Missing Justice (23 page)

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so close.”

“We’re not,” she said with a laugh. “But that’s what Susan’s like an open book. Hell, she seemed proud of it, and why shouldn’t she be? She was sticking up for her husband. The sad part is, I heard later that the husband got wind of what she’d done and had the nerve to take her to task for it. Rumor is, Susan got so pissed at the ungrateful fuck she flung his humidor of Cubans into the fireplace.”

“I guess I’ll try not to make her mad,” I said. “She’s worried that the trial’s going to turn into an attack on Clarissa’s character.”

“And, of course, there’s no chance of that, right?” Grace asked facetiously.

“Let’s just say between Susan Kerr and you the other day at Greek Cusina, I’ve gotten the message.”

She touched my forearm and smiled. “I’m just giving you a hard time, sweetie. I know you do what you can. What else has been going on? Oh my God, I almost forgot to ask any run-ins with Shoe Boy?”

I gave her a blow-by-blow of Roger’s visit to the office.

“You had quite the busy day today, didn’t you? Have another martini.”

A second wouldn’t kill me. “He’s screwing up my judgment. I feel total confidence in my case against Jackson. Then he pisses me off, and I find myself wanting to complicate things, just so we’re not on the same side.”

“Sorry, hon, but it doesn’t sound like there’s much to complicate. I believe this one’s what your buddies call a slam dunk.”

I told her what Mrs. Jackson said about her son’s sudden employment at a well-funded suburban construction site.

Grace shook her head. “That’s probably not unusual. Development out there has gotten so out of control it’s attracting some pretty low-rent people. I wouldn’t be surprised if some little outfit got in over its head and tried to trim the budget by hiring the cheapest labor it could find.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what complicates things. One of Griffith’s political cronies has been subpoenaed by the defense and is going to raise a stink tomorrow.”

“Holy shit, Samantha. If this case gets any hotter, you’re going to wind up on Court TV.”

“No, Grace, you can’t give me a new haircut.” She was disappointed that I’d seen right through her. It takes more than a martini or two before I let her get too creative.

“So who’s the crony?”

“I really can’t say, Grace.”

“Oh, yes, you will. You can’t tell me a little, then not disclose. Against the rules.”

It was pretty sensitive information, but, hell, this was Grace. We told each other everything. I even told her about my most embarrassing trial story, the time I reached into my suit jacket for my Sharpie pen and pulled out a Tampax instead. She never told a soul.

I leaned in so close to her ear that I almost fell off my bar stool. She was shocked.

“Oh… my… God. And he’s supposed to be such a do-gooder.”

“Maybe they’re all pigs.”

“Don’t be bitter,” she said, throwing her maraschino cherry stem at me. Chewing on another french fry, she said, “Now if you’re looking for coincidences, he’d be what you’re looking for.”

“Maybe I should have passed up that second drink, because I’m not following.”

“You know. The thing with the Metro Council.”

I didn’t know.

“A second ago, you said it was a coincidence that a fringy guy like Jackson was working on the Glenville site. But the real coincidence is that your defendant dumped the victim on a property that’s smack dab in the middle of a Metro controversy.”

“What’s that office park got to do with Metro?”

“I told you all about this at Greek Cusina. Remember? The second Lockworks I was going to open? Not to be rude, Sam, but sometimes I could swear that you can’t chew and listen at the same time. And given the way we eat, that could be a major problem.”

“Hey! I was listening. You weren’t sure if the growth was going to continue, but prices were already high, so you backed off.”

“Right,” she said, “and the reason prices are so high is that everyone thinks Metro’s going to expand the urban growth boundary right in that area. Hell, if Metro doesn’t expand the boundary, I wouldn’t be surprised if prices actually fell out there.”

“You didn’t say anything about Metro before. They’re not really going to change the urban growth boundary, are they?” I asked.

“Do you pay any attention whatsoever to the local news?” she asked. I’d gotten spoiled during the few years that my local paper was The New York Times, so I haven’t given it up. In theory, I’m extremely well informed because I subscribe to it as well as the Oregonian. Grace, however, knew my habit of getting absorbed in the Times crossword puzzle before ever hitting the local paper’s metro page.

“Of course I do,” I said. “I know I was featured prominently in several stories about a month ago. And Monday I watched Gloria Flick’s report on the Easterbrook case, not to mention Shoe Boy’s press conference.”

“Man, Gloria Flicks annoying.”

“Damn straight. It’s the price I pay for being so impressively well informed.”

“So you must know that Metro is talking about expanding the urban growth boundary.”

Anywhere else in the country, that statement would sound a little like You must know that Spock’s Starfleet service number was S179-276. But to people who live in my city, the urban growth boundary is the secret ingredient in Portland’s warm gooey cinnamon bun. The city’s strong neighborhood feel is what makes this place special, and those neighborhoods would be gone by now if not for Metro.

I had read about proposals to expand the boundary by more than two thousand acres but assumed it would never happen. Grace informed me otherwise.

“The assumption is that it will happen. The population has exploded. It will be a close vote, but everyone thinks the time is ripe for expansion, and the place where it’s most likely to happen is in Glenville. The land outside the boundary there is nothing special, so the theory is that Metro can hand it over to developers without pissing off the greens too much. Unfortunately, the rest of the market shares that same theory. For the last couple of years, buyers have been gobbling up land in the area on the gamble that the growth’s going to spread. And from what you told me about your office park, it’s right at the line. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same owner bought the adjacent rural land.”

“So if the line moves,” I said, “the owner cleans up. And T. J. Caffrey’s one of eleven votes.”

“Not only that, he’s one of the swing votes. He’s good on the environment, but he’s pro-business. In exchange for his vote, he can probably set the terms about where the line gets moved.”

That was definitely a coincidence. I was suddenly looking forward to my morning meeting pardon me, my “courtesy sit-down.”

I called it a relatively early night so I could get some work done at home and rescue Vinnie from boredom.

The only message on the machine was from Chuck. “If it’s not too late when you get back, give me a call if you want me to come over. Otherwise, have a good night, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Apparently, Grace wasn’t the only one resenting the time I’d been devoting to Chuck. Vinnie seemed pleased when I stayed put and continued scratching him ferociously behind his goofy bat ears. When he finally started in with his familiar snorting sounds, I knew I was back in his good graces. I’d been so neglectful lately that I let him stay on my lap with his Gumby while I prepped the Jackson prelim. If only my father were so easy to assuage.

Maybe it was the second martini, but my thoughts kept wandering to one of the seemingly inconsequential questions I would ask Ray Johnson as background. “Where was Clarissa Easterbrook’s body located?”

I fished my office phone directory out of my briefcase and left a message for Jenna Markson, a paralegal in the child support enforcement unit who was known for her dedication and investigative skills. Maybe she could satisfy my curiosity.

Seven thirty a.m. was the time Duncan had promised, so there I stood on Friday morning in the office’s front lobby, waiting for T. J. Caffrey and his lawyer. They finally arrived twenty minutes late, wholly unapologetic for the delay.

I recognized Caffrey from the local paper, but I’d never seen him in person. Probably around fifty, he was known for his casual garb, but today he’d chosen a suit and tie that looked good with his salt-and-pepper hair. He was a bit of a chubster, but I could see the attraction.

The man running the show, though, was Ronald Fish. A high-priced, high-power trial attorney, Fish was the guy CEOs called in a pinch, whether it was for corporate mismanagement or a sixteen-year-old girl in the backseat. He didn’t even bother introducing himself. He was big enough in the civil litigation world that he assumed every lawyer in the city already knew who he was and maybe he was right.

I checked my posture while I led them into the conference room. In my sling backs, I edged out the notoriously napoleonic power broker by a full inch. He straightened his trademark bow tie. I chose to interpret the nervous gesture as a very small leveling of the playing field.

Make that a very, very small leveling. Fish was ready to go the second I shut the door.

“I won’t take up your time, Ms. Kincaid, because I know you’ve got a court appearance to prepare for. I was hoping I could convince you to support Mr. Caffrey’s motion to quash the subpoena. Duncan sounded amenable to it when I spoke with him yesterday.”

I noticed that the spineless Mr. Caffrey had no problem letting his attorney handle the talking.

“I believe what Duncan was amenable to was a meeting this morning at seven thirty,” I said, glancing at my watch, “as a courtesy to your client. As you know, the decision whether to grant your motion is entirely in the trial court’s discretion.”

I had spent the early morning researching the issue. There was no clear correct legal answer to Caffrey’s motion. Most important from my perspective, there was no risk the court’s ruling on the motion could lead to a reversal of Jackson’s conviction down the road.

“It seems patently obvious to me, Ms. Kincaid, that it would be in the government’s interest to prevent this Mr. Sillipcow “

“Szlipkowski,” I corrected.

“Yes, this public defender, from deflecting the court’s attention from the very strong evidence against the defendant.”

“That’s one way to look at it, but I plan on staying out of it.”

“I’m not certain how else one could possibly look at it.”

“Well,” I began, “one might look at the defense’s subpoena as an opportunity to make certain the state’s not missing something we should know about prior to trial. If, for example, your client was having an affair with the victim and I’m not saying that he was then one might believe it better to get that news out in court during the prelim, rather than having a desperate defense attorney leak it to the media in the middle of trial.”

I watched Caffrey glance at his attorney. Clearly he could tell this sit-down was going nowhere.

“Or perhaps,” I continued, “one might see this as an opportunity to make certain, outside of the presence of the jury, that the state isn’t missing some off-the-wall defense theory that might take off at trial. Something like a connection between the victim being found in Glenville and Mr. Caffrey’s power to shape the future of suburban development out there. I don’t know, something like that. But, again, maybe it’s better heard now rather than later.”

I didn’t take my eyes off Caffrey’s face. Nothing.

I had no idea what his wooden affect said about his knowledge of the case or any possible connection between Clarissa and development in Glenville. But I knew one thing: I’d never vote for T. J. Caffrey, whatever his politics. There was no doubt in my mind that this man had some kind of relationship with Clarissa. I had spent the week watching Tara, Townsend, and Susan struggle with their profound grief. But here sat Caffrey observing this discussion like a Wimbledon match.

I excused myself to prepare for court and walked them to the exit.

News crews from all four local stations were waiting in front of the Justice Center. Fortunately, they weren’t allowed in the courtrooms, so they only polluted what the attorneys said before and after the main event.

Slip and Roger were giving competing statements. Slip was accusing the police and prosecutors (I guess that would be me) of rushing to judgment to comfort a nervous public that was demanding a quick arrest. Roger, on the other hand, was grateful that the police had finally gotten around to catching the right man.

When the cameras rushed over to me, I gave them the standard prosecutorial line. We’re confident about the evidence, wouldn’t be going forward if we weren’t, blah blah blah. Because of the ethical rules that govern the public statements of prosecutors, we never get to say the good stuff.

Once we were in JC-3 before Judge Prescott, it was a whole other story. In a prelim, the prosecutor runs the show, since the only relevant question is whether the state’s evidence, if believed in its entirety by a jury, could support a conviction. Slip most likely would try to get some free discovery by squeezing in as much cross-examination as Prescott would tolerate, but he’d know there was little to gain by grandstanding this early in the process. Roger was completely irrelevant, sitting next to Townsend with the other observers. I couldn’t help but wonder how much he was charging.

I wheeled my chair toward Slip. “You subpoenaed Caffrey, huh? I assume you know that he’ll move to quash.”

“His lawyer wants to wait until I actually call Caffrey to the stand. He’s probably making sure it’s not a bluff. I told him I’d call him when you were done presenting your evidence, so they wouldn’t have to wait.”

“Hate to break it to you, Slip, but I doubt your courtesy’s going to be enough to win Ronald Fish over.”

“I’m a good guy. What can I say?”

Prescott took the bench and called the case. Every other judge in the county lets the prosecutor call the case, and we do it in about five seconds flat, the words so routine that the court reporter has no problems keeping up with the pace. But Prescott treated even this routine function like a constitutional moment.