The heat trapped in Ernie’s county car from the late morning sun warmed the cold sweat built up under Jamison’s shirt. He’d carefully watched Christine Farrow as she accused another man of the crime for which Rick Harker had spent over twenty-six years in prison. He could already tell what was coming. Harker’s lawyer would put Foster on the stand to say that Harker was innocent and figure out some way to explain why he lied at the original trial and wasn’t lying now.
Jamison wasn’t worried about that. Foster simply coming in and claiming that he hadn’t told the truth and had decided in jail to come out wasn’t going to be enough to persuade a judge, not without hard evidence that didn’t depend on Foster’s credibility. Convicts did that all the time, rarely because of jailhouse conversions and usually because it bought them a way to avoid the stigma of a rat jacket. Honor among thieves was a value system alien to the rest of the world.
But Christine Farrow was another thing. She wasn’t a criminal. And she had no motive to free the man convicted of killing her mother, no motive at all—except some deeply repressed misguided sense of guilt—or the truth—or both.
Jamison had seen it before, children who began to doubt the reality they had created for themselves as shards of the past battered them in unsuspecting moments. It was one of the things that he hated the most about crimes against children. Their immature minds would suppress the horror, pushing it back into dark recesses where it would lie, a slowly growing infection until years later it would rise up in the mind like stones buried in the soil. And when those memories pushed themselves out for whatever reason, there was just pain.
Jamison knew that some people could handle it, the memories of the past, but a lot of people couldn’t. In one of his last cases he had seen the way a woman’s molestation as a child had irreparably warped her ability to function as an adult. The worst part was that she knew it and she kept it hidden, struggling to present stability to the world, not allowing the world to see the turmoil in her mind until she could no longer hold it in.
But the memories were always there, like night monsters clawing for attention. Jamison understood that some people had better coping mechanisms and were able to get past it. He didn’t have contempt or lack sympathy for those who couldn’t cope. He only had empathy. It was one of the reasons he was a prosecutor. And he felt empathy for Christine, for the child she was and for the woman she had become. He felt empathy because he himself had learned to live with memories of the past that haunted him. All he really knew was that it wasn’t easy.
What he also felt was his own guilt at what he would have to do to her on the witness stand. There was no real choice. Twenty-six years later, after the horrible trauma of her mother’s murder, finding her, sitting in that kitchen next to her—Jamison shuddered at the thought. And now she would have to relive it again along with the guilt that she had sent an innocent man to prison, whether the guilt was justified or not. What had happened to her before had made her a victim her entire life and now he was going to tear open that scab once more.
That was the worst part, the destructive acid of memory and lack of closure, slowly eroding the ability to cope. And that was the lot of Christine Farrow, whether she had made a mistake or not. Either way she would never have the simple luxury of freedom from the impact of the past. Any way you looked at it, she was three years old and what happened to her had swept her up and pulled her down into a whirlpool of emotional destruction. For Christine, the best part of her life was over at three and what remained was simply the perseverance to make it through each new day and each new night of what was left.
As they drove back to the DA’s office, Ernie let Jamison stare out the car window without saying anything. He seldom spoke unless he had something he wanted to say and right now he could sense that Jamison needed his own space. That was Ernie’s ability, to sense when a person had withdrawn to the inside of their mind and to know when the moment was right to pull them back. It made him a skilled interrogator, but it also made him a man others instinctively trusted, and that allowed him to take advantage when people let down their guard to him, if they were a suspect, and to help people he cared about when they needed it. Right now, he wasn’t sure exactly what Jamison needed, but Ernie understood that he needed to be left alone.
Finally, as they pulled into the parking garage at the county office building where the district attorney was located, Jamison spoke. “I want every piece of evidence in the Harker case gone over with a fine-tooth comb—nothing left to assumption. And I want you and Bill to find Rick Sample. I want to know where he is. I want to know everything there is to know about him.
“You’re not thinking that Harker didn’t do it, are you?”
“No, I’m not thinking he didn’t do it. But I am thinking that Harker’s come back into that woman’s mind and screwed with it one more time, and I intend to make sure that this time we will rip him a second asshole. When we get through with Harker I intend to bury him and bury him so deep that he’s done for good. I’m thinking that at the end of this we have to be able to help that woman believe she did the right thing. If I’m going to have to tear Christine Farrow’s story apart, I want to make sure I’m right. I owe her that. We owe her that.”
Chapter 17
O’Hara was waiting for them when Jamison and Ernie walked into the office. The first thing Jamison said was, “I want you to find Rick Sample and bring him in.”
“Well, Boss, that’s going to be hard to do because he got himself dead. Got killed in a bar fight almost nine years ago. I figured you’d want to know something about him so I checked. That’s a dead end, really dead end, I guess.” O’Hara sucked the bottom of his mustache into his mouth as he rubbed his upper lip. “I checked all the sheriff’s reports in the case and had copies made so we could compare to what you got in that stack of boxes. There’s also some tapes. I didn’t play them. And the evidence from the scene is still boxed up. I had them pull it down. Figured you’d want to look at it.”
“Tell me how it happened.”
“I told you,” O’Hara said with irritation in his voice that he hadn’t sufficiently answered the question. “It was a bar fight. Sample got into it with some guy in a bar. They went into an alley. Nobody followed. When somebody took the trash out they found extra trash in the dumpster—it was Sample. I did a quick scan of the reports. You want more, I’ll pull it all.”
Before Jamison asked the next question, O’Hara finished the thought. “No, they didn’t make an arrest. All they had was that the argument was with some guy. The bartender said he thought it was a white guy but he had on a hood, coulda been Mexican or maybe even black. Look, this was a bar over on G Street. You know what that part of town is like. It was Saturday night. Two men arguing, probably over some woman holding up a bar stool. Nobody looked, nobody heard, nobody saw nothin’. Case closed. One less asshole in the world.”
“Real sensitive, Bill.” Jamison’s exasperation was not directed at O’Hara. It was the whole case. O’Hara smiled, although to some people it might look like he was in pain.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m working on my sensitivity but so far not much progress. How’d it go with Christine?”
“Not much there. Apparently, she worked with this Dr. Vinson. We’ll need to get more background on him. Ernie’s working on that. Right now, I want to see the evidence.”
The evidence room clerk took them to a table inside the evidence cage. He explained that everything the sheriff’s office had in the Harker case was sitting in the boxes on the table. They were reminded not to open anything that was sealed unless they initialed it. Then he went back to the counter. They could call him when they were finished.
Jamison looked at the pile of boxes. “Bill, you already look at this stuff?”
“Yeah, I went through it and the inventory list. It all matches. Everything that was tagged and bagged at the crime scene is in here.” He pulled off the lid of the first box and began removing plastic bags with evidence
tags attached and court exhibit numbers. The first thing that caught Jamison’s eye was bags with charred and partially melted beer cans.
Jamison picked up the bag of cans, feeling them through the clear plastic, charred bits flaked off the cans, joining other pieces of ash at the bottom of the bag. O’Hara was watching. “Those are the beer cans that were used to set the fire. Harker put gas in them according to the forensic report and then poured it on the victim. He didn’t have much gas but what he had did the job. He put the empty cans on magazines under her legs, heavy paper, trying to make a big fire. The flash from the gas burned the victim real bad and then when the flame went out the thick magazines just slowly smoldered and burned and then went out. Where the gas got on the body, the flesh was charred, but other than destroying evidence of any kind of sexual assault, that was it. The thing is, the son of a bitch started that fire and left that little girl in the house.” The anger in O’Hara’s voice was evident.
There was a knife with a broken blade tip and another bag with the charred magazines. Jamison had seen the crime scene photographs and he knew that they had been lying under the body. Other bags had additional unburned beer cans that still bore remnants of fingerprint powder.
Jamison pulled the lid off of the other boxes, shoving aside the contents, looking to see if there was anything else he needed to see. One bag held clothing that was partially burned. Another held a child’s T-shirt and underwear. Jamison surmised that it had been worn by three-year-old Christine Farrow. It still bore smudges from ash. Jamison flashed back on the photographs of the child and what the grimy clothes represented. That was it. “Not much for a capital murder, is it?” He pushed the various bags around on the table and then indicated to Bill that he should put them back into the boxes. “Was there any biological evidence taken at all? Any blood or other physical evidence? Maybe we could do DNA testing?”
O’Hara shook his head. “There was blood on the victim, but nobody took any blood samples from her face that I can find. There were some fingernail scrapings but as far as I know they didn’t come up with any blood. I’m not sure where they are or if they even still exist. All I know is that according to the reports they didn’t show anything. I know that Harker didn’t have any scratches on him when they arrested him. He did have some abrasions, but he also resisted so how they happened isn’t clear.”
“Track down the fingernail scrapings and anything else that might be worth testing again.”
There wasn’t much else to do prior to the hearing with the exception of seeing if Alton Grady, Harker’s trial counsel, was still alive and if he was, if he had anything he was willing to say. Jamison didn’t hold out much hope. He had heard about Alton Grady when older lawyers told war stories. But Grady’s prime was when Jamison had been a child. What he was now was anybody’s guess and that assumed he was still alive and age hadn’t withered his brain to the point where the synapses just kept his bodily functions going and stopped paying attention to anything else.
Jamison didn’t have long to guess about Alton Grady. He was now in an assisted living center and had been for almost ten years. Jamison walked into the foyer of the center with O’Hara following him. It was bright and sunny but there was a faint odor that reminded Jamison of his grandparents’ house. What he used to call “old people’s smell” when he was little. It hadn’t changed.
The attendant walked them to a solarium and pointed. “There’s Alton, the one in the wheelchair staring out of the window. He’s pretty alert, at least for this time of day. Some of them have good times of the day and bad. He’ll talk to you. He was a lawyer—likes to tell stories. At least he used to. He doesn’t talk much anymore that you can follow.”
“Mr. Grady?” Jamison stood next to the wheelchair and leaned down to its occupant. Alton Grady looked ancient even by the standards of the other occupants in the solarium. What hair he had was tufted wisps of white that stuck out at odd angles. But when he looked up to see who was asking, his rheumy eyes seemed to get brighter. He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Grady, my name is Matt Jamison from the district attorney’s office and this man with me is Bill O’Hara, an investigator with us. I’d like to talk to you about the Harker case if you have some time.”
Grady slowly nodded and flicked one hand. “Time? I have time.” He waited without saying more.
“You were the trial lawyer defending Rick Harker?”
“Maybe. Tell me about the case. That helps.” Jamison had the sense that Grady understood far more than he was letting on, but he went along with the old man’s question.
“It was a death penalty case. The victim was a woman, Lisa Farrow, and Harker set the house on fire, tried to burn the body. The jury returned a death verdict but the judge gave him a life sentence. You remember it? You were his lawyer.” Jamison had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t going anywhere. He added helpfully, “You saved him from the death penalty.”
“Always said he was innocent.” Grady smiled. “They all say that, you know? But he said he was innocent.” The words came out of Grady’s mouth in a mumble. “Jamison? You Roger’s boy? You look like him. Good lawyer, Roger. Good lawyer. He still around?”
“Roger Jamison was my father. He’s gone now. Thank you, he was a good lawyer. Everybody says so. I never really saw that side of him. Anyway, about Rick Harker?”
“Yes, he was innocent, you know? That was a bad case—that little girl. I remember her. And your daddy, he was in it too. I remember that. It was a big case. Harker never had a chance. I did my best. Sorry about your daddy. I guess I’ve outlived most everyone I knew …” Grady’s voice trailed off and he resumed staring out the window. “Can’t remember much anymore, just bits and pieces.”
“Can you tell me why you say Harker was innocent? Did you have some reason to believe he really didn’t do it?”
“Told me he was innocent. They all say that, you know? But you get a feeling over the years. I believed him. I did my best. I do remember that judge. What was his name?”
“Judge Stevenson.” Jamison looked over at O’Hara, who shook his head.
“Yes, Walker Stevenson. Good judge. Good man. He made a tough call—the right call. Is he still alive?”
“Yes, sir. But was there anything else that made you think Harker was innocent? Anything at all that you can tell us?
“That young DA. What was his name?”
“Are you talking about Gage?”
“No, the other one. The one that became a judge.”
“Jonathon Cleary?”
“Yes, him. I kept asking him for his files, but I didn’t trust him. Never did. You can tell, you know?”
“Why—why didn’t you trust him?”
“What?”
Jamison stood up. There was no point. He had one last thought. “Did you keep your files?”
“Ask my daughter. She knows. Ask her. She comes to visit me. Only one that still knows I’m alive I guess. Lorie’s a good girl. Wife’s gone now—long time. Lorie takes care of my house. I’m sorry. I don’t remember much anymore. Just bits and pieces. All Harker ever said was that he was innocent. He had no alibi.” Grady lifted his head. “I was a good lawyer. I was. Won a lot of cases. I remember Harker. He was innocent. Ask your father. I should have won. He knew. Ask him.” Grady’s eyes were losing their focus, the brightness fading.
O’Hara broke the silence when they walked out of the assisted living center. “I think I’d rather be dead than like that.”
“Maybe. I’ll remember that when I visit you in the home.” O’Hara’s only response was with a middle finger.
“Tomorrow we have to make an appearance in this case. Take me back to the office. I need to get ready.”
“Ready? We got nothing.” O’Hara chewed on the unlit cigar in his mouth.
“That’s not true exactly. We got a conviction. Let’s see what Harker’s lawyer’s got. He’s the one who has to prove there’s something there. We don’t.”
Chapter 18
Jamison felt his throat tighten as he entered the swinging gate leading into the well of the courtroom. The press had been outside taking his picture as he walked down the hall with O’Hara. The Harker case was still big news. He moved carefully past the television camera shoved in his face and smiled but offered no comment. He knew that this would be the file film the press would use over and over again on the evening news. He had learned to smile. If you made any kind of face or looked angry, that was the picture they would use.
O’Hara took a seat next to Jamison at the counsel table. Gifford was already seated. He looked rumpled, but Jamison suspected that Gifford always looked rumpled, clothes not quite matching, tie carelessly knotted. It was passive defiance of the lawyer’s dress code. Jamison, on the other hand, had dressed carefully in a black suit and red silk tie. He nodded a greeting at Gifford and waited for the two other main participants to come into the courtroom—Judge Herman Wallace and Richard Harker. They would not come through the same door.
It didn’t take long for the door to open from the holding cell area. A burly bailiff walked through first. Behind him shuffled Richard Harker, dressed in an orange jailhouse jumpsuit, followed by another bailiff. His hands were manacled in front of him and attached to a belly chain that ran around his waist and then down to another set of manacles that went around both ankles. He didn’t walk with the awkward steps of someone unfamiliar with such chains. It was evident that Harker had learned how to adapt to the restrictions of his place in the world. After all, Jamison thought, he’s had twenty-six years to learn.
Harker looked around the courtroom with a quick bird-like movement, a man trying to rapidly take everything in to understand his surroundings. It was a common reaction of men who had spent a great deal of time in prison. When you lived in an environment where you never knew if the others in the room were your friends or your enemies, you needed to have a rodent’s awareness of your situation. Survival was the daily lot of the Richard Harkers of the world. His face showed the pasty complexion of a man who didn’t see the sun very often. Harker had spent much of the last few years of his existence in what was commonly called “the SHU,” the secured housing unit. Twenty-three hours a day in lockdown with one hour to exercise in a narrow-walled area. Some men were kept there for discipline. Others did their time there for protection from other prisoners. Harker had apparently managed to get there for both reasons. His time in the SHU was an intermittent interruption of his time in the mainline, except for the time in the local jail, which some people who had done hard time claimed was worse than the joint.
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