The Undertaker's Widow (5 page)

“I don't like this,” Dennis said when they were driving back to the Justice Center.

“I don't either. I didn't see anything in Jablonski's file about drugs. From what his wife says, he didn't score the money in a burglary. Some guy gave it to him because
he wanted Jablonski to do something. Why would Jablonski run out in the middle of one of the worst storms in Oregon history to burglarize an estate with the security system Hoyt had if that wasn't the job he was paid to do?”

“Yeah, Lou, that's what I was thinking. Only, robbery might not have been the motive. What if Jablonski was paid to hit Lamar Hoyt?”

“That's one possibility, but there's another.”

Leroy Dennis carried the shoe box full of money to the evidence room while Anthony made the call. James Allen answered the phone and Anthony asked to speak to Senator Crease.

“I'm afraid she's resting, Detective. She does not wish to be disturbed.”

“I can appreciate that, Mr. Allen, but this is an urgent police matter and I have to talk to her.”

Two minutes later, Ellen Crease picked up the phone.

“I'm glad I got you,” Anthony said. “I wasn't sure you'd be staying at your house.”

“I'm using the guest room tonight,” Crease said. She sounded exhausted. “Tomorrow is the funeral. Then I'm going out to eastern Oregon to campaign.”

“Oh,” Anthony said, surprised that she was going back on the campaign trail so soon after her husband's murder.

Crease could hear the note of censure in Anthony's tone.

“Look, Lou, everything I see in this house reminds me of Lamar. If I don't get out of here and keep busy, I'll go crazy.”

“I understand.”

“Did you call just to see how I'm doing?”

“That and one other thing. A few hours ago, we identified Martin Jablonski as the man who broke into your house. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Probably not. He was a real bad guy. Multiple arrests and convictions. Home burglaries accompanied by assaults. We thought we had ourselves a simple solution to what happened at your house. Then we discovered almost ten thousand dollars in cash in a shoe box in Jablonski's closet. His wife says someone gave it to him, but he wouldn't tell her why. We think Jablonski may have been paid to break into your estate.”

“But why …?” Crease started, stopping when the obvious answer occurred to her. “Lamar? You think this Jablonski was paid to kill Lamar?”

“We have no concrete evidence that is what happened. I just found the money an hour ago. It could be completely unconnected to the break-in.”

“But you don't think so.”

“The timing bothers me. The fact that he broke in when the weather was so bad.”

“Thank you for letting me know about this, Lou. I appreciate it.”

“This wasn't just a courtesy call. If Jablonski was paid to make a hit, Lamar may not have been the intended victim.”

There was dead air for a moment. “You're suggesting that I might have … that Jablonski was sent to kill me?”

“I don't know. But I'm not taking chances. There's going to be a patrol car parked outside the estate while you're in Portland. You're going to have an around-the-clock guard until we sort this out. I suggest that you arrange your own security when you're out of the city.”

“I don't believe this.”

“I could be wrong. I just don't want to take any chances.”

“Thanks, Lou. I'm not going to forget this.”

“Yeah, well, let's hope I'm way off base. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you could work up a list of people who might want you or Lamar out of the way bad enough to pay someone to kill you. It could be a business thing, something personal. If there's even a possibility, write it down and let me look into it. I'll be discreet.”

“I'll work on it right away.” Crease sounded nervous, distant. “And thanks again.”

Anthony hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He hoped he was wrong about the money. He hoped it was for drugs or a payoff for something Jablonski had already done, but he didn't think so.

It was still raining when Richard Quinn left for work on the morning after Lamar Hoyt's murder. Not the monster rain of the night before, but a steady, wearying drizzle that was profoundly depressing. The main roads had been opened during the night, but there were places where two lanes narrowed to one because of half-cleared mud slides or still active road crews. Quinn parked in the county garage shortly after seven-thirty and walked through the drizzle to the Multnomah County Courthouse, an eight-story, gray concrete building that takes up an entire block between Fourth and Fifth and Main and Salmon in the heart of downtown Portland. Quinn waved to the guard at the front desk and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

The door to Quinn's chambers was halfway down the marble corridor on the south side of the courthouse. Copies of the
Oregonian
and the
New York Times
were lying in front of it. The judge usually started his day by doing the crossword puzzle in both papers while drinking a cup of coffee, but he was too distracted by the
Gideon
case to try them this morning.

Quinn picked up the papers and opened the door to his chambers. After flipping on the lights in the reception area, Quinn started coffee in the pot that sat on the low, gray metal filing cabinet behind his secretary's desk. Then he switched on the lights in his chambers.

A large rain-streaked window looked out at the ornamental ribbons decorating the north side of Michael Graves's postmodern Portland Building. Behind Quinn's massive oak desk was a bookshelf filled with a complete set of the Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals case reporters and the Oregon Revised Statutes. In front of the desk were two high-backed armchairs. A couch stood against the wall behind the chairs. Above it hung a modern oil painting that made no sense whatsoever. Given the choice, Quinn would have set the oil on fire, but Laura had bought it for him as a swearing-in present. Quinn was not about to destroy the only indication of support for his decision to ascend the bench that his wife had made since the governor's call, three years ago.

Quinn dropped the newspapers on the bookshelf and surveyed his desk. It was as he had left it the preceding evening. Every square inch was covered with paperwork pertaining to Gideon's sentencing. Quinn eyed the reports, letters and lawbooks as he hung up his jacket on the coatrack that held his judicial robes. He sat behind the desk and stared some more. He had read every piece of paper several times. He knew some of the documents by heart. What he did not know was the proper sentence to impose on Frederick Gideon.

On Quinn's wall was a framed quotation from Abraham Lincoln, which read: “I'll do the very best I know how—the very best I can; and I mean to keep doing so until the end. If the end brings me out all right, what is said against me won't amount to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would make no difference.”

The judge's father, Oregon Supreme Court Justice Patrick Quinn, had framed the quotation and it had hung in the elder Quinn's chambers in the Supreme Court Building during his years on the bench. Justice Quinn had died when Richard was fifteen. If his father had
faults, Richard never learned of them. His wife, who died in the same car accident that killed her husband, adored him. No one Richard had ever met had an unkind word for Patrick Quinn. Certainly not Frank Price, senior partner in Richard's old firm, former partner and best friend of Patrick, and the man who raised Quinn after his parents died. True or not, Patrick Quinn's perfection lived in his son's memory as a model and a challenge, and the framed quote that Quinn had inherited was the creed the judge tried to live by. But doing the right thing was not always easy.

Quinn reread the quotation. He thought about Lincoln's words. At this level, all decisions were hard and the certainty of mathematics was usually unattainable. He could only do his very best, then hope that, in the end, he had chosen correctly. That knowledge did not make the knot in his gut less painful, only a bit easier to bear.

“Your Honor,” Stephen Browder said as he launched into the conclusion of his argument in favor of probation, “Frederick Gideon is a local boy who pulled himself out of poverty and worked his way through college and law school. Much of his early legal career was devoted to helping the poor. As his fortunes improved, he expanded his involvement in civic affairs. I am not going to repeat the testimony of the friends, business associates and community leaders who have testified in Judge Gideon's behalf at this sentencing hearing, but the gist of the testimony of these highly respected citizens is that Fred Gideon is a good man, a man worthy of your compassion. He is a man who made one tragic mistake in an otherwise blameless life.”

Browder paused and Quinn studied the defendant. He knew that everything Browder said was true. Gideon
was basically a good person and he was repentant. Quinn's mental image, formed during his brief contacts with Gideon at judicial conferences, was of a rotund and jovial man who was always quick with a smile and a joke. The months following his arrest had taken the heart out of the jurist. His skin was pasty and there were circles under his eyes. He had lost a lot of weight. He had also lost his pride. The eyes that Quinn remembered for their twinkle were lifeless and had not raised high enough to meet the eyes of Quinn or any witness during the sessions in court.

“No one, including Judge Gideon, is asking you to excuse what he did,” Browder continued. “Frederick Gideon sold his judicial opinion for money and he will regret his decision to do so every day that remains to him in this life. But, Your Honor, Judge Gideon has been severely punished for his transgression in ways far more severe than any jail sentence this Court can impose on him. He is a judge no more, having voluntarily relinquished his position soon after his arrest in order to protect the bench from further controversy.”

In the front row of the courtroom, Martha Gideon hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with each sob. Gideon's daughters tried to comfort their mother while fighting back their own tears.

“In addition, my client will be disbarred and lose not only his means of earning a living but his right to practice a profession in which he has spent most of his adult life. A profession he loves.

“There is more, and it is the worst punishment. Before he brought this shame on himself, the name Frederick Gideon stood for integrity, honesty. My client was someone who was widely admired. Judge Gideon has disgraced his good name and he may never be able to reclaim his dignity.”

Browder was an imposing attorney with wavy gray
hair and a dignified bearing. He paused and placed his hand on his client's shoulder. Gideon flinched, as if the touch had burned him.

“The ability to show compassion is essential in a judge,” Browder said. “I ask you to show compassion to this man. Please look beyond this single transgression to Fred Gideon's countless good deeds. He is a decent person who made one tragic mistake. Probation is the appropriate sentence for this man.”

Browder sat down. Quinn could put off his decision no longer. He looked across his courtroom at the defendant.

“Mr.…,” Quinn began. Then he corrected himself. “Judge Gideon. Even though you are no longer on the bench, I will address you as a judge because you have served as a judge for a long time. By all accounts, with the exception of the incident that brings you to this sorry pass, you have been a good judge.”

Quinn's voice caught in his throat and he was afraid that he might not be able to go on. There was a pitcher of water and an empty glass at his elbow. Quinn filled the glass slowly to give himself time to recover. He sipped the water until he felt his composure return.

“I'm relatively new to the bench. I suspect that's why I was assigned your case. You sat in another county, our contacts have been few. Most of what I know about you I have learned during this sentencing hearing. As I said, I'm new to the bench, but I suspect that I may never have to make a more difficult decision than the one I will make today.”

In front of Quinn were notes he had made in his chambers the night before. He consulted them for a moment.

“Judge Gideon, some of the finest people in this state have spoken on your behalf and your lawyer has been eloquent in his plea for leniency, but there is a
presence that speaks more eloquently than any of your lawyers or your witnesses. It is this courtroom with its high ceilings, marble floors and walls of dark wood. This courtroom reminds me of the dignity and majesty of the law and it speaks to the duties of a judge.”

Gideon's head hung down and he stared at the top of the counsel table.

“We have a code of judicial conduct in Oregon. It forbids judges to commit criminal acts or engage in fraudulent conduct. You would expect that. But it also says that judges have to act honorably not just because fraudulent and criminal acts are forbidden by law but because acting at all times in an honorable way promotes public confidence in our judges and our courts.”