After Dark (2 page)

"He never mentioned that. He was too busy beating and raping me to mention business," Harwood answered bitterly.

"Roy will also testify that Vince went to the bank at four to take the money out of a safety-deposit box."

"That could be, too. I just never seen it."

"That's fair. But if you took it, we'd understand. You're terrified.

He's dead. You know you might have to run, so you take the money with you."

"Man, I wasn't thinking about money. I just wanted out of there. If I wanted money, I'd've stayed. Vince was always generous with money. It just wasn't worth it to me."

"He really scared you?"

"You bet he did."

"In fact, as I recall your testimony, Mr. Phillips abducted you, dragged you inside his house, stripped you right away and forced you to perform oral sex."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then he raped and beat you repeatedly and fell asleep?"

Harwood nodded.

"This was one right after the other? He was either beating you or raping you?"

Harwood's eyes were on the rail in front of her. Her nod was barely perceptible.

In her trial practice classes in law school, Tracy had been taught that you never gave an opposing witness a chance to repeat her testimony during cross-examination because it reinforced the story in the jurors' minds. Tracy could not understand why Griffen had just repeated Harwood's pathetic tale three times. She glanced over at Reynolds to catch his reaction. The defense attorney was leaning forward and his eyes were riveted on Griffen.

"There wasn't a moment when you weren't scared silly from the time he abducted you until you escaped, was there?" Griffen asked, giving Harwood yet another chance to tell her story.

"That's true."

"Either he was raping you or beating you or sleeping. How long do you figure this went on?"

"I don't know. I wasn't watching a clock."

"Well, there was a clock on the VCR on the big TV."

"Yeah, but I didn't look at it."

"That's a cable hookup Vince had, wasn't it?"

"I guess."

"HBO, Pay-per-View, Showtime?"

Harwood looked uncomfortable. Tracy caught Reynolds out of the corner of her eye. He was frowning.

"You've watched that big TV with Vince, haven't you?" Griffen asked.

"I told you he was beating me up."

"I'm sorry. I meant on other occasions."

"Yeah. He had all those movie channels."

"What's your favorite movie, Miss Harwood?"

"Your Honor," Knapp said, playing to the jury, "I fail to see the relevance of this question."

"Miss Harwood does," Griffen answered.

Tracy studied the witness. Harwood looked upset. When Tracy looked over at Reynolds, he was smiling, as if he had just figured out an in joke that only he and Griffen understood.

"This is cross-examination, Mr. Knapp," Judge Dial said. "I'm going to give Ms. Griffen some latitude."

"Can you please answer the question?" Griffen asked the witness. "What is your favorite movie?"

"I . . . I don't know."

The prosecutor took a letter-size sheet of paper out of a file.

"How about Honeymoon Beach? Have you seen that one?"

"Yeah," Harwood answered cautiously.

"Tell the jury what it's about."

"Your Honor, this has gone too far," Knapp shouted as his client shifted nervously in the witness box. "This is not the Siskel and Ebert show."

"I promise I will show relevance," Griffen told the judge, her eyes never leaving Marie Harwood.

"Overruled. You may continue, Ms. Griffen."

"Is Honeymoon Beach a comedy?" Griffen asked.

"Yeah."

"About two honeymoon couples who swap mates at a resort?"

"Yeah."

"Where did you see it, Miss Harwood?"

"In the movies.

Griffen walked over to Harwood. "Then you saw it twice," she said, handing the paper she was holding to the witness.

"What's this?" Harwood asked.

"It's a billing record of all the movies ordered on Pay-per-View from Vince Phillips's phone. Honeymoon Beach showed from five-thirty to seven on the day you killed him. Someone ordered it at four-fifty using Mr. Phillips's phone. Did you watch the movie before or after you slit his throat?"

"I didn't watch any movie," Harwood insisted.

Reynolds stood up quietly and slipped out of the courtroom just as Griffen said, "Someone watched Honeymoon Beach, Ms. Harwood. According to your testimony, only you and Vince were in the house and the only Pay-per-View converter is in the bedroom. Did Vince order the movie while he was raping you or while he was beating you?"

"Never," Harwood shouted. "I told you we didn't watch that movie."

"Or was it you who watched it while John John was torturing Mr. Phillips to find out where he hid the money?" Harwood glared at Griffen.

"Did you arrange to meet Vince after John John found out about the money? Did you get him in bed and slash his throat while he was watching Honeymoon Beach?"

"That's a lie!" Harwood shouted, her face scarlet with rage. "I never watched no movie."

"Someone did, Marie, and someone ordered it by phone. Who do you think that was?"

The day after Marie Harwood's conviction, Abbie Griffen Was looking through a stack of police reports when Multnomah County district attorney Jack Stamm stepped into her office. The weather had unexpectedly turned from mild to torrid in twenty-four hours and the courthouse air conditioner was on the fritz.

Stamm had taken off the jacket of his tan tropical-weight suit, pulled down his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but he still looked damp and uncomfortable.

The district attorney was five feet eleven, rail thin and a bachelor, whose only passions were the law and distance running.

Stamm's wavy brown hair was starting to thin on the top, but his kind blue eyes and ready smile made him look younger than thirty-eight. '

"Congratulations on nailing Harwood," Stamm said. "That was good work."

"Why, thank you," Abbie answered with a big smile.

"I hear Knapp is making noises about reporting you to the Bar."

"Oh?"

"He says you didn't tell him about the Pay-per-View bill before trial."

Abbie grinned at her boss. "I sent that arrogant creep a copy of the bill in discovery. He was just too stupid to understand its significance, assuming he even read it. I don't know what I enjoyed more, convicting Knapp's client or humiliating him in public."

"Well, you did both and you deserve to enjoy your triumph.

That's why I'm sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings."

"What's up?"

"I just got this."

Stamm handed Abbie the Oregon Supreme Court's slip-sheet opinion in State of Oregon v. Charles Darren Deems. Almost two years ago, Abbie had convicted Deems, an especially violent psychopath, for the pipe-bomb murder of a witness and his nine year-old daughter. The Supreme Court had taken the case on automatic review because Deems had been sentenced to death.

The slip sheet was the copy of the opinion that was sent to the attorneys in the case as soon as the Supreme Court issued its ruling.

Later, the opinion would be published in the bound volumes of the official reporter that were sent to law libraries.

Abbie looked down the cover sheet past the caption of the case and the names of the attorneys until she found the line she was looking for. "Oh no!"

"It's worse than that," Stamm said. "They threw out his statements to Rice."

"That was my whole case," Abbie said incredulously. "I won't be able to retry him."

"You got it," Stamm agreed grimly.

"Which judge wrote this piece of shit?" Abbie asked, her rage barely contained as she scanned the cover sheet to find the name of the justice who had authored the opinion. Stamm could not meet her eye.

"That son of a bitch," she said, so softly that Stamm barely heard her.

Abbie crumpled the opinion in her fist. "I can't believe he would stoop this low. He did this to make me look bad."

"I don't know, Abbie," Stamm said halfheartedly. "He had to convince three other judges to go along with him."

Abbie stared at Stamm. Her rage, disappointment and frustration were so intense, he looked away. She dropped the opinion on the floor and walked out of her office. Stamm bent down to retrieve the document.

When he smoothed it out, the name of the opinion's author could be seen clearly. It was the Honorable Robert Hunter Griffen, justice of the Oregon Supreme Court and Abbie's estranged husband.

Chapter TWO

Bob Packard, attorney-at-law, was a large man going to seed. His belt cut into his waist, because he stubbornly insisted on keeping it a notch too tight. There were fat rolls on his neck and a puffiness in his cheeks. At the moment, Packard was not feeling well.

His trust and general account ledgers were open on his desk. He had checked them twice and the totals had not changed. Packard unconsciously ran a hand across his dry lips. He was certain there was more money in both accounts. His billings were up, clients were paying.

Where had the money gone? His office overhead had not changed and his household expenses had not increased.

Of course, there was the money he was spending for cocaine.

That seemed to be increasing recently.

Packard took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He rotated his neck and shrugged his shoulders to work out the tension. If the white lady was the problem, he would just have to stop. It was that simple.

Cocaine was not a necessity. He could take it or leave it and he would just have to leave it. Once his current supply ran out, there would be no more.

Packard felt better now that his problem was solved. He put away the ledgers and picked up a case he needed to read in order to prepare a pretrial motion that was due in two days. It was imperative that he win the motion. If his client went to trial he was doomed. This motion had to be an A number one, slam-bang winner.

Packard started to read the case, but it was hard to concentrate. He was still thinking about his money problems and still worried about that other problem. His supplier. The one who had been arrested two days ago, just before Packard was going to pick up a little something to augment his dwindling supply.

Of course, he was going to stop, so there was no problem. But what if, just for the sake of argument, he needed some coke and couldn't get any.

It made him jittery just thinking about it and he needed to keep calm and focused so he could write the motion.

Packard thought about the zip-lock bag in his bottom drawer.

If he took a hit, he could whiz through the research on the motion and get it written. And there would be that much less cocaine to worry about. After all, he was quitting, and getting rid of his stash was an important first step.

Packard was working on his final rationalization for doing a line when his receptionist buzzed him on the intercom. "Mr. Packard, a Mr. Deems is here to see you."

Packard suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the men's room.

"Mr. Packard?" the receptionist repeated.

"Uh, yes, Shannon. I'll be right there."

Bob Packard had never felt comfortable in Charlie Deems's presence, even when the two men were separated by the bulletproof glass through which they had been forced to communicate while the former drug dealer was on death row. The facts underlying Deems's conviction were enough to unsettle anyone. A man named Harold Shoe was trying to cut into Deems's territory. Two boys found Shoe's mutilated body in a Dumpster.

According to the medical examiner, Shoe had died slowly over a long period of time. Packard had looked at the autopsy photos when he was reviewing the trial evidence and had not been able to eat for the rest of the day.

Larry Hollins, twenty-eight, married, a union man who worked the swing shift, just happened to be driving by the Dumpster when Deems was depositing his bloody package. Hollins thought he'd seen a body, then convinced himself he was imagining things, until he read about the discovery of Shoe's corpse.

Hollins could not make a positive ID from Deems's mug shot, but he was pretty sure he could identify the man he saw if he was in a lineup.

Someone leaked Hollins's identity to the press and Deems disappeared for a few days. On one of those days, Hollins decided to drive his nine-year-old daughter to school so he could talk to her teacher. A pipe bomb attached to the underside of the car killed both of them.

Packard looked longingly toward the bottom drawer, but decided it was better to face Deems with all his wits about him.

Besides, Charlie would be in a good mood. Packard had just won his appeal for him. He was probably in the office to show his appreciation.

When Packard walked into the reception area, Deems was reading a copy of Newsweek.

"Charlie!" Packard said heartily, extending a hand. "It's great to see you."

Charlie Deems looked up from the magazine. He was a man of average height, but thick through the chest and shoulders. A handsome man with dark, curly hair who reminded Packard a little of Warren Beatty. Deems's most engaging feature was his toothy grin, which was a bit goofy and put you at ease. Unless, that is, you had read the psychological profile in Deems's presentence report.

"You're looking good, Bob," Deems said enthusiastically when they were seated in Packard's office.

"Thanks, Charlie. You're looking pretty good yourself."

"I should. There's plenty of time to work out in the joint. You can't imagine how many sit-ups and push-ups you can do when you're locked down for twenty-three hours a day."

Deems was wearing a short-sleeve maroon shirt. He flexed his left biceps and winked.

"Looking' good," Packard agreed. "So, what's up?"

"Nothing much. I just wanted to drop by to thank you for winning my case."

Packard shrugged modestly. "That's what you paid me for."

"Well, you did great. I bet that cunt Griffen is pissed," Deems said with a laugh. "You seen her since the decision came down?"

"Once, over at the courthouse, but I didn't bring up the case.

No sense gloating."