Violent Crimes (2 page)

Tom Beatty didn't say a word during the walk from Amanda's office, and Christine didn't break the silence until they were ready to pass through the revolving doors that opened into the lobby of the forty-story, glass-and-steel building that housed the Masterson, Hamilton law offices.

“Look, I know you probably don't want to do this, Tom, but I think we should tell Dale Masterson you were arrested.”

Beatty tensed, and Christine laid a comforting hand on his forearm.

“Amanda is going to have her investigator talk to the witnesses at the bar. If they back up your version of the facts, she thinks she'll have a good chance of getting the DA to drop the case. In the worst-case scenario, she thinks she'll have an excellent chance of winning at trial on a theory of self-defense. I'll tell Dale what Amanda said.”

Beatty looked sick. “I really need this job, Christine. I feel very comfortable here.”

“If you hide the arrest and someone finds out it will look bad. You know the old saw about honesty being the best policy? I think you'll be much better off if we tell Dale what happened.”

Fifteen minutes later, Christine and Tom were ushered into Dale Masterson's large corner office, where floor-to-ceiling windows gave them a view of the river and the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood. The firm's founding partner was tall and patrician-looking, with a Roman nose, clear blue eyes, and styled gray hair.

“What's up?” he asked Christine when she and Tom were seated in the client chairs across from his desk. Christine sat up straight, looking confident and poised. Tom's shoulders hunched and he looked down at the desktop.

“Tom was arrested last night,” Christine said.

Masterson frowned.

“I brought him to see Amanda Jaffe this morning,” Christine added quickly. “We just came from her office. Tom was watching a ball game in a neighborhood bar when one of the patrons started a fight with him. Amanda told me that there is a good chance the DA won't bring charges if witnesses support Tom's version of what happened. But he thought you should know about the arrest.”

Masterson nodded. “I'm glad you told me, Tom. I can see you're worried, but you needn't be. I'm not going to do a thing until your case is resolved.”

Masterson smiled. “The first thing they drummed into our heads in Criminal Procedure was the rule that every citizen who is arrested for a crime is presumed innocent. I'd be a pretty poor lawyer if I prejudged your case. So don't worry.”

Tom exhaled and sat up straight. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate this. My job means a lot to me.”

“Christine has had very good things to say about how you're doing. Take care of this matter and fill me in when the case is over.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said again as he and Christine stood up.

“Christine, stay a minute. I have something I want you to do.”

Christine sat down as Tom left. When the door closed behind him, Masterson focused on his junior partner.

“What I'm going to tell you is extremely confidential. We can't afford to let one word leak about it.”

“I understand,” Christine said, suddenly nervous.

“Global Mining is dissatisfied with its legal representation. A few weeks ago, we were approached by a representative of the company, and we are currently involved in secret discussions with them.”

Masterson paused to give Christine a moment to take in what he had just said. Global Mining was one of the largest coal mining enterprises in America, and the firm would earn millions in legal fees if it became the corporation's legal representative.

“You are aware that we had a rough go of it a few years back when the recession hit, and Francis and Striker decided to drop our firm and go with in-house counsel?” Masterson continued.

Christine nodded. The high-tech company had been one of the firm's largest clients, and Masterson, Hamilton had lost a large chunk of revenue when Francis and Striker walked away after a dispute over legal fees.

“Global has heard rumors about our financial situation, and these concerns are the only thing standing in the way of their
hiring our firm. We've had an independent auditor go over our books and he's written a report that accurately states our financial position. I'd like you to review the report and present the findings when we meet with Global's people in a few weeks.”

“I appreciate your confidence, but why do you want me to give the report? Surely you or Mr. Hamilton could do that.”

Masterson smiled. “I'm glad you think so, but Mark and I are litigators and negotiators. We don't have your knowledge of tax and financial matters.”

Christine sat up straighter. She was being let in on a major negotiation, and she knew that carrying out her task to the firm's benefit would advance her career.

“Thanks for having confidence in me,” she said.

“You've earned our confidence. I'll have the auditor's report and anything else you need sent over to you. Oh, and you were right to bring Beatty to me. He's got great legal counsel in Jaffe, and I'm sure she'll ease him through his problems.”

As soon as Amanda had seen Christine and Tom Beatty out, she walked down the hall toward the office of Kate Ross, the firm's in-house investigator. As she walked, she thought about what Tom Beatty was going through. Amanda was no stranger to post-traumatic stress disorder. Several years ago, she had been taken prisoner by “The Surgeon,” a serial killer. Amanda had escaped unharmed physically, but the trauma had left psychic scars. PTSD was terrible and crippling. For the most part, Amanda was okay now, but what she had endured at the hands of The Surgeon had lasted only a few minutes. She could not imagine what it would be like to face the horrors of war, over and over.

Kate Ross was five seven, and her dark complexion, large brown eyes, and curly black hair made her look vaguely Middle Eastern. Today, she was wearing tight jeans, a man-tailored white shirt, and a navy blue blazer. Kate had been a Portland cop before she had gone to work as a private investigator for Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton, Portland's largest law firm.
While at Reed, Briggs, Kate had asked Amanda to represent Daniel Ames, a young associate at the firm who was charged with murder. After Kate and Amanda cleared Daniel's name, Kate and Daniel had become lovers and had joined Amanda's firm.

“We have a new client,” Amanda said as she took a seat.

“What's the case?”

“A simple assault. Our guy goes into a bar . . .”

“This sounds like an old joke.”

“That's a rabbi, a priest, and a Buddhist monk. And get serious.”

Kate held up her hands. “My bad. Continue, Bwana.”

“Tom Beatty—our client—was seated on a stool watching a baseball game at the Lookout . . .”

“I know where that is.”

“I figured you might. Anyway, Tom says that everyone was jammed together. There was a big play. Harold Roux, who was seated next to our client, jumped up and threw out his arms, knocking over Tom's beer. Roux got sopping wet and blamed our client. Tom apologized, but that wasn't enough for Mr. Roux and he threw a punch.”

“So our guy is saying it was self-defense?”

Amanda nodded. “But we may have a problem. Our client was a Navy SEAL and he saw combat in Afghanistan and Iraq. He won't talk about what he did but I have the impression it was heavy-duty stuff. The problem for Harold Roux is that Mr. Beatty knows how to defend himself and, he grudgingly admitted, he's very good at it.”

“What happened to Roux?”

“He's in the hospital.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa.”

“How bad are the injuries?” Kate asked.

“That's for you to find out. Get the police reports and go to the Lookout and see if you can find someone who saw the fight.”

The Lookout was an old neighborhood hangout on the far corner of a three-block strip of quaint, trendy boutiques, art galleries, and restaurants running through a middle-class residential neighborhood in Southeast Portland. Kate walked into the dark interior at four, when she figured the bar would be less crowded. A trio of young men were sipping beers and eating burgers at a table. Near the back, a young couple snuggled in a booth, laughing and talking in the low tones used by new lovers. Two locals sat at the bar, eyes glued to a baseball game that was showing on a TV that hung from the ceiling.

The bartender was fortyish, bald, and potbellied. He was mopping up a spill at the end of the bar near the door when Kate sat down in front of him.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“A Black Butte Porter would be nice,” Kate said.

When the bartender returned with an ice-cold bottle and a glass, Kate flashed her credentials.

“My name is Kate Ross and I'm an investigator.”

The bartender smiled. “I thought you guys couldn't drink on duty.”

Kate smiled back. “That's cops. I'm private, Mr. . . .”

“Bob—Bob Reynolds. So what can I do for you?”

“I'm working for the attorney who's representing Tom Beatty. He was involved in a fight here last night.”

“They charged him?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, yeah. That asshole Harold Roux started it, and he threw the first punch.”

“So you saw the whole thing?”

“Most of it, and I'm not likely to forget it.”

“Why is that?”

“Outside of one of those kung fu movies, I never saw anything like it.” The bartender shook his head. “Tom's been in here a couple of times. He keeps to himself, watches the game, then leaves. Never causes any trouble. So I didn't figure him for a guy who could fight like that.”

“Can you walk me through the fight from the beginning?”

“Harold and Tom were next to each other on stools at the bar.”

“What's Harold like?”

“He's a loudmouth, one of those guys who peaked in high school. I think he was an all-district lineman or something because he knows
everything
about football, if you know what I mean.”

Kate nodded. “If he played on the line, he must be much bigger than Tom.”

“Oh, yeah, but the weight's mostly fat.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He delivers beer to supermarkets, drives a truck.”

“Okay, so what happened?” Kate asked.

“I was at one end of the bar when I heard Harold yell. He sounded angry, so I turned around. Harold stepped back from the bar and glared at Tom while he wiped beer off his shirt. I walked over because I know Harold and I thought there might be trouble.

“Anyway, everyone backs away and Tom tells Harold he's
sorry. Harold said, ‘Sorry won't cut it,' so Tom offered to buy him a beer. Harold says, ‘What about my shirt? You gonna buy me a new one?' Tom just stared at him. I could see his face close up. When Tom didn't answer, Harold said something like, ‘Well, asshole? I'm talking to you,' and when Tom still didn't say anything Harold hauled off and started to throw this big roundhouse punch. A second later he's flat on his back, screaming. His nose was broke but Tom did something to his leg too, only it was so fast I couldn't be sure what he did.”

“You're certain Harold was the aggressor and threw the first punch?”

“Definitely!”

“Would you be willing to sign an affidavit that sets out what you just told me?” Kate asked.

“They arrested Tom?”

Kate nodded. “He spent the night in jail.”

“That's ridiculous. I'll definitely sign an affidavit. And the beer is on me.”

The Veterans Administration hospital was located off Southwest Terwilliger Boulevard high up on one of the hills that overlooked downtown Portland. A week after taking on Tom Beatty's case Amanda Jaffe entered the office of Dr. Martin Fisher armed with a waiver signed by her client that authorized the psychiatrist to talk openly with Amanda about Tom Beatty's medical problems.

Dr. Fisher was a tall, angular African-American with high cheekbones, a wide forehead, and dark brown eyes that appraised Amanda through thick tortoiseshell glasses. His office was typical government issue: a gray, gunmetal filing cabinet, cheap wooden bookshelves stuffed with medical tomes, and an old scarred desk that had probably been doing duty since World War II. The dull green walls were decorated with university and medical school diplomas as well as photographs of the doctor in uniform nestled among other soldiers in some tropical setting. From the doctor's salt–and-pepper hair, Amanda guessed the photo might have been taken in Vietnam.

“Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Fisher,” Amanda said. “I'm representing Tom Beatty, one of your patients. He's been charged with assault growing out of a bar fight. My investigator interviewed several witnesses and they all say that Mr. Beatty did not start the fight and was defending himself against a man named Harold Roux, who is much bigger than Tom.”

“Then why do you need to talk to me?” Dr. Fisher asked.

“Roux is in the hospital with some pretty bad injuries. I'm afraid that the district attorney may take the position that regardless of who started the fight, Tom used way more force than was necessary under the circumstances. Tom says you've been treating him for post-traumatic stress disorder, and I thought it might have some bearing on the way he reacted.”

“It might,” Dr. Fisher said.

“Can you tell me about Tom's military service and how he developed PTSD?”

“I can tell you that he was a Navy SEAL, but I'm not authorized to tell you the details of Tom's missions even with a release, except to say that he was involved in serious combat operations.”

“Okay, I'll accept that. But he has developed PTSD as a result of his military service?”

“Yes.”

“Under Oregon law a person acting in self-defense can use a degree of force he reasonably believes is necessary for the purpose,” Amanda said. “Roux's knee was shattered, his nose was broken, and his shoulder was dislocated in a matter of seconds. I need to know if you think Tom's response was overkill or the reasonable use of force, given the circumstances, Tom's training, and his PTSD.”

“Tell me the facts surrounding the fight.”

Dr. Fisher listened closely while Amanda laid out the story that Kate Ross had pieced together. When she was finished, he stared into space for a while. Then he refocused on the attorney.

“Roux is much bigger than Tom?” he asked.

“He's several inches taller and outweighs him by fifty pounds or more.”

“And they were in very close quarters?”

“Yes. Could his condition have influenced the way he reacted to Roux's provocation?”

“That's a definite possibility,” Dr. Fisher said. “People suffering from PTSD can be more irritable and impulsive than someone without the problem. It would be reasonable to assume that Tom might not take as long to think about how to react to a punch as a person without PTSD. Then you factor in that Tom was not just in the military—he was in an elite fighting unit. This could have a bearing.”

“How so?” Amanda asked.

“Elite forces like the Navy SEALs, Green Berets, and Delta Force work mostly in secret and they are frontline troops sent time and again into the most dangerous and violent sections of war zones. Elite forces are trained to take care of problems with overwhelming force. In combat, you kill. There is no mercy because, in addition to defending yourself, you have to look out for the people in your unit and eliminate any threats to your comrades. From what you've told me, Tom kept striking Roux until he was convinced that no threat existed. This would fit with his training. Civilians who are not used to being in fights would be hesitant to
strike someone, and loath to hurt someone they've struck. Tom would have none of those restraints. Given his background and the circumstances of the attack, I would say that it was entirely reasonable for someone with Tom's condition and training to act as he did.”