Missing Justice (29 page)

My eyes stayed on Minkins’s picture. When Chuck gave it to me yesterday morning, I hadn’t given it a second glance. But now he looked familiar. The guy by my table in the library. With shorter hair and a closer shave, he could’ve been Minkins. On the other hand, he could’ve been yet another lanky guy with dark hair and a mustache. I might have to arrange an in-person look-see.

For now, I wanted to know what Jackson could tell me. “Have your guy take a look at these. See if he recognizes them from the site.”

Slip glanced at the photographs. “Are you going to tell me who they are?”

“Nope.”

When I left Slip’s office, I called my father to make sure he was home. I wasn’t sure I could make it over for dinner, I told him, but I needed to talk to him now, if he didn’t mind.

Five minutes later, he was pouring me a glass of iced tea as we sat together at the breakfast nook. We both had finally adjusted to the clean tabletop. When my mother was still living,

this was the place where she stacked her books, mail, and bills. Now that my father was in charge of running the house, those things piled up in the den.

“Look what I found.” I handed him a copy of the newspaper article, showing him in the background at the college commencement. “You look very handsome.”

Something dark crossed my father’s face. “Where’d you find that old thing?”

“I came across it when I was going through some old newspaper articles at the library trying to tie up some loose ends.”

“Well, thanks, Sammy. I’ll hold on to it. I forgot what I looked like back then. Not too shabby in my day, was I?”

“I think it’s safe to say you were a full-blown hot tie Dad. I was actually hoping to talk to you about it. Were you doing security for the commencement?”

Dad shook his head. “I was driving one of the bigwigs. We did a lot of that in OSP.”

“Who were you driving?”

“Oh, who can even remember? That was so long ago. What’s this about, honI’m not sure yet. A couple of names keep coming up on something I’m looking into, and one of them is Clifford Brigg. What do you remember about him?”

Dad put the article face down on the table. “Not a lot. I left OSP when you were just a little kid, and I never looked back. I remember reading that Brigg died oh, that must have been more than fifteen years ago.”

“But what was he like back then? What was his reputation?”

“I’m sorry, Samantha, but I told you before, I don’t want to talk about this. What’s past is past.”

No, he told me he didn’t want to talk about his reasons for leaving OSP. The knot I’d felt when I first found the article began to settle its way back into my stomach. “Dad, does this have something to do with why you moved over to the forest service? Because that’s what you told me before that you didn’t want to talk about.”

He was silent for a moment, as if he were mulling something over in his head before speaking. “I didn’t say anything other than I don’t want to talk about it. End of discussion.”

End of discussion? I hadn’t heard him say that since I was in junior high school and he forbade me from taking the Greyhound with Grace for a Duran Duran concert in Seattle. Grace’s mother had nixed the idea too, so we caved.

This time I wouldn’t quit so easily. “Dad, I hope you know there’s nothing you can’t tell me. Obviously this picture is upsetting to you, and it’s got something to do with our conversation the other day about Mom “

“It’s got nothing to do with your mother.”

“OK, whatever, but something about this upsets you. I wish you’d talk to me about it.” I couldn’t believe I even had to say that to him. As long as I could remember, his favorite pastime was to tell me things. Anything. When I was a kid, it took all he could handle not to divulge where Mom had hidden the Christmas presents.

Now he wouldn’t talk to me about a legislator who had died when I was in high school.

“Dad, I came across these articles doing research on the Easterbrook investigation. If you know something, you have to tell me. It could be important. Melvin Jackson might be innocent.”

“If anyone’s innocent, it’s you, and you’re the one I’m worried about. It’s these people, Sam. These people. They’ll eat you alive to advance their agenda.”

“What people? Dad, don’t leave me in the dark.”

He stood up, walked to the kitchen sink, and stared out the window for a minute, and then another, without saying a word to me. Then he sat across from me again.

“I did security for Clifford Brigg. The man was well, he was a son of a bitch. Pardon my language. He’s dead and gone, but if anyone associated with him is injecting himself into your investigation please, Sam, just walk away.”

“Why, Dad? The least you can do is tell me why.”

“I can’t, Sam. I just can’t.”

“And I just can’t walk away.”

I left my father with whatever secrets he was holding on to and drove to my office, feeling incredibly lonely. Part of me wanted to lie on my couch, watch TV, and cry, but I knew I needed to work.

I made a list of everything I knew about Clarissa, Gunderson, the Glenville property, Caffrey, Townsend, and Jackson. Then I used lines to connect facts that might be related, like Clarissa’s ruling on the Gunderson case, Gunderson’s stake in the urban growth boundary, and Clarissa’s affair with Cafferty.

Before I knew it, my legal pad was so filled with overlapping lines that I couldn’t read anything. Frustrated, I finally circled my pen around the entire list over and over again until I popped a hole in the paper. What the hell were you up to, Clarissa?

Making sense of everything I’d learned over the weekend was going to take some legwork. I paged Johnson.

I tried to keep it simple, telling him about Clarissa’s safe deposit box. “I was hoping you’d have another go at Caffrey since you never got in touch with him the first time. We need to find out what Clarissa was doing with that videotape.”

Johnson obviously didn’t share my enthusiasm. “Sorry, Sam, but I’m working other cases now. I can’t pull off to put in more time on Jackson.”

“Do you know if Walker can do it? I’ve got the rest of the prelim tomorrow.” I had a hard time hiding my frustration. The

Major Crimes Team owed its existence to the District Attorney’s insistence on sufficient investigative support for cases carrying mandatory minimum sentences.

“That’s going to be a problem too. Look, since it’s you, I’ll give it to you straight. When we saw the lieutenant this morning, he told us that any overtime on Jackson needed to go through him.”

“Did he say why?” The bureau could be stingy on overtime, but I’d never heard of an order to run each minute through the supervisor.

“I got the impression someone had put some extra time into the case after it was cleared. But I know it wasn’t me, and it also wasn’t Jack. You know anything about that?”

“Chuck went with me to pick up the key from Clarissa’s assistant, but it only took a few minutes.”

“And why didn’t you call me or Walker? We’re the leads.”

“I did call you, but you weren’t in.” He didn’t respond. “Look, do we have a problem here?”

“Just remember how you felt when I went around you for the polygraph. You’ve got my pager number.”

“I didn’t go around you, Ray. It was a quick walk across the street, and Chuck happened to be in.” Again with the silence. “If you want to say something, just say it.”

“I just think it’s funny how you say your old buddy just happened to be in when you wanted something done on a cleared case. Maybe part of you knew I wouldn’t be too happy about doing work that’s going to bite me in the ass down the road.”

“And how’s that?”

“When you tell me three months from now that you’re pleading the case down because of something the defense attorney’s twisting around. You know, it’s always those little extra details stupid things like a safe deposit key or the occasional extramarital roll in the sheets. Stuff that we both know or at least I know doesn’t change the fact that Melvin Jackson’s guilty.”

“I don’t know what to say, Ray. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you, or I wouldn’t have called you just now. And I wouldn’t ask you to do something if I didn’t think it was important.”

“If you want to call the LT, that’s fine with me,” Ray said. “But for now, we’re not supposed to be working a cleared case. I don’t want to get stuck between my boss and your office.”

Neither did I, I thought, as I hung up. One thing was for sure: I wouldn’t be getting any more help from the bureau.

The notes that Clarissa stashed in her safe deposit box mentioned a case she referred to as Grice. It still felt familiar.

I found my own notes from the review of Clarissa’s files. It didn’t take long to realize where I’d seen Grice’s name before. It was in the list of cases from which Clarissa had recused herself. According to my notes, Grice Construction was the company that had complained that the city had unfairly denied its request to rehabilitate some Pearl Street buildings. The date of Clarissa’s recusal was the same day she had apparently talked to DC about both the Grice case and the case involving Gunderson’s own rehabilitation program. If DC was Coakley, that might explain what Nelly overheard at City Hall.

I didn’t know the details yet, but it was becoming clear that Gunderson had some kind of connection to Clarissa.

Good thing I knew who his lawyer was. I even had his home number.

I was surprised when a woman answered. When I asked to speak to Roger, she asked who was calling. I was tempted to tell her she was right to be suspicious, but I gave her the boring answer instead.

“It’s for you,” she hollered. “Someone named Samantha Kincaid.”

I wasn’t sure which was worse, to be known as the evil ex-wife or not to be known at all.

“Hello?”

“Is that company, Roger, or a roommate?”

“Something in between, actually, but I assume the point of the question was more in the asking than the answering. If you’re calling about Townsend, yes, we plan on being there tomorrow.”

“Nice to know, but that’s not why I called. I want to talk to Larry Gunderson.”

It always feels good to show another attorney you know more than he thought you did. But this time it was especially rewarding.

“Why would you be calling me about that?”

There were lots of bad things to be said about Roger, but lawyering skills were not among them. His question was perfect in its ambiguity, neither denying nor confirming knowledge of Gunderson.

“Because you said Dunn Simon represented him. Remember? That’s how you got Melvin Jackson’s name? If you’re saying you’re not Gunderson’s lawyer, that’s fine. I’ll contact him directly.” I read Gunderson’s street address from my PPDS printout.

“I’m not actually Gunderson’s lawyer. One of my partners is, Jim Thorpe.”

I remembered seeing his name on Gunderson’s appeal. “Fine. I’ll call him. What’s his home number?”

“Jesus, Samantha. What’s your problem? Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“XT

Nope.

Roger might have come into the firm as a partner, but he was still junior to a corner office guy like Thorpe. Junior partners who hand out home phone numbers to government lawyers stay in the middle of the hallway.

“Fine. Tell me what you want to know, and I’ll talk to Jim and get back to you.”

I could hear his house guest slash live-in beginning to whine in the background. Apparently Roger had found what he never had in me someone who needed his undivided attention to be happy.

I didn’t show him all my cards, just enough to ensure I’d get Gunderson’s attention. “It turns out that in addition to being Melvin Jackson’s employer and the owner of the property where Clarissa’s body was found, Gunderson also had a case in front of Clarissa a few months ago. In light of that, I think we should at least talk to him about how Jackson happened to find himself on Gunderson’s radar.”

“I’ll get back to you, but don’t hold your breath. Given the insinuation, he’s more likely to be insulted.”

It had to have been one of the fastest decisions ever made by a lawyer who gets paid by the hour. Eleven minutes later, my phone rang.

“It’s Jim’s call, and he advised Gunderson to enjoy the rest of his weekend. If you want to work something out for this week, get in touch with Jim at the office tomorrow.”

“Unbelievable, Roger. I’ve got the rest of the preliminary hearing tomorrow, and you guys think it’s a good idea to tell your client to be uncooperative. Does Thorpe know enough about criminal practice to understand how suspicious it makes Gunderson look?”

“To you, maybe. Quite frankly, I don’t see the problem.”

“Well, since I’m handling the case, I guess my opinion has to matter to you on this one.”

“Sam, if you’re doing this because you’re pissed off at me, I’m sorry I said some harsh things about your office at the meeting, but they weren’t directed at you personally. I was only trying to get Duncan’s attention. Hell, you’re the one who told me at one time all he cared about was politics.” He laughed, but I didn’t see what was funny. “Can’t you just be happy that you finally got the promotion you wanted and that your first big case came together? I realize I’m not the best messenger for this, but you’re not acting like yourself on this one.”

“You’re a piss-poor messenger, Roger. You don’t even know me anymore.”

“Well, you’re not acting like the person I used to know. Look at the evidence: You’ve got a fingerprint, the weapon, motive, something approaching a confession. Prescott all but told you on Friday she’d hold Jackson over. And you’re spending your Sunday night chasing down figments of your imagination. Gunderson’s just some guy who gave Jackson a job.”

“And who happened to have an appeal in front of the victim.”

“And how long ago was that, Samantha? And how many cases did Easterbrook hear on a monthly basis? It’s like you’re trying to make your job harder than it is I don’t know maybe to recapture some of the glory days back in New York.”

It was a telephonic slap in the face. Before Roger took the job at Nike, I had been an up-and-comer in the busiest federal prosecutors office in the country, on my way to handling complex high-stakes conspiracies. We both knew that in the world of lawyers who never stop measuring themselves against one another, I had suffered a serious slip down the ladder when we moved to Portland.