The Undertaker's Widow (6 page)

Quinn paused. This was as hard as he thought it would be.

“Judge, I know how much you have suffered and will suffer every day of your life. You are a decent man who knows that you have committed a great wrong. When you sold your judicial decision for money, you did far more than simply rob a litigant of a fair hearing. You committed an act that called into question the integrity of the American system of justice. You committed an act that undermined the confidence of our citizens in the judiciary. In effect, you betrayed the people of this state. I know that you understand what you did and I can see how much you are suffering. I want to give you probation, but I would be committing a great wrong myself if I did not sentence you to prison.”

Martha Gideon moaned. The defendant was sobbing quietly. His attorney looked as if it were he who would soon be behind bars.

“If you are the person I believe you are, you will know that I am doing the right thing today by sentencing you to the Oregon State Penitentiary for two years. If you
are not able to appreciate your sentence, then I have probably been far too lenient.”

Presiding Circuit Court Judge Stanley Sax found Quinn in his chambers shortly after noon. Quinn's secretary was at lunch and his clerk was also gone. An uneaten ham and cheese sandwich and a sealed bag of potato chips lay on Quinn's desk next to an unopened can of Coke in a small space that had been created by pushing aside some of the paperwork in Judge Gideon's case. Quinn was seated in shirtsleeves in front of his untasted food.

Sax sat in a chair across from Quinn without being asked. He was a small, solemn-looking man with a paunch. Except for a fringe of curly black hair that was going gray and a few odd strands on the top of his head, Sax was bald.

“You going to eat those?” Sax asked, pointing at the bag of potato chips. Quinn shook his head and Sax leaned across the desk and grabbed the bag.

“You look down in the dumps,” Sax said as he wrestled the bag open.

“It wasn't easy sentencing a fellow judge to prison.”

“That's why they pay us the big bucks.”

Sax popped a few chips in his mouth. He chewed for a moment. Then he said, “There's something I want you to think about.”

Quinn waited while Sax popped some more potato chips into his mouth.

“You gonna drink all of your Coke?” he asked.

Quinn opened the tab. As he handed the can to Sax, he asked, “Do you want my sandwich, too?”

“Thanks, but I ate already.” Sax took a swig from
the can. “Katherine Rowe is moving over to domestic relations from the homicide rotation. Craig Kittles was supposed to take her place, but it looks like he'll be getting the U.S. magistrate appointment. That leaves me a judge short.”

It took Quinn a moment to catch on. In order to develop expertise, the judges in Multnomah County were assigned to rotations where they heard particular types of cases for set periods of time. Judge Rowe was transferring to the panel that dealt only with divorces, adoptions and other family matters. Some judges heard civil or criminal cases exclusively for a year or two. There were three judges who handled only homicide cases. The rotation was for one or two years, based on the judge's preference. Homicide was the most prestigious and demanding rotation and was usually reserved for judges with years of experience.

“You want me to go into the homicide rotation?” Quinn asked incredulously.

“You catch on fast. That's what I like about you. You're also not afraid to do what's right. You need brass balls to handle a death case. Not everyone can drop the hammer. You showed me a lot today.”

“I'm flattered, but I've only been sitting as a judge for three years.”

“Don't go modest on me, Dick. I've heard Frank Price say that you were giving out legal opinions on your daddy's lap when you were three, and you don't make partner at Price, Winward without getting a little bit of experience along the way. You're smarter than any other judge in this county with the exception of yours truly. Plus, and this is a big plus for someone who's going to deal in matters of life and death, you wanted to be a judge for all the right reasons. You didn't take this job because your practice wasn't going well or for the prestige
or the power. I've been watching you. You're Pat Quinn's son, all right.”

Sax paused. He ate another chip. While he chewed he looked Quinn in the eye.

“You want it, it's yours.”

“How soon do you need to know?”

“Take a day or two to think about it.” Sax stood up. “Don't let me down. And stop feeling guilty. If it's any comfort to you, I would have given Gideon the whole five years. So would your dad.”

Francis Xavier Price, the Price in Price, Winward, Lexington, Rice and Quinn, had been a major force in Oregon legal and political circles for almost fifty years. He and Alan Winward had founded the firm in 1945, as soon as they were discharged from the army after serving with distinction in World War II. Both men jumped into the political arena at the same time they were forging their legal careers. Alan Winward became a state representative, a state senator and governor, while Frank Price maneuvered behind the scenes. By the mid-fifties, Roger Lexington, Bill Rice and Patrick Quinn were name partners. By the sixties, the firm had over one hundred attorneys and its political connections and its list of lucrative clients made Price, Winward the most powerful law firm in Oregon.

The relationship between Frank Price and Patrick Quinn had always been special. When politics began taking more and more of Alan Winward's time, the firm hired the slender, nervous young man as its first associate. Within three years, Price and Winward made Quinn a partner, partly to recognize his magnificent record of success and partly out of fear that he would leave
and set up his own practice. Neither partner wanted to face his protégé in court.

When Quinn tired of the grind of a high-level law practice, Frank Price used his political connections to secure an appointment to the Oregon Supreme Court for the man who had become like a son to the Prices, who had no children of their own. When Richard's parents were killed three years into the justice's first term on the court, Frank and Anna Price had not hesitated to take in Richard and raise him.

Frank Price was a gaunt and wiry bantamweight who still went to work every day at the age of eighty. For most of his adult life, Price had lived in a large house in Dunthorpe, but he had moved to a condominium in downtown Portland soon after his wife died. Quinn visited his surrogate father after work whenever he could. He knew how much in love Frank had been with his wife and how lonely he was since Anna's death. Quinn hoped that his visits helped Frank get through his dark period.

By the time Quinn left the courthouse shortly after six, the rain had let up. When Price opened the door for Quinn, the judge could see the lights of cars streaming over the bridges that spanned the Willamette River through the wide and high windows that made up the outer wall of the apartment.

“Come on in,” Price said with a smile. “Can I get you something to eat? Some coffee?”

“Just coffee. I'm meeting Laura for Thai food in half an hour.”

Price walked into the kitchen. He was a little stiff. Arthritis. His complexion was pale, too, but he still swam fifteen hundred meters every weekday. Price had never surrendered in court and he was not giving in to old age.

“I heard about Gideon,” Price called in from the kitchen.

“It was a tough call,” Quinn said.

“A good result, though. I've never been able to stomach lawyers and judges who break the law. They always have an excuse.”

Quinn shrugged. He still felt lousy about what he had done, even though he felt that his sentence could not be avoided.

Price returned to the living room, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. Quinn was sitting on the couch in front of a low table. Price set one mug in front of him and took a seat in an antique wooden rocker.

“I bet you feel like shit.”

Quinn smiled wearily. Frank had always been able to read his mind.

“It'll pass. Come this time next week, you'll be feeling a whole lot better. Know why? By next week, you'll have figured out that you did the right thing.”

“I don't know—” Quinn started, but Price cut him off impatiently.

“Of course, you know. Gideon is a crook and a disgrace to the bench. He knew what he was doing when he took that money and he deserves every day of the sentence you imposed on him.

“Besides, if it's any comfort, you can count on the Parole Board cutting him loose inside of six months.”

Quinn looked up.

“You don't think a man with that many friends is going to do hard time, do you?” Quinn didn't answer.

“You're thinking of Gideon's wife and kids, right? Gideon didn't think about what would happen to them if he got caught. Why should you? He's an adult, Dick. He was a judge. The son of a bitch knew right from wrong and he chose to do wrong. Don't forget that. This was the sentence he knew he could get, but he probably convinced himself that he would skate if he was caught because he was a judge with friends in high places.
Maybe the next judge who is tempted to cross the line will think twice because you hammered Gideon. Have you considered that?”

“No.”

“Well, stop feeling sorry for yourself and think about it.”

“I will.”

Quinn took a sip of coffee. Then he said, “Stan Sax came to my chambers today. He wants me to go on the homicide rotation. What do you think?”

“It sounds interesting.”

“I'm not that experienced in criminal law.”

“You're a quick study, Dick. Stan wouldn't have asked if he didn't think you could handle the job.”

“Yeah.” Quinn smiled. “I've already made up my mind to do it.”

“Good. Say hello to Stan for me, the next time you see him.”

“I will. Say, did I tell you that I've been asked to speak at the National Association of Litigators' annual convention on St. Jerome next month?”

“No.”

“Laura's coming with me. We'll go a few days early. It will be good for her to get away and just relax.”

“St. Jerome should be beautiful this time of year. I'm jealous.”

Quinn grinned. “I'll be thinking of you as I lie on the beach. The paper said it was eighty-four and sunny today.”

Price laughed. “Go ahead, rub it in, you ingrate. I hope you get hit by a hurricane.”

Shortly after noon, one week after the Hoyt homicide, Lou Anthony returned to the Homicide Bureau and found two messages from Gary Yoshida, the lead forensic expert on the case. Anthony found the criminalist bent over a microscope in the crime lab.

“Lou,” Yoshida said with a smile. He swiveled the stool on which he was perched. Anthony leaned against the counter. Around them, other forensic experts were testing drugs, examining objects under microscopes and recording observations on reports that were often the difference between a guilty and not guilty verdict.

“You called twice,” Anthony said, and Yoshida's smile faded.

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

Anthony shrugged. “What's up?”

“Has the Hoyt crime scene been turned back to Senator Crease?”

“Yeah. We released it two days ago.”

“Damn.”

“What's the matter?”

“I'd really like to look it over again.”

“Why?”

Yoshida walked over to his desk and picked up a stack of photographs that had been taken in Lamar Hoyt's bedroom. When he found the two that he wanted, Yoshida brought them over to Anthony.

“I was going through the evidence again when I was writing my report and I spotted this,” Yoshida said, pointing to a section of each photo that showed the armoire that held the television.

“Is that blood spatter?”

“Yeah. And it's got me concerned. I don't like to screw up, but I may have, big-time.”

“I don't get it.”

Yoshida explained the problem to Anthony. When he was finished, the detective looked upset.

“How certain about this are you?”

“I've got to see the scene in three dimensions to be sure. That's why I want to look at the bedroom again.”

“Shit.” Anthony took a deep breath. “Okay. Look, two days isn't that long, and I don't imagine Crease is staying in the bedroom. Maybe the scene hasn't been altered yet. We could take a drive out to the estate. Can you go now?”

“You bet.”

“Then let's head out.”

“Great.”

“Not if you find what you're looking for,” Anthony answered grimly.

Days of biting cold followed the heavy rains that had disrupted the commerce of the city. Low gray clouds drifted in an iron sky and threatened more rain. The winding country roads that led to the Hoyt estate were clear of debris, but the landscape looked bedraggled and grimy.