with all day."

 

"Maybe we should both hang it up and become account-ants.

 

"Nah, too boring," she said.  "We'll just have to keep trying to

balance each other out."

 

"Seriously, it's not just that it's hard, Grace.  I've gotten used to

dealing with unpleasant subjects at work.  I'm scared I'm going to

lose.  These are the most serious charges I've ever filed against

anyone, and part of me's excited about it.  But if it falls apart, I

won't just look bad at work, I'll feel like shit for letting this

dirtbag go free."

 

"Sam, you've got to put it in perspective.  If it weren't for you, this

guy would already have won.  Tim O'Donnell would've issued that chippy

assault charge against him.  What could he get for that?"

 

"With his record, maybe two years at most after conviction.  He'd be

out in eighteen months, maybe even nine if he pled guilty," I said.

 

"See?  And, even in a worst-case scenario, you'll still get that,

right?"

 

"I think so.  Even if the case falls apart, I think Lopez would plead

Derringer out to assault to avoid going to verdict on the attempted

murder."

 

"So what are you worrying about?  Sounds to me like you saved the day

just by getting involved, no matter what happens.  This way, the police

are still working on the case, so they might even catch the second guy.

You need to look at it from that perspective.  You may win.  But even

if you don't, you haven't really lost anything."

 

She was right.  I should feel good about what I did today.  It was time

to put aside the serious stuff and talk to her about the personal side

of this case.

 

"Oh, and I may have neglected to fill you in on the identity of one of

the main investigators."

 

"Why would I care?  Is he a cutey?"  She feigned enthusiastic curiosity

and gave me a wink.

 

"Um .. . No!  Well, I mean, yeah.  I don't really know.  Look, what I

mean is that for once this man actually has something to do with me and

not you."

 

"Excuse me for assuming.  I've gotten used to you never being

interested.  It's been two years since your divorce, and you still act

like men don't get to you anymore, except..  . oh, lord, Sam, you're

not actually going to try working with Lucky Chucky, are you?"

 

It's been more than fifteen years since Chuck Forbes's football buddies

had come up with that nickname.  Two of them had barged into Chuck's

house carrying a keg one weekend when his parents were out of town.  I

guess we didn't hear them over "Avalon."  For the rest of high school,

Chuck was Lucky Chucky.  They finally stopped calling me Been-laid

Kincaid at the end of senior year.

 

"Can't we move a little bit past that, Grace?"

 

"It's not that there's anything wrong with Chuck.  It's what's wrong

with the two of you.  When are you going to realize that he makes you

crazy?  You either need to write each other off or lock yourselves in a

room together until you get it out of your systems.  You have this

twisted love-hate, only-happy-when-you're-not-getting-together kind of

relationship.  And every time you see him, you dwell on it for the next

two weeks but won't let yourself follow through.  I am driven crazy by

osmosis.  Please don't do this to me.  Is that why you took this

case?"

 

"Oh, please.  No, I swear, Grace.  I would've taken it anyway, for all

the reasons we talked about.  But I don't know how I'm going to handle

this.  Just reading the police reports, I find myself poring over every

word of his, admiring what a good cop he's become.  I guess I'm just

going to have to deal with it."

 

"Deal with it?  You've only ever had one way of dealing with Chuck

Forbes.  You decide you can keep the relationship platonic.  You start

hanging out, kidding around, watching games on the weekends, all the

things that friends do.  But then the chemistry kicks in and the next

thing you know you get scared and back off, he gets mad, and you both

go off into your separate corners and pout until you once again trick

yourselves into believing that you can make the friendship thing work

and the whole damn cycle begins again.  Did it ever dawn on you that

Roger might have felt a little left out?"

 

I stared at her.  Roger's my ex-husband.  We met at Stan ford Law

School.  Dad thought Roger was too much of a blue blood but Mom and I

thought he was perfect: a grownup who knew what he wanted and how he

was going to get it.  Smart, good-looking, and ambitious, Roger had

wanted to marry me right out of law school so we could start our

perfect life together back in New York.  We moved into the Upper East

Side apartment his family bought us as a wedding present, him working

toward partnership at one of the country's biggest firms, me working as

an Assistant U.S. Attorney.

 

The perfect life didn't last long.  Roger landed a job as in-house

counsel with Nike, so we wound up moving to Portland after only a

couple of years in New York.  A few months later, I discovered that my

husband had taken literally his new employer's ad slogan encouraging

decisive, spontaneous, self-satisfying action.  We both thought I would

be working late preparing for a trial set to start the following day,

but the case had settled with a last-minute guilty plea.  My intention

was to surprise Roger by coming home early with dinner and a movie in

hand.

 

Instead, I found him doing it with a professional volleyball player on

top of our dining room table.  I got the house and everything in it,

but I made sure he got the table.

 

Now Grace and I rarely referred to my former husband as anything other

than Shoe Boy or for any reason other than comic.  We definitely never

insinuated that I was somehow responsible for his infidelities.

 

"That's totally unfair, Grace.  You know that Chuck and I have been

nothing more than friends since I came back to town.  Unlike some

people, I took my marriage vows seriously."

 

"Come on, Sam.  I'm not saying Roger was justified to whore around. I'm

just saying he might have been bothered when you and Chuck started

spending time together again.  Roger thought leaving New York was going

to change things, but you were still putting in the same kind of hours

and running thirty miles a week.  Then you started making time for

Chuck.  Say what you want about only being friends, but to Roger it was

more than that, even if you weren't technically cheating.  He had to

have seen the chemistry; everyone does.  You drop that hard-ass force

field of yours with me and with Chuck, but you never dropped it with

Roger.  And if he was bothered by it, the next guy will be too.  So,

unless you want to be alone for good, you need to decide where Chuck

Forbes fits into your life.  You're not in high school anymore,

honey."

 

I didn't know what to say.

 

"You pissed?"  she asked.

 

"No, just surprised."

 

"I know.  I get sucked in by you two also, but I worry about you, is

all.  This isn't college, when you could sleep with Chuck on breaks and

then run back to Cambridge.  Make sure you know what you're doing." She

smiled.  "Don't get me wrong.  I have noticed how good he looks in that

uniform of his."

 

I returned the smile and said, "At least I'm not writing Mrs.  Charles

Landon Forbes, Jr."  in my notebook anymore."

 

We quickly changed the subject, but the conversation nagged at me

throughout the rest of the meal.  Roger used to accuse me of being

ambivalent about our relationship; now Grace was suggesting the same

thing about my feelings for Chuck.  The way I'd always seen it, my job

was hard enough; the personal stuff should take care of itself.

 

Three.

 

Work returned to a normal pace the next day.

 

I had left several messages on Andrea Martin's machine the day before

but hadn't heard back from her.  This morning, she picked up.

 

"Ms.  Martin, my name is Samantha Kincaid.  I'm a deputy district

attorney for Multnomah County.  How are you?"

 

"Could be better, under the circumstances and all."

 

"I left a few messages for you yesterday," I said.

 

"Yeah, I didn't get 'em till late.  I wait tables at the Hot-cake House

at night.  I was planning on trying to call you back later."

 

"My understanding is that the police have talked to you about what

happened over the weekend.  Is that right?"

 

"Yeah.  One of 'em, Mike somebody, called me in the middle of the night

Saturday.  Told me Kendra was in the hospital.  I'd just gotten off

work, but I would've come down anyway.  I guess Kendra didn't want me

there, though."

 

"Where is Kendra now?"

 

"I think she's in her room.  I'm just heading out for my day job at

Safeway."

 

"Did you know where Kendra was on Saturday night when this happened?"

 

"No.  She runs away so much I've stopped calling the cops on her.  She

just gets mad at me when they pick her up.  I'm to the point I just

want her to come home every night.  I figure I got a better chance if I

give her her freedom.  The other way sure wasn't working."

 

"So she came home on Sunday afternoon then?"

 

"Yeah.  She didn't want to.  I don't know what's so bad around here

that she'd rather be out on the street.  But the hospital wouldn't let

her go unless she came here or agreed to foster care.  At least she

picked here."

 

"She's been through a lot.  She might want your help right now."

 

She laughed.  "Miss .. . what'd you say your name was again?"

 

"Samantha Kincaid.  Call me Samantha."

 

"Well, you obviously don't know my daughter.  She don't want help from

no one.  Always been that way, too.  It's like she decided when she

turned ten or something that she was grown."

 

"Did Detective Calabrese explain what Kendra's lifestyle has been while

she was on the street?"

 

"I wouldn't call it much of a lifestyle.  But, yeah.  That guy and his

partner a blond guy, real young came by the Safeway on Sunday to break

the news to me.  They told me Saturday night she was assaulted.  Guess

they wanted to say the other stuff in person."

 

They probably wanted to watch her response.  Kids who run away are

often the victims of abuse by their parents.  If anything would set a

parent off, it would be learning that their kid has been shooting up

and turning tricks.  They wanted to make sure she didn't seem the type

to take her anger out on Kendra physically.

 

"How has Kendra been doing since she's been home?"

 

"Alright, I guess.  Like I said, she don't really talk to me."

 

"Well, I was calling mainly to introduce myself and to let you know I'm

handling the case.  The police have arrested one of the suspects.  His

name is Frank Derringer.  He's in jail for now, but we have to take the

case to a grand jury within a week, and Kendra's going to need to

testify for that.  I've got it scheduled for Friday.  Assuming the

grand jury indicts Derringer, the court will schedule the case for

trial.  Most cases don't actually go to trial, but if this one does, it

will probably be in a couple of months and Kendra will need to testify.

Do you have any questions for me?"

 

"Do you know when the cops are going to give Kendra her stuff back? Her

keys were in her purse, and I don't know whether to get a new set

cut."

 

"I'm not really sure, Ms.  Martin.  It can take the crime lab a few

weeks sometimes to finish working on evidence.  Depending on what they

find, we may need to keep the evidence sealed for trial.  I can find

out about her keys for you, if you'd like."

 

"Whatever.  I can get a new set cut at the store tomorrow.  Am I going

to have to come to any of these things?  I can't afford to take time

off work."

 

"You're certainly welcome to come with Kendra as support, but I don't

think you'll need to testify until the trial.  I'll make sure Kendra

has transportation to the courthouse when she needs to come down

here."

 

"Alright, then.  I better be going.  You need anything else?"

 

"Would it be OK if I dropped by your home tonight to meet Kendra?"  I

asked.

 

"You'll have to talk to her about that.  You want me to get her?"

 

"No, that's OK, I'll try talking to her later."  If Mom didn't care,

I'd rather just drop in on Kendra unannounced.  Wouldn't want her

running off anywhere.  "Feel free to call me if you have any questions.

Let me give you my direct line."

 

"Um, I can't find a pen right now.  If I need anything, I can look it

up, right?"

 

I told her that she could, even though I knew she wouldn't.

 

I devoted the rest of my day to the routine drudgeries of the drug

section of the Drug and Vice Division.  The DA assigned me to DVD

because I used to prosecute drug cases when I was in New York.  I

accepted the assignment because I wanted to keep working as a

prosecutor when Roger and I moved, and the Portland U.S. Attorney's

Office wasn't hiring.  In most people's eyes it was a step down: I went

from handling cases involving nationwide distribution conspiracies and

literally tons of dope to prosecuting sad-sack hustlers for dealing

eight-balls of methamphetamine and as little as a single rock of crack

cocaine.

 

But while I may have lost the prestige of a federal prosecutor's

office, I had developed a niche as part of the vice section of DVD,

prosecuting the monsters who lure, coerce, and force women into

prostitution.  The less-experienced DVD attorneys shied away from those

cases because they were hard to prove, hard to win, and hard to take.

The career prosecutors who handled the major felony person crimes

didn't want them because they were viewed as less important than

murders and other violent offenses.  But I felt more rewarded by those

cases than I'd ever felt prosecuting even complex federal drug

conspiracies.

 

Today, however, my plate was full of drug charges.  No surprise, the

grand jury returned indictments on all four of the cases I presented.

Most drug-related cases are pretty much the same.  The only variation

tends to be in the type and degree of stupidity involved.

 

Usually it was a matter of poor strategy.  My daily caseload is full of

tweekers who agree to let the police search them, even though they're

carrying enough dope to land them in the state pen for a couple of

years.  Apparently, an undocumented side effect of dope is a gross

overestimation of one's own intelligence.  Dopers become convinced

they've hidden their stash so well a cop won't find it.  They're always

wrong.

 

But sometimes it goes beyond poor strategy to straight-out stupidity.

In one of today's cases, two men did a hand-to-hand drug deal standing

two feet from a Portland police officer.  What stealth tactic had this

shrewd officer used to avoid detection?  He was part of the city's

mounted patrol unit, which covered a downtown beat on horseback.  When

the men were arrested, one of them said to the officer, "Dude, I didn't

even see you up there, man.  I just thought it was cool that a horse

had found its way to the park."  It hadn't dawned on them to look up

and see whether someone might have accompanied the savvy equine.

 

Despite all the talk about the modern "war on drugs," the truth is that

most police don't go out of their way to investigate minor drug

offenses.  They don't have to.  There is so much dope out there, and

the people taking it are so dense, that the cases literally fall into

the cops' laps, whether they want them or not.  The upside is that it

makes my job easier.

 

When I was done getting my cases indicted, I called MCT to see if a

detective could drive out to Rockwood with me to interview Kendra.  I

wanted to talk to her tonight, before she got antsy and ran away again.

Grand jury was Friday, and I needed to know what to expect from my star

witness.

 

I try to have a police officer or DA investigator with me whenever I

talk to someone who will be testifying in one of my cases.  If the

witness ever went south on me, I'd want a person present who could

testify about the witness's statement, since lawyers are not allowed to

testify in their own cases.

 

Someone picked up after four rings.  "Walker."

 

"Detective Walker, it's Samantha Kincaid at the DA's office.  I'm

calling about the Derringer case."

 

"Sure.  What can I do you for?"

 

I told him what I'd found out the day before from Deputy Lamborn and

Dave Renshaw.

 

"Oh, hang on a sec.  The rest of the guys have got to hear this."  I

heard him put me on speaker.  "You want to tell 'em or should I?"

 

Figuring I was more likely than Walker to keep the conversation on

track, I repeated the information about Derrick Derringer's previous

offer to serve as an alibi witness for his brother and then got to the

part about Derringer's body hair.

 

Walker couldn't help himself.  "Can you believe what a fucking waste of

time and money that is?  Everyone knows these guys never change.  They

just get off having someone watch them watch that smut.  But the system

manages to find the money to pay some doctor to handle these guys'

Johnsons, when it could use the money to keep them in the pen where

they belong."

 

I heard Ray Johnson nearby.  "How many times I gotta tell you that you

make my workplace hostile when you call something like that ajohnson,

man?  So, Kincaid, what's the doctor say about Derringer's broken

pecker?"

 

I certainly didn't know what it meant.  "Look, five different shrinks

could probably come up with five interpretations.  What's important is

that we know Derringer shaved within a few days of the attack.  That's

big.  Any news on that end?"

 

"No," Walker replied.  "The lab's still working the rape kit and the

other evidence.  No leads on who this second guy is.  Ray's looking at

Derringer's known associates from before he went to the pen, but

nothing yet.  So far, Derringer's only calls from the jail have been to

his brother.  He's playing it cool."

 

"Alright, let me know if you get anything new.  Also, I need one of you

to come out to Kendra Martin's with me tonight.  Grand jury's on

Friday, and I want to prep this girl while she's still on board."

 

"Geez.  I really want to help you out on this one, since you're going

out of your way for us.  But my anniversary's tonight.  The wife's got

the whole night planned: dinner, some dance thing.  She'll kill me if I

cancel on her."

 

"Don't let me mess up your marriage.  It doesn't really matter who

goes.  I just need a witness."

 

"Hold on.  Hey, Ray.  Can you run out to Rockwood with Kincaid tonight

to interview the Martin girl?  She wants to get her ready for grand

jury on Friday, and she needs a witness."

 

"Depends what you mean, can I go?  I can go, if it needs to be done.

But Jack, you know my mama flew up from Call today.  She's probably at

my house waitin' on me as we speak.  What kind of boy am I to go on OT

while my mama's in town?  Can I go out with her tomorrow, or does it

have to be tonight?"

 

I heard another voice farther in the background.  "Go home to your

mama, Ray.  I'll go."

 

Uh-oh.  I knew that voice.  "That's alright, Jack," I said hastily.

"It's probably better to go out there with someone who's already met

Kendra.  It can wait until tomorrow."

 

"It's up to you, but Chuck can go.  He's met the Martin girl too.  He

and Mike went to talk to the mom on Sunday and stopped by the house to

check on Kendra."  He yelled into the background, "Hey, Chuck.  You get

a pretty good rapport with the girl?"

 

I heard something; then Ray came back on the line.  "Yeah, he says

things went real good.  He took over some CDs that were donated by the

rape victims' advocates."

 

There was no easy way out of this one.  I wanted to talk to Kendra

tonight, and Chuck made as much sense to take along as anyone.  "If

he's willing to go, that works for me.  Can you ask him to meet me in

front of the Martin house at seven?"

 

He was waiting for me with a Happy Meal in one hand.  He held the box

up as I got out of my car in front of Kendra Martin's house.  "Mommy

Martin didn't strike me as the type to make sure there was a pot roast

on the table by supper-time.  I figured Kendra might want something to

eat.  I would've picked up something for you, but then I pictured you

trying to run it off at midnight."

 

"Very funny."  Call me an extremist; I have a tendency to couple large

meals with monster runs.  It had been two months since we'd seen each

other, and he was already trying to pull me into our flirtatious

rhythm.  I was determined to make this quick, but as I started walking

to the front door, I realized he wasn't following.

 

I turned around and walked back to where he still stood with a grin on

his face.  "What the hell's so funny, Forbes?"

 

"Oh, so it's Forbes now?"

 

"Hey, you've always called me Kincaid."

 

"Yeah, well, you've always called me Chuck.  Am I supposed to call you

something different now too?"

 

"You can call me whatever you want, as long as you keep your smart-ass

comments to yourself while I interview Ken-dra Martin."

 

"They teach you those manners at Hah-vud?"

 

"Give me a break.  Last time I checked, that little park we call the

waterfront was still named after your daddy."

 

"Yeah, and look at all the good that being the governor's son has done

me.  Driving fifteen miles out of my way on my night off for your

interview, standing here with a McMeal for your witness.  The last time

I checked, Kincaid, you and I were still friends.  Would it kill you to

at least say hi to me before we head in for work?"

 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  "No, it wouldn't.  You're

right.  Hi.  Hi, Chuck.  It's nice to see you.  Now can we go do my

interview?"

 

"Yes.  And it's nice to see you too."

 

I rang the doorbell.  I could hear obnoxious music, the kind that

started to sound like noise when I turned thirty, blaring from inside.

I rang the doorbell again and then banged on the door.  I felt him

standing behind me while we waited on the porch in silence.  When I

heard the music get lower and footsteps approach the door, I looked at

him over my shoulder.  "That was nice of you.  To bring her some

dinner, I mean."

 

"Thanks."

 

I couldn't tell what Kendra Martin looked like when she answered the

door, because her face was obscured by a big pink gum bubble.  It

popped to reveal a thin pale girl with doe eyes and full lips.  Her

wavy, dark hair stopped right below her shoulders.  She wore an Eminem

sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that looked like they'd fit my father.

So far, she seemed like a typical thirteen-year-old.

 

She looked past me at Chuck.  "What're you doing here?"

 

"I came by to see whether you listened to anything I told you on

Sunday.  What did I tell you about looking out the window to see who's

here before you open the door to anyone?"

 

She shifted her weight all the way to one leg and swung her hip one

direction and tilted her head in the other.  "I guess I forgot this

time.  Anyway, it was you, so it's OK, right?"  She twisted a lock of

hair with her fingers.  Obviously Chuck Forbes's magnetism was not lost

on this new generation of teenage girls.

 

"OK, we'll treat that as a test run.  But I mean it: From now on, you

have to look before you open that door.  If it's someone you don't

know, you don't answer.  Got it?"

 

"Yeah, I got it.  Whaddaya doin' here?"

 

"I brought someone over who I want you to meet.  This is Samantha

Kincaid."

 

Kendra looked at me without saying a word.  Then she smiled at Chuck

and popped her gum.  "She your girlfriend?"

 

Chuck looked at me and raised his eyebrows.  "No, she's not my

girlfriend.  But she is a really good friend of mine, and she's a DA.

She's going to be handling your case."

 

I held out my hand to her.  She shook it but looked down at the floor

while she did it.

 

"It's nice to meet you, Kendra.  I've heard a lot about you. Detectives

Walker and Johnson tell me you did a real good job helping them at the

hospital last weekend."

 

"That's funny.  They told Chuck and Mike I acted like demon spawn."

 

"They might've mentioned something like that to me too.  But they also

said you were very helpful.  Do you mind if we come in?"

 

She looked at the box in Chuck's hand.  He said, "I thought you might

be hungry.  The fries are still hot."

 

"Come on in."  She took the box from Chuck.  "Thank you."

 

"Don't mention it.  It was Sam's idea, anyway."

 

"Thank you," she said to me.

 

I looked at Chuck.  "It wasn't a problem.  Really."

 

The Martin house wasn't what I expected.  I had braced myself for the

worst.  Unfortunately, I'd gotten used to the fact that an entire

segment of the population raises its children in filthy homes that

don't look like they could possibly exist in the United States.  Last

year, police went to an apartment on a noise complaint and found nine

children alone in a one-bedroom apartment.  They all slept on the same

bare, stained mattress on the bedroom floor.  The carpets were soaked

with cat urine and feces.  The kids had been alone for a week and were

living off of dry cat food and some candy bars that the oldest child,

an eight-year-old boy, had been given to sell for the school choir.

 

Their mothers, two sisters in their early twenties, had left on a meth

hinge.  As they later told police, they lost track of time and never

meant to leave their kids alone.  It turned out that maternal neglect

was the least of the kids' problems.  By the time the investigation was

over, police learned that all of the children had been sexually

assaulted.  Their mothers had accepted drugs and money in exchange for

permitting various men to take the children of their choice into the

apartment's bedroom alone.

 

From what I'd heard about Kendra Martin's troubles and her mother's

parenting style, I had expected their house to be a hellhole.  I had

jumped to the wrong conclusion.  The house was cleaner than my own and

reflected the efforts of someone trying to do her best without much to

work with.  A crisp clean swath of blue cotton was draped over what I

suspected was an old and tattered sofa.  In the corner, a thirteen-inch

television sat on a wooden tray table.  In a move that Martha Stewart

would envy, someone had made a lamp base out of an old milk jug.

 

"Kendra, I don't want to tell you things you already know, so let me

start by asking you whether you have any questions about what a DA

does."

 

"Not really."

 

"What do you think my job is?"

 

"You're kind of my lawyer, right?"

 

"Well, technically my client is the State.  But in this case, my goal

is to help prove who did this to you and then convince the court to put

them in prison for a long time.  When we do go to court, I'll be the

one who asks you most of the questions.  So in some ways it will be

like I'm your lawyer.  Have you ever testified before?"

 

"No.  I got in some trouble after Christmas."  She looked at Chuck.

"She knows about that, right?"

 

"Yes, I know you were arrested on Christmas."

 

"Well, I went to juvie on that, but no charges were filed so I didn't

have to talk or anything."

 

"You're going to need to testify this Friday, but you don't need to

worry about that.  Friday's going to be in front of a grand jury: it'll

just be me, you, and seven jurors.  The man the police arrested won't

be there, and there's no defense attorney or judge.  I'll ask you

questions, and the grand jurors will listen to your answers.  Then

they'll decide whether to charge him.  Assuming he's charged, there

might be a trial later on, and that's more like what you see on TV.

Does that sound OK?"

 

"I guess."

 

"How are you feeling?"  I asked.

 

"Not so good."

 

"You staying clean?"

 

"Yeah, so far.  I didn't really think it would be this hard, though."

 

I could tell she was having problems.  She wasn't as bad off as older

addicts I've seen withdrawing in custody, but it wasn't going to be

easy for her.  I suspected the only reason she wasn't out using again

was that she didn't have any money and was scared shitless to hit the

street again.

 

"Is it alright if we talk about what happened?"

 

"I guess so.  Is it OK if I go ahead and eat?"

 

I hadn't noticed she'd been holding off.  "Go for it."

 

She opened the box tentatively and ate the fries one by one, taking

small bites and chewing slowly.

 

"Had you ever seen either of these men before?"

 

"Unh-unh."

 

"So you don't think they were ever customers of yours or knew you from

somewhere before?"

 

"I don't know where they'd know me from.  They didn't look familiar or

anything like that."

 

I couldn't tell if she was avoiding my question about prior customers

or if she believed she'd already answered it.

 

"So, you're sure they weren't customers?"

 

"Yeah.  I'm pretty sure I would've recognized 'em if they were.  I

haven't done it that many times."

 

Poor girl.  She probably justified what she did by telling herself that

she wasn't really a prostitute if she didn't do it often and stopped

before she was older.

 

"Was there anyone else around when they were talking to you or when you

got pulled into the car?"

 

"No.  When they stopped the car, I looked around to make sure no one

was watching before I started talking to them.  I didn't want to get

caught again after what happened on Christmas.  I think there might've

been one homeless guy sitting on the corner, but he looked really out

of it."

 

I looked over at Chuck.  "We canvassed the area and didn't find any

witnesses," he said.  "We found a guy who usually sleeps on that

corner, but he didn't see anything."

 

"Kendra, the police have already told me what they know about what

happened.  But, if it's alright with you, I'd like you to tell me in

your own words.  I need you to be completely honest with me, even

though parts of it might be embarrassing.  No one here is going to be

mad at you or get you in trouble for anything you say."

 

She started from the beginning and told me everything.  I never needed

to prompt her, and she continued talking even when she was clearly very

upset about what happened.  Her statement was consistent with what she

told Walker and Johnson the night of the assault.  She would make a

great

 

GO

 

witness, but unfortunately she did not reveal anything I didn't already

know.  I'd been hoping for some new avenue of investigation.

 

I told her I understood why she initially kept some information from

Detectives Walker and Johnson at the hospital, but that I'd be asking

her to explain it to the grand jurors.

 

"I don't even remember much about when they first came into the room.

Whatever that doctor gave me had me feeling really sick.  I just

remember being mad."

 

"What do you remember telling them?"

 

"Well, I said I was on Burnside to go to Powell's.  You know the real

reason I was there.  I just didn't want to tell them, is all.  It's

embarrassing, and I could get in trouble for it."

 

"Do you remember telling them you didn't know how heroin got in your

system?"

 

"Not really, but then later on, when they came back with that lawyer

guy, he told me he knew I'd lied about it.  So I figured I must've said

it.  I didn't want to get in trouble, is all."

 

"Is that the only reason you lied?"

 

"I don't know.  It's hard to explain.  It's like, I guess I was pretty

sure they wouldn't arrest me or anything since I was in the hospital

and all.  But I thought if they knew what I'd been doing, they wouldn't

believe me about what happened.  Or maybe they'd believe me but not

really care, since I, like, you know, kind of got myself in that

situation.  And I wanted them to believe me and go out and find who did

it.  So I told the truth about what they did to me, but I didn't tell

them the parts I figured didn't matter as much.  Does that make any

sense?"

 

"It makes a lot of sense.  Are you still doing that?  Are you still

leaving things out that you think aren't important?"

 

"No.  Detective Walker said he'd work on my case even if it turned out

that I had been doing something bad before it happened."

 

"Good, because he meant it.  I think you're a very smart young woman

and you've been brave to tell the truth."

 

She stuck her chin out, rolled her eyes, and tried hard to hide a

smile.  "Thanks."  She probably wasn't used to compliments.

 

"I know you don't know us very well, but can you tell us why you don't

like living here?"  I asked.

 

"It's actually OK right now."

 

I'd forgotten how frustrating it is to try to talk to a kid.  "Why do

you run away?"

 

"Last time I left was because I was going crazy here.  I felt really

sick and wanted to get some horse.  The doctor says I've gotten to

where my body wants it, even if I don't think I do."

 

"Is that why you started in prostitution?"

 

"I wouldn't really call it prostitution.  I mean, I guess it's gotten

to that, but that's not how it started.  It was just like I'd hear

about somebody who was, like, holding and then I'd find them and try to

get some.  But most of the time I didn't have any money.  At first, I'd

offer to go to the Kmart and, like, shoplift something in return.  That

was working OK, but then all the stores around here started telling me

not to come in anymore.

 

"So then, last summer, some guy told me he'd give me the stuff if I'd

you know, if I'd, like, let him put it in my mouth.  And that seemed

like a way for me to get what I wanted without getting caught stealing

or anything.  Once I started getting it that way, I started to, like,

use even more of it."

 

"When did you start using heroin?"

 

"The middle of seventh grade, so like maybe a year ago?"

 

"Do kids at your school do that already?"

 

"No.  Some of the kids smoke pot and stuff."

 

This was like pulling teeth.  "So how did you wind up using heroin in

the seventh grade?"

 

"If I say, are you gonna tell my mom?"

 

"Not if we don't have to."

 

For a second, I thought that wasn't going to be good enough for her.

Kendra looked down at Eminem on her sweatshirt and started rubbing out

a blob of ketchup that had fallen out of her hamburger onto his pecs.

It was like she forgot we were there.  Without raising her head, she

said, "Mom already feels real bad that I'm, like, the way I am.  She

thinks it's her fault or something for not being with me more.  If she

knew how it started, she'd, like, really freak out and blame herself

and stuff."

 

"You're very considerate to be concerned about your mom.  I know she

works hard to keep everything going around here, and I won't tell her

things that you tell me unless the law requires me to."

 

She thought about that for a moment.  "It started a while ago.  My dad

doesn't live with us.  I don't know him, actually.  Mom works all the

time, so I'm usually here alone.  I don't really mind.  But every once

in a while, she has a boyfriend start living here.  I don't know why

she dates these loser guys who don't even have jobs and stuff when she

works so hard.

 

"Anyway, last year this guy named Joe was staying here with us.  He

said he was a contractor, but he like never left the house or anything.

I guess one day while I was at school, he went nosing through my stuff

in my room.  I had a little bag of pot hidden in my dresser.  I'd only

smoked it once.  Me and my friend got it from this guy at school, just

to try it.

 

"So anyway, when I got home, he's sitting on the couch holding this

bag.  He said he was gonna tell Mom unless I could keep a secret about

him.  And then he goes into Mom's room and brings out his gym bag.  He

had a bunch of pot in there, but he had heroin too.  He told me he

didn't tell my mom or anything 'cause of how she feels about drugs, but

he'd let me use some.  I didn't want to, 'cause that seemed like way

more major than pot.  But Joe said popping wasn't really like shooting

up or anything and wasn't as big of a deal.  And he said if I didn't

try it, then I wouldn't be in on his secret, and he'd tell Mom mine. So

I tried it."

 

"Is that the only time you used heroin with him?"

 

"Yeah, right.  He wanted me to do it with him again like a week later,

then it was more and more, until he was waiting for me almost every day

after school."

 

"Kendra, did Joe ever touch you or do anything sexual to you?"

 

"Not really.  He'd like touch my hair and stuff when we were high. Gave

me the heebie-jeebies.  He was totally gross.  After a couple months, I

guess Mom found his stash and kicked him out.  I was happy he was gone,

but then I didn't have any way to get the heroin."

 

I didn't know what to say.  This poor girl had destroyed herself out of

fear that she would create one more source of stress in her overworked

mother's life.  Now, even after all she'd been through, she still

worried more for her mother's well-being than her own.  I hoped Andrea

Martin deserved the concern.

 

"Before you started being with men in order to get the heroin, had you

ever engaged in any other sexual activity?"

 

She blushed and looked down at the floor.  "Just kissing and stuff with

a couple boys at school."

 

"No older boys?"

 

"Unh-unh."

 

"Not Joe?"

 

"I said no."

 

"None of your mother's other boyfriends ever tried to touch you in a

bad way?"

 

"No.  I'd tell you.  How come you're so sure someone tried to get over

on me?"

 

I knew I had strayed from the open-ended style of questioning used with

child sex abuse victims, but it seemed unlikely that Kendra hadn't been

victimized before she began selling herself for drugs.  It was

possible, but the vast majority of women who become prostitutes were

molested as children.

 

If she wasn't molested, my guess is that watching her mother's own

relationships with men had left her vulnerable to abuse before this Joe

person ever came into the house and began grooming her.  Pedophiles

often take their time developing a relationship of trust with the

child, sharing secrets and breaking barriers.  Once the abuse begins,

the child chooses to permit its continuance rather than lose the

abuser's affection.  After spending two months using heroin with her

mother's boyfriend, Kendra's next step was almost guaranteed.

 

"I'm not sure about anything, Kendra.  I just wanted to make sure you

weren't keeping anything from me, to protect them or maybe your

mother."

 

"Well, I'm not.  If it's like you're thinking someone must've done

something to me for me to be this way, you're wrong.  I guess I'm just

screwed up."

 

"You're not screwed up, and it's not your fault.  Do you know that?

What happened to you is not your fault."

 

"That's what the advocate person said, too.  Mom thinks it's my

fault."

 

"I bet she doesn't."  I wasn't so sure about what Andrea Martin

thought, but I knew what Kendra needed to hear.

 

"She keeps saying I shouldn't have been out there."

 

"Well, she's right.  It's good that you're acknowledging that you made

a mistake to put yourself in a risky situation.  But that doesn't make

this thing your fault.  You see the difference?"

 

"I guess so."

 

"Say it's not your fault."

 

She looked at Chuck, then me, then down at her feet.  "That's kind of

dumb."

 

"It's not dumb," Chuck said.  I was glad he jumped in.  I was used to

working with women who couldn't listen to anyone but a man, and

thirteen wasn't too young for it to start.  I needed some help.

 

She sighed.  "It's not my fault," she said quietly.

 

"Now, look me in the eye," I said, "and say it louder."

 

She looked at me this time, only at me.  "It's not my fault."

 

This time, she sounded like maybe she meant it.

 

"Good girl.  You're going to think this is silly, but whenever you

start to doubt that, I want you to look in the mirror and see how

pretty and smart you are.  Then I want you to say that out loud to

yourself and see how confident and strong you look, OK?"

 

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled.  "Man, every time one of you guys

comes over, I get some new thing I'm supposed to remember to do.  Look

out the window, talk to myself in the mirror.  Next time, you're gonna

have me standing on my head and singing the Backstreet Boys."

 

I smiled back at her and then asked why she worked out of the Hamilton,

the motel at Third and Alder.  She explained that she met a group of

teenage girls at Harry's Place, a shelter for street kids.  When it

became clear that Kendra was picking up spare money the same way the

others were, they told her she should work out of the Hamilton.

Apparently, the management there didn't care about what went on, and

enough girls were turning tricks out of the motel that it provided

something of a support network.  The girls would watch out for each

other and pass along tips they'd pick up on the street.

 

Kendra explained that she worked sporadically enough that she'd managed

to avoid hooking up with a pimp.  "They're definitely out there,

though.  Haley, this girl I know the best out of that group she's older

than me anyway, Haley said she did what I did for about a year before

she couldn't get away with it anymore.  The other girls were telling

her she wasn't safe out there by herself, and she got beat up a couple

times pretty bad.  So she was giving half of her money to some man, but

he was supposed to watch her back and make sure she stayed safe."

 

I'm sure this guardian was a real gentleman.

 

Kendra's face lit up as she told me about the girls she'd met on the

street, at Harry's Place, and at the Hamilton.  I could tell she missed

them, even if she wasn't missing the lifestyle yet.

 

"Do you want to see pictures of them?"  She hopped up from the sofa and

disappeared into the back of the house.  She returned with a miniature

backpack in the shape of a panda bear and fished out two envelopes.

 

"I love taking pictures.  I don't have a camera, but we used to, like,

pitch in our money to get a disposable one sometimes.  We'd take turns

carrying it around until the film was gone.  It would take awhile for

them to actually get developed, since no one ever had enough money. But

I took these in last week."

 

She handed the pictures to me one by one, flipping through most of them

quickly, explaining that she hadn't taken them and didn't know most of

the people in them.  I tried not to reveal my shock.  One group of

pictures showed girls in their bras and panties frolicking on the lap

of a hard-bodied shirtless man with a tattoo of the Tasmanian Devil on

his right pec.  The photographs didn't reveal his face, but he was

obviously an adult, and, from the looks of things, he was about as

carnivorous as the notoriously frenzied cartoon character emblazoned on

his chest.

 

"Those were taken when someone else had the camera," Kendra said, by

way of explanation.

 

Kendra seemed to have an eye for photography.  When she finally got to

the three pictures she had taken, I could see that she'd managed to

capture a youthful, playful side of these girls that was nowhere to be

seen in the other photos.  Three of them were sitting outside in

Pioneer Square, making funny faces and forming peace signs with their

fingers over each other's heads.

 

"That's my friend Haley," Kendra said, pointing to an attractive

teenage girl who was crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue at

the camera.  Of Kendra's friends, she looked the most like a

prostitute.  I recognized her from the Tasmanian Devil pictures.

 

"Kendra, would you mind if I borrowed these pictures?"  I sensed that

she wanted an explanation.  "Chuck and I work with a man named Tommy

Garcia.  He's been trying to figure out who's been making girls like

Haley and your other friends give them a portion of their money."

 

After some negotiation, we decided that she'd hang on to the three

pictures of her friends and I'd take the rest to Garcia.

 

When Kendra went to the kitchen to throw out the empty Happy Meal box,

Chuck pulled me aside.

 

"I was thinking about the investigation while you two were talking.

Kendra told Ray and Jack she'd know the place those guys drove her to

if she saw it, but they never took her out.  Probably thought it was

too much of a long shot.  But I want to drive her around a little over

there and see if she recognizes anything.  We can canvass for

witnesses.  Maybe someone called in a suspicious car or something.  You

never know."

 

"Sure, sounds good."  I was surprised that he wanted my input.  "You

don't need my permission to do stuff like that."

 

He squinted in mock disbelief.  "Don't flatter yourself, Kincaid.  I

need you to drive us."

 

It was my turn to feign misgivings.  "Something wrong with that ride of

yours?  Since when do you need me to schlep you around?"

 

"Why do you always have to bag on my car?  You have to admit, it's

pretty sweet."

 

Chuck loved cars.  As long as I'd known him, he had always driven some

old car that he had poured his heart, soul, and wallet into to fix. For

the last few years, it had been a magnificent ruby-red 1967 Jaguar

convertible.

 

"You know I love that car.  I just think it would look a lot better

around someone else.  Me, for example."

 

"In your dreams, Kincaid."

 

"So if I can't have your car, what do you need me and my little Jetta

for?"

 

"Department GO says we don't put civilians in our personal vehicles

while we're on the job.  I don't want to go all the way downtown for a

duty car.  Let's just take yours."

 

I looked at my watch.  It was a quarter after eight.  "And what makes

you think the DA's office doesn't have a general order saying the same

thing?"

 

"Because you guys don't need GO's.  Only reason cops have them is to

cover our asses now that police are getting sued left and right after

Rodney King and Abner Louima.  You lawyers are so fucking political,

you can CYA without any stupid policies."

 

"Nice language.  You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

 

"No, but I don't remember you having any problems with it."

 

"Knock it off, or you and that little smirk can drive to Texas alone

for all I care."

 

"Leave the tough act for the courthouse.  You forget how well I know

you.  We both know you care, so fish out the keys to that tin can of

yours so we can go to work."

 

Once again, I was left yearning for the perfect zinger.  I settled for

my keys.

 

Four.

 

It took some doing to convince Kendra to come with us, but when I

explained how helpful she could be, she relented.  She paused on the

porch as she was pulling the front door shut behind her.  "Oh, hold on

a sec.  I don't have any house keys.  Mom's supposed to get a new set

made at the store tomorrow."

 

I'd forgotten about that.  "Can we go by your mom's work and pick up

her keys on the way home?"

 

"Um, her boss gets real mad if she does personal stuff at work.  I'm

not supposed to bug her or anything when she's there.  The store's a

lot nicer."

 

Chuck did a quick overview of the house and came up with a solution. We

placed a full cup of water on the floor a few inches in front of the

back door, and stuck several pieces of masking tape from the door to

the doorframe.  We left the door unlocked and walked out of the front

door, locking it and pulling it shut behind us on the way out.

 

Kendra looked puzzled until Chuck explained that any unusual event at

the beginning of a break-in usually spooks the burglar enough that he

leaves.  In a worst-case scenario, we'd at least know someone had been

there when we got back if the water was spilled and the tape

unsealed.

 

As responsible adults, we should have consulted Kendra's mother before

taking her daughter and leaving her home unlocked.  But by now Chuck

and I had surmised that this was no typical mother-daughter

relationship.  If it was OK by Kendra, Andrea Martin would assume it

was for the best.

 

When she saw the cars parked in front of her house, Kendra had a clear

preference.  "Cool car!  Are we taking it?"

 

Her eager look up at me spoke volumes.  I turned my head to smile back

at Chuck.  "I told you it was a chick car."

 

"It's not a chick car.  You know how much power that thing has?  She

was complimenting you.  Probably figured a highbrow lawyer like you

would drive something with a little more style."

 

Kendra tried to hide her disappointment.  "Your car's nice too, Miss

Kincaid."

 

"Thanks.  And you call me Samantha, or I'm going to start calling you

Miss Martin."

 

She laughed.  "OK, Samantha."

 

Chuck hopped in the backseat so Kendra could ride up front.  I headed

south and then west on Division, toward southeast Portland.  Rockwood

was on the outskirts of Portland, straddling the east border of the

city and the west border of suburban Gresham.  It marked the end of

approximately 140 consecutive blocks of east Portland, inhabited by

white welfare families who were seldom acknowledged by either the

liberal elite who occupy the central core of the city or the more

conservative soccer-mom families who make up the suburbs.

 

The only landmark Kendra could give me was Reed College.  She

remembered seeing it while they were driving.  The school was located

just a few miles southeast of downtown, on Woodstock Boulevard.  It was

a fitting name for the location.  The college was a bastion of leftist

politics and had proudly carried the motto atheism, communism, and free

love since the 1950s.  Some student in the eighties had made a mint

selling parody T-shirts saying new reed: the moral

 

MAJORITY, CAPITALISM, AND SAFE SEX.

 

Students arrived on campus looking like regular kids who just got out

of high school, but by Thanksgiving they'd all stopped bathing and had

torn holes in the L. L. Bean and J. Crew clothing their parents had

shipped them off to Oregon with.  When I was in high school, the slur

"You smell like a Reedie" was used whenever someone got a little ripe

in gym class.

 

Although the school was recognized nationally for its stringent

academic requirements, Kendra, like most Oregonians had described it to

me as "that hippie school."

 

Chuck was trying to help her narrow our search.  "Would you say you

stopped pretty soon after you saw the college, or did you see the

college closer to the beginning of the drive?"

 

"It was maybe a little bit after halfway."

 

"Did they get on a freeway after you saw the college, or did they drive

on residential streets?"

 

"Well, after, they took the freeway out to where they left me, I guess.

But I think they were just driving on regular streets before that."

 

Old Town to Reed College was about a ten-minute drive.

 

If they didn't get on a freeway or a major arterial, then they hadn't

driven all the way out to the far end of the city.  Still, what seemed

like a long shot when Chuck thought of it in Rockwood seemed even more

ridiculous now that we were in the car.

 

We needed more.  "Do you remember anything else?  Any stores?  Gas

stations?  Strip malls?"

 

"I'm sorry.  I wasn't looking at stuff like that.  I just remember

driving in front of the college.  I looked to see if maybe there were

some people walking around who might see me if I tried to get out, but

it was really dark."

 

"So if you had passed an open store, do you think you would've

remembered it?"

 

"Um, yeah, I guess.  Because I was looking for a place with a bunch of

people."

 

"When they stopped, were you near houses?  Or was it more industrial?"

The police report said that Kendra had described being in a parking

lot, but I hadn't formed an impression of what type of lot.

 

"It was a big parking lot, but there weren't, like, any other cars or

anything.  And there was, like, one real big building but then nothing

else, just like a park or something.  But it wasn't a park I'd ever

seen or anything."

 

I was at a loss.  I headed toward Reed College until I could think of a

better plan.

 

"Oh, wait, I remember something.  After they stopped, before I tried to

run away, I remember I couldn't hear what they were saying to each

other.  They were, like, having to yell to talk because a train was

going by."

 

Now we were getting somewhere.  Portland doesn't have much in the way

of train tracks.  There's the Max, a light rail that's part of the

city's public transportation.  It runs east to west across the entire

county on a single track.  Then there are the rail car tracks.  The

east-west tracks are close to the Max rails along Interstate 84.  The

north-south tracks are roughly adjacent to Highway 99.  "Like a Max

train or a big train?"

 

"Louder than the Max.  A big train."

 

The east-west train tracks didn't seem likely.  They were on the north

side of the city.  I didn't think Kendra would confuse any neighborhood

along the tracks with southeast Portland.  But the north-south tracks

ran right through close-in southeast Portland, just a half a mile or so

west of Reed.  There were a few neighborhood parks within earshot of

the tracks.

 

I drove past Reed College and headed to the Rhododendron Gardens.  The

front parking lot and small information booth fit Kendra's description

at least roughly.  When I pulled into the lot, she said, "No, this

isn't it.  It was a bigger lot, and there wasn't a fence like this.  It

just went right into the park area and then there was a bigger

building."

 

Westmoreland Park had a larger parking lot without a fence, but I

didn't recall any kind of building, and sure enough there wasn't one.

 

"Does this even look like the same neighborhood?"  I asked.

 

"Yeah, it does.  I don't think I've ever been here or anything.  But,

yeah, it was like this.  Like with a lot of trees and stuff.  And when

we passed houses, they were big like these."

 

We were in the middle of a pocket of upscale houses in southeast

Portland.  The Sellwood-Moreland neighborhood, like my own in Alameda,

was made up of turn-of-the-century homes.  It was the most recent

central neighborhood to have been taken over and colonized by yuppies.

Considered a hippie enclave when I was a kid, the place was now overrun

by coffee shops, chichi bakeries, and antiques stores.  Area residents

now actually golfed at Eastmoreland, a municipal course that rivals

many private country clubs.

 

Sometimes my disjointed pattern of thought actually pays off.  It

suddenly dawned on me that the last time I went to Eastmoreland to use

its covered driving range, I sliced the hell out of a ball because a

train had come barreling by at the top of my backswing.  The parking

lot is enormous and surrounded by thick hedges on two sides and the

golf course on the others.

 

I felt a rush, but I tried to hide my excitement.  I didn't want to

coach Kendra into a specific answer.  I took a few side streets through

Westmoreland and then turned into the Eastmoreland lot.

 

Kendra knew immediately.  If her ID of Derringer had been this solid, I

could see why she'd earned Walker's and Johnson's confidence.

 

"Samantha, this is it.  I remember, I remember!  That's the big

building, and over there's the park.  Are we near train tracks?  This

is totally it.  They drove me right over there, around the side of the

building."

 

I knew that around the corner from the clubhouse, a strip of asphalt

led to the driving range.  I parked there whenever I came to hit balls,

but it had never dawned on me how dangerously isolated the area would

be when the course was closed.  Acres of greens surrounded the lot on

the north, east, and south.  To the west, thick hedges, train tracks,

and a six-lane freeway separated the parking lot from the nearest

house.

 

From the backseat, Chuck patted Kendra on the shoulder.

 

"Good memory, kiddo.  Good job, Kincaid, for thinking of this place.

You two didn't even need me here."

 

I knew he was attempting to hide his disappointment.  The odds of

finding a witness were slim.  He would check with the golf course in

the morning, but he wouldn't find anything.

 

I tried to look on the bright side.  At least I could prove that the

crime had taken place in Multnomah County, so Derringer couldn't weasel

out on a technical argument over jurisdiction.  Also, the golf course

was only a few minutes from Derringer's house, which at least added a

piece of circumstantial evidence.  At this point, anything helped.

 

I decided to drive by Derringer's apartment before heading back to

Rockwood.  It would be nice to know the exact distance for trial, and I

might as well get it while I was down here.

 

I took a right onto Milwaukee Avenue and made a note of my odometer

reading.  Milwaukee is the primary commercial road running through

Sellwood.  It was also one of the only places where you'd find

low-rent, high-crime apartments in this pocket of southeast Portland.

 

Frank Derringer's apartment building was on Milwaukee and Powell, which

I learned was exactly 1.7 miles from the Eastmoreland Golf Club.  I

pulled into the small parking lot in front of the building, turned on

my overhead light, and jotted down the odometer reading on a legal pad

I pulled from my briefcase.

 

"Sorry for the stop, guys, but I wanted to make sure I made a note in

the file about our find at the golf club while it was still fresh in my

mind."

 

Chuck realized where we were but didn't say anything.  He apparently

agreed there was no need to inform Kendra that we were sitting just a

few feet from her assailant's home.  She didn't seem like the

pipe-bomb-building type, but you never can tell.

 

I added a short note for the file, summarizing Kendra's statement at

the golf course.  As I was returning the pad to my briefcase, Kendra

opened her car door, got out, and began walking across the street.

 

"Where the hell's she "

 

Before I could finish the question, Chuck was out of the car too.  It

wasn't hard for him to catch up.  Kendra stopped by an old tan Buick on

the corner across the street from the complex.  When I got to where she

and Chuck stood, Chuck was saying, "What?  What is it?  Kendra?"

 

Kendra was ignoring him, entranced by this remarkably unexceptional

car.  Then she said, "He must've painted it."

 

"Who?  Who painted what?"

 

Kendra spoke as if thinking aloud.  "The car.  He must've painted it.

It was dark before.  Now it's tan."

 

"Kendra, what are you saying?"

 

"I'm saying that this is the car.  This is the car they pulled me into.

I remember it.  But it was dark before."

 

Chuck and I traded skeptical looks.  This wasn't good.  Witnesses were

notoriously bad at identifying cars, especially when, like Kendra, they

knew nothing about them.  And this particular identification seemed

especially suspect, given that the car was an entirely different color

from what Kendra had described after the attack.

 

The viability of the case against Derringer rose or fell on Kendra

Martin's credibility.  Not just her honesty but also her memory would

be the key to convincing a jury to believe her testimony.  If Kendra

made an assertion of fact that we later determined to be incorrect, I

would have an ethical obligation to tell Lisa Lopez about the mistake.

The case would be over.

 

A couple of years ago, I had a robbery case where the clerk described

the robber with as much detail as if he had been looking right at him.

The cops picked up the defendant just a few blocks away, sitting at a

bus stop where someone happened to have stuffed a sack full of marked

bills behind a nearby bush.  The man matched the teller's description

in every way, except his tie was blue and not green.

 

A lazy cop could have written a report saying the teller gave a verbal

description, the defendant fit that description, and the teller then

ID'd the guy in a line-up.  Open and shut.  But the rookie on the

robbery had been fastidious, submitting a detailed fifteen-page report.

The defense lawyer cross-examined the teller for four hours, and three

jurors eventually voted not guilty, leaving me with a hung jury.  My

guess is that the eager officer now has a habit of glossing over

certain facts in his reports.

 

How much Chuck Forbes lets slide in his reports I didn't know, but the

point was moot.  I was standing right here, falling into the hole that

Kendra Martin was digging deeper with her every word.  The line between

changing her statement and leading the investigation would be thin.

Chuck and I needed to be sure to stay on the right side of it.

 

He spoke first.  "Kendra, if you're not sure, why don't we come back in

the morning when it's light out and you've had the chance to sleep on

things."  We both looked at her, hoping the message might translate.

 

But thirteen-year-old ears are deaf to subtlety.  "I don't need to come

back.  This is the car.  It's just not the right color."

 

It was my turn to try.  "So, are you saying that this is a similar kind

of car to the one they had, but that the one they were driving was a

different color?"

 

"No.  I mean, this is the car they had.  Someone must have painted

it."

 

Struggling to hide my frustration, I said, "Kendra, a lot of cars look

like this one.  You're too young to remember, but when Chuck and I were

your age, almost every car made in America looked just like this.  Sad,

isn't it?"  She wasn't laughing.  "Maybe it's better if we take Chuck's

advice and come back and look at it when it's light out before you make

up your mind for sure."

 

"I don't want to come back tomorrow.  What if it's gone?  I don't need

to see it again anyway.  I'm sure this is the one.  I couldn't remember

it enough to, like, describe it out loud at the hospital, but now that

I see it, I recognize everything about it.  See, it's got a ding in the

door over here where the driver sits.  And the front hubcap is

different than the back hubcap.  Then I ran over here to look at it

better.  When I looked inside, I remembered it too.  The dash is all

freaky, like a spaceship.  I don't know how to say it.  It's just the

same.  But it looks like they did stuff to it.  It's like way cleaner

inside and it's a different color."

 

It was possible.  The car was, after all, parked outside of Derringer's

building, and people have been known to paint their cars.

 

Chuck was busy taking a closer look at the Buick.  "She might be on to

something, Kincaid.  For such a piece of ... um, junk, this baby's

paint's looking real good.  So's the interior."

 

It made sense.  We knew already that Derringer was willing to go the

extra mile to hide physical evidence.  If he'd shave his body to avoid

leaving hair samples, he might rework his car to dispose of any

incriminating evidence.

 

"I don't think we can get a warrant with what we've got.  Kendra says

it's the same car, but the fact that it's a different color's going to

kill us.  Is there some way to tell for sure if the paint is new?"

 

"Sure.  I'll just chip a little bit off."  He reached in his pocket for

his keys.

 

"No!  Stop.  Don't touch the car."

 

Chuck held his hands up by his face.  "I wasn't going to open it or

anything."

 

"It doesn't matter that you weren't going to open it.  Looking beneath

the paint still constitutes a search.  If you chip that paint off,

whatever you see underneath will be inadmissible.  And if we get a

warrant based on what you see, anything we find as a result of the

warrant will also be thrown out.  Is there some way to tell if the

paint's new without touching the car?"