But I also said that, despite our differences, and even though I wouldn’t be handling the grand jury myself, I was pretty sure that the grand jury would notice that, in this particular case, the decedent was an unarmed woman whose only known offense was an attempt to drive away from a traffic stop. It would be up to the grand jurors to decide whether Hamilton should be treated like a criminal, but, if nothing else, they’d know that Delores did not deserve to die.
I don’t know which part of the babbling worked. Maybe none of it. Perhaps they just wanted me to shut up. Whatever it was, the eye-rolling, tsking, lip-pursing, and head-shaking stopped. Instead, I saw pleasant smiles, nods, even an amen from Mrs. Gooding. Finally, it seemed safe to stop talking.
When the meeting was over, Janelle invited everyone to stay for some cookies and fruit salad. I said I needed to get back to the courthouse and was on my way out when I made the mistake of looking at the cookies. Home baked. Lots of chocolate. No icky nuts to get in the way of the good stuff.
I could stay a little while, I figured, just to help the office’s image.
Before the arraignment on the Crenshaw case, I gave John Fredericks one last try at the crime lab.
“John, it’s Samantha Kincaid at the DA’s office.”
“This is really weird,” John said. “I could’ve sworn that the best darn female golfer at the DA’s office called here a few hours ago.”
It wasn’t saying much. Two years ago at a statewide golf tournament for prosecutors, I had won trophies for both the highest and lowest ladies’ scores.
“Sorry, but I’m sort of in a rush.”
“We just got the case yesterday.”
“I’m trying to decide whether to make a cooperation agreement with one of the defendants. It’s a little complicated.”
“Well, if you were thinking about doing it before, you’re really going to be thinking about it now. I finished that last test I was telling you about, and it’s just like I thought. Not a drop. I got bupkes.”
I guess that meant I needed to find Todd Corbett’s lawyer as soon as possible. Files in hand, I made the quick damp trek from the courthouse to the Justice Center. Hanks and Corbett were scheduled to be arraigned on the two o’clock docket. From the looks of things, it was safe to say they were indigent and would qualify for court-appointed counsel. Once the lawyers were assigned, I’d pounce on Corbett’s.
The arraignment deputy, Ben Bodie, was already at the prosecution’s table. Poor Ben. Rumor had it, he was smart as a whip and fearless in trial. He worked hard, but did so modestly and quietly. Not the way to get ahead in this office. So, instead of being fast-tracked into a felony trial unit, here he stood in the JC2 court. A talking monkey could handle JC2. Call the case, hand the clerk the charging instruments, read another lawyer’s log notes about the bail recommendation, and you’re done. OK, so maybe the arraignment monkey would need to read, too.
“Hey, Ben. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll handle the Hanks and Corbett matters.”
“Oh, good. Maybe you can talk to that woman in the back row over there. She was asking about Hanks. I told her I didn’t know anything.”
I turned and saw a young woman with long curly hair sitting in the back of the courtroom. She had a pierced nose and wore a heavy wool sweater, undoubtedly knitted by native peoples somewhere or another.
I introduced myself to her.
“Hey,” she said casually. “I’m Annie.”
No last name. Interesting. “I was told you were inquiring about Trevor Hanks?”
“Um, yeah. I was wondering if there was any possibility he’d get out?”
“It’s up to the judge. But, since it’s a murder case, it’s unlikely. Extremely unlikely.”
“Oh, OK.”
“May I ask what your interest is? Do you know him?” She looked like she’d hang with a different kind of crowd, but you never could tell.
“I can’t really say.”
This was getting suspicious. I told her as much, and she immediately turned on me. “Man, you people always think you know so much. No wonder people don’t trust the sytem.”
“Annie, you’re losing me. What else am I supposed to think when you show up at a court appearance, give me nothing but your first name, and start asking questions about a murder suspect?”
“OK, here’s what I can tell you. I’m a volunteer counselor with the Portland Rape Crisis Center, and as a result of my work there I wanted to know if there was any chance he could get out before trial.”
Reading between the lines, it was pretty clear I had yet another reason to dislike Trevor Hanks. “I know how serious the center is about confidentiality, but do you think the person who’s worried about Hanks would come in and talk to me?”
She shook her head, and I could see from her expression that she had tried. This was frustrating, to say the least. “Look, here’s my card. Call me if anything changes.”
She fiddled with the card between her fingers. “Is there any way you’d be willing to call me if he does go free? You know, as a sort of heads-up?”
I tried to put myself in the shoes of whoever this woman was that Annie was counseling. Hanks’s arrest had probably brought some small hope that there was justice in this world. Karma. If the certainty of his incarceration made her recovery easier, I was all for it. I wrote Annie’s name and mobile number in my file with a reminder in bold letters.
Then I waited. Twenty minutes later, sheriff’s deputies brought Hanks and Corbett out, and I took the seat next to Ben Bodie and called the two cases together. I handed the clerk a document charging the defendants jointly with aggravated murder for intentionally causing the death of Percy Crenshaw during the course of an armed robbery. The defendants documented their poverty, and the court found that they qualified for counsel.
Since codefendants have inherent conflict of interests, the judge would appoint two separate lawyers. And since those lawyers would owe a duty of loyalty only to their own client, they couldn’t both work for the same office, even if that office was the Public Defender. That meant that the judge would need to resort to a contract attorney, a private lawyer who handled indigent defense cases on a contractual basis.
Judge David Lesh perused his list of attorneys, checking to see who was in the room. “All right, let’s see here. Mr. Hanks, you’ll be represented by Lucas Braun.” When a thin lawyer with bad feathered hair rose from the front row, I recognized him as a late-twenty-something eager-beaver solo practitioner. The courts must have only recently approved him for capital cases. “And Mr. Corbett, you’ll be represented by Lisa Lopez.”
Now Lisa, I knew. She was a hardheaded brat of a public defender and the closest thing I have to a courthouse nemesis. On the rare occasion when I’ve been able to finagle a compromise from her, it’s been like pulling a mouthful of walrus teeth. I could’ve sworn that Lesh looked at me with a gleam in his eye as he filled out the forms. If only he knew how much easier my job would have been if he switched the appointments around. Compared to Lisa Lopez, dealing with Braun would have been more like plucking out a few wiggly little baby teeth.
The court appearance itself was quick. I watched Corbett and Hanks out of the corner of my eye as their lawyers tried to make them sound good. Hanks stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, his jaw set firmly. Corbett’s gaze, on the other hand, continually darted between me and Hanks. I suspected that I looked familiar to him from the other side of the interrogation room’s mirror. He was putting two and two together, and he was trying to make eye contact with the friend he’d dimed up.
Lesh ordered both defendants to be held without bail, the usual in an Agg Murder case. I entered log notes in the files, then made a point of catching up to Lisa quickly, before the deputies had a chance to cart Hanks and Corbett away. “Hey, Lisa. Can we talk about your guy for a sec?”
My comment didn’t go unnoticed by the defendants. Corbett’s expression was a mix of hopefulness and fear, like a puppy being picked u
p at the pound. Hanks just looked pissed. Given the unsuccessful spit wad involved in our first encounter, he probably realized I was playing favorites.
And Lisa—well, Lisa looked annoyed and confrontational. In other words, she looked like Lisa. “Yeah, sure. Just a minute,” she said, holding up her index finger before turning back to some notes she was scribbling on a legal pad.
While she finished up her thought, I dashed off a note of my own and handed it to one of the sheriff’s deputies who’d be walking the boys back to their holding cells on the seventh floor. His name was Jake Meltzer; he used to be assigned to courthouse security and, based on his chronic flirtation with me when I’d walk through the staff entrance, I was pretty sure he thought I was a cutie.
Jake. Keep an eye (and ear) on these guys for me? Sam. I drew a big ear next to two stick figures in jail stripes and finished off with my phone number.
With all notes completed, Lisa and I walked to the hallway outside the courtroom for our little chat.
“What’s up?” she asked with a sigh, as if this were the twelfth time she’d been interrupted within the hour. By me.
I felt myself straighten to my full five-eight. Maybe it was a blatant example of discriminatory heightism, but I took tall comfort towering over Lisa’s fireplug frame.
“Did you get a chance to read the affidavit?” I asked. I had filed a “just the facts” affidavit to justify the charges against the defendants until a grand jury issued an indictment.
“Just a quick skim,” she admitted.
“So you know Corbett confessed. I’m willing to take the death penalty off the table if he’ll testify against Hanks.” That would leave the maximum sentence as a true life sentence, without parole.
“Are you telling me Griffith has already signed off on this as a death case?”
“Not yet, but obviously it’s something we’re looking at.”
“Then we’ll talk about it down the road.”
“No. I’m offering it to him now.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked. I said nothing. “Is that all you’re taking off the table?”
“It might not mean a lot to you, but I suspect your client will see a big difference between living and dying.”
“You want me to plead my guy to true life before we’ve even talked to a judge about how your cops must have gotten this bullshit confession?” Oh, boy. She hadn’t even seen the full reports yet, and I had already triggered the Lisa Lopez Laments button. She was like one of those automated yapping toys. But instead of singing “I love you, you love me” when you touched her belly, she prattled on about the oppression of her clients and the nastiness of the police when you even hinted that she might be representing someone guilty.
On and on she went. If you believed Lisa, she was not only going to get Corbett’s confession suppressed but also Peter Anderson’s ID, the videotape of her client with a bat, and any mention of the crimes he committed on 23rd Avenue the night of the murder. I let her have a full minute before I interrupted. “I gave you an offer, Lisa. Are you taking it to Corbett or not?”
“You know I’ll take it to him. I’m required to. But I’ll tell him to walk away from it.”
So much for my plan to wrap this case up early.
Even laid up, Russ Frist had a sixth sense. My phone was ringing when I got back from the Justice Center. Sure enough, it was my stay-at-home boss.
“Russ, you need to learn how to take a sick day,” I said. “Get yourself a gallon of juice, a box of strudel, a pillow, and your remote control, and stop calling me.”
“It could have been worse,” he said. “I wanted to call you to find out how things went at the Kennedy School, but I held off until your arraignment on Crenshaw. Any news?”
“Judge Lesh appointed Lisa Lopez to represent Corbett.”
“He’s the one you wanted to flip?”
“Yep,” I confirmed.
“You’re screwed.”
“Yep,” I confirmed again. “She pretty much told me to pound sand.”
“So think about sweetening the offer.”
There’s only three possible sentences once a defendant’s convicted of aggravated murder: death, true life—which I’d already offered—and a life sentence with the possibility of parole after thirty years.
“The way I’ve always seen it, you’ve got to be willing to take a chance at trial on a close case.”
“No way, Sam. No way do you play a gamble like that. This is not a drug case. We don’t let people walk away from murders in my unit. You need a conviction, and to get a conviction, you need to convince one of those fuckers to take the stand.”
“Fine,” I conceded. “If Corbett will agree to thirty years, he can have a deal.”
“You’re on crack, Kincaid. Chances are, that’s the most you’ll get even if you go to trial and win. You’ve got two kids on meth and a robbery gone bad. Flip Corbett, then maybe—maybe—you can get Hanks for true life. But if they decide to roll the dice together, which they will if you can’t use Corbett’s confession, you’ve got a major problem.”
“Well, I can’t go back to Lisa yet. If she gets the impression I’m bidding against myself, she’ll dig in until I’m offering up probation. I’ll wait and see if she comes back with a counteroffer.”
“Who’s handling the other guy?”
“Lucas Braun.”
“That guy? He’s a total idiot.”
“I had a case against him back in DVD. He seemed OK. Ambitious.”
“Exactly,” Russ said. “He managed to get himself on the list for agg murder cases when he’s still cutting his teeth.”
“I was wondering when that happened.”
“I’m sure he barely has the minimum requirements. He’s got a couple years of felony trials and second-chaired a couple murder cases. Now he thinks he’s Gerry Spence, Junior.”
“Is he?”
“Only in the strange-coiffure department. You can’t even have a serious discussion with the guy about trial issues, because he literally won’t understand what the issues are.”
“Come on, he can’t be that bad.” Russ was one of the few people who could outcriticize me.
“Trust me, he’s so bad you’ll wind up wishing you had another Lisa Lopez to deal with.”
“Never. Never, I say.”
“We’ll see. What is with you two anyway?” It wasn’t a big secret around the courthouse that Lisa Lopez drove me nuts. Or that the feeling appeared to be mutual.
“She’s evil. Pure, unadulterated evil. And don’t you dare make kitty-cat hissing noises.” My problem with Lisa had nothing to do with gender; my many run-ins with the other half of the species were a testament to my equal-opportunity bad-mouthing. And, besides, was it my fault that the most irritating lawyer in the defense bar was a woman? I really couldn’t help it. Lisa was truly intolerable. She actually flashed a V sign at me once after winning a motion. I asked her what was wrong with her fingers.
“Whatever,” Russ said dismissively. “She doesn’t seem that bad to me. How was the thing at the Kennedy School?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Brevity is never a good sign with you, Kincaid. Were you nice to the other children?”
“Yes, Dad. No sand throwing. No gum in anyone’s hair. It really was fine. I sat. I met. I talked. I ate cookies. It was fine.”
“Stop saying fine.”
“Fine.”
I could picture him smiling on the other end of the line. “So, a box of strudel, huh?”
“Works every time,” I said. “You want me to call about a delivery?” I realized I didn’t know enough about Russ’s personal life to know if there was a strudel-delivering type of person in his picture. I guess my ignorance was one of the costs—or benefits—of staying mum at the office about my own off-the-clock time.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’ll stop by the store on the way home from the doctor.”
“Don’t forget the OJ. And don’t scrimp. Get th
e real stuff.”
“Got it. Watch the shop for me?”
“No, that’s why we’ve got Alice.”
I noticed my message light when I hung up. It was the sheriff’s deputy I’d recruited as an eavesdropper. “It’s Jake Meltzer from the Sheriff’s Office. Hey, I think you missed your calling; I liked your little doodle. Anyway, I got a report for you if you want to page me.” I wrote down the numbers he left me.
A few minutes later, Jake answered the page.
“So, are they best buddies again yet?”
“Yeah, right. I thought the mean one was going to jump the dumb one in the transport.” I didn’t even need to ask: Hanks looks mean; Corbett looks dumb. “I can’t remember it all word for word, but the gist of it’s that the mean one’s pissed as hell. I take it the dumb one confessed?”
“Yeah. Gave up the other one too.”
“I figured as much. Anyway, Mean One tells Dumb One something like ‘Why didn’t you tell them what really happened?’ and ‘Why the f did you open your mouth at all?’ Then he said, ‘Watch your back, mf,’—but, you know, he actually said the cussing parts. That’s about it. I wanted to keep them going to see if they’d say something more, but, like I said, it was getting a little intense.”
It was typical. Hanks was pissed, not only that Corbett ratted on him but that he’d undoubtedly managed to understate his own participation along the way. “Did the Dumb One say anything back?”
“Nope. In fact, he kept shushing the other one. He was, like, ‘Didn’t you hear the lawyers, man? Don’t talk to anyone but them, not even each other.’”
I logged an entry into the attorney’s notes portion of my file. Maybe the Dumb One wasn’t so dumb after all.
9
At five o’clock, Heidi Hatmaker sat in her cubicle, mesmerized by the Portland Police Bureau press release in her hands. These two kids in orange jumpsuits didn’t look much older—or meaner, really—than her little brother. The single-page statement offered little: the arrest of two people for a murder. It was no different from the routine press releases that circulated through the office every day.
Close Case Page 12
