Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (20 page)

“I said, you’re fired. Get lost.”

“Mr. Sawyer, I am the state-appointed counsel for your wife,” he said smugly. “You can’t fire me and neither can she. Only the judge can.”

Ben shifted until his face was an inch from Marquette’s. He spoke soft but clear. “Fine. Let me put it to you like this. Talk to my wife again and I’ll kick your ass back to whatever horseshit law school it is you came from.”

Unconcerned, Marquette responded to Ben. “University of Michigan School of Law, cum laude.” The lawyer stuffed the papers away and snapped his briefcase shut. He looked at Alex.

“Consider what I’ve told you, Mrs. Sawyer. We’ll make our appearance today, and after that, we’ll have about ten days to trial. That will give me time to negotiate with the district attorney.”

“Ten days?”
Ben was stunned by the short length of time. “Aren’t you going to make a motion for a delay? This is a murder case, Marquette. We need more time.”

The lawyer picked up his overcoat and stood to leave. Ignoring Ben, he directed his response to Alex. “I disagree. We need a quick settlement. If we go self-defense and offer to plead to manslaughter, I can probably get you ten to fifteen years. If you behave yourself, you could be out in eight.” Marquette went on in a matter-of-fact tone. “You should know there are plenty of people serving longer sentences for murder on a lot less evidence than what the state has got against you.”

Ben worked to control his temper. “Get away from my wife, Marquette. That’s the last time I tell you without punching your lights out.”

Marquette again dismissed Ben with nothing more than a sideways glance and turned to Alex. “Do not say anything during the proceedings this morning unless I direct you. I will do all the talking. I’ll see you in the courtroom. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have another client to attend to.” Marquette gave Ben a last look before turning away. Ben watched the man waddle through the female prisoners until he disappeared in the crowd.

“Inmate Sawyer,” a guard called out. “Proceed to the holding area now. Visiting hours are over.”

Alex looked at her husband and spoke, her voice trembling. “Benny, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill Louis. You’ve always told me the whole system is based on scaring people into pleading out, into not fighting back. You told me that was what they did to you. Can’t you see, it’s happening again? It’s started already.”

Ben turned away, not wanting to listen to his old opinions.

“Listen to me, Ben. I didn’t do this. I’m not guilty. I need you to believe me. If you don’t…” Alex’s voice trailed away, then returned. “If you don’t believe me, Ben, then I’ve got no one.”

“
Now,
Sawyer. Move your ass.” Alex rose with a rattle of chains, then looked one last time at Ben before walking away.

“Hear me on this, Ben. I’m not caving. I don’t blame you for what happened in Oakland. You did what you needed to do to take care of your family. But I’m not you.”

The guard with the mouth took hold of Alex at the crook of her arm, spun her sharply, and pushed her toward the door leading to the cells. The chain around her ankles had little slack and Alex fell. She did her best to break the fall with cuffed hands, but it was an ugly landing. Ben tried to reach his wife but was intercepted by three additional guards, one of them the blond jerk from earlier in the day.

He sneered at Ben. “You just can’t go by the rules, can you, Sawyer? If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, that’ll be the last visit you ever make in this facility.”

Ben’s voice held no anger, only an imploring tone. “Jesus, man. Just let me help my wife. I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake. What is wrong with you people?”

Two guards hauled Alex to her feet. She pulled herself free of the men, drew herself to her full height, and walked with short choppy steps to the cell block. She looked over her shoulder just before she passed through the doors and said in a resolute voice, “You can give me up on me if you want, Ben. But I never gave up on you.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

McKenzie dreaded the unavoidable meeting and had no idea how it would play out. Driving across town, he kept an eye on the rearview mirror and his forty-cal at the ready in the passenger seat. Three days had passed since the Sawyer arrest, and at last Jorgensen had reached out for a confidential meet. Wanting to try and establish a tactical advantage, McKenzie pulled into the usual meeting place twenty minutes ahead of schedule. But the familiar black Crown Vic was already there, parked in the shadows.

Frustrated, McKenzie shut off his engine, tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, and approached Jorgensen’s car on foot. The vehicle was idling smoothly, with the dark windows rolled up. McKenzie stood outside the car like a child waiting for a scolding. After a full minute, he bent over to peer through the window.

“So much for your eyes on the street, eh, Detective?”

The voice came from behind him. McKenzie stumbled as he turned and fell back against the car. His gun clunked heavily on the metal door. Jorgensen emerged from the shadows, the round orange glow of his cigar illuminating his head and face. The padded shoulders of the chief’s black camel hair trench coat cut a very impressive figure. A matching fedora was pulled low over one eye.

“Jesus, Chief.” McKenzie tried to control his anxiety, but it came through loud and clear. “Scared the shit outta me. Coming out of the woods that way.”

“Sorry. Nature called. Had to piss.”

McKenzie took a deep breath. In terms of gaining the upper hand, advantage Jorgensen.

The orange circle grew brighter as Jorgensen took a long draw on his cigar. “It would appear our missing man poked his head up, wouldn’t you say?”

“You called it, Chief. This guy is one crafty bastard.”

“Right in the middle of Newberg.” Jorgensen’s words were slow and measured. “You want to tell me how a con of his ‘pedigree’ can work freely enough in my town that he can pull off this kind of bullshit?”

“I know it looks bad, Chief,” McKenzie said, “but we’re going to be all right. I’m telling you, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear this Sawyer woman actually did the killing.”

“The problem is, you don’t know better,” Jorgensen said. “From the beginning you haven’t known jack shit. Now we’re stuck navigating a high-profile murder case against an officer’s wife. Do you realize the media attention that will cause?”

“We can handle this, Chief. The case is solid. I’ve convicted plenty of shit bags on a lot less.”

Jorgensen continued to stare, and said, “Run the case down, Detective. Tell me where we’re at.”

“First off, manner of death is homicide. No doubt about that. Single stab wound to the torso. The victim, Louis Carson, was standing at the time he sustained the wound. May have even been lunging forward. Bled to death on the floor. The coroner puts time of death between nine and ten o’clock at night. The Sawyer woman can’t account for herself.”

McKenzie’s tone changed to display levity. “I’m tellin’ ya, Chief, either this gal has some shit-ass bad luck, or your boy Harlan really knows how to set the hook.”

“Continue.” The chief did his best to sound bored, but McKenzie figured he had the man’s interest.

McKenzie went on. “When it comes to an alibi, she’s screwed. Her husband says she was with her father at Newberg Convalescent. We checked with the on-duty staff. No one recalls seeing her after seven
P.M.
No one recalls seeing her leave, and that includes the staff at the front desk. There is no surveillance equipment or security. Course there’ll be no interview of Lars. He’s about as talkative as a crown of broccoli.”

“So where does our boy fit in?” Jorgensen asked. “What’s his role?”

“I figure he made the original call.” McKenzie said. “Came in on nine one one from a payphone. That was at about ten o’clock. Gave up some good stuff. Sounds of screams. Green minivan. Pretty good description matching Sawyer. Like I said, the boy really knew how to get the ball rolling right at Sawyer’s wife.”

“People are going to want to know who this star witness is.”

“So happens he hung up before we got his name. But we’ve got the nine one one recording, and that’ll be a big hit in court.”

Jorgensen looked off into the distance as he asked his next question. “What can I tell the public about the efforts being made to ID this caller?”

“A canvas didn’t find any witnesses. The patrol dogs threw some dust on the phone, they even swabbed it for DNA. Got nothing but a jumbled mess of a couple hundred samples. No way to follow up. Assuming our guy ain’t planning on stepping out of the shadows, that lead ain’t shit.”

“This case sounds like it could use another witness or two,” Jorgensen said. “A witness that actually speaks.”

McKenzie jumped in. “Already taken care of, Chief. Got just the guy. Says he saw a green minivan, driven by a woman, leaving the area that night. The timing with the nine one one call would make it around the time of death.”

“How convenient.” McKenzie smiled until Jorgensen went on. “I don’t want this case riding on the word of some dope fiend who might cave when someone puts the screws to him.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s got plenty of skin in the game.”

McKenzie pulled a miniflashlight from his coat pocket and a notebook from the pocket of his jeans. He lit up his notes to see if there was anything he had forgotten to cover.

“Good physical evidence all the way around. Pictures of the suspect in the victim’s home. Fingerprints in the kitchen area, on the computer keyboard, the light switch. Hell, Chief, son of a bitch even left us the weapon and blood transfer. Pulled the knife right out of Sawyer’s trash can, found a spot of blood on the rear door of the Sawyer home. I’ll put up a week’s pay that the blood will come back to our victim.”

McKenzie shut his notebook and looked up to signal he was done. “I’d say you gotta admire the man’s work. Course, Sawyer’s wife is no dummy. Clammed up quick. The only statement we got was her initial alibi. I got a contact at the DA’s office. Tells me the public defender assigned to the case has been trying to reach out for a deal. Talking about pleading to manslaughter. They want to go self-defense. Can you believe it? Sawyer’s wife is gonna be a convicted killer?”

“What else?” Jorgensen asked.

“What else?” McKenzie replied, allowing himself a slight air of superiority. “You mean other than all the shit I just covered? You mean what more than her own frickin’ attorney is already trying to plead her out? You mean what more than that?”

“I mean, how can this thing fall off the rails? Ben Sawyer’s not going to just lay down for this shit if he smells a con. You’ve told me how great the case is. Where can Sawyer come along and punch a hole in it?”

“I don’t see it, Chief.” McKenzie was matter-of-fact. “This Lee guy put a lot of thought into this shit. Course, he had plenty of time to think it through, wouldn’t you say?”

Jorgensen ignored the joke. “I told Sergeant Boyd that due to the sensitive nature of this case, I wanted my most senior detective as lead. That’s you. Boyd wasn’t too happy about it, but he’ll go along. Just make sure you keep everyone else at arm’s length. No backup. Nobody riding second chair on this. Don’t even tell Boyd any more than necessary. You hear me?”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Chief.”

“Don’t kid yourself, McKenzie. This isn’t about confidence. I need to know that I won’t have some supercop digging too deep on this thing.” Jorgensen opened the driver’s door of his car and settled into the leather seat.

“I need my boy on this case. That’s you, right, Doyle? You’re my boy?”

McKenzie knew how he had to reply. “Yeah, Chief. If that’s how you see it. I’m your boy.”

Jorgensen clamped down on his cigar as the window went up, making him disappear behind the dark glass. He drove away and left McKenzie standing alone in the middle of the deserted parking lot.

TWENTY-NINE

Tia stood over McKenzie, who was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, reading Newberg’s single daily newspaper. From her vantage point, given the position of the paper, Tia could easily scan the headlines. The Sawyer case still dominated the front page.

Holy shit,
she thought.
What’s left to write about?

The murder of Louis Carson and arrest of Alex Sawyer was the biggest Wisconsin crime story since Jeffrey Dahmer. The case even gained national coverage on the biggest cable news shows and dominated talk radio. For the first days after his wife was arrested, Ben Sawyer had been accosted by cameras and microphones anytime a part of his body broke the plane of his front door. The unwritten media law of “don’t screw with the kids” had been tossed aside, and Jake’s face had become familiar to readers of publications stocked in grocery store checkout lines.

Everyone had an opinion as to why Alex Sawyer went crazy and killed her secret lover. But although motive was a matter of debate, that was where the argument ended. Everyone knew Alex Sawyer was a killer.

Sighing, Tia gave one of McKenzie’s shoes a hard swat with her hand.

“Hey, Doyle, you got a minute?”

McKenzie looked over the top of his paper. As was always the case when McKenzie greeted Tia, he spoke mockingly, in a thick accent that Tia assumed was supposed to be the Frito Bandito or some such shit.

“Hola, señorrrita.”

McKenzie lowered the paper and pulled himself to a sitting position, using one hand to adjust his crotch. Tia picked up the scent of Old Spice and bourbon. She had just come from the gym; her sweats clung to her trim body and she knew her face was flushed. McKenzie’s gaze wandered openly, and he made no effort to conceal his thoughts. Tia, for her part, did her best to hide her disgust. She was hoping to get some cooperation.

He spoke again, this time in his natural Wisconsin twang, which had been coarsened by a forty-cigarette-a-day habit.

“Nice surprise. I’m not sure you’ve ever taken the time to stop by and chat. Grab a seat. Want some coffee?”

Not on your life, pal.

“No thanks,” Tia answered. “I just wanted to check and see how the Carson murder case was coming along.”