The Last Innocent Man

2

Ortiz sat in the back row of the courtroom listening to Judge McIntyre decide the motion to suppress evidence that had been filed by Cyrus Johnson’s attorney. The law was clear, the judge said, that in order to search a person without a search warrant, a police officer had to have probable cause to believe that a search would turn up evidence of a crime, and no time to get a warrant. When Cyrus Johnson was searched, the judge continued, Officer Ortiz did have time to get a warrant, and he did not have probable cause to believe that Johnson would have narcotics on his person. Regretfully, he concluded, he had no choice but to forbid the State to introduce evidence in a trial where the seizure of that evidence violated the mandate of the United States Constitution.

Johnson’s attorney smiled and shook his client’s hand. Johnson did not return the smile. Instead, he looked toward the back of the courtroom at Ortiz. Ortiz was standing to leave. The narcotics officer had known all along what the result of the hearing would be. He had tailored his testimony to fit the latest Supreme Court opinions, so that the evidence against Johnson would have to be thrown out. He had also contacted the district attorney in charge of the case and told him that he had probably acted too hastily in searching Johnson. In light of Johnson’s testimony at Stafford’s trial, he and the DA had both agreed that the drug case should not be that vigorously pursued.

“Hey, Ortiz,” a deep voice called. Ortiz turned and saw Kermit Monroe sitting on a bench by the courtroom door.

“What can I do for you, Kermit?” he asked.

“T.V. wants to see you. He asked me to make sure you didn’t go nowhere before he had the chance to talk.”

“Tell T.V. some other day. I’m busy.”

“Hey, man,” Kermit said, getting slowly to his feet, “why you always have to make things difficult? T.V. said this was important and for you to wait. He got some kind of tip for you. So why bust my balls when he wants to do you a favor?”

Ortiz was about to answer when Johnson walked out of the courtroom.

“You want to see me?” Ortiz asked.

Johnson grinned. “Yeah, I want to see you.”

T.V. shook hands with his lawyer and they parted.

“Let’s go down to my car where I know there’s no bugs,” Johnson said, still grinning. Ortiz shrugged. Maybe Johnson had decided to turn informant. It wouldn’t be the first time a big operator had got scared after some real heat.

They took the elevator downstairs, then walked to the parking structure across from the courthouse. T.V.’s car was parked on the fifth floor, and Monroe slid into the driver’s seat while Ortiz and Johnson got into the leather-covered rear seat.

“Now, what’s so important?” Ortiz demanded.

“You fucked me up, Ortiz. You planted shit on me, then made me stool to get rid of the rap. You made me sit through that court case and spend a lot of money on a lawyer. And you perjured yourself and broke the law. Why did you do all that shit? One reason, right? To get that poor honky Stafford. To nail his butt to the jailhouse door. Am I right?”

“Go on, T.V. You either have something to say or you don’t. I don’t have all day.”

“Oh, this won’t be no waste of your time, Ortiz. See, I wanted you to know that I lied. That bullshit I testified to was just that-bullshit.”

He stopped to let what he had said sink in. Ortiz looked puzzled.

“Oh, Stafford tried to buy a little action and he hit Mordessa, but it didn’t happen the way I said. That white boy wanted some dark meat, but he didn’t ask for nothing kinky. When he got up in the room, Mordessa, that dumb cunt, tried to boost his wallet. He caught her and she started wailin’ on him.

“Mordessa is one mean bitch and she packs a wallop. Stafford had to hit her a good shot just to keep her off him.”

“What about the story you told the police?”

“Hey, I had to think quick when the pigs arrived. I decided to tell them the dude had done somethin’ that would really embarrass him so he wouldn’t press charges. I just said the weirdest shit I could think of. But that Stafford ain’t no sado-what-you-call-it. Shit, he wouldn’t a done nothin’ if Mordessa hadn’t hit him so hard.

“So you see, my man, the very words which you solicited by illegal means and forced me to say was lies. And you know that jury would have acquitted Stafford if it wasn’t for me. But you can’t tell nobody that I lied without gettin’ yo’self in trouble, can you? Which means you got to live the rest of your life with what you done, while Stafford spends the rest of his life at the state pen.”

Ortiz leaned back in his seat, trying to think. What did it matter if Johnson had lied? Stafford lied, too. He had sworn under oath that he had never gone with a prostitute. Ortiz knew who he had seen in the doorway of that motel room. Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch.

“You know somethin’, Ortiz. You white boys are real sick. That’s what I come to learn, bein’ in this business. You plantin’ that dope on me, Stafford havin’ to buy pussy, and that writer…”

Johnson shook his head and Ortiz looked up at the pimp.

“What writer?”

“The one that beat up Mordessa and wanted her to do all that kinky stuff. Shit, he already got away with murder. Mordessa’s lucky she ain’t the one that got killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mordessa seen him in the papers when he got off. Didn’t recognize him at first, ’cause he was wearin’ this wig when he beat on her. That’s where I got the story from. She was a sight. Said he wanted to tie her up. When she said no, he started kickin’ her and hittin’ her till she cried. And it takes plenty to make that woman cry. He hurt her bad. Then he kills his wife.”

“Who are you talking about?” Ortiz asked slowly.

“I can’t remember the name. His wife was rich, though, and she was beat to death in that mansion by the lake.”

“Thomas Gault?”

“That’s the one.”

Ortiz stared at Johnson. “You mean that story you told on the witness stand did happen, only it was Thomas Gault that beat up your whore?”

“That’s what I been sayin’.”

“What kind of wig did he wear?”

“I ain’t got no idea.”

Ortiz opened the car door and got out. He felt as if he were drowning.

“Where you goin’, Ortiz?” T.V. asked with a laugh. “You goin’ to church or you goin’ to tell the law that that Stafford boy is in jail, only he ain’t guilty? Only you can’t do that, can you, ’cause you’d have to tell on yo’self.”

Ortiz walked away from the car. The motor started, and Monroe drove as close to Ortiz as he could, squealing his tires as he headed down the ramp. Ortiz didn’t notice.

Just because Johnson lied, it didn’t necessarily follow that Stafford was innocent. But the wig…Gault and Stafford had similar builds. With a blond wig…

Then Ortiz remembered the mystery man that Gault swore murdered his wife. He had been described as being athletically built, of average height, with curly blond hair. A description that would fit Gault if Gault’s hair was curly, blond. And Stafford.

Ortiz remembered something else. Grimes, the night clerk at the Raleigh Motel, testified that the man he saw driving away from the motel had brown hair that was a bit long. Gault had brown hair, which he had worn long at his trial. If he had removed a wig after killing Darlene, that would explain how Grimes could see a man with brown hair, and he, a man with blond.

Could he have been wrong about Stafford? It seemed impossible for two men to have the same build, shirt, pants, and car. Yet Gault and Stafford were built alike and the pants were common enough.

The shirt? While it wasn’t the most common type, there had certainly been enough of them in Portland. And the car? That was simple enough to check on. Too simple. Ortiz felt his gut tighten. He was afraid. Afraid he had made a terrible mistake. If Gault owned a beige Mercedes, then Larry Stafford might very well be innocent.

Gregory was finishing some dictation when David entered.

“You’re on the bar ethics committee, right?” David asked, sinking into a chair.

“Yes. Why? You haven’t done anything unethical lately, have you?” he asked, half joking.

“Let me give you a hypothetical and tell me what you think.”

Gregory turned off his dictation equipment and leaned back. His eyes narrowed with concentration and he cocked his head slightly to one side.

“Assume that a lawyer represents A in a bank-robbery case and A is convicted. Later B hires the lawyer to represent him in an unrelated legal matter. While the lawyer’s client, B tells the lawyer, in confidence, that he committed the bank robbery for which A has been convicted, as well as several other robberies. When the lawyer suggests that B confess to the authorities so that A can be released from prison, B refuses. What can the lawyer do to help A?”

Gregory sat thinking for a moment, then took a book from the credenza behind his desk. He rifled the pages until he found what he was looking for. He read for a few more moments. David sat quietly, staring past Banks through the window toward the foothills. He felt a wave of pain in his stomach and placed his hand over his belt line, gently massaging where it hurt.

“I’d say your lawyer has a problem,” Banks said. “According toWigmore on Evidence and the Canons of Ethics, a client’s confidential communications can be revealed only if the client sues the attorney, in which case the attorney can reveal those confidences that bear on his defense of the client’s charges, or if the client tells the attorney that he is planning a future crime, in which case the attorney can make those disclosures necessary to prevent the future crime or protect those against whom it is threatened. If the communication is in confidence and made while the client is seeking legal advice, the confidence is permanently protected.

“I’m afraid that the lawyer can’t help A in your hypothetical.”

David sat quietly, thinking. Gregory had confirmed what he had believed all along.

“What if the lawyer decided to violate the Canons of Ethics and breach the confidence?”

“He could be prevented from revealing it in court, and the client could successfully resist being forced to corroborate it. You’d have a tough time convincing the authorities to let A out of prison under those circumstances.”

The pain in David’s stomach grew worse. David took a deep breath and hoped that Gregory would not notice his discomfort.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Gregory asked.

David desperately wanted his friend’s help but knew he could not ask for it. How could he reveal what he had done and still maintain Gregory’s respect?

“No, Greg. It was just a hypothetical question.”

Gregory wanted to pursue the matter, but, instead, he asked, “Shall we go to lunch, then?”

“I’m sorry, Greg, but I’m going home. I don’t feel well.”

“Dave, are you sure I can’t help you?” Gregory asked. “If there’s anything bothering you…”

David shook his head. He smiled weakly. “No problem. Just an upset stomach.”

He stood up.

“See you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Banks replied. His brow furrowed, and he did not move for several minutes after David left the office.

“Why are you interested in Thomas Gault?” Norman Capers asked.

“I’d rather not say, Norm,” Ortiz answered.

Capers shrugged.

“Hell, what do I care? If it will help put that bastard away, I don’t care if I never find out.”

Ortiz was surprised by Capers’s reaction. Norm was an experienced, professional prosecutor who had been in the DA’s office a long time. He rarely let himself get emotional about a case.

“You don’t like his writing style?” Ortiz inquired lightly, hoping to egg Capers on.

“I don’t like that bastard, period. I’ve prosecuted a lot of people, but he…I don’t know how to put this. Julie Gault…Whoever did that really enjoyed his work.”

Capers paused and examined a thumbnail.

“You know, he was cracking jokes all through that trial,” he continued. “Treated the whole thing like it was a comedy put on for his amusement. Oh, not when the jury was around. Shit, as soon as they filed in, he’d sit up straight and put on this sad look. And on the stand…You know, he actually broke down and cried.

“It was all phony. After the jury went out, he turned to me and winked. But he was terrific on the stand and that’s all those people saw.”

“You think he’s capable of killing someone?”

“Gault? He’s some sort of whiz at unarmed combat. Don’t you know his background?”

Ortiz shook his head. “I wasn’t involved in the case, so I didn’t pay that much attention to it. Just scuttlebutt around the station house and the articles in the papers.”

“Our Tom is a killer, all right. You know he was a mercenary in Africa all those years. There’s a screw loose there. A big one. When he was living in Hollywood, he got into some pretty nasty fights, and I hear he’s been in a few here.”

“Is he a womanizer?”

“Gault? If it moves, he’ll fuck it. And he’s mean there, too. We spoke to a couple of ex-girl friends during our investigation. He’s beaten up more than one. Very vicious and with a smile, like he was really enjoying himself. That boy is very sick and very clever.”

And, Ortiz thought, Motor Vehicles lists him as the owner of a beige Mercedes.