Judgment Calls

by Alafair Burke

  He spoke first. “Kendra, if you’re not sure, why don’t we come back in the morning when it’s light out and you’ve had the chance to sleep on things.” We both looked at her, hoping the message might translate.

  But thirteen-year-old ears are deaf to subtlety. “I don’t need to come back. This is the car. It’s just not the right color.”

  It was my turn to try. “So, are you saying that this is a similar kind of car to the one they had, but that the one they were driving was a different color?”

  “No. I mean, this is the car they had. Someone must have painted it.”

  Struggling to hide my frustration, I said, “Kendra, a lot of cars look like this one. You’re too young to remember, but when Chuck and I were your age, almost every car made in America looked just like this. Sad, isn’t it?” She wasn’t laughing. “Maybe it’s better if we take Chuck’s advice and come back and look at it when it’s light out before you make up your mind for sure.”

  “I don’t want to come back tomorrow. What if it’s gone? I don’t need to see it again anyway. I’m sure this is the one. I couldn’t remember it enough to, like, describe it out loud at the hospital, but now that I see it, I recognize everything about it. See, it’s got a ding in the door over here where the driver sits. And the front hubcap is different than the back hubcap. Then I ran over here to look at it better. When I looked inside, I remembered it too. The dash is all freaky, like a spaceship. I don’t know how to say it. It’s just the same. But it looks like they did stuff to it. It’s like way cleaner inside and it’s a different color.”

  It was possible. The car was, after all, parked outside of Derringer’s building, and people have been known to paint their cars.

  Chuck was busy taking a closer look at the Buick. “She might be on to something, Kincaid. For such a piece of … um, junk, this baby’s paint’s looking real good. So’s the interior.”

  It made sense. We knew already that Derringer was willing to go the extra mile to hide physical evidence. If he’d shave his body to avoid leaving hair samples, he might rework his car to dispose of any incriminating evidence.

  “I don’t think we can get a warrant with what we’ve got. Kendra says it’s the same car, but the fact that it’s a different color’s going to kill us. Is there some way to tell for sure if the paint is new?”

  “Sure. I’ll just chip a little bit off.” He reached in his pocket for his keys.

  “No! Stop. Don’t touch the car.”

  Chuck held his hands up by his face. “I wasn’t going to open it or anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter that you weren’t going to open it. Looking beneath the paint still constitutes a search. If you chip that paint off, whatever you see underneath will be inadmissible. And if we get a warrant based on what you see, anything we find as a result of the warrant will also be thrown out. Is there some way to tell if the paint’s new without touching the car?”

  “Depends how good a job they did. If it was a quickie, they might not have gotten beneath the bumper and the lights. The cheap way to do it is to tape those areas off and paint around them. If he got it done after Saturday night, I doubt they did a thorough job. Problem is, I can’t tell anything in this light.”

  “I’ve got a flashlight in my trunk. I’ll go get it.”

  When I got back, Kendra said, “How come he can use a flashlight but can’t chip some of the paint off?”

  “He’s allowed to look at anything in open view. Flashlights are fine. Some courts even let you use stuff like night vision goggles without getting a warrant.”

  “Hey, I’ve got something here.”

  Chuck waved us over. He was crouched down by the back bumper, supporting his weight with one hand and aiming the light with the other.

  “It looks like this light tan stops right here at the edge of the bumper.” He was talking slowly, the way people always seem to do when they’re squinting. “Hard to tell exactly what color’s behind there. Dark brown, maybe. But it’s definitely a lot darker than the new stuff. Look over at the edge over here. It looks like they were kind of sloppy taping the bumper here. There’s a thin line of paint on the metal right at the lip there. Can you see it?”

  “Barely, but it’s enough. So the paint job must’ve been done recently.”

  “Definitely. Even if no one ever washes the thing, normal wear and tear from the weather would at least break down that line a little bit. That’s real new paint, with a clear edge left from the tape.”

  That was enough for me. “Alright, we need to run the plates and make sure it doesn’t belong to some priest down the street. Assuming we don’t get something on the plate that changes our minds, let’s order a tow and get paper on it.” The law permits police to tow a vehicle and secure it while they apply for a search warrant. I asked Chuck, “What’s the best way to do this?”

  “I don’t have my phone with me. It’s back in my car.”

  He was looking at me like I could change that. I’d proudly avoided buying a cell phone for years. “You know I don’t have one of those things.”

  “Let’s drive up the street to the gas station, and I’ll call Southeast Precinct to have a patrol officer come out and sit with the car until a tow comes. What’ll work best is if you drop me off at the Justice Center. I’ll start the warrant application while you drive Kendra home, then you can swing back by Central to review the warrant. Up to you whether you want to stick around for the search.”

  * * *

  It must’ve been a slow night for crime. It only took a few minutes for a patrol officer to meet us at Derringer’s. Kendra and I dropped Chuck off at the Justice Center, where Central Precinct is located. Then I hopped onto I-84 and headed back out to Rockwood.

  I walked Kendra to the front door, then remembered Chuck’s contraption. We went around back, and I pushed on the back door hard enough to pull off the tape, holding the knob tightly so the door wouldn’t swing open. Reaching my hand in at the bottom of the crack, I pulled out the glass of water. It was still full.

  “Are you going to be OK here by yourself, Kendra?”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. I’m used to it since Mom started working nights.”

  “What time does she normally get home?”

  “A little bit after eleven.”

  I looked at my watch. Kendra would only be alone for about an hour.

  “OK. Make sure you tell her that’s Chuck’s car out front. He’ll probably have a patrol car drop him off so he can pick it up, so don’t get scared if you hear him leaving in the middle of the night.”

  “Alright.”

  “It was really nice meeting you, Kendra. You’re a very strong girl to be doing so well after what happened to you. I want you to know that all of the police and I are extremely impressed and very proud of you.”

  She was smiling with her lips together, which I suspected was as close to beaming as Kendra got. “Thanks.”

  “One of the MCT detectives will come by Friday morning and pick you up for grand jury, but I want you to know you can call me before that if you want.” I wrote my direct line on the back of one of my business cards for her and then waited at the back door until I heard her lock it.

  Once I saw lights coming on inside the house, I pulled out of the driveway. My car was racking up more miles tonight than it usually saw in a month. I got back onto I-84 and drove into downtown. Cones of red and green rippled on the Willamette, reflecting the lights of the Hawthorne Bridge. I grabbed a parking spot on the street across from the Justice Center and took the elevator to the MCT offices on the fifth floor.

  Chuck was sitting at his desk, his attention focused on his computer screen. He didn’t hear me, and I paused a moment to take a good look at him. I suddenly realized that for years I hadn’t been seeing him clearly. In my mind, he still looked like he had in 1978; he had simply exchanged his football uniform for a badge and a shoulder holster. But the twenty extra pounds of bulk he’d carried as a kid were gone. His face was thinner,
and lines had begun to mark his forehead and the corners of his eyes, just as they had mine.

  Working as a cop wasn’t this year’s sport. Whether he entered law enforcement initially for the thrill, to rebel against his family, or out of sincere dedication, he was in it now for real. With his father’s contacts, he could have taken any career path he wanted in this city. But here he sat fifteen hours into his workday, at a metal and corkboard cubicle, in front of an outdated monitor, waiting for his first lover to review his warrant so he could prove that a dirtbag like Frank Derringer had brutalized a thirteen-year-old heroin addict and prostitute in a Buick built while we were still making out under the Grant High School bleachers.

  For the first time, I was seeing Chuck Forbes as a man, not as an icon of a glorious time in my life that was over. I felt tears in my eyes, blindsided by the sad realization that Chuck and I were no longer kids and by the profound honor I felt upon finding myself walking a common path with him as adults.

  I hate that I get so sappy when I’m tired.

  I must have made a noise, because Chuck stopped reading and looked over his shoulder. Swinging his chair around, he said, “Hey, you, what’s the matter? Did something happen when you were with Kendra?”

  I swallowed and got ahold of myself. “No, everything’s fine. Just zoning out.”

  “Good job with her tonight,” he said. “It was nice to see you act like yourself with someone on the job. Seemed to work, too.”

  “How’s the warrant coming?”

  I’d ignored his comment, and he had the good sense to pretend not to notice. “Good. I’m done and just went over it again. If it’s alright with you, I incorporated by reference all the affidavits from the warrant for Derringer’s place, then I drafted a quick affidavit containing all the new info we got tonight.”

  “That should be fine. Does the warrant authorize removal of the seats and carpet if that’s what the crime lab needs to do to look for blood?”

  “Yeah, it’s got the works. The car will be in pieces by the time the lab’s done with it.”

  “What did you find out about the registration?”

  “Plate comes back to a guy named”—he grabbed a computer printout from his desktop—“Carl Sommers. Last time it was registered with DMV was a couple of years ago. The tags expire next month. Anyway, Sommers filed a statement of sale with DMV about seven months ago saying he sold the car to a guy named Jimmy Huber.”

  “What’s a statement of sale?”

  “It’s just a piece of paper from the registered owner saying he doesn’t own the car anymore. It’s a CYA thing in case the buyer doesn’t re-register the car. Anyway, Sommers’s sheet is clean, and it looks like this Huber guy never did register the car.”

  “What do we know about Huber?”

  “Hold your horses, now. I’m getting there. I ran Huber in PPDS. He looks like a shit. Couple of drug pops and a bunch of shoplifting arrests and domestic beefs. He just checked into Inverness in December to do a six-month stint for kicking his girlfriend in the head in front of their baby.”

  “Nice guy. What’s his car doing on Milwaukee?” The Portland Police Data System is a fountain of data derived from police reports.

  “That’s the good part. Looks like he knows Derringer’s brother, Derrick. PPDS shows Derrick and Huber together as custody associates on a dis con last summer at the Rose Festival.”

  Your average drunken delinquent has at least a few downtown arrests for disorderly conduct. For a certain type of man, the party hasn’t begun until you’re screaming and puking your guts out in an overnight holding cell.

  As I looked over the PPDS printouts for Huber and Derrick Derringer, something was bothering me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I started thinking out loud. “So, Huber knows Derringer through his brother and sold him the car. But Derringer was still in prison when Huber got hauled off to Inverness.”

  “Right, but he could’ve given the car to the brother, who then gives it to Frank when he gets out. The exact mechanics don’t really matter. The point is we can tie the car to Derringer through his brother.”

  He was right. In my exhaustion, I was losing sight of the big picture and, as usual, convincing myself that I was missing something. “No, you’re right. It’s good. You put that in your affidavit?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m done with it. You want to read it and get out of here? You look tired.”

  “I am. I don’t know how you guys pull these crazy shifts. I’m about to fall over.”

  “It’s all about the adrenaline, baby.” Chuck does a mean Austin Powers. “You want me to rub your shoulders while you read?”

  Grace’s masseuse says I have a bad habit of storing stress in my shoulders. Funny, I think I store it in my ass along with all the food I pack down when I’m freaking out. But I do get big knots in my deltoids after a long day, and Chuck’s back rubs were heavenly. Turning one down was painful. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re at work and everything.”

  “Your call. If it makes you feel any better, the bureau has a woman come in once a month to do chair massages. It’s just a relaxation thing, not foreplay.”

  “I know. Thanks anyway.”

  I finished reviewing the warrant. It was a quick read, since we were reusing the affidavits MCT wrote to get the warrant to search Derringer’s house. The only new material was the information Chuck had added about the car.

  “Looks good,” I said, as I signed off on the DA review line of the warrant. “Who’s on the call-out list tonight?” The judges rotate being on call to sign late-night warrants and put out any fires that might arise.

  “Lesh and Hitchcock.”

  Lawrence Hitchcock was a lazy old judge who smoked cigars in his chambers and pressured defendants to plead out so he could listen to Rush Limbaugh at eleven and then close up shop early to play golf. I’d rather swallow a bag full of tacks and wash them down with rubbing alcohol than risk waking up Hitchcock at eleven at night.

  David Lesh was the clear preference. He’d been a prosecutor for a few years after law school, then jumped ship to the City Attorney’s office to work as legal advisor for the police department. He was a couple of years older than I was and had been an easy pick for the governor to put on the bench a few years back. He had a good mix of civil and criminal experience and was known throughout the county bar for being as straight-up and honorable as they come. Best of all, he hadn’t changed a bit since he took the bench. He still worked like a fiend and went out for beers with the courthouse crowd every Friday. Lawyers missed talking to him about their cases, but we were better off having him as a judge.

  “Call Lesh,” I advised Chuck.

  “No kidding. I had that lazy fuck Hitchcock on the Taylor case, remember?”

  I always forget that cops know as much about the lives of judges as the trial lawyers do. I suspected they gossiped about the DAs as well. In this specific instance, Chuck had good reason to know about Hitchcock. He’d presided over the very complicated trial of Jesse Taylor, a case that had landed Forbes on the MCT. Taylor’s sixty-five-year-old girlfriend, Margaret Landry, confessed to Forbes that she and Taylor had killed a girl.

  When I started at the DA’s office, Landry was the big talk around the courthouse. The local news covered the case’s every development. Most stories started with the phrase, “A Portland grandmother and her lover.…” Headlines spoke of MURDEROUS MARGARET. If you asked them, most people who followed the case would tell you they were fascinated that a sixty-five-year-old grandmother and hospital volunteer eventually confessed to helping her thirty-five-year-old alcoholic boyfriend rape and then strangle a seventeen-year-old borderline-intelligence girl named Jamie Zimmerman.

  Forbes had stumbled into the case fortuitously. Landry initially told Jesse Taylor’s probation officer that she read about Jamie Zimmerman’s disappearance in the Oregonian and suspected her boyfriend’s involvement. At the time, Chuck was working a specialty rotation, helping the Department o
f Community Corrections track people on parole and probation. If not for the cooperation agreement between the bureau and DOCC, Taylor’s PO might never have told the police about Landry’s suspicions, because Landry used to call him at least weekly to try to get Taylor revoked. Her claims were always either fabricated or exaggerated.

  Despite his hunch that Landry was at it again, the PO mentioned the tip to Chuck because this was the first time Landry had accused Taylor of something so serious as a murder. Chuck and the PO had followed up with several visits, and each time Landry changed her version of the events leading up to her accusation. The two men kept returning in an attempt to get her to admit that she was lying. But then she threw them for a loop: The reason she was sure Taylor had killed Zimmerman, she said, was that she helped him do it.

  The continuing amendments to Landry’s story after she was arrested only served to whet the public’s appetite. She subsequently retracted her confession and accused Forbes of coercing the statements from her. But after she was convicted by a jury, Landry confessed again and agreed to testify against Taylor to avoid the death penalty. When Taylor was convicted and sentenced to die in one of Oregon’s first death penalty cases, she once again recanted.

  By then, however, common sense had prevailed, the hype died down, and people realized that Margaret Landry’s confession spoke for itself. The grandmother who looked like Marie Callender was as deviant and sadistic as any man who comes to mind as the embodiment of evil. Last I heard, both Taylor and Landry were maintaining their innocence, and Taylor still had appeals pending.

  At the time, the public interest in the Jamie Zimmerman murder was chalked up to tabloid curiosity. I didn’t see it that way; in my opinion, people were riveted because Margaret Landry scared them. When they saw her interviewed, they saw their aunt, the woman down the block, or the volunteer going door-to-door for the Red Cross. If she could abduct, rape, and murder a young woman, then locking our doors, moving to the suburbs, and teaching our children to avoid strange men would never be enough to protect us.