Proof Positive (2006) (12 page)

Chapter
14.

AMANDA WALKED INTO THE COURTROOM MOMENTS AFTER JUDGE Belmont bound over Art Prochaska for trial and recessed for the day. Frank was talking to his client, so Amanda waited in the back of the courtroom. Mike Greene packed up his attachT case and started up the aisle. A look of surprise crossed his face when he saw Amanda. Then he smiled and walked over to her.

How have you been?

Okay, Amanda answered, trying to hide her discomfort.

I haven't seen you in a while. Working hard, or have you been away?

Amanda laughed. I can't remember my last vacation.

Then it must be work, Mike said, because he wanted to keep talking to Amanda.

I was very busy, then things slowed down. I' ve got a few drug cases, some DUIs. Nothing too exciting. What about you?

Well, there's this case and I' ve got two other homicides, but they might plead out.

So you' re not too busy either.

Yeah, looks like neither of us is earning our keep.

I heard Belmont bind over Prochaska, Amanda said.

Mike shrugged. I' ve got a pretty strong case.

Don't you feel bad about beating up my father?

Mike grinned. Frank can take care of himself. Besides, he told me that you two are going to be double-teaming me.

I' ve been practicing my body slam all week.

When Mike finished laughing, he and Amanda realized that they had both run out of small talk. Mike wanted to know if Amanda was seeing anyone, but he didn't have the nerve to ask. The two attorneys shifted in place awkwardly.

Well, I' ve got to get back to the office, Mike said after a few seconds of silence. It was nice seeing you.

Me too.

I'll see you around, the prosecutor concluded. Then he was out the door, leaving Amanda feeling unsettled. To distract herself, she returned her attention to the front of the courtroom, where Frank was shaking hands with Prochaska. As soon as the jail guards slipped on the handcuffs and led him away, Amanda walked over to her father.

Going back to the office? she asked.

Yeah. I saw you talking to Mike.

We were just talking shop.

You two haven't gone out for a while.

I was seeing someone else but that's over.

Do you think you and Mike might pick up again? Frank asked, knowing that he had just entered a minefield.

I don't even know if he's interested, Dad.

He might be. He asked about you when we were waiting for court to begin.

He was probably just making conversation.

It didn't sound like it.

Mike thinks he's got a pretty good shot at convicting Art Prochaska, she said, to change the topic. What do you think?

Too early to tell. His evidence is circumstantial. There are no eyewitnesses, and there's nothing in the police reports to suggest that Art even knew the dead man.

What do they have? Amanda asked.

The worst evidence for us is Art's fingerprint on a beer can that was on the night table in Ballard's room. The maids clean every day, so Mike can prove that the can was brought to the room after three in the afternoon. That puts him with Ballard sometime during that day.

Then there are the bullets. Bernie Cashman testified that the bullets that killed Ballard are consistent with ammunition that was found in a closet during a search of Art's house.

Any way to suppress the evidence?

The search looks pretty clean to me but you should take a look at it.

Okay. Are you going to use Paul Baylor for the forensic work?

Yeah, but I don't expect much; fingerprints don't lie and they used neutron activation analysis to make the call on the bullets.

Amanda looked at her watch. What are you doing for dinner?

I'm eating with you.

Do you want to grab a bite at Signorelli' s, that new Italian place on Twenty-first?

Sounds good. I' ve got about two hours of work in the office. We can leave around five-thirty.

Charlie LaRosa had already given Martin Breach a summary of the preliminary hearing, so he was prepared for Frank's call. Jaffe told Breach what he had learned about the government's case. Breach sounded calm on the phone, but he was seething inside. When he hung up, he looked across the desk at Henry Tedesco, who had heard the conversation on the speaker phone.

What do you think? Breach asked, his anger barely under control.

Seems like a good case for the state, Henry answered in his thick Irish brogue. Tedesco was one of the few men in Breach's employ who would tell him the truth. Breach ruled by terror, but he despised yes-men and prized Henry's honesty.

Someone is fucking with us, Henry, and I want to know who it is.

You think Art was set up?

Martin leaned back and picked up a toothpick. He gathered his thoughts while he pried loose a piece of fried chicken that had gotten stuck between his teeth.

Let's start with the fingerprint and them bullets, Breach said. The fingerprints ain't Artie's and neither is the ammo that iced Ballard because Artie didn't kill him. So you got to find out who did.

Any ideas? Anyplace you want me to start?

Yeah, two places. See what you can find out about that pimp Dorado. He'd love to have Artie out of the way. But it's the print and the bullets that really bother me.

Tedesco shrugged. The obvious answer to the print is that whoever shot Ballard got a beer can that Art used and planted it on the end table.

That was my first thought, but Art don't drink that brand and he swears that he can't remember touching the can.

Breach stared into space for a while, and Tedesco let him think. Breach was one of the smartest people he'd ever met, and his ideas were always interesting.

Henry, do you know any way of faking a fingerprint?

No, but I can find out if it can be done.

Do that.

Breach spaced out again as he worked on his teeth with the toothpick. Henry waited patiently. Suddenly Breach sat up straight.

Lab guys! He looked at Tedesco. Do you think Dorado could have gotten to one of the lab guys?

Henry shrugged. You can get to anyone if you try hard enough.

Breach jabbed the toothpick in Tedesco's direction. Check out the lab guys. Find out if anyone is on Dorado's payroll. Then Breach muttered, They better not be.

*

MARTIN BREACH HAD GIVEN HENRY TEDESCO COPIES OF THE police reports in Art Prochaska's case, and Henry had read them carefully. Several reports of interviews with the residents of the Continental Motel had been written up right after the murder, but there had been very little investigation of any kind after the lab identified Prochaska's thumbprint on the beer can. Tedesco concluded that Billie Brewster, the lead detective, was convinced of Art's guilt and was focusing on Prochaska to the exclusion of all other possible suspects. The evidence of Art's guilt was very strong, but Henry knew that Prochaska would never lie to Martin Breach; the two men were closer than brothers. If Art told Martin that he was innocent, he was innocent; and this meant that the real killer was probably feeling safe and very satisfied with himself.

Tedesco believed that his best chance of finding Ballard's killer was someone living at the Continental Motel. The police had not interviewed all of the residents on the evening of the killing, and most of the people who were interviewed claimed to know nothing that would help the police. Henry was well acquainted with people who lived in dives like the Continental. Many of them had been in trouble with the law or were in the United States illegally. These were people who, as a matter of principle, would not be honest with a policeman. And, of course, police officers had to follow rules when they interviewed a witness. Henry Tedesco had never had much respect for rules.

Henry talked to three people before he got a lead. Money and the threat of force loosened the tongue of a single mother who was hooking out of a room across the court from the one in which Vincent Ballard was murdered. She told Henry about a conversation she'd had by the vending machine with one of the other residents the night after the killing.

Clarence Edwards and Edgar Lewis were sleeping soundly when Charlie LaRosa opened the door to their room with the master key he'd rented from the night manager for a hundred dollars. Edgar Lewis was dead to the world, but Clarence sat up, blinking sleep from his eyes, when Henry flipped on the lights.

Edwards was a skinny African-American with dreadlocks and tattoos, who had just served six months in a local jail for shoplifting after being convicted for the fourth time. Edwards stole only when he was out of work. He'd just gotten a job at a video store and was sharing the rent for the room with Edgar, whom he'd known since high school.

What the fuck Clarence started to ask. Then he saw the guns and lost his bravado.

Mr. Lewis or Mr. Edwards? Henry asked pleasantly.

Clarence's mouth was dry, but he managed to answer the question. Edgar was waking up in the other bed.

Would you and your friend please lie down, pull your blankets up to your necks and put your arms under the covers? Henry asked.

Who are these guys? Edgar asked his friend. Henry nodded, and Charlie smacked Edgar across the face.

We ask the questions, asshole, he explained. Edgar, who weighed 140 when he was eating right, was too dazed to do more than collapse on his bed.

What you do that for? Clarence demanded. Charlie took a step toward him, but Henry held up a hand and he stopped.

My friend struck Mr. Lewis to let you know that we will use violence if we feel it's necessary. Now please lie down and cover yourself. If you do as we ask, no harm will come to you or your roommate and you might earn yourself some money.

As soon as Clarence and Edgar were under the blankets, Charlie tucked in their sheets and covers and used duct tape to seal them into bed.

Comfy? Henry asked as he pulled a chair next to Clarence. Clarence didn't respond. Henry smiled.

A short time ago, your neighbor, Vincent Ballard, was murdered across the court. Do you remember that?

Clarence looked nervous. Edgar glanced at his roomie for a brief second. Henry noticed.

Clarence, we need to set some ground rules. If I ask you a question, you must answer it truthfully. Do you understand?

Yeah, Clarence answered in a surly tone. Henry sighed.

I don't care much for your attitude, my lad. Let's see if we can make an adjustment in it. He took out a cigarette lighter and flicked on the flame. Tell me, have you ever seen a person burn to death?

What!

It is truly horrible. The stench of burning flesh is revolting, and the screaming Henry shook his head. Now, Clarence, if you don't start cooperating quickly I'm going to set you on fire. Taped into your bed as you are, you'll be unable to do much more than suffer. I imagine the pain will be intense. It is my hope that this example will make your friend more cooperative. But neither of you need to suffer if you'll just stop being recalcitrant. You do understand what that means, don't you?

Yes, sir, Clarence answered, though of the four men in the room only Henry could define the word.

Good, Henry said, appreciating the sir. The quicker you answer my questions, the quicker we'll be gone. So, do you remember the evening of the murder?

Yeah, I do, Clarence answered.

Your room is across the court from Mr. Ballard's room. Tell me what you saw.

What happens to us if I say what I seen?

Not a thing. We'll let you go and you'll never see us again. And we won't tell the police about this. Henry smiled. Not much good would come of that for any of us, would it? Henry flipped a roll of money onto the bed. You'll even get a little something for your time. So, you see, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by being truthful. In fact, the only problem you'll have is if you aren't completely honest. If you lie and we let you go, we'll find you and that would not be good for you at all.

Clarence looked back and forth between the money and the cigarette lighter. The choice was a no-brainer.

I didn't tell the cops nothing, but I can help you.

Go ahead.

I got up to take a piss. That's when I heard the music. It was loud. So I peeked through the blinds to see where it was coming from. That's when I seen ' em coming out.

Who did you see?

This regular-size dude and this other guy. The one guy, I can't tell you too much about him. I didn't see his face. I didn't see the other guy's face either but he was big, like a pro wrestler. Like really huge. And that's all I can say, honest.

This large gentleman think hard can you describe his face at all?

Clarence closed his eyes. When he opened them, he shook his head. All I can say is about his hair. It was real short, like a crew cut. I remember that. But they were both wearing coats and the collars were up.

Henry pointed at Charlie LaRosa. Was the big man as large as my friend?

Clarence studied the gangster. He wasn't as tall but he was wider.

Did you notice their car?

No. I went to piss and they were gone when I was done.

Henry turned to Edgar. I didn't see nothing, he said quickly. I was sleeping. Clarence just told me what he seen after the cops left.

Henry studied the two men for a moment. Then he flipped the lighter shut and nodded at LaRosa, who started to remove the tape that trapped the men in their beds.

I hope I don't have to tell you to keep this little visit between us, he said, just before they left. Neither Clarence nor Edgar answered.

Does the description Mr. Edwards gave mean anything to you? Henry asked Charlie as they headed for their car.

Felix Dorado's got a guy works for him, Reuben Corrales, who's a steroid freak. Dorado uses him for muscle and I think he was one of the guys guarding Juan Ruiz when we snatched him.

Interesting. If Dorado figured out that Ballard ratted out Ruiz, he might have ordered our bodybuilder to carry out the hit as penance for losing Ruiz. What do you think?

That makes sense.

See if you can find this gentleman, Charlie. Then we'll pay him a visit.

Chapter
16.

SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT, A PASSERBY FOUND THE BADLY BEATEN manager of a North Portland liquor store sprawled on the floor behind his counter. Two robbers stoked on meth had pistol-whipped him after stealing liquor and money from the till. Before the EMTs took the manager to the hospital, he told the detectives that his assailants weren't wearing gloves.

Bernard Cashman and Mary Clark processed the crime scene and discovered fingerprints on the bottles the robbers had pawed through while selecting liquor to stuff into a gym bag. The thieves had also smashed a number of bottles during their rampage and had been kind enough to step in the rum, rye, and Bailey's Irish Cream that coated the floor. The liquor had moistened the mud on the bottom of one perp's sneakers, leaving a partial shoeprint for Mary Clark to find.

A light rain was falling when the forensic experts finished their work. Cashman's pickup was parked on a side street around the corner from the liquor store. He was putting his gear in the back when Mary walked up. She had been quiet all evening, and Cashman found this odd, since the normally cheerful criminalist liked to chat while working a crime scene.

Got a minute? Clark asked. She sounded nervous, and her lips were drawn into a grim line.

Sure, Cashman answered with a smile. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

This is really awkward for me, Bernie. I wanted to talk to you privately before I said anything.

About what? he answered, genuinely puzzled.

A week ago, I reviewed a bunch of old cases to see if we could return the evidence to victims or relatives or, you know, destroy it.

Now Cashman was even more confused. Making recommendations about what to do with evidence from closed cases was a routine part of a criminalist's job. There was only a limited amount of storage space, and crime never took a holiday.

Clark looked up now and stared directly at her colleague. One of the cases was State v. Raymond Hayes. You worked that case, didn't you?

Yes.

That was the one where the print on the hammer was the crucial piece of evidence.

Cashman smiled proudly. Steve Hooper told me that Hayes would never have pled if I hadn't found that print.

Clark paused, like a diver on a high board. Then she jumped.

I don't think there was a print on that hammer, Bernie.

A queasy feeling spread through Cashman's gut. What do you mean? he answered calmly, broadcasting none of his concern.

I know what you did. What I don't know is why.

I honestly have no idea what you' re talking about.

You told the grand jury that Raymond Hayes left a fingerprint on that hammer, but you know that he didn' t. I went through some of your other cases after I figured out what happened in Hayes. Two of them are really troubling me.

Are you saying that I made mistakes in some of my cases?

It goes way beyond making a mistake.

Cashman looked bewildered. You' re suggesting ? The criminalist stopped. He looked appalled. We' ve been colleagues and I hope friends, for years, Mary, so I'm going to chalk up your Well, they are accusations. There's no other way to interpret them. I'm going to consider them a product of fatigue and forget that we had this conversation.

I do consider you my friend, Bernie. That's why we' re talking now, just the two of us. Do you think this is easy for me?

Mary, I don't know what you think you' ve discovered, but now isn't the time to discuss this. It's almost two in the morning. I'm wet and exhausted. I'm sure you are, too.

We have to discuss it. I'm doing it now to give you a chance to explain what happened before I talk to Carlos, she said, referring to Carlos Guzman, the head of the crime lab.

Look, I appreciate the fact that you' ve come to me, but I'm not going to stand in the rain and defend myself from Well, I don't really know what I'm defending myself from, do I? I'm going to have to see the files in these cases before I can explain why you' re mistaken. So, let's get some rest. In the morning, show me the cases that disturb you. I know that there's a reasonable explanation because I have never done anything unethical. If you' re still not convinced after we talk, tell Carlos your concerns. And, believe me, I won't hold it against you. I take my job very seriously and I welcome criticism.

Now it was Mary's turn to be confused. She had been certain that Bernie would be defensive or angry in the face of her accusations, but he was understanding, calm, and reasonable.

What do you say, Mary? Can this wait until we' ve both gotten a good night's sleep?

Clark still hesitated. Bernie smiled and held his hands out, palms up, so the raindrops bounced off them.

Pretty please? I'm getting soaked.

Bernie was right. She was uncomfortable standing in the persistent drizzle. She would have been out on her feet if the adrenaline that had been produced when she got up the courage to confront Cashman weren't coursing through her veins. And it really wasn't fair to make Bernie defend himself before he'd seen what bothered her.

Okay, Bernie. I'll wait. But you' ve got to explain everything to my satisfaction or I will go to Carlos.

If I can't prove to you that there is no problem with every case you' ve studied, you should go to Carlos. Believe me, if I screwed up I'll take the hit rather than let an innocent man rot in jail.