Jamison took a long time with his explanation that now that Harker was dead he didn’t see any need to keep the file secret. She waited patiently for him to finish before quietly asking, “And why does that make any difference to you now? Harker’s dead. The case is over. But you want something else, don’t you? Maybe a glass of wine?”
Jamison could tell she was laughing at him. She just didn’t do it out loud. “Sure, wine would be fine.” Actually, he would prefer a drink at the moment. Instead he added, “But I need to know something.”
“You need to know whether there’s something in that file that will tell you whether Harker really did it?” The fact that she asked and answered his questions before he asked them put him off-balance, reminding him of the same thing she had done before.
“I need to know if your father had any notes, anything that might tell me whether he was looking at other possibilities.”
She pulled a bottle of wine down from a rack on a credenza in the corner of the room and expertly slipped the cork out, pouring two glasses. “You mean like whether he knew who else might have done it instead of his client? I recall telling you before that it wasn’t in my father’s file but I also told you maybe you were looking in the wrong place.”
“And is there a right place?”
“Tell me what you’re looking for and, of more interest to me, tell me why.”
“I’m not really sure. I think maybe one of the witnesses lied—but I can’t prove it. That doesn’t mean Harker didn’t do it, but if he didn’t, then somebody else did, and I need to be sure. Maybe your father’s notes on a witness?”
“Like Jimmy Stack?” She saw the startled expression on his face. “After you left I went through my father’s files again. I told you Sam Gifford also looked through them. But my father didn’t always keep everything in one spot. That was fine if you knew where everything was but it didn’t help if you just went to the place where you thought everything would be. I looked at all the witnesses and his notes and then I checked to see if there were any other files involving those witnesses. Richard Sample refused to talk to my father or his investigators for obvious reasons. But my father’s notes on Jimmy Stack don’t say much either except they have notations that my dad talked to your father. There was something about a woman named Dolores. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Maybe it might to you but for some reason my father thought your father knew something about Dolores or that there was a connection because he underlined the names. Is this Stack guy still alive? My father’s notes are just snatches of thoughts but he seemed to think that there was a connection between your father and Dolores and Stack. There were a lot of question marks and a note that he was going to talk to Roger. That was your dad, Roger?”
She told him to wait while she retrieved the file. The manila folder was limp from being kept in a damp place and there were mildew stains on the legal pad paper stuffed inside. The writing on the edge of the folder read “Jimmy Stack.” Jamison flipped carefully through the paper, which was as flaccid as the folder.
It was typical of trial lawyer notes, snatches of phrases and lines and arrows to other snatches of phrases, decipherable only to the writer. But it was there, his father’s name heavily underlined and an arrow to Dolores Sample, Tommy Sample, and Jimmy Stack. But underneath there was another arrow to Detective Jensen and DDA Jonathon Cleary.
Obviously, Alton Grady thought there was a connection, but he hadn’t written down what it was and there was no way it was going to now creep out of the recesses of Grady’s clouded mind. Before Jamison could ask she pulled a copy out and handed it to him. “I thought you’d ask. Now you’d like to go to dinner, right?” She laughed as his face turned red. “You were going to ask, right?” She decided to let him off the hook. “I was hoping you’d be back and ask.”
Jamison waited for her to change, but unlike most women he had known it seemed almost instantaneous. She came back into the room in a dress that she only accentuated with a slash of lipstick. Unlike most women he had known, it was all she needed. He knew right there that not only had she known he would be back, she also knew it would be a beginning.
The next morning Jamison walked down to Ernie Garcia’s office. The investigator was hunched over his desk reading reports. Ernie looked up when he heard Jamison knock on the door jamb as he walked in. “What’s up, Boss?” Ernie had adopted O’Hara’s penchant for calling Jamison “Boss,” but he did it out of respect as opposed to O’Hara’s slightly acerbic inflection. Jamison had long ago given up on O’Hara’s private sense of humor. It wasn’t personal. He was worse with other people.
“Ernie, you interviewed Richard Sample’s mother, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, Dolores. Why?”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much to tell. She wasn’t cooperative with me, I can tell you that. I think I told you that she basically slammed the door in my face when I tried to interview her.”
“What did she look like?”
Ernie frowned at the question, his expression questioning what difference that made. “Look like? She’s late sixties, still keeps her hair blonde. Still looks to be in pretty good shape for a woman that age.” Ernie furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you’re asking. She had that look—you know—some women have it? My guess is she was a looker when she was younger but maybe a little harder edged. I mean she didn’t spend any time talking to me. Why’re you asking?”
“I want you to find out everything you can about her.”
“What case is this relating to?”
“Just put it down to general investigation.” Ernie gave him a sour look. “And Ernie, don’t do a report for the file.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, do a background check on Tommy Sample also.”
“Rick Sample’s kid? Why?”
“I don’t know why. Just do it.”
Late in the afternoon Ernie came by Jamison’s office and poked his head in. “Matt, you still want that information on Dolores Sample and her grandson?”
Jamison waved Ernie in, aware that the investigator was looking at him like he not only wasn’t sure what the reason was that he was doing this for Jamison, but also like he suspected he wasn’t going to get the answer either. At this point he was right on both counts. Jamison waited for the information without saying anything.
Ernie flipped open his notebook. “Okay, I did a quick Department of Motor Vehicle and criminal record check, plus there was background material in the reports. As for Tommy Sample, he wasn’t hard to dig up. Believe it or not, he’s a lawyer, works in Sacramento, public defender. Not married as far as I can tell. I did a little background check with some of my contacts in Sacramento. Apparently, he’s well regarded. Looks like he’s beginning to handle bigger cases. I didn’t push that. As for Grandma, Dolores Sample. Maiden name Ryan, sixty-six years old, divorced from a Michael Sample, at least that’s what the docs say that I was able to access. Anyway, Michael Sample is no longer in the picture—walked out on the family—died about ten years ago. She worked as a cocktail waitress. House paid for. I did find one interesting thing; the house was bought for cash. Kind of odd on a waitress salary but maybe she got an inheritance. No record except for an old speeding ticket. You want more? I didn’t dig down into her personal life because I’d have to start talking to people. Wasn’t sure you wanted me to do that. It might help if I knew why you wanted the information.” Ernie waited.
“I’m pretty sure my father was involved with her.”
Ernie mentally measured his words before carefully asking, “By involved, you mean having an affair?” Jamison stared at him without reaction, which, given the question, was a reaction. “Matt, that was a long time ago, man. There’s nothing good you’re going to find out by going there. Trust me on this. You know I’ll do what you want but you should drop this right now. Nobody is going to like the secrets they find out about their parents. That’s why parents keep some things secret. What diff
erence does it make now?”
Jamison pulled his mouth into a straight line, biting his lower lip before answering. “Look, Ernie, this isn’t personal. And the only surprise here for me isn’t that my father was having an affair, it’s who it was with. Doesn’t it seem like an odd coincidence that my dad represented Clarence Foster and maybe at the same time was involved with the mother of Richard Sample, the other suspect?
“You’re a cop. Bill and I interviewed Foster out at Corcoran and he said my dad knew that Jensen and Gage were told by Foster that he couldn’t identify anybody because he was drunk—loaded according to him. He said there was a tape but there’s no tape. Bill looked.”
“I don’t know whether to believe Foster or not but my dad would’ve known what happened. He would’ve talked to Foster and those notes would have been in his file. He would have protected Foster in the murder case, but if he thought Foster was lying I don’t think he would’ve let him get on the stand and do it. A man’s life was at stake. My old man may not have taken his marriage seriously, but he took his job seriously.”
Ernie snorted derisively. “Come on, Matt. Lawyers do a lot of things to protect their clients. Your dad would have taken an immunity deal if he had any suspicion Foster was involved in that murder. He would’ve done it to save his client. He didn’t owe anything to Harker.” Ernie’s opinion of lawyers was only slightly higher than O’Hara’s, and that wasn’t a very high bar.
Jamison had done nothing but think about this after returning to Lorie’s house after dinner. Her incisive speculation as he explained the facts had started to pull the tangle of threads apart. His father wasn’t just any lawyer; he was a lawyer with a national reputation. He wouldn’t have jeopardized all that for a small-time piece of garbage like Foster. While Jamison hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, he had been surprised that his father would even be involved in representing somebody like Foster. There wouldn’t be any money in it and his father wasn’t known for doing a lot of pro bono work unless a judge personally requested it.
However, if Roger Jamison thought Foster was involved and was vulnerable to a murder charge he would have demanded an immunity deal before letting Foster testify. There was nothing unusual about that. It was the right move to save his client. He had to know how badly the prosecution needed Foster’s testimony. But if he knew the truth that Foster had no idea who committed the crime, then that would mean his father was willing to let a man go to the death chamber on perjured testimony.
Jamison had long ago abandoned any naive idol worship of his father, but he couldn’t believe that. His father had to either not believe Foster was lying or there was another reason. He hadn’t understood what other reason there could be until he saw the connection with Dolores Sample, and even then his mind set up reality roadblocks. It wasn’t until 2:00 a.m. in the middle of a sleepless night that he accepted the possibility that his dad may have been protecting Richard Sample because of who his mother was. That thought had kept him tossing and turning until morning.
Jamison shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about this all night. The reason Jensen and Gage cut Sample loose was because he had an alibi that seemed rock-solid. What if that alibi was ginned up to protect Sample?”
Ernie looked at him like he was crazy. “You want to try and crack a twenty-six-year-old alibi? Matt, almost everybody’s going to be dead and Sample’s mother isn’t going to help us.”
“Maybe not but there are two people who can, Foster and Jimmy Stack.”
“Well, don’t forget about Jensen, Gage, and Cleary. I’m sure they’ll be happy to step up to the plate.” The sarcasm fairly dripped from Ernie’s mouth.
“I haven’t forgotten about them but before I go to them we need to figure out what we have. Go bag up Jimmy Stack.”
“You have any idea where I’ll find him?”
“If he isn’t in jail, then he’s probably laid out on some sidewalk. We start there.”
Ernie stood up and flipped his notepad closed. “You talked to O’Hara about this?”
“We’ve done nothing but talk. O’Hara thinks we should drop it.”
Ernie had a thoughtful expression on his face. “Maybe you should listen.”
Chapter 43
O’Hara was sitting in Jamison’s office when he returned from lunch. From the look on his face it didn’t take much for Jamison to figure out that Ernie had talked to him about bringing in Stack, as well as his speculation about his father. O’Hara’s first words confirmed that. “I thought you were going to drop this whole Harker thing? I’m telling you for your own good that you’re just putting yourself in a bad position with no upside. Even if your old man was screwing this Dolores woman, what’s it going to accomplish now to dig that up?”
“I see you’ve been talking to Ernie.”
“Hell yes, I’ve been talking to Ernie. He thinks the same thing I do. You’re going to shoot yourself in the head and nobody—and I mean nobody—is going to give a shit except me and Ernie, and maybe not even me since I told you not to do it.”
“Thanks for caring, Bill. The sensitivity means a lot. There’s something wrong here. I can smell it.”
“What you can smell is the shitstorm that’s going to come out of you messing with this case. I hope this isn’t about your father doing the hokeypokey. That happens. It’s over. Even if he was involved with Dolores Sample, where’s that going to take you? Let it go.”
“What if Harker isn’t the one who committed that murder? What if he spent twenty-six years in prison for something he didn’t do?”
“Matt, I’m not a total prick but he’s dead and you can’t give those years back. Besides, even if Foster lied and he didn’t know who did it, that doesn’t mean that Harker didn’t do it. And if you’re saying that maybe Richard Sample did it, then you still got nothin’ because he’s dead too and you aren’t going to break an alibi that’s almost thirty years old. If Gage finds out what you’re doing he’s going to bust your ass. I’m telling you please let this thing die.” O’Hara was pleading, and he didn’t do that.
“Bill, you’re right about one thing. If that alibi sticks, there’s nowhere to go. I need your help on this. I need you and Ernie to work over Jimmy Stack. I just think he’s lying. If you and Ernie can’t break him, then it’s done. Okay?”
“And you think he’s lying why?”
“Because I saw part of Harker’s lawyer’s file and there was something there that showed that his original lawyer, Alton Grady, thought there was a connection.”
“And you saw that because his daughter let you see it? Is that an issue here?”
“It isn’t an issue and yes, she let me see it. My gut says that we need to do it and I’m going to do it either with you or without you.”
O’Hara nodded with resignation. “Yeah, all right. When Ernie brings him in we’ll take him apart. But if he doesn’t give us anything I want your word this is done.” He stared at Jamison until he acknowledged that he agreed.
Ernie had checked at several charity food kitchens. The street community was its own little society with its own rules and one of its rules was that you didn’t give information to cops. It had taken a while, but he had a few street connections he occasionally used as snitches in exchange for a few bucks or a pack of cigarettes. Finally, he found one of them and got a location. It cost him a pack of Marlboros. With the price of cigarettes, information was getting more expensive.
Ernie picked his way through a homeless encampment under a freeway overpass. The smell was overpowering: too many unwashed people, too much garbage and human waste. The bathroom facilities were usually a hole and the hole was whatever shallow depression was conveniently close.
He found Stack sitting on a well-used lounge chair next to a grocery cart full of empty bottles and cans, the currency of the homeless. Stack looked up. “What do you want? I ain’t done nothin’. I only been out a week.” He laughed. “This is my vacation time. I winter at the county.”
E
rnie wasn’t smiling. “I need you to come with me.” Ernie looked over at the grocery cart, recognizing that Jimmy wouldn’t want to leave it unattended. “Get your stuff and we’ll put it in the trunk of my car until I bring you back.”
“If you’re bringin’ me back, why are you taking me? I didn’t do nothin’, and I certainly didn’t do nothin’ that the DA would care about. I’m not going anywhere.” A few of Jimmy’s neighbors had shuffled over, closing around the scene. Ernie didn’t want backup and he wasn’t in the mood for trouble.
Ernie slipped his shirt up over his paddle holster so that everyone could see that if they interfered they were making a bad choice and reached down, taking Stack by the arm. “I’ll decide what you did. Now get your shit and let’s go.”
Jamison watched through the one-way glass window in the interrogation room while Stack sat fidgeting and pulling at the handcuffs tightly encircling his wrists. Both the cuffs and the isolation of the interrogation room were intended to remind Stack that what would happen to him was under the control of men who were not in the room. It was all about breaking the will of the person being questioned. Sometimes it happened quickly and sometimes it happened slowly but it only happened when will was lost and control was gained—and the man being questioned accepted that there was only one end that he could not change.
O’Hara and Garcia waited for some direction. Jamison knew what they wanted to know—what the rules were. Jamison kept it simple. “No Miranda rights. I need information. I want you satisfied that you got everything there is to get. You know what to do.” Jamison fully realized that O’Hara might hear something different in the rules than Garcia.
The two investigators had done this many times, and they both knew one another’s tactics and personality well enough that they could play off the lead of the other one and move back and forth as the scene played out. Interrogation wasn’t like television. Nobody cracked between commercials. It could take a long time or a short time but it definitely took time. Good interrogators were part psychologist and part ruthless inquisitors. Their job was to get information and they only played as fair as they could get away with, bending the rules to the breaking point but only to the breaking point. The old days of nightstick confessions were long past.
Shades of Truth Page 28
