“So, the bartender said he could tell all of that from the look he got but he couldn’t tell if the guy was black or white?”
O’Hara shrugged. “Whatever he knew he wasn’t giving anything up. Only other thing is Mike Jensen was the supervising detective and his report said no identification because of the lack of description.”
“What was the cause of death?” Jamison was already sensing that this was going to be a waste of time.
“Knife. Right in the diaphragm—two quick hits. Whoever it was, he knew how to drop a guy real quick—right under the breastbone. Funny thing was, he didn’t take any money. Sample still had his wallet. Anyway, Rick Sample’s dead so he isn’t available for questioning.” O’Hara’s mouth pulled back into a wolfish smile. “The case is old and cold.”
“Yeah, I know—one less asshole as far as you’re concerned.”
“That’s right, Boss. So, what you want me to do next?”
“Get me everything on Clarence Foster. I want to know where he did time, what he did time for, and when he did time and who he did time with. Go through the files and find out everyone who had contact with him.”
“What about Christine?”
“Ernie’s working on Christine and her shrink, Dr. Vinson. You and I need to go see Judge Cleary. I’ve made an appointment.”
Jamison, like most prosecutors, avoided the Court of Appeal. As far as he was concerned, the real work was done in the trial court and the justices at the Court of Appeal were like color commentators for a football game or the talking heads at ESPN. They got to take their time and got to criticize with the benefit of hindsight while trial lawyers and trial judges had to make fast decisions with everything on the line. But Jamison recognized that appellate courts guided the law and the real power in the judiciary was concentrated in the very small group of men and women in the Courts of Appeal and the Supreme Court. He looked at the massive stone steps leading up to the doors of the court of appeal. It was intended to intimidate. It certainly had that effect on him.
The security officer put both Jamison and O’Hara through the screening procedure and O’Hara was required to turn over his service weapon, a nine-millimeter automatic, as well as his extra ammo clip and handcuffs. The security officer kept his hand out, watching him until O’Hara reluctantly reached down and produced a Walther PPK from an ankle holster. Then they were allowed inside the main lobby where another security officer waited to escort them to the office of Justice Cleary. Two things immediately struck Jamison: the amount of security and the smell. There was no pungent odor that flooded the senses like an arraignment court full of prisoners, or a courtroom full of spectators. It smelled crisp and clean and was remarkably quiet, like a church.
The security officer left them at the outer office to Justice Cleary’s chambers, where his judicial assistant sat as gatekeeper. Jamison introduced himself as she nodded efficiently. “The justice is expecting you.” She picked up the phone and said they were now here, then indicated that they could go through the heavy dark wood door that had a brass plate outside with Justice Cleary’s name on it.
Justice Jonathon Cleary was an imposing figure. If central casting had been asked to find someone who looked like a judge, Cleary would be the man they would put in front of the camera. He was at least six feet one or two inches tall with dark hair sprinkled with gray and completely silver at the temples. His face was austere, but his eyes seemed warm and receptive. Jamison had no illusions. He had heard about Cleary’s notorious ability to look at lawyers with a coldness that could turn a lawyer’s blood to ice. For the moment, however, Cleary radiated warmth and extended his hand. “So you’re Matthew Jamison? I’ve read about you and seen you on the news. I knew your dad well. Great lawyer.” Unlike his abrupt response when Gifford mentioned his father, Jamison just nodded and smiled. Cleary seemed to sense the reserved reaction and changed the subject. “Rumor has it that you’re the man who drew the Harker case?” Jamison assumed that the district attorney had called Cleary as soon as he had walked out of Gage’s office. Cleary turned toward O’Hara. “I’m guessing you’re Bill O’Hara?” The fact that Cleary knew who O’Hara was confirmed Jamison’s suspicions about communications between Gage and Cleary.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jamison?” Cleary sat quietly behind a highly polished mahogany desk that didn’t have a scrap of paper on it while Jamison explained that he wanted to talk about the Harker case and if he had any idea why Gifford might be calling him as a witness.
“The Harker case was a long time ago, Mr. Jamison. But like most trial lawyers, I remember it very well. At least I remember my part in it, which”—Cleary laughed—“like most lawyers, has become more prominent in the retelling. It was a horrible murder. Harker’s defense attorney, Alton Grady, did the best he could, but Grady didn’t have a lot to work with—an alibi that only Harker could confirm. Is Grady still alive? He’d have to be at least ninety by now.”
“He’s alive. We spoke to him, but it was obvious that his mind has slipped quite a bit.”
Cleary sighed. “That’s too bad. In his day he was formidable but when he defended Harker I think he had given up a step or two. I don’t think there’s much I can say. It’s all in the trial record. Has Harker’s lawyer made any contentions that I might be able to respond to?”
“He has a declaration from Richard Harker that Clarence Foster lied when he identified Harker as the killer and that the detectives were aware of it.” Jamison waited to see if there was any reaction.
Justice Cleary’s expression was bemused. “That’s it? What does Foster say? I was there when we took his statements.” Cleary paused. “You do know that your father was Foster’s lawyer, don’t you?”
“Well, I found that out after I was given the case. Anyway, Foster’s not talking, at least not to us. I’m not sure what he’ll testify to but I need to make sure there’s nothing I’m missing.”
“You’re not missing anything, Mr. Jamison. Foster wouldn’t tell us anything at first, and then he lied about Harker killing Lisa Farrow, and then he admitted it was Harker. It’s all in the reports. And, if I recall correctly, it’s all on tape. That can’t be all the supreme court based its order of a hearing on, is it?”
“No, there’s a declaration from Christine Farrow. She says that she wrongfully identified Harker. She says the real killer was a Rick Sample.”
Other than a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth there was no reaction. “Christine signed a declaration that says exactly what?” Jamison handed over a copy and watched Cleary’s face while he read it.
Cleary scanned the declaration carefully. “Christine was only three years old, five when she testified. It was horrible having her go through that, but she was the only witness we had besides Foster. And she was the nail in Harker’s coffin when she identified him. I remember that Grady tried to shake her on the identification because Sample and Harker looked a lot alike, and there was some confusion at the beginning of the investigation about whether it was Sample or Harker. But most of the confusion was created by Christine’s grandmother. I remember that Sample had a solid alibi. And then there was Foster who put Harker at the scene. Harker’s prints were also inside the house. And he had no alibi that was supported by anyone but him.”
Cleary’s eyes iced over. “Richard Harker is a murderer, Mr. Jamison. He deserved to be executed. Mr. Harker’s lawyer can ask me whatever he wants. I’ve got nothing to say that will help him. His lawyer is Samuel Gifford, correct?” Cleary waited for confirmation from Jamison before continuing. “I’ve heard Mr. Gifford argue cases before. It’s always the same, some great injustice that the system has imposed on his clients. Well, he’ll have to do better than that if he wants to get anywhere with the Harker case. I feel sorry for that little girl. She went through so much and now this. Have you talked to her? Did she say anything about what happened?”
“We talked to her. All she says is that she began having dreams and went to a psychologist, a D
r. Vinson, and that she realized she had made a mistake and it wasn’t Harker who killed her mother. That’s it.”
Cleary stood up, signaling the interview was over. “Mr. Jamison, if Sam Gifford is looking for something from me that will help his client, he won’t get it. Call me if you have any more questions.”
“Thank you, Justice Cleary.” Jamison stuck his hand out and shook Cleary’s. “Rumor has it that you are going to be moving back East. We all wish you luck. It would be nice to know that somebody back there actually has been in the trenches.”
Cleary’s smile was circumspect. “We will see. You never know about rumors from Washington. I’m just as much in the dark as everyone else.” Jamison doubted that but it was a standard line. He’d heard it before. Right now, his concern was that he didn’t know much more than he knew at the beginning.
Chapter 20
Jamison sat at his desk, looking at Christine Farrow’s declaration. It kept going through his mind that why after all these years had she suddenly decided that Harker wasn’t the man who killed her mother? It didn’t make sense. Jamison knew that sometimes children lied and then later recanted, but something had to have caused Christine to decide she was wrong. It didn’t just come to her. She’d been only three years old when it happened and five when she testified. Based on the police reports and the transcripts she hadn’t wavered in her identification until Dr. Vinson came along. He needed to see Vinson. Jamison doubted Vinson would cooperate, but one way or the other he would find out what happened.
Vinson’s office was precisely what Jamison expected: deep carpet that muffled any sound, subdued lighting, and the ubiquitous People and health magazines that seem to clutter every doctor’s office Jamison had ever been in. The decor wasn’t that of some social services psychologist. This was a man whose services were hundreds of dollars an hour. A receptionist stared at him with a questioning expression. “May I help you? Do you have an appointment?”
Jamison flipped out his identification with the gold district attorney badge next to his picture. O’Hara slid his jacket to the side, exposing the badge attached to his belt and a glimpse of the butt of his gun. O’Hara’s attempt at subtlety carried the same finesse as a hammer. “I’m Matt Jamison with the district attorney’s office. My investigator and I would like to speak to Dr. Vinson.”
The receptionist seemed flustered, which wasn’t an uncommon reaction. The sight of badges and guns caused most people to be nervous, whether they had any reason to be or not. “Is Dr. Vinson in trouble?”
“No.” Jamison smiled. “We need to talk to him about a patient. Is he here?”
“He’s with a patient now. I’ll let him know you’re here, but he doesn’t like to interrupt patient sessions. I’m sure you understand?”
A few minutes later she returned to her desk. “Dr. Vinson said you’ll have to wait. He will be with you when he’s finished.” O’Hara’s expression of impatience caused the receptionist to shrink as she tried to find something to distract herself from Jamison and O’Hara—primarily from O’Hara as he squeezed his bulk into a low-slung office chair, muttering.
“Dr. Vinson will see you now.” Jamison asked where the patient had gone, not seeing anyone exit through the reception area. “They go out a different door when they leave.”
Dr. Arnold Vinson sat behind a desk with nothing on it except a tablet and a pen. He stood up as Jamison and O’Hara crossed the room. Jamison extended his hand and reflected that Vinson looked exactly like what most people expected a psychologist to look like and very few did. He was balding, having left a fringe of hair circling his head and hair a fraction too long in the back. In Jamison’s mind, it was a weakness some men had when their hair left the front of their head and they let it grow out in the back. He tucked his observation away for future reference. Vanity was always a weakness.
Vinson’s voice was soft and controlled. If his receptionist had been intimidated, he didn’t appear to be. “I understand you gentlemen are with the district attorney’s office?”
Moving past any small talk, Jamison got right to the point. “Matt Jamison. I’m a prosecutor. This is Mr. O’Hara, my investigator. We would like to talk to you about Christine Farrow. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s going to testify with respect to a murder case where she has now alleged that she made a wrongful identification. She said that you helped her realize that she had made a mistake. Is that correct?”
Vinson sat back down, quietly measuring the two men before him with the gaze of a clinician. He placed his fingertips together, touching the index fingers to his nose before responding. “You are evidently already aware that Ms. Farrow is a patient of mine and since you are with the district attorney’s office I assume you are also aware that my discussions with Ms. Farrow are privileged. I can’t discuss our therapeutic sessions with you.”
O’Hara interrupted. “Can’t or won’t?”
Vinson smiled. “Either answer would be correct.”
Jamison tried to soften O’Hara’s blunt edge. “Dr. Vinson, I really need to know how Christine Farrow decided she had made a mistake. We’ve talked to her. She’s been through a lot, I realize that. I don’t want to make her life more difficult. It would help if I could get a sense of how she decided this.”
Vinson appraised the two men. “I understand, but my position remains the same. I will tell you that Christine is confident she has made the right decision and it has brought her some peace. Given the trauma that she’s carried with her I’m sure you understand.”
Jamison looked around the office. “You will excuse me for asking, but I’m guessing Christine is not your usual patient and would not be able to afford your normal hourly fee?”
“What do you lawyers call it, pro bono? I help people if I can. It isn’t all about money. I was asked to talk to her.”
“Who asked?”
“That is another matter I’m not going to discuss with you, Mr. Jamison.”
“Are you going to testify in the Harker case?”
“I’ve been asked to testify. Whether I do will depend on what I am asked to testify about.” The tone of Vinson’s answer politely made it clear that he was through answering questions.
On the drive back to the office O’Hara expressed his opinion about “head-shrinkers” and psychologists in general, before asking Jamison, “So, Boss, what’re you going to do?”
“There’s not much I can do.” Jamison pursed his lips and blew out a burst of air. “You do a background check on Vinson. Find out everything you can. Maybe somebody in the office has had experience with him, maybe not, but I’m guessing Dr. Vinson has been involved in cases like this before.”
Chapter 21
Jamison threaded his way through the reporters standing outside the courtroom, brushing aside questions. Harker’s hearing was front page news and the centerpiece was Christine Farrow’s declaration and the intimation floated by Gifford that Harker might testify. He had been over the entire trial transcript and the physical evidence. There just didn’t seem to be any doubt that Harker was guilty. But there was no question that Christine’s declaration and his interview with her nagged at him.
He had read numerous articles about recantation by witnesses years after they had given their testimony, particularly children. There were all kinds of reasons for it but usually it involved sexual molestation. The accused was frequently a family member. Not only that, much of the time the recantation simply wasn’t true. But sometimes it was. He’d decided that whatever the reason was for Christine’s disavowal of her childhood testimony, he was not going to overreact to the contentions of Harker’s lawyer. He would make Gifford prove his case and then he would react to whatever Gifford had that might raise an issue.
It was to his advantage that it wasn’t easy to set aside a conviction based on new evidence, unless that evidence was more than somebody just saying they were wrong. DNA sometimes provided that kind of exonerating evidence, but there was no DNA in this case. It was just Chris
tine and Foster and Harker’s fingerprint, and Jamison knew the fingerprint didn’t lie. He looked forward to getting started. He could feel the buildup of adrenaline. It was that way every time he walked up to the counsel table and said, “Ready for the People, Your Honor.” Today was no different.
Judge Wallace carried his massive bulk into the courtroom with surprising agility. He looked out at the packed room as everyone stood. “Be seated please.” Wallace wasn’t much for formality, but he recognized that sometimes it had its uses and today was one of those days. The timber of his rumbling voice added to his authority. “In the matter of Richard Harker versus the State of California, County of Tenaya, are the parties ready to proceed?”
Samuel Gifford stood to address the court. “Samuel Gifford for Mr. Harker, Your Honor, and Mr. Harker is present.” There was a slight sound of chains jangling as Harker acknowledged his presence. He had been brought in earlier and had his leg chains locked to the steel O ring under the counsel table, but his hands were free, as ordered by Wallace. He had been allowed to “dress out” for the hearing. Instead of the usual orange jumpsuit, he was wearing a rumpled blue shirt and tan slacks that, Jamison surmised, came out of Gifford’s wardrobe closet for his clients. Despite the chains, two armed bailiffs sat near the jury rail with their eyes fixed on the prisoner.
“Matthew Jamison for the People, Your Honor. Mr. Bill O’Hara will be at the counsel table with me as my investigator.” Normally only attorneys and clients were permitted at the counsel tables, but if there was a primary investigator the prosecutor was usually permitted to have him or her seated at the table.
Shades of Truth Page 14
