It was there in the pile of custodies the next morning. My first Major Crimes Unit call-out had been cleared and was ready for issuing. Unit rules be damned; I grabbed the file off Alice Gerstein’s desk so I could prep the complaint against Melvin Jackson before turning to my screening cases.
For now, I kept the complaint simple, one count of aggravated murder and one alternative count of plain old garden-variety murder. Pleading the case as an agg murder requires a special circumstance. If Jackson killed Clarissa during the commission of either a kidnapping or rape, that would qualify. But there were problems with both theories. We had the condom and the ME’s opinion that Clarissa’s clothes were put back on her after she was killed, but we didn’t have the traditional indications of rape. Clarissa’s shoe and the paint provided circumstantial indications that Jackson pulled Clarissa into the van before he killed her, but if he killed her during the struggle and then put her in the van, it wasn’t a kidnapping.
I avoided both possibilities and instead used Clarissa’s employment as an administrative law judge as the special circumstance. As long as the jury believed that Melvin killed Clarissa because of her official judicial duties, that was enough.
I passed Frist in the hallway as I was walking to the printer to pick up the complaint.
“We need to talk about that cluster fuck of a press conference last night on the Easterbrook case. The guy was nice enough to confine his bitching to the bureau, but Griffith’s still gonna want a briefing.”
“I think we’re OK from that end. The husband’s attorneys turned over some information last night, and the police arrested Melvin Jackson a few hours ago.” I left out the part about one of the attorneys being my ex-husband. Although people in the office knew I was divorced, only a handful of them knew who the ex was. One of the advantages of keeping your own name. “When I left MCT last night, the husband’s people were playing nice. I think the press conference was a wake-up call.”
“Looks like it worked. Jackson’s the disgruntled tenant?”
I nodded.
“What did they find on him?”
I told him about Dunn Simon’s list of nonunion labor at the office park and the evidence the police found when they executed the search warrant. “I was just doing the complaint. Do you want to see the file before arraignment?”
“You know you should have called me, Kincaid.”
“I thought you told me to run with it until we got to proceedings.”
He looked at me skeptically.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Russ. Everything’s under control.”
In light of how things had come together, he couldn’t argue with that. “All right, let me see the complaint.” He took a quick look. “Good call. If you add in a rape charge, it might cloud the motive. Most newbies would’ve thrown in every theory they could think of.”
“You only need one when it’s good,” I said. “I’m going to head over at two for the arraignment. I assume you don’t need to come with me.”
“The DA at the Justice Center can handle it, Kincaid.”
“Nope. It’s my first arraignment on an agg murder. I’m doing it myself.”
“Are the screens done?”
“They will be soon.”
“All right. Don’t forget to call Duncan.”
I didn’t need to. When I got back to my office, I had a voice mail from Duncan’s secretary asking me to come down to his office. Terrific.
He had seen the press conference. Even worse, he had gotten a phone call from Dennis Coakley. Dennis must have slept on it and woken up even angrier.
I tried to calm him down by telling him about the Jackson arrest, but the distraction proved temporary.
“What exactly did we talk about in here yesterday?” he demanded.
“Duncan, I know you’re upset, but please don’t talk to me like I’m in kindergarten.”
“When you act like a child, Samantha, you get treated like a child.”
I couldn’t help it. I exhaled in a way that might have sounded like a scoff. “I can’t believe you actually just said that. Does anyone really say that?”
“Watch it, Sam. You’re a good attorney, but I won’t have my people talk to me that way.”
Threatening to fire me was the typical trump card around here, but now I had one of my own. “Or what, Duncan? You’re going to fire the woman who almost got killed last month on the job because she ruffled some feathers trying to find the madman who’s snatching women off the street?”
“Don’t even think about playing that game with me. Next thing you know, you’ll be the talented young attorney who was never the same after that shooting.”
The entire time I’d worked here, I’d always caved when it came down to the last shove. If I was going to stick around, it was time to set some boundaries. I couldn’t spend the rest of my career being lectured on a daily basis.
“I guess what it comes down to is how bad you want me to apologize. I refuse to suck up to Dennis Coakley.”
“You are so off base. This is not about Coakley, it’s about your respect for me and the authority of this office. I asked Dennis what time you hauled him over for the pissing match. You went straight from here to Lesh’s. You didn’t listen to me at all yesterday.”
“You’re forgetting the part where I went off on my detective about the polygraph request and then called you to make sure everything was fine.”
“See, only you could turn that phone call into something that helps you here. You didn’t mention anything about Coakley, did you? It’s always bits and pieces of information from you, Sam, and it’s getting old.”
“OK, so maybe I could have mentioned it to you then while we were talking,” I conceded, “but I won’t apologize for what I did to get those files. It was important, and Coakley was being an ass.”
“Well, at least you recognize that it wasn’t exactly masterfully executed internally.” We were finding just enough common ground for our egos to cling to as we brought the conversation down to a calmer level. “I don’t know, Sam, maybe I put you into this a little too quickly. I called Lesh. He did his best to cover for you, but I could tell he was worried about you too. And we haven’t even talked about this press conference. Wasn’t that your ex-husband?”
I nodded. Duncan’s memory ran deep.
“I think I should pull you off,” he said. “Maybe out of MCU entirely, but definitely off this case.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Duncan, but if you do either of those things, I won’t want to work here anymore. And I won’t go quietly.”
Whether it was because he valued my work or feared what I could do to him in the media, the threat actually worked.
“Then here’s the deal. This is the last time we have one of these talks. You start thinking about the ramifications of what you do, or you’re going to have to go your own way.”
“Deal,” I said, with a salute. It was as much as either of us could hope for right now, but at least we were talking instead of yelling.
“Christ, your ex-husband? There’s stubborn, Sam, and then there’s just plain masochistic.”
“Think of it this way. I guarantee you: No way does Roger Kirkpatrick call you to complain about this case. It would take all the fun out of torturing me.”
“I’ll take some comfort in that, then. All right, if you’re staying on this thing, we’ll need to schedule a conference with the death penalty committee to talk about what sentence to seek.”
That’s right. We’ve got a death penalty committee. It’s not as bad as it sounds. When Duncan ran for district attorney in this liberal county, he acknowledged that he was personally opposed to the death penalty but nevertheless promised to administer it since it was Oregon law. The purpose of the committee is to have the same group of attorneys—all experienced career prosecutors—evaluate every aggravated murder case in comparison to previous ones and try to achieve the impossible: the evenhanded application of the death penalty.
“I’ll send out an e-mail looking for times,” I said.
“They usually take about ninety minutes. And invite the family to come an hour after we start. I guess we’ll need to go through the husband’s lawyers now that he’s represented. And, remember, I don’t care what your ex did to piss you off. Be civil.”
I worked like a fiend all morning so I could run off some of my resentment at noon. I changed into my workout clothes in the eighth-floor locker room and was warmed up by the time I got to the river. I decided to bump it up from my usual flat three-mile loop along the Willamette and did a five-miler around the west hills instead.
I slowed to a jog after a brutal half mile up a steep incline. I was out of breath and wishing I’d brought a water bottle when I realized I was just a couple of miles from Susan Kerr’s house. I decided I had time for a short detour.
I recognized the Expedition in the driveway with the OHSU parking permit. My immediate reaction was to wonder what Townsend was doing at Susan Kerr’s in the middle of a workday. Then I realized he wouldn’t be back to work this soon after his wife’s murder. So how suspicious was it for him to be here? The two of them did, after all, have a friendship through Clarissa and were both stomaching the same loss. Maybe they were talking about Jackson’s arrest.
Remembering Duncan’s ultimatum, I held off on interrupting them and decided to add Townsend’s visit to the list of things I needed to discuss with Susan Kerr.
By the time I made it down the hill, into the courthouse, and out of the locker room shower, I had just enough time to tuck my damp hair into a clip and walk across the Plaza Blocks to Jackson’s arraignment.
The Plaza Blocks’ official designation as a park is a bit of an overstatement. They’re nothing more than two city blocks of grass with a few trees and some benches. In the mid-1800s, the two blocks epitomized a quaint vision of city life, providing a forum for citizen oration and assembly. The south block, Lownsdale Square, was the gentlemen’s gathering place, while women congregated safely in the northside Chapman Square.
These days, the one thing that distinguishes the Plaza Blocks from some of the more remarkable downtown parks is their location beneath the seventh floor of the Justice Center, otherwise known as the Multnomah County Detention Center. Once word got out that MCDC inmates had a view of the park, the plaza blocks became home to more than their fair share of singing, sign holding, and breast flashing.
Although it was just after lunch, it was still pretty early in the day for your average criminal’s loved ones, but one young devotee was already out. She was probably in her twenties but looked older. Several years of chain smoking, combined with regular methamphetamine use, is hell on the skin. She wore skin-tight dark-blue Wrangler jeans, a thick brown belt with a heavy gold buckle, and patent-leather stilettos. A spaghetti-strapped red lace camisole revealed a multicolored tattoo of a large eagle in the cleavage of her impressive bosom. She was yelling, “I got this for you, Darryl! It stands for freedom, baby! Can you see it?” The refined gentlemen of Lownsdale Square would not have been pleased, but I decided I liked her.
I took the stairs to JC-2, the courtroom for the two o’clock arraignments. There was a stir when Judge Levinson called for Melvin Jackson. Given the continuous news coverage on the case, even the courthouse regulars were curious. Jackson’s orange jail uniform was accompanied by handcuffs and leg shackles. Apparently he hadn’t been on good behavior since his booking.
It showed. His hair was matted, and his eyes were blearier than the usual first-morning bloodshot. I suspected pepper spray.
Jackson qualified for court-appointed counsel. Because this was an aggravated murder case, the attorney was sure to be good, a member of Oregon’s capital defense bar.
This afternoon’s lucky winner? Graham Szlipkowsky, public defense veteran and colorful courthouse regular. Graham is probably fifty and tries cases in corduroys and tennis shoes. With salt-and-pepper hair cut like a mop and a matching beard, he looks more like a Muppet than one of the city’s most experienced trial attorneys. He told me once that his mother insisted on the waspy first name to even out his Polish father’s last name. As a result, neither of his names quite suits him, and everyone calls him Slip instead.
Slip’s a straight shooter, perfect for this case. He didn’t need the glory of a high-profile trial and would be smart enough to know the situation was hopeless. After some unsuccessful motions to suppress the critical evidence, he’d be looking for a plea to avoid a death sentence.
The appearance should have been perfunctory. A quick waiver of speedy trial rights from Jackson, a token request for bail from Slip, and Judge Marty Levinson would order the defendant remanded until trial. Any other result at an agg murder arraignment was largely theoretical.
On the other hand, there’s something about me and theoretical possibilities that seems to click. After the usual brief conference with his client, Slip asked Levinson for additional time in light of “some unusual circumstances.” A rookie defense attorney would’ve been torn a new one, but Slip had enough earned credibility that the judge deferred.
Great. For my own satisfaction, I’d walked over for a routine hearing that was technically the responsibility of the JC-2 DDA. Now that I knew “unusual circumstances” had arisen, I had to stay. You don’t know from waiting until you’ve spent time in a courthouse. Doctors? Mechanics? The DMV? Forget about it. I settled into a seat at the front of the galley while the assigned arraignment deputy moved through more routine matters.
Seven arraignments and forty minutes later, Slip informed the clerk he was ready to go back on the record in Jackson. I took my place again at counsel table, called the case, and asked the judge to hold the defendant without bail.
As expected, Slip contested the request.
“May it please the court, Graham Szlipkowsky for the defendant, Mr. Jackson. Your honor, my client respectfully requests that the court consider alternatives to remand without bail. We recognize that the charge of aggravated murder triggers a presumption of no bail, but it is, after all, merely a presumption. Mr. Jackson has no prior criminal record and is the single father of three young children who require his care.”
So far, so routine. And so hopeless. It was the next part of Slip’s request that must have reflected the forty-minute recess.
“Regardless of defendant’s custody status pending trial, Mr. Jackson does not waive his right to a prompt hearing of probable cause. We request that a preliminary hearing be scheduled at the earliest possible date so that my client can contest the charges immediately. He sees no need to await a trial date.”
Levinson was neither impressed nor amused. He took off his glasses, scratched his bald head, and said, “You’re kidding me, right?”
Most people have heard of prelims from the high-profile California cases. They’re mini-trials to determine whether there’s sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over for trial. The federal system and just about every state uses the less burdensome, more secretive grand jury process instead. Oregon, as usual, had forged a third way: a theoretical procedure for conducting preliminary hearings that never actually took place. As a result of confusing court decisions and years of local practice, indictment by grand jury was the routine.
Jackson did not, however, want to do this the routine way.
“I would never kid, your honor.” Slip was good at handling cantankerous judges.
“You’ve explained to your client that the State’s burden at a preliminary hearing is considerably lower than at trial?” Levinson asked. The question was more for Jackson’s sake than Slip’s. “That all the State has to do is show probable cause? And that the Court is required to draw every possible inference in favor of the State?”
“I’ve explained that all to him, your honor. Mr. Jackson’s highest priority is to be with his children. He is afraid he’ll lose his kids if he doesn’t nip these charges in the bud. He knows it’s an uphill battle, but he wants at least to have that chance. As your honor well knows, the grand jury process is even more lopsided.”
The prosecutor runs the show with the grand jury. No judge, no defense counsel, no defendant.
“Your honor,” I said, “I already have this case scheduled for grand jury. He has no right to a preliminary hearing.”
“But he’s not indicted yet, is he? And now he’s asking for a prelim.”
I tried to explain that wasn’t how it worked, but Levinson wanted to keep his docket moving.
“I don’t see the harm, Ms. Kincaid, and I don’t want to leave all these people waiting here while the two of you argue about it. Friday, JC-Three, at nine o’clock. I assume you can make it, Ms. Kincaid?”
“Of course,” I said, since that was the only acceptable answer to a question that had used you in the collective sense. Judges assume prosecutors are fungible. If I had open-heart surgery scheduled for that morning, I’d have to find someone else. Fortunately, I did not.
Neither did Slip. “I can clear my calendar, your honor.”
“Very good. As for bail, nice try, Mr. Szlipkowsky, but, unh-unh, I don’t think so. Remanded.”
I told myself there was nothing to worry about. Beating charges at a prelim is unheard of.
I passed Russ on the way back to my office. I was beginning to think the man lived in the hallway.
He looked at his watch when he saw me. “You spent an hour and a half over there to do one arraignment. I need to find you some more work, Kincaid.”
I told him about Jackson’s request for a prelim and the Friday hearing date.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. We don’t do prelims.”
“Try telling that to Levinson while he’s behind on his docket.”
“Well, we can’t be ready to put on evidence by Friday morning. Did you ask for more time?”
“No.”
He looked frustrated.
“It would’ve been pointless, Russ, and it’s just a prelim. Weapon, threats, paint, statements. Done. It’ll take two hours.”
“Let’s see,” he said, ticking my points off on his fingers. “Hammer: no blood tests yet; threat: every judge gets them, including whoever you draw for the prelim on Friday; paint: you need an expert or else Jackson’s just a laborer with a can of beige paint; and statements: you better hope they come in. I know your guys were out there just for the warrant, but a lot of judges will say Jackson was under arrest the minute the cuffs came out.”
Jackson hadn’t yet been Mirandized when he admitted knowing that the police were there about the paint. His statements would be admissible only if the court believed that the police had handcuffed Jackson to restrain him temporarily during the search rather than to arrest him.
“You worry too much,” I said. “The threats are motive, and I’ll line up a paint expert. That’s enough for probable cause right there, and I guarantee you the crime lab will find a blood match on the hammer. The only problem is I’m supposed to have discovery to Slip by the end of the day. There’s some evidence suggesting the victim was having an affair, and I think we need to turn it over.”
I had been hoping to have more time to mull over Tara’s revelation, but Jackson’s request for the quick prelim forced the issue. The failure to turn over exculpatory information could lead to a reversal down the road.
“Christ.” Frist rubbed his temples. “Exactly what kind of evidence are we talking about?”
I told him about Tara’s visit. It was more than mere rumors; according to her sister, Clarissa admitted she was contemplating divorce because she was in love with someone else.
“You don’t know who the someone else was?” he asked.
“Not with any certainty, but we’ve got a theory.” I told him about the calls to T. J. Caffrey.
He started shaking his head before I had even finished. “I’m not sure I’d tell the defense about any of that. Even if she was having an affair, there’s nothing concrete tying it to the murder, and you don’t know for certain who the guy was. A few phone calls don’t mean anything.”
I understood his argument. The rules on disclosure allow the prosecution to hold back just about anything that’s arguably innocuous. But with the growing numbers of innocent men being freed from prison in cases where the prosecutor sat on information, I tend to fall on the side of broader disclosure.
I explained my analysis to Frist. There was both physical and testimonial evidence suggesting that the victim may have been having an affair, and the phone records showed that the calls between Clarissa and Caffrey made up the bulk of her cell phone usage. I wouldn’t turn Caffrey’s name over to Slip directly, but I’d give him the phone records and a report about Tara’s statement so he could decide for himself if they were relevant.
“Suit yourself,” Frist said, “but if this case goes to trial, and he tries to turn your victim’s supposed boyfriend into his one-armed man, you’ll regret it.”
“You’re dating yourself. Satanic cults are the ‘other guys’ of late.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Kincaid, but I’ll go along with you anyway. Duncan’s going to want to call Caffrey as a courtesy,” he said resignedly. “I’ll tell Duncan; you take care of the husband. We don’t want him learning about this at the prelim.”
Great. Getting information to Townsend meant a phone call to Roger. In the hierarchy of pleasantries, I ranked it just beneath walking a plank of nails into a shark tank.
“And, speaking of the prelim,” I said, “tell me I can do it without you.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got no choice, Kincaid.”
I started in on my spiel about how wasteful it was to use two attorneys on a prelim, but he interrupted. “No. I meant I don’t have any choice but to let you go solo. I’ve got thirteen victims coming in on a sex-abuse grand jury. Some chick who ran a home day care didn’t notice her boyfriend diddling all the kids.”
I never wanted to get used to these cases.
“I’ll do it by myself, then. Don’t worry. It will be fine.” I started to walk away, then realized I’d forgotten something. “Oh, can you do a death penalty meeting tomorrow at two? Duncan told me to get everyone together.”
“Yeah, I’m clear. And, for the record, Sam, I would have let you handle the prelim anyway. You’re doing a good job.”
An unqualified compliment at the District Attorney’s Office? For me? Either Frist was a different kind of supervisor or I was becoming a real jerk.
I picked up the phone to call Roger but couldn’t bring myself to ignore the message light on my phone.
It was Chuck. “Hey, babe. Good news back from the crime lab. Give me a call.”
I hate those messages that keep you hanging. Either tell me what you need to tell me or ask me to return the call. I was eager for the lab reports but felt obliged to get the call to Roger over with.
I dialed the first six digits of his number before tapping on the handset for a new dial tone. A call to Susan Kerr would allow me to procrastinate a little longer. I still needed to talk to her about Tara’s suspicions that Clarissa was seeing someone else, not to mention her little visit this afternoon from Townsend.
When I identified myself, she jumped right in.
“I’m so happy you called. I was going to see if there’s anything I can do after Townsend’s press conference last night. I was in bed by then and couldn’t believe what I saw in the paper this morning. I didn’t even know he had a lawyer.”
“Neither did we.”
“Would it help if I called someone at the mayor’s office to support the bureau? I know I was a bit critical of how the police handled the situation with Townsend Monday night, but I think you’re all doing a great job.”
I assured her that I appreciated the offer, but there was no need for her to pull strings. “But, since you brought it up, do you have any idea why Townsend would rail against us like that?”
“No, and it shocks me.”
“He didn’t mention it when he was at your house this afternoon?”
Wow. I hadn’t planned on blurting it out that way. Very Perry Mason.
Unfortunately, it didn’t have a Perry-Masonian effect. Instead of breaking down and sharing a lifetime of secrets with me, Susan Kerr made me feel like shit.
“Are you actually having Townsend followed or something? My God, are you watching my home? Maybe Townsend was right to rail against you, as you put it.”
I immediately launched into a back pedal, explaining that I had passed her house on my regular run and happened to notice his car.
“If you had simply asked like a regular person instead of ambushing me, I would have told you all of this anyway. What I was about to say was that I can only chalk up the press conference to the fact that Townsend just hasn’t been himself since—well, since, Clarissa was found. He’s been drinking more, and sometimes he’ll start rambling incoherently. My best guess is that someone from work might have suggested it, because I know it didn’t come from me or Clarissa’s family.
“As for his visit this afternoon, if you must know, I initially suggested it, hoping to pull out some of the old Townsend. When he’s in work mode—well, everything else sort of fades away. I’ve been helping him with some fund-raising for the hospital’s pediatric wing and thought it might help him to put his mind back into that for the afternoon. But of course he told me about the arrest, and one thing led to another. I wound up crying away another afternoon, while he sat like a zombie on the sofa. So, no, we did not talk about the press conference.”
I didn’t know what to say. I floundered around for an appropriate apology, finally lamely offering that I was sorry for her loss.
She sighed. “I know. I can tell you care, and I do appreciate it. My God, I thought it was hard when I lost Herbie, but to have a loss like this—I don’t know how Townsend will ever get over it. Quite honestly, I’m beginning to question his stability. He doesn’t seem to be thinking straight.”
Her worries about Townsend made it even harder to share what I’d heard from Tara. I omitted T. J. Caffrey’s name for the time being.
“Boy, you are full of good news today, aren’t you?” Her attempt at levity didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t having any of it. “I know I’ve already told you this,” she said, “but Clarissa and Townsend had a perfectly normal marriage. Well, about as normal as it can be given how hard the guy works. But, trust me, if there was something wrong, Clarissa would have told me. And, my God, if she was cheating—” She laughed at the mere thought of it. “She’d definitely tell me before she’d say anything to Tara.”
“I’m just trying to reconcile Tara’s information with everything else we’ve heard,” I explained. “Why would Tara make something like that up?”
“Perhaps she misinterpreted something Clarissa said. We all vent about our husbands now and then, don’t we? And Tara can be very melodramatic.”
“She seemed fairly certain about Clarissa’s meaning,” I said.
“Just because she was sure doesn’t make her right. And even if Clarissa was fooling around—which I’m sure she wasn’t—what use is there in bringing it up now? I understood from Townsend that you had a mountain of evidence against this Jackson guy.”
“We do,” I said, “but we still need to cover our bases. I don’t want the defense springing something on us down the road because we were afraid to ask the tough questions.”
“Well, you’ve asked them, and my answer hasn’t changed. Clarissa wasn’t like that, and I hope you’ll leave it at that. If the police go to Townsend with this, it could send him right over the edge.”
Tara had expressed the same concern. Townsend might be the one in charge at the hospital, but apparently, in other areas of his life, those closest to him felt the need to be strong on his behalf.
“I know you’re worried about Townsend,” I said, “but I hope you’re not holding back information you think would hurt him. Tara already told me that’s why she initially didn’t say anything about this.”
“I am most definitely not holding back with you. If anything, I feel a little guilty for mentioning Townsend’s irrational behavior. But I don’t want to hear anything else about Tara’s little suspicions. This son of a bitch Jackson killed my best friend. You just told me a second ago that it was basically a sure thing. But instead of anyone asking me about her life or what she was like or how wonderful she was, you just want to make sure she was a good wife.”
I did my best to explain how important the questions were to the case, and she did her best to say she understood. But I nevertheless hung up feeling like the worst kind of bottom feeder.
I probably should have waited before calling Roger, but I didn’t.
“Roger Kirkpatrick.” I could picture him in an office high above the Willamette, feet on his desk, answering the phone on speaker to avoid wasting his valuable time on extraneous hand movements.
“Roger, it’s Samantha.”
“I assume you’re calling about Easterbrook?” He still hadn’t picked up the receiver.
“Good guess, since I’ve never called you about anything else in the last three years. Now unless you’ve once again got your hands where they don’t belong, pick up the damn phone and get me off speaker.”
I heard a click and then his voice was directly in my ear. Perhaps I should have left well enough alone. “I had hoped you’d either squelch the hostilities, Samantha, or remove yourself from the case.”
He had no idea how much I had squelched. There was a time when I wanted to rip his guts out in public—if not literally, then at least through well-placed billboards announcing that Mister Communitarian was a cheat and a liar. He liked to think his charitable donations and board memberships made him a good person, but Roger Kirkpatrick was a thief of the worst kind, no better than a con man. His grift began with the hours he spent with Nike’s newest spokesperson, the aforementioned volleyball pro. It was only after weeks of inner debate that I had finally asked him if I needed to worry. Surely, he had noticed that she was seventy-two inches of legs, breasts, muscle, and tan. Negotiations, he assured me.
And, with that, I had given him my trust, not just in the general way a wife trusts her husband, and not even just in the way I trusted Roger. I had given him the trust I have in myself, in my own ability to judge a man who looks me in the eye and tells me he’s for real.
Yes, Roger had gotten off easy. If I seemed a little brusque, he was going to have to deal.
“I wanted to make sure you knew that Jackson requested a prelim,” I said. “It’s Friday morning. I’ll need Townsend there at eight-thirty, just in case.”
“I know,” he said. “I sent a paralegal over this morning for the arraignment. I told Townsend to expect to be there. If you don’t mind, I’ll be with him.”
“Suit yourself. Easy billables, I suppose.” Eventually, Townsend’s retention of a defense attorney would look terrible in front of a jury, but it would be irrelevant to the judge who handled the prelim. “We also would like him to meet with us before we make a final decision about whether to seek the death penalty.”
He assured me they’d both be at the meeting the next day.
“Is that everything?” he asked.
“Johnson needs to talk to Townsend. Some evidence might come out at the prelim that could be disturbing.” I told Roger about the nonoxynol-9, my conversation with Tara, and Clarissa’s phone records.
“That’s a hell of a lot to dump on a guy, Samantha. Your cops didn’t think to mention any of this to him earlier?”
“Don’t blow this out of proportion. This is the usual way it’s done. We guard the information, but in the end the family hears it first from us. The only thing that’s making this hard is having to go through you to get to our victim’s husband.”
“When Johnson asked him the other night about barrier methods, Townsend assumed there must have been a sexual assault.”
“We still don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the nonoxynol’s Jackson’s. Either way, Tara seems to think Clarissa was seeing someone else. Think what you want about the phone calls.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” he said.
“I want to send someone over, Roger. You can pick whomever you’re most comfortable with, and you can be there. But I want a cop to tell him.” It was the first step to bridging the gap between Townsend and PPB, an accomplishment that would help the rest of the case run smoothly.
Roger wasn’t having it. “I’m not trying to be an ass, Samantha, but don’t tell yourself you’re doing this for Townsend. There’s not a man in the world who’d choose to hear something like that from a cop instead of someone he at least knows is on his side. You want the cop there to see his reaction, and it’s totally unnecessary. Townsend’s cleared. I’ll tell him myself.”
I had to admit it—with Townsend’s alibi and poly, there was no compelling justification for having a detective present when he heard the news. “Fine,” I said, “but some words of advice?” He was silent during the pause. “When you break the news to Townsend, try to be a little more subtle than you were with me.”
I hung up, angry at myself for losing my cool. I wrote a memo for the file about my conversation with Tara and sent a duplicate and the phone records to the discovery desk. Now that Townsend would be getting the news, I could make the disclosure to Slip.
I needed a pick-me-up. Fortunately, I had saved the best call for last. Chuck answered at MCT.
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” he said. “You find my note last night?”
“Pretty cute. I’m not sure Vinnie enjoyed being the messenger, though. Looked like he tried to chew it off of his collar.”
“He was probably trying to eat the damn thing. Greedy mutt snarfs down anything within a three-foot radius.”
“Takes after his mommy that way. Now, as much as I’m enjoying deconstructing my little man’s eating habits, can you please share the good news? I didn’t appreciate the cliff-hanger.”
“I am pleased to announce that Heidi Chung, famed PPB crime lab specialist, will testify that blood on the hammer Johnson took from Jackson’s apartment belonged to Clarissa Easterbrook. The ME says it’s consistent with her injuries.”
“Yes! I knew we’d get it.” Even so, I felt relieved to have the news officially in. Establishing probable cause against Jackson would be a breeze.
“Ah, but there’s more,” he said. “A little surprise to end your day with.”
I kicked my door shut with my foot and dropped my voice low. “It’s not exactly a surprise if you tell me about it ahead of time.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Kincaid. This surprise is from Chung. She got Jackson’s prints from his booking. Matched his right index and middle to two of the unidentified latents on the Easterbrooks’ door knocker.”
I let out a small scream. It always felt good when a case came together, but it was particularly satisfying to have my first murder case wrapped up with a tidy little bow on top. I told him to ask the crime lab to get the reports to me ASAP so I could include them in Slip’s discovery package.
“Now,” he said, “if you want to get back to that conversation you started a second ago, I’m up for it. But I charge two ninety-nine for the first minute and one ninety-nine thereafter.”
“As tempting as that sounds,” I said, “I think I’m in the mood for something a little more personal.”
“I could probably handle that. Maybe come up with a surprise or two of my own.”
“You’re on. Seven o’clock, my house. Bring your toothbrush. This one might be an overnight.”