Part 5

Crossroads

Chapter 33

The phone rang on Peter’s drive to the hospital. “Duuuude!” Frankie yelled. “Finally!”

“You’re not drunk, are you?” Peter asked. “It’s barely four o’clock.”

“What else am I gonna do?” Frankie said. “What the hell, it’s not like I’m working.”

Peter stopped his truck at a red light and drew angry glares from pedestrians and bicyclists for blocking the crosswalk. “Man, get your act together. You could be losing your job. You need to put your case together, defend yourself.”

“There’s nothing I can do. They quote, investigate, unquote, and whatever they find, that’s it. They just decide.”

“Who decides what?”

“The company. Stark’s, and their lawyers,” Frankie said. “I’m screwed either way. Either they figure out Donna and I were seeing each other, and we’re both fired. Or they decide I harassed her, and I’m fired. Just me. So what do you think she’s gonna tell ’em?”

One-handed, he turned left onto Broadway, Portland’s main drag, already jammed with traffic at four o’clock. “I don’t know. Maybe she won’t say anything.”

“Well, they caught us bare-assed and sweaty in the back of a delivery van,” Frankie said. “I don’t suppose they much care what she says.”

Peter moaned. “Jesus. What the hell were you thinking? Can’t you wait until you get home?” He stopped at another red light—in the wrong lane to make his turn. Dammit. “Well, I’m relieved to hear it wasn’t harassment. Sounds like she was a willing partner.”

“She seemed pretty willing at the time,” Frankie said. “Once we got caught, it was another story. She started screaming, ‘He forced me! He threatened to fire me!’ Shit like that. Goddamn lying bitch.”

He winced. “Frankie, listen. I’m almost to the hospital. After I check on my mom –”

A horn blared, cutting him off mid-sentence. The angry driver appeared in his rear view mirror, waving his arm. Oops. The light had turned green. He signaled for a lane change. That drew another blare of the horn. ““Hey, I’ll call you later. No more drinking, okay? Promise me. Sober up and I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Okay, buddy.” But Frankie’s voice couldn’t mask the sound of a can opening in the background. “How’s your murder case going?”

Peter choked, then found his voice again. “It’s not my murder case, it’s—”

“Yeah, whatever. Keep telling yourself that. Heh.”

That bastard. “Frankie, I gotta go. Can we talk later?” Peter eased into the next lane. The angry driver sped past, blared his horn and shouted something at him.

“We’d better talk,” Frankie said. “Sooner rather than later, pal. ‘Cause you know, if you’re not going to listen to me, I’m sure I can find some good listeners at a bar somewhere.” A touch of menace edged his voice. “And who knows what we’ll get to talking about, especially once I get to drinking.”

“Frankie, for Christ’s sake –”

“Love to your mom.” The line went dead.

Peter’s hands shook. He hung up and checked the phone for messages. Two. He tossed the phone on the seat. Whoever it was, they could wait.

His mother lay propped up in her bed when he arrived, dressed in her favorite pink nightgown, watching Oprah. Her white hair hadn’t been brushed in a while. The bed next to hers sat empty. Blinking lights on a rack of machines provided the only color in the sterile, closet-sized room.

“Petey!” Mom said. “Is it Sunday?”

Recognition! He brightened. “No, it’s Thursday.” He gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek, absorbing her industrial floral soap scent. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, fine.” She gestured around the plain white space. “See, they gave me a new room. It’s much brighter than my old one.”

Peter nodded. Awareness of details of her surroundings—an excellent sign. Maybe the doctors got it wrong this time.

“But they didn’t move my things,” Mom said. “You need to talk to Dr. Nuttbaum about that.”

He sighed and sat in the chair next to her bed. “Mom, this isn’t Sunset Gardens. It’s OHSU hospital. Hasn’t anyone told you what’s happened?”

“Happened? What’s happened? Did another one of those Kennedy boys get shot at?” Her eyes grew teary. “Why don’t people leave that nice family alone?”

“No, Mom. It’s not about anyone famous. Have they told you what’s happened to you?”

“Have you seen Dori?” Mom gathered her blankets around her chin. “She’s my favorite nurse, but I haven’t seen her all day. Is today Friday? That’s her day off.”

His head fell into his hands. Contrary to his initial impression, her dementia seemed worse than ever. She had fallen so far, this much-loved schoolteacher, once sharp and intellectual, now trapped in a confusing swirl of distorted memories and realities. He swallowed hard, then again. It hurt. The lump that had lived in his throat all day grew with each swallow. Her slotted memory seemed to focus on random details important only to her. No doubt they stood out in vivid contrast to the rest of her dull daily routine.

That raised a horrific specter:  if her condition turned out to be genetic, his own old age could turn into a nightmare of red Camaros and black tire irons.

He shook off the image and held her frail, spotted hand. “We’ll get you back to Sunset real soon. They’ll keep you here a little longer, to make sure you recover okay from your stroke.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said. “But how are you, son? How was work this week?”

“I’m not at work this week. I–”

“Not at work?” she said. “Did you get fired? That’s ridiculous. Your dad always said you were the hardest worker around. Do you remember your sixth grade science project on the Space Shuttle? It was so cute. You worked day and night on that for weeks.”

“It was the Space Needle, and it was Jimmy, not me.” He kept his eyes on the TV. He could never look at her when contradicting her. Right or wrong, years of conditioning had instilled into him that Mom Knows Everything.

“Jimmy! Where is Jimmy? Is he coming today too?” She clapped her hands. “What a wonderful surprise! Is he bringing his children? I haven’t seen them in so long.”

“No, Jimmy’s not coming, nor is Elizabeth.” He needed to call them. “I’ll see if they can come visit soon.”

“Tell Jimmy to bring my grandchildren,” she said. “Those little pixies must be getting so big. How old is little Jimmy now? Four, I think. And little Mary would be—what, two? Where are my pictures? Are they going to move my things? I miss my pictures!”

He sighed. He’d done that a lot today. He couldn’t blame her for not remembering her grandkids’ ages—ten and eight—since Jimmy hadn’t sent a picture in six years. But she couldn’t seem to grasp where she was or that she’d even had a stroke. That worried him.

For the next hour, he repeated answers to the same questions several times, and corrected her mistaken impressions over and over—“It’s Peter, Mom, not Jimmy. No, this is the hospital, You’ve had another stroke”—but mostly he just listened to her babble. Finally he hugged and kissed her goodbye.

He fought back tears until he reached the hallway, out of her sight and earshot. He hated for anyone to see him cry—always had. Another product of childhood conditioning. “What are you, some kind of sissy?” his dad would rage at him or Jimmy if they teared up. “Don’t ever let me see you cry, boy!” He never yelled at Libby, though. Crying, apparently, was okay for girls.

His throat constricted further and his eyes watered. He passed a doctor and nurse conferring outside a patient’s room. “We’ll need to move Mrs. Thomas to critical care,” the doctor said. Someday they’d give him similar news.

Sadness welled up stronger inside him. Any second now, tears could escape. Visible tears. People would see him. No, no, no. Not allowed.

He hurried toward a men’s room halfway up the hall. A trickle of wetness slid onto his cheek. He wiped it away, but another followed. Ten more feet–

Two orderlies turned the corner, pushing a metal service tray, laughing about something. They stopped suddenly and stared at Peter. “Sir?” one of them said. “Is everything okay?”

Peter vaulted through the men’s room door.

Chapter 34

Peter rushed through the empty common area of the men’s room, ducked into the last stall and locked the door behind him. He let the tears flow and his body shake, but clamped his lips shut. God forbid someone should overhear him. Besides the irrational embarrassment, he wanted solitude. This was his cry. He did not want to share it.

It took fifteen minutes to let it all out. He settled down to a good old-fashioned mope when the tears dried up and his body released the intense stress brought on by his peak of sadness. He washed up at the sink until his whole face turned as red and puffy as his bloodshot eyes. He looked a wreck. Deep breaths, man. Calm down.

He made inquiries at the nurses’ station about Mom, but nobody seemed to know much of anything. The nurse read her case file, which had no real news in it:  no new diagnosis, no change in behavior or treatment plans. She would return to Sunset Gardens the next day. He needed to arrange her transport there and talk to Dr. Nuttbaum about increasing her level of care. That meant talking to Jimmy and Elizabeth again—about money, and about the care-giving strategy—which meant another damned argument about whether to move her into a Christian facility. Just what he needed.

He took a detour through Portland’s west hills on the way to Frankie’s, lured by the scenery of Skyline Drive. Under the beauty of the thick green canopy and rolling hills, the problems of Mom and Frankie shrank while the dilemma of the trial seemed insoluble.

On the one hand, he could opt out of the case in a heartbeat. He had a personal connection to a witness. The judge would dismiss him, and his torturous, detailed daily reminders of his crime would disappear behind him.

But not really. The trial had refreshed his memory of all of the sounds and sights and smells of that night. Once again the vivid memories destroyed his sleep, disturbed his conscience, and violated the calm he’d achieved only a few weeks before. No matter what happened, he’d spend the next several months fighting off demons of guilt, as he did in the months following the murder. He’d subdued them for a short while, but now they’d come back, stronger than ever.

The trial was a living hell. Not only did he have to relive the worst mistake of his life in excruciating detail, but it presented in vivid detail the torturous prospect of being discovered, accused, and tried for his crime. The truth, if it did come out, would shock everyone. His siblings would roar with shame and righteous indignation. That alone provided enough motivation to keep it secret forever.

Even harder to bear would be the hurt it would cause Mom. She wouldn’t fully understand it, but she’d know something had gone wrong. His visits would stop, for one thing, if he went to jail. Jimmy and Elizabeth would move her to a new senior living center, strange and alien. It would shatter her small world, terrify her. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Worse, they would never allow the type of high-tech interventions that saved her life six months before. Without him, she could die.

He pulled over, circled to the back of the truck and sat on the tailgate. His let his feet dangle over the curb and clutched his gut with both hands. Suppress. Suppress.

He could not push out of his mind the very worst fact:  he’d killed a man. He destroyed that man’s life, a life as precious as Mom’s, Frankie’s, his own. A life loved by others—Martina Aguilar, for example.

His family had raised him to be a good, moral man—to love his neighbor, not kill him. He’d fallen away from the path of good. He wanted—needed—to get back on that path.

Jimmy and Elizabeth had chosen a religious path, the one of Pastor Donald, and he a secular one, despite their common upbringing. They remained good. He had strayed.

He spit in the dirt. Religion would not have saved him this pain. For him, the answer did not lie in blind faith. But he didn’t have another one.

The prospect of life in prison chilled him. He’d be dead soon enough, or wish he were. Passive and healthy, he’d be somebody’s “girlfriend” minutes after he walked in the door.

But there was another way. He could do the unthinkable, unconscionable, horribly unfair thing:  divert attention from himself forever by convicting Raul Vasquez.

As if that’d make it any easier to live with himself. Christ.

On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t as unfair as it sounded. True, Vasquez didn’t kill Alvin Dark. But he had intended—even threatened—to kill him. He was no innocent. Angry, temperamental, and vengeful, he may not have committed the crime, but he meant to. A man like that, with unreleased anger bubbling inside of him, could be very dangerous.

That’s right. Vasquez was dangerous. He had to be convicted.

The best way to ensure a conviction—and his own freedom—was to stay on the jury, and wrongly convince his fellow jurors of Vasquez’s guilt.

He leaned over, put his head between his knees, and emptied his insides on the curb.

When he was done, he climbed back into the truck and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His insides felt like hot coals, and not entirely from puking. This answer, this strategy, felt all wrong.

There was a third option—one that would help set things right and would help ensure that some level of justice could be done. Or, at least, that a horrible injustice could be avoided. He couldn’t bring Alvin Dark back to life, or restore to normal the lives he’d shattered along with Alvin’s windshield and broken bones. He couldn’t give Raul Vasquez back the six months he’d spent in jail, shamed by a false accusation, out of work, facing possible deportation and the fear of life imprisonment.

But he could give Raul the next best thing:  his freedom. He could use his knowledge to sow doubt in the jury, find holes in the prosecutor’s evidence, and weaken the case against him to ensure acquittal. Vasquez shouldn’t be punished for Alvin Dark’s death, no matter what his intentions were that night. Peter had the power to help clear Raul’s name—and the responsibility to use it.

It wouldn’t be easy. The prosecution’s case seemed strong. He had means, tons of motive, and opportunity—or would have, had Peter not pre-empted him. The public defender’s half-hearted defense did little to help her client. Vasquez might as well have defended himself, or thrown himself on the mercy of the court.

Some of the jurors would be tough to convince. Alex, for one. He was a blockhead, and a stubborn one, too. Dolores, Larry, and Carlos, all crime victims, would want to punish evil doers. Christine, if she made it onto the jury, seemed ready to convict him before the attorneys had presented all of the evidence, to the point of being bloodthirsty.

But he would have allies, too. Dobson, the skeptical CPA, for starters. He could appeal to Carlos’s ethnic pride. Maybe Raul’s minority status would generate sympathy from Betty George. As a black woman, surely she’d seen more than her share of injustices handed down by the court system. That appeal might work on another juror, Kim, a quiet Native American woman. Sheila Kane seemed anxious to prove her lack of ethnic bias. Perhaps he could convince her that ethnic prejudice lay at the root of Vasquez’s presumed guilt.

His stomach settled as his strategy took shape. He had a mission and the beginnings of a plan. He couldn’t erase the bloody stain on his conscience, but he could keep it off the good name of an innocent man.

Pastor Donald would be proud.

Okay, maybe not. No Pastor could be proud of a son who committed murder. But he would at least approve of Peter trying to set the record straight for Raul.

The guilt would continue to weigh on him, as would the possibility that someday the truth would come out. That he would carry with him to his grave.

Fair enough. He was guilty, after all.

This strategy also raised the risk of exposure. If, in his zeal to free Raul, he let something slip that hadn’t come out in the trial, he could raise suspicions and lose everything. He’d have to be careful. Very, very careful.

Chapter 35

Peter rested in the truck for a few minutes, then started it up and pulled back into traffic. His phone beeped, then again. Voice-mail. He dialed in.

“Peter, this is Libby.” She could have been a great success in radio with her deep silky voice. “How’s Momma doing? Look, I know this is a big strain on you, so Wilfred and I want to come up to help you out this weekend. We’ll fly up tomorrow afternoon. Can you meet us at the airport? Also it would be great if we could stay with you. Call me back, okay?”

He set the phone down and changed lanes. Just what he needed right now—Libby and her cowboy husband staying in his house. She hadn’t said how long. With Wilfred, it would seem like years, regardless.

He ran his hand through his hair—what was left of it. A lot of it had rinsed down the shower drain lately. Too much stress. Too many people needed him—Frankie, Mom, Gregg. He couldn’t let any of them down.

First things first. He speed-dialed Stark’s. After several rings, Skip answered. “What, no Jessica?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, Jess is here, Gregg’s here, everybody’s here,” Skip said. “With you and Frankie and Donna all out, we’re all pulling O-T to keep up. There’s nobody around to help customers. It’s worse than Home Depot.”

“Ouch. Don’t let Gregg hear you say that.” He stopped at an intersection and checked for traffic.

“How’s jury duty?” Skip asked.

“Gripping. What’s that about Donna being out?”

“She hasn’t been in since the Frankie incident. She’s afraid to come in because—well, you know Frankie.”

Yeah. They all knew Frankie. He turned eastbound on Hawthorne toward the bridge. “So, all those suits hanging around are her lawyers, then?”

“Hers, and ours,” Skip said. “There are suits everywhere these days. You’d think this was Office Depot.”

Peter laughed. “Well, speaking of offices—patch me through to Gregg, okay?”

“He’s gonna want you here.”

“He’ll get his wish, soon enough.” Another damned redlight. Maybe not soon enough.

Jackson Browne’s voice replaced Skip’s. “Stay, just a little bit longer...” Perfect.

“Pete!” Gregg coughed into the phone. “Are you free for an hour? I need to go over some things here with you.”

“Hello to you too, boss,” he said. “Sounds like you’re smoking again.”

“Right back at it, pack and a half a day,” Gregg said. “With all this crap going down, my nerves are shot. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“You, sane? That’s a tall order, for a cigarette,” he said. “But if it works, let me know. I have a couple of siblings I’d like to recommend it to.”

Gregg laughed. “Preacher Jimmy, puffing from the pulpit? That’d be the day. But seriously, come down here as soon as you can. Things don’t look good for Frankie. We need to start making plans.”

“Plans? As in, plans to fire him? Sounds like he’s getting convicted and sentenced without a fair hearing.” The light changed, and a light mist dampened his windshield. He flicked on his headlights and wipers.

“Don’t get all legalistic on me, Mr. Civic Duty.” Gregg coughed again. “I think we can reach a settlement we can all live with. How soon can you get here?”

“I don’t know.” He stopped at the five hundredth red light of the day. “I have a few other calls to make.”

“Make ’em later. But whatever you do, don’t talk to Frankie until you and I have had a chance to talk. I need you to work with me on this, Peter. This is really important.”

He sighed. “At the very least, I need to let him know that I won’t be coming by to see him tonight.” The signal changed to green, but none of the cars moved. Pedestrians, as usual, were crossing against the light.

“Fair enough,” Gregg said. “But don’t tell him anything I’ve told you. There are lots of details to work out. The lawyers would kill us if we screwed up this deal.”

The damned pedestrians took their merry time crossing the street. “Fine. I’ll figure something out. But don’t put me in a position to have to lie to him. He’s my friend, Gregg, I won’t do that to him.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Whenever you say ‘don’t worry,’ I panic.” But Gregg had already hung up.

He turned north on 39th Avenue, then east onto the winding, tree-lined residential section of Stark Street and called Frankie. “Hey buddy,” he said, “I have good news and bad news.”

“Don’t tell me the bad news,” Frankie said. “I’ve had way too much lately.”

“Sorry, bad news comes first. I can’t come over yet. Gregg needs to talk to me.”

“Uh-oh. I’m toast.”

“Not necessarily.” But probably true, dammit. “Hopefully we’ll have something to tell you later, though.”

“What’s the good news?”

He winced. “That was the good news.”

“You suck.”

“Sorry.” This time he meant it.

“Dude, Gregg’s trying to co-opt you. That’s why he’s doing this. He doesn’t want you to hear my side. Nobody wants to hear my side. This ain’t right. You’re my only hope. You’ve gotta come hear me out before you go there. Come on, man. I need you.”

For what seemed to be the hundredth time today, a lump rose in his throat. “Frankie, I’m in kind of a tough spot here.” He navigated around the north side of Mt. Tabor, nearly missing his turn.

“You’re in a tough spot?” Frankie shouted. “What about me? I’m getting screwed, and my best friend won’t even come talk to me? What the hell. Come on, man. Get over here.”

“I promised Gregg–”

“You promised me,” Frankie said. “Who comes first, huh? Are you gonna cut me loose and kowtow to the boss? Or do you not believe me either? How could you—you haven’t even heard my side yet. Everybody’s made up their minds already. I thought I could count on you.”

“You can count on me, Frankie.” His voice cracked. “I’m going there to stick up for you. I’ll make sure you get a fair deal.” He turned left onto Washington Street and breathed easier. He hated driving while on the cell phone, but at least he was close to his destination now, on a wide, low-traffic street.

“A fair deal? How can I get a fair deal if nobody will even listen to my side? How’re you gonna stick up for me without knowing the facts?”

He pulled into Stark’s parking lot. “Well, that’s one thing I’ll tell them. You need a fair hearing.”

“You bet I do. ‘Cause if I don’t, buddy, I promise you... you’re the one that’s going to need a fair hearing.”

Peter’s head grew light and his vision blurred. He dropped the phone and aimed the truck toward a few open parking spots, managing to stop before slamming into the wall. “Frankie, listen to me.”

But his friend had already cut the connection.

Chapter 36

Peter had always felt right at home in Stark’s. He’d first walked through the wide swinging metal doors of the small, family-owned business at the age of thirteen with his father. He spent many afternoons of his youth gawking at the huge piles of lumber, drinking in the smells of hemlock and fir and knotty pine, and coveting the powerful saws, drills, and sanders gleaming on the retail shelves.

Today, though, the airy halls of the lumberyard felt tense and unwelcoming. A situation like Frankie’s had never happened in his time there. Something had changed in the past week. Lots of things, actually. Never mind Stark’s—his own life seemed alien to him.

He found Gregg in his office reviewing corporate orders. “Frankie’s a mess,” Peter said without preamble. “We have to give him a chance to explain. He’s convinced he’s going to be fired without even getting to give his side of the story.”

“He said that?” Gregg arched an eyebrow and coughed. The smell of tobacco permeated the room. “Of course we wouldn’t do that. We interviewed him on Monday, when the whole thing happened. We heard from him quite a bit. Unless he wants to change his story?”

“Which was?”

Gregg signaled him to close the office door. “We found Frankie and Donna, um, in flagrante delicto in the loading area—in the back of a loading truck, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Frankie admitted coming on to her, and that they had dated some.”

“And her story?” Peter asked.

“The same, except she also said he more or less threatened to get her fired if she didn’t sleep with him. But if she did, he’d get her promoted, using his ‘in’ with you and me.”

Peter sank into a chair. “Come on. Sure, he talks big and makes promises he can’t keep, but threatening her? That doesn’t square with the Frankie I know.”

“Their stories line up otherwise. What am I supposed to think?”

“He’s protecting her,” Peter said. “They cooked this line up together, and when it came Donna’s turn to talk, she panicked and added the harassment charge. Isn’t it suspicious how well their stories agree? When people tell the truth, they each miss a few details that the other doesn’t remember. When they lie, their stories match exactly. That’s what’s happening here.”

“To me it sounds like Frankie wants to change his story to save his skin.” Gregg pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

Peter frowned, his fingers intertwined on Gregg’s desk. “I don’t want to put words in his mouth. Let’s bring Frankie back in and let him speak for himself, before any decisions are made.”

“We can’t let this thing turn into a circus!” Gregg fiddled with a cigarette and put his pack away. “He can’t come in here and change his story over and over until he gets the result he wants. Besides, it probably doesn’t even matter. Whether he tricked her or forced her or they were both willing, it all comes down to this: he had sex with her, at work, on the clock. That right there’s a firing offense.”

“I’m sure it matters to him.” Peter sat back in his chair. “Being fired for harassment’s a lot different than being fired for fooling around on the job.”

“He won’t get fired for harassment,” Gregg said. “That’s the deal we want to offer. Donna doesn’t sue us or press charges against Frankie. She keeps her job, no questions asked.”

“And Frankie?”

Gregg looked away. “We’ll give him the option to resign in good standing.”

Peter scowled. “And if he refuses?”

Gregg put the cigarette in his mouth. “It’ll be ugly. He doesn’t want to go there.”

“No, I’m sure he doesn’t.” Peter massaged his temples. Somehow he had to salvage a better outcome for his friend.

They discussed the details of the deal for the next hour. He suggested other options for Frankie:  counseling, demotion, or suspension—to no avail. In the end, they agreed Peter should be there when Stark’s offered the deal. “The lawyers are working on it and should have it done by the weekend,” Gregg said. “How much longer is this court case going to run?”

“At least into next week,” he said. “It depends on how gridlocked the jury gets.”

“Don’t you dare be the lone holdout,” Gregg said. “If you’re the only one –”

“I’m going to consider the evidence and vote my conscience.” But he couldn’t look his boss in the eye.

Gregg fidgeted in his chair and played with his cigarette some more. Tobacco leaked out of a rip in the paper by the filter. “I know you will, Peter. You’re nothing if not fair. It’s just that we really need you back here. Bad. Now, I’m dying for a smoke.” He tossed the broken cigarette in the trash and pulled a fresh one out of the pack. “Are we done, then?”

Greg’s admonition haunted his drive home. He’d vote his conscience, all right. The question was whether the case presented by Brenda Connelly would support that vote—and how much he’d have to supplement those facts with knowledge that only he possessed.

He had just opened the front door to his house when his cell phone rang again. Gypsy barked like a pack of endangered seals and ran along the chain-link fence that separated his yard from the neighbor’s. Every so often she collided with it and made even more noise.

“Frankie, wait a minute!” He managed to get the big wooden door shut without dropping the phone, finally muffling the noise.

Frankie didn’t wait. “Peter!” he shouted. “Gregg just called me! I’m screwed!”

He held the phone to his ear. “Calm down. They’re trying to minimize the damage here. You–”

“To themselves, you mean!” Frankie yelled. “Man, I thought you were in there to stick up for me. I thought I’d get to tell my side of the story.”

“You will.” He plopped down onto the couch. “You definitely will. What they want to–”

“They’ve already made up their minds. I’m dead meat.”

He sighed. True enough. “Well, buddy. In all fairness, you said it yourself—they did catch you in the act, on the job for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh, you, too, now?” Frankie wailed. “You son of a bitch. You sold me out, didn’t you? You weren’t in there fighting for me. I shoulda known better. You’re just going along, saving your own ass. Weren’t you, buddy?” ‘Buddy’ sounded like a curse.

That stung. “No, Frankie, I –”

“I thought I could count on you. You of all people, selling me down the river. God damn you to hell!” The line went dead. Gypsy’s frenetic barking resumed.

Peter’s return call went straight to voice-mail. He left a long and rambling apology and tried to explain what he knew. In the end, he probably added more confusion than enlightenment. He hung up with a heavy heart. On top of everything else, now his closest friendship was on the rocks. But he had to agree with Frankie. He should have done more.

He tried to break his mood by catching up on the week’s mail, stacked up on the dining room table, but that only made things worse. A dunning notice from his dentist’s office for a January filling topped a stack of other late bills: the water and sewer bill, his Visa card, the telephone. He tossed the empty envelopes into the recycling bin. Once upon a time he paid all of his bills on time. Lately he couldn’t keep up with anything.

His phone rang again. He checked Caller ID and answered on the fourth ring.

“Peter, this is Elizabeth again. I wanted to let you know about our plans for the weekend.” His sister’s voice sounded warm and friendly today—the Good Elizabeth voice. “You’re okay with us visiting and helping you with Momma, right?”

“Libby, I don’t know. I have a lot going on right now.”

“Well, then. It sounds like you could use the help.”

He thought a moment. “You’ve got a point there. Mom comes home from the hospital tomorrow and I’m sure she’d love the company. She’ll be happy to see you.”

“All righty then,” she said. “Can you meet us at the airport? Our flight comes in at two fifteen. United West. Flight number –”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t meet you mid-day.” He tried to sound wistful rather than relieved. “I’m on jury duty all day tomorrow.”

“I guess we’ll take a cab then. Can you leave a key for us?”

“A key? You want to stay with me?” He’d forgotten about that.

“Is that okay?” She whimpered a little. “It would make it a lot easier on Wilfred and I, and we’d get to see you a lot more.”

“Okay, sure.”

He walked into the guest room. The mattress lay bare, as it had for months. Marcia had stripped it when she moved her stuff out, saying, “I need a nice queen bed set in my new place.” One more thing he hadn’t dealt with since that goddamned night.

“I’ll get the guest room ready for you,” he said. “The house isn’t in great shape, but I suppose it’ll do.”

“Don’t worry about cleaning for us. Wilfred and I aren’t exactly neat freaks. Besides, we’ll spend most of our time getting Momma situated.”

“We should talk about that,” he said. “She’s going to need a higher level of care now at Sunset. That’s going to cost a bit more.”

She paused. “Perhaps this is a good time to consider an alternative.”

“Alternative? Libby, Sunset is the best. They have medical staff on duty specifically trained to handle stroke patients and they’re close to OHSU. It’s perfect for Mom.”

“We’d like to investigate some options. You don’t have to worry. Wilfred and I will take care of it.”

His hackles rose. “Meaning, religious alternatives?”

Another pause. “We’d like to see if there’s a suitable faith-based option, yes.”

“I’m not giving money to a bunch of faith-healers. It’s not an option.”

“Jimmy and I feel it’s the very best option, actually.”

“No way.”

“It’s not entirely up to you, you know. Anyways, there’s no harm in looking.”

“Look, but don’t touch,” he said. “I mean it.”

“You worry too much.” She laughed. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He did worry a lot. But somehow it felt justified.

Chapter 37

“The state calls Ms. Anita Calzano.”

A petite brunette entered the room with elegant grace and glided up the aisle to the witness stand. She drew the notice of the men in the room with her elegant walk, slender figure, and Audrey Hepburn-like dainty face. She sat stiff-backed in the witness chair, her body angled toward the judge, her head tilted toward the jury. Her cream-colored blouse and black pantsuit, creased and tapered to form, added a crisp air to her confident composure.

Malcolm Baldwin stood about six feet from her, about a yard from the rail in front of the jury box. His balding head blocked the dim morning sun rising through the windows behind him. “Ms. Calzano, please state your occupation.”

“I am a private investigator.” She enunciated every syllable in a voice surprisingly strong for such a tiny woman.

Baldwin tugged at his tie, which fell several inches too short of his slacks’ saggy waistline. “Was Alvin Dark a client of yours?”

“Yes, for about the last two months of his life. He was also a...” Her voice cracked. “...close personal friend.”

Peter sat forward in his chair. Whoa. A private eye. If she’d followed Raul that night, perhaps she’d followed him, too. Raul, though, seemed unconcerned with her testimony.

“Why did Mr. Dark hire you?” Still at attention.

Calzano’s eyes flickered to the defendant. “He wanted me to investigate Raul Vasquez.”

Raul’s eyes flashed, and his body pivoted to focus on her. Tension lined his face. His neck muscles drew taut.

“Why?” Baldwin asked.

Her expression darkened. “To find something that could get him deported.”

Peter’s sympathy for Vasquez grew. Alvin sure played hardball.

“Why did he want Mr. Vasquez deported?” Baldwin asked.

“They were part of a love triangle.” Calzano folded her hands in her lap and appeared close to tears. “Alvin was in love with Martina Aguilar. Apparently, so was Raul Vasquez.”

“Mr. Dark wanted Raul Vasquez out of the way so he could have her to himself?”

“Yes.” She regained her composure. “He was concerned that their friendship could... blossom. In fact, he was convinced Raul wanted much more than friendship with her.”

Peter clamped his jaws together. Alvin suspected Martina would cheat on him. There seemed to be no end to the cheating and deception in this case.

“What did you observe about Mr. Vasquez’s behavior toward Ms. Aguilar?” Baldwin asked.

“He was obsessed with her,” Calzano said. “He called her several times a day and drove past her place daily. Sometimes he stopped and watched the house. He sent her flowers, gifts, cards, letters, you name it. Once he bought her gold earrings.”

Peter hid a smile. Raul had just earned some serious brownie points with the women on this jury—except Christine, whose scowl deepened at the description of Raul’s stalking of Martina Aguilar.

Baldwin shifted his lanky frame. “How did Ms. Aguilar behave toward Mr. Vasquez?”

“She liked him, clearly,” Calzano said. “She spent some time with him outside of work, accepted the occasional ride to and from work on nights Alvin wasn’t there, and sometimes greeted him with a hug. Most of the time it was pretty platonic.”

Baldwin cocked his head. “Most of the time?”

She narrowed her eyes. “About two weeks before Alvin was killed, he drove her home from work, and she let him inside. He used the restroom and when he came out into the living room, he gave her his usual brotherly goodbye hug. But then he held her a little longer, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered in her ear. I was parked across the street and my camera had a pretty powerful zoom lens, but I couldn’t tell what he said.”

Excitement crept into Baldwin’s voice. “Then what happened?”

“She put her hands on his chest, as if to push him away. He kissed her on the cheek. She rested her hand on his shoulder, but she did not resist him. Then, he kissed her on the lips. It lasted a few seconds—maybe four or five. Then she pushed him away. He tried to kiss her again, but she said no, no. Something like that—I couldn’t tell exactly. I’ve never been very good at reading lips.”

Peter frowned. The important lip-reading had already taken place.

“Go on,” Baldwin said.

“He left. He walked within six feet of me but never noticed me. He was a happy man.”

Not anymore. Vasquez folded his hands in front of him and stared at the floor, with a long, sad expression on his face. Poor guy. Betrayed by the woman he loved, Raul had to sit quietly and hear it all again. The whole world bore witness to Raul’s humiliation. He could not act on his hurt, nor express his rage. He had to stay calm, although wrongly accused, while others sat in judgment—including Peter, the one whose own moment of rage created Raul’s predicament and the illusion of his guilt.

“Did you tell Alvin Dark about this?” Baldwin asked.

“Yes. I also sent him pictures. I reported in to him daily through a voice mail box he’d set up for that purpose.”

“How did he react?”

“He was upset. He asked me to step up my investigation, particularly on the immigration front. But a few days before the murder, I had to fly to Los Angeles. I was there when he was murdered. In fact, because of our arrangement, I didn’t know he was dead until two days later.”

Peter sat back in his chair. So she wasn’t following them. Whew.

“What did your investigation into Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status reveal?” Baldwin asked a short while later.

Calzano’s enigmatic smile returned. “I found some anomalies in Mr. Vasquez’s immigration papers. Immigration rules require employment information to be updated whenever there is a change of status. Mr. Vasquez frequently failed to do this.”

Baldwin strolled toward the jury. “Would this put Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status in jeopardy?”

“In today’s political climate, anything can put his status in jeopardy. At least, if someone had this information, they could scare him into believing it.”

Peter tore a fingernail between his teeth. Damn, damn, damn. Blackmail would be pretty strong motive.

“Did you uncover other information for Mr. Dark?”

Calzano shifted in her seat. “I did. Something Martina Aguilar clearly did not know.” She sat up straighter, chin high. “Raul Vasquez is married.”

Chapter 38

The gallery burst into an excited buzz. Vasquez sat rigid in his chair, fists clenched, jaw clamped shut, his dark eyes aflame. Peter sank lower in his seat. Raul was just another damned cheater. Maybe he deserved to be convicted after all.

“Order in the court!” Judge Green’s sharp voice cut through the din like a machete. The noise subsided. She glared around the courtroom, gavel handle pointing outwards from her fist. She’d have intimidated a Marine drill sergeant at that moment. “There will be no further outbursts of any kind from the spectators, or I will clear this courtroom. Proceed, Mr. Baldwin.”

“Please elaborate, Ms. Calzano, on the details of Mr. Vasquez’s marital status,” Baldwin said, his voice jubilant.

“It appears to have been a ‘green card marriage’,” Calzano said. “That is when a U.S. citizen marries a foreign national to help them establish permanent residency, and eventually, U.S. citizenship. Mr. Vasquez married Ms. Gabriela Ricardo of Long Beach, California. The Ricardo family originated from the same village in Mexico as Vasquez and the families are well-acquainted. They helped Mr. Vasquez immigrate, and he stayed with them for a few months after he first arrived. That’s when the wedding took place. Soon thereafter, Mr. Vasquez moved northward, finding work in the orchards of northern California and Oregon. When the harvest ended, rather than returning to Mexico or to his wife in L.A., Mr. Vasquez found other jobs in Portland, eventually ending up at Florentino’s.”

More damned deception. Acquitting Raul just got much harder.

Baldwin stood at an angle, half-turned toward Calzano, half to the jury. “Were you able to share this information with Mr. Dark?”

“I left him a long, detailed voice-mail to this effect on November sixteenth, the day before he was murdered,” Calzano said. “He acknowledged receiving it the same day. I remember his message back to me very well, for two reasons. One is that there simply weren’t many of them. The second reason is because of what he said in his message.”

“Which was?”

“He said, ‘And that bastard got me fired? His ass is grass.’ That’s verbatim.”

Baldwin nodded. “Ms. Calzano, what were Mr. Dark’s instructions for you?”

“He asked me to send the information to the INS,” Calzano said. “Which was silly, because that’s where I got much of this information. He also wanted photos of Gabriela Ricardo. He said, ‘I want to see the expression on his face when I show him those.’”

“Objection.” Connelly raised her hand.

“Strike the last sentence,” Judge Green said.

Baldwin tapped his pen several times on his legal pad. “Ms. Calzano... No more questions.” He sat down, head held high. A smug expression filled his ruddy, sweaty face.

Peter’s spirits sank. Baldwin had established a clear motive for Vasquez. Several, in fact.

Connelly rose from her chair. “Ms. Calzano, did you ever see or hear Mr. Dark confront Mr. Vasquez about the information you collected?”

“I believe he did, yes.”

“Did you see this happen?” Connelly asked. “Do you have first-hand knowledge of him confronting Mr. Vasquez?”

“Objection!” Baldwin jumped to his feet. “The defense is asking the impossible of this witness.”

“Thank you, Counselor.” Connelly flashed a triumphant smile. “Your honor, by the prosecutor’s own admission, it is impossible to know if any of Ms. Calzano’s testimony even bears on the case. If Mr. Vasquez did not learn of it, it cannot speak to motive. Therefore, the defense moves to strike Ms. Calzano’s entire testimony.”

Bold move, and clever. Peter’s respect for Connelly climbed a notch.

“Counselors, approach the bench,” the judge said.

“It’s not impossible to know,” Ellen whispered. “Vasquez could testify.”

The conference at the bench broke up. “Ms. Calzano’s testimony stands,” the judge said. “However, the prosecution’s objection is overruled. Ms. Connelly, please repeat the question for the witness.”

Red-faced, Baldwin collapsed into his chair. Peter wiped his brow. Calzano’s damning testimony would make acquittal that much harder.

Connelly returned to her desk. “Ms. Calzano, are you certain Mr. Dark confronted Mr. Vasquez with your findings about his immigration status?”

“He said he was going to. He had to go back to Florentino’s to pick up his last paycheck. It makes sense that–”

“Ms. Calzano, I did not ask you what makes sense,” Connelly said. “Please answer, yes or no, whether you have direct evidence that Mr. Dark told Mr. Vasquez about your findings regarding his immigration status.”

Calzano turned to face away from the jury, and dipped her head. “No, I do not.”

“Do you have any direct evidence that Mr. Dark was able to share your findings about the so-called ‘green card marriage’ with Mr. Vasquez or Ms. Aguilar?”

Say no. Say no!

“I can’t be certain,” Calzano said. “It was his intention to tell them both, however.”

Peter pumped his fist in minor celebration. Calzano’s damaging testimony might not matter, if Baldwin couldn’t prove that Alvin had confronted Raul about it.

Vasquez turned in his seat toward the sparsely filled gallery. No Martina. No Gabriela, and from all appearances, no family, either. Peter sank into his chair. Vasquez, fighting for his life, had been abandoned not by one woman, but two—Martina, whom he loved, but who did not love him, and Gabriela, his wife of convenience. He was alone in the world.

Sounded awfully familiar.

Connelly took a slow step toward the witness. “Ms. Calzano, you stated earlier that your findings—regarding the extension of his green card, for example—could impact Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status. Do you recall those statements?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you an attorney?”

Calzano seemed puzzled. “No. As I mentioned, I’m a private investigator.”

“I see. Do you have formal legal training?” Another step.

“No, I do not.”

Connelly took another step and planted her feet. “If you would, please explain for the court what background you have that would make you an expert in the many fine nuances of immigration law.”

“Objection.” Baldwin shot to his feet. “Counsel is asking for an excessive burden of credentials for this witness.”

“The witness claimed her findings could jeopardize Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status,” Connelly said. “The defense wishes to know upon what basis she makes this judgment.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Judge Green said. “Overruled.”

Peter leaned forward in his seat. Connelly was gambling, attacking Calzano’s credentials. Hopefully she’d done her homework.

“I become familiar with various aspects of the law through my work, on a case by case basis,” Calzano said, red-faced. “I obtain legal advice as needed from attorneys with whom I am associated, as I would from an expert in any field.”

“From whom did you obtain legal advice regarding Mr. Vasquez’s case?”

“My attorneys—Sampson, Hale, Brock of Palo Alto, California. Would you like their contact information?”

Now Connelly flushed red. The tapping of Baldwin’s pen echoed across the room. “No, thank you. No more questions.” Connelly retook her seat. Vasquez leaned over to whisper in her ear. She patted his arm.

Peter slapped his knee. Damn. What a mixed bag. Calzano knew her stuff, but the usefulness of her testimony remained in doubt. His fellow jurors’ faces reflected annoyance and confusion.

Well, then. He’d just have to clarify things. 

Chapter 39

With the coffee maker out of commission, Larry wandered the long, narrow jury room at lunch break as if he were lost.

“What a waste of time!” Ellen said, waiting in line for the restroom. “They presented all of that evidence regarding motive, and we don’t know if the killer was even aware of it.”

“Not ‘the killer’,” Stanley said from the far end of the table. “The defendant.”

“I stand corrected.” Ellen shifted her weight from one foot to the other and glanced at the restroom door again. “I mean, if he knew what was going on, then wow—there’s tons of motive. But did he?”

“He must have,” Alex said. “Remember, they argued the night of the murder.”

“But what about?” Stanley asked. “It could have been anything:  the girl, Alvin getting fired, who knows?”

“Too bad that couple didn’t get out of their car sooner,” Larry said. “They could have told us what they were saying.”

Peter’s vision blurred and he could no longer read his cell phone’s screen. That couple—Marcia and David. Too busy making out in the car to notice the goings-on outside. Typical. Years ago he and Marcia arrived a half-hour early to a movie, and rather than watch ads for overpriced candy in the theater, they listened to music in the car. An old Phil Collins song came on the radio, one they’d danced to when they first started dating. As always, he sang the chorus to her, his baritone well-trained and smooth from childhood choir experience: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight...” She blinked bedroom eyes at him and ran a finger up his forearm. He pulled her in close. They never did see the movie. Dozens of passers-by got quite a show, though.

“The defense attorney is going to have to pull a rabbit out of her hat to save this one,” Sheila said, startling him. He frowned. Not what he wanted to hear. Not, not.

Christine exited the restroom and sat next to him. “Are we on for lunch?”

He didn’t remember making lunch plans, but his memory was pretty poor lately. “Sure. Let me check my phone messages first, okay?”

“You’re not supposed to do that in here,” Carlos said. “No cell phones in the jury room.”

Too tired to argue, Peter waited until he and Christine reached the hallway to retrieve his voice-mail. “We’ll be releasing Thelma Robertson from our care this morning,” the bureaucratic hospital voice said. “Please make arrangements to pick her up at eleven o’clock.”

Dammit. Somebody screwed up. He’d arranged for her to be released late in the afternoon. He listened to the second message as he followed Christine down the stairs.

“Our plane is delayed,” Elizabeth’s recorded voice said. “It’ll be over an hour late. Can you meet us at the airport around 3:30? I’ll hold off on renting a car until I hear from you.”

He closed the phone and rubbed a temple with his free hand. “Good old passive-aggressive Libby,” he said to Christine’s inquisitive stare. “What part of ‘tied up until five o’clock’ does she not understand?”

“If she’s anything like me, she’d prefer to be tied up after five.” Christine smirked.

Jesus. He turned away from her to hide the physical reaction in his groin. He dialed the hospital and punched keys to navigate through the voice menu system:  non-emergency assistance, then in-patient care, followed by the stroke unit, where a live human answered. But the odyssey continued. Hospital staff passed his call from one person to the next in search of whoever was in charge of his mother’s release. No one seemed to know. Finally he reached Angela Wegman.

“Hi, Peter,” she said. “Shall we see you down here shortly?”

“Afraid not.” His heart pounded. No way she would get her hands on him. “I’m still on jury duty. My sister was supposed to pick Mom up this afternoon, but her plane is late. Can we pick her up after five?”

“Yes, but they’ll charge you for an extra day, and I guarantee your insurance won’t cover it,” Wegman said. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll call Dr. Nuttbaum at Sunset Gardens and see if they can send their shuttle.”

“That would be great,” Peter said. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“No problem. Happy to help. But I want to talk to you, and your sister if possible, about your mom’s recovery. When can you make it over?”

Um, never. “I’m not sure. How about I call you when we’re done here for the day?”

She agreed. He wrote her number on a receipt and stuffed it into his wallet. Christine tugged him out the courthouse door to the street. “Hungry yet?” Impatience rang in her voice.

His stomach rumbled. “I could eat all of Montana. Where shall we go?”

They chose the Olympus, a popular Greek place on West Burnside—a ten-block walk, but do-able with their long lunch break. “I may have to make some calls,” he said. “But I promised you lunch, so lunch you shall have.”

“A man of his word. Such a rarity.” They walked up Fourth Avenue, and she slipped her arm through his. After a few moments, he pulled his arm away.

“I need to check my phone.” He reached into his pocket.

“Still there?” she asked.

He flipped it open and frowned. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from my boss.”

“About your buddy’s problem, or about how indispensable you are?”

“Both.” He drifted away from her. She stepped around a stopped pedestrian, bringing her within inches of Peter’s elbow again. He clasped his hands behind him and quickened his pace, but she kept up with him. At the corner, he stepped off the curb.

“Careful!” She grabbed his arm. A bicyclist sped by, inches from a nasty collision. Her hand lingered on his forearm.

“Thanks.” He unclasped his hands and crossed his arms in front.

Her hand dropped to her side. “Do I make you nervous, Peter?”

“No, no.” He waited on the traffic and brushed his fingers through his hair. Several strands floated to the ground.

“Okay. If you say so.” The walk signal lit and she pressed a palm against his back. “Earth to Peter. Green light.”

She did most of the talking, light chit-chat, the rest of the way to the restaurant. She asked for, and got, her favorite booth by the window, a definite step up from the tightly-packed, vinyl-topped squares surrounded by rickety wooden chairs nearby. Kitchen noises erupted every few moments whenever servers burst through a pair of swinging wooden doors to deliver the kitchen’s savory dishes.

They sat across from one another in the booth. The midday sun reflected off the menu’s laminated surface. “What do you like here?” he asked.

“The baba ganoush is to die for,” she said. “Hey, why so jumpy?”

“Am I?”

She rolled her eyes. “Very. What’s up?”

“Well, let’s see.” He tossed the menu onto the table and counted on his fingers. “One, my mom just had her second stroke in six months. Two, my siblings want to move her to some nutcase religious hospital. Three, I’m getting divorced any day now. Four, my best friend is getting fired and thinks I sold him out. And five, for some odd reason, I haven’t slept well in months. I’m out of fingers, but six, I’m stuck on the jury of a murder trial where my soon-to-be ex-wife shows up and her boyfriend’s a witness. I don’t know, though. Why would I be jumpy?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I won’t mention it again.”

He toyed with his fork. Several seconds passed. “Christine, I’m the one who should apologize. You’ve been nice to me all week. I have no business jumping all over you like that.”

“I’ve been too pushy with you,” she said. “I do this all the time. My friends say it’s why I’m still single. I scare men off.”

He drummed on the tabletop. “Are you still burning for that guy who left you?”

She shrugged. “Kyle left his mark, but that was a long time ago. I moved to Portland in part to get over him—to make a fresh start. I knew a guy here, and thought we had potential.” She shuddered. “Boy, was I wrong.”

“Well, I’m glad we’ve met,” he said. “I find you very interesting. But I’m not yet in a place where I can get into any kind of relationship.”

“Hey, slow down, buddy.” She held up her hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Friends first, okay?”

His ears burned. He’d never understand women. “You bet. Friends. Sounds great.”

She extended her right hand for a handshake. He clasped it in his left. “Hey,” she said. “No ring.”

He gave her hand another squeeze and pulled his free. “Yup. Step one toward recovery: stop reminding myself of the pain in my past. Accept the changes and move on.”

“That’s great!” She clapped her hands in front of her chin. “This calls for a celebration!” She picked up the wine list.

“No wine for me,” he said. “I’m fighting to stay awake in court as it is.”

She sighed. “Spoil sport. Actually I was going to treat you to some ouzo. Okay, then. After trial today. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Don’t take ‘no’—take a rain check. I have to take care of my sister and Mom tonight.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting. Okay, next week then.” The waiter came and they ordered hummus and souvlaki. “Now, back to your wife.” She sipped her water. “Why is her boyfriend a witness to this trial? What was she doing at that restaurant with him?”

He crunched an ice cube in his mouth. Sweat collected on his scalp. He wiped his brow and sipped his water. “If I’d have been there,” he said, “none of this would have happened.”

Stupid, stupid. Shut up. The sound of his heartbeat, now pounding double-time, deafened him to the clatter of the busy restaurant. He rested his heavy head against one hand and raised his water glass with the other.

“What do you mean, none of this would have happened?” she asked. “You would have somehow prevented the murder?”

The room spun. He set his water down and steadied himself with both palms flat on the table. Sweat beaded across his forehead and trickled down his back. Breaths came hard, labored.

She leaned forward across the table, her gaze intense. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Are you responsible for Alvin Dark’s death? Are you a ... murderer?”

Peter stared at her, unable to move or breathe.

Chapter 40

Christine’s laughter shocked Peter out of his immobile trance.

“Oh, my God!” She sputtered, fighting to control her paroxysms. “You should have seen the look on your face just now!” She doubled over, holding her stomach. Convulsions of laughter overtook her again. Nearby customers stopped eating and stared.

Peter forced air into his lungs and closed his eyes. The spinning slowed. His stomach swirled like the blade on a chainsaw. He took a few more deep breaths, and the storm subsided.

So did Christine’s laughing fit. After a few moments, she asked, “Peter? Are you okay?”

He opened his eyes. After a moment, her blurry face came back into focus. He blinked and shook off dizziness. “Sorry. I was off somewhere else for a moment.”

“I noticed,” she said. “Sorry about laughing at you. I was just... well, anyway. I don’t understand what you mean. How would your being there have prevented the murder? Or did I misunderstand?”

He dabbed his forehead with a paper napkin, then crumpled it into his fist. “What I meant was, maybe I wouldn’t be divorced right now. Maybe she wouldn’t have left me that night.” No, that didn’t make sense either.

“That night?” Christine asked. “She left you the same night as the murder of Alvin Dark? What a coincidence! Are you sure?”

“I mean she wouldn’t have left me at all.” His shirt stuck to his skin like plaster. His chest constricted. He took shallow breaths through his mouth. The large, bright room suddenly shrank. “Or, she wouldn’t have left me when she did. I don’t know. I’m not making sense, am I?”

“No, you’re not. But as long as you realize it, there’s hope for you.” She winked. The waiter arrived with their hummus and refilled their water glasses.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the waiter. “Could you bring me a shot of that ouzo?”

“Make it two.” She grinned. “I can’t let you have all the fun.”

The booze helped him relax enough to eat most of his food, and some forty minutes later he slapped his credit card on the bill. But the waiter returned with a troubled expression.

“Sir,” the waiter said, “do you have another credit card we can try?”

“What’s the problem?” Peter asked.

“The charge was refused,” the waiter said in a low voice. Peter dug another card out of his wallet. “I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “but we don’t accept American Express.”

“Here.” Christine dropped her Visa card on the table. “I’ll get it. You can pay me back later.” Her cheerful tone was gone.

“I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot. I don’t know what’s going on.” He sighed. “One more thing to take care of.”

“Don’t worry about it. It happens to everyone.”

They walked in silence back toward the courthouse. He walked close to her in case she wanted to slip her arm through his again, but she kept her distance. He shouldn’t have pushed her away earlier.

They detoured to a Fifth Avenue ATM, and he requested $100 cash. “Damned ATM fees,” he said when the machine warned him of the two dollar charge. He pushed a few more buttons, then pounded the keypad. “What do you mean, insufficient balance?” he yelled. “Come on, give me my fucking money!” He slapped the monitor, to no effect. The ATM displayed a message:  Another transaction? “Goddamn right another transaction. Give me a hundred bucks, you piece of shit!” He punched the buttons. Literally.

“Calm down,” she said. “You’re making a scene.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “These goddamn thieves charge you for withdrawing your own money, then they try to cheat you out of it. Come on, you stupid machine.” He smacked the monitor again.

Loud beeping warned him of more bad news. The machine refused to return his card. Please contact your bank for further information.

“You piece of shit!” He punched the protective plastic in front of the monitor and cocked his fist back for a second blow. Christine grabbed his arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, “before someone calls the cops.”

Cops...

He ran.

Chapter 41

Christine caught up with Peter a few blocks down the street. He gasped for air, hands on his knees. She seemed unfazed.

“Sorry... for what... happened... back there,” he said. “Stupid machine... put me... over the edge.”

She walked past him and stopped at a “Don’t Walk” signal. “Yeah. Well. You’ve got a lot on your mind and the world’s got you cross-wise. Typical male, that means you have to beat on something, or someone.” She glared at him. “Just like our murderer.”

He choked. Hot, acidic hummus and lamb surged upward from his stomach and climbed into his mouth. He forced it back down his throat, then supported himself on the back of a bus bench.

“Are you okay?” Christine asked. “Maybe you shouldn’t run right after you eat.”

Peter hacked the awful taste out of his mouth and spit. The “Don’t Walk” switched to “Walk.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go.” He followed several other pedestrians into the intersection. Christine caught up with him halfway across.

“If you’re not feeling well, maybe you ought to drop off the jury,” she said.

“No!” Peter whipped around to face her. “I mean, I don’t need to do that. I’m no quitter.”

“But– ”

“Amazing Grace” chimed from his phone. He flipped it open. “Hello?”

“I’ve got a flight update for you,” Libby said.

He held up one finger to Christine and mouthed, “It’s my sister.” Then, into the phone, “What’s the scoop, Libby?”

“We arrive at 3:45 on United Express. Can you meet us at the airport, or ...” She sighed. “Or do I need to rent a car?”

He tried to sound apologetic. “I’ll still be on jury duty. But Sunset will pick Mom up, so you won’t need a car. Just take a cab to my place—I left a key for you. I’ll see you there as soon as I’m done.”

She paused several seconds. “Sunset Gardens won’t be picking her up.”

“What? I just spoke to the hospital. They–”

“Last night,” Elizabeth said, “after we spoke, I made arrangements to move her to Christ the King Care Center in Beaverton, and checked her out of Sunset.”

“You what?” he shouted. “Elizabeth, you had no right!” He grabbed the thinning remains of hair on his head and followed Christine across another intersection, trusting she would not get them both killed. “Do you know how bad that screws everything up? Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Peter, you know I won’t tolerate that kind of language.”

“Won’t tolerate—aah! Tolerate this, Elizabeth!” He thrust his middle finger skyward. Pointless, since she couldn’t see it, but it made him feel better. Christine giggled. “If this is your idea of ‘helping’ with Mom, then you and your hillbilly husband can stay in Sacramento,” he shouted. “You may not make unilateral decisions about Mom that affect my responsibilities for her. Her day to day care definitely falls into that category.”

“You make unilateral decisions about her all the time,” Elizabeth said. “Why is it okay for you and not for me?”

“Bullshit!”

Christine turned and damped the air with her hands. He toned down the volume and followed her onto Fourth Avenue toward the courthouse. “I consult with you two before I decide anything, except emergencies, and even then, I’m in touch as soon as I can be.”

“Not last time,” Libby said. “We didn’t know about Momma’s stroke until the next day.”

“There was nothing any of us could do. She was in the hospital before I even knew about the stroke.” He took a deep breath. Calm down, calm down. Steady.

“Now, listen to me, Elizabeth. Do not get on that plane to Portland. You are not welcome to stay with me and you are not to make any further arrangements for Mom. You’ve done enough damage. Goodbye!” He smothered the phone in his hands.

Christine glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes sparkling. “And so emerges Doctor Jekyll’s dark side. Tell me, Mister Hyde, who is your next victim?”

Despite his anger, her teasing made him laugh. “Don’t be next,” he said in a bad Transylvanian accent. “I might bite you.”

She grinned. “I might like that.”

Relentless, this one. “Hey, why don’t you run on ahead?” he said. “I have a few more calls to make, thanks to my shit-for-brains sister. I’ll definitely be back by 1:30 though.” His cell phone’s clock read 1:13. He’d have to work fast.

“I’ll save you a good seat.” She strolled off with a wave.

His phone chimed “Amazing Grace” again. He hit the mute button, sending Libby to voice mail, then found Sunset’s number in his recent call list. He got through to Dr. Nuttbaum with a minimum of fuss.

“I’ve been leaving messages for you all morning at work and home,” Nuttbaum said. “You’re a hard man to reach.”

“I’m a bit incommunicado.” He explained Elizabeth’s behind-the-scenes maneuver to move Mom to a new assisted living center. “I don’t want to do that, Doctor. Hopefully, it can all be undone.”

“We’ll make whatever arrangements you need,” Nuttbaum said. “We love Thelma. When I saw the transfer notice hadn’t come from you, I put it on hold until we could talk.”

“Thanks, Doc. OHSU wants to release her ASAP. Could you send a shuttle over?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Nuttbaum said. “But there is one little snag.”

Uh-oh. “What’s that?”

“Your mom had a very desirable room. There’s a long waiting list and folks were at the ready. I may not be able to keep her in the same room.”

He sighed. Libby really put her foot in it this time. “Mom’s not very good with accepting change. But she, um, may not notice. If you could set up the new room just like the old one –”

“We’ll do our best,” Nuttbaum said. “But the sooner you can get over here to visit her, the better.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m out of here.” He’d promised someone he’d be somewhere else, but he was too exhausted to remember who, when or where. Oh, well. Yet another person pissed off at him. He should start a club—the Pissed-Off-at-Peter club. Join P.O.P. now. Free corpse with membership.

In her voice mail, Elizabeth cried, complained about him hanging up on her, and threatened to get on the plane to Portland anyway. In a second, less tearful message, she said she’d wait to hear from him before she made any further decisions.

He cleared courthouse security at 1:27. Libby would have to wait. He turned off his phone and took the stairs to the third floor, each step slower than the one before. Exercise, schmexercise.

Baldwin’s first witness of the afternoon, a junior police detective, had traced Alvin’s missing paycheck. Someone cashed it the day after the murder at a seedy joint that took thirty percent of the check’s face value as a “processing fee,” and asked no pesky questions about ID. The detective could not determine who cashed the check, but it clearly was not Alvin Dark.

The next witness, Trey Jacobs, a thin, scrabbly man, looked sixty but claimed to be thirty-five. He gave his occupation as a “backpacker,” had no permanent address and the briefest of attention spans. His entire body, particularly his head, trembled as he spoke.

“Mr. Jacobs,” Baldwin said, “please tell the court where you were and what you were doing on the morning of last November 18.”

“That’s the day we talked about?” Jacobs’s bug-like eyes protruded from his skull. He appeared malnourished, almost skeletal.

Peter sat up straight. Oh boy. Connelly would chop this guy up like kindling.

“Let me try it this way,” Baldwin said. “Do you recall hiking along Old Fairview Road last November and coming across what appeared to be the scene of an automobile accident?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Jacobs leaned to one side. “Sure do. This big fancy car ended up in a ditch. Poor bastard lying dead right alongside the car. Not a pretty sight.” His words pulsed out of his mouth like an irregular heartbeat. Only his staccato speech kept Peter awake. Ouzo at lunch had been a mistake.

“What do you remember about the car or the man?” Baldwin asked.

Jacobs leaned forward. “He was dead. Hell, they was both dead. Him and the car. Both of ‘em. All beat to pieces.”

Baldwin rested his hands on the wooden railing in front of the witness. “Do you remember any other details of the scene? Color or make of the car?”

“Oh yeah. Nice fancy sports car. Camaro. Big and red.” Jacobs leaned back and offered a toothless grin. “Side was all bashed in. All the windows, too. What a mess.”

“Did you check the body to see if it was dead?”

Peter squirmed. Ask about the position of the body. Ask if it was on its back or its side. Come on.

“No. I never touched neither one. Dead people spook me. They steal your soul, you know. That’s what they want.” Jacobs’s eyes bugged out even further. A snort erupted from the general direction of Alex Scott followed by some snickers from the other jurors. Peter didn’t share his fellow jurors’ delight at the quirky stranger. He was too tired to find anything funny.

“Did you see any other people along Old Fairview Road that night?”

Peter bolted upright in his chair.

“Just one,” Jacobs said. “Found a man sleeping in his car on the side of the road in a silver pickup truck. That man there.”

He lifted his hand and pointed at Raul Vasquez.

Chapter 42

A drop of sweat stung the corner of Peter’s eye. He blinked it away. His knuckles whitened on his knees. Raul may have seen him leave. Not only that, but Jacobs’s testimony put Vasquez at the scene of the crime. Shit, shit, shit.

“Welcome back from dreamland,” Ellen murmured. “I thought we had lost you there for a while.”

He forced a grin and whispered, “Well, it’s finally getting interesting.” Sheila, to his left, cocked her head at him and lifted an eyebrow. Great. Another one thought he was nuts.

Baldwin took his time with Jacobs and made sure he positively identified Vasquez as the man sleeping in the truck. On cross-examination, Jacobs clarified that he saw Vasquez several hours after the murder, sleeping a few hundred yards away from the actual murder scene. “Mr. Jacobs,” Connelly asked, “do you recall the weather that morning? Was it raining or sunny?”

“It was cold,” Jacobs said, “and dark. Sun hadn’t come up yet. So I don’t know if it was raining.” Somebody snickered. Judge Green lifted her eyes without moving her head and glared around the courtroom.

“Do you recall what Mr. Dark was wearing when he was lying on the ground?”

“No, ma’am. I ain’t never been much for noticing people’s clothes and such.”

“Was he lying face up or face down? Or on his side?”

Peter held his breath. Face up meant that Jacobs found him first. On his side meant Alvin had already been robbed.

Jacobs rubbed his chin. “Can’t recall, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

Sheila Kane sniggered. Peter let out a heavy sigh.

“What about the car at the crime scene, Mr. Jacobs? Do you recall which of the car’s windows were broken?”

Baldwin twitched in his seat. No doubt he wanted to cut this off, but Connelly was being careful with her questions.

“No, ma’am, not exactly. For sure, the windshield was gone.”

“Do you recall anything else?” Connelly asked. “What you had for dinner? Where you slept? Who else you spoke with or saw?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to say. So many days are like so many others.”

“Mr. Jacobs,” Connelly asked, “who was President of the United States on November 18?”

“Objection!” Baldwin’s arm led his long body up from his seat.

“Sustained,” Judge Green said.

“George Clinton?” Jacobs said anyway.

A tiny smirk crossed Connelly’s face. She returned to her chair, but hesitated before sitting. “One more question, Mr. Jacobs. Did you remove anything from the body or anything lying on the ground next to the smashed-up car? A paycheck, perhaps?”

“I told you all before. I never touched no body,” Jacobs said. “Dead people are spooky. I didn’t go near it. I knowed he was dead and I stayed away. You don’t gotta believe me if you don’t want to but that’s the truth.”

“No more questions, your honor.” Connelly took her seat.

A few more police witnesses clarified some loose ends for Baldwin. At 3:30 in the afternoon, he said, “The prosecution rests.”

“Your honor, the defense moves for judgment of acquittal at this time,” Connelly said.

“Motion denied,” Judge Green said. “Ms. Connelly, are you prepared to begin presenting the case for the defense Monday morning?”

“Yes, your honor. But the defense would like to present a few additional motions to the court.”

“Very well. Let’s do that in my chambers.” She gaveled the court into recess and strode away from the bench.

“Folks, please stick around, if you wouldn’t mind, until the judge dismisses us for the day,” Jeff Williams said once the jurors filed into the holding tank. “There’s a small chance we could get called back in there.”

Peter sat in his usual spot. Christine took the seat next to him, with Dolores and Larry on the other side of her. The others spread around the table.

“What’s all the ‘judgment of acquittal’ stuff about?” Alex asked after Williams left.

“They did the same thing on the last jury I was on,” Sheila said. “It’s routine.”

“It’s raining, anyway.” Carlos stared out the window. “We might as well be in here.”

“It’s bogus, though,” Alex said. “The prosecution made a good case.”

“Did they prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt?” Carlos asked. “That’s the question.”

“But that’s up to us to decide,” Christine said. “I mean—the jury.” Her face turned red. She rested her foot against Peter’s. For once it didn’t startle him. He let it lie there.

“Not if the judge determines the case hasn’t been made,” Sheila said.

“I hope these motions don’t take too long,” Alex said.

“Me, too,” Peter said. “I have a sick mother to take care of.” Not to mention a friend in trouble. He hadn’t thought about Frankie all afternoon. He stood and jiggled his neck and shoulders all around to loosen up his stiff muscles. His joints cracked loudly.

Dolores laughed. “My goodness. You’ve got a loose bucket of bolts in there.”

“I know what you need,” Christine said. “A good massage. I’ve got just the person.” She pulled a card out of her purse, wrote on the back, and slid it across to Peter.

No surprise, the note did not contain the name of a massage therapist. Instead it read:  “Drinks, 8 p.m. We need to talk.” He sighed again. She never quit. When he looked up, she had disappeared into the restroom.

“Wasn’t that nice of her?” Dolores slid over to the seat next to him. “She’s such a nice young lady. I can’t believe she’s still single. Are you married, Peter?”

“Sort of,” he said. “I’m going through a divorce.”

“Such a pity.” Dolores patted his hand. “Well, maybe when that’s all done, you and she... well, you look so nice together.” She took a sip of her tea.

His face flushed. “I’m sure she, ah, has many suitors.”

“Nope, no boyfriend.” Dolores leaned over to Peter and whispered, “She told me.” She leaned back and said, “I’m so pleased Christine and I have become such good friends. It’s like we’ve known each other for years.”

“Yes, that’s great.” Something bothered him. Probably just nerves, fatigue and paranoia.

The motions didn’t take long. Jeff Williams returned at four o’clock and released the jury for the weekend, with reminders to avoid newspapers and TV news.

Peter hustled to his truck. Elizabeth had left several more messages and demanded he call back immediately each time, as if he could simply excuse himself from jury duty to call his sister. Jimmy left one too, complaining about how Peter had treated her and warning him not to take “unilateral action” regarding Mom.

Yeah, right. Moving her to a different senior center, for example. He pressed ‘delete’.

Gregg had set up a time on Saturday to meet with Frankie, and he needed to call back to confirm. Frankie had left a message, too:  “Pete, buddy, my lawyer’ll kill me, but I gotta talk to ya before Saturday.” He sounded desperate. Maybe even sober.

“All the arrangements have been made,” Dr. Nuttbaum said in the next message, “but she will be in a different room. It’s almost identical to her last one—but flip-flopped, a mirror image. I hope it’ll work. We’ve sent the shuttle over for her. I recommend you come visit her ASAP.”

“Hang on, Mom,” he said. “I’m on my way.” He started the car. One more message.

“Peter, this is Marcia–”

Shocked, he loosened his grip on the phone, and it slipped from his hand. It bounced off the seat and landed on the floor. The battery popped off and disappeared under the seat. Dammit. Well, he could do nothing about it right then. Besides, it was safer turned off. Less chance of recruiting more members of the Pissed-Off-at-Peter club.

Fatigue settled on him like a heavy blanket, accentuated by the steady drizzle on his windshield and the enveloping grayness of the sky. His eyes itched and begged for rest. Once his car drifted a foot into the next lane before another driver’s horn blasted him back into a state of alertness. A red sports car. There were too damned many red sports cars on the road.

But so few silver Ford Rangers.

Chapter 43

Mom clutched at the covers of her propped-up bed and drew them over her chin with arthritic, age-spotted fingers. Her eyes darted side to side at the handful of moving boxes stacked against the far wall of her unadorned, antiseptic space. The white walls and gray industrial carpet made the room feel even emptier.

“It’s not my room, Peter.” Her shoulders trembled. “They keep telling me it’s my room, but it’s not. I know my own room. This is not my room.”

“It’s your new room,” he said. “It’s just like the old one.” He always made a point to be honest with her, even when it might be easier to gloss over things. He clung to the hope that being truthful, even with bad news, would keep her connected with reality and somehow stem the progress of her dementia.

“What’s wrong with my old room? I didn’t ask for a new one. I want my old room back!” She hugged the covers closer.

“While you were in the hospital–”

“Where are all my things? Where’s my Bible? Where are my pictures? Where’s my jigsaw puzzle?” she asked. “I tell you where they are. They’re in my old room. They stole my room and all my things. Thieves!”

He opened the drawer in the end table by her bed. “Your Bible is right here.” He handed it to her. She clutched it in her fingers and let the blankets fall to her chest. He opened a box near the bed, full of clothes. The next one contained photos and a Big Ben jigsaw puzzle.

“Ah, here we go.” He handed her a framed 5”x7” picture of her and his dad. She gazed at it for a few seconds, then pressed it close to her chest alongside the Bible. Peter stood another photo, this one of Jimmy’s kids, on top of the nightstand. “I’ll have to get some picture-hangers for these.” He showed her the others: a shot of Jimmy and Libby standing with him at Peter’s graduation from UC Davis, and bride-and-groom pictures of Jimmy’s and Libby’s weddings. He left his own wedding photo in the box.

“Check my dresser drawers,” Mom said. “The second drawer, where I keep my nice blouses. See if my money’s still there.”

“Nothing’s been put away yet. I’ll do that for you tonight. What’s this about money?”

“My mad money,” she said. “I’m saving it to go to Mexico. Out of your father’s paycheck every week. Sometimes only ten dollars. But something, every week. Check it, see if it’s there.”

Yeah. Mad money all right. “You and Dad went to Mexico seven years ago.”

“I did not!” she said. “What are you saying? That I can’t remember? I’d be able to remember a trip to Mexico, you stupid idiot. Now listen to me! Check for the money!”

He pointed to the picture clutched to her chest. “Look again at that photo of you and Dad. It was taken in Cancun, a few years before he died.”

She glowered at him for a moment, then stared at the photo. Tears wet her wrinkled face.

“Check for the money,” she hissed.

He rested his hand on her arm. God, this was awful. “Mom, none of your things are where they used to be. There was a screw-up when you were in the hospital, and they moved you to a new room. That’s why everything is all out of place.” No need to mention that the screw-up was Libby’s. It would only upset her more.

“I don’t like this room.” She sounded weak and frightened now, rather than angry. “I want my old room back.”

“I know.” He couldn’t blame her—the empty, sterile room would depress anyone. He brushed away tears perched on both sides of his nose. “I’ll see what I can do. But it may take a few days. In the meantime, let’s set you up in here, okay? I’ll put your clothes away and hang your pictures on the walls. Then maybe we can do this puzzle together. Okay?”

She looked around the room with a critical eye. “I don’t like it here. I want to leave now.”

“Come on, Mom, you don’t mean that.” No crying. No, no, no. “All of your friends are here—May and Francis, and Evelyn, and Margaret. They’ll probably come by to visit you soon. Maybe they’ll join us for dinner. Would you like that?”

“My friends won’t be visiting me here. They don’t know where I am. They’ll go to my old room, and I won’t be there.”

Damn. She could be crazy one minute, then so lucid and logical the next.

That sort of ran in the family.

“I want to leave this place,” she said again. “I don’t like it here.”

He took a long, shaky breath and got up from her bedside. “Okay, I’m going to try to get your old room back. I’ll be gone for a few minutes.”

“Don’t leave me alone!” The tears flowed again. “Get me out of here!”

He hung his head and rubbed his temples. Tension filled his body from his shoulders to his shoes. He wished he could lie down and let people take care of him.

A nurse entered. “I heard some voices,” she said. “Do we have a problem in here? Oh, Thelma! How nice to see you!”

“Dori?” Thelma asked.

“No, sweetie, it’s Janice,” the nurse replied. “What are you doing in Ruby Tuttle’s old room?” Peter waved his arms and flashed a “cut” signal at his throat, but she paid no attention.

“Ruby Tuttle?” Mom’s lip curled in disgust. “That old mule. Is this her room? I knew I hated it for a reason. Get me out of here!”

Janice straightened Mom’s blankets and fluffed her pillow. “How’s she doing, Mr. Robertson?”

“Not too well,” he said. “Can we talk outside?”

Janice was sympathetic to Mom’s situation, but powerless. “You’ll have to speak to Dr. Nuttbaum,” she said. “In the meantime, we’ll try to make her feel as comfy as possible.”

Peter couldn’t find Dr. Nuttbaum, so he spoke to an administrator. “I’m sorry, Mr. Robertson. Your sister was authorized to check her out of the facility, and once we’ve committed the room to the next person, there’s nothing we can do. We’re lucky to have any room available for her. Our waiting list is quite long.”

Damn Elizabeth and her meddling. He argued with the administrator, but got nowhere. He walked by Mom’s old room and read the name on the door.

Oh, Christ. It couldn’t be:  Ruby Tuttle.

He put on a cheery face, returned to Mom’s new room, and unpacked her things while she watched TV. After dinner several of her friends stopped by, few of whom she recognized. Ruby made a rather indelicate reference to her delightful new room, but Mom was too busy complaining about hers to pick up on the coincidence. The others praised her new room’s hominess and promised to visit often. Cheered by that, Mom shooed Peter away so she could join the others for Bingo. Relieved, he said good-bye and promised to visit again on Sunday.

Back in his car, he reattached his cell phone battery and flipped it on. Again he had several new messages. He hesitated a moment, then dialed voice mail.

“I have to tell you, little brother,” Jimmy’s voice boomed, “it is downright evil for you to deny Elizabeth a visit to Momma on Mother’s Day weekend. She was at the airport, tickets in hand—expensive tickets I might add. That is so–”

He hung up. Damn, damn, damn. He’d forgotten Mother’s Day was two days away. He had to admit, it would be mean to deny Libby and Mom a visit this particular weekend. Plus, Libby could hardly afford to buy plane tickets she couldn’t use.

Forget the other messages. Probably more Jimmy. Exhaustion swept over him. His fingers trembled, and he struggled to put the key in the car’s ignition. As tired as he was, his frayed nerves would probably keep him awake until morning.

A drink might help, though.

His phone chirped again—the default ring, not family. He checked the time—7:40 p.m.—and the caller ID. He chuckled and flipped open the phone. “If nothing else, Christine,” he said, “you’re persistent. And you have amazing timing.”

***

PETER AND CHRISTINE snacked on fried wontons and spring rolls at the bar of the Dragon Boat, a downtown Pan-Asian bistro. He sipped a strong dark beer, she a Lemon Drop in a sugar-rimmed martini glass. Unrecognizable Japanese music wafted from hidden speakers, and kimono-clad Caucasian waitresses scurried between dark, high-backed booths behind them.

After several minutes of light banter, Christine pressed her hand on his knee. “We need to talk.” Her eyes were steady, her tone insistent.

“Okay,” he said. “Anything but the case.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Of course it’s about the case, and your involvement in it.”

“My involvement? That’s pretty simple. I’m a juror.” He crunched another fried wonton between his teeth.

Her gaze bored holes in his temples. “I think you’re more involved than that. Deeply involved. I’ve been thinking about this a lot.” She took a sip of her drink and pushed it aside.

“You’re wasting your time.” Still he made no eye contact.

“Maybe. But some things are starting to add up.”

He shrugged. “They ought to be. The prosecution–”

“Don’t bullshit me.” She gripped his knee harder. “If you want to pretend to the rest of the world you’re some sort of innocent, objective guy who just happened to land on the jury of some random murder trial, fine. But don’t try to pull that crap on me.”

He laughed and turned toward her. “You’re crazy. I can tell you in all honesty I did not want to be on this jury. Had I known in advance I’d be picked for a murder trial, I’d have done everything in my power to avoid it.”

“So you’re trying to tell me it’s pure coincidence that your wife–”

“Ex-wife.”

“– that her boyfriend is a witness on this case? I suppose it’s also a coincidence she left you the same night? You expect me to believe these events are not connected?”

He looked her square in the eye. “I assure you, they are not. You’re way off base here.”

“Am I? Then why didn’t you excuse yourself when they revealed the witness list in voir dire?”

He sighed. “Honestly, I missed it. Hell, I didn’t know his last name, and anyway, I was half asleep. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“And you’re jittery, irritable, and your attention wanders like a six-year-old’s. All signs of very deep stress.”

“I am under stress. My mom–”

“And Frankie, blah blah. Yeah, how convenient. Now, listen to me. I know you’re involved in this case somehow, and I can tell it’s really troubling you. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? As I told you before, I love secrets...” Her fingernail skimmed circles over the cap of his knee. “And I’m very good at keeping them.”

Her caress sent a pleasant tingling sensation down his leg and up his spine. He stared into his beer glass, three-fourths full. He considered telling her. It would be a relief to share the burden with someone.

He took a swig of beer. Her eyes softened. So welcoming. Maybe he could trust her.

Another swig. She waited. If he told her, she would comfort him, hold him in her arms, soothe his battered psyche. He summoned his courage and drew a deep breath.

“I have nothing to tell you,” he said in a rush of expelled air.

“Okay.” A coy smile crossed her face. “If you want to continue with your little mystery, fine. Because as I told you before...” She leaned close to him. Her lips grazed his ear, and her finger traced a line from his knee toward his crotch. “I like a man of mystery.”

She tossed back the rest of her drink in one gulp and slapped a twenty on the table. “Drinks are on me tonight. After all, I’d hate to see you go ape-shit on another ATM. After what I saw of you this afternoon, I’m just glad you weren’t carrying a tire iron.”

A moment later she was gone.

Chapter 44

In spite of the drinks, Peter didn’t sleep well again. The conversation with Christine, Mom’s health, Frankie’s troubles, the trial—each took turns occupying his exhausted mind and denied him the deep sleep he needed. He dozed off around three a.m., but Gypsy’s sharp yelping woke him at 5:30, dry-mouthed and with an aching head. At that point he gave up and made his way to the kitchen to brew some strong coffee.

He didn’t get far. He had run out of coffee beans. Just great. No coffee, no cash, and over an hour to kill before he needed to be at work. The crud he’d suffered all week at Larry’s hands suddenly seemed inviting.

He poured the last of his orange juice into a small glass and sat in the living room, dimly lit by the first rays of dawn stealing in through the windows. His grass swayed in the gentle breeze—it had rained the last few weekends, when he usually mowed. He needed to get to it before the neighbors complained. The juice tasted sharp and spritzy, half-fermented. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone grocery shopping.

He returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the sparsely stocked fridge. He sniffed the milk—ugh, shouldn’t have. He could identify leftover fish and chips from the prior Thursday, but not the fuzzy contents in containers behind them. The unspoiled inventory included a dried-out orange and a single frozen waffle. No syrup, no butter, but he found a tiny jar of marionberry jam in the back of the fridge. Voila. Breakfast.

He stuffed the empty waffle box into the over-full recycling bin he’d forgotten to take to the curb on Wednesday. He washed a plate and fork pulled out of the sink, ate at the kitchen counter and sorted through the week’s mail:  another late notice from the credit card company, an overdraft notice from his bank, and a stack of bills. A letter from Multnomah County contained his final divorce decree. At last, some evidence that he’d completed something.

He got to work early and spent the first hour and a half catching up with his employees. Tomiko was planning a vacation to Tahiti. Dang. Peter and Marcia had gone there—an amazing trip. Another employee, Manuel, announced his engagement. He did his best to smile and offer congratulations, his final divorce decree fresh on his mind.

“I tell you what, Peter, it’s been hell here all week, what with you and Frankie and Donna all out at once,” Jessica ranted in her office. “I don’t know what we’d-a done without Skip. He’s a regular dynamo. And so nice!” She paused to take a sip of her coffee.

Yeah. And cute. Whatever. “How’s Gregg doing with all this? I see he’s back to smoking.”

“Oh, he’s a regular chimney again,” she said. “His wife is pissed at me, says it’s my fault. My fault! As if that man doesn’t crave tobacco all day long. I only offered him one out of politeness. Why, he’s the only man more fixated on my purse than my boobs.”

“Wait a minute.” Her low-cut sweater and shelf bra made it a challenge not to stare at her ample cleavage. “You offered a cigarette to a man who’s quitting?”

“Yes, she did!” Gregg slouched against her open doorway. “My angel of mercy is a she-devil.”

“Oh, get off it,” Jessica said. “You were never so happy in your life as when you took a hit off my Virginia Slims.”

“Shush!” Gregg damped the air with his arms. “You don’t have to broadcast to the world that I smoked a girlie cigarette.”

Grinning, Peter followed his boss out of Jessica’s office, toward Gregg’s. Motion at the front door stopped him. Frankie and his lawyer entered, an hour early. Frankie’s dark expression accused his friend:  Traitor.

They gathered an hour later around an oval cherry table in the company president’s office, the one private room in the building large enough to hold them all. Hanford Stark hadn’t actually used his second-floor space, nor the enormous oak desk that occupied the sunny southwest corner, more than twice in the previous year. Plaques for acts of community service crowded the dark paneled walls, and trophies from company-sponsored bowling, softball, and darts teams lined the room’s perimeter.

For all his desire to have his say, Frankie remained quiet for most of the meeting. He slumped in his chair and glared at Peter and Gregg with his arms folded over his chest. Garvey Moss, his lawyer, looked like he’d be more comfortable on horseback driving cattle rather than wearing a suit and arguing labor rights, but he always seemed to have something to say. He made a series of vague but ominous threats of litigation should the company misstep.

By contrast, Gregg did most of the talking for Stark’s. The company’s lawyer, a gray-suited man named Wilson, mostly took notes or conferred with him in private. Gregg snorted at Moss’s threats and made his disdain for him clear, mostly by ignoring him. By contrast, he was kind and respectful to Frankie.

Gregg laid out Stark’s position on the matter in a frank, matter-of-fact tone. For once he was calm and focused—no fidgeting in his chair, no toying with his cigarettes. “Frankie, in the end, it doesn’t matter why you did this,” he said to sum up. “We have strict policies about this sort of behavior. By your own admission, you were in egregious violation of these rules. I’m sorry, but I have to enforce them.”

“Your selective enforcement of the rules concerns me,” Garvey said. “The other employee–”

“– is represented by the union, whose contract governs this case,” Gregg said. “Frankie, as a supervisor, you are not union represented. You are an at-will employee. As management, I might add, you are held to a higher standard of behavior than a line employee. You’re expected to set an example and help enforce the rules, not break them.”

Frankie stared at his feet. Peter tried to swallow. Impossible.

“Now look.” Gregg adopted his most reasonable tone of voice. “In recognition of your ten years of service, we’re offering you a very generous severance package—one month’s pay and three full months of benefits. In return, you agree to attend a harassment awareness workshop. Both sides agree there will be no lawsuit. Donna’s union has offered to provide the workshop to you free of charge.” Peter had insisted on the extra months of benefits. He’d argued for three months’ pay, too, but hadn’t prevailed.

“It’s my union too,” Frankie said. “I’m still a member. Just because my job isn’t–”

“We’ll take that under advisement,” Garvey said. “There are, however, stipulations.”

Peter sighed and tried to catch Frankie’s eye, but his friend’s petulant gaze locked onto the floor.

Garvey read from a list. “Frankie will need a letter of recommendation from you.”

“We can’t do that, for obvious reasons,” Gregg replied.

No, but Peter could. He made a note to work on that.

“Retraining and job search workshops–”

“The union can provide that,” Gregg said. “That’s why you still pay dues.”

“A letter of apology from Stark’s and Donna.”

“Ridiculous!”

Garvey gathered up his papers. “We’ll be in touch in a few days. Come on, Frankie.”

Frankie regarded Peter with an angry, sorrowful stare as his lawyer stood to leave. “I can’t believe you’re part of this. Sold me right down the river. You, of all people.”

“Frankie, I–”

“Save it, Peter,” Gregg said. “We’re all done.”

Frankie stared at him, his eyes wild with anger and fear. Peter’s stomach sank to his knees. All done with the meeting, perhaps, but not with Frankie. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 45

Peter wrapped up work—reordering stocks, renewing supply contracts, and completing an employee’s annual performance review—at 5:30, half an hour late for meeting Gregg, Jessica, and Skip at the pub. He hurried to the employee parking lot—and stopped short. A familiar car was parked next to his truck, and an even more familiar shape sat behind the wheel.

His heart revved like a chain saw. He walked toward the car, a white Toyota Supra with a spoiler and a custom chrome dual exhaust. He reached the door of his truck, but before he could insert the key, the window on the Supra’s passenger side lowered.

He leaned in and rested his hands on the roof. “Good to see you.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Frankie’s speech was slurred and his breath stank of bourbon. An empty pint bottle of Wild Turkey lay label-side up on the passenger side floor.

“Need a ride somewhere?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, a ride out of hell,” Frankie said. “I doubt you can give me that. You’d probably drive me down to the ninth level and leave me there anyway.” He glared at his feet.

Peter took a deep breath, opened the car door and got in. Frankie stared straight ahead, his hands resting on the steering wheel. The keys dangled from the ignition, engine off.

“Frankie, I–”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, sure.” He turned in the seat to face his friend and leaned back against the car door. “You hang out in parking lots for the view?”

Frankie’s expression didn’t change, nor did he turn. “Yeah. Fuck off. I got nothing to say to you.”

“Oh, really,” Peter said. “Fifty spots to choose from and you parked right next to me—in a parking lot you’re no longer supposed to get anywhere near, remember? If you didn’t want to talk to me, you sure have a funny way of avoiding me.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk. Maybe I wanted to run your ass over.” Frankie stared out the driver’s side window.

“Missed your chance, then.”

“Yeah, I’m a dumbass.” Frankie blew air between his lips in an exaggerated sigh and turned forward again.

“That makes two of us.”

Frankie suppressed a smile, replaced it with a grimace. “Yeah, but only one of us is an unemployed dumbass now. With a dumbass, chickenshit ex-girlfriend and a chickenshit ex-best friend who sells him down the river the moment things get a little tight.” He reached for the keys. Peter pulled them out of the ignition before Frankie could touch them.

“What the hell?” Frankie glared at him. “Gimme those.”

“No.”

“Give ’em or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Not until you sober up.” He held the keys away from Frankie.

“I swear to God.” Frankie made a fist. “Give me the keys or I swear I will punch you in the fucking face.”

“Not with me still in the car. You want to drive yourself into a tree, that’s your business. I’ll pass.” He held the keys in his lap. He wasn’t worried about Frankie hitting him.

He should have been. The blow caught him under his left eye and snapped his head backwards through the open window. Frankie pried open his hand and ripped the keys away, scraping his palm.

“Motherfucker!” Peter yelled. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“I told you to give ’em back.” Frankie jammed the key in the ignition, started the engine, and shifted into reverse. Peter fumbled for the door handle and pulled it open. The car lurched and he fell backwards onto the gravel. The car door bumped him and dragged him for a few feet. He dropped and rolled, and bumped his head on the rear tire of his truck. Frankie’s front tire missed rolling over his foot by an inch. The Supra stopped as it cleared the pickup, and the passenger door slammed shut.

He scrambled to his feet. The Supra backed up next to him and the driver’s side window lowered.

“Of all people to double-cross me.” Frankie spat. “I would think someone in your situation might be more careful.”

Blood drained from Peter’s face. “What... what do you mean, in my situation?”

Frankie half-grimaced, half smiled—an evil expression. “You just better watch your step, there, killer.” He flipped Peter the finger and burned rubber toward the exit, spitting gravel on Peter and the Ranger amid a cloud of dust and a loud blast of heavy metal.

Peter recognized the music immediately. Frankie’s favorite.

Metallica’s “Kill ’Em All.”

Chapter 46

Sunset Gardens took good care of its guests, mostly elderly patients in some form of assisted living situation. On Mother’s Day, this included a family-style, eggs-and-pancake brunch that gave long-term residents like Thelma Robertson an opportunity to show off their pride-and-joys. Peter arrived at her door a few minutes before nine with his smartly wrapped gift (a silk scarf—lavender, her favorite color) and oversized card in hand. He hated shopping, so three years before, he’d bought several years’ supply of gifts and cards, wrapped them in appropriate paper, and stored them in a spare closet. Marcia laughed at him at the time, but he’d never missed an occasion to bestow favor upon his dear old mom.

Fitting, since he’d learned the trick from Mom.

He knocked. The door, already ajar, slid open an inch. Voices crept out—familiar voices. One was Mom’s, of course. The other two couldn’t possibly be here –

The door opened. “Come on in, Peter.” Elizabeth tossed long brown hair out of her face and reached out for a hug. “It’s family meeting time.”

Behind her, Jimmy grinned. “Good morning, Peter,” he said. “Surprise!”

He returned Libby’s perfunctory hug and pushed past her to squeeze Jimmy’s hand. Hard. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. Jimmy just widened his grin. Peter bent over Mom and gave her a real hug and her gift.

“Isn’t it wonderful that Jimmy and Elizabeth came for Mother’s Day?” Mom sat on her bed with her hands clasped together and her face split in a joyous smile. Jimmy stood against the wall at the end of her bed, arms folded across his barrel chest, smelling of cheap after-shave. His crisp white shirt, long blue tie, and pleated gray slacks made him seem taller than six-two. Elizabeth, still girlishly slender at thirty-six, wore a mousy brown skirt that reached well below her knees and a tan vest over a cream-colored blouse. Not the type of outfit that once made her homecoming queen.

“Oh!” Mom said. “The whole family is together. It’s been so long!” They posed for pictures and took turns pushing her wheelchair down the hall to the cafeteria. Peter had to admit, Mom seemed to be in great spirits with all of her children around her.

Jimmy piled platitudes on her like a used-car salesman. “You look beautiful, Momma,” he said. “You actually look younger than the last time I saw you.” She basked in the attention, and seemed more alert and coherent than she had in weeks.

Elizabeth smiled a lot, but mostly kept quiet—the way she acted when she remembered to take her meds. The Good Elizabeth. The Dull Elizabeth. Not like pre-diagnosis Libby—Lively But Dangerous Libby. Once, in their teens, Peter made some nasty crack about her current boyfriend at dinner. She threw her fork at him and missed his eye by a half-inch. He missed Lively Libby, but not those awful mood swings or her wicked temper.

Not that he could talk. For all of Pastor Donald’s rages, Jimmy’s bombastic rants, and Elizabeth’s tantrums, only he had blood on his hands.

“How do you like your new room?” Jimmy asked Mom after he returned with a second plate of pancakes.

Peter glared at Jimmy’s smug smile. Elizabeth stared closed-mouth at her plate.

“It’s not nearly as nice as my old apartment,” Mom said between nibbles of scrambled eggs. “I wish I could have my old room back.”

“We want to make sure you’re as happy as you can be, now, Momma,” Jimmy said. “Aren’t you glad to be back with all of your old friends? Ruth, May, Zoe?”

“Zoe Carmichael!” Mom exclaimed. “What’s happened to Zoe? She’s not here today!”

Peter gritted his teeth. Jimmy knew better than to mention her. “Zoe moved to another center two months ago, Mom. Remember?”

“Zoe moved without telling me?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I should never have gone away. Where did she go, Jimmy?”

Jimmy put his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t rightly know. Perhaps Peter can help us out with that.”

Screw that. Let him squirm. “I don’t know either,” he said. “Let’s ask around later, okay?”

Elizabeth left nothing to chance. “Didn’t Dr. Nuttbaum say she’d gone off to St. Ignatius?” She flashed her homecoming queen smile. “He said she was very happy there. Don’t you remember that?”

“He told you this?” Peter asked. “When exactly did you two arrive?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Jimmy said. “It was a surprise for Mom. And you. By the way, what the heck happened to your face? It looks bruised.”

“Nothing.” He clutched his butter knife until his knuckles whitened and took a deep, calming breath.

“We’re all here together!” Mom said. “One big happy family!”

Around two o’clock, Mom went down for an afternoon nap. Peter followed Jimmy and Elizabeth to their nearby motel room, a drab fifteen by twenty foot rectangle furnished with a queen-sized bed, reading chair, a tiny desk, and a hard, floral-print sleep sofa. With all three of them there, particularly Jimmy, the room felt cramped.

Jimmy sprawled across two-thirds of the couch. “We have a little time before we need to go to the airport. Why don’t we talk a bit?”

“Any topic in particular?” Peter squeezed in next to him on the sofa.

Elizabeth took the chair across from him. “As you know, we feel that Momma should be in a more faith-based environment. We’ve done some research and found some excellent facilities in the area. For example, St. Ignatius has multi-denominational celebrations. Momma would love it, and a renewal of her faith would bring her comfort and perhaps some peace.”

“Well said, sister,” Jimmy said.

“I could use some peace and comfort myself,” Peter said under his breath.

“What’s that?” Jimmy asked.

“Never mind.” He faced both of them. “Listen. Mom doesn’t adapt well to change. Look at how changing rooms affected her. Changing centers altogether could give her another stroke.”

“Well, I doubt that.” Jimmy sat up straighter on the couch.

“Then there’s the cost,” Peter said. “I can’t afford higher monthly fees on top of all these hospital bills. Will you two pay the cost difference at St. Ig’s?”

Elizabeth started to answer, but Jimmy cut her off. “We’d be more willing to do that if we had a say in her medical treatments,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Forget it.” He stood to leave.

Jimmy stood and blocked his path. “You won’t even consider it? Just a few days ago, you insisted that we help more. Here we are, willing to help—but you won’t let us.”

Jimmy and Elizabeth exchanged conspiratorial glances. Peter crossed his arms. “Okay, you two are up to something. Spill.”

Libby motioned for Jimmy to sit. After a moment, he complied. Libby smiled and crossed her hands in her lap. “We met with the lawyers yesterday. They are drawing up paperwork for Mom to transfer power of attorney to Jimmy and me.”

Peter’s blood boiled. “What?”

“We will only take action on this if you are unwilling to compromise,” she said. “But if you don’t, we’ll have no choice.”

“This is blackmail!” Veins in Peter’s neck throbbed and his fists clenched. “I’ll fight this. I’ll get my own lawyers. I’ll –”

“Calm down, little brother,” Jimmy said. “We have a proposal.”

“We recognize that OHSU is the best place to send her if she suffers another stroke. We don’t object to that,” Libby said. “But if it’s anything else, how about Good Samaritan? It’s quite good and very close to Sunset.”

“True,” Peter said, calming a bit. Plus, there would be no Angela Wegman at Good Samaritan to remind him of Alvin Dark every time he visited. “But she stays at Sunset. Period.”

Jimmy and Elizabeth whispered to each other a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” Jimmy said. “I’ll write Dr. Nuttbaum a letter, outlining the changes to her care.”

“I’ll do it.” Peter raised his hand to stifle their protests. “Dr. Nuttbaum is used to getting directions from me. It makes more sense. But I’ll pass it by you first.”

At Libby’s urging, Jimmy agreed. They said quick good-byes, and he drove home in troubled silence. He hoped to God he was making the right decision.

On this, and so many other matters.

Chapter 47

“You brought the espresso maker!” Christine’s lovely curves followed her voice into the jury room at eight a.m. Her smile brightened the room more than the overhead lights ever could.

Peter filled the reservoir with cold tap water. Larry, standing nearby, eyed his machine with distrust. “I don’t get the whole espresso thing,” he said. “Why buy a quarter cup of expensive mud when you can have a full mug of the good stuff for free?”

Christine slipped her arm around Peter’s waist and squeezed. He winked at Larry. “That’s why.” He pushed the “on” button and the machine made welcome churning sounds.

“You even brought coffee!” She clapped her hands. “I can’t wait!”

Jeff Williams entered from the courtroom and pointed at the espresso machine. “Can’t allow that, sorry. No electrical appliances other than our own. We’ve had problems in the past. We can’t even have them in our offices.”

“Sorry. I should have asked first.” Peter made a playful, pouty face at Christine.

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for trying.”

“Go ahead and finish this batch,” Williams said, “but then you’ll need to put it away.”

“This cup’s all yours,” he said to Christine.

“Let’s share,” she said. “We’ll combine it with Larry’s and call it Café Americano.”

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Williams said. “Some more motions are being argued this morning. We’ll probably bring you in to the courtroom about ten o’clock. If everyone can sit tight until then...”

Groans greeted the bailiff’s announcement and many jurors took seats at the table. Alex sat next to Christine, who chatted with Dolores. Peter stood across from them and sighed. Patience, patience.

“They’re probably trying to cop a plea,” Alex said when Williams was gone.

“Why bother?” Stanley asked. “The prosecution’s case is far from airtight. If I’m the defendant, at this point I like my chances.”

“What?” Alex leaned back in his chair and almost fell over. “They have this guy dead to rights! There’s no doubt in my mind he did it.”

“There are a few holes in the evidence,” Stanley said.

Larry arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“We really are not supposed to be discussing this yet,” Carlos said. “I would appreciate it if we could all follow the rules.”

“You don’t want to talk, don’t talk,” Alex said. “This is America, my friend. We have freedom of speech here.”

Carlos’s face darkened. An angry sneer twisted his lip. He stood and leaned over Alex. “As a U.S. citizen, I am very familiar with our Constitution and Bill of Rights,” he said, enunciating each syllable. “Perhaps more familiar with them than you are, Mr. Scott, as I had to pass a test on them to become a citizen. I was not so fortunate to be born with that privilege.”

Carlos hovered over Alex’s surprised face. The only sound in the room was the churning of the coffeepots, dripping in tandem. The entire jury stared at the sight of little Carlos Rodriguez intimidating big Alex Scott.

Alex gawked at Carlos’s face inches above his own. “We don’t have to talk about the case,” he said.

Carlos straightened and glided away from the table. “That’s all I’m asking. Thank you.”

Silence hung over the room for several seconds. “Coffee, anyone?” Larry asked. Ellen struck up a conversation with Sheila about budget cuts in the schools. Other jurors chatted among themselves in low voices.

Peter prepared the espressos for himself and Christine. So, as expected, Stanley had proved a tough customer for the prosecution. Alex clearly supported conviction, but that idiot wouldn’t swing any votes. Larry could, though, as could Carlos. But they hadn’t staked out positions yet. It would be up to the defense attorney to swing them—and if not her, then Peter.

***

BRENDA CONNELLY OPENED the case for the defense with character witnesses who attested to Raul Vasquez’s even temper and coolness under pressure. A past employer told of how Raul broke up a fight between fellow employees “because he hated violence.” A member of his church spoke of his piety and community service. On top of working long hours and pursuing Martina Aguilar, Raul found time to do volunteer landscaping and teach Sunday school. He also tutored some of his fellow parishioners on English as a second language. All in all, a model immigrant. But Connelly called no ex-girlfriends, nor Vasquez’s so-called wife. No mention of his jealous streak, or his temper—or the lack thereof.

For her final witness of the morning, Connelly called Ramona Navarro, a waitress at a 24-hour diner called the Pig’N Blanket. Peter’s mouth went dry. He knew the place well—a modest greasy spoon on Southeast 122nd , maybe two or three miles from the murder scene.

“Ms. Navarro, are you familiar with the defendant, Raul Vasquez?” Connelly asked.

“Yes.” Her thick Hispanic accent made her ‘yes’ sound like ‘yays’. Her nervous grin revealed a gap in her teeth, and her lipstick seemed too red for her light brown skin.

“How do you know him?”

“Señor Vasquez, he come in to Pig’N Blanket many times,” Navarro said. “We always like to talk, Raul and me.” She folded her hands on her brown calf-length skirt. The short sleeves of her floral print blouse hugged her arms.

“Did Mr. Vasquez come in to the Pig’N Blanket on the morning of November 18?”

“Yes. He come very early—almost four a.m. in the morning.”

“Did Mr. Vasquez seem upset, or out of sorts in any way?”

“Yes. I ask him, What’s up? He say, ‘My girl, she dump me. I no can sleep.’ He look very sad.”

“Sad? But not angry, or violent?”

“Oh, no. He no seem angry. Just very sad.”

“Ms. Navarro, do you recall what Mr. Vasquez was wearing?”

She bobbed her head. “He wear his white shirt from working, and black pants.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about his white shirt?” Connelly asked. “Was it especially clean, or maybe splattered and dirty?”

“No, it seem okay,” Navarro said. “A few spots of food, maybe. That is normal for Raul, from his work. We no care about that. Pig’N Blanket serve you no matter how you dress.”

“No spots of red on him? On his arms, chest, shoulders?”

“No, I don’t see these things,” Ramona said. “Maybe one or two spots. If so, I think, maybe they are spaghetti sauce. He work at Florentino’s, is Italian place.”

“Yes, thank you.” Connelly grimaced.

Peter ground his teeth. Ramona’s testimony hadn’t helped Raul. Hell, anyone would have ditched their blood-splattered clothes—he had tossed his in a dumpster far from the scene.

Sure enough, Baldwin pounced on that during his cross-examination. “Could you tell what those red spots were on his shirt?” he asked her. “Could you tell whether it was tomato sauce, or could it have been blood?”

“No, I just see his shirt, and I know he work with spaghetti sauce.” Navarro shrank before Baldwin’s imposing presence.

“I see.” Baldwin stood a few steps in front of her, which positioned his intimidating frame almost directly in front of Peter. “You say he arrived about four o’clock in the morning?”

“I think so.” She didn’t sound very certain.

“How long did he stay?”

“Well, he have breakfast. I think, one hour.”

Baldwin stepped closer to her. “So he left by five a.m.?”

“Yes. We talk about his girl, she leaving him.” Navarro wrung her hands in her lap and looked to Connelly for support. Connelly nodded back at her.

“Did you talk about anything else?”

“Maybe. Yes. I don’t remember.”

“Did Mr. Vasquez say where he had been?”

“No, he—oh, yes. There is one thing he say. And I see it, too.”

Connelly sat upright and stared at the witness.

“He wreck his truck,” Ramona said. “Not real bad. But he hit something. The front of his truck is all smash in. I ask him, are you okay? He say yes, he fine. He have too much to drink, he say. So he come to have food and coffee at Pig’N Blanket.”

Baldwin let her comments lie for a moment. The wrecked car was not news, but it completed the story the prosecutor wanted to tell:  just a few hours after the murder, Vasquez showed up a short distance from the murder scene with a red-spotted shirt and a wrecked car.

Frustrated, Peter wondered why Connelly called this witness. It seemed a horrible tactical blunder.

“Did Mr. Vasquez mention where he was going when he left?” Baldwin asked.

“He say he going home to sleep,” Navarro said. “I don’t know how, I tell him. He have too much coffee. He say, yes, maybe he go to Rocky Butte and watch sunrise.”

“No more questions,” Baldwin said, a satisfied smile on his large face.

They broke for lunch at 11:45. Peter sidled up to Christine in the jury room. “Do you have lunch plans?” he asked her.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “A very nice guy I met recently is taking me out to make up for last week.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, maybe tomorrow, then?”

“You silly man!” she said. “I meant you, of course.”

“Oh!” Man, did he ever need sleep.

“Should I bring my purse, just in case?”

His face flushed. “I have money—I got all that straightened out.”

She laughed and swatted his shoulder. “Jeez, your hot buttons are easy to push today. For heaven’s sake, I was only teasing.”

“Sorry.” He bowed his head. “I feel bad about last Friday. The lunch—well, everything.”

“You can make it up to me today.” She grinned. “Take me to Pazzo’s.”

He nodded without thinking. God. This woman had him wrapped, and he barely knew her. Then again, she didn’t have to try very hard. His guilty conscience drove him to do a lot of odd things lately.

He checked his voice-mail while she used the restroom. Jimmy had left a long, rambling message about Peter’s draft letter to Dr. Nuttbaum. “It has too many caveats. Regarding her future care—the way you put it was –”

He shut the phone. He didn’t want to get all upset again. He just wanted to have a nice, relaxing, albeit expensive meal with a pretty woman.

He was partly right. It was expensive.

***

THE WAITER HAD BROUGHT their entrees and refilled their water glasses when the conversation veered off the pleasant and into the troubling.

“You don’t like to talk about your ex-wife much,” Christine said. “Still too painful?” Her tone was innocent.

“Something like that.” He managed to load some linguine in clam sauce onto his fork and shove it into his mouth.

“It must have been quite a shock to see her in court,” she said in a low voice.

He set down his fork. “Yeah, that was hard.” He paused a moment. “Simmons is the man she left me for. They were together that night. I didn’t want to sit through a blow-by-blow of their date.”

“Well, it was hardly that.” Christine sipped her water. “He said they had dinner, saw an argument, and left in separate cars.”

“They said—exactly.”

She pointed a piece of chicken at him. “You don’t think they were just talking in the car, do you?”

He twirled linguine onto his fork. “No.” He choked a bit. “I think they were kinda busy.”

“You think they fooled around right there in a restaurant parking lot?”

He chewed a mouthful of pasta, eyes locked on his plate.

She swallowed her chicken. “What you said the other day at lunch makes me wonder. What if you had been there, watching them? What would you have done?”

He set down his fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and took a sip of water. His mouth opened, then closed, wordless.

“If it’d been me,” she said, “I’d have killed the bastard.”

He barely avoided spewing chewed linguine all over the table. With considerable effort he forced it down his throat. He rose from the table. “I need to use the men’s room,” he said.

She smiled, a wicked smile.

God damn her. She knew too much already.

Chapter 48

“The defense calls Dennis McCarthy.”

A round-shouldered man in a frumpy gabardine suit ambled to the witness stand. A lazy shag of strawberry blond hair reached nearly to his jaw line. A bushy mustache of matching hue hid his entire upper lip and curled up into a tiny handlebar at each side.

Brenda Connelly stood a few feet in front of her bench, hands folded in back of her in a relaxed pose, and faced the witness. “Mr. McCarthy, please state your occupation.”

“I am an Immigration Specialist at the Portland office of the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service,” he said. “In other words, I’m a case worker.” McCarthy wore a serious expression on his pasty-white face. Clearly, this guy didn’t get into the field much.

“Mr. McCarthy, what is Mr. Vasquez’s current immigration status?”

Vasquez sat up at attention.

“He has what is commonly called a green card—a limited work visa,” McCarthy said. “He must maintain gainful employment to remain in the U.S. The visa must be renewed periodically and Mr. Vasquez must return to his country of origin, in his case Mexico, at least once every twelve months to retain his status.”

“Has Mr. Vasquez complied with the terms of his visa?”

“Very much so. There isn’t a single problem in his Portland case file.”

Vasquez relaxed in his seat.

“Mr. Vasquez came to the U.S. on a farm worker’s visa,” Connelly said. “He now does primarily restaurant work. Is that a problem?”

“No,” McCarthy said. “Mr. Vasquez has continued to retain farm employment, in season. Also, we allow workers to obtain other employment if necessary to support themselves. Mr. Vasquez has shown great initiative in finding gainful supplemental employment with his restaurant work.”

“I see.” Connelly folded her hands in front of her. “So Mr. Vasquez informed your office when he went to work for Florentino’s?”

“Yes, it was all above board and proper. The management of Florentino’s was quite helpful, too. As long as everything is in order, as Mr. Vasquez’s files have always been, and there’s no indication of terrorist or criminal activity...” He peeked at the defendant. “We would have no reason to deny the visa.”

Peter shuddered. Vasquez’s conviction could get him deported rather than sent to an Oregon prison. He could serve his time in a Mexican jail—by reputation, a much worse fate.

“Mr. McCarthy, was there anything in Mr. Vasquez’s case file as of November 17 that would put his visa at risk?” Connelly folded her fingers into a steeple in front of her chest.

“No, nothing at all. Everything was fine.”

Connelly turned to the prosecution table. “Your witness, Mr. Baldwin.”

Baldwin stepped around his table and planted his feet facing the witness. “Mr. McCarthy, did Mr. Vasquez’s case originate in the Portland office?”

“No, sir. It originated in Los Angeles.”

Baldwin returned to his desk and checked his notes. “How long after Mr. Vasquez moved to Portland did it take for his case file to be transferred here from L.A.?”

McCarthy mulled it over. “I’m not certain. Perhaps a few months.”

“A few months?” Baldwin appeared surprised. “That long? Why the delay?”

“It’s up to Mr. Vasquez to notify the INS of his whereabouts. We depend heavily on self-reporting.” McCarthy’s patient monotone indicated he’d had to explain this to people before. “Then, it takes time for the folks in L.A. to get the information together and send it up.”

“I see. But I’m sure that, since Nine-Eleven at least, your budgets have increased sufficiently to enable processing of these sorts of things promptly now?”

“Hardly!” McCarthy laughed. “If anything, it’s worse. Sure, budgets and staffing have gone up a bit, but workload has increased even more.”

“Why is that?”

McCarthy sighed. “These days, we scrutinize each case more closely. New laws and regulations have added to the work we need to do on each case.”

“I see,” Baldwin said. “So if your office were to obtain new information about a guest worker now living in Los Angeles, say, given your priorities and workload, how long would it be before you send it down?”

“It depends on what type of information you mean.”

“What if it were an inconsistency in a guest worker’s records, something that needs to be followed up on and verified?” Baldwin asked. “Would you send that right away?”

“Not necessarily. I’d wait until I had better information. I don’t want to send misinformation that could jeopardize the worker’s status.”

“Would one’s marital status be among the items you’d wait on before you sent it?”

“Certainly.”

Baldwin cocked his head. “Does the L.A. office operate the same way, as far as you know?”

“Yes, although they’re a larger operation, and a little more bureaucratic.” McCarthy’s bushy mustache curved up at the corners. “It might take them a little longer to process things.”

“So if the L.A. office had gathered new information about Mr. Vasquez’s case, they might take a few weeks or more to send it?”

Connelly jumped to her feet. “Objection! Speculative and prejudicial.”

“Your honor, a prior witness testified that new information emerged in Los Angeles a few days before the murder that could have affected Mr. Vasquez’s status,” Baldwin said. “I’d hardly call that hypothetical. Plus, Mr. McCarthy has already testified, based on his experience, as to the bureaucratic delays involved—without any objection from Ms. Connelly.”

“I agree,” Judge Green said. “Overruled. Mr. McCarthy?”

Connelly sank into her seat, her face flushed and mouth set in a line.

“I don’t know how long it would take,” McCarthy said. “Non-priority information like marital status or change of employment would probably take at least a few days to reach us.”

“Once you receive such information—again, non-urgent items like that,” Baldwin said, “would you contact the client immediately?”

“With my current workload, no. Something like that might take weeks to rise to the top of the to-do list.”

Several jurors took notes at this point. Peter had no idea where his notepad was anymore.

“So even if you had information that could affect the guest worker’s ability to renew his visa to stay in this country, he may not hear about it for several weeks, perhaps?”

McCarthy shrugged. “Entirely possible.”

“Unless, of course, he heard about it through some other means?”

“Objection!” Connelly was nearly frothing at the mouth now.

“Sustained.” The judge shook her head at Baldwin.

“No more questions, your honor.”

Peter chewed off another fingernail. Baldwin had managed to back up his private eye’s testimony by allowing a defense witness to expose government inefficiency. That could make reasonable doubt harder to argue in jury deliberations.

Connelly filled the afternoon with more character witnesses:  former coworkers, neighbors, and friends of Vasquez who testified to his even temper, generous nature, and piety.

“If I hear one more person say what a nice guy Vasquez is, I’m going to puke,” Alex said at the end of the day. He plunked into a chair at the far end of the jury room table. “I wonder what’s up tomorrow?” Alex said. “His Boy Scout record?”

“It’s all about creating doubt in your mind.” Larry leaned against the wall with a knowing smile. “Is he too nice a guy to commit murder? That’s what they want you to think.”

“Pfft. Being a nice guy has nothing to do with it.” Christine winked at Peter. “I’ve known lots of nice guys who’ve done awful things. He can be a nice guy and still be a murderer.”

Peter froze. The tips of his fingers tingled. Damn that woman. If her intuition was as strong as he suspected, he was in serious trouble.