Missing Justice (12 page)

“Do you need anything?” Nelly asked.

“No, I should be fine. Thanks.”

“You sure? Because I think I’m going to head out. Judge Olick told me to take the rest of the day off. I was going to try to finish some things up, but I’m pretty useless right now.”

“You should definitely go. I’ll be fine.”

“Thanks. Just let yourself out.”

I thanked her again and turned to the files. I began by spreading the boxes side by side on the floor, quickly scanning the file headings to see if anything jumped out. Nope. No in the

EVENT SOMETHING BAD HAPPENS Or LITIGANTS WHO HATE ME files, just case names.

I started at the beginning, dictating the names of the parties and the nature of the dispute for each file into the hand-sized recorder I still owned from my days at the U.S. Attorneys Office. The machine served more as a paperweight in my current position, since the District Attorney staff refuses to type for the deputies. But considering I didn’t even know what I was looking for, taped notes would be good enough for now.

Case after case, nothing seemed relevant. One thing was for certain: There would be no problems finding things of interest in my files. In fact, the problem would be too many defendants who were angry, mean, or outright psycho enough to go after me. On a weekly basis in the drug unit, some dealer who blamed me for the sentencing guidelines would throw me a devil eye, his thrusted chest, or the very worst the blood-boiling c-word. Hell, I could fill one side of a tape with the spitters alone. Experienced prosecutors know always to sit at the end of the table farthest from the defendant.

Clarissa Easterbrook’s caseload, on the other hand, was a major snooze. How disgruntled can a person be about a citation for un mowed grass, an unkempt vacant house, or a toilet left on the front porch? Although a few of them huffed and puffed in their appeal papers, the tough talk was generally reserved for the nosy neighbors who had sicced the city on them or the unfeeling civil servants who responded, and even those were rare. More typically, the appellants tried hard embarrassingly so to be lawyerlike in their prose. Lots of henceforths, herewiths, and thereto fores

When I got to the Js, I came across the Melvin Jackson file. Now this one stood out. At least two letters a week for the past six weeks, filed in reverse chronological order under correspondence. They began as pleas for compassion about his recent past, which I learned went like this:

Melvin Jackson was the father of three children, ages two to six. He and his wife, Sharon, had always struggled with their shared addictions, but when their youngest son, Jared, was born addicted to crack cocaine, Melvin entered the rehabilitation program offered by the office for Services to Children and Families as an alternative to losing Jared. Through the program, Melvin had gotten clean. Sharon hadn’t. One afternoon, Melvin came home from his part-time job as a Portland State janitor to find another man leaving his apartment and Sharon inside naked, smoking up with Jared in her arms, the other two children curled together on the sofa. He told her to choose between the drugs and her children. The next morning, Sharon went to SCF and signed a voluntary termination of parental rights.

Melvin had been taking care of the kids ever since. He saved enough money for a used van and was getting by through public housing, public assistance, and occasional work as a landscaper and handyman.

Melvin was about to lose his public housing because of his unemployed cousin, who moved in with him a year ago in exchange for watching Melvin’s kids when he worked. One night four months ago, a community policing officer assigned to the Housing Authority of Portland caught the cousin and her friends smoking pot on the apartment complex swing set. The officer found less than an ounce, decriminalized in Oregon, so the only repercussion for the cousin was a ticket for possession, no more than a traffic matter. But federal regulations authorize public housing agencies to evict tenants who have drugs on the property. The problem for Melvin was that public housing evictions aren’t by the tenant; they’re by the unit. Two days after the swing set smoke out HAP served Melvin with a notice of eviction. Then an SCF caseworker told him his kids would be placed in foster care if he became homeless.

I knew a little bit about these kinds of evictions. A few years ago, the United States Supreme Court upheld the federal housing policy nine-zip, permitting the eviction of a law-abiding grandmother whose grandson smoked pot on public housing property. Never mind that she’d taken in her grandson to save him from a drug-addicted mother. The only option for someone in Melvin s place was to hope for leniency, but it would have to come from the housing authority; a court could do nothing about it.

Clarissas notes in the file suggested that, at least initially, Melvin had earned her sympathy. One entry during the second week she’d had the case noted:

Called Cathy Wexler @ HAP: zero tolerance policy won budge. Called SCF info line: No knowledge can discuss and’l case, but ‘very possible’ take kids if lose housing.

She had even run some computerized searches on Westlaw looking for authority to support the argument that HAP was prohibited from adopting a zero-tolerance policy on eviction.

Unfortunately for Melvin, however, he chose a course of conduct that had probably obliterated that sympathy before

Clarissa had found any law to back up the creative argument she was trying to craft on his behalf. By the fifth letter, his tone had changed. All caps and exclamation points don’t go over well with judges. More recently, Melvin s letters became aggressive:

Do you have children of your OWN, Judge Easterbrook? What kind of person would allow this to happen? Maybe someday you will know just how UNFAIR life can be. Are you trying to BREAK me?

I could see why Clarissa wrote them off as the desperate words of a desperate man. But the benefit of hindsight made me wonder if Clarissa might still be alive if someone had been able to help Melvin Jackson or at least deflect his anger from a judge who was on his side but powerless to do anything about it.

As I was starting in on the Ns, Dennis Coakley walked in with another box of files. If I was counting right, that made me a hell of a lot faster than he was.

“Not very exciting, is it?” he said.

“Not particularly.”

“So was it worth that little scene you scripted this morning?”

“Won’t know until I finish the files,” I said. If I had boy parts, he never would have called my power move a little scene. It would be a fast ball, a line drive, an outside shot, or some other ridiculous sports analogy that I don’t understand.

“Just like I couldn’t know if I had something important to deal with until I took a look,” he said, stomping off.

By the time noon came around, I had finished reviewing the very last file. Nothing. Two hours of work and all I had to show for it was my monotone summary of Clarissa Easterbrook’s pending caseload. The drone of my own voice, combined with the steady hum of the water cooler, had been enough to make me nod off a few times.

My legal pad was hardly used, but to keep myself from sleeping I had made three lists. One was a list of cases where Clarissa said something at the hearing to indicate she’d be ruling for the city, but where she hadn’t yet issued a formal ruling. Maybe someone decided to ensure a rehearing with a different judge. Possible, but not probable.

The second list was even shorter. I jotted down a few names to run in PPDS when I got back to the office, but each seemed an unlikely suspect. Sheldon Smithers found a lock on his front tire, courtesy of the city, after one too many unpaid parking tickets. He made my list for sending a rant about the hypocrisy of reserving parking spaces for the administrative law judges in the city lot. That, and the serial-killerish name.

Then there was Ronald Nathan Wilson. A month ago, Ronald punched the glass out on the hearing room door after Clarissa denied his challenge to the city’s seizure of his car. It’s a long way from vandalism to murder, I know, but the seizure was for picking up a decoy in a prostitution sting, sinking Ronald deeper into the creep pile. And, again, the name didn’t help. Six letters each: first, middle, and last. Everyone knows 6-6-6 is the sign of the devil.

I wasn’t sure what to do with my third list. These were cases from which Clarissa had recused herself. A restaurant manager whose application for a sidewalk cafe license had been rejected. A homeowner whose third-floor addition was enjoined under the nuisance code. A contractor complaining that his requests to rehabilitate buildings in the Pearl District had been declined unfairly.

Maybe one of them had complained that Clarissa had a grudge against him but hadn’t gotten word yet that she was recusing herself. I knew it was a stretch, but I had to leave that room with something.

I used my cell phone to check my work voice mail. As long as there were no new fires to put out, I was actually going to make my lunch date with Grace. Only three new messages: one from Dad reminding me about dinner, one from Frist about a grand jury hearing at the end of the week that I had already calendared, and one from Jessica Walters asking me to try her later. Still nothing from Johnson.

I considered returning Dad’s call but wasn’t up for another conversation like we’d had the night before. Instead, I flipped my phone shut and considered myself on a well-deserved lunch break.

Grace and I have a handful of regular lunchtime meeting places located roughly halfway between the courthouse and her salon, Lockworks. Today’s pick was the Greek Cusina on Fourth, which I always spot by the gigantic purple octopus protruding above the door. Don’t ask me what the connection is.

Grace was waiting for me in our favorite corner booth, great for people-watching. We could peek out, but a potted rubber tree plant made it unlikely we’d be seen from the street.

She looked terrific, as always. Physically, Grace and I are yin and yang. I’ve got dark-brown straight hair; her color changes by the day, but I know those cute little curls are naturally blond. She’s trendy; my clothes (unless bought by Grace) come in black, gray, charcoal, slate, and ebony. I’m five-feet-eight, she’s five-three. She eats all she wants, never works out, and can wear stuff from the kids’ department. I eat half of what I want and run at least twenty-five miles a week, just to maintain a size in the single digits. She’s put together; I’m a mess. Set aside those differences, and we’re twins.

“Hey, woman,” she said, standing up to kiss my cheek. “I’ve missed you. I sort of liked being roommates. Maybe we should try it here at home.”

“Might not be the same without the beach.”

“Or the rum,” she added.

“Don’t sell the condo just yet; we could wind up killing each other. Did you order already?”

“Yeah, I figured it was safe.”

Grace knows I always get the Greek platter: a gyro, a side of spanikopita, and a little Greek salad. That converts into roughly six miles.

Once I’d settled in across from her, Grace asked me to tell her all about my new life in the Major Crimes Unit.

“I promise I will get to it, but, please, not just yet. I need a break from thinking about the horrible things people do to each other. Tell me a little bit about your homecoming. Anything good at the salon?”

Grace opened Lockworks, a two-story full-service salon-slash-spa, in the haute Pearl District a few years ago. Never mind that back then she was a marketing executive without a beautician’s license. What Grace had was business sense. She managed to swing a loan for an entire warehouse, which she converted into the first of what are now many upscale salons targeting the hordes of trendy young professionals flocking to Portland. Today the building alone is worth millions, and clients wait weeks to pay Grace a small fortune for a haircut or highlight.

“I’ve been swamped. The first vacation I’ve taken since I opened that place, but it doesn’t keep people from getting pissed off. I’ve been on my feet for the last forty-eight hours, com ping cuts for clients who refused appointments with the girls who were subbing for me.”

“I guess they know you’re the best.”

“One way to look at it,” she said.

“Or they’re just pricks.”

She clinked her water glass against mine.

QQ

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat back and listened to Grace’s stories about beautiful people who aren’t as beautiful as they want to be. The whining, the temper tantrums, the unrepentant displays of vanity. I had packed away half of my chicken gyro by the time she finished telling me her latest Hollywood story. Grace has become the preferred stylist for the film productions that increasingly choose to go on location in Portland. Apparently, someone with too much money offered Grace a big wad of dough to do body waxing for an eye-candy movie being shot in the Columbia Gorge about windsurfers. Fortunately, Grace had enough money to take a pass.

“In addition to the obvious yuck factor, most of the half-naked unknowns are teenagers,” she explained.

“I would’ve thought that was right up your alley, Grace. You’re ripening pretty well into a dirty old woman.” I had teased Grace endlessly in Hawaii each time her gaze predictably and shamelessly followed whatever young stud crossed our field of vision. I plowed through the entire Jack Reacher series during our poolside time; Grace was still working on the same novel on our flight back to Oregon.

“As tempting as that sounds, there’s a little too much Oedipal potential there. Better stay put in the city for now. Check out men my own age.” She gave me that cute little wink she somehow manages to pull off when she’s being cheeky. “Now can we please knock off the chitchat and get down to business? What have you been working on? I want every last detail.”

Because of my job, Grace’s skin has thickened to violence through osmosis. When I first started handling compelling prostitution cases in DVD, she saw me through more than a few long nights.

My ex-husband once told me I shouldn’t talk about my cases while people were eating; it wasn’t polite dinner conversation, whatever the hell that is. Down the road, I returned the favor by telling him it wasn’t exactly polite dinner behavior to use our dining room table to screw the professional volleyball player he picked up at his new job at Nike. Now, Shoe Boy was a distant memory, and Grace listened to my stories whether we were eating or not.