The Last Innocent Man

4

The main entrance to the county courthouse was on Fourth Avenue. David entered through the back door on Fifth. The rear corridor was jammed with police officers waiting to testify in the three traffic courts located there. Lawyers in three-piece suits huddled with straggly-haired dopers and stylishly dressed young women about defenses to their traffic citations. Court clerks shuffled people back and forth between the courtrooms and the large room where the fines were paid. An old lawyer listened patiently to the complaints of a young member of the bar, and an even younger district attorney tried to understand the testimony of a police officer as he prepared to try his seventh straight speeding case.

David pushed through the crowd and into the narrow alcove that housed the jail elevator. The courthouse jail was used to hold prisoners who had court appearances and for booking new arrestees.

The elevator stopped at seven, and David stepped up to a thick glass window and called through an intercom to a guard who was seated at a control panel.

“I’d like to see Larry Stafford. Do you have an empty booth?”

“Try two, Mr. Nash,” the guard said over his shoulder. David signed his name in the logbook. The guard pressed a button and a floor-to-ceiling steel gate swung open. David walked into the narrow holding area and waited for the gate to close. As soon as it clicked shut, the guard pressed another button. There was an electronic hum, and the solid-steel door at the other end of the holding area swung open. David walked to a door that opened into the conference area. Several identical booths were set up side by side. Each booth was divided by wire mesh that started halfway up from the floor. There was a chair on each side of the mesh and a ledge underneath it.

David took some papers out of his attache case and read them while he waited for the guard to bring Larry Stafford. Stafford arrived a few minutes later, smiling and looking thinner than he had at the arraignment.

“It’s good to see you, Dave,” he said through the mesh. There was no tremor in his voice, as there had been the last time they were together.

“How are you getting along?” David asked.

Stafford shrugged.

“I guess you can get used to anything. In a way, it’s not all that bad. No clients yelling at me. No partners making demands. Plenty of sleep. If the food was a little better, I’d recommend the place.”

David smiled. Stafford seemed to have developed a sense of humor, and that was essential if he was going to get through his ordeal.

“You do look a little thinner than when I saw you last.”

“Yeah, well they cut down on all those fancy sauces here. It definitely helps the waistline.”

David took the appointment book out of his attache case and held it against the wire mesh.

“We have some time before the bail hearing, so I want to go over some stuff. Does this help you remember any more about the night of the murder?”

Stafford read over the entry for June 16.

“Right. I was going to talk to you about that. I talked to Jenny and she mentioned the book. Call Dietrich. He’ll tell you. We had a conference that night. Remember I told you about that securities case? Well, we were together until six, six-thirty. You can check the time sheets we keep at the firm for billing clients.”

“Okay,” David said, making a notation on his pad, “but that doesn’t help us too much. Hersch started her shift around ten-thirty, and she was killed about midnight.”

“Oh,” Stafford said, momentarily dejected. Then he brightened.

“It would still be good circumstantial evidence that I’m innocent. I mean, it doesn’t make sense, does it, for me to have a normal business day, confer on a securities case, then slice up a policewoman. I mean the two are pretty inconsistent, aren’t they?”

“Not necessarily. There are plenty of businessmen who use the services of prostitutes. Why should you be any different?”

“Okay,” Stafford answered eagerly, “I’ve been thinking about that angle. But it won’t work. Jenny will testify that we’re happily married. You’ve seen Jenny, haven’t you? What jury would believe that a guy married to someone as good-looking as that would waste his time with a whore? Right? It doesn’t fit in.”

Stafford sat back and smiled, satisfied that he had won his case. David looked up from his notes and waited a moment before speaking. He noticed that his palms were damp, and for the moment he felt certain that he was more unsure of himself than was his client.

“A man married to a good-looking woman might seek the services of a prostitute if he and his wife were having difficulties with their marriage.”

Stafford continued to smile. He nodded his head to acknowledge the point.

“If. But there’s no ’if about Jenny and me.”

“No difficulties at all? No arguments, no sexual difficulties or money problems? You’d better be straight with me on this, Larry, because putting you and Jenny on the stand will open the door for the district attorney, and if there’s dirt, you can bet she’ll find it.”

David thought about his evening with Jenny as he waited for Stafford to answer. A mental image of her, naked and in his bed, appeared, and he fought to erase it.

“We have spats. Who doesn’t?” Stafford paused. “Look, I’m going to level with you. Jenny and I have had our problems. What marriage doesn’t? And you know what they say about the first year being the toughest.”

David thought back to his first year of marriage. It had not been pleasant for either of them. Vicious words, said for the sole purpose of hurting. Slammed doors and backs turned in anger.

“Hell, it was both our faults. I’m not an easy guy to live with sometimes. I didn’t make partner last year and it really hurt me. Two other guys who were hired the same year I was made the grade, and I was pretty depressed for a long time. I don’t suppose that was easy for Jenny to take.”

“How are you two sexually?”

Stafford reddened slightly. The question seemed to make him uneasy.

“I don’t know. I’d say we do okay. I’m maybe more demanding than some guys. You might say I dig sex a little more than Jenny. She’s more conventional in her, uh, tastes. Nothing I’d call a, uh, problem though.”

Stafford hesitated. He looked upset.

“Will…will they be asking about that at the trial? Our sex life, I mean?”

“It could come up. Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just embarrassing, I guess. I don’t mind talking to you. You’re my lawyer and I trust you. It would be different in front of all those people.”

David glanced at his watch. The bail hearing was set for two and it was ten of.

“It’s almost time to go to court,” he said, “so I’m going to stop now. But I want to ask you one more question. You remember how surprised I was that the district attorney’s office opposed bail at the arraignment? Well, I talked with Monica Powers after court, and she acted very peculiar. She hinted that they had some kind of surprise evidence I didn’t know about. Do you have any idea what that might be, Larry?”

“Surprise evidence,” Stafford repeated. “I can’t think of…” He stopped for a moment, and David got the distinct impression that something was troubling his client.

“Look, I didn’t do it, so what could they have? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You do some thinking on this, okay, Larry? I don’t like surprises, and it looks like Monica is planning one. Remember what I told you about being straight with me. If you’ve done something that can hurt us, I want to know right now.”

“Dave, I have been one hundred percent square with you. There’s nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Say, how do my chances look today?” Stafford asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. It depends on what kind of showing the State makes. One point for our side is that Jerry Miles is the presiding criminal judge this month.”

Stafford brightened. “He’s pretty liberal, isn’t he?”

“He’s good and he’s fair. Keep your fingers crossed. I hope you’ll be out of here by this evening.”

They shook hands and David buzzed the guard. Stafford was still waiting in front of the door when the guard let David out. On the elevator ride up to the courtroom, David tried to analyze his feelings about his client. He felt uncomfortable around Stafford. The man appeared to be open and honest, but David could not help feeling that Larry was using the same technique on him that David used on a jury. Or did he just want to feel that way? He had to face one very unpleasant fact: he wanted Jenny, and Larry Stafford was his rival for Jenny’s affections.

David tried to stand back from his problem and be objective. Was Stafford lying to him? Was he really guilty? Were his uneasy feelings about Stafford generated by his emotional involvement with Jenny? He had given Larry a chance to lie today, and Stafford had not taken it. Although reticent at first to discuss his private life, Larry had eventually been candid about his marital problems, and he had told David about his failure to make partner. And then there was Jenny. She swore she was with Larry on the night of the murder. She would not lie to him.

By the time the elevator doors opened, David was starting to feel better about his case. Jenny would make a good witness, and there was Grimes’s testimony about the hair. The jury might not be totally convinced of the accuracy of the motel clerk’s observations, but his testimony, combined with other evidence, could create the reasonable doubt needed for an acquittal. Now all David had to do was find those other pieces of evidence. He hoped some of them would be provided by the testimony at the bail hearing.

Presiding criminal court was at the far end of the corridor from the bank of elevators David had used. He was halfway to the courtroom when he saw Thomas Gault grinning at him from a bench near the courtroom doorway.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Gault said. David stopped and looked at his watch. Court would start in a moment, and he really did not want to talk to Gault anyway. Ever since Gault had shaken him with his false confession, David had gone out of his way to avoid the writer.

“I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m due in court.”

“The Stafford bail hearing, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m covering the case forNewsweek.”

“The magazine?” David asked incredulously.

“The same. They gave a lot of coverage to my trial, so I convinced them that it would be a neat gimmick to have someone who was just acquitted of murder cover a murder case. Hell, I’m their murderer-in-residence now. Besides, I did those articles on Cambodia and the article on the mercenaries for them.

“So what do you say? Is Stafford guilty? Come on. I need a scoop to beat out the local yokels.”

David couldn’t help laughing. Gault was a leprechaun when he wanted to be, and his humor could be infectious.

“No scoops and no comment. How would you have liked it if I’d blabbed to reporters about your case?”

“But, Dave, I had nothing to hide. Can you say the same for Stafford? If I don’t get facts from you, I’ll have to make something up. I’ve got deadlines.”

“No comment,” David repeated. Gault shrugged.

“Suit yourself. I’m only trying to make you famous.”

“And I appreciate the effort, but I really do have to go.”

“At least say something memorable, old buddy. I’ve gotta have some snappy copy.”

David shook his head and laughed again. He opened the door and entered the courtroom. Gault followed him and took a seat in the back of the room where he would not be noticed.

“This is the time set for the bail hearing in State versus Lawrence Dean Stafford, case number C94-07-850. The State is represented by Monica Powers,” Monica said, “and the defendant is present with his attorney, David Nash.”

“Are you prepared to proceed, Mr. Nash?” Judge Autley asked.

“Ready, Your Honor,” David answered stiffly. Clement Autley was the worst judge they could have gotten. Almost seventy, Autley was so erratic that many attorneys filed affidavits of prejudice against him rather than risk his unpredictable rulings at trial and subject themselves and their clients to his very predictable temper tantrums. Autley was not supposed to be on the bench today. Jerome Miles was. But Miles had the flu, and Autley had been shipped upstairs for the week.

“You may proceed, Mr. Nash.”

“Your Honor, I believe the burden is on the district attorney.”

“You’re asking for bail, aren’t you? Your motion, your burden,” Autley snapped.

“If I might, Your Honor,” David said, careful to maintain his composure and to address the judge formally. He had once seen Autley, in a fit of anger, hold a young lawyer in contempt for not using the proper court etiquette. “Article one, section fourteen of the state constitution states that, and I quote, ‘Offenses, except murder and treason, shall be bailable by sufficient sureties. Murder or treason shall not be bailable when the proof is evident or the presumption strong.’

“InState ex rel. August v. Chambers, our supreme court held that if the State seeks to deny bail to a person charged with murder, it has the burden of proving that there is proof of, or a presumption of, the defendant’s guilt which is evident or strong. In light of the Chambers case, it appears that the State has the burden, not Mr. Stafford.”

Judge Autley glared at David for a moment, then turned rapidly toward Monica Powers.

“What do you say to that?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Your Honor,” Monica said nervously. It was widely known that the one thing Autley hated more than young defense lawyers was any kind of woman lawyer.

“Then why are you wasting the Court’s time? I have a busy schedule. You see all these people waiting here, don’t you? Why did you let him go on and on if you agreed with what he said?”

“I’m sorry…” Monica started, but Autley waved a hand toward her.

“What’s your evidence?”

Monica tendered to the judge a copy of the indictment charging murder. His bailiff, an elderly woman who had been with him for years, handed the document to him.

“I believe the indictment in this case should be sufficient. It establishes that the grand jury, after hearing testimony, decided that there was sufficient proof to indict for murder.”

Judge Autley scanned the document for a moment; then he handed it back to the bailiff.

“Bail denied,” he said without looking up. “Next case.”

David was on his feet, waving a law book toward the judge.

“Your Honor.”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Nash. Next case.”

“Your Honor, last month in the Archer case the Oregon Supreme Court ruled on this specific question and held that an indictment is not sufficient evidence to support a denial of bail in a murder case. I have the case here, if the Court would read it.”

“What case?” Autley asked, annoyed that the matter was not over.

“Archer, if you’d take a look.”

“Give it to me. But if this case isn’t on point…” He let his voice trail off, leaving the threat dangling over David’s head.

David handed the law book to the bailiff. Stafford leaned forward to say something, but David touched his leg and he sat back. Autley read the page twice, then turned his anger on Monica Powers.

“Don’t they teach you the law anymore? Didn’t you know about this case?”

“Your Honor, I-”

“You’d better have more than this, young lady,” Autley said, waving the indictment toward Monica, “and you’d better produce it fast.”

“We do have further evidence, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz is prepared to testify.”

“Then call him.”

Monica gestured toward the first row of spectator seats, and Bert Ortiz rose from his seat next to Detective Crosby. He pushed through the gate that separated the spectators from the bar of the court and stopped in front of the bailiff.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the bailiff asked.

“I do,” Ortiz replied.

“Then state your name and spell your last name.”

Ortiz sat down in the witness box and spelled his last name for the court reporter. His throat felt dry as he did so, and there was none of the air of self-assurance about him that he usually had when he testified. He felt uncomfortable reliving the events of the murder.

“Officer Ortiz,” Monica asked, “how are you employed?”

“I’m a police officer with the Portland Police Bureau.”

“How long have you been so employed?”

“It will be seven years this coming February.”

“Were you so employed on the evening of June sixteenth of this year?”

“I was.”

“And what was your assignment at that time?”

“I was working in a special vice unit. We were using policewomen disguised as prostitutes to arrest males who were soliciting prostitution.”

“Could you be more specific for the Court?”

Judge Autley leaned toward Monica and waved an impatient hand.

“I know what he means. Don’t insult the Court’s intelligence. Now, get on with this.”

“Very well, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz, who was your partner that evening?”

“Darlene Hersch, a policewoman.”

“When did you begin work?”

“The shift started at ten-thirty, but we weren’t out on the street until about eleven-thirty. We had a meeting first.”

“Officer, please tell the Court what happened from the time you began work on the street until the time Darlene Hersch was murdered.”

Ortiz leaned forward slightly. There was tension in his shoulders and a tight feeling in his stomach. He looked down at the railing of the witness box and quickly ran his tongue across his dry lips.

“I was in our car in a parking lot on the corner of Park and Yamhill, and Officer Hersch was on the far corner. Shortly after I started my surveillance, a beige Mercedes-Benz stopped and Darlene-Officer Hersch-got in. It drove off and I followed.”

“Were you able to read the license number of the car at that, or any other, time?”

“No.”

“Go on.”

“Officer Hersch was not supposed to enter a vehicle if asked. She was supposed to decoy the subject back to the lot, where we would make the arrest. She had strict orders not to do that.”

Ortiz stopped. He realized that he was trying to justify his actions by putting Darlene in a bad light. He looked up. Monica was waiting for him to continue. There was little sound in the courtroom. For the first time in a long time, he noticed the faces watching him.

“Officer Hersch got into the Mercedes and I followed the car to the Raleigh Motel. I saw Officer Hersch enter the motel office, and I saw the car drive around back. I parked in the lot of a fast-food place next door and took up a surveillance post.”

“To this point had you been able to see who was driving the Mercedes?”

“Not really. I had a look at him when Officer Hersch got into the car, but he was too far away. It was the same when he was letting her off at the motel office.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Officer Hersch was new. She didn’t have much street experience. I started to worry about her being alone with the, uh, the subject.”

Ortiz paused again. He wanted to look for Crosby but was afraid. Would the older man condemn him for letting things go as far as they had? He had been wrong. He should never have let Darlene go into that room alone. Even if it meant losing the collar, he should have stopped it as soon as he reached the motel. Should have parked in the motel lot and gone straight up to the room.

Ortiz looked over to the defense table. They had dressed Stafford in a suit. Very Ivy League. He looked more the lawyer than Nash. Their eyes met, and Stafford’s face, for a brief instant, reflected contempt. There was no fear in his eyes, only ice. Humorless, emotionless, unlike Ortiz’s own, which wavered with confusion and self-doubt. Ortiz looked away, defeated. And in that moment he felt the sick feeling in his stomach turning to hate for the man who had taken Darlene Hersch’s life. He wanted that man. Wanted him more than he had ever wanted any other man he had hunted.

“I saw the subject walk along the second-floor landing and enter the room Officer Hersch had entered.”

“What did the man look like?”

“He was tall. About six feet. Athletic build. I would say he was in his late twenties or early thirties. I didn’t see his face, but he had curly blond hair, and he was wearing tan slacks and a flowered shirt.”

“What happened after the man entered the motel room?”

“I…I crossed over to the motel lot and started up the stairs. When I was halfway up, I heard a scream. I broke down the door, and then I was struck several times. I remember crashing into the bed. I must have hit the metal leg, because I passed out.”

“Before you lost consciousness, did you get a look at your assailant?”

“I did.”

“Do you see that man in this courtroom?”

Ortiz pointed toward Stafford. This time his hatred made him strong and he did not waver. David watched his client. If the identification upset him, he did not show it.

“The man I saw in the motel room is sitting beside counsel at that table,” Ortiz said.

“Officer Ortiz, if you know, what type of car does Mr. Stafford drive?”

“Mr. Stafford drives a beige 1991 Mercedes-Benz, model 300 SEL.”

“Is this the same car that you saw at the corner of Park and Morrison and later at the Raleigh Motel?”

“Yes.”

“At a later point in time, did you have an opportunity to search the defendant’s home?”

“On September fifth we obtained a search warrant for Mr. Stafford’s home. Detective Crosby, myself, and several other policemen arrested Mr. Stafford and conducted a search for clothing.”

“What did you find?”

“A shirt identical to that worn by the person I saw at the Raleigh Motel, and tan slacks that were very similar to those worn by the killer.”

“I have no further questions,” Monica said.

“Officer Ortiz,” David asked, “you were a full city block away from the Mercedes when you first saw it, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“As I understand your testimony, Officer Hersch was supposed to lead a person back to you if she was propositioned and you would then arrest him in the lot?”

“Yes.”

“And you were watching Officer Hersch from your car?”

“Yes.”

“Was the engine on?”

“In the police car?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“And you were surprised when Officer Hersch got into the Mercedes?”

“Yes.”

“Park is one-way going south, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Where was Officer Hersch when she got into the Mercedes?”

“At the corner of Park and Morrison.”

“Did the Mercedes turn up Park?”

“No. It proceeded down Morrison.”

“In order to follow it, wouldn’t you have to go up Park to Taylor, then back down Tenth?”

“No, sir, I went down Park the wrong way.”

“Then turned on Morrison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far away from the Mercedes were you when you spotted it again?”

“Two blocks, about.”

“And did you maintain that distance?”

“Yes.”

“You were too far back to read the license plate?”

“Yes.”

“Where was the Mercedes when you reached the motel?”

“I believe it had just stopped in front of the motel office.”

“Why didn’t you get the license number then?”

“At that point I didn’t realize it would be important. Besides, I was going too fast.”

“When did you next see the Mercedes that night?”

“I didn’t. It was gone by the time I parked.”

“Let me see if I have this straight. You first saw the car from a distance of one city block, then you followed it from a distance of approximately two city blocks, and, finally, you saw it briefly as you passed by the motel lot?”

“Yes.”

“Now, you testified that the car you saw was a beige 1991 Mercedes-Benz, model 300 SEL, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

Ortiz looked perplexed.

“How do I know…?”

“The model and year and color?”

“That’s the car Mr. Stafford drives.”

“Yes. But did you know the year and model and color on the night of the murder?”

“I…The color was beige. I could see that.”

“And the year and model?”

Ortiz paused.

“No. I only knew it was a beige Mercedes on that night.”

“So it could have been an ’89 or an ’85 Mercedes?”

“I later saw Mr. Stafford’s car and it was the same one.”

“Do you know what a 1989 Mercedes looks like?”

“No.”

“Or an ’85?”

“No.”

“The only time you saw the killer’s face was just before you passed out, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you and where was he, when you saw his face?”

“I was lying on my back on the floor looking up, and Mr. Stafford…”

“Your Honor, I move to strike that response,” David said. “He’s saying it was Mr. Stafford. That’s a conclusion a jury or judge will have to draw.”

“Oh, let him go on, Mr. Nash. I’ve been around.”

Judge Autley turned to Officer Ortiz and smiled. David didn’t like that. It was rare that anyone was graced with an Autley smile, and if the judge was bestowing one on Ortiz, that didn’t bode well.

“Just say ‘suspect,’ Officer, and Mr. Nash won’t get all bent out of shape.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ortiz said. “I was lying on my back on the floor, my head was against the bed, and the suspect was standing in the doorway.”

“Could you step down to the easel and draw a picture for us?”

Ortiz turned to the judge and the judge nodded. There was an easel with drawing paper and felt-tipped colored pens propped against the wall. Ortiz pulled the easel closer to the witness stand and picked up a black pen.

“This would be the doorway,” he said, tracing a rectangle on the paper. “I was here, against the bed.” He drew a stick-figure bed and a stick-figure man. The man’s head rested against a leg of the bed with its eyes facing the door.

“The door was open. It opened inward and it was half-open, about where I’d kicked it. I guess it must have swung back a ways. He was standing at the door frame, leaning into the room.”

“How far in?”

“Not much. I think his body was at a slight angle, and his right leg and arm were outside the door, but the left leg and his left arm were inside the room a bit.”

“And where was his head?”

“Leaning down toward me. Looking at me.”

“You are certain?”

Ortiz looked directly at David. Then he looked at Larry Stafford.

“I will never forget that face.”

David made some notes, then directed Ortiz back to the stand.

“Were you seriously injured?”

“I was in Good Samaritan Hospital for a day or so.”

“What hospital?”

“Good Samaritan.”

“How long did you view the killer’s face?”

“I don’t know.”

“A long time?”

“No.”

“How long did the man stand there?”

“A few seconds. Then he bolted.”

“So you saw him for a few seconds?”

“Yes.”

“Less than a minute?”

“Maybe five, ten seconds. But I saw him.”

David consulted his notes. He looked at the judge.

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Judge Autley looked at Monica Powers.

“Any further witnesses?”

“No, Your Honor. The State feels that it has met the standards set out in the case law. Officer Ortiz is a trained police officer. He has identified the man he saw at the Raleigh Motel as being the defendant. His testimony is corroborated by the fact that the defendant drives a car similar to the car seen at the motel and has similar clothes.”

“Mr. Nash?”

“Your Honor, I don’t feel that a five-second identification by a man who had just been struck sufficiently hard to require hospitalization is the type of proof that creates a presumption of guilt that is evident or strong as is required by the Chambers case.

“Furthermore, Officer Ortiz can only say that the car was a Mercedes. He embellished that description with information he learned later.”

“Have you made your record, Mr. Nash?”

“I do have several character witnesses here to testify in the defendant’s behalf.”

“You won’t need them. Officer Ortiz is not your ordinary witness, Mr. Nash. He is a trained and experienced policeman. I think his testimony is sufficient and I am going to deny bail.”

David saw Stafford sag for a moment beside him. Monica was collecting her papers and Ortiz was starting to leave the witness stand.

“I can take this up to the supreme court on mandamus, Larry. If we-”

“It’s okay,” Stafford said in a defeated voice. “I knew we were dead when I saw Judge Autley. You did a great job, Dave.”

“Do you want me to come back and see you?”

“No. It’s all right. Just set the trial date set as soon as you can. I don’t know if…Just set the trial date soon.”

Stafford walked over to the guard, who led him back to the holding area. David saw Terry Conklin fold a secretarial notebook and head for the door of the courtroom. Jennifer was waiting just outside the courtroom.

“He’s not getting out. The judge denied bail,” David said bitterly. He was disappointed. He had wanted to win, because he wanted Jennifer to see him win and because he thought that Stafford should be out. But he had lost, and it was starting to get to him: the shock of the court’s rapidfire decision was just wearing off, and the fact that bail had been denied was just seeping through.

“He didn’t seem to even listen,” Jennifer said incredulously. “He didn’t even let you put on our witnesses.”

“I know. I’ll petition the supreme court for a writ of mandamus, but I doubt they’ll grant one. They rarely reverse a discretionary decision of a judge unless there’s a gross abuse.”

“Well, isn’t this…?” Jennifer started.

David shook his head. “No. He just gave a lot of credence to Ortiz’s testimony. Another judge might not have. That son of a bitch. Maybe I should have…”

David stopped himself.

“Look, Jenny, I’m going to meet with my investigator. I know we lost this time, but I developed several important points during my examination of Ortiz. Points that could win us the trial. And that’s the important thing.”

“Won’t it be the same at trial? They’ll take his word because he’s a policeman. They won’t believe…”

David put his hand on her shoulder before he realized what he was doing. Jennifer looked startled, and he recalled the first time they had touched; saw her standing with her forehead pressed against the cold glass of his windowpane. He released his hand slowly. She looked away.

“At trial we’ll have a jury and it will be different,” he said, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “Juries are very fair. They do make the State prove its case, and I think the State is going to have a harder time than it thinks, if I’m right about a few things. Now, let me get to work, okay?”

“Yes. Of course. I…Thank you, David.”

“Don’t thank me. So far all I’ve done is lose.”

“You’ll win in the end. I know.”

They both stood in the hall, unwilling to break away. When David finally turned and walked over to Terry Conklin, he felt very depressed.

It took only a few minutes with Conklin to restore his spirits. They walked from the courthouse to the Shingle Tavern, discussing the case as they went. Conklin had spotted the same thing David had, and the fact that his investigator had been thinking along the same line sent his adrenaline pumping. If they were right, David would have an excellent shot at an acquittal.

“When can you get on it?” David asked excitedly.

“I’ll do it this evening, if I can find the man I need.”

David sipped his beer, then bit into his ham sandwich.

“I want Ortiz’s medical records. Do you know anyone at Good Sam?”

Conklin thought for a moment. “It might cost a few bucks, but I think I can swing it.”

“Don’t worry about the money. There are a few other things. See if I’m right on the Mercedes and check the shirt.”

“I’ll do that this week.”

“Good. You know, Terry, I’m starting to feel very good about this case. Very good.”

Ron Crosby worked the long, sauce-covered noodles around his chopsticks until he had them where he wanted them. Then, with a swift, stabbing movement, he jabbed the rolled noodles into his mouth.

“This place makes the best Chinese food in town,” he said. A piece of chewed noodle slipped out of the side of his mouth, and he nudged it back with his chopstick.

“How does it look, Ron?” Ortiz asked. He was toying with his food and had eaten little of it.

“Nash is smooth. That’s why he does so well. He scored a few points, but Stafford’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

“Only because Autley was on the bench. He wouldn’t let the pope out on bail. I’m not fooling myself. I made a lousy witness, and Nash didn’t take the gloves off like he will at trial.”

Crosby put down his chopsticks. “What’s bothering you, Bert?”

“Nothing. It’s just…Well, I feel responsible for…If I’d acted sooner, Darlene might still be alive. And now…I want that bastard, Ron, and I’m afraid I’ll screw up again and Nash will get him off.”

“You didn’t screw up the first time. Nobody thinks you did. Hersch was green and she was trying to prove how tough she was. She’s dead because she broke the rules. And Nash isn’t going to get Stafford off, anyway.”

Something in Crosby’s tone made Ortiz look up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Eat your noodles and I’ll tell you,” Crosby answered, pulling a folded police report from his inside pocket. “Do you know a pimp named Cyrus Johnson?”

“T.V.? There isn’t a vice cop in town who doesn’t know that asshole.”

“Check out this report,” Crosby said, handing it to Ortiz, “then have a talk with T.V. It might prove interesting.”

Cyrus(T.V.) Johnson was probably the easiest person to find in the city of Portland. Every evening he parked his pink Cadillac outside the Jomo Kenyatta Pool Establishment so junkies would know where to make their connections, and his whores would know where to bring their take. T.V. was not the biggest pimp or pusher in Portland, but he was the most notorious. He had once had the temerity to be interviewed as part of a locally produced television special entitledDrugs in Our Schools, and thus the sobriquet.

Ortiz parked his car in front of the Cadillac and tried to make out T.V. through the haze of smoke that obscured the activity going on behind the storefront window. He could not see Johnson, but that didn’t matter: he knew exactly where he was. T.V. always held court from an expensively upholstered armchair he had had the owner install in the rear of the pool hall. The armchair, surrounded as it was by the room’s shabby furnishings, was a symbol of T.V.’s affluence, and it was understood that heavy penalties attached if anyone else used it.

Ortiz snaked his way around the players and their extended cues, aware that the noise level dropped as soon as he neared a table. A few players turned to watch him, but none moved out of his way. It was a game that Ortiz was used to playing. You trained yourself to suppress the anger that the defiance kindled inside you. A white face in a place like the Kenyatta usually meant cop, and the men who played their pool here had no use for him.

T.V., as usual, was dressed in one of his flamboyant outfits. He hadn’t always dressed like the stereotype pimp before his television appearance, and it was only by coincidence that he had been wearing an anklelength fur coat and garish gold jewelry when the television cameras had happened along. But the word was that T.V.’s television performance had been the high point of his life, and since that day he had dressed to fit the part in case the cameras should call again.

T.V.’s nostrils flared as Ortiz approached, and he sniffed the air.

“We havin’ bar-be-cue tonight, Kermit?” he asked the large man standing to his left, in an exaggerated Negro accent. “’Cause I believe I smell pig.”

The large man fixed Ortiz with a cold, challenging stare. Ortiz recognized Kermit Monroe, a bodyguard who had played pro ball for Detroit before injuring a knee.

“You seem to be in good spirits, T.V.,” Ortiz said calmly.

“Why, sho’ nuff, massah. We colored folks is always happy.”

“Do you think you can cut your routine long enough for us to have a little talk?”

The grin faded and T.V. eyed him suspiciously. Ortiz was no stranger. He had busted T.V. twice, but neither rap had stuck. The last time Ortiz had split T.V.’s lip. T.V. was vain about his looks and had not shown up at the pool hall for a week. He had also taken out his anger on one of his girls and sent her to the hospital. T.V. held Ortiz responsible for the girl’s lost earnings, as well as his humiliation.

“Whatcho want to talk about?”

“In private,” Ortiz said, gesturing toward Monroe.

“Uh-uh. I got nothin’ to say to you I can’t say in front of my friends.”

“Why don’t you piss off, Ortiz?” Monroe said. His voice was deep and smooth. Ortiz didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He knew Monroe would not hesitate to kill a policeman. He might even enjoy it.

“I want some information about a white man who had some dealings with you and one of your girls a few years back,” Ortiz said, ignoring Monroe and pulling a mug shot of Larry Stafford out of his pocket. He noticed Monroe’s hand move inside his leather jacket when his own hand moved.

“Girls? What girls he talkin’ about, Kermit?” T.V. asked Monroe over his shoulder.

“I heard Ortiz don’t like girls. I hear he likes little boys,” the bodyguard said with a sneer.

T.V. took the photo and studied it. If he recognized Stafford, it did not show.

“This your boyfriend, Ortiz?” T.V. asked.

“You like to do it with boys, Ortiz?” Monroe asked, echoing his boss. There was no emotion in his voice.

“Do you know him?” Ortiz asked T.V.

T.V. smiled. “I ain’t never seen this white boy, massah.”

“I think you have.”

Ortiz noticed that the noise in the pool room had stopped. He suddenly regretted his decision to come alone.

“You sayin’ I’m lying, Ortiz?” T.V. asked. Monroe moved a step closer to Ortiz. T.V. took another look at the mug shot.

“You know, Kermit, this looks like that white boy who offed the lady pig. I read about that in the papers. The word is that Ortiz here fucked up. The word is she’s dead because of you.”

He directed his last shot at Ortiz, and it scored. Ortiz could feel his stomach tighten with a mixture of rage and anguish. He wanted to strike out, but his own uncertainty about his role in Darlene’s death sapped him of his will. T.V. read the uncertainty in Ortiz’s eyes, and a triumphant smirk turned up the corners of his lips. Ortiz stared at him long enough to collect himself. Then he took the picture back.

“It’s been nice talking to you, T.V. We’ll talk again.”

He turned his back on Monroe and Johnson and walked back through the maze of black figures. There was laughter behind him, but the ebony faces in front of him were blank and threatening.

His hand was shaking as he turned the key in the ignition. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. He had made a fool of himself. He knew it. Suddenly he was filled with rage. That black bastard was going to talk to him. That son of a bitch would tell him what he wanted to know. And he knew just how to make him tell.