Missing Justice

"You're pushing your luck, Slip. I'm here to listen. Don't tell me

how to do my job. Tell me about the fingerprint on the door."

If Slip was convinced Melvin was innocent, he must have an explanation

for the print.

"Melvin went to the house Wednesday night. He was so excited about the

new job, he thought it might help if he talked to her in person."

That's what Melvin's mother had said.

"How'd he know where she lived?" I asked.

Slip looked down then looked back to me. "Let's just say that part

doesn't help me so much."

"I'm going to assume he did something stalkerish, like follow her home

at some point."

Slip's silence was enough.

"So what happened when he knocked?" I asked.

"Nothing. No one was home. After he left, he realized that showing up

on her front door was probably not the wisest litigation strategy."

"But threatening letters are?"

"I never said Melvin was rational," he said, "just innocent. By the

way, he tells me he mailed that last letter Monday morning,

and I believe him. And, I know you can explain it away if you need to,

but you've got to admit that Melvin as a sex offender doesn't ring

true. That leaves you having to explain how your vie got dressed after

she died. Come on, Samantha, part of you has a hinky feeling about

this."

I let the comment go. I didn't need him telling a judge down the road

that I had supposedly expressed doubt about the prosecution. "How come

I haven't heard anything about an alibi?"

"That part doesn't help either," he said.

"Slip, that's usually shorthand for sitting alone by himself, with no

one to verify it."

"The kids go to church with Grandma on Sundays. You know those

Baptists; it's an all-day thing."

"And I assume under your theory, someone planted the hammer," I said.

"There are no prints on it. And you heard Johnson. He tried to call

Caffrey before he homed in on Melvin. If Caffrey was doing your

victim, he'd know about Melvin. That's plenty of time to dump the

hammer. And, hell, Caffrey's powerful enough to have someone do it for

him. Melvin was at the mall with the kids from six to nine that

night."

Now that I heard Slip's attempt to explain the things that had been

nagging at me, it sounded ridiculous.

"How does someone get inside the apartment? My cops didn't see any

sign of a break-in."

"Melvin doesn't bolt the door, and you should see the locks on public

housing. It took my investigator about four seconds to slip it with a

credit card."

It still didn't sound right. The framing of a defendant is rare

enough, but the way Slip spelled it out, this one involved not only

someone from the property site but also an elected official. It didn't

fly without a connection between the two.

not

Maybe Slip would find one. I fished the property receipt out of my bag

and scribbled my home phone number on the back.

"Here's a present," I said. "Don't say I never did anything for you.

I had some work to do this weekend too, but first I needed to track

down the envelope that Jenna Markson had sent interoffice.

Searching for it in my office, I remembered that I still hadn't

returned Susan Kerr's call from the morning. Better to do it now than

to call her over the weekend or let it sit until Monday.

She thanked me for calling. "I feel stupid bothering you when you're

in the middle of the hearing, but I "

"Don't worry about it, Susan. What's up?"

"I was just wondering how Townsend was at the hearing today."

"He was there with his lawyer, but as it turned out he didn't need to

testify."

"Is that good?"

"Sure. Court proceedings are always difficult for victims."

"But when you first said he didn't need to testify, you said it in a

way that suggested you were particularly appreciative. Was there a

reason for that?"

I wouldn't normally run down my victim's husband, but Susan and Tara

had already expressed concern about Town-send's recent appearance, so

it wasn't like I was saying something new. "Well, quite honestly, he

didn't look like he was up to it."

"So you can see it too." Susan sounded relieved. "I was wondering if

it was just my imagination. I'm really starting to worry about him.

When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I

only saw him have one drink."

I thought about it. Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death

penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then

or today in court.

"Maybe it's just lack of sleep," I offered. "And he might still be

suffering from shock."

"You're probably right. Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure

you want to go home. I was really only calling to see if you could try

to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't

necessary."

"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."

"Not a problem. I'm just glad you think what he's going through is

normal. You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,

fortunately."

Actually, I hadn't. I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man

whose wife had been murdered. And Townsend was a man with access to

his own personal prescription pad.

"Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask

Clarissa's family to do the same. He could be prescribing himself

medication."

"I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it. He could

lose his license for that, couldn't he?"

"Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of

ourselves. Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine

cabinets, that kind of thing." Then I remembered I wasn't just a

sympathetic human being; I was a prosecutor. "Look around if you

choose to as a private party, I mean, not as an agent of the

government."

I could almost hear a small smile. "I get what you're saying. And,

Samantha, thanks a lot."

"No problem."

I hung up pleased that I had earned Susan's trust. Even though

prosecutors aren't victims' attorneys, they should in most cases be

their advocates. If I could handle a busy caseload and still find time

and compassion for the people in that caseload, I'd be proud of my

job.

I went back to searching for the envelope from Jenna Mark-son, working

backward from my office, starting with the mail slots on the sixth

floor. It could have been worse. The envelope hadn't made it into the

slot for MCU, but I found it when I pawed through a bin of mail left in

front of the boxes. The mail guy had probably checked out at precisely

5 p.m.

Inside I found the printouts Jenna had run on Gunderson. They

contained exactly what I was looking for: a list of the properties

Gunderson had owned when he had filed for Chapter 11.

It was too late to get into the public library's archives to do the

research I was planning, so I headed home for a long run before Chuck

was scheduled to show up. By the time I finished, I had mustered up

the energy to call my father, but all I got was his machine. I hung up

without leaving a message.

When Chuck showed up twenty minutes late with beer on his breath, I was

good and didn't ask him where he'd been. Then he was better and

apologized for being late, explaining how he'd gotten trapped at a

sit-down with Calabrese. Apparently Mike and his wife were having a

hard time adjusting to life with a new baby.

We were total gluttons and ordered a large pie from Pizza-cata half

pepperoni for him, half goat cheese and artichoke for me. An hour and

a bottle of chianti later, we were starting to fool around on the sofa

while Chris Matthews and his guests played hardball. Some folks might

have a problem getting turned on with talking heads going at each other

in the background, but with Chuck and me, anything could lead to

fore-play, even those icky surgery shows. One minute I'm trying to

grab the remote from him, and the next, we've got our own doctor show

going on my coffee table.

Around the time Chuck had flung my bra into the empty pizza box and I

was beyond caring, the phone rang. I started to wiggle out from

beneath him, but his warm breath in my ear stopped me. "Don't even try

it."

I heard my own voice on the machine. "You've reached Sam and Vinnie.

Maybe we're home, maybe not. At the tone, proceed at your own risk."

"Hi uh, sorry to call so late. I'm going to assume that's a joke so I

can hold on to my remaining self-esteem in the event no one picks up.

This is a message for Samantha Kincaid."

See? It works. Ever since Roger moved out and Vinnie moved in, my

Frenchie had been my other half on the all-important outgoing message.

No reason to advertise your woman-alone status to every creep out there

dialing random numbers for kicks.

"This is Graham Szlipkowski."

My wiggling resumed. In fact, it escalated to an outright scramble.

When Chuck realized I was serious about getting to the phone, he sat

up, clearly frustrated.

By the time I picked up, I heard Slip say, "I'm sorry to bother you on

the weekend, but I need you to contact "

"Slip, it's Samantha."

"You mean I made the cut? I've earned some honors in my career, but

"

"Slip, it's eleven o'clock on a Friday night. Get to the point."

"I looked at the present you dropped on me this afternoon. Needless to

say, I want to check it out, the sooner the better."

"So check it out," I said, "and tell me if you find anything."

"That's why I'm calling so late. I want to track it down with the

banks tomorrow, but the bureau won't release the key to my investigator

without your OK."

"That's fine. Whom do I need to call?"

"I'm sorry about this, but they need a fax."

What a pain in the ass. I jotted down the fax number for the property

room and assured him I'd figure out something.

When I hung up, Chuck threw me a skeptical look. "Why do I have a

feeling that I don't want to know why a defense attorney's calling you

at home?"

"Because you probably don't."

"Most guys, their girlfriend gets a phone call from another man late at

night, it means one thing. If only I had it so good. Just promise me

you're not doing anything dangerous."

"Hardly, unless you consider clerical work dangerous." I tried to hide

my glee that he'd used the girlfriend word. Down the road, he'd need

to settle on more mature verbiage. For now, though, I reveled in the

general sentiment.

"Get back over here, then," he said.

"Sorry. I've got one more thing to do. I can either drive to Kinko's

or figure out how to send a fax on my computer."

"You have no idea how to use your computer, do you?"

"Sure. It's a giant typewriter with a button that puts me on the

Internet."

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll send your fax and you turn off

Matthews and get your ass in bed. And no sleeping."

It was a win-win situation.

OOl

Eleven.

I kicked Chuck out the next morning so I could get to work, but not

before convincing him to pull DMV photos of Larry Gunderson and Billy

Minkins for me.

At first he balked. "My lieutenant will be all over me about Saturday

OT on Jackson," he said, "unless, of course, I can tell him why it was

essential."

When that didn't get an explanation out of me about who Gunderson and

Minkins were and why I wanted their pictures, he finally relented. I

was ready to go by noon.

I'd get the pictures to Slip soon enough, but my first priority was the

downtown public library.

No doubt about it, the library crowd's an interesting one: Birkenstock

moms, amateur academics, and burnt-out hippie homeless people, all in

one quiet beautiful place.

I pulled the volumes I was looking for and searched for an empty table.

Finding a work spot was not an easy task, given my criteria: no

children, schizoids, or stinky people.

I finally dumped the books on a corner table, retrieved a county map

and the envelope from Jenna Markson from my briefcase, and settled in

for what I thought would be the first day in a full weekend of

research. As it turned out, the task at hand tracking down Gunderson's

stake in the urban growth boundary over the years was easier than I had

imagined.

First, I marked all of Gunderson's seven properties on the map. Without

exception, the properties would have been considered the boonies when I

was a kid, but they had been developed by the time I was out of

college. The next step was to figure out where the properties fell

along the growth boundary.

Fortunately, the library maintained a series of maps depicting the

original boundary line and all the changes made in the twenty-five

years since. The trend became obvious immediately. Six of Gunderson's

seven properties fell just inside the original boundary line. The land

would have been rural at the time, then made valuable by the sudden

restriction against future growth. The seventh was brought within the

urban area after the first boundary expansion.

Either Larry Gunderson was the luckiest landowner in Portland or I was

on to something.

I found a records librarian and asked her if she could pull the

legislative history for the Smart Growth Act, which had established the

original growth boundary in the summer of 1980. She looked at me like

I had to be kidding, then sighed heavily and walked away when she

realized I wasn't.

A good hour later, she reemerged with a handcart stacked with ragged

and dusty binders. "I can't tell you exactly where it is in here, but

each binder has an index by bill number. Do you need help finding the

number too?"

"No, I've got it. Thank you so much. I really appreciate it."

I gathered from her look of confusion that she rarely heard those

words.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wading through hundreds of pages of

legislative findings, debates, floor speeches, and other forms of word

combinations that hardly deserve to be called part of the English

language. Most of the talk was about whether to limit urban growth and

how. What captured my attention, however, were the pages detailing the

debates about where to draw the boundary line itself. I couldn't make

sense of it all, so I fell back on my handy dandy anti confusion

treatment, list-making.

Using a legal pad, I listed the various property areas in dispute, then

located each on my map. Four of the six Gunderson properties within

the eventual boundary had not been included for development under the

original proposal.

Next I turned to the legislators involved in the debates, noting their

names and where they stood on permitting development within each

disputed geographic area. For the most part, predictable

pro-development and pro-environment patterns emerged, with the act's

opponents favoring open development across the board while proponents

favored restrictions. But one legislator was clearly pushing the

expansions that favored Gunderson more than he was pushing others:

Representative Clifford Brigg.

I went back to the records librarian and asked for anything she could

give me on Brigg within six months of August 1980.

"Unfortunately," she said, "the articles from back then aren't

computerized, so you're going to have to do it by hand." She led me to

a table in another corner that contained the old microfilm machines,

pulled a couple of notebooks from a nearby shelf, and explained they

were the indexes of Oregonian articles from 1980 through 1981. If I

made a list of the ones I wanted to see, she'd pull the rolls of

microfilm I needed.

If it involved making a list, I could handle it.

Brigg was no stranger to the press. Some of the articles appeared to

concern the growth legislation, but most seemed campaign-related. It

must have been a reelection year.

I requested all the articles that looked like they might relate to the

growth boundary and a handful of the ones about the campaign.

My new best friend had the rolls of film in just a few minutes. After

a quick refresher course on how to use the machine, I jumped in,

turning first to the stories on the growth legislation.

Most of the articles were brief, containing competing sound bites from

developers and environmentalists, with a few remarks from legislators

thrown in for flavor. But a longer feature offered a good overview of

the debate and Brigg's role in it.

The first section of the article described the rapid growth that was

swallowing rural land along the 1-5 corridor from Salem to Seattle.

Although the last decade had seen only an 8 percent increase in the

population of the Willamette Valley, the geography of the urban area

had sprawled 22 percent.

The article explained the Smart Growth Act and the general policy

arguments on each side of the debate. Planned growth versus the free

market, environmental preservation versus human use of land, the

collective good versus individual choice, open space versus affordable

housing, blah blah blah.

Then the writer got to Brigg:

The future of the Smart Growth Act is likely to be determined by a

handful of moderate legislators who appear to favor the theory of an

urban growth boundary but who are focusing upon the particularities of

how that boundary will be drawn. Key among these detail-oriented

legislators is Rep. Clifford Brigg. Staff members to several other

legislators report that Brigg has been active behind the scenes,

working to ensure that the line is drawn to his satisfaction before he

lends his support. In a statement issued in response to inquiries from

the Oregonian about these reports, Brigg stated, "If we publicly

debated every bit of minutia about every piece of legislation, we'd

never get any work done as a body. So, yes, I have been talking to my

colleagues about what I'd like to see in this legislation for me to

support it. I'm in favor of the idea, but we need to do it right. My

eventual vote will be public and open to scrutiny."

As Brigg put it, all he was trying to do was to make sure that the line

was drawn properly, so the prettiest, most sacred land wasn't turned

into a Kmart. It sounded perfectly logical, but was it coincidence

that Clifford Brigg's notion of smart growth just happened to deliver a

windfall to Gunderson?

Once I finished plodding through the Smart Growth articles, I had just

enough time to take a quick look at the reelection stories before the

library closed. The campaign pieces were quaint compared to today's

politics: Brigg eats ice cream at a strawberry social, Brigg feeds

ducks at the Rhododendron Gardens, Brigg is in favor of a new fire

station.

Then, in the background of the next photograph, I saw a familiar face

in an unfamiliar uniform. The shot was a closeup of Brigg shaking

hands with a former secretary of state who had come to town for a

commencement speech. The face in the background was my father's.

When I picture my father in his work gear, I see him in his standard

green forest-ranger togs. Not that I'd remember it, but I didn't think

I'd ever seen him in the Oregon State Police dress blues he wore in the

photograph. Those would have been the exception even when he was a

state trooper. For just a second, I enjoyed the chance to see my

father as he was then. His light brown hair was silver now, and his

face was thinner, but he was still just as handsome. I looked at the

date of the article. Dad left the state for the forest service just

two months later.

Then, for reasons I didn't fully understand, I found myself wishing I

hadn't stumbled onto this picture at all. What was my father doing

with a man like Clifford Brigg?

I looked up to give my eyes a rest and to stretch my neck. When I had

reached into a full extension on my right, I noticed a man standing by

the table where my books of legislative history were still open. Did

he want my table, the books, or maybe just to stand there being

weird?

Before I made it across the room he had disappeared behind a bookshelf

next to the table. I took a quick tour of the floor, but he was

nowhere to be found. Damn. There had been something familiar about

him, but there was no way I was going to place him without a second

look.

I put an end to the search when the friendly librarian started making

the rounds to tell everyone that the doors would be closing in ten

minutes. I noticed that she looked directly at me when she mentioned

our ability to support our local library by cleaning up after

ourselves.

I stole a final look at the photograph of my father. I felt foolish.

My occasionally overactive imagination was at it again. No mystery men

were following me, and my father wasn't wrapped up in anything

nefarious with Clifford Brigg. Surely he was there as security for the

event.

I pushed print on the machine before tucking away the film. Dad would

get a kick out of the picture, and he might even have some background

to share on Brigg. In the meantime, I had earned a night off.

One advantage to being a woman alone should be the occasional luxury of

coming home and falling straight to sleep. By the time I finished my

night out with Grace three Nordstrom shopping bags, two martinis, and a

slice of lemon cheesecake later I was exhausted.

But I had the usual crap to attend to. My phone was ringing as I

walked in the door, and Vinnie had left a little message of his own for

me, right inside his doggie door to make sure I knew it was

intentional.

"It's after midnight," I said to my caller, "way past any reasonable

notion of call cutoffs."

"It's Graham Szlipkowsky."

"And how's my favorite defense attorney doing on this very late

evening?" I held the phone between my ear and shoulder while I began

scooping, scrubbing, and disinfecting my tile, Vinnie watching

contentedly from the nearby wicker chair.

"He's very sorry to be calling you."

"Not a problem. What's up?"

"I wanted to make sure you're going to be around tomorrow. We need to

talk."

"We are talking."

"No, I need to show you something. Can you come to my office?"

I was too tired to try to pry the information out of him. If he was

going to insist on meeting, better to get it over with. "Fine," I

said, "but let's make it early. I'll meet you at seven."

"a.m.? When do you sleep, Kincaid?"

"Who says I sleep?" I said, hanging up.

So much for a full Sunday off.

We met at his office at seven sharp. I noticed that in his khakis and

navy pullover, he dressed better on the weekend than he did at the

courthouse.

"It better be good, Slip."

"I don't know if it's good, but it's definitely notable."

My usual Sunday routine of reading the New York Times over dim sum at

Fong Chong was notable. This had better top it.

Slip led me into a small library that appeared to double as a

lunchroom, coffee bar, and chat area. There was a tiny television on

the countertop. Four men in jellybean colored T-shirts were wiggling

up a storm with a room full of toddlers.

"You better have something better for me than a show that transforms

perfectly cute kids into annoying little freaks."

"Very funny," he said, hitting a button that turned the screen to an

even blue. "I think this is big, Samantha."

"Enough with the dramatics. Just show me why you brought me here."

He pulled a plastic Gap bag from a nearby chair and set it on the card

table in the center of the room.

"My investigator found a safe deposit box at First Coast Bank rented by

Clarissa Easterbrook. The key was a match."

"And that's what he found?" I asked, looking at the bag.

He nodded.

"And how exactly did your investigator convince the bank to turn over

the contents of a safe deposit box that didn't belong to him?"

"Do you really need to know?"

The truth was, I didn't. If there was any legal violation, it was

probably only civil. Anyway, courts don't care if evidence is obtained

illegally, as long as the government's hands were clean.

He pulled out a manila folder, a videotape, and a computer disc.

He handed me the folder first. Inside were photocopies of what

appeared to be a case file for Gunderson Development v. City of

Portland.

Slip must have seen a flash of recognition cross my face. "Does that

mean something to you?"

"I'm not sure yet," I said, flipping through it. This little joint

venture definitely fell outside the lines of normal procedure. I

wasn't about to tell him everything until I figured out for myself how

the pieces fit together.

From what I could gather in my quick review, the city had denied

Gunderson's request for a variance to convert an historically

significant building into condominiums. Gunderson appealed, arguing

that the city employee who denied the request had been untrained,

filling in for the usual specialist who was on maternity leave.

Gunderson argued that the employee had failed to consider whether his

redevelopment plan preserved the original architecture to a significant

degree, which was required to obtain a variance.

I didn't know squat about administrative law, but Gunderson's appeal

looked like a major loser. No judge administrative or not wants to be

in the business of second-guessing the discretionary decisions made by

front-line bureaucratic implementers.

But Clarissa had agreed with Gunderson. Result? Gunderson threw some

plumbing and a few walls into a run-down old church and ended up with

condominiums that probably sold for four hundred dollars a square

foot.

The case sounded familiar. Had I seen it when I reviewed Clarissa's

files at City Hall? I looked at the dates. Clarissa had ruled in

favor of Gunderson almost four months ago, and I had only seen the

cases that were currently pending.

At the end of the file I found a page of handwritten notes. They were

dated a week before Clarissa's death and were in the same slanted

scrawl I'd seen in Clarissa's files.

Tt/ DC about Gunderson appeal. He advd me city would not reopen. We

agreed re Grice.

Something about the file was still tugging at a corner of a memory.

Each time I thought I was close to plucking out the thought, I'd lose

hold of it entirely. "What else?"

He held up the floppy disc. "I've got to give this back to my

investigator. It's password protected."

"And the video?"

"That's the doozie."

Slip popped the videotape into the built-in VCR beneath the small

television screen. The blue screen turned to static, then to a shaky

image of a couple walking out a door.

It was Clarissa Easterbrook and T. J. Caffrey. Caffrey looked around

but apparently didn't see whoever was holding the camera. He held

Clarissa's face and then kissed her. It was long but gentle. I felt

my eyes shift away instinctively from their private moment, but I

forced myself to focus.

Their faces still close, they spoke a few words to each other. Then

the camera followed as Caffrey walked Clarissa to her car, giving her

one last kiss before she got in. He hopped into his car, and the two

drove away. The camera panned outward to show the backdrop, a

two-story motel with doors that edged the parking lot. A sign at the

road declared it to be the Village Motor Inn.

When the screen went to static and then back to blue, I looked at Slip.

"It's a motel north of Vancouver," he explained, "about thirty miles

out."

They'd gone all the way to Washington to avoid being spotted.

Obviously, they hadn't been careful enough.

"I guess that confirms the affair," I said. "You think someone was

blackmailing her? I hate to break it to you, Slip, but it might've

been Jackson." If sympathy and threatening letters didn't do the

trick, a videotape like this one might. He had followed Clarissa at

least once before.

"If it's blackmail," he said, "what do you make of this?" Slip handed

me a brown padded envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Terrence J.

Caffrey on a street in Eastmoreland. "The video was inside that

envelope."

There was no postmark.

"Maybe it was hand-delivered, and Caffrey showed it to Clarissa?"

"Possible. Or maybe Clarissa was going to mail it and never got around

to it."

I thought about it. Tara had gotten the impression that Clarissa's

mystery man was reluctant to live happily ever after with her. Maybe

Clarissa was playing hardball? I had seen obsession inspire crazier

actions against a supposed loved one.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't know everything yet, a

state of knowledge I was never good at accepting.

Before I left, I gave Slip the photographs of Gunderson and Minkins

that Chuck had pulled for me. I kept their PPDS reports for myself.

Gunderson was sixty-five with a clean record. Minkins was thirty, on

probation for a forged check.

My eyes stayed on Minkins's picture. When Chuck gave it to me

yesterday morning, I hadn't given it a second glance. But now he

looked familiar. The guy by my table in the library. With shorter

hair and a closer shave, he could've been Minkins. On the other hand,

he could've been yet another lanky guy with dark hair and a mustache. I

might have to arrange an in-person look-see.

For now, I wanted to know what Jackson could tell me. "Have your guy

take a look at these. See if he recognizes them from the site."

Slip glanced at the photographs. "Are you going to tell me who they

are?"

"Nope."

When I left Slip's office, I called my father to make sure he was home.

I wasn't sure I could make it over for dinner, I told him, but I needed

to talk to him now, if he didn't mind.

Five minutes later, he was pouring me a glass of iced tea as we sat

together at the breakfast nook. We both had finally adjusted to the

clean tabletop. When my mother was still living,

this was the place where she stacked her books, mail, and bills. Now

that my father was in charge of running the house, those things piled

up in the den.

"Look what I found." I handed him a copy of the newspaper article,

showing him in the background at the college commencement. "You look

very handsome."

Something dark crossed my father's face. "Where'd you find that old

thing?"

"I came across it when I was going through some old newspaper articles

at the library trying to tie up some loose ends."

"Well, thanks, Sammy. I'll hold on to it. I forgot what I looked like

back then. Not too shabby in my day, was I?"

"I think it's safe to say you were a full-blown hot tie Dad. I was

actually hoping to talk to you about it. Were you doing security for

the commencement?"

Dad shook his head. "I was driving one of the bigwigs. We did a lot

of that in OSP."

"Who were you driving?"

"Oh, who can even remember? That was so long ago. What's this about,

honI'm not sure yet. A couple of names keep coming up on something I'm

looking into, and one of them is Clifford Brigg. What do you remember

about him?"

Dad put the article face down on the table. "Not a lot. I left OSP

when you were just a little kid, and I never looked back. I remember

reading that Brigg died oh, that must have been more than fifteen years

ago."

"But what was he like back then? What was his reputation?"

"I'm sorry, Samantha, but I told you before, I don't want to talk about

this. What's past is past."

No, he told me he didn't want to talk about his reasons for leaving

OSP. The knot I'd felt when I first found the article began to settle

its way back into my stomach. "Dad, does this have something to do

with why you moved over to the forest service? Because that's what you

told me before that you didn't want to talk about."

He was silent for a moment, as if he were mulling something over in his

head before speaking. "I didn't say anything other than I don't want

to talk about it. End of discussion."

End of discussion? I hadn't heard him say that since I was in junior

high school and he forbade me from taking the Greyhound with Grace for

a Duran Duran concert in Seattle. Grace's mother had nixed the idea

too, so we caved.

This time I wouldn't quit so easily. "Dad, I hope you know there's

nothing you can't tell me. Obviously this picture is upsetting to you,

and it's got something to do with our conversation the other day about

Mom "

"It's got nothing to do with your mother."

"OK, whatever, but something about this upsets you. I wish you'd talk

to me about it." I couldn't believe I even had to say that to him. As

long as I could remember, his favorite pastime was to tell me things.

Anything. When I was a kid, it took all he could handle not to divulge

where Mom had hidden the Christmas presents.

Now he wouldn't talk to me about a legislator who had died when I was

in high school.

"Dad, I came across these articles doing research on the East-erbrook

investigation. If you know something, you have to tell me. It could

be important. Melvin Jackson might be innocent."

"If anyone's innocent, it's you, and you're the one I'm worried about.

It's these people, Sam. These people. They'll eat you alive to

advance their agenda."

"What people? Dad, don't leave me in the dark."

He stood up, walked to the kitchen sink, and stared out the window for

a minute, and then another, without saying a word to me. Then he sat

across from me again.

"I did security for Clifford Brigg. The man was well, he was a son of

a bitch. Pardon my language. He's dead and gone, but if anyone

associated with him is injecting himself into your investigation

please, Sam, just walk away."

"Why, Dad? The least you can do is tell me why."

"I can't, Sam. I just can't."

"And I just can't walk away."

I left my father with whatever secrets he was holding on to and drove

to my office, feeling incredibly lonely. Part of me wanted to lie on

my couch, watch TV, and cry, but I knew I needed to work.

I made a list of everything I knew about Clarissa, Gunderson, the

Glenville property, Caffrey, Townsend, and Jackson. Then I used lines

to connect facts that might be related, like Clarissa's ruling on the

Gunderson case, Gunderson's stake in the urban growth boundary, and

Clarissa's affair with Cafferty.

Before I knew it, my legal pad was so filled with overlapping lines

that I couldn't read anything. Frustrated, I finally circled my pen

around the entire list over and over again until I popped a hole in the

paper. What the hell were you up to, Clarissa?

Making sense of everything I'd learned over the weekend was going to

take some legwork. I paged Johnson.

I tried to keep it simple, telling him about Clarissa's safe deposit

box. "I was hoping you'd have another go at Caffrey since you never

got in touch with him the first time. We need to find out what

Clarissa was doing with that videotape."

Johnson obviously didn't share my enthusiasm. "Sorry, Sam, but I'm

working other cases now. I can't pull off to put in more time on

Jackson."

"Do you know if Walker can do it? I've got the rest of the prelim

tomorrow." I had a hard time hiding my frustration. The

Major Crimes Team owed its existence to the District Attorney's

insistence on sufficient investigative support for cases carrying

mandatory minimum sentences.

"That's going to be a problem too. Look, since it's you, I'll give it

to you straight. When we saw the lieutenant this morning, he told us

that any overtime on Jackson needed to go through him."

"Did he say why?" The bureau could be stingy on overtime, but I'd

never heard of an order to run each minute through the supervisor.

"I got the impression someone had put some extra time into the case

after it was cleared. But I know it wasn't me, and it also wasn't

Jack. You know anything about that?"

"Chuck went with me to pick up the key from Clarissa's assistant, but

it only took a few minutes."

"And why didn't you call me or Walker? We're the leads."

"I did call you, but you weren't in." He didn't respond. "Look, do we

have a problem here?"

"Just remember how you felt when I went around you for the polygraph.

You've got my pager number."

"I didn't go around you, Ray. It was a quick walk across the street,

and Chuck happened to be in." Again with the silence. "If you want to

say something, just say it."

"I just think it's funny how you say your old buddy just happened to be

in when you wanted something done on a cleared case. Maybe part of you

knew I wouldn't be too happy about doing work that's going to bite me

in the ass down the road."

"And how's that?"

"When you tell me three months from now that you're pleading the case

down because of something the defense attorney's twisting around. You

know, it's always those little extra details stupid things like a safe

deposit key or the occasional extramarital roll in the sheets. Stuff

that we both know or at least I know doesn't change the fact that

Melvin Jackson's guilty."

"I don't know what to say, Ray. I wasn't trying to hide anything from

you, or I wouldn't have called you just now. And I wouldn't ask you to

do something if I didn't think it was important."

"If you want to call the LT, that's fine with me," Ray said. "But for

now, we're not supposed to be working a cleared case. I don't want to

get stuck between my boss and your office."

Neither did I, I thought, as I hung up. One thing was for sure: I

wouldn't be getting any more help from the bureau.

The notes that Clarissa stashed in her safe deposit box mentioned a

case she referred to as Grice. It still felt familiar.

I found my own notes from the review of Clarissa's files. It didn't

take long to realize where I'd seen Grice's name before. It was in the

list of cases from which Clarissa had recused herself. According to my

notes, Grice Construction was the company that had complained that the

city had unfairly denied its request to rehabilitate some Pearl Street

buildings. The date of Clarissa's recusal was the same day she had

apparently talked to DC about both the Grice case and the case

involving Gunderson's own rehabilitation program. If DC was Coakley,

that might explain what Nelly overheard at City Hall.

I didn't know the details yet, but it was becoming clear that Gunderson

had some kind of connection to Clarissa.

Good thing I knew who his lawyer was. I even had his home number.

I was surprised when a woman answered. When I asked to speak to Roger,

she asked who was calling. I was tempted to tell her she was right to

be suspicious, but I gave her the boring answer instead.

"It's for you," she hollered. "Someone named Samantha Kincaid."

I wasn't sure which was worse, to be known as the evil ex-wife or not

to be known at all.

"Hello?"

"Is that company, Roger, or a roommate?"

"Something in between, actually, but I assume the point of the question

was more in the asking than the answering. If you're calling about

Townsend, yes, we plan on being there tomorrow."

"Nice to know, but that's not why I called. I want to talk to Larry

Gunderson."

It always feels good to show another attorney you know more than he

thought you did. But this time it was especially rewarding.

"Why would you be calling me about that?"

There were lots of bad things to be said about Roger, but lawyering

skills were not among them. His question was perfect in its ambiguity,

neither denying nor confirming knowledge of Gunderson.

"Because you said Dunn Simon represented him. Remember? That's how

you got Melvin Jackson's name? If you're saying you're not Gunderson's

lawyer, that's fine. I'll contact him directly." I read Gunderson's

street address from my PPDS printout.

"I'm not actually Gunderson's lawyer. One of my partners is, Jim

Thorpe."

I remembered seeing his name on Gunderson's appeal. "Fine. I'll call

him. What's his home number?"

"Jesus, Samantha. What's your problem? Can't this wait until

tomorrow?"

"XT

Nope.

Roger might have come into the firm as a partner, but he was still

junior to a corner office guy like Thorpe. Junior partners who hand

out home phone numbers to government lawyers stay in the middle of the

hallway.

"Fine. Tell me what you want to know, and I'll talk to Jim and get

back to you."

I could hear his house guest slash live-in beginning to whine in the

background. Apparently Roger had found what he never had in me someone

who needed his undivided attention to be happy.

I didn't show him all my cards, just enough to ensure I'd get

Gunderson's attention. "It turns out that in addition to being Melvin

Jackson's employer and the owner of the property where Clarissa's body

was found, Gunderson also had a case in front of Clarissa a few months

ago. In light of that, I think we should at least talk to him about

how Jackson happened to find himself on Gunderson's radar."

"I'll get back to you, but don't hold your breath. Given the

insinuation, he's more likely to be insulted."

It had to have been one of the fastest decisions ever made by a lawyer

who gets paid by the hour. Eleven minutes later, my phone rang.

"It's Jim's call, and he advised Gunderson to enjoy the rest of his

weekend. If you want to work something out for this week, get in touch

with Jim at the office tomorrow."

"Unbelievable, Roger. I've got the rest of the preliminary hearing

tomorrow, and you guys think it's a good idea to tell your client to be

uncooperative. Does Thorpe know enough about criminal practice to

understand how suspicious it makes Gunderson look?"

"To you, maybe. Quite frankly, I don't see the problem."

"Well, since I'm handling the case, I guess my opinion has to matter to

you on this one."

"Sam, if you're doing this because you're pissed off at me, I'm sorry I

said some harsh things about your office at the meeting, but they

weren't directed at you personally. I was only trying to get Duncan's

attention. Hell, you're the one who told me at one time all he cared

about was politics." He laughed, but I didn't see what was funny.

"Can't you just be happy that you finally got the promotion you wanted

and that your first big case came together? I realize I'm not the best

messenger for this, but you're not acting like yourself on this one."

"You're a piss-poor messenger, Roger. You don't even know me

anymore."

"Well, you're not acting like the person I used to know. Look at the

evidence: You've got a fingerprint, the weapon, motive, something

approaching a confession. Prescott all but told you on Friday she'd

hold Jackson over. And you're spending your Sunday night chasing down

figments of your imagination. Gunderson's just some guy who gave

Jackson a job."

"And who happened to have an appeal in front of the victim."

"And how long ago was that, Samantha? And how many cases did

Easterbrook hear on a monthly basis? It's like you're trying to make

your job harder than it is I don't know maybe to recapture some of the

glory days back in New York."

It was a telephonic slap in the face. Before Roger took the job at

Nike, I had been an up-and-comer in the busiest federal prosecutors

office in the country, on my way to handling complex high-stakes

conspiracies. We both knew that in the world of lawyers who never stop

measuring themselves against one another, I had suffered a serious slip

down the ladder when we moved to Portland.

He was already trying to apologize, telling me he didn't mean it the

way it sounded. But, to me at that moment, there was only one possible

meaning.

"The only slumming I ever did, Roger, was when I married you."

I wanted the satisfaction of slamming the phone into a cradle, but all

I had was my thumb against the disconnect button of my cordless.

I tried not to let his comment get to me. Not that Rogers opinion

mattered, but I knew I wouldn't even be a prosecutor if it weren't for

him. I graduated from law school planning on selling out as necessary

to pay off my mountainous debt. But when I was offered a position as a

federal prosecutor in New York, Roger was the one who told me I had to

take it. And when he moved us to Portland for his Nike job and I

couldn't transfer into the U.S. Attorney's Office here, he was the one

who encouraged me to remain a prosecutor, even though the choice

required a 50-percent pay cut and a serious hit in the prestige

department. He paid off my loans in full, using the bundle we'd made

selling the New York apartment his parents had given us. Then, when I

kicked him out of the house and insisted on a quick divorce, he nearly

floored me when he told my attorney to forget about the money. He

wouldn't be able to live with himself if I had to represent corporate

clients because of him.

I knew I'd been a bigger jerk than I should have been, but I didn't

know what to think about his criticism. It was easy to imagine the

lawyer in Roger trying to psych me out so I wouldn't subpoena Gunderson

and disturb Jim Thorpe. On the other hand, Roger wasn't the only

person telling me I was wildly off the mark on this one.

The train was about to run right over Melvin Jackson, and I could do

nothing to stop it. I wasn't even sure I wanted to; I just wanted to

make sure that we were heading in the right direction. But the bureau

had essentially washed its hands of this case, and if I tried to haul

Gunderson into the prelim, a quick call from Dunn Simon to the boss

would get me overruled and probably fired. And, if Jackson really did

it which he most likely did it would all be for nothing.

Luckily, I'd been doing this long enough to know that one of the best

ways to wield power is to do it subtly.

I left a message for Graham Szlipkowsky to call me right away.

I had been home from a run for thirty minutes, my stomach was growling,

and I was getting ready to cave in to take-out cravings when the phone

rang.

"Hey, babe. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I'm beginning to miss

you. If you're willing to chance my cooking, how does a quiet dinner

at your place sound?"

There's something to be said about a man with good timing.

Unfortunately, in this man's case, that something was that he couldn't

cook. So we compromised. After a quick run to Fred Meyer, he was

washing and chopping, and I was doing the stuff that mattered.

When we finally sat down at the table, he could tell I was exhausted.

"What's up with you? Big party last night?"

"You bet. The orgy didn't end till four; then I had to deal with the

bikers. Between the meth and the Jack "

"Seriously, Sam, what's going on?"

"Nothing. I've been working my ass off, and I'm tired."

"Is this still on the Jackson case?" I nodded since I had a mouth full

of sea bass. "What have you been digging around in? I thought that

case was locked up."

Add another to the list of people reminding me the case was cleared.

"I'm just double-checking."

"Here's an idea. Why don't you tell me what you're unsure about. I

have some experience dealing with these kinds of things, you know."

It would be nice to have his take on the case, but I didn't want him to

be in a position where he was torn between me and the department. When

we eventually decided whether we could handle working on the same

cases, I'd have to add that to my reasons for believing it was a bad

idea.

For now, I was keeping it vague. "I've been looking into some things

Clarissa might have been involved in, making sure they're not related

to the murder."

"Does this have something to do with the conversation we had with Pink

and the fax I sent to the property room on Friday?"

"Maybe. I haven't quite figured it out yet."

"I see. Let me be more specific. What exactly did that key open, and

what was located inside?"

"Don't interrogate me, Chuck."

"You're not giving me any choice, Sam. Getting information out of a

perp is a cakewalk compared to a conversation with you these days."

"Here's an idea. You let me do my job, and I'll talk to you as much as

you want about anything else you choose."

"I'm not trying to be a jerk, Sam. There are two separate issues here.

One is the bureau being pissed off that you appear to have second

thoughts on the case. I don't give a shit about that. But the last

time you left me in the dark about the poking around you were doing,

you almost got killed. I'm worried about you. Please just tell me

enough so I know you're not playing cowboy again."

"If you're going to worry about me every time I'm dealing with bad

people, this is never going to work."

"Sam, this isn't about you going after bad guys. Don't you get it? I

love it that you do what you do. You could be making half a million

bucks a year by now as some corporate drone, but that's not who you

are, and that's great. But you have a tendency to want to go it alone,

no matter how wacky the plan. I don't want you to get hurt again."

"Look, it's fine. What happened before was different. I went in blind

knowing someone was out of custody and angry at me, to say the least.

Right now, the worst that's going to happen to me is that I ruffle a

few political feathers." I left out the part about the mystery man at

the library, since I wasn't actually sure that it was Billy Minkins or

that he had been watching me. "I'm taking enough crap from my father

about this. I don't need it from you too."

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were our forks against the

plates and Vinnie breathing under the table.

"Ever since I got this case, he's been on a trip about so-called

powerful people and the way they can take away everything from me if I

get in their way. He's always been suspicious of authority "

Chuck was laughing, and I looked at him to see if he was going to

continue listening to me. "Sorry," he explained, "but that sounded

funny, coming from you."

"Well, I guess we know where I get it. Anyway, I assumed he was

worried that someone as influential as Townsend would be calling for my

head if I screwed things up. But then this morning I asked him about

some work he did when I was a kid, and he got all quiet and weird. I've

never seen him like this before."

"What did you ask him?"

"Nothing, really. When I was doing that research at the library, I

came across an old newspaper clipping of him when he was with OSP. I

asked him about this legislator he used to drive, and he clammed up."

"Who was the legislator?"

"A guy named Clifford Brigg."

"Never heard of him." Chuck was familiar with political circles

through his father, but Brigg's time was long ago. He didn't offer to

ask about him, and I didn't ask. Chuck and his father weren't exactly

close; the former governor, Charles London Forbes, Sr." made little

effort to conceal his disappointment with Chuck's career choice. "Did

you try to talk to him about it?"

"Of course."

He looked at me skeptically. "For more than a couple of minutes?"

"A few." Having been on the other side of my impatience before, Chuck

knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated. "The more I

pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get

off this case. Then we both realized we weren't getting anywhere."

"You Kincaids are a stubborn people. What did someone put in the water

supply at that house?"

"Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula."

"You should try to talk to him about it again. But in the end, Sam, if

he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that."

"I know. Honestly? I think the reason I haven't talked to him since

then is that I don't want to see that look on his face again. It's

like he was ashamed of something. Seeing that was absolutely horrible.

I thought I was going to lose it."

The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father.

I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.

It was Slip.

"Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I spent my entire day

down at Inverness trying to see Melvin. And people wonder why defense

attorneys hardly speak to their clients."

"So, what'd you find out?"

"Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me. He's never seen the

old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the

paint."

"How good was the ID? And no puffing. You know I'm out on a limb."

"The truth? It could've been stronger. But it was probably just as

good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for

the courtroom."

Jackson hadn't ruled Minkins out. If he was high up enough with

Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup. If,

of course, there was a setup.

"Anything else?"

"My investigator's got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc.

I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out

of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list.

And speaking of total idiots, that's what I felt like when Jackson

asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn't say

anything. Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse

groupies, why don't you let me in on the secret."

"Hold on a second." I made it look like I needed something from my

desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn't overhear. "Got anything up

your sleeve for court tomorrow?"

He laughed. "Yeah, my piece of shit watch. Prescott's obviously

inclined to find PC, and I don't have squat. The best I can hope for

is to buy more time."

More time was what we both needed. Getting anyone to take a second

look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood. If

Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it

would be impossible.

"I'll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you'll do something

for me. I've got an idea that might help both of us."

Twelve.

I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when

Jessica Walters walked in.

"Hey, there. Thought I'd stop in and see how you're holding up after a

week in here with the boys."

"Crazier by the day, but I'm sticking it out."

"Good for you. You want to grab some coffee?"

I held up my Starbucks commuter cup. "Already went, but definitely

some other time. I'm getting ready to go back in on the Jackson

prelim."

The legal pad I'd been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the

top page barely legible from all the black ink. Walters saw it and

laughed. "A woman after my own heart. Do those notes actually mean

anything to you?"

I laughed too. "No. But maybe if you scribble enough, it's like a

giant Rorschach." I held the pad up to her. "Tell me, Ms. Walters,

what do you see in this one?"

She squinted at it, exaggeratedy furrowing her brow. "Let me see." But

then her expression turned serious. "Grice? You have a case on

someone named Grice?"

"No, just a name that came up in an investigation."

"It's not Max Grice, is it?"

"Actually, I don't know the first name." I hadn't written it in my

notes, and I hadn't called Nelly yet to try to get another look at the

file.

"Oh-kay?" She said it slowly, inviting an explanation for why I

wouldn't know the first name of someone involved in one of my cases.

"Why? Who's Max Grice?"

"A major pain in my ass is who Max Grice is. Some schlep per

contractor who's been bitching to anyone who will listen about his

business problems. I wanted to blow him off, but you know the boss.

Any allegation of official misconduct gets a thorough vetting. I'm

probably going to wind up letting the guy have a say in front of the

grand jury, then I'll tell them to no-bill it."

"What kind of misconduct?"

"The guy's paranoid. I guess there's this process they have to go

through to get permission to make certain changes to historically

significant properties, which includes just about every old building in

the central corridor. His company's request got declined, and he's

claiming that someone at City Hall's on the take, since other companies

don't seem to have any problems."

"Why would that come to you?"

"It shouldn't. There's a city process the guy's using, and the police

could potentially investigate the allegation as a crime if there were

any meat there. But this guy called Duncan personally, so now I'm

stuck trying to find a palatable way to dump it. Technically Gangs is

the white-collar unit."

The reality, of course, was that this office had never prosecuted a

significant white-collar criminal. Those cases went to the feds, and

the small-time embezzlers simply got away with n, the victims brushed

off with an explanation that the theft was "a civil matter" or an

"employment issue."

But now wasn't the time to hash out office filing decisions. I wanted

to know more about Grice.

"So if someone called the switchboard and asked for whoever dealt with

white-collar crime or government corruption or something like that, Liz

would connect them to you?"

"She should."

"Then I think I know why Clarissa Easterbrook called you. Is Max

Grice's company called Grice Construction?"

"I'd have to double-check, but that sounds right."

"Clarissa recused herself from a case where Grice Construction appealed

an adverse decision relating lo a remodel of a Pearl District

warehouse."

"That'd be my guy."

And the guy was complaining about the very program that had been at

issue in Gunderson's case in front of Clarissa. A case where Gunderson

had won because of Clarissa's decision.

I looked at my watch. "I've got to go over to the Justice Center. But

can you get me a copy of whatever you have on Grice?"

"No problem."

Roger was already waiting in the courtroom with Townsend. In the row

in front of them, two men I recognized as Gunderson and Minkins sat

with a lawyer type I assumed was Jim Thorpe. I should get a kickback

for all the fees I was bringing in to Dunn Simon.

I noticed that four of the five of them watched me as I passed. Men

tend to do that when there's nothing else going on. Although they all

looked unhappy, Roger looked particularly pissed. At a formal level,

I'd hidden my role in what brought them here, but Roger knew me well

enough to suspect something.

The fifth guy, Minkins, was still wearing his hat and turned his head

the other way when I walked by. That's what we lawyers call

consciousness of guilt. Like a suspect who flees, Minkins was hiding

something. I was pretty certain that the something was his snooping

around at the library.

Judge Prescott walked out of her chambers promptly at ten. She noticed

Gunderson et al. in the front row. "I see we've got some newcomers,

but where, pray tell, is Mr. Szlipkowsky?"

"I haven't heard anything, your honor," I said, "but I'm sure he'll be

here. He left me a message last night saying he had subpoenaed some

additional witnesses."

I heard someone huff behind me and guessed it was probably Gunderson.

Prescott ordered her clerk to tell her as soon as Slip arrived and then

headed back to her chambers. Some judges enjoy the chitchat that goes

on with the lawyers before proceedings commence. Not Prescott.

Her departure left the courtroom awkwardly silent. Since I was

supposedly an innocent, I figured I'd better play the role of

cooperative prosecutor. When I walked back toward Roger and Townsend,

I noticed that, once again, Minkins looked away.

"Hi, Townsend. How are you holding up?"

"Fine," he mumbled, "under the circumstances. Thanks." Then he went

back to staring at the bench in front of him.

"Well, I don't think you'll have to testify today. The defense

attorney said he served some subpoenas last night, but his message

didn't say anything about calling you."

He just nodded. I was beginning to think he might actually be on

something. Roger rolled his eyes at me. "I went ahead and told

Townsend about the subpoenas. As you can imagine, Jim Thorpe called me

right away when they were served."

"So I assume the two of you have talked about the possible conflicts of

interest involved. I mean, Dunn Simon is now representing multiple

witnesses in the same case."

Big surprise. According to Roger, they'd already discussed the matter,

and the whole lot were snug as bugs with the current situation. That's

the problem with a rule that lets the conflicted lawyer be the one who

discusses the conflict with the clients; I seriously doubted if

Townsend had gotten the big picture. If he was in a position to

understand how wrapped up Gunderson was in his wife's life, he wouldn't

feel so comfortable about sharing a lawyer with him.

Before Roger got a chance to grill me about the coincidence of Slip's

eve-of-hearing decision, I heard tennis shoes squeaking outside the

courtroom. The door wrenched open, and in walked Slip, out of breath,

using one hand to hold all his belongings while his other hand fumbled

to fasten his belt buckle.

A nice person would have rushed over to help him. I bent over

laughing.

"I'm sorry, but that looks really bad."

"And they say men have dirty minds. I was already running late, and

then I got stuck at security. It's getting as bad as the airport down

there."

He shoved his briefcase in my arms so he could finish the belt, then

started to steer me into the hallway. We never made it to the door.

"Nice of you to join us this morning, Mr. Szlipkowsky." Prescott was

out of her chambers and ready to go.

"My apologies, your honor. I was delayed at security."

"And yet everyone else managed to be here on time. Amazing. Don't let

it happen again." As she was telling the sheriffs deputy to bring

Jackson in from the holding cell, Slip continued to throw me eager

looks. He definitely wanted to talk.

"I'm sorry, counselors, is there a problem?"

We both shook our heads like kids who've been caught roughhousing in

the classroom. Whatever Slip had to say to me, it was going to have to

wait.

Jackson took his place at the defense table, looking the worse for wear

after nearly a week in jail.

Prescott called the case and put us back on the record. "OK, when we

left on Friday, it was unclear whether the parties intended to call

additional witnesses before I ruled. Where do things stand now? I see

Jim Thorpe is with us this morning from Dunn Simon."

Thorpe started to rise, but Slip beat him to the punch. When a court's

viewing a dispute cold, it's always better to get your side out

first.

"Your honor, last night my investigator delivered subpoenas to Larry

Gunderson and William Minkins. Larry Gunderson is president of

Gunderson Development, which owns the property where Ms. Easterbrook's

body was found and where my client was employed as a landscaper. Mr.

Minkins is an employee at Gunderson and hired my client to work at the

site. As I have investigated this case, it has become clear to me that

both Mr. Gunderson and Mr. Minkins hold relevant evidence that casts

serious doubt on the guilt of my client. Just to give you one example

"

Prescott cut him off. "Wait a second. No need to get into your

proffer before there's been an objection. Mr. Thorpe, why don't you

go ahead and approach? Your clients may remain seated."

"Good morning, your honor. Jim Thorpe from Dunn Simon, representing

Gunderson Construction, its principal officer Larry Gunderson, and its

employee William Minkins. I understand that your honor quashed a

subpoena on Friday in this case after Mr. Szlipkowsky tried to haul in

a member of the Metro Council for a fishing expedition. This morning,

he's at it again with my clients. They know nothing about this case,

have been pulled away from business on absolutely no notice, and wish

to be relieved from this court's jurisdiction forthwith."

Forthwith? That's why big-firm lawyers often get their asses handed to

them in jury trials. Who the hell says forthwith?

Prescott sighed and gave Slip a look to kill. I wasn't sure how she'd

done it, but somehow it seemed as if her bun had been pulled back even

more tightly during Thorpe's statement. "Now, Mr. Szlipkowsky, why

don't you proceed with your proffer "

"Excuse me, your honor," I interrupted. "I just wanted to make sure

all the parties realized that the media are present in the

courtroom."

I gestured toward Dan Manning from the Oregonian at the back of the

room, sitting with a few others who presumably were also reporters.

Cameras aren't permitted in Oregon courtrooms, and lawyers who don't

spend a lot of time around the courthouse don't always recognize the

media. Just me, trying to be helpful.

It got the response from Thorpe that I wanted. "In that case, your

honor, we request that the proffer be delivered in chambers. Whatever

Mr. Szlipkowsky is about to say is groundless speculation, and the

damage to my client would be further aggravated if it were repeated in

the media."

Thorpe, Gunderson, Minkins, Slip, and I followed Prescott through the

door behind the bench. I got a better look at Minkins when he passed

me. He could definitely be the guy from the library, but I still

wasn't positive.

Since Roger was there as Townsend's attorney, he had to stay outside.

All to the good, since he knew better than Thorpe how devious I could

be. Jackson stayed put too. I'd long gotten used to the criminal

justice systems practice of leaving the defendant at the counsel table,

just in case he was beginning to think his presence was relevant.

Slip and I were at the back of the pack, and no one seemed to be paying

attention to us. He scribbled something on the corner of his legal

pad, ripped it off, and passed it to me as I walked through the door

behind him. By then, Prescott was sitting at her desk, so I slipped

the page into a folder. If the teacher caught us passing notes, we'd

get the grown-up equivalent of detention, and whatever was on that

piece of paper would be public information.

"Let's hear it, Mr. Szlipkowsky."

"Melvin Jackson is presumed innocent. So presume just for a moment,

your honor, that someone other than Melvin Jackson killed Clarissa

Easterbrook. If that's true, as I believe it is, then let's be honest

that someone did a pretty good job setting up my client. My client was

upset with the victim, he worked where the body was found, paint from

his van was found on her dog, and then, of course, the weapon's the

icing on the cake. As I delved into the question of who might be in a

position to accomplish such a setup, I kept coming back to the

construction site in Glenville."

Slip continued to spell out the coincidences for her. Jackson, his

landscaping business a fly-by-night operation in the penny newspapers,

suddenly gets a call from Minkins asking him to work on a

multimillion-dollar project by Gunderson Development. Minkins sees him

take paint from the property, and later that paint turns up on

Clarissa's dog. When Clarissa's body is found at the property, it's

Gunderson Development that makes sure the police get Melvin's name. And

then it turns out that Jackson's not the only person with business in

front of Clarissa Easterbrook; a case in which Easterbrook ruled on

behalf of Gunderson had her troubled enough that she kept a copy of the

case file under lock and key.

Prescott raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by the amount of detail

in the proffer. The problem was that the proffer was enough to raise

eyebrows, but Slip still didn't have enough to tie everything together.

It was, in Thorpe's words, pure speculation. Prescott's ruling could

go either way. Convincing her to pull the trigger and put the

witnesses in the chair would be a matter of strategy.

First, we had to sit through Thorpe's diatribe. "To suggest that my

clients had anything whatsoever to do with Ms. Easter-brook's murder

is outrageous. Mr. Szlipkowsky should be grateful that Mr. Gunderson

hasn't sued him for slander." Thorpe handed the judge, Slip, and me

copies of an affidavit signed by a Lee Block. I had to admit, I was

impressed by the work Dunn Simon had done in the hours that had passed

since the subpoenas were served. "As you can see," Thorpe explained,

"Mr. Gunderson was in Bend, Oregon, looking at a property all day on

the Sunday when Ms. Easterbrook disappeared. Mr. Minkins was in the

casino at Chinook Winds until four p.m. that day. We are working on

locating a videotape to substantiate that, and I'm confident we will

have it by the end of the day."

The plan was working. Without even getting a ruling on the subpoenas,

the attorney who refused to let me talk to Gunderson and Minkins

informally had just locked them into alibis for the time of Clarissa's

death. Go figure.

Having set up the facts he wanted to rely on, Thorpe launched into his

argument. He took the predictable route, borrowing many of the same

points made by Bow Tie on Friday.

I opened the folder on my lap to sneak a glance at the note that Slip

had passed me. The man's handwriting was as sloppy as his attire, but

I made it out: Disc = finances of OHSU pediatric wing.

I tried to pull my concentration back to Thorpe, who was using words

like ludicrous, preposterous, and farcical. If Dunn Simon was charging

by the word, he should have checked his thesaurus and added cockamamy

and wacky while he was at it.

Why had Clarissa kept the financial records from Townsends hospital

wing in her safe deposit box? Maybe they were his backup records and

she was keeping them for him, but would she really tell him about a

safe deposit box that contained a video of Caffrey and her at a motel?

If she wasn't holding them for Townsend, why was she holding them at

all? It didn't make any sense.

"Ms. Kincaid. Does your office have a position on this?"

"I'm sorry, your honor. On what?"

Slip looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

"Well, as I understand it," the judge said, "Mr. Thorpe's principal

argument is that the defense's argument is one big paranoid delusion

and that, in any event, Mr. Szlipkowsky has failed to draw any kind of

nexus between the folks at Gunderson and this supposed frame-up.

Correct me if I'm misstating it, Mr. Thorpe, but he's essentially

arguing that the starting point for the alleged conspiracy would have

to be knowledge of Mr. Jackson's animus toward Ms. Easterbrook. And

I haven't heard the defense articulate any reason to believe that the

Gunderson company would have that knowledge. It happened to have a

case decided by her, but so do hundreds of other companies doing

business in the city. Before I rule, I'd like to hear where you stand

on the motion."

Something about what she said was bothering me, but I needed to get the

plan back on track. "Obviously, this is a matter for the court's

discretion, your honor, but it strikes me that the issue we're looking

at is different from the one your honor ruled on last Friday. The

previous subpoena struck me as an attempt to introduce inflammatory

information about possible activities in the victim's personal life,

without ever tying those activities concretely to the victims murder or

to Mr. Szlip-kowsky's client.

"Here, in contrast, Mr. Szlipkowsky has provided specific information

that appears to raise questions that I would be inclined to pursue at

least in some form prior to trial. Let me be clear: I am still

confident of our case against Mr. Jackson. But what I don't want to

see is a situation where we'll be dealing with these same issues down

the road at trial in front of a jury who might be misled or confused.

Quite frankly, if the court were to grant Mr. Thorpe's motion, my

office might be inclined to serve grand jury subpoenas instead. In the

event that possibility affects the court's exercise of its discretion,

I thought I should be forthright about my intentions."

"Well, thank you, Ms. Kincaid, for your candor. It certainly wouldn't

make sense to have the witnesses leave, just to return tomorrow for a

grand jury session."

While I was getting brownie points for my honesty, Thorpe was working

his way into the doghouse.

"That doesn't make any sense at all, your honor. If you decide to

quash these subpoenas, you should quash any subpoenas that Ms. Kincaid

might order in the future."

Prescott, Slip, and I just looked at him. In addition to being rude,

Thorpe's statement was simply wrong. Courts live with the fiction that

grand juries are independent of the judicial and prosecutorial systems.

Convincing a judge to quash a subpoena to appear in court was one

thing; convincing her to mess with the grand jury was quite another.

While Prescott corrected Thorpe's misunderstanding, I thought more

about what was bothering me. Prescott was right. If Gunderson was

behind this setup, he had to have known about Jackson's letters.

My immediate attention, though, was on the subpoenas. Thorpe hadn't

thrown in the towel yet, and we were moving into part two of the plan,

the good part.

"With all due respect, your honor" lawyers should never say this, since

what they're essentially saying is I have no respect for you, your

honor "I don't see how the court's decision about this hearing should

be affected by something that the district attorney may or may not do

in a separate grand jury proceeding. And if we're going ahead and

playing that game, the reality is I can always instruct my clients to

invoke their Fifth Amendment rights either today or at a subsequent

grand jury hearing."

Oh, yeah. As I'd hoped, Thorpe had been the first to mention the Fifth

Amendment. It was time for my move.

"Actually, your honor, on that point: I don't want to get too far ahead