Witness for the Defense (6 page)

“Lieutenant,” Sarah said, “what’s this all about?”

“We’re here to arrest him.”

I had to toss in my two cents. “Do you have a warrant?”

“And who in the hell are you?”

“Hunter Dobbs.”

The lieutenant started laughing. “It’s been a while, Dobbs,” he said. “I thought you were with the P.D.’s office. Aren’t you supposed to be helping put the scum of San Francisco back on the streets?”

Finally I realized who he was. I should have recognized him sooner. It was the mustache that fooled me. At least six years had passed since I’d last seen him. William McBean had been a homicide detective for the San Francisco Police Department. He’d disappeared—right after I proved he’d beaten a confession out of one of my clients.

I wasn’t about to back down from this gorilla. With my phoniest smile, I said, “And are you still making sure the innocent get convicted?”

Scowling, McBean turned back to Sarah, who appeared confused. “Are you going to tell us where Reineer is or will I have to tear this place apart to find him?”

I stepped forward to help, but Sarah firmly placed her hand against my chest.

“Who do you think you are?” she said to McBean.

“Someone doing his job.”

“And I’m sure your job doesn’t include harassing innocent people.” Sarah stepped right up to his face. “Now, if you have official business on my father’s property, then you had better make sure it is transacted according to the letter of the law.”

McBean was momentarily taken aback by the young beauty challenging him.

“Unless you have a warrant,” she continued, “I suggest you leave this property immediately.”

She had to be irritating the hell out of him. His bullying tactics weren’t working. I was mightily impressed.

McBean pulled a document from his coat pocket. “Here’s the arrest warrant,” he said, handing Sarah a stapled document. “The second page is a search warrant for the guest house and a black 1956 Chevrolet, California license number JYT076.”

After reading what McBean had given her, Sarah turned to me with a pensive look. “It says the charges are kidnapping and child molestation.”

“That’s correct,” McBean said. “The victim is a ten-year-old named Danny Barton. I wanted the D.A. to file attempted murder, but unless we get additional information, that will have to do.”

Sarah handed the document back to the detective. “I’d say it’s enough.”

“You better believe it,” Jamison chirped. “Kidnapping carries a life sentence. Now we won’t have to worry about seeing that derelict’s sorry ass hanging around this county anymore.”

McBean shook his head at the rookie cop’s remark. “What about backup?”

“Be here any minute,” Jamison replied.

I heard rustling from the treeline at the edge of the field.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Avery Harris shouted as he emerged from the trees with a scraggly, middle-aged man following closely behind. Both were carrying machetes.

McBean and Jamison drew their guns. “Freeze,” the lieutenant yelled.

The judge continued to walk straight ahead. “I will do nothing of the sort.”

The two cops pushed the judge aside and charged the other man. With a confused look, the man raised the machete over his head.

“Drop it, Reineer, or I’ll blow your head off!” McBean yelled. Both he and Jamison stood with their revolvers pointed directly at the man’s face.

Sarah rushed to intervene. “Do what the lieutenant says, Jared. Please, put it down.”

The man held his free hand out to the judge. He wanted an explanation.

“They have a warrant for your arrest,” Sarah said without taking her eyes off him.

“Kidnapping and child molest,” Jamison yelled as the gun shook violently in his hand.

The man glanced over his shoulder like he was thinking about making a run for it. He had retreated several steps when I heard the firing pins on both guns click back.

“Jared!” the judge shouted. “Put the damn thing down!”

The man’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two cops, then settled on the judge. Finally, the machete fell to his side. Jamison rushed him while McBean kicked the machete out of reach. In a matter of seconds, his arms were yanked behind his back and handcuffed.

“He’s not resisting,” the judge said when Jamison dragged him toward the black-and-white.

Jared let out a scream.

“You don’t have to hurt him!” Sarah yelled, but both cops ignored her and roughly ushered Jared into the patrol car, slamming his head against the top of the door as they threw him inside.

McBean walked over to Sarah with a satisfied grin. “Now we’re going to take him down to the station. And that,” he said, pointing to a tow truck driving up the driveway, “is going to hook up the black sedan. Several deputies should be here any second to search the guest house. Are there any questions?”

“I want to talk to my client,” Sarah said.

“We’re booking him, and then I need to see whether he wants to talk to us first.”

“I can tell you now,” she said with authority, “I don’t want him talking to you. At least not until I’ve discussed it with him first.”

“I understand, Miss Harris.”

“I’ll bet,” she said.

McBean grinned like the cat who just ate the family parakeet. “I’ll be in touch.” As the two cops turned back to their car, they noticed that the judge’s head was inside the driver’s side door. He was saying something to Jared.

“Get the hell out of there,” Jamison yelled.

As the two sheriffs rushed forward, the judge turned to them. “Mr. Reineer is exercising his right to remain silent.”

Jamison grabbed the judge by the arm and pulled him. Suddenly, a second patrol car turned off the highway and sped up the driveway, stopping next to McBean, who said something to the driver while pointing at the guest house.

“What did you say to Jared?” Sarah asked her father.

“Nothing much.” He grinned. “Just made him promise he would keep his mouth shut until you had a chance to talk to him.”

“I hope he understood.”

“He did,” the judge said. “But you better get down there and make sure they don’t talk him out of it.”

Sarah turned to walk to her car, then stopped as if she had just remembered something. “I’m sorry, Hunter. Is it all right if I call you tomorrow?”

I quickly stepped aside to get out of the way of McBean’s car as it headed toward the highway with Jared. As it passed, McBean gave me a face-wide grin from the passenger seat. That was when it hit me. Sarah hadn’t done enough criminal work to handle a snake like McBean. She had no idea what he was capable of. But I did.

“No way,” I said. “I’m going with you.”

Chapter 6

Sarah turned her gold Lexus onto what used to be old Highway 101 as we entered downtown Ukiah. The largest town in the county is a mix of the old and the new. Fast-food joints and modern gas-station-convenience stores share frontage with sun-faded lapboard housing dating back to the turn of the century.

Along the sidewalks in the business district, old-timers in overalls linger amongst younger, long-sleeved businessmen. Here and there are a smattering of 1960s hippies who escaped Haight-Ashbury when San Francisco no longer wanted them. Their ponytailed hair and beards now graying, they are an accepted part of the community mix.

We pulled up in front of the Mendocino County sheriff’s station, a small three-story redbrick building with filigreed wooden fringe surrounding the roof line. What I saw next, I wasn’t expecting.

It had been scarcely more than an hour since Jared was arrested, and already dozens of reporters were at the station’s entrance, jockeying for the best position. The kidnapping of a young boy wouldn’t make a three-inch story in the metro section of the San Francisco Chronicle. But in a small community, where a traffic stop is a newsworthy event, Jared’s arrest would be tomorrow’s front-page headline.

Sarah had changed into a tight-fitting suit with a soft leather bag slung over her shoulder. She pushed her way to the main door, and I followed close behind. Except for its smaller size, the station wasn’t much different from the many I’d frequented throughout San Francisco County. Within its institutional brick walls was the same deep-soaked stench of piss and body odor that buckets of disinfectant couldn’t wash away.

Sarah and I both knew that McBean was likely inside trying to trick anything he could out of Jared. Once he was booked and fingerprinted, McBean would settle Jared into the interrogation room. He’d offer a cup of coffee and a cigarette and start sympathizing. Then McBean or one of the other sly coppers would tell him that they were just there to “clear up a few things.”

The sergeant at the front was fumbling through his paperwork, looking bored out of his skull. He was a red-faced mongrel with a graying mustache that had overgrown his mouth. As he drank coffee from a Styrofoam cup, the droplets that remained on his hairy upper lip fell on the paper below.

Sarah let her heels click heavily on the tiled floor to let him know she was coming. He looked up as she approached.

“I’m here to see Jared Reineer,” she said with the faintest of smiles. “I’m his lawyer.”

“He’s busy right now.”

“But McBean is expecting me.”

“You’ll have to wait.” He lowered his head back to his paperwork. “I’m sure he’ll be busy for some time.”

“I don’t care,” she started to say when a voice from behind cut her off.

“Hey, Fillmore,” McBean called out, “is there some kind of problem?”

Sarah quickly jumped on the lieutenant. “I want to see my client.”

“Counselor, I’ll be the one to decide when you can talk to him.”

Sarah threw her arms in the air in a display of disgust.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “The law is clear. Unless Reineer asks to speak to you, I can proceed with my questioning. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Sarah stepped toward the arrogant veteran. The hard look in her eyes made him stand up straighter. I was sure it was the “sweetheart” remark that did it. “And you better make sure you advise him of that.”

McBean grinned. “I have.”

Sarah took a deep breath. She was up against someone who had heard it all before. I was tempted to jump into the fray, but unfortunately, McBean was right. The attorney doesn’t decide whether or not their client can be interviewed; the client does. The cops know that and use it to their advantage as soon as they get the suspect alone.

“I’m sure he doesn’t understand,” Sarah said. “My father told me he has received monthly aid from the military for some kind of mental disability.”

“He and a million other druggies the damn liberals are letting milk the system,” McBean spat back. “That doesn’t mean squat to me.”

I couldn’t keep silent any longer. “You know, McBean, what any of us think really doesn’t matter. What if he does have some kind of mental disorder and you won’t let him talk to his attorney?”

“Dobbs, you’re the last person I need to spout the law to me. I asked him if he wanted to talk to an attorney, and he said no. That’s all I need. I don’t care if an army of you ambulance chasers show up.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

“I think the judge who eventually hears this case might,” I said, “and if he doesn’t, I’m sure the jury will.”

He looked over at Fillmore, who shrugged. I suspected McBean was weakening.

“A retired Superior Court judge informed you back at the farm that Mr. Reineer was exercising his right to remain silent.”

McBean shrugged. “So he changed his mind.”

“A jury won’t buy that. Especially when they find out your propensity for coercing confessions out of perfectly innocent people.”

I regretted the remark as it came out of my mouth.

McBean let go of the door and stepped quickly toward me. “You’ll always be a jerk, Dobbs.”

Sarah grabbed my arm and stepped between us.

We all stood silently looking at each other. The distant moan of an inmate broke the silence.

“I believe if he’s interrogated without my permission it will only create problems for you later,” Sarah finally said.

McBean started to say something, but she cut him off. “By interviewing him now, you run the risk of not being able to use what he tells you. If that’s the case, then what do you have to gain? Just let me talk to him first.”

McBean sneered. “So you can tell him what to say.”

Sarah took a deep breath. It was obvious to both of us that we were getting nowhere trying to bully him. “I would never do that,” she said in a soft, polite tone.

McBean, surprised by Sarah’s change in demeanor, looked over at Fillmore again. The sergeant’s head was lowered as he scribbled something on a form in front of him. Knowing McBean, he didn’t want to make it look like the young attorney had gotten the best of him.

“Look,” Sarah persisted, “you and Mr. Dobbs have obviously had your past differences, but I hope that won’t influence a decision you may regret later. If after I talk to my client, I believe his best option is to speak to you, even if what he says amounts to a confession, then I’ll recommend it. Doesn’t that happen all the time? A suspect confesses in exchange for a reasonable disposition. Maybe I can help you put a big red bow on this case. What do you have to lose?”

McBean sighed and gave me one last look of disgust. “All right,” he said and opened the door. I’ll give the two of you twenty minutes.”

McBean escorted us down a poorly lit hallway to a small alcove. Two uniformed cops were sprawled out on swivel chairs behind an old beat-up desk, sipping coffee and laughing it up. Both eyeballed Sarah as we neared them, their tongues all but lolling out of their heads.

“I’ll need a copy of the police report,” Sarah said to McBean.

“Hold on to your skirt, Counselor. You’ll get one in due time.”

Sarah glared at him. “I understand,” she said. “But I can’t recommend anything unless I’m familiar with the evidence.”

McBean knew he had nothing to lose because the D.A. would give her a copy before court anyway. Besides, he was probably hoping Sarah would get Jared to confess in time for the evening newscast.

“All right.” McBean pulled a several-page document from the desk drawer and handed it to Sarah as we walked down the hall to where Jared was being held. With a heavy brass key he unlocked the large steel door and swung it open. “Just make sure you tell him the D.A. will make it worth his while.”