradictory evidence from the defense, even if that

would not be your own assessment of the evidence were you to sit in

this case as a juror."

I went ahead and cited the controlling cases for good measure. I would

never spell out the governing law as thoroughly for a more experienced

judge, but Prescott was still learning the basics of criminal law. The

last thing I needed was for her to substitute her own opinion for the

jury's because I forgot to cover Criminal Procedure 101.

I gave a brief outline of the critical evidence and then called Ray

Johnson to the stand.

Ray looked dapper, as usual, in a lavender dress shirt and black

three-button suit. Half that man's salary must go to the Saks men's

department. He had removed the diamond stud from his ear for his

testimony. Good call, given Prescott's transition from a corporate

culture.

We covered the evidence quickly despite our judicial assignment. I

wasn't asking any questions that were objectionable, so there was no

reason for Prescott to get involved.

In straightforward question and answer format, Johnson and I covered

the critical points: Jackson's pending case, the letters he'd written

to Clarissa, the paint on Griffey and in Jackson's van, his employment

at the site where the body had been located, his statements, and the

weapon. My criminologist would cover the fingerprint and blood

evidence. It was more than enough.

I had decided to keep it simple. Since we weren't alleging a sexual

assault as part of the charges, getting into the nonoxynol-9 and the

ME's opinion that Clarissa had been undressed when she was killed would

only muck it up. If Slip chose to get into those complications, he ran

the risk of making his client look like a rapist and not just a

murderer. Down the road, I'd have to worry about a jury thinking that

Clarissa's nudity was inconsistent with Jackson's motivation of

revenge. But even a judge as inexperienced as Prescott knew that rape

was about exercising power over the victim, not sex.

I wasn't surprised when Slip chose to cross. One of the only benefits

to the defense of a prelim is the chance to test the state's case and

its witnesses in advance of trial. Here, Slip could risk asking

Johnson questions that might backfire if asked for the first time at

trial in front of the jury. Some judges would cut off a prelim fishing

expedition at the start, but I knew Prescott would give Slip some

line.

"Good afternoon, Detective Johnson. My name is Graham Szlipkowsky, and

I represent Mr. Jackson."

It sounded funny to hear Slip pronounce his full name. It had been a

couple of years since we'd had a formal hearing together.

"You arrested my client late on Tuesday night, is that right?"

"That's correct. Technically, it was Wednesday morning."

"When you woke up on Tuesday morning, did you believe that my client

killed Clarissa Easterbrook?"

"I believed it was a possibility, yes."

Johnson was wasting his witness skills. He's a master of spin, which

helps in front of a jury. In a bench hearing, it was better to cut

through the crap.

"But you didn't believe you had probable cause, did you? Or surely you

would have arrested him."

No doubt about it. Slip was good.

"Prior to Tuesday evening, we had not yet made a determination of

probable cause, against Mr. Jackson or anyone else."

"You said you thought it was possible on Tuesday morning that Mr.

Jackson killed Clarissa Easterbrook. Who else would you say that

about?"

"Any number of people," Johnson said. "We had not yet identified a

suspect, so at that point anyone was a possible suspect."

"How about the president of the United States. Was he a suspect?"

"Not a likely one," Johnson said. He threw me a look to let me know he

thought I should have objected, but he was going to have to sit through

it. Judges are insulted by objections during a bench hearing. If the

question's absurd, they believe they should be trusted to disregard it

on their own. Slip's rhetorical question definitely fell within that

camp.

"What about the victim's husband, Townsend Easterbrook? Isn't it true

that he was still a possible suspect?"

"I wouldn't call him a suspect."

Johnson was falling into the pattern that a lot of cops get into on the

stand. They're so suspicious of defense attorneys that they fight

every point, even those that aren't damaging.

"But it's true, isn't it, that you were looking at him as a

possibility?" Slip asked.

"We were interested in him, as we are always interested in anyone close

to a murder victim. But, in this case, we were interested in excluding

Dr. Easterbrook beyond any doubt, so we could focus the investigation

on more likely subjects. Once he took the poly "

I wasn't surprised when Slip cut him off with the objection. Johnson

knew better than that. Polygraph results are inadmissible, whether

it's at trial or in a preliminary hearing. It was an easy call, even

for Prescott. "Sustained. Do that in front of a jury, Detective

Johnson, and it's a mistrial. Mr. Szlip-kowsky, you can be assured

that I will disregard the witness's mention of any polygraph

examination that may have taken place."

"OK," Slip said, getting back on track. "So the husband was someone

you were 'interested in," in your words. What about Terrence Caffrey?

Were you looking at him?"

"I was in the process of trying to contact Mr. Caffrey when the

evidence started to snowball against your client."

Johnson was giving Slip a preview of what he could expect at trial if

he pushed too hard on the stand. A defense attorney's worst nightmare

is a cop who can turn any question into an opportunity to prejudice the

defendant.

"Your honor, please instruct witness to answer the questions presented

to him without editorializing."

Prescott flipped through the large binder she keeps with her on the

bench, then told Johnson, "Please refrain from providing nonresponsive

information."

See, that thing about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the

truth isn't quite right. Witnesses are only allowed to provide the

truth when it's been specifically requested.

"Isn't it true that you were trying to contact Mr. Caffrey to

determine if he was involved in Ms. Easterbrook's murder?"

"No, I wouldn't put it like that."

"Since semantics seem so important to you this morning, Detective

Johnson, why don't you tell us why you were trying to talk to Mr.

Caffrey?"

"To determine whether he had relevant information."

"Isn't it true that you found Mr. Caffrey s name in Ms. Easterbrook's

phone records?"

"No, that is not true."

"Excuse me. Isn't it true that you located a telephone number in Ms.

Easterbrook's phone records that you subsequently determined to be

associated with Mr. Caffrey?"

"That's correct," Johnson conceded. He was having a little too much

fun. I'd need to talk to him about playing lawyer on the stand.

"And isn't it true that those records showed multiple calls between Mr.

Caffrey s telephone number and Ms. Easterbrook's cellular phone?"

"Yes."

"And isn't it also true that you have evidence that Ms. Easter-brook

had sexual relations with someone other than her husband?"

"If one considers rape sexual relations, then one could draw that

inference, yes."

"I'm sorry, Detective Johnson, are you saying that you are certain

beyond doubt that Ms. Easterbrook was raped?"

"No, but that is one possibility, and I was uncomfortable describing

that possibility as one involving what you called sexual relations."

"Let's talk a little bit about what that evidence is," Slip said. "In

the autopsy of Ms. Easterbrook, the medical examiner found an anti

spermicide gel within her vaginal canal. Correct?"

"That's correct."

"A gel that's often associated with condoms?"

"Yes."

"And, according to Ms. Easterbrook's husband, the two of them did not

use condoms or any such gel in the course of their own marital

relations, is that right?"

The question clearly called for hearsay. Under the rules, if Slip

wanted to introduce something Townsend said as true, he had to get it

from Townsend. But I'd been hoping to spare him from testifying. I

let it slide without objection, and Johnson conceded the point.

"Is it fair to say, Detective Johnson, that you at least wondered

whether Ms. Easterbrook and Mr. Caffrey were engaged in an

extramarital affair?"

"I considered it a possibility."

"In light of what was at least the possible connection between Mr.

Caffrey and the victim, did you ever question him to determine whether

he had relevant evidence?"

"No, I did not," Johnson said.

"Did you try to?" Slip asked.

"Yes."

"How so?"

"I left a message on Tuesday afternoon with his scheduling

assistant."

I hadn't realized that Johnson had gotten around to making that call.

He must have seen to it right after the MCT meeting, before he learned

that Jackson worked in Glenville.

"Did you tell the assistant that you were calling about Ms.

Easterbrook?" Slip asked.

"No, I did not."

"Did you tell the assistant anything about the nature of the call?"

"I believe I told him that I was calling about a pending criminal

investigation."

"A murder investigation?"

"No, I would not have said that. Just a criminal investigation."

"Is that a fairly standard message that you leave when you're trying to

reach a potential witness?"

"Yes."

"And is there a reason why you say the call relates to a pending

criminal investigation, rather than just leave your name and number?"

"Sure. Lets them know I'm not just fund-raising for the PBA. Makes it

more likely I get a prompt callback."

"And, in this case, did you get your prompt callback?"

"I have not spoken with Mr. Caffrey."

So the respectable T. J. Caffrey was a total slime. What does it say

about a man's character when he'd hide from his lover's murder

investigation just to cover his own ass? It did not, however, make him

a murderer.

"So if I understand you correctly," Slip said, "a man who may have been

having a special relationship with the victim on a murder case did not

call you back, even though he knew you were trying to contact him about

a pending criminal investigation. Is that right?"

"That's correct. But I have no way of knowing he got the message."

"Maybe we'll find that out later," Slip said. "After Mr. Caffrey

failed to get in touch with you after you left this message with his

assistant, did you continue your efforts to reach him?"

"No, I did not."

"To be clear," Slip said, "Terrence Caffrey is a member of the elected

Metro Council, correct?"

"That's correct."

"Did that have anything to do with your decision not to continue your

efforts to contact him about this case?"

"No, it did not."

Slip looked and sounded incredulous. "If it wasn't because of this

man's power and political influence, why then did you not want to speak

with him, given what is at least the appearance of a close and

unexplained relationship between him and the victim?"

A tip to defense attorneys: Don't ever ask a cop a question that begins

with why. It's an invitation for a subjective opinion and a quick way

to sink your client. Johnson batted it out of the park. "I stopped

trying to reach Caffrey when it became clear to me that your client

murdered Clarissa Easterbrook. To question him at that point about the

nature of his association with her would have been exploitative, more

like daytime television than a legitimate investigation. Or maybe a

defense attorney."

Slip was on his feet immediately, but even Prescott knew that Johnson's

answer was, just as Slip had requested, responsive.

My next witness was Heidi Chung from the crime lab. Heidi must be

pushing forty but could be mistaken for a teenager. In trial, I always

spend some time on her impressive credentials to be certain that the

jurors understand that she's a pro. Prescott, however, had seen Chung

enough to know she knew her stuff.

By the time Heidi was done, there could be no doubt about it. The

hammer Johnson pulled from Jackson's closet had been the one that

killed Clarissa, and two of the unidentified latent prints pulled from

the Easterbrooks' door knocker had been left by Jackson's right index

and middle fingers.

Slip couldn't do much to Heidi on cross. Sure, there were no prints on

the hammer, but wiping down a weapon is easy and a lot more obvious

than remembering to clean the door knocker.

When he was done, I rested. Given my low standard of proof, there was

no point giving him a look at my entire case in chief and a chance to

test all my witnesses for weak spots. And, thankfully, there was no

need to call Townsend to the stand. I'd managed to cover all the

important stuff with my two pros.

Even though he had told me about his intentions all along, part of me

was still surprised when Slip told Prescott he'd be calling witnesses

before we moved to arguments. I half thought he was bluffing, since he

had absolutely nothing to gain from the move. The judge was

essentially required to disregard any testimony that helped the

defense, since at trial it was possible that the jurors would not find

it credible.

Maybe Slip was using the prelim as a formal version of the usual

posturing that goes on between the prosecution and the defense: trying

to make his case look good in the hope of getting me to give Jackson a

plea. Or maybe he hoped Prescott was inexperienced enough to make the

call herself.

"Call your first witness, Mr. Szlipkowsky."

"There's one complication, your honor. One of my witnesses is moving

to quash the subpoena I served on him yesterday. If I may make a

suggestion, perhaps I could call just one witness now, and we could

take up the motion to quash after a lunch recess."

"That would be fine. Please proceed." That simple plan would have

taken Prescott fifteen minutes to conjure on her own.

"The defense calls Nelly Giacoma."

Unlike Ray, Nelly hadn't toned down the fashion statements for the

courtroom. I watched Judge Prescott eye her from head to toe, pausing

extra long for the ankle tattoo. I couldn't wait until Prescott

learned that this funky chick with a nose ring and hot-pink pixie cut

was a law school graduate. And I couldn't wait to hear what Nelly

could possibly offer to the case.

Slip's initial questions established Nelly's working relationship with

Clarissa and her job responsibilities. Bo-ring.

Then he pulled out a document, a move that never fails to get my

attention.

"Do you recognize this document, Ms. Giacoma?"

"Yes. It's a letter to Judge Easterbrook that I received at the office

on Wednesday."

Slip gave me a copy and had the original marked as evidence. I

recognized the scrawl from the other letters he'd written. This one

was comparatively brief:

Dear Judge,

What does it take to get your at tension I am making good money and

have proof to show you. I will do ALL I can do to save my family.

PLEASE understand that.

"The letter is signed Melvin Jackson, is that correct?" Slip asked.

"Yes."

"And it relates to a pending case about his eviction from public

housing."

"It's a threat relating to his pending case, yes."

Nelly was growing on me. I have an affinity for women who talk back.

The letter was indeed a threat, very much like the ones Jackson had

been sending for weeks.

"And is this the envelope that the letter arrived in?" Slip asked.

I restrained myself from objecting to the dangling preposition and

waited while Slip marked the envelope as evidence.

"Yes."

"Could you please identify the date on the envelope's postmark?"

Nelly did. The date was the previous Monday, the morning after

Clarissa died.

The panic was momentary. After a few seconds, Slip's cheap trick was

apparent. I used my cross to make sure the judge saw it too.

"Hi, Nelly. Samantha Kincaid. We met earlier this week."

"I remember."

"You've used the mail before, right?"

"Of course."

"And in your experience, are post offices open on Saturday nights and

Sundays?"

"No, they're not."

"So a letter mailed on Saturday evening would be postmarked "

"On Monday."

A lunch hour from a court hearing isn't much of a break. In an office

where we're each entirely on our own, each precious minute of recess

must be spent on the research and follow-up that supporting attorneys

would do in a large law firm. Every time I go to trial, I lose a few

pounds from the combination of adrenaline and starvation.

I stopped at the mini-mart on my way into the courthouse and grabbed a

Diet Coke, yogurt, and banana. I wolfed down the food in the elevator

and sneaked the Diet Coke into the law library. I spent half an hour

in the stacks, confirming the research I had done on Caffrey's motion

to quash. This would be a fight between Caffrey and Slip. If Prescott

asked for my opinion, I'd cite the cases I found, making it clear that

it was entirely in her discretion.

Before I left again for the Justice Center, I ran up to my office to

check messages.

The first was from Susan Kerr. "Hi, Samantha. Susan Kern I'm sorry to

bother you again. I know you're busy, but I didn't know who else to

talk to. Can you call me if you have a chance? Thanks." I hit the

nine button to save the message, then went to the next one. It was

from Jenna Markson, the child-support paralegal I had called last

night.

"Hi, Samantha. It's Jenna. I had a chance to run that property you

asked about when I was doing some other record searches. The owner's a

corporation called Gunderson Development, Incorporated. I checked with

the corporate registry division of the Secretary of State, and the

registered officer is a guy named Larry Gunderson."

I scribbled his name and the name of his company on a Post-it note

while I listened to the rest of Jenna's message.

"I went ahead and ran his financials. It looks like he was a bit of a

wheeler-dealer until he went Chapter Eleven about ten years ago. My

guess is that Gunderson Development is little more than Mr. Gunderson

himself. Let me know if you need anything else. Oh, and Samantha,

don't tell anyone else I ran the financials. We only have access to

that database for child-support investigations."

Now I understood why the attorneys all rave about Jenna. She'd

probably been running defendants for everyone in the office, telling

each of them it was an exception.

I looked at my watch. I only had three minutes to get my butt out of

the courthouse, across the street, and into the Justice Center, but

Grace's comments about the Glenville property last night were still

bothering me.

I hit six to respond to Jenna's message. At the beep, I said, "Hey,

Jenna. Samantha Kincaid in Major Crimes. Thanks for the information

on Gunderson. Could you do me one more favor? Can you see who owns

the adjacent parcels? Sorry for the extra work, but I forgot to bring

it up earlier."

I hit the pound key twice to send the message, hung up, and grabbed

what I needed for court, making a vow to myself as I ran out the door.

If Gunderson didn't own the rural property beyond the urban growth

boundary, I'd let it drop.

Ten.

Word must have spread about T. J. Caffrey, because the TV crews were

back. Asked to comment on the anticipated motion to quash, I said I

was not going to address matters that had not yet been brought to

court. It sounded more civilized than, "You mean that coward s motion

to squirm out of testifying? No comment."

Back in the courtroom, I noticed that Roger had returned without his

client. Under the circumstances, I couldn't blame Townsend for wanting

to avoid sitting in the same room with Caffrey.

When the motion was argued, I stayed out of it as planned, but I found

myself rooting for Slip. As much as I hated the idea of letting the

defense use Caffrey as a distraction, I deplored even more the idea of

Caffrey invoking the legal process to protect his ass politically.

Fish's polka-dotted bow tie wasn't helping matters.

I watched Caffrey occasionally catch himself chewing his lower lip

while his attorney argued the motion. When Fish had finished his

presentation, he summarized his principal point. "Your honor, Mr.

Szlipkowski's subpoena would add nothing to this case other than an

opportunity to question a high-profile public figure under oath about

private matters, a spectacle that should be permitted only if there is

a clear showing of the need for the information. Mr. Szlipkowski has

made no showing at all, let alone a clear one. Put simply, even if he

were to establish what he alleges a contention that we are not

conceding it would have no bearing whatsoever on the question of Mr.

Jackson's guilt."

Put simply, Fish was insinuating that the subpoena was setting up a

political perjury trap. He couldn't have spun it any better,

especially for a big party Democrat like Prescott. There wasn't a soul

among the party faithful who wasn't wary about demanding answers about

sex under oath.

Slip did his best, but in the end, it was all a big so-what? So what

if Clarissa and Caffrey talked? So what if they were even boffing each

other? There was no other reason to believe that Caffrey knew anything

about Clarissa's murder.

Except, of course, that nagging coincidence that she was found and

Jackson worked at a property whose value would be determined by T. J.

Caffrey's vote.

Prescott being Prescott, she had to take a break in chambers before

issuing her ruling. When she finally retook the bench, it was clear

that Fish's spin had taken. She quashed the subpoena, thanked Caffrey

for being present in the event she had decided otherwise, and told him

he was free to leave.

Hopefully, the news crews would be waiting for him outside, yelling the

questions on the street that he'd bullied his way out of in the

courtroom.

Slip had played his last card. He did his best to gnaw away at the

medical examiner's report, arguing that the state should be barred from

proceeding until they reconciled their theory of the case with the fact

that Clarissa had been dressed after she was killed. But, in the end,

we all knew that wasn't the law. He'd have to do that kind of gnawing

in front of the jury.

"Does the defense have any more witnesses?" Prescott asked.

"Not for this afternoon, your honor," Slip replied, "but we had assumed

that the hearing would continue until Monday. I would like to have the

weekend to reconsider. As your honor knows, the parties were given

only a day to prepare by Judge Levinson."

Any other judge in the courthouse would have ripped Slip a new one for

assuming anything about the length of the hearing. To judges who have

forgotten what it's like to practice, the lack of time to prepare is

never an excuse for a lack of preparation.

Prescott, however, had no problem with it. "I was planning on taking

the weekend to consider my decision, so here's what we'll do: Reconvene

here Monday morning at nine. If either party wishes to submit

additional evidence, the record remains open. Otherwise, I will

announce my decision then. And, in the event that it makes a

difference to the lawyers, I have formed a tentative opinion based on

what I've heard today."

She was sending a message to Slip. He was going down in flames, but

she was going to give him a reprieve before pulling the trigger.

Slip caught up with me on the staircase. "What'd you think about

Caffrey?"

"He's a skunk, Slip, but he's not your murderer. For your sake, you

might want to reconsider your Plan B before trial."

"Maybe Plan B is for the two of us to sit down and talk. Got time for

a drink after work?"

"Sure. Right at five?" I'd been up late enough the night before

working on the prelim. I wasn't about to spend my entire Friday night

talking about the case.

"Meet you at Higgin's. You still drinking martinis straight up?"

"Damn straight."

"You're my kind of woman, Kincaid."

"Let's see what you've got to say after we have our little chat."

Whatever Slip's plan had been for the prelim, it had clearly failed.

Prescott may have thrown him a line, but we both knew he was in no

position to grab it. I was sure the meeting at Hig-gin's would be a

fish for a plea.

I had three new voice mails back at the office. The first was from

Jenna Markson. "It's Jenna again about your question on the property

adjacent to your crime scene. You were right. Gun-derson Development

owns another hundred and twenty acres west of the property he's

building on. Gunderson purchased all the land at once as four separate

parcels. You probably already know this, but the other parcels are

mandatory rural. That's probably why he's not building on them."

At least, not until they were re designated as ripe for development.

"I'm sending my printouts about this to you interoffice mail," she

said. "Let me know if you need anything else."

The next message was from Nelly. "This is Nelly Giacoma. Judge

Easterbrook's clerk? I testified today in the hearing you had on

Jackson?"

I've noticed that the people I remember assume I don't know them, while

the people I've forgotten think we're best pals.

"I overheard something after the hearing and think I should talk to you

about it. I'm at City Hall right now, but I'm leaving in a few

minutes." She had left her home telephone number and asked me to call

over the weekend. I noted the time of her message, only fifteen

minutes ago. Maybe I could still catch her.

The third call was from Russell Frist. "I just got done with my grand

jury. Looks like you're still out, so I'm assuming you're still in

your prelim. Jesus, with Prescott running the show, she might hold you

over until Monday. Anyway, I was calling to see if you were up to

having a drink after work. Let me know how it went."

As much as I was warming to my new boss, fifty-plus hours a week at the

courthouse is enough time for me to talk with my coworkers. I'd update

him on the case, but we'd do it on the clock.

First, I was calling Nelly. The voice that answered sounded flustered.

"Oh, I'm glad you caught me. I was just about to leave, and I was

worried you'd call while I was out running around."

"Well, it sounded important."

"I don't know whether it is or not, but I really can't talk about it

here. Can you meet me somewhere?"

I looked at my watch. If I was going to make my meeting with Slip, it

was going to have to be quick. "Can you leave right now? The SBC

behind the courthouse?"

Seattle's Best Coffee isn't my usual choice, but it was only steps

away.

"Meet on the other side of the elevators in the building lobby," she

said. "It's less likely someone will see us there."

I dialed the general number for MCT. Nelly might want to sneak around

like the Spy Kids, but I'd need a witness for whatever was about to go

down. It was probably nothing, but attorneys can't testify in their

own cases. With my luck, Nelly would show up and confess.

"Forbes."

"Chuck, it's Samantha. Is Ray around?"

"That's all I get? I never heard from you last night."

"Sorry. When I got back from dinner, I still had a bunch of work to

do. And right now I really need to talk to Ray. Is he around?"

"Nope. Might've left already." Their usual shift, which they rarely

could stick to, ended at four.

"Is anyone else there?"

"You mean someone other than me? Sure, there's bodies here."

"Anyone on the Jackson case? Walker or Calabrese?"

"Sorry, babe, just me. I'm getting the feeling that's not the answer

you're looking for."

Damn. I had tried to minimize Chuck's involvement on the case, but now

I didn't have much of a choice. I told him I didn't have time to

explain anything but needed him to meet me and Nelly.

"Far as the department's concerned, the case is cleared, Sam. The

lieutenant will look at any OT we put in on it, and that might ripple

back to your office. You sure?"

See, this is why it's not wise for us to work together. His heart was

in the right place, but Chuck was questioning my judgment when any

other cop would be happy at the chance for easy time-and-a-half. "You

don't need to tell me how it works. Just meet me over there."

When he got to the corner where I was waiting, he tried to give me a

peck on the lips, but I held a hand up.

I led the way up the escalator to the main lobby. Nelly was already

waiting.

She was visibly alarmed that I wasn't alone, and seemed even more

uncomfortable when I told her Chuck was a cop. For a second, I thought

I was going to have to give her the "I'm not your lawyer, so there's no

privilege" speech, but Nelly had obviously been paying attention during

her ethics classes. "I guess even if I talked just to you, you could

turn around and tell him everything anyway."

"And I would. Now why don't you go ahead and tell me what's going on.

You sounded pretty worked up on the phone."

She looked around the lobby to confirm that no city hall types were

around. "I don't know whether to be worked up over it or not. But

when I got back to the office after I testified, Dennis Coakley was in

Judge Loutrell's office. He's the chief administrative judge."

I nodded.

"I've been helping him out, now that I'm down to one judge. Anyway,

they were talking about Judge Easterbrook and were saying something

about privileged information. I don't think they heard me come in at

first, but then when the phone rang and I answered, they closed the

judge's door."

"Could you tell what kind of information they were talking about?"

"No, but it sounded like the judge thought they should tell you about

it, and Coakley was saying they couldn't because it was privileged."

"They were talking about me specifically?"

"Well, I don't know if Judge Loutrell knew your name, but he said

something about telling the DA, and then Coakley said something like,

"We can't tell her anything that's privileged.""

"And you don't have any idea what they could have been referring to?"

"No. I knew Coakley had reviewed Judge Easterbrook's files for

privileged materials, but he said he didn't have to remove anything."

Nelly stopped talking, but I could tell from the way she ended the

sentence that she had cut herself off.

"But?"

"I went back to the chambers and searched Judge Easterbrook's office. I

didn't find any files other than the ones you already saw, but I did

find a key."

"To what?"

She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a tiny silver key. "I

don't know, but it looks like it could fit a safe deposit box.

I found it in the drawer she keeps her personal junk in. She used to

throw her purse in there during the day with some makeup and a

hairbrush, that kind of thing.

"It's probably nothing," she said, "but I was still getting over my

nerves from testifying, and when I heard them talking about the case

and then shutting the door, I got majorly paranoid. I was in her

office searching like crazy. I opened her compact, and this was in the

bottom with the puff. At the time, it felt important but now I guess

it sounds a little stupid."

It was definitely worth looking into. Given its location, the key had

clearly been important to Clarissa. I took it, gave Nelly my home

number, and asked her to call if she overheard anything else about the

case.

"For what it's worth," she said before turning away, "you were great in

court today. I think Judge Easterbrook would have really trusted you

to handle this case."

Chuck gave me a look but knew me well enough not to comment on the

compliment. When we were leaving the building, he said, "You'd look

kind of cute with a haircut like that. Maybe purple instead of the hot

pink."

"You're into that kind of thing, are you?"

"Nope. Can I have my kiss now?" he asked.

"Not a chance. You know my views on PDA." There is a reason for every

rule, and the reason for this one is that the only adults I ever see

making out in public are ugly. I doubt there's a cause-and-effect

relationship, but I'd rather not risk it.

He mock-sighed, then turned his attention to the key I was rotating

between my fingers. "You want me to tag that and put it in the

property room?"

"That's OK. I'm going to hold on to it."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're about to make some mischief?

After that run-in you had with Johnson the other day,

he's not going to like it if you do anything to mess up what's standing

as a perfectly good case."

So Johnson had told the rest of them about the dress-down. "And why do

I get the feeling that if Russell Frist made the same call you'd keep

any doubts you had to yourself?"

He looked away for a few seconds. When he turned back toward me, he

pushed my hair behind my ear and said, "Sorry, Kincaid, but you're so

much cuter than he is. I'll try to get used to it."

"About that PDA you wanted?" I said, leaning into him.

"Uh-huh?"

"Come over around nine. We'll order a pizza, and I'll display some

affection in private."

I had just enough time to touch base with Russell before meeting Slip.

I found him chatting in his office with the other MCU boys.

"Sorry, I'll come back."

"No, that's all right," he said, waving me in. "Sorry, guys, but we

need to talk about a case real quick."

They all filed out without saying a word to me, clearly disappointed

that they'd have to move the socializing to a smaller office.

"How'd it go today?"

I filled him in on the preliminary hearing and Slip's request to meet

with me at the end of the day.

"He's probably hoping for a quick plea," he said. "If he offers to

take a life sentence to avoid the death penalty, you're going to find

yourself in a bind. You want me to come along?"

Duncan hadn't formally announced his decision not to seek a death

sentence, but I knew his mind was made up. Letting

Jackson enter a plea without that information might not violate the

ethics rules, but it still seemed sleazy.

"That's all right. It's just talk for now. I won't make a deal

without running it by you and Duncan."

"Anything else?" he asked.

I decided not to hold back on him. I told him about my conversation

with Nelly and the key she'd given me. "I might ask Johnson to track

it down for me, find out what she was hiding."

"Don't even think about it, Sam. How many times do I have to tell you?

The case is cleared. You eat up bureau overtime chasing down what's

probably a stupid luggage key, and there's going to be pressure to rein

you in. Save us both the headache."

I pulled the key from my pocket and showed it to him. "It's not a

luggage key. It looks like it's for a safe deposit box."

"Jesus Christ, Kincaid. Why isn't that in the police property room?

You can't go lugging evidence around in your pocket. Get it through

your head: You're the prosecutor, not Jackson's defense attorney. You

put that in the property room, make sure Slip gets a copy of the

receipt in discovery, and forget about it."

In the spirit of cooperating with my new, relatively decent supervisor,

I would put the key away as instructed, but I wasn't about to forget

about it.

It took the guy in the precinct property room less than five minutes to

add the key to the other evidence seized in the Jackson case and

complete a supplemental report to document the addition. I pocketed

two photocopies of the supplemental, one for the file and one for some

mischief-making.

Slip was waiting at the bar at Higgin's, looking at his watch. "You

starting to think I was standing you up?" "There are a couple of

people in your office who find that sort of thing humorous," he said.

"And do I strike you as one of them?"

"Nope. That's why I waited."

We ordered our drinks at the bar and found a quiet table in the corner.

Higgin's looks exactly like the kind of bar where you'd expect lawyers

to meet after work to talk cases. Dark wood, brass fixtures, the

works.

"So how've you been, Sam? I haven't seen you much since you handed my

ass to me in trial about a year ago."

I wrinkled my nose. "I don't remember it being quite that bad."

"So tell me the truth. How many times have you pulled that "Don't take

it out on my case that I'm young' shit?"

"Only with you, Slip. Had to do something to level the playing field

against your cords and tennies."

I have this thing I do to counteract the shtick that some of the older

attorneys have developed over the years. In my final closing, I give

the jury my best doe-eyed look, even turning slightly pigeon-toed if I

can get away with it. Then I say something like, "I might not have as

much trial experience as the defense attorney, but don't take it out on

this case. The evidence is there, etc. etc." It gets the jury back

on track, and is a lot more subtle than saying, "I'm not as slimy as

the rest of these guys."

In my last trial with Slip, he'd gone after my cops on a reverse drug

buy. I suppose it's the only tack for a defense attorney to take when

his client insists on putting his word against an undercover officer's.

When little innocent me got done with the jury, they saw things the way

they really were.

"Well, it's a cute trick, Kincaid. I wanted to haul out your power

resume and hold it up against my University of Oregon degree."

"As much as I enjoy your company, Slip, I assume we're not here to

reminisce. What's up?"

"The Jackson case, of course."

"What about it?"

No attorney ever wants to be the first to say plea. It's a sign you

don't have faith in your case. I'd sit here all night if I had to, but

Slip was the one who'd asked for this meeting.

"It's fishy."

Now that was not what I was expecting.

I plucked a ten from my wallet and put it on the table as I stood to

leave. I had planned on giving Slip the report from the property room

to make sure Clarissa's secret key didn't get lost among the discovery,

but now that I knew his agenda, it was time to go. That old saying

about family describes how I feel about my cases: Only I can bad-mouth

them. I got enough argument from defense attorneys during the workday;

I wasn't about to spend my Friday night on this.

"Please stay, Sam. I thought you knew me well enough, but ask around

the courthouse if you have to; I don't bullshit. Posture one too many

times, and you can never get a prosecutor to listen to you again."

That was his reputation.

"Hear me out," he said. "I know it rarely happens, but I really am

starting to think this guy's being set up. And it's a good set-up.

He's poor, and he's black, and your victim is incredibly

sympathetic."

I was still standing with my briefcase, but I hadn't walked away.

"Honestly, I'm scared shitless I'm going to lose this case and never be

able to sleep again."

I think I had been fearing the same thing. I sat down again, and he

started his pitch.

"What's bothering me most is how neatly it all adds up. What's a guy

who lives hand-to-mouth doing getting a phone call one day on a fancy

new development job?"

"Easy," I said. "Developers are greedy and will try to save money

wherever they can. What do they care who does the landscaping?"

There was too much evidence against Jackson for that one nagging point

to prove a setup, especially since Grace had explained it wasn't

particularly unusual for developers to use day labor. I told Slip he'd

need to explain away the most incriminating pieces before I could take

him seriously.

"Without waiving privilege?" he asked.

I gave him my word.

"First of all, we've got that thing your cops keep calling an

admission."

"It's a classic admission, Slip. The police kick the door, and your

guy blurts out, "I know what you're looking for." Leads them right to

the paint."

"Right. He leads them to the paint. If he's giving himself up, why

doesn't he point them to the hammer? Because he didn't know it was

there."

"But what made him think they were there for the paint? Because he saw

the early news stories about paint being on the dog," I said, answering

my own question.

"No, Sam, because he stole it. He's been keeping his nose so clean he

thought the police were barging in over a couple of cans of paint he

took from the building site. He was going to paint his mom's house."

"Isn't that sweet?"

"You're starting to sound as insensitive as the rest of your office."

"Sorry, Slip, but I'm not buying it. A judge he's threatening turns up

dead, and when the police look at him, he thinks it's for petty

theft?"

"He didn't know the woman was dead. This is not a man who keeps up

with the news. I'm telling you, I believe him. You've got to

understand, the only thing that drives this guy is keeping his kids. He

thought if he got caught with the paint, he'd lose the Glenville job

and it would hurt him with everything else that's going on. I guess

one of the other workers at the site saw him take it, so when the

police showed up, he assumed the guy had ratted."

Now that was interesting. It would tie whatever Slip was talking about

back to the property. "What do you mean someone saw him?"

"He noticed that some workers had left a couple buckets of paint

outside on Friday, so he went back with his truck to pick them up. He

says another worker was still there and saw him. Melvin started to

make up a story, but the guy told him to go ahead; he wouldn't tell

anyone."

"Does he know who the man was?"

"Since we're being so honest with each other, all he could tell me was

'some white guy." But, c'mon, there are lawyers in your office who've

given a witness a lineup with worse initial statements. Get me some

pictures and I'll see what I can do."

I shook my head. "There's a ton of people working down there. And it

doesn't do you any good anyway. So what if he stole the paint? It's

still on the victim's dog, so he's still tied to the victim's

disappearance."

Unless, of course, the mystery man who spotted him with the paint had

something to do with it.

"Let me ask you something," I said, "what does Jackson say about how he

got the job?"

Slip pulled a file from his briefcase. "I was getting there. Melvin

runs an ad in the Penny Power classifieds. Two lines only costs a few

bucks, and he occasionally gets a home maintenance job, that sort of

thing. Well, last Monday, he gets a phone call from a Billy Minkins.

Melvin's pretty sure about the name, but he never actually met him. He

hired Melvin as an independent contractor for twenty bucks an hour,

more than Melvin's ever made."

I scribbled down the name on a cocktail napkin.

"The check he got is from a company called Gunderson Development."

I didn't need to write that one down.

"I didn't find a listing for either Minkins or the company," Slip said,

"but you're probably in a better position to track someone down. Maybe

you can get a picture of Minkins, see if he's the one who told Melvin

to take the paint."