Missing Justice (22 page)

Clarissa’s death triggered in him. I don’t think he could live with himself if another human being even one as despicable as Jackson were put to death, even in part to console him. Townsend, do you have anything you want to add?”

From appearances, I wouldn’t have thought that Townsend was even listening, but he responded to the question. Sort of. “Clarissa’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

I had heard of similar cases, even stories of the families of murder victims going to bat to save the defendant. But I couldn’t begin to understand it. I wondered if they ever saw the videotape of that guy who killed all those nurses in Chicago. After his capital sentence was reversed by the Supreme Court, an investigative reporter caught him on camera in prison, taking drugs, talking up the joys of prison sex, and boasting to his fellow inmates about the ways his victims begged for mercy before he strangled them. The death penalty might not be a deterrent and might cost a hell of a lot more than a life sentence, but it meant that a victim’s parents never had to go to sleep at night wondering what their kid’s murderer was up to. Townsend was telling us to ignore the only factor that made me hedge on the death penalty a survivor’s need for what’s lamely referred to as closure.

Duncan had launched into “the speech,” the one every prosecutor gets used to giving, the one where we promise to take into account the person’s feelings about the disposition of a case but explain that the ultimate decision needs to be on behalf of the entire citizenry. Roger cut him off.

“I’ve explained all that to Dr. Easterbrook already, Duncan.”

Griffith gave me a look across the table at the use of his first name. No one ever said my ex-husband lacked balls.

“Townsend, why don’t you wait for me in the lobby?” When the door was closed, Roger continued. “I’ve also explained to

Townsend that you shouldn’t have a problem sticking with this as a non capital case. You’re in a liberal county where most people feel the same way he does about the death penalty. In fact, according to our research, your office seeks the death penalty in only a third of your agg murder cases. Let me be blunt here; I’m not real impressed with what I’ve seen so far in your office.”

I shouldn’t have changed seats. Talking me down to my boss was bad enough. But doing it in front of my coworkers was definitely shin-kick-deserving behavior.

“Until we essentially served Jackson to them on a platter, the police were content to sit back and assume this was a textbook case of ‘the husband must have done it.” I’m sure you have fine lawyers if given the appropriate resources, but I also know what can happen when people are overworked. Maybe to save resources, you go for the death penalty hoping to plead it out to a life sentence. Given how this case started, I would hope you would defer to Dr. Easterbrook’s wishes. If anyone has a right to dictate what happens to Melvin Jackson, he does. If I feel like you’ve continued to ignore him, I’ll follow up again with the media.”

When I was with him, I had actually been attracted to Roger’s confidence. I understood now why everyone else had called it arrogance, and I felt responsible that he was unleashing it on my office. I couldn’t stand another minute of it.

“Even for you, Roger, you are totally out of control.”

The table went silent. Roger looked smug, Duncan looked embarrassed, every one else looked shocked, and I couldn’t stop myself. “What kind of person can take Townsend Easterbrook’s pain and parlay it into billable hours and a chance for a few minutes in front of the cameras? Stop thinking about yourself for one minute and you’d realize that the screw up you keep rubbing in our faces had as much to do with the owners of the office park who happen to be your clients as with the police.”

“Samantha, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he said.

“No, she’s not.” It was Russ. “What’s embarrassing is your attempt to bully this office. You assume that because we’re prosecutors, we’re a bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks. As for the bureau’s delay homing in on Jackson, your client wasn’t exactly forthcoming. The cops had to get their information from the workers on the site, and funny they seemed to be under the impression that it was union work.”

Talking about the Glenville development project brought Mrs. Jackson’s words back to me.

“Who is your client anyway, Roger?” I asked.

“I told you,” he said. “Dr. Easterbrook came to us through OHSU.”

He knew exactly what I was talking about. “Who’s in charge of the construction in Glenville?”

“I wasn’t aware that the DA’s office had taken over the operations of the National Labor Relations Board. For what it’s worth, the nonunion work on the site was permissible.”

“So tell me who the client is. I want to know how they came to hire Melvin Jackson. From what I’ve heard of him, I’m not sure I’d want him to mow my backyard, let alone hire him on a major development project.”

But Roger was done talking to me. He stood up and offered Duncan his hand. “Duncan, unless you have any more questions, we’ll be on our way. Please let me know your decision once you’ve made it.”

Then I got a glimpse of how Duncan Griffith had earned his political reputation. When he took Roger’s hand, I could tell his grip was firm. “The decision was made before you interrupted me with the theatrics, son. We’ll be asking for life without parole. You might want to consider knocking the last twelve minutes off Dr. Easterbrook’s bill. Now, if it’s all right with you, I’ll walk you out so I can thank your client for coming in.”

We were still rehashing the events of the meeting when Duncan returned. “Anyone got a problem with that?”

No problems. “Very good then,” he said, knocking on the table as he walked out. “Oh, and by the way, Samantha, your ex-husband’s a major asshole.”

I don’t think Duncan realized he was dropping a bombshell. I hightailed it out of the room while my coworkers were still begging for the tawdry details of my short-lived marriage.

A few minutes later, Russ came into my office.

“I hope you didn’t mind me sticking up for you back there. I know you had everything under control, but, Jesus, what a prick.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” I said.

“Yeah, well don’t let the word out. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

“Don’t worry. One act of semi decency won’t make a dent,” I said, smiling. “So I was surprised Duncan made a decision. You think it was because of the racial politics or to appease the husband?”

“Christ, Kincaid, you’re almost as bad as your limousine-liberal ex. Duncan might have done it because he thought it was the right thing to do.”

I suppose with politicians it’s the decisions that count, not their reasons for making them.

“So how long were you guys married?” Russ asked.

I felt like I owed him at least the party line. “Not long. Things were all right for a few years in New York, but they fell apart when we moved to Portland.” Then I surprised myself by not stopping in the usual place. “We seemed to have a disagreement over the appropriate use of his penis.”

Russ almost spit out the coffee he had just sipped.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “A little too much information?”

“No, just a well, it was a funny way of putting it. You’re not one of those girls, are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I know I haven’t been any kind oigirl since I was seventeen years old.”

“Excuse me, Gloria Steinem. You’re not one of those crazy women who always goes after the bad boy, are you? First it’s that guy, now it’s Forbes. You know something none of the other women around here know, or do you just like to flirt with disaster?”

“I’ve known Chuck Forbes since I was fifteen years old, and he’s nothing like Roger Kirkpatrick.”

The silence was not just uncomfortable. It made me wonder what everyone in the office must be thinking. And saying.

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s none of my business. You ready for the prelim tomorrow?”

I was grateful for the change of subject. “Piece of cake,” I said. “Was it just me, or did Roger seem reluctant to give us anything about the owner of the Glenville property?”

Russ shrugged his shoulders. “He’s probably no different from the rest of those private-firm fucks. Acts like the big man, but when push comes to shove he’s scared shitless of his clients. You don’t need it, but if you’re really curious, call one of the paralegals in the child-support enforcement unit. They’re pros at running down property-owner records.”

Maybe I would.

“If I don’t see you, good luck tomorrow,” he said. “Do you know who the judge is yet?”

“Prescott.”

“Got news for you, Kincaid. You could be looking at a long day.”

Kate Prescott is the slowest judge in the courthouse. A big fund-raiser for the Democratic Party, she came to the bench a year ago from a large corporate firm. She tries to make up for her lack of litigation experience by being thorough. I had a plea fall apart once in her courtroom when a transexual prostitute who’d been through the system a hundred times finally gave up on the process. In her words, “Honey, if I knew it was gonna take this long, I’d have asked for my trial. If I’m losing time on the street, it might as well be interesting.”

If Prescott didn’t move things along, Jackson’s prelim could be painful.

“Page me if you need anything,” Russ offered. “And, Kincaid, for what it’s worth, any guy who’d even think of stepping out on you is clearly out of his mind.”

Now that might ruin Russell Frist’s tough-guy reputation.

Roger’s show was not the only power play I’d have to contend with that day. As I was getting ready to leave, Duncan called. Before he got to the point, he had to dress me down for my outburst in the meeting.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “it wasn’t what you said that was the problem. He deserved every word of it. But when I’m in the room, you’ve got to trust that I’ll handle it.”

“Does this mean I’m fired?”

“I’ll give you a Get Out of Jail Free card for that particular outburst. Your reward for being married to the jerk. But, seriously, over time I hope you’ll stop trying to carry the load all on your own.”

“I’m independent, sir.”

“Tell me about it. So don’t freak out that I’m calling to give you a heads-up. T. J. Caffrey just called. He’s rabid. Seems your defense attorney has subpoenaed him to the prelim.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised. Slip knew he stood little chance of getting the case kicked at a prelim. He was trying to give us a preview of the mess he’d create for us at trial. Fortunately, Duncan’s own trial experience wasn’t too far in the past for him to recognize it was inevitable too.

“I told him there was nothing I could do,” he said, “but his attorney wants a courtesy sit-down with you tomorrow morning. I told him you’d oblige.”

It gave me something to look forward to.

Nine.

Grace had left a voice mail while I was in Duncan’s office. “Hey, Sammikins. Want to grab some dinner tonight? And before you say you’re busy, I’m just warning you; you’re turning into one of those women who dump their girlfriends when they’re getting laid. I’m thinking cocktails and truffle fries.”

That could only mean one place: 750 ml, a cool but cozy Pearl District wine bar. Even though we were the only declasse martini drinkers in the joint, the main attraction was the french fries tossed in white truffle oil.

Grace likes her drinks the color of Maybelline nail polish, and this week’s preference was a ginger-infused something or another. Beach vacations aside, I usually stick with the standards, switching periodically between my favorite gin and my favorite vodka. Tonight, Bombay Sapphire beat out Grey Goose.

I tried to fight Grace when she told the bartender to jazz it up for me, but Grace just couldn’t help herself. When a guy’s that gorgeous, she’ll find any excuse to talk to him.

He turned away to muck up a perfectly good olive by stuffing it with bleu cheese, and Grace’s eyes were anywhere but on me. “Ahem, my dear, but I do believe you accused me today of ignoring my girlfriend in favor of the boy du jour.”

“Well, in your case, that’d be the boy du decade.”

It dawned on me that her jab was accurate. Literally. Truly pathetic.

“Now does this mean we’re going to have an evening without the boy talk?” she asked.

“Unless you’ve got something.”

She eyed the bartender again. “Not yet,” she said, smiling and taking another sip of her pink drink. In truth, Grace has a fairly routine dating life, but she enjoys hamming up the sex goddess persona. “So why didn’t I hear from you last night? Another evening with Chuck?”

“I’m afraid so. We’re moving toward boring domesticity remarkably quickly.”

I thought about mentioning the weirdness with my father, but talking about it would only upset me more. The truth was, I knew I’d been keeping myself busy to avoid calling him. Part of me was afraid he might actually tell me whatever he was holding back. From the look on his face the other night, it seemed pretty disturbing.

Instead, I talked about work, confessing my guilt over the accusatory tone I’d used the previous day with Susan Kerr.

“Susan Kerr with sort of wild brown hair? A little older than us?”

“Wild to you, maybe, but take a look at who you’re talking to. Actually, she had it pulled back when I saw her.”

“That’s because her hair’s completely uncontrollable. She’s a client.”

“What do you think of her?”

“She’s awesome my kind of chick. Did you really accuse her of sleeping with her dead friend’s husband? I don’t even want to think about how she handled that.”

“No, luckily I kept that suspicion to myself and found out the visit was perfectly innocuous. But I did ask whether she thought it was possible Clarissa was having an affair.”

“I suspect even that was enough to set her off.” It was.

Grace shrugged her shoulders. “She always speaks her mind. She started coming in probably a year before her husband died, right around the time I opened. When word started to leak he was losing it, she was ferociously protective. I remember her telling me about this one woman who was the source of most of the gossip. Susan found out the cow had a nasty little coke habit, cornered her in the gym, and threatened to out her unless she started singing another tune.”