how much I resented the guilt I'd felt all day about last night, to
tell him he could keep his supposed apology. It only served to raise
the issue again in a whole new light. But I didn't want to say
anything that I'd regret.
Instead, I kept a measured voice. "Dad, I told you before that the MCU
is where I want to be. That means I'll be dealing with bad guys, and
if some of them happen to be important and influential, so be it. In
fact, I would think that you'd prefer me to prosecute the
privileged."
"I obviously didn't do very well getting my point across. I was trying
to explain what my worries had been, but that I know that you're going
to be better than I was at handling the pressures that might come with
a case like this."
"Oh, come on, Dad. You know that's not true."
"No," he said, "you said it last night I hung up OSP."
"You were in a different situation. You had a wife, a child." He
shook his head, and I could tell he wanted me to drop the pep talk. "I
was old enough to remember what it was like. Mom was pressuring you
"
I stopped mid-sentence when I saw the look on his face. It was clear
I'd said something wrong.
"I'm not sure what you think you remember, sweetheart, but your mother
never pressured me."
"Dad, it's OK. It doesn't make me think any less of her. She was
worried about you getting hurt."
"Sam, just stop it. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then why did you leave OSP?" I asked. Once again, this conversation
was getting us nowhere.
"I don't want to talk about it. Let's get dinner started."
Everyone close to me Grace, Chuck, Roger (back in the day) has always
complained that I change the subject when the going gets rough. I
guess it runs in the family.
"Not yet. I want to know what this is about. You're upset, and it
apparently has something to do with why you moved over to the forest
service."
"I promised I would support you in your job, and I'm going to keep my
promise. Let's just leave it at that."
"Dad, I remember you and Mom arguing right around when you changed
jobs. It was the only time you did argue, in fact. You tried to keep
it from me, but I'd hear you in your room "
He laughed. "If you think we didn't argue over the years, we kept it
from you better than we thought."
"Thick walls," I said, knocking on the one behind me. He was changing
the subject again, and not very convincingly either. My parents'
marriage had been as solid as they come. Even before I made the
mistake of walking down the aisle of doom with Roger, I'd known that
we'd never come close.
Whatever was going on now, I could prod Dad all night and he would
still never budge. So I grabbed a bag of vegetables from the counter
and began chopping.
By the time Chuck arrived, the salad was tossed and the salmon was
broiled. After pumping palms, slapping backs, and a few other male
welcoming rituals, he found me in the kitchen, took one look at the
pink fish, and whispered in my ear, "If I swear you're not fat, can we
please have some steak?"
The man knew me so well. "I'm in no condition to run after this
evening, so the least we can do is eat something healthy."
"What was this evening?" Dad called out from the living room. "Must
have been big to keep you from running."
Chuck winked and mouthed the word big at me.
I rolled my eyes. "No more work talk tonight." I put dinner on the
table, and for the next two hours we talked about Hawaii, my dad's
computer, movies, and politics. We made it through the conversation
with no shootings, no bodies, no demons from the past just three normal
people sharing a meal.
As ten o'clock approached, Dad clicked on the local news, and I moved
to the kitchen to take on the dishes.
As the familiar staccato theme song faded out, I heard an anchor
report: "In our top story tonight, new developments in the
investigation into the death of Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Find out
why her husband is railing against the Portland Police Bureau." I ran
into the living room just in time to catch: "But first, Morley
Rutherford's going to tell us what we can expect in the way of weather
tomorrow. Morley?"
I resisted the urge to throw my sudsy sponge at Morley Rutherford's fat
freckled head while he droned on with his entirely predictable
springtime weather report. Why not kick off the news with an
announcement that the earths going to rotate tomorrow?
Once Morley wrapped up with his seven-day graphic of clouds and
showers, the camera finally cut back to the anchor. "At a surprise
news conference held just moments ago, the husband of slain judge
Clarissa Easterbrook accused the Portland Police Bureau of focusing the
investigation on him rather than looking for the real killer."
The footage cut to Townsend at a podium in front of his house. "When I
learned yesterday that some monster had killed my beloved Clarissa" his
voice broke and his hands trembled, but he continued to read from the
statement in front of him "I thought that nothing in the world could
ever be worse than at that moment. But the course of the Portland
Police Bureaus investigation has convinced me that there is a more
horrific possibility, and that would be if the person or people
responsible for her death were not brought to justice. The police tell
me they have no suspects in my wife's death, but they spent hours in
our home with a search warrant, interrogated our friends looking for
problems that did not exist in our marriage, and asked me to take a
polygraph examination, suggesting that they would not be able to
investigate other suspects fully until I proved my innocence. So that
is why I am standing here tonight.
"I have not even buried my wife" he wiped away a tear and swallowed but
kept his eyes on his notes "and I am here in front of cameras, forced
to deny something that is inconceivable to me. I did not and could not
ever hurt Clarissa."
The words themselves were no different from the typical denials always
issued in these cases, some truthful, some not. A bet placed at this
point in the game would reflect nothing but hunch. That Townsend was
seeking to tip those odds became clear when a familiar face replaced
his at the podium.
I shushed Chuck and my father. Their outraged comments were drowning
out the voice I had hoped never to hear again. "Good evening. My name
is Roger Kirkpatrick."
My ex-husband hadn't aged. It was probably a deal with the devil. He
had the same short preppy haircut he'd worn in New York, before his
commitment to a "freer" lifestyle in Oregon had caused him to grow his
brown curls into what I had called the Doogie Howser look.
He proceeded to announce that he and his firm, Dunn Simon, had been
retained by Townsend Easterbrook to oversee a team of private
investigators and to help ensure that the police sought out the real
killers instead of
harassing the victim's family and friends. Then he
went for broke.
"To satisfy the police department's baseless suspicions, Dr.
Easterbrook submitted voluntarily this afternoon to a polygraph
examination administered by retired FBI agent Jim Thornton, a
recognized expert in the field. Agent Thornton has certified," he
said, holding up a paper I assumed was an affidavit from Thornton,
"that Dr. Easterbrook's answers were truthful. He had nothing
whatsoever to do with his wife's death, and the police have wasted
precious time by doubting him. No one should have to prove his own
innocence, but Dr. Easterbrook has. Now it's time for the Portland
Police Bureau to join the search for justice by finding whoever is
responsible for this terrible loss."
Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, Roger was gone, replaced by the
anchor. "Dr. Easterbrook's attorney concluded his remarks by saying
that his firm had begun its own investigation and would share its work
with law enforcement."
"The only thing he knows how to share is his diAs furious as I was, the
natural instinct to behave in front of my father silenced me. I
couldn't even hit the mute button, thanks to my ridiculous yellow
rubber gloves. I gave up, threw the remote on the sofa, and headed
into the kitchen to exchange the gloves for something more helpful.
By the time I had sucked down half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I
was ready to talk again, but Chuck and my father had already covered
all the bases: Why hadn't Townsend gone through the police? A surprise
press conference only creates more conflict. Just how legit was this
polygraph? Depends on the questions, the equipment, and the
administrator. And, the doozy of the night, why the hell had Townsend
hired Shoe Boy? He doesn't even practice criminal law. Did Townsend
know his new attorney was my ex-husband? Surely Roger would have told
him.
I figured since they'd finished all the objective analysis, I could
jump to the part that was anything but. "You know what? He wins. I'm
off the case. I'm telling Frist tomorrow."
My father said nothing. Neither did Chuck.
Fine, I'd do the pep talk myself. No, self, I said in my head, you
need to finish what you started. Don't let him get the best of you.
Act like a professional. Then the coach in me found a winning theme,
one that deserved to be spoken aloud: "You know, what if Townsend
actually did it? Imagine Roger and me in trial together."
Chuck put his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe it's best if you did recuse
yourself."
"Forget it. I'm not letting him chase me off my own case." When I
beat Roger during our first-year moot trial competition at Stanford, he
attributed the win to the side slit in my skirt. I should have known
to stay away. Handing him his ass in trial (and in pants) would be
sweet satisfaction.
My dad was noticeably quiet. As Chuck carried his coffee mug into the
kitchen, I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. So?
"It's up to you, Sam. I'll support you either way."
"But, what about "
"Unh-unh. Don't use this to revisit what we put to rest earlier. This
is about you and your case, not me." When he turned the television
back on, I knew I wasn't getting any further with him, so I tried my
luck in the kitchen with Chuck.
As I hugged him from behind, my pager buzzed. He felt it too.
"Duty calls, counselor."
I recognized the number as MCT's. No doubt it was Johnson breaking the
news about the press conference. He could wait a few minutes.
"What's going on with you? You got awfully quiet in there."
"Nothing's going on." He kept his back to me.
"What are you upset about?"
"It's fine, Samantha. Don't worry about it."
Samantha? Chuck's got plenty of names for me: Kincaid, Sam, Sammy,
babe, the list goes on. But Samantha? Things were not fine. "Is this
about Roger? You can't possibly be jealous."
"See, I knew you'd turn it into that, Sam. That's why I wasn't going
to say anything. Suddenly I'm an overbearing jealous pig with
testosterone poisoning."
"Not quite that bad. More like a piglet." He didn't laugh.
"Seriously, Chuck, what's going on?"
"Johnson and Walker are doing all the legwork on this case, and Mike
and I are stuck on the sidelines because of what I've got going with
you. Don't get me wrong; I don't have a problem with that. But now
that Roger's involved, maybe you should at least consider the
possibility that you should be the one to step aside."
My pager buzzed again. Johnson was probably waiting for my call before
"I did. You were sitting right there. The first thing I said was I'm
off the case. Now I think I should stay on it. There will be plenty
of cases you work that will go to another DA. Who knows? Maybe we'll
even decide it's all right to work together."
"Why do you say it that way: Who knows? Like it's so crazy for us both
to work a case? How come you trust your judgment going against your
ex-husband, but you can't be on the same team with me?"
More buzzing. "Honestly? Because my ex-husband's an asshole, and
dealing with assholes is pretty much what I do for a living. You, my
dear, are dangerous for a whole different reason," I said, leaning
close. "I don't always think straight when it conics to you."
He placed his hands on my shoulders and smiled, then pushed a strand of
hair behind my right ear. "Consider me assuaged, Kincaid," he said,
kissing my earlobe. "Now call whoever the hell's been paging you. You
think I haven't notice you staring down at that thing?"
Johnson picked up on the first ring. "I got a call from the husband's
lawyer. We fucked up big-time. I need you to sign a warrant on Melvin
Jackson."
Portland's one of those towns that shuts down at 10 p.m. My Jetta was
one of the few cars on the Morrison Bridge, and I walked into MCT ten
minutes after I left my father's.
Johnson was standing at the printer, proofreading pages as they
spooled. "This is just about done. The search is for his apartment,
and he's also got a Dodge Caravan registered to him."
"Back up. What the hell's going on?"
"The husband's people dug up something we missed. They're back there,"
he said, gesturing to an interview room down the hall.
"They're here?"
Then, with his usual spot-on timing, my ex-husband walked into the
room. "Detective, I oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. You're
looking well, Samantha."
"I know." My worn-out Harvard T-shirt and jeans didn't make the best
ensemble for our first post-divorce face-to-face, but confidence is the
ultimate accessory.
He, on the other hand, hadn't changed out of the suit he'd worn for the
press conference. And, sure enough, close up, I was able to confirm
it: the red power tie was the one I'd placed in his stocking on our
last Christmas together.
"No introductions necessary, I see," Johnson said.
"Samantha and I went to law s
chool together "
"And were briefly in the same marriage," I added.
Johnson looked amused, and Roger seemed uncomfortable. Score.
"I'm at Dunn Simon now, Samantha. I wasn't sure if you'd heard."
"Saw it on the news, in fact, about half an hour ago." I couldn't
stomach letting him know I'd read about his move from Nike to the
Portland powerhouse firm in the Oregon State Bar bulletin a year ago.
"The firm made me an offer I couldn't refuse," he boasted.
"From what I remember, Roger, there weren't a lot of offers you could
refuse."
"Nice to see you haven't changed."
"Nope, but apparently you have," I shot back. I just couldn't help
myself. "I wasn't aware that Dunn Simon was in the criminal law
business."
"It's not, but Townsend Easterbrook's not a criminal. He's the
attending surgeon at OHSU, another one of our clients. He doesn't need
a defense attorney. He needs someone to dig for evidence, and no one
does that better than a civil litigator."
Johnson saved us from what was about to turn into a Dunn Simon
marketing speech. "Well, alright-y, then. Glad the two of you could
catch up. I was just telling Samantha that you preferred to wait until
the DA had signed off on the warrant."