“Yes, Tannenbaum,” Darius said, looking at her with an amused smile. “Why are you wasting your time on an explanation of the penalty phase? I did not kidnap, torture or kill these women. I expect you to explain that to our jury.”
“What about Hunter’s Point?” Betsy asked. “That’s going to play a huge part in your trial.”
“A man named Henry Waters was the killer. He was shot trying to escape arrest. They found the body of one of his victims disemboweled in his basement. Everyone knew Waters was guilty and the case was closed.”
“Then why is Page convinced you killed the Hunter’s Point women?”
“I have no idea. I was a victim, for God’s sake. I told you. Waters killed Sandy and Melody. I was part of the task force that investigated the killings.”
“How did that happen?” Betsy asked, surprised.
“I volunteered. I was an excellent lawyer and I did a lot of criminal defense when I started out. I felt I could provide a unique insight into the criminal mind. The mayor agreed.”
“Why didn’t you set up a law practice in Oregon?”
Darius stopped smiling. “Why is that important?”
“It looks like you’re trying to hide. So does dyeing your hair black.”
“My wife and child were murdered, Tannenbaum. I found their bodies. Those deaths were part of my old life. When I moved here, it was my chance to start over. I didn’t want to see my old face in the mirror, because I would remember how Sandy and Melody looked beside me in old photographs. I didn’t want to work at the same job, because there were too many associations between that job and my old life.”
Darius leaned forward. He rested his elbows on the table and supported his head on his lean fingers, massaging his forehead, as if he was trying to wipe away painful memories.
“I’m sorry if that sounds crazy, but I was a little crazy for a while. I’d been so happy. Then that maniac …”
Darius closed his eyes. Stewart studied him carefully. Betsy was right. Either the guy was a great actor or he was innocent.
“We’ll need the old files from Hunter’s Point,” Betsy told Stewart. “You’ll probably have to go back there to talk to the detectives who worked the case. Page’s theory falls apart if Martin didn’t kill the Hunter’s Point women.”
Stewart nodded, then he leaned toward Darius.
“Who are your enemies, Mr. Darius? Who hates you enough to frame you for these murders?”
Darius shrugged. “I’ve made lots of enemies. There are those fools who are tying up the project where the bodies were found.”
“Mr. Darius,” Stewart said patiently, “with all due respect, you’re not seriously suggesting a group dedicated to preserving historic buildings is responsible for framing you, are you?”
“They torched three of my condos.”
“You don’t see a difference between setting fire to an inanimate object and torturing three women to death? We’re looking for a monster here, Mr. Darius. Who do you know who has no conscience, no compassion, who thinks people are no more valuable than bugs and hates your guts?”
Betsy did not expect Darius to put up with Stewart’s insolence, but he surprised her. Instead of getting mad, he leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing in frustration as he tried to think of an answer to Stewart’s question.
“What I say doesn’t leave here, right?”
“Reggie is our agent. The attorney-client privilege applies to anything you tell him.”
“Okay. One name comes to mind. There’s a project in Southern Oregon I couldn’t fund. The banks didn’t trust my judgment. So I went to Manuel Ochoa. He’s a man who doesn’t do much but has lots of money. I never asked where it came from, but I’ve heard rumors.”
“Are we talking Colombians, Mr. Darius? Cocaine, tar heroin?” Reggie asked.
“I don’t know and I didn’t want to. I asked for the money, he gave me the money. There were terms I agreed to that I’ll have trouble meeting if I stay in jail. If Darius Construction defaults, Ochoa will make a lot of money.”
“And druggies would snuff a woman or two without thinking twice,” Stewart added.
“Does Ochoa know about Hunter’s Point?” Betsy asked suddenly. “We’re not just looking for a psychopath. We’re looking for a psychopath with intimate knowledge of your secret past.”
“Good point,” Stewart said. “Who knew about Hunter’s Point besides you?”
Darius suddenly looked ill. He rested his elbows on the table again and let his head fall heavily into his open palms.
“That’s the question I’ve been asking myself, Tannenbaum, ever since I realized I was being framed. But it’s a question I can’t answer. I’ve never told anyone in Portland about Hunter’s Point. Never. But the person who’s framing me knows all about it, and I just don’t know how that’s possible.”
——
“Coffee, black,” Betsy told her secretary as she flew through the front door, “and get me a turkey, bacon and swiss from the Heathman Pub.”
Betsy tossed her attaché case on her desk and took a brief look at the mail and messages Ann had stacked in the center of the blotter. Betsy tossed the junk mail in the wastebasket, placed the important letters in her in-box and decided that none of the callers needed to be phoned immediately.
“The sandwich will be ready in fifteen minutes,” Ann said as she put a cup of coffee on Betsy’s desk.
“Great.”
“How did the arraignment go?”
“A zoo. The courthouse was swarming with reporters. It was worse than ‘Hammermill.’ ”
Ann left. Betsy sipped some coffee, then punched out the phone number of Dr. Raymond Keene, a former state medical examiner who was now in private practice. When a defense attorney needed someone to check the m.e.’s results, they went to Dr. Keene.
“What ya got for me, Betsy?”
“Hi, Ray. I’ve got the Darius case.”
“No kidding.”
“No kidding. Three women and one man. All brutally tortured. I want to know everything about how they died and what was done to them before they died.”
“Who did the autopsies?”
“Susan Gregg.”
“She’s competent. Is there some special reason you want her findings checked?”
“It’s not so much her findings. The d.a. thinks Darius did this before, ten years ago, in Hunter’s Point, New York. Six women were murdered there, as far as I can tell. There was a suspect in that case who was killed resisting arrest. Page doesn’t believe the suspect was the murderer. When we get the Hunter’s Point autopsy reports, I want you to compare the cases to see if there is a similar m.o.”
“Sounds interesting. Did Page clear it?”
“I asked him after the arraignment.”
“I’ll call Sue and see if I can get over to the morgue this afternoon.”
“The quicker the better.”
“You want me to perform another autopsy or just review her report?”
“Do everything you can think of. At this point, I have no idea what might be important.”
“What lab tests has Sue done?”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably not as many as she should. I’ll check it out. The budget pressures don’t encourage a lot of lab work.”
“We don’t have to worry about a budget. Darius will go top dollar.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I’ll call as soon as I have something to tell you. Give ’em hell.”
“I will, Ray.”
Betsy hung up the phone.
“Are you ready for lunch?” Nora Sloane asked hesitantly from the office doorway. Betsy looked up, startled.
“Your receptionist wasn’t in. I waited for a few minutes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Nora. We did have a lunch date, didn’t we?”
“For noon.”
“I apologize. I forgot all about it. I just picked up a new case that’s taking all my time.”
“Martin
Darius. I know. It’s the headline in the Oregonian.”
“I’m afraid today isn’t good for lunch. I’m really swamped. Can we do it another day?”
“No problem. In fact, I was sure you’d want to cancel. I was going to call, but … Betsy,” Sloane said excitedly, “could I tag along on this case, sit in on conferences, talk to your investigator? It’s a fantastic opportunity to see how you work on a high profile case.”
“I don’t know …”
“I wouldn’t say anything, of course. I’d keep your confidences. I only want to be a fly on the wall.”
Sloane seemed so excited, Betsy did not want to turn her down, but a leak about defense strategy could be devastating. The front door opened and Ann appeared in the doorway carrying a brown paper bag. Sloane looked over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Ann said, backing away. Betsy motioned her to stop.
“I’ll talk to Darius,” Betsy said. “He’ll have to give his okay. Then I’ll think about it. I won’t do anything that could endanger a client’s case.”
“I understand perfectly,” Sloane said. “I’ll call in a few days to see what you decide.”
“Sorry about lunch.”
“Oh, no. That’s okay. And thank you.”
There was a van with a CBS logo and another from ABC in Betsy’s driveway when she pulled in.
“Who are they, Mom?” Kathy asked, as two beautifully dressed blondes with perfect features approached the car. The women held microphones and were followed by muscular men armed with portable television cameras.
“Monica Blake, CBS, Mrs. Tannenbaum,” the shorter woman said as Betsy pushed open the door. Blake stepped back awkwardly and the other woman took advantage of the break.
“How do you explain a woman who is known for her strong feminist views defending a man who is alleged to have kidnapped, raped, tortured and killed three women?”
Betsy flushed. She turned abruptly and glared at the reporter from ABC, ignoring the microphone thrust in her face.
“First, I don’t have to explain anything. The State does. Second, I’m an attorney. One of the things I do is defend people—male or female—who have been accused of a crime. Sometimes these people are unjustly accused, because the State makes a mistake. Martin Darius is innocent and I am proud to be representing him against these false accusations.”
“What if they’re not false?” asked the CBS reporter. “How can you sleep nights, knowing what he did to these women?”
“I suggest you read the Constitution, Ms. Blake. Mr. Darius is presumed innocent. Now, I have dinner to make and a little girl to take care of. I won’t answer any questions at my house. I consider this an invasion of my privacy. If you want to talk to me, call my office for an appointment. Please don’t come to my house again.”
Betsy walked around the car and opened Kathy’s door. She jumped out, looking over her shoulder at the cameras as Betsy dragged her toward the house. The two reporters continued to shout questions at her back.
“Are we gonna be on TV?” Kathy asked, as Betsy slammed the door.
CHAPTER 11
One
Alan Page was trapped in a car, careening downhill through traffic at breakneck speed on a winding turnpike, brakes screeching, tires smoking, twisting the wheel furiously to avoid an inevitable collision. When he sat up in bed, he was inches from the burning headlights of a massive semi. Sweat glued his flannel pajamas to his damp skin and he could feel the thunderous pounding of his heart. Page gulped down lungfuls of air, still uncertain where he was and half-expecting to die in a fireball of lacerated steel and shattered glass.
“Jesus,” he gasped when he was oriented. The clock read four fifty-eight, an hour and a half before the alarm would go off, four and a half hours before the bail hearing. He fell back onto his pillow, anxious and sure sleep was impossible, haunted by the question that had hounded him since the arrest of Martin Darius. Had he moved too soon? Was there “clear and convincing” evidence that Martin Darius was a murderer?
Ross Barrow and Randy Highsmith had argued against searching Darius’s house, even after hearing what Gutierrez had to say. They wanted to wait until Nancy Gordon was found and they had a stronger case, but he had overridden them and instructed Barrow to make an arrest if the tire tracks at the scene matched the treads on Darius’s car. Now, he wondered if Barrow and Highsmith hadn’t been right all along. He had counted on finding Nancy Gordon for the bail hearing, but even with three detectives working around the clock, they were striking out.
If he could not sleep, he could rest. Page closed his eyes and saw Nancy Gordon. He had thought of the detective constantly since learning that her body was not in the pit. If she was alive, she would have gotten in touch with him as soon as she learned of Darius’s arrest. If she was alive, she would have returned to the Lakeview. Was she dead, a look of unimaginable suffering on her face? Darius knew the answer to Page’s questions, but the law forbade Alan to talk to him.
Page would need all of his energy in court, but the fear in his belly would not let him rest. He decided he would shower, shave, eat breakfast, then dress in his best suit and a crisp, starched shirt, fresh from the laundry. A shower and a big breakfast would make him feel human. Then he would drive to the courthouse and try to convince the Honorable Patrick Norwood, judge of the Multnomah County Circuit Court, that Martin Darius was a serial killer.
Two
Martin Darius slept peacefully and felt well rested when he awoke with the other inmates of the Multnomah County Jail. Betsy Tannenbaum had arranged to have his hair cut by his barber, and the watch commander was permitting him an extra shower before court. Only a breakfast of sticky pancakes soaked in gluey, jailhouse syrup spoiled his mood. Darius used the acidic taste of the jail coffee to cut the sweetness and ate them anyway, because he knew it would be a long day in court.
Betsy had exchanged a full wardrobe for the clothes in which Darius was arrested. When Darius met her in the interview room before court, he was attired in a double-breasted, chalk-striped, dark wool suit, a cotton broadcloth shirt and a navy blue, woven silk tie with white pinpoint dots. Betsy wore a single-breasted jacket and matching skirt of black and white, windowpane plaid and a white silk blouse with a wide collar. When they walked down the courthouse corridor in the glare of the television lights, they would look like a couple you might see on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” rather than a suspected mass murderer and his mouthpiece.
“How are you feeling?” Darius asked.
“Fine.”
“Good. I want you at your best today. Jail is interesting, if you treat it as an educational experience, but I’m ready to graduate.”
“I’m glad to see you’re keeping your sense of humor.”
Darius shrugged. “I have faith in you, Tannenbaum. That’s why I hired you. You’re the best. You won’t let me down.”
The praise made Betsy feel good. She basked in it and believed what Darius told her. She was the best. That was why Darius chose her over Matthew Reynolds, Oscar Montoya and the other established criminal defense lawyers.
“Who’s our judge?” Darius asked.
“Pat Norwood.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a crusty old codger who’s nearing retirement. He looks like a troll and acts like an ogre in court. He’s no legal scholar, either. But he is completely impartial. Norwood’s rude and impatient with the prosecution and the defense and he won’t be buffaloed by Alan Page or the press. If Page doesn’t meet his burden of proof on the bail issue, Norwood will do the right thing.”
“Do you think the State will meet its burden?” Darius asked.
“No, Martin, I don’t think they will.”
Darius smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” Then the smile faded as he changed the subject. “Is Lisa going to be in court?”
“Of course. I talked to her yesterday.”
“Looks like you’re having more luck getting in touch with my wife than
I am.”
“Lisa’s staying with her father. She didn’t feel comfortable alone in the house.”
“That’s funny,” Darius said, flashing Betsy a chilly smile. “I called His Honor last night and he told me she wasn’t home.”
“She may have been out.”
“Right. The next time you talk to my wife, please ask her to visit me, will you?”
“Sure. Oh, before I forget, there’s a woman named Nora Sloane who’s writing an article about women defense attorneys. She wants to follow me through your case. If I let her, there’s a chance she might learn defense strategy or attorney-client confidences. I told her I had to ask your permission before I let her get involved. Do you have any objections to her tagging along?”
Darius considered the question for a moment, then shook his head.
“I don’t mind. Besides”—he grinned—“you’ll have more incentive to do a great job for me if someone is writing about you.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“That’s why I’m a millionaire, Tannenbaum. I always figure the angles.”
Three
There were several new courtrooms outfitted with state-of-the-art video equipment and computer technology that Patrick L. Norwood could have commandeered because of his senior status, but Judge Norwood preferred the courtroom where he had ruled with an iron fist for twenty years. It had high ceilings, grand marble columns and a hand-carved wooden dais. It was an old-fashioned courtroom, perfect for a man with the judicial temperament of a nineteenth-century hanging judge.
The courtroom was filled to capacity for the Martin Darius bail hearing. Those who were too late to find a seat stood in line in the hall. Spectators had to pass through a metal detector before entering the courtroom and there were extra security guards inside, because of death threats.
Harvey Cobb, an elderly black man, called the court to order. He had been Norwood’s bailiff from the day the judge was appointed. Norwood came out of his chambers through a door behind the bench. Short and squat, he was ugly as sin, but his toadlike face was crowned by a full head of beautiful snowy white hair.
Gone, But Not Forgotten Page 14
