knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated. "The more I
pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get
off this case. Then we both realized we weren't getting anywhere."
"You Kincaids are a stubborn people. What did someone put in the water
supply at that house?"
"Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula."
"You should try to talk to him about it again. But in the end, Sam, if
he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that."
"I know. Honestly? I think the reason I haven't talked to him since
then is that I don't want to see that look on his face again. It's
like he was ashamed of something. Seeing that was absolutely horrible.
I thought I was going to lose it."
The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father.
I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.
It was Slip.
"Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I spent my entire day
down at Inverness trying to see Melvin. And people wonder why defense
attorneys hardly speak to their clients."
"So, what'd you find out?"
"Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me. He's never seen the
old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the
paint."
"How good was the ID? And no puffing. You know I'm out on a limb."
"The truth? It could've been stronger. But it was probably just as
good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for
the courtroom."
Jackson hadn't ruled Minkins out. If he was high up enough with
Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup. If,
of course, there was a setup.
"Anything else?"
"My investigator's got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc.
I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out
of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list.
And speaking of total idiots, that's what I felt like when Jackson
asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn't say
anything. Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse
groupies, why don't you let me in on the secret."
"Hold on a second." I made it look like I needed something from my
desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn't overhear. "Got anything up
your sleeve for court tomorrow?"
He laughed. "Yeah, my piece of shit watch. Prescott's obviously
inclined to find PC, and I don't have squat. The best I can hope for
is to buy more time."
More time was what we both needed. Getting anyone to take a second
look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood. If
Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it
would be impossible.
"I'll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you'll do something
for me. I've got an idea that might help both of us."
Twelve.
I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when
Jessica Walters walked in.
"Hey, there. Thought I'd stop in and see how you're holding up after a
week in here with the boys."
"Crazier by the day, but I'm sticking it out."
"Good for you. You want to grab some coffee?"
I held up my Starbucks commuter cup. "Already went, but definitely
some other time. I'm getting ready to go back in on the Jackson
prelim."
The legal pad I'd been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the
top page barely legible from all the black ink. Walters saw it and
laughed. "A woman after my own heart. Do those notes actually mean
anything to you?"
I laughed too. "No. But maybe if you scribble enough, it's like a
giant Rorschach." I held the pad up to her. "Tell me, Ms. Walters,
She squinted at it, exaggeratedy furrowing her brow. "Let me see." But
then her expression turned serious. "Grice? You have a case on
someone named Grice?"
"No, just a name that came up in an investigation."
"It's not Max Grice, is it?"
"Actually, I don't know the first name." I hadn't written it in my
notes, and I hadn't called Nelly yet to try to get another look at the
file.
"Oh-kay?" She said it slowly, inviting an explanation for why I
wouldn't know the first name of someone involved in one of my cases.
"Why? Who's Max Grice?"
"A major pain in my ass is who Max Grice is. Some schlep per
contractor who's been bitching to anyone who will listen about his
business problems. I wanted to blow him off, but you know the boss.
Any allegation of official misconduct gets a thorough vetting. I'm
probably going to wind up letting the guy have a say in front of the
grand jury, then I'll tell them to no-bill it."
"What kind of misconduct?"
"The guy's paranoid. I guess there's this process they have to go
through to get permission to make certain changes to historically
significant properties, which includes just about every old building in
the central corridor. His company's request got declined, and he's
claiming that someone at City Hall's on the take, since other companies
don't seem to have any problems."
"Why would that come to you?"
"It shouldn't. There's a city process the guy's using, and the police
could potentially investigate the allegation as a crime if there were
any meat there. But this guy called Duncan personally, so now I'm
stuck trying to find a palatable way to dump it. Technically Gangs is
the white-collar unit."
The reality, of course, was that this office had never prosecuted a
significant white-collar criminal. Those cases went to the feds, and
the small-time embezzlers simply got away with n, the victims brushed
off with an explanation that the theft was "a civil matter" or an
"employment issue."
But now wasn't the time to hash out office filing decisions. I wanted
to know more about Grice.
"So if someone called the switchboard and asked for whoever dealt with
white-collar crime or government corruption or something like that, Liz
would connect them to you?"
"She should."
"Then I think I know why Clarissa Easterbrook called you. Is Max
Grice's company called Grice Construction?"
"I'd have to double-check, but that sounds right."
"Clarissa recused herself from a case where Grice Construction appealed
an adverse decision relating lo a remodel of a Pearl District
warehouse."
"That'd be my guy."
And the guy was complaining about the very program that had been at
issue in Gunderson's case in front of Clarissa. A case where Gunderson
had won because of Clarissa's decision.
I looked at my watch. "I've got to go over to the Justice Center. But
can you get me a copy of whatever you have on Grice?"
"No problem."
Roger was already waiting in the courtroom with Townsend. In the row
in front of them, two men I recognized as Gunderson and Minkins sat
with a lawyer type I assumed was Jim Thorpe. I should get a kickback
for all the fees I was bringing in to Dunn Simon.
I noticed that four of the five of them watched me as I passed. Men
tend to do that when there's nothing else going on. Although they all
looked unhappy, Roger looked particularly pissed. At a formal level,
I'd hidden my role in what brought them here, but Roger knew me well
enough to suspect something.
The fifth guy, Minkins, was still wearing his hat and turned his head
the other way when I walked by. That's what we lawyers call
consciousness of guilt. Like a suspect who flees, Minkins was hiding
something. I was pretty certain that the something was his snooping
around at the library.
Judge Prescott walked out of her chambers promptly at ten. She noticed
Gunderson et al. in the front row. "I see we've got some newcomers,
but where, pray tell, is Mr. Szlipkowsky?"
"I haven't heard anything, your honor," I said, "but I'm sure he'll be
here. He left me a message last night saying he had subpoenaed some
additional witnesses."
I heard someone huff behind me and guessed it was probably Gunderson.
Prescott ordered her clerk to tell her as soon as Slip arrived and then
headed back to her chambers. Some judges enjoy the chitchat that goes
on with the lawyers before proceedings commence. Not Prescott.
Her departure left the courtroom awkwardly silent. Since I was
supposedly an innocent, I figured I'd better play the role of
cooperative prosecutor. When I walked back toward Roger and Townsend,
I noticed that, once again, Minkins looked away.
"Hi, Townsend. How are you holding up?"
"Fine," he mumbled, "under the circumstances. Thanks." Then he went
back to staring at the bench in front of him.
"Well, I don't think you'll have to testify today. The defense
attorney said he served some subpoenas last night, but his message
didn't say anything about calling you."
He just nodded. I was beginning to think he might actually be on
something. Roger rolled his eyes at me. "I went ahead and told
Townsend about the subpoenas. As you can imagine, Jim Thorpe called me
right away when they were served."
"So I assume the two of you have talked about the possible conflicts of
interest involved. I mean, Dunn Simon is now representing multiple
witnesses in the same case."
Big surprise. According to Roger, they'd already discussed the matter,
and the whole lot were snug as bugs with the current situation. That's
the problem with a rule that lets the conflicted lawyer be the one who
discusses the conflict with the clients; I seriously doubted if
Townsend had gotten the big picture. If he was in a position to
understand how wrapped up Gunderson was in his wife's life, he wouldn't
feel so comfortable about sharing a lawyer with him.
Before Roger got a chance to grill me about the coincidence of Slip's
eve-of-hearing decision, I heard tennis shoes squeaking outside the
courtroom. The door wrenched open, and in walked Slip, out of breath,
using one hand to hold all his belongings while his other hand fumbled
to fasten his belt buckle.
A nice person would have rushed over to help him. I bent over
laughing.
"I'm sorry, but that looks really bad."
"And they say men have dirty minds. I was already running late, and
then I got stuck at security. It's getting as bad as the airport down
there."
He shoved his briefcase in my arms so he could finish the belt, then
started to steer me into the hallway. We never made it to the door.
"Nice of you to join us this morning, Mr. Szlipkowsky." Prescott was
out of her chambers and ready to go.
"My apologies, your honor. I was delayed at security."
"And yet everyone else managed to be here on time. Amazing. Don't let
it happen again." As she was telling the sheriffs deputy to bring
Jackson in from the holding cell, Slip continued to throw me eager
looks. He definitely wanted to talk.
"I'm sorry, counselors, is there a problem?"
We both shook our heads like kids who've been caught roughhousing in
the classroom. Whatever Slip had to say to me, it was going to have to
wait.
Jackson took his place at the defense table, looking the worse for wear
after nearly a week in jail.
Prescott called the case and put us back on the record. "OK, when we
left on Friday, it was unclear whether the parties intended to call
additional witnesses before I ruled. Where do things stand now? I see
Jim Thorpe is with us this morning from Dunn Simon."
Thorpe started to rise, but Slip beat him to the punch. When a court's
viewing a dispute cold, it's always better to get your side out
first.
"Your honor, last night my investigator delivered subpoenas to Larry
Gunderson and William Minkins. Larry Gunderson is president of
Gunderson Development, which owns the property where Ms. Easterbrook's
body was found and where my client was employed as a landscaper. Mr.
Minkins is an employee at Gunderson and hired my client to work at the
site. As I have investigated this case, it has become clear to me that
both Mr. Gunderson and Mr. Minkins hold relevant evidence that casts
serious doubt on the guilt of my client. Just to give you one example
"
Prescott cut him off. "Wait a second. No need to get into your
proffer before there's been an objection. Mr. Thorpe, why don't you
go ahead and approach? Your clients may remain seated."
"Good morning, your honor. Jim Thorpe from Dunn Simon, representing
Gunderson Construction, its principal officer Larry Gunderson, and its
employee William Minkins. I understand that your honor quashed a
subpoena on Friday in this case after Mr. Szlipkowsky tried to haul in
a member of the Metro Council for a fishing expedition. This morning,
he's at it again with my clients. They know nothing about this case,
have been pulled away from business on absolutely no notice, and wish
to be relieved from this court's jurisdiction forthwith."
Forthwith? That's why big-firm lawyers often get their asses handed to
them in jury trials. Who the hell says forthwith?
Prescott sighed and gave Slip a look to kill. I wasn't sure how she'd
done it, but somehow it seemed as if her bun had been pulled back even
more tightly during Thorpe's statement. "Now, Mr. Szlipkowsky, why
don't you proceed with your proffer "
"Excuse me, your honor," I interrupted. "I just wanted to make sure
all the parties realized that the media are present in the
courtroom."
I gestured toward Dan Manning from the Oregonian at the back of the
room, sitting with a few others who presumably were also reporters.
Cameras aren't permitted in Oregon courtrooms, and lawyers who don't
spend a lot of time around the courthouse don't always recognize the
media. Just me, trying to be helpful.
It got the response from Thorpe that I wanted. "In that case, your
honor, we request that the proffer be delivered in chambers. Whatever
Mr. Szlipkowsky is about to say is groundless speculation, and the
&n
bsp; damage to my client would be further aggravated if it were repeated in
the media."
Thorpe, Gunderson, Minkins, Slip, and I followed Prescott through the
door behind the bench. I got a better look at Minkins when he passed
me. He could definitely be the guy from the library, but I still
wasn't positive.
Since Roger was there as Townsend's attorney, he had to stay outside.
All to the good, since he knew better than Thorpe how devious I could
be. Jackson stayed put too. I'd long gotten used to the criminal
justice systems practice of leaving the defendant at the counsel table,
just in case he was beginning to think his presence was relevant.
Slip and I were at the back of the pack, and no one seemed to be paying
attention to us. He scribbled something on the corner of his legal
pad, ripped it off, and passed it to me as I walked through the door
behind him. By then, Prescott was sitting at her desk, so I slipped
the page into a folder. If the teacher caught us passing notes, we'd
get the grown-up equivalent of detention, and whatever was on that
piece of paper would be public information.
"Let's hear it, Mr. Szlipkowsky."
"Melvin Jackson is presumed innocent. So presume just for a moment,