Supreme Justice (10 page)

The first thing John Finley noticed when he came to was the pain. His side was on fire where he’d been shot, and he felt like someone had slammed a hatchet into the back of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. When the pain was bearable, he tried to figure out where he was.

That proved to be easy. He’d been placed in a confined space that admitted almost no light. Suddenly his body was lifted up and his head struck a hard surface. The pain was excruciating. After one more jolt, Finley figured out that he was in the trunk of a car that was driving on an unpaved road. He set himself to resist the next bump, but his hands were cuffed behind him and his ankles were bound together. His head smashed into the top of the trunk again. Then, mercifully, the car stopped.

Finley tried to remember what had led to his imprisonment. There was the ship. He’d killed Talbot on it, and he’d been shot. He remembered driving to Sarah’s condo. His wound had been bleeding badly when he arrived. The duffel bag! He’d hidden it, and he was heading for the stairs that led up to Sarah’s bedroom when two men burst in through the front door.

Finley remembered putting all of his strength behind a punch that caught the first man flush in the face, sending him stumbling across the foyer. Then he was grappling with the second man on the floor, weak from blood loss and barely able to put up a fight. A forearm had been jammed across his windpipe. He’d been struggling for breath when Sarah called his name. The last thing he remembered was a gunshot.

Car doors opened and slammed shut. Moments later the lid of the trunk popped up. Finley could see the silhouette of two men from their knees to their shoulders. One man bent down and reached in to drag him from the car. Finley resisted and was hit in the face.

“Don’t make this hard on yourself. You’re going to die no matter what you do,” said the man who had hit him.

Finley wanted to fight but he didn’t have the strength. The two men manhandled him out of the trunk and threw him on the ground. Pain lanced through his head and side, and he had to fight to keep from throwing up. The men watched him roll back and forth. When Finley stopped, he saw stars and the outline of tree limbs and leaves high above. The cold, unpolluted air and the absence of ambient light told him that he was somewhere in the countryside, probably in the mountains.

“On your knees, fucker,” one of the men commanded. Finley squinted at the speaker. He was thick with curly black hair, but the darkness obscured most of his features. When Finley didn’t move fast enough, his reward was a vicious kick to his ribs near his gunshot wound. The pain almost made him black out. Rough hands grabbed his hair and yanked him upright, and a gun barrel was jammed against the back of his head. The man who was standing in front of Finley smiled sadistically.

“No more pussy for you,” he said. Then he laughed.

“Talk to me, people. What have we got here?” Max Dietz said.

“The biggest problem is the body, the one we don’t have,” answered deputy district attorney Monte Pike.

Dietz thought Pike was an irreverent little twit, but Jack Stamm thought Pike was brilliant because he’d graduated from Harvard. Dietz thought that Pike’s intelligence was overrated and that he’d probably gotten into Harvard because he had a knack for acing standardized tests. Dietz didn’t test well, and he hadn’t gone to Harvard, but he did kick ass and take names, which was, as far as he was concerned, all that counted in the real world. But Stamm had insisted that Pike be part of Dietz’s team because anytime his office went after a cop, the case became high profile.

“Claire?” Dietz asked.

Claire Bonner had been assigned the task of researching the problem presented by the missing body. Dietz liked having Bonner on his team because she was a suck-up who would do anything to gain advancement in the office. Unfortunately, she wasn’t attractive enough to merit any extracurricular attention, but unlike Pike, she didn’t challenge everything Dietz said.

Bonner self-consciously pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “OK, well, in American jurisprudence, the term
corpus delicti
refers to the principle that you have to prove a crime has been committed before you can convict someone. The corpus delicti in homicide is established when you show a human being died as a result of a criminal act.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know all that,” Dietz said impatiently. “What if you don’t have a body?”

“It’s OK. We can prosecute using circumstantial evidence. There are plenty of cases in Oregon and in other states where a conviction has stood up. For instance—”

“I get it. Put the rest in a memo. So,” Dietz said, turning his attention to Arnold Lasswell, the lead detective on the case, “what’s our evidence?”

“It’s not that strong, Max,” Lasswell answered hesitantly. He knew that Dietz didn’t like independent thinkers. The prosecutor had decided that he wanted Sarah Woodruff’s head on a pike, and Dietz was like a pit bull once he decided to go after someone. But Lasswell was a fifteen-year veteran of the Portland Police Bureau, four with Homicide, and he did not arrest citizens without good reason. The detective fully appreciated the consequences to a person’s reputation once the cuffs were snapped on. And he was particularly sensitive to the impact of an arrest on a police officer’s career, even if the officer was ultimately cleared.

“Let me decide whether we can get past a grand jury, Arnie. I’m the lawyer. Just run down the facts for me.”

“We can place Finley at Woodruff’s house. Woodruff said he was there, and Ann Paulus, the neighbor who called 911 to report the shot and the argument, saw Finley go in.”

“How did she know the guy was Finley?” Dietz asked.

“She’s met him. He lived with Woodruff off and on over the past year. About six months ago, some of Woodruff’s mail was delivered to Paulus’s place by mistake. When she brought it over, Woodruff was at work and Finley answered the door. They talked a little, and he told her his name.”

“So we’ve got the victim in Woodruff’s house on the evening of the crime, we’ve got the victim’s blood in the entryway. What else have we got?”

“Point of order,” interjected Pike, who was slouching in his seat, working a fingernail. The knot in Pike’s tie wasn’t pulled all the way up, leaving the top button on his white shirt exposed. Then there was Pike’s unruly brown hair.

Dietz dressed like a magazine model and got a pedicure and manicure when he was at his hair stylist. He found Pike’s lack of personal grooming repulsive.

“Yes, Monte?” Dietz asked, demonstrating the patience with subordinates—no matter how annoying they might be—that leadership required.

“We don’t know its Finley’s blood. In fact, other than the photograph of him that Woodruff snapped in South America, we don’t know much about him at all.”

“Well, Monte, we do know that the blood type doesn’t match Woodruff’s, so whose blood could it be?”

“The guys who snatched Finley.”

“That’s her story, Monte. The neighbor didn’t see anyone other than Finley go in or out and there’s no evidence to corroborate Woodruff’s assertion that Finley was snatched, right, Arnie?”

“The neighbor wasn’t watching the whole time, Max. She just happened to be looking out her window when Finley went in. She’s a nurse, and she has to get up early to make her shift. She was checking the weather. When she was dressing, she wasn’t watching Woodruff’s house. Then she heard the shouting and the shot.

“Paulus got worried because she’d heard arguments between Finley and Woodruff before. She even reported one fight as a domestic disturbance. We have a report of that. But she was away from the window when she called 911. If Finley was kidnapped, he could have been taken out when she was on the phone.”

“Did she hear three or four people shouting?” Dietz asked.

“She has no idea how many people were yelling. She just heard a commotion,” Lasswell answered.

“If he was kidnapped, where’s the ransom demand?” Dietz asked.

“We still haven’t addressed the problem of identifying our so-called victim,” Pike persisted. “We don’t know his blood type because there’s no record of the guy. Arnie, you ran prints taken from the scene, right? Did you match any of them to someone named John Finley?”

“No. We’ve drawn a blank. We do have prints other than Woodruff’s but none that match anyone named Finley,” the detective answered.

“And none that match our fictional kidnappers,” Bonner said, hoping to score points with Dietz.

“Woodruff says the kidnapper she saw was wearing gloves,” Pike said.

“How convenient,” Dietz answered with a smirk.

“But there are the prints we can’t match to anyone,” Lasswell said.

“Which could be Finley’s,” Dietz argued. “And what does it matter? If we found Finley’s prints in the house, it would just add to all the proof that he was there.”

“It doesn’t bother you that this guy doesn’t come up in our database?” Pike asked.

“Not one bit. We have him in the house, he’s missing, and she lied about shooting her gun,” Dietz said. “We also have previous domestic violence calls. Then there’s the fact that the neighbor heard the shot, we have gunshot residue on her hands, and there’s a bullet missing from her service revolver. Lying about the shot shows consciousness of guilt.”

“Until we find a body, it’s still thin, Max,” Lasswell cautioned. “What if Finley was kidnapped and he’s still alive? That’s a possibility. It will be embarrassing if you go after Woodruff for homicide and it turns out Finley isn’t dead.”

“It will be more embarrassing if we let a cop get away with murder. Jack’s thinking of running for Congress. How tough on crime will he look if we don’t prosecute a killer cop?”

Monte Pike knew that Dietz wanted to use the Woodruff prosecution as a stepping stone to the DA’s job if Stamm went to Washington, but he was smart enough to keep those thoughts to himself.

“I’d go slow here, Max,” Lasswell said. “I just don’t feel this.”

“Hey, we’re not on
Oprah
, Arnie. Leave the touchy-feely stuff to the shrinks. My gut says Woodruff is guilty. Let’s see if a grand jury agrees.”

“I’m in a lot of trouble, Ms. Garrett,” Sarah Woodruff said as soon as they were alone in Mary Garrett’s corner office on the top floor of the priciest office building in downtown Portland. The large picture windows gave clients spectacular views of the river, three snow-capped mountains, and the West Hills. The decorations were ultramodern: sheet-glass desktops, gleaming aluminum tube armrests, and abstract art that confused Sarah.

Mary Garrett was just as disconcerting as her office furnishings. The attorney wore the kind of designer clothing and spectacular but understated jewelry that were found in the glossy pages of upscale fashion magazines, but her clothes and accessories didn’t look right on the diminutive, birdlike woman with her overbite and dense, unfashionable glasses. None of this discordance mattered to her clients. No one hired Mary Garrett for her looks, and Mary assumed that Woodruff wanted her in her corner because Garrett had taken Woodruff apart during cross-examination in a trial that should have been a slam dunk for the prosecution but ended in an acquittal for one of the least likable drug dealers Mary had ever represented.

If Garrett looked more like a sideshow oddity than an attorney, Sarah Woodruff definitely looked nothing like the stereotypical damsel in distress. Garrett estimated Woodruff’s height at five ten, and she had the build of a female boxer, with long legs, wide shoulders, and a torso that tapered down to a narrow waist. Long black hair framed intense blue eyes and full lips that tension had drawn into a straight line. At a cocktail party or a classy restaurant, when she was relaxed and smiling, men would find Woodruff attractive, if severe, and even sexy. Today, under strain, she was all business. Strong, tough, and self-sufficient were Garrett’s first impressions of her new client. If she felt she needed someone to help her, Garrett bet her problem was very serious.

“What sort of trouble are you in?” Mary asked.

“I’m a Portland police officer. A few days ago, some people broke into my house around five in the morning and kidnapped a man named John Finley. I tried to stop them and was knocked out. A friend called me less than an hour ago and tipped me off that the district attorney is in a grand jury right now, looking to indict me for murdering John.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Anything you confide in me is confidential and protected by the attorney-client relationship.”

“I know that, but I promised to keep him out of this. He did me a big favor by tipping me off, and I’m not going to get him in trouble.”

“Fair enough,” Mary conceded as she studied Sarah. Her navy blue pants suit and white, man-tailored shirt looked good on her, but they weren’t expensive, and Mary knew a cop’s annual salary. Garrett decided to get the business aspects of their relationship out of the way.

“Defending a murder case is expensive. By the time the smoke clears, we’ll be talking six figures for my retainer in addition to hefty expenses for experts and investigation. I’ll need fifty thousand dollars to start. As soon as I have an idea of the complexity of your case, I’ll tell you how much more I’ll need.”

“I’ll have the money to you tomorrow,” Woodruff replied evenly. “I can’t afford to have a hack represent me,”

“OK. Do you know why the DA thinks you murdered Mr. Finley?”

Sarah shook her head. “I have no idea. I mean, there was blood in my house, but that was from the fight. And as far as I know, John is missing, not dead. My friend told me that no one has found his body.”

“You can use circumstantial evidence, like the blood in your house, to prosecute someone for murder even if there is no body.”

“But I saw a man attacking John. He was kidnapped.” Sarah pointed at the back of her head. “Do you think I did this to myself?”

“The police might think Mr. Finley did that while defending himself,” Mary answered. “Maybe they think you killed Mr. Finley, disposed of the body, and made up the story about his being kidnapped.”

Woodruff’s fists clenched in frustration. “But I didn’t. Those men broke into my home. I didn’t make that up.”

“Tell me some more about what happened.”

Mary made notes as Sarah told her about the incident at her place, her futile search for John and his abductors, her talk with the police, and her trip to the hospital.

“Had you ever seen the kidnappers before?” Mary asked when she was through.

“My memory is fuzzy. I blacked out after I was hit on the head, and everything happened very fast. I don’t have a clear picture in my mind of the man who was fighting with John. Also, when I was halfway down the stairs, I saw John and focused on him. I’m pretty certain the man who was fighting with him was wearing a black leather coat. And gloves. He was wearing gloves.” Woodruff shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t give you much more than that.”

“If you just woke up and you were hit hard, I wouldn’t expect you to have total recall. Tell me, did Mr. Finley ever mention any enemies?”

“He didn’t talk about himself very much. Anytime I asked about his business or his past, he’d joke around or give vague answers. He rarely told me anything of substance.” Sarah hesitated. “He did mention a few names, and I heard him on a call once.”

“Can you give the names to me? I can have my investigator run them down. Maybe we’ll learn a little more about Finley’s background.”

“The ones I remember are Larry Kres . . . no, Kester, Larry Kester. And Orrin Hadley.” She shut her eyes and concentrated for a moment. Then she leaned forward. “Dennis Lang. Those are the three I remember.”

Mary jotted down the names. “And you have no idea why Mr. Finley was kidnapped?” she asked when she was through.

“No, but John . . . he may be into something shady.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you known Mr. Finley long?”

“Not really. We met in Peru about a year and a half ago when I was on vacation,” Sarah said. “Several months later, he turned up in Portland. We lived together for a while, but I became suspicious of his business and threw him out.”

“What type of business is he in?” Mary asked.

“Export-import is what he said.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Sarah hesitated. “John was always vague about what he was doing. I was concerned that he was involved with drugs or smuggling. He slipped once and told me his company was called TA Enterprises. I asked him what it meant and he joked that it was tits and ass, you know, porno, but I got the impression that he was sorry he’d let the name slip and this was his way of distracting me.

“Right around the time I learned the name of John’s company, he told me he was going to Asia and wasn’t sure when he’d be back. I did a background check on him and the company. It’s a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands. I’m not even certain that the board of directors, or any officer, is real. And I couldn’t find anything on John. I confronted him. I asked if he was a drug dealer or engaged in some other illegal activity. He was furious I’d run the background check. We had a screaming argument, and he left without answering any of my questions. Honestly, I never expected to see him again.”

“Did anyone hear your argument?”

“It was loud and the neighbors are close on either side. The woman next door reported it. Two officers showed up soon after he left.” Woodruff colored. “It was embarrassing.”

Mary was quiet for a moment. Then she frowned. “Is there something you’re not telling me? The evidence doesn’t sound nearly enough for a murder indictment.”

“Max Dietz is running the grand jury, and he has an ego the size of Mount Hood,” Woodruff said, making no attempt to hide her anger. “He’s come on to me a few times, and I turned him down.”

“Dietz can be an asshole, but I can’t believe he’d indict you for murder because you wouldn’t go out with him.”

“There is something else,” Sarah said, and over the next quarter hour she filled Garrett in on the
Elcock
case. “When Loraine Cargo and Elcock passed their polygraph tests, Jack ordered Max to dismiss the case. He’s never forgiven me for going over his head and embarrassing him in front of his boss.”

Mary made careful notes about
Elcock
. Then she continued the interview for another half hour. When she had enough background information, she placed her pen on top of her legal pad.

“I think that’s enough for now. I want you to stay at a hotel in case the grand jury hands down an indictment. If you’re home, they might arrest you. I’ll make the reservation in my secretary’s name. I’ll call Max and let him know I’m your attorney. I’ll try to talk him into letting you surrender so we can avoid an arrest if he gets an indictment. That will also give me time to set up a bail hearing and you time to put some bail money together. I’ll need a list of witnesses who can vouch for your character, so I can convince the judge to grant bail. As you know, it’s not automatic in a murder case.”

“Do you think you can keep me out of jail?”

“From what you’ve told me, the case sounds thin. No body, no eyewitness. I think we’ve got a shot.”