A Matter of Life and Death

by Phillip Margolin

  Carrie went quiet and the jurors focused on her, waiting for her answer.

  “I would have to speculate to answer that,” Carrie said.

  “Isn’t one possibility that the caller set up Mr. Lattimore by luring him to the Carasco home after he killed Mrs. Carasco and set up Mr. Lattimore’s arrest by calling 911?”

  “I’m not going to speculate.”

  “Don’t you mean that you really don’t have a good answer, Detective?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Thursday morning, Vanessa called a witness from the crime lab who testified about the running shoe print. She followed that with the testimony of Joe’s trainer and manager, who established that Joe was a professional boxer with several knockouts on his record. Neither man looked at Joe when they testified.

  Jeff had interviewed the men, so Robin knew that they were reluctant witnesses. During her cross-examination, she established that Joe did not enjoy fighting but did it to earn money. Both men testified that Joe was honest and hardworking.

  After the testimony of the manager and trainer, Vanessa called Marvin Bradshaw, the police officer who had discovered the hand wraps in the Carascos’ garbage can.

  “Officer Bradshaw,” Robin asked after Vanessa turned the witness over to her, “given that the victim in this case was beaten to death, these bloody hand wraps are very important and very incriminating evidence, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Bradshaw agreed.

  “And you found them discarded in a trash can right next to the house where the murder occurred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t there woods across the street from the Carasco home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a sewer grate nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there are thousands of places in Portland far from the Carasco house where a killer could hide this evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wouldn’t anyplace be better for hiding incriminating evidence a killer would not want the police to find than a trash can right next to the murder scene?”

  “I guess.”

  “Now, say you were in possession of hand wraps with Mr. Lattimore’s DNA on them and you wanted to frame him, wouldn’t it be a clever thing to kill Mrs. Carasco, put her blood on the wraps, and stash them where the police were sure to find them?”

  “Objection,” Vanessa said. “She’s asking the witness to speculate.”

  “No, I’m not. Your Honor, Mrs. Cole qualified the officer as an experienced professional who deals with crime and criminals on a daily basis. Obviously, she feels he’s an expert in the field of criminal investigation, and that makes him qualified to answer my question.”

  Judge Wright thought over the arguments for a moment. Then he turned to Vanessa.

  “I’m going to overrule your objection.”

  The judge had the question read back to Officer Bradshaw and told him to answer it.

  “I guess you might do that if you wanted to frame your client.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Officer Bradshaw,” Vanessa asked, “putting the hand wraps in the Carasco trash can would not be a smart thing for Mr. Lattimore to do if he killed Mrs. Carasco, would it?”

  “No.”

  “In your years of dealing with criminals, have you often found them doing stupid things that led to their arrest and conviction?”

  Bradshaw laughed. “I’d say that’s more the rule than the exception.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Vanessa said.

  “Ms. Lockwood?” the judge asked.

  “Nothing more, Your Honor.”

  “May the witness be excused?” Vanessa asked.

  Judge Wright nodded.

  When Vanessa called her next witness, Robin sighed. Melinda Cortes, a forensic expert with impeccable credentials, had no trouble explaining what DNA was to people who didn’t know anything about it. When Vanessa finished her preliminary questions, the jurors knew that no two people had the same DNA. After Cortes explained the tests she’d conducted on the blood and other matter found on the hand wraps and her conclusions after reviewing the results of those tests, she testified with confidence that DNA testing had established that some of the blood on the hand wraps was Betsy Carasco’s and that DNA belonging to Joseph Lattimore had been found on the wraps.

  Robin pulled out her bag of tricks for dealing with DNA, but she didn’t feel that she’d done anything to blunt the impact of the expert’s testimony.

  “The State rests,” Vanessa said as soon as Cortes stepped down.

  “I assume you have motions for the court,” Judge Wright said to Robin.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “It’s getting late,” the judge said. “Let’s recess for the day. Unfortunately, I have a matter in another case I have to attend to that will take up the morning, so let’s start up at one tomorrow.”

  Robin talked to Joe for a few minutes while Amanda collected their trial materials.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Amanda asked as she, Robin, and Loretta walked down the curving marble staircase to the courthouse lobby.

  Robin looked dejected. “I don’t have one.”

  “Are you going to put Mr. Lattimore on the stand?” Loretta asked as they headed back to Barrister, Berman, and Lockwood under overcast skies as gloomy as Robin’s mood.

  “What would you do?” Robin asked her associate.

  “Don’t you have to put him on to explain why he was at Judge Carasco’s house?” Loretta asked.

  “Amanda?” Robin asked.

  “I agree with Loretta. Joe’s the only person who can tell the jury what really happened.”

  “He’ll also be telling the jury that he killed Ortega,” Robin said.

  “Manslaughter doesn’t carry a death penalty,” Amanda answered.

  The trio debated their next move on the short walk to Robin’s building. They had just entered the lobby when Amanda’s cell phone buzzed. Amanda looked at the caller ID and held up a finger to silence everyone. She looked grim when the short call ended.

  “That was my ‘friend,’” Amanda told Robin. “The next fight is tonight after sundown at the same place Joe fought.”

  Robin was lost in thought as they rode the elevator to her floor.

  “I have to make a call,” she said as soon as the elevator doors opened. “I’ll meet you in the conference room.”

  When she was in her office, Robin closed the door and speed-dialed Carrie Anders. Carrie and Robin had grown to trust each other during a series of cases where they were on opposite sides but had shared information. Robin was hoping that the mutual respect that had developed would work in her favor tonight.

  “Carrie, I just learned that there is going to be a no-holds-barred fight tonight, and I know where it’s going to be held. I’ll take you there, but you have to do something for me.”

  * * *

  “Yeah?” Brent Macklin said when he answered his phone.

  “It’s me,” Ian Hennessey whispered.

  “Can you speak up? I can barely hear you.”

  “I’m in a stall in the men’s room at the DA’s office, and someone just came in. I can’t risk anyone hearing me.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “Anders and Dillon were talking with Vanessa Cole, and I overheard them. There’s a barn in Washington County. It’s where they hold the illegal fights. There’s going to be a raid tonight.”

  “Where is the barn?”

  “I don’t know, but Carasco might go to the fight if he’s a backer. Follow him, and he might lead you there.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jeff’s pickup bounced as soon as he drove onto the unpaved country road that led to the farm. Every time the truck thudded down after going airborne, the holster at Robin’s back bit into her spine.

  “How much farther?” Robin asked between grimaces.

  “Not much more. There’s a side road in about a mile. The SWAT team can par
k there, go over a hill, and come down on the barn through the woods.”

  Earlier that evening, Carrie had told Robin that she had arranged a joint raid with the Washington County Sheriff’s Office. Robin relayed the information about the side road to Carrie, who was leading a convoy of police vehicles. Shortly after Carrie acknowledged the message, Jeff spotted the narrow logging road where he’d hidden his truck on his prior trip to the farm. He pulled to the side of the road so the police caravan could hide.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Carrie told Jeff and Robin when the raiding party was assembled. “You will lead us to the top of the hill and show us our objective. Then you will stay put until I tell you that you can come down. Is that clear?”

  “Definitely,” Robin said. “I have no problem staying safe while you risk your life.”

  Carrie raised an eyebrow. “I know you, and I am not fucking around.”

  “I’ll stay put, but you’ve got to try to get the recording of Joe’s fight.”

  “That was the deal, and I’ll make every effort to keep my promise, if it doesn’t involve breaking the law or screwing up the arrests.”

  Jeff led the raiders to the top of the hill. Carrie scanned the area around the barn with binoculars. Cars filled the gravel lot and the field, and they could hear an occasional roar from the barn.

  A drone was scanning the area and sending pictures back to a van that was outfitted with communications equipment. After checking with the van, Carrie radioed the police cars that were hanging back on the road, waiting for the signal to follow the raiding party. Then she led the team down the hill.

  Robin watched through her binoculars. The raiders were dressed in camouflage, and even knowing where the SWAT team was, she had a hard time following them as they drifted downhill through the shadows.

  Robin shifted her focus to the area around the barn. Several people were standing in the parking area, smoking, drinking, and talking. A white van was parked near the side door to the barn where Joe and the other fighters had entered, but no one was around it. Robin guessed that the audience for the fights entered through another door.

  She watched the raiders inch along the side of the barn toward the door near the van. They paused. Then Carrie wrenched open the door, and the SWAT team stormed in. Carrie had a bullhorn, but the walls of the barn muffled her message and the screams and shouts that followed it. People were racing out of the barn toward their cars, but the police had blocked the road, and the few cars that left the lot were stopped at a barricade.

  Robin panned the area on the side of the barn farthest from the parking area. A man who vaguely resembled Anthony Carasco darted out a back door and drove away on a narrow track toward the back of the farm. He was followed by another man. Normally, Robin wouldn’t have been certain of his identity from this distance, but few humans who didn’t play on an NFL offensive line looked like Andre Rostov.

  “Rostov is getting away,” Robin told Jeff as she headed for the pickup.

  “What are you doing?” Jeff asked.

  “This is Joe’s only chance. The night of the fight, Rostov told Joe his fight had been recorded. It will show him giving Bash his hand wraps. What if Rostov has the recording?”

  “Tell Carrie. She can send someone after Rostov.”

  “It’s chaos down there. By the time we can get through to Carrie and the police can get someone to Rostov’s house, he could have destroyed the recording and any other evidence he’s hiding.”

  Jeff hesitated. Robin grabbed his forearm. “Joe could die if we don’t act now! You know where Rostov lives. We’ve got to get there as fast as we can.”

  For a moment, Jeff didn’t move. Then he pulled away and headed for the pickup.

  * * *

  Brent Macklin had followed Anthony Carasco when he left the courthouse. Instead of going home, Carasco had driven to Washington County and taken a country road to a farm. Brent had been in court when Judge Wright had ruled that evidence of the illegal fight could not be introduced in Lattimore’s trial for the murder of Elizabeth Carasco, and he’d read the memos Vanessa Cole and Robin had filed. The farm matched the description of the fight venue in the statements of fact in the memos.

  Carasco parked in a grassy area behind the barn, next to a pickup. Macklin drove a quarter of a mile past the farm. After parking on a side road, he scrambled up a hill until he had a view of the back of the barn through his binoculars. A narrow track led from the back of the barn across a field and onto the road a half mile from where Macklin was parked.

  Macklin had brought a canteen and energy bars to tide him over through his stakeout. As the sun set, vehicles began appearing on the road to the farm. Shortly before sunset, the parking area on the side of the barn farthest from Macklin was clogged with cars and pickups. Macklin was fascinated by the variety of people who had come to the fight. There were gangbangers and country club types, bejeweled women and men in business suits. Shortly after the lot filled up, a roar drifted up to Macklin on the wind, barely making it to his perch.

  Then a caravan of police vehicles appeared, and Macklin saw armed men and women snaking down a hill and bursting into the barn. He swung his binoculars toward Carasco’s car and spotted the judge and a gigantic man running from the back of the barn. Macklin ran back to his car and drove out of the woods, moments after Carasco’s car and the pickup sped down the road.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Tony Carasco tore out of the barn faster than he’d run in ages. The adrenaline that had supercharged him started to wear off when he was in his car, racing away from the police. He laughed, relieved to have escaped. It had been a close call, but he was free. Then it dawned on him that Kevin Bash had not been so lucky. The last thing the judge had seen before he ran out of the barn was the police closing in on Bash. Fear gripped Carasco. Bash had a piece of information that he could trade for his freedom. He knew who had hired him to get rid of Betsy. And once he named Carasco …

  The judge fought the sudden urge to throw up. He had to think. He couldn’t stay in Oregon. Hell, he couldn’t stay anywhere in the United States. But how would he get to a country without an extradition treaty? In theory, he was loaded, but Helen Raptis’s attorneys had frozen his assets, and his attorneys hadn’t had time to get him access to his money.

  Using an ATM was out of the question. The police would swoop down as soon as he used a debit or credit card. And where could he go while he figured out what to do? The police would have his house staked out. Then Carasco remembered a place he could go where no one would think of looking for him.

  * * *

  Carasco slammed the door behind him and leaned against the wall. He tried to calm his breathing so he could think clearly. When his breathing was normal, he started to turn on the lights, but he stopped. Lights would be a giveaway that someone was in the apartment. So would his car, which he’d parked out front. He’d have to move it before dawn. There was visitor parking that couldn’t be seen from the entrance to the complex.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dark, Carasco went into the den, which did not have windows, and flipped on the lights. He dropped onto the chair behind the desk and rested his head in his hands. His plan had been foolproof. Everything had gone smoothly. Lattimore was on trial, the evidence against him was overwhelming. How had it all gone to hell so quickly?

  Maybe Bash would keep his mouth shut. What if he didn’t? Carasco had to plan for the worst-case scenario. He had to get away, and he needed money to do that, but where would he get enough money to…?

  Carasco sat up. Of course, it was the obvious solution. The judge laughed with relief. Then he made a call.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It was dark on Rostov’s block, and there were only a few scattered streetlights. A light rain was keeping everyone inside. Jeff pulled to the curb down the street from Rostov’s house. Robin couldn’t see any lights, and no car was parked in the driveway.

  “Maybe he went somewhere else,” Jeff said.
>
  “Damn, you might be right. He had a head start on us. If he were coming here, he’d be here by now.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s watch the house. If he doesn’t show up, we can leave or…”

  “Or what?” Jeff asked, worried by Robin’s tone of voice.

  “We could search for the recording.”

  “That’s called burglary, Robin. It can get you double digits in the state penitentiary.”

  “What if the recording is in Rostov’s house and it shows Bash taking Joe’s hand wraps? Joe would walk.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do. I will not let one of my clients die, even if it means breaking the law. Remember the old adage. It’s better to beg for forgiveness and then ask permission.”

  “I hope you don’t end up begging for a reduced sentence.”

  Robin kissed Jeff on the cheek and got out of the car. Jeff followed her across the street and up Rostov’s driveway. Robin tried the front door, but it was locked.

  “Let’s go around back,” she said.

  The side yard and backyard was a mass of weeds and unmown grass. A rusted car was up on blocks near a back door. Robin peered through the glass pane in the upper half of the door.

  “I can’t see much. I think this opens into a living room.”

  She tried the knob. The door was locked. She hesitated. Then she used her elbow to shatter the glass. Jeff started to say something, then thought better of it. He’d learned long ago that Robin was going to do what Robin wanted to do.

  Robin reached in and opened the door. “Give me your flashlight,” she whispered.

  Jeff handed it to her, and she moved the beam around an open space with a television, sofa, a recliner, and bookshelves. The bookshelves surprised her, as did the titles that filled them. Nietzsche and Mein Kampf weren’t easy reads.

  Robin heard a sound like the one a hammer makes when it smashes down on a melon. She turned just as Jeff’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Standing over him was Andre Rostov, who was brandishing the large handgun he had used to knock out Jeff. Rostov flipped on the living room light.