Raising Cain (38 page)

Katanga lifted a broken wine bottle from the pavement and put it in his trash bag. They were cleaning up the neighborhood.
The church group, the Watch Program, and the Brotherhood Forum had finally combined forces to attack the garbage-strewn southside
alley. It was time to take back the streets.

“Don’t touch that!” a volunteer called.

Katanga looked down at a pile of hypodermic needles he was about to pick up.

“AIDS,” the man warned. “You get stuck with one of them, you got some trouble.”

Katanga ignored him. He grabbed a handful of syringes in a gloved hand and threw them in the bag.

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not leaving them out here for the kids,” Katanga replied. He scooped up the rest of the pile and deposited them with
the others. Then he moved down the alley in search of more contraband.

As Katanga worked, he remembered an episode from the past. He was eleven years old, and a fellow student had slipped him some
smokes. He’d hidden them in his shorts and waited until he got home. Then he’d gone behind the shed to light up. He’d just
taken his first puff when he heard a voice.

“
What are you doin’, Paul?” It was Joe, home from high school early
.

Paul held his ground and took a drag. “What does it look like?” The cigarette was still clenched between his lips
.

“
It looks like you’re bein’ a fool
.”

Paul took another drag and tried not to cough. The smoke burned
.

“
Give it here!”

Paul puffed again
.

“
Give it here!”

“
No. “ Paul was his own man. He could do what he wanted.

Joe stepped close and snatched the cigarette out of his brother’s mouth. Then he crumpled it in his hand
.

Paul produced another from his pocket and started to light up
.

“
Don’t,”Joe commanded
.

“
Fuckyou. You ain’t my daddy.”

Joe grabbed his brother and forced him to drop it. Then he rifled his pants and confiscated the others, grinding them up with
his fingers
.

“
Get off of me!” Paul protested. But his brother was too strong, his grip overpowering
.

“
I’m gonna let you go,”Joe said. He released and stepped back. ‘You mess with cigarettes, they’ll eat you alive. Stay away
from them.”

“
Who put you in charge?” Paul demanded
.

“
Nobody. But I catch you smokin’ again, I’ll bust you up.”

Paul stared up at his brother in silence. Up to that time in their lives the two boys had never had a real fight. Joe was
too big and too strong
.

“
You understand me?” Joe asked.

Paul nodded. He did understand. And he did not want to test the sincerity of his brother’s threat.

“Gun shells over here!” a neighbor yelled.

Katanga came out of his reverie. The street was littered with horrors: cartridges, liquor bottles, drug paraphernalia. He
knelt down for another shard of glass and felt the rolled newspaper in his back pocket ride up. He put the glass in the bag
and pulled out the paper. There was a small headline in a box:
COP TRIAL IN CULT MURDER UNDER WAY, SUICIDE ALLEGED
.

Katanga stared at the article for a moment. Then he balled it up and threw it in with the rest of the trash.

Reverend Taylor placed his stereo in the last box and sealed the lid with tape. It was almost midnight, and his basement hideaway
had finally been stripped bare. The rest of the stuff was already in storage, and preparations were almost complete. There
were a few loose ends to wrap up and then he’d be off.

Just as Taylor moved the box toward the door and set it beside the others, his cordless phone rang.

“Reverend Taylor here,” he answered.

“What’s going on?” a voice asked.

“Status quo.”

“Have you been over to the trial?”

“Twice.”

“What’s happening?”

“A bunch of nonsense. Lawson is pushing suicide hard.”

“You think they
know
?”

“Know?”

“You think they figured it out?”

Taylor picked his teeth with the corner of an envelope. “They don’t know a thing. They’re just guessing. Keep your cool.”

“Can’t stop thinking about it,” the voice said.

“God works in wondrous ways,” Taylor replied. “Your life was spared so you could help others”.

“And the wicked shall be punished for their transgressions?”

“Praise the Lord.”

“I’m tryin’ to keep it together,” the voice continued. “It’s just hard, that’s all.”

“I understand, my brother, but you gotta stay strong. Ain’t nothin’ you want to do. Ain’t nothin’ you
can
do.”

“Thanks, Rev.”

“Bless you, brother.”

The caller hung up, and Taylor reflected for a moment. Then he picked up another box and carried it out to his car.

“Proceed, state,” Ransome ordered impatiently.

King prodded Lin Song’s arm. He’d been handling the questioning chores so far, but today his co-counsel would do the honors.
That was a message to the defense: conviction was in the bag. The second string was coming in.

“Ms. Dorothy Eden to the stand, please,” Lin said. She was dressed in a form-fitting white suit, her hair twisted and pinned
up.

Gardner glanced around, looking for Jennifer. She was several rows back, and she waved. He nodded and scanned the crowd around
her. It was the same mix as usual, but there were fewer black faces. Maybe Blocktown had thrown in the towel.

“Swear in the witness,” Judge Ransome directed.

Dorothy was sworn in and identified for the record.

“Ms. Eden,” Lin began, “did there come a time when you became acquainted with a man named Thomas Ruth?”

“Yes.” The witness, clad in a Laura Ashley print outfit, looked like she had never set foot in a cult.

“And when was that?”

“Approximately seven months ago.”

“And how did you happen to meet him?”

“I heard about his congregation, Church of the Ark, from a friend.”

“Is that church referred to as CAIN?”

“Yes.”

“And you decided to join?”

“After speaking with Thomas Ruth, yes.”

“You knew Thomas Ruth well during your tenure at the quarry?”

“Objection,” Gardner said. “Leading.”

“Sustained.”

Lin remained cool. “Can you describe your relationship with Mr. Ruth?”

“I was CAIN’s cook, so we were close.”

“He had a healthy appetite?”

A nervous laugh sounded in the gallery.

“No levity intended, Your Honor,” Lin said. “Let me rephrase that.”

“Please do.”

“As cook, did you have occasion to be with Mr. Ruth?”

“Yes.”

“How much time did you spend in his presence?”

“An hour or so a day, I’d say.”

Lin walked to the trial table and opened a cardboard box. “Would it he fair to say that you were familiar with Mr. Ruth’s
wearing apparel?” She removed a plastic bag from the box.

“Yes.”

Lin lifted the bag. Inside were a pair of shoes. “Mark this item please, as state’s exhibit number—”

“Hold it,” Gardner interrupted.

Judge Ransome looked up from his notes. “What’s wrong, Mr. Lawson?”

“Let me see that.” Gardner pointed at the bag.

“Approach. And bring the bag with you.”

The parties gathered at the rail, and Gardner scrutinized the plastic. “Can you open it?” he requested.

Lin peeled off the tape and handed the package to him. Gardner removed one of the shoes and huddled with Brownie beside the
bench.

“What is your problem?” Ransome asked.

Gardner put the shoe on the bench. “Someone has tampered with this exhibit.” He looked accusingly at King.

“That’s bull,” King replied.

“Gentlemen,” Ransome cautioned, “I’ll decide what’s bull and what’s not. The basis of your complaint, Mr. Lawson?”

“When I viewed the shoes in the property room before trial, they were not in this condition. They were covered with fingerprint
powder,” Gardner said, placing a shoe on the rail. “But now they’re clean.”

Ransome picked up the shoe, put it down, and examined the tips of his fingers. “Are these the same shoes you looked at before?”

Gardner checked the evidence tag. “The same.”

“Judge—” King began.

“Hold on,” Ransome said to the prosecutor. “I still don’t get it. If they’re the same shoes, what’s your objection?”

Gardner pressed against the bench. “The shoes were found in my client’s possession. They are alleged to have belonged to the
victim, alleged to have been worn by him on the day he died. They were fingerprinted by my client in an effort to find out
what really happened. If he killed Ruth, why would he process the man’s shoes? The presence of fingerprint dust corroborates
his innocent intent. But the dust has been mysteriously removed. Someone wants to deny my client the exculpatory inference.”

Ransome looked at King. “What’s your response, Kent?”

King handed a piece of paper to the judge. “This is the chain of custody log for the shoes. It lists everyone who had access
to the evidence. You’ll note the name ‘Lawson’ is the last name there.”

“Is Mr. King suggesting that
I
removed the dust?”

“No,” King replied, “I’m not. I don’t know who did it, or even if it was done—”

“You know they had powder on them.”

“I do not!” King countered.

Ransome interceded. “Stop bickering! What am I supposed to do about this?”

“Object to the admission of the shoes!” Gardner huffed. “They do not have the same appearance they had when confiscated, and
their admission in a clean condition is extremely prejudicial to my client.”

“Listen to me,” Ransome answered firmly. “Everyone agrees that the shoes are the very same ones that were seized. They may
he clean now, but there is no dispute that they were picked up pursuant to the search warrant. That, in my opinion, makes
them admissible. As to their condition, that is a matter of conjecture. Each party can explore the issue with the witness
who took the shoes into custody. If they were covered with powder at that time, the defendant will not be denied his innocent
intent argument. Let’s get back to work.”

“But Judge,” Gardner argued, “saying and
seeing
are not equal. The impact of seeing the powder would be lost on the jury. And that was obviously intended by whoever wiped
them off.”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Lawson.”

Gardner glared at King. So that was it: victory at any cost.

King smirked and walked with Lin back to their table.

“Proceed, please,” Ransome said.

Gardner and Brownie returned to their seats. They’d just been served another off-line ace. King was determined to convict,
and there was no limit how far he’d go to ensure it. Evidence the defense needed was either missing or altered. And that forced
them even deeper into a corner with no way out.

Brownie put down the telephone and crossed out the last name on his list. It was noon court recess, and he was trying to finish
his share of
Fugitives
leads that he and Gardner had split earlier. With time running short, they had to take advantage of every spare moment.

Brownie looked at the page of crossed-out names and notes in the margin. Of eight calls, only two had anything meaningful
to say. That was to be expected.
Fugitives
really lured in the kooks.

A Werner Rosen said Ruth was his father, a rabbi obsessed with the biblical Cain who had disappeared three years before. “How
old are you?” Brownie asked.

“Fifty-five,” Rosen answered.

Five other calls were more or less the same. Ruth was a long-lost brother, former classmate, teacher, boyfriend, and itinerant
musician. But when Brownie pressed for details, each came up short. The confirming information they gave was suspiciously
inadequate. Brownie wrote them off as wishful thinkers or intentional deceivers.

That left two leads with promise: a disabled veteran named Adrian Anders, and a woman from California, Rosemary Blank. Both
of them had identified Ruth as “Barton Graves.” That caught Brownie’s attention. It was unlikely that either person knew the
other, yet their identifications intersected. That warranted a follow-up.

Brownie dialed a California exchange. Years ago he’d met a Highway Patrol officer at a crime conference. They’d kept in touch
and occasionally conferred on cases.

“Benny Jason,” a voice answered.

“This is Joe Brown.”

“Brownie! Long time, buddy. How’s it going?”

“Oh, pretty good.”

“What’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Anything, man. Just say the word.”

“I need you to run a records check on the California MVA list. Twenty years ago, a man named Barton Graves was living in LA,
and to the best of my knowledge he had a state driver’s license. He may have been in the military at the time. Are you computerized
that far back?”

“Yes. All I need is his date of birth.”

“Don’t have it.”

“Social security number?”

“Negative. Can you do it just on the name?”

“I’ll try. Give it to me again.”

Brownie did, and they hung up while Benny made the check.

Fifteen minutes later, Benny called back. “Brownie,” he said. “Are you
sure
that was the right name? Barton Graves?”

“Pretty sure,” Brownie answered.

“And you’re
sure
he had a California license?”

“Think so.” Rosemary Blank had confirmed that.

“Well, there’s no listing,” Benny said. “None whatsoever under that name.”

“Can you try something else?”

“Absolutely.”

“Run the name through criminal records, vital statistics, hospital admissions, parking tickets, the whole tamale.”

“That’s going to take some time. What’s this guy done?”

Brownie hesitated. “Tell you later. Do you think you could get back to me today?”