Supreme Justice (12 page)

Max Dietz was in his office reading the motions Mary Garrett had filed in
Woodruff
when his intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Dietz,” the receptionist said, “there’s a police officer who would like to talk to you.”

Dietz didn’t like to be interrupted when he was working, and he hadn’t scheduled any meetings with police officers.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Tom Oswald. He’s from the Shelby Police Department.

The word
Shelby
created a sense of unease in the deputy district attorney, but he didn’t know why.

“I don’t have any cases involving Shelby. What did he say this was about?”

“A fingerprint. He asked for Mr. Pike first, but Mr. Pike is in trial. When he told me his business concerned the
Woodruff
case, I told him you were lead counsel, and he asked to speak to you.”

Suddenly everything fell into place. That little cretin Pike had disobeyed his orders and had spoken to someone at Shelby PD about the fingerprint that had been raised in Sarah Woodruff’s apartment.

“Show Oswald back,” Dietz ordered. He’d find out what the policeman had to say. Then he’d take care of Pike.

A minute later, the receptionist stood back to let Tom Oswald into Max Dietz’s office. Oswald looked uneasy as he waited for the receptionist to close the door behind him.

“How can I help you?” Dietz asked as soon as the policeman was seated.

“It’s about the fingerprint.”

“Yes, the fingerprint,” Dietz answered noncommittally, hoping that his confident tone would convey an impression that he knew exactly what Oswald was talking about.

“I don’t feel completely comfortable being here, but I’ve been worrying that the print might be important.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“I was told flat-out by Homeland Security to back off, and my chief told me to turn over the case.”

Homeland Security! What the hell did they have to do with Sarah Woodruff?

“I see,” Dietz said out loud, “but you felt it was important to tell us about the fingerprint.”

“It’s a murder case, and the defendant is a cop. I wanted to make sure that the right person is being prosecuted.”

“Certainly. So, tell me about the print.”

Over the next twenty minutes, Oswald told Max Dietz about the dead men and the hashish on the
China Sea
and the cover-up that followed. Each new revelation tightened the knot in the DA’s stomach. Mary Garrett would have a field day if she learned that a fingerprint in Woodruff’s condo matched a fingerprint on a hatch covering a mountain of hashish that had been confiscated by a government intelligence agency.

“The chief told me to write a report about what happened,” Oswald said when he finished telling his tale to Dietz. He held out a rolled set of papers that had been stapled at one corner. “I brought a copy if you want it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dietz said as he took the report. “And you were certainly right to come to me. But I concur with Chief Miles. You should put this incident behind you. Let me deal with it from here on out. I’ve got plenty of contacts in the U.S. Attorney’s office and the FBI. If something odd is going on, I’ll get to the bottom of it. By the way, did you conduct any lab tests on this so-called hashish to verify your opinion?”

“No, the feds took all of it.”

“OK. Well, my advice to you is that you carry on with your duties in Shelby. Rest assured I’ll keep this between us. I have no intention of telling Chief Miles about our meeting. I don’t want to put your job in danger. And I certainly don’t want anyone at Homeland Security or the CIA investigating you.”

“Will you need me to testify?” Oswald asked.

“I’ll try to keep you out of this, but give me your number so I can get in touch with you if I conclude that your evidence is important.”

Oswald thanked Dietz. He looked relieved that the incident on the
China Sea
was now someone else’s problem.

Dietz was not aware that his door had closed behind Oswald. He was too busy fantasizing scenarios in which a fully conscious Monte Pike was dismembered by chain saws and his body parts scattered over the Willamette River from the back of Dietz’s boat. The fantasies were cathartic and helped him relax.

He had no intention whatsoever of following up on Oswald’s story. In
Brady v. Maryland
, the United States Supreme Court had made up a terrible rule that forced district attorneys to turn over to the defense any evidence that might possibly clear a defendant. Dietz hated the case, and he was a master at rationalizing the withholding of evidence that was arguably discoverable under
Brady
.

By the time Dietz left for the day, he had arrived at several conclusions. First,
he
hadn’t seen a fingerprint or its supposed match, and no one knew when these alleged prints had been left on the ship or in Woodruff’s condo. How did he know the prints even matched? Errors were made in the comparison of fingerprints all the time. Why, close to home there was the Brandon Mayfield case, in which an Oregon attorney had been accused of being part of a terrorist group that had blown up those trains in Madrid because the FBI mistakenly identified a print of a known terrorist as Mayfield’s.

And the hashish—was it really hashish? Oswald hadn’t tested it. Who knew what was in the hold of that ship?

No, Dietz didn’t see a
Brady
issue here, and he certainly wasn’t going to go out of his way to help the defense create an absurd alternative theory of the crime involving drug dealers and intelligence agents. Let Garrett do her job. He wasn’t paid to do the work of the defense.

That left Monte Pike. If Dietz called him on the carpet for disobeying orders, he would have to tell him about Oswald’s visit. The traitorous little prick might go behind his back and leak the information about the ship to Garrett. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, even if it deprived Dietz of the opportunity to ream out the little punk. The way Pike was acting, Dietz was certain other opportunities would present themselves.

Of all the cases Mary Garrett would handle, Sarah Woodruff’s had the strangest ending. When she entered the courthouse on the third day of trial, Mary was unsure how the case was going. She wasn’t crazy about the jury, and Judge Alan Nesbit was someone she rubbed the wrong way for reasons Mary could never determine.

The Multnomah County Courthouse was a blunt, functional concrete building that had been completed in 1914 and took up the entire block between Main and Salmon and Fourth and Fifth in downtown Portland. Most of the building’s center was hollow, creating four marble corridors. When Mary and Sarah got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, a herd of reporters surged toward them. Mary looked insubstantial but her personality was Shaq-size, and she bulled through the reporters like a middle linebacker, repeating “No comment” until the courtroom door closed behind them.

Max Dietz was in a hushed conversation with Claire Bonner at the prosecution’s counsel table. When they saw Mary and Sarah, they stopped talking. Mary opened the swinging gate in the low fence that separated the spectator section from the bar of the court and stood aside to let Sarah in. She had just arranged her papers and law books on the defense counsel table when the bailiff walked over.

“The judge wants the parties in chambers right away,” the bailiff said.

“What’s up?” Mary asked the DA.

Dietz shrugged. “You know as much as I do.”

Mary followed Dietz, Bonner, and Woodruff into chambers. The first thing she noticed was the television and DVD player standing next to the judge’s desk and the presence of a court reporter. The judge looked upset. As soon as everyone was seated, Nesbit sat up straight.

“I’ve just received some disturbing information that will require me to dismiss the government’s case.”

“What are you talking about?” Dietz blurted out. “Garrett hasn’t given me any—”

Nesbit held up his hand.

“Please, Max. This has nothing to do with Ms. Garrett. When I came to work today, I found a DVD on my desk. I have no idea how it got there, but you need to see it.”

Nesbit swiveled his chair and hit
PLAY
. Sarah’s hand flew to her chest and she gasped. John Finley was staring at her, holding a copy of that day’s
New York Times
.

“My name is John Finley, and I’m sorry for the confusion my disappearance has caused. Sarah, if you’re in the room when they play this, I can’t tell you how awful I feel about everything that’s happened to you. Unfortunately, I could not reveal the fact that I am alive and well until today. I hope this proof that I am alive will end your ordeal.”

The DVD ended. Mary looked at Sarah. All the color had drained from her face. Judge Nesbit addressed the DA.

“You introduced a photograph of Finley that was seized from Miss Woodruff’s condo,” the judge said. “The man on the DVD looks exactly like him.”

“This is ridiculous,” Dietz said as he envisioned the disappearance of his career and his public humiliation.

“Please, Max. I know how unsettling this is, but you can see that I have no choice here. The man is alive. He was never murdered.”

Dietz couldn’t think of anything to say. Mary had plenty of questions, but she wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize the dismissal of the charges against her client. She turned toward Sarah and saw that anger was replacing shock. She started to say something, but Mary gripped her wrist and shook her head.

“Shall I prepare a motion to dismiss with prejudice?” Mary asked.

“No, I’d think that would be the district attorney’s job, given the circumstances,” the judge said.

Dietz stood. “I’ll have it here before lunch,” he said, not even trying to hide his anger.

Mary couldn’t blame Dietz for being upset. Everyone in the room was reeling.

“I’ll dismiss the jury,” Judge Nesbit said. “There’s no need for you to wait.”

Dietz stormed out with Claire Bonner in tow. Mary went into the courtroom and gathered up her books and papers from counsel table before leading Sarah out of court.

“That son of a bitch,” Woodruff said as soon as they’d fought their way through the reporters and were out of earshot of anyone. “I’m sorry I didn’t kill him.”

“Calm down,” Mary said. “The important thing is that you’re free and you’re not facing a death sentence.”

Woodruff stopped dead and glared at her attorney. “No, Mary, the important thing is that I’m broke from financing the defense of a case that should never have been filed, and my career and reputation have been ruined.”

“Under the circumstances, I’ll be refunding the greater part of your retainer, and the bureau should lift your suspension immediately.”

“I appreciate your generosity, but any hope I ever had of making detective is gone. The bureau will stick me in a desk job. After all this publicity, I’ll be a liability on the street.”

“The furor will die down. People forget.”

“But the bureaucracy doesn’t. Take my word for it: My days as a cop are over.”

It took most of the day to organize the files in the
Woodruff
case because everyone in the office wanted to know what had happened in court and everyone had a theory about John Finley’s disappearance. Around four, Mary wandered down to the lunchroom and poured a cup of coffee. Back in her office, she told the receptionist to hold her calls and closed her door.

It was nice to have peace and quiet. Mary closed her eyes. She felt good about the outcome of the case, even if she had no idea what was really going on. The big thing was that death row was no longer a possibility for Sarah Woodruff. Or so she thought.

June 2007

The nature trails of Tryon Creek State Park run through a lush ravine inside the city limits of Portland. Homicide Detective Arnold Lasswell could appreciate the natural beauty of the place even with a team of forensic experts rooting around in the shrubbery and a dead man sprawled facedown on one of the trails.

“Hey, Arnie,” Dick Frazier said when he spotted Lasswell.

“What have we got?” the detective asked the forensic expert.

“Male, Caucasian, I’m guessing in his mid- to late thirties. Shot in the head and chest, but killed somewhere else and transported here. We’ve got almost no blood around or under the vic.”

“How long has he been out here?” the detective asked.

“I’m guessing a day or so. The ME will be able to give you a more accurate read.”

Frazier pointed at a blood/stained duffel bag that lay a few feet from the corpse. “We haven’t opened it yet, but there’s one thing I picked up on.”

Frazier led the detective over to the duffel. “See the bloodstains?”

Lasswell nodded.

“Notice anything about them?”

Lasswell studied the stains and was about to shake his head when he brightened.

“Some look darker than others.”

Frazier clapped the detective on the back with a hand sheathed in latex.

“Bravo. We’ll make a forensic expert out of you yet. There’s no chemical test that can determine the relative age of blood, but fresh blood is redder in color than older blood. Then you get brown and finally old dried-up blood that’s black. Now this isn’t super scientific, but just eyeballing the stains, I’d guess that some of them were put on the duffel bag at different times.”

Frazier signaled to a man with a video camera and the uniformed officer who had been assigned to collect evidence. When they were next to him, the lab tech squatted, unzipped the duffel bag, and pulled out some pants, underwear, socks, and shirts. The uniform put them in a large black plastic garbage bag.

“This is more interesting,” Frazier said as he held up a handgun. He checked it to see if it was loaded before handing it to the uniform. Then he dipped his hand back into the duffel bag.

“What have we got here?” he asked as he pulled out four passports and laid them on a section of the duffel that was not stained with blood. He picked up the top one and opened it. Lasswell bent down and looked over Frazier’s shoulder. The passport was in the name of John Finley. Lasswell stared at the picture and frowned.

Frazier thumbed through the passport, taking in the stamps from various nations in Europe, sub-Saharan Africa, the Middle East, and Asia.

“This guy was well traveled,” Frazier said as he handed the passport to the uniform, who put it in a plastic bag.

“Whoa,” Frazier said when he opened the next passport. It was identical to the first one except it was in the name of Orrin Hadley. The third and fourth passports were for Dennis Lang and Larry Kester but also had the same photograph.

“We’ve either got a spy or a drug dealer, but he’s definitely not your average citizen,” Frazier said as Lasswell wandered over to the corpse.

“Is there anything else?” the detective asked as he did a deep knee bend to get a better look at the dead man’s face.

Frazier ran his hand over the interior of the bag and came out with several pieces of ID in different names but with the dead man’s picture.

“Only this,” he said, turning to talk to Lasswell, who had pulled out his cell phone. The forensic expert did not catch the name of the person on the other end but he distinctly heard Lasswell say, “You remember that DVD of John Finley from Sarah Woodruff’s case? Yeah, it was about six months ago. Woodruff was indicted for murder, but the guy turned out to be alive. That’s the one. I want the DVD on my desk ASAP.”