Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

judicial duties, that was enough.

  I passed Frist in the hallway as I was walking to the printer to pick

  up the complaint.

  "We need to talk about that cluster fuck of a press conference last

  night on the Easterbrook case. The guy was nice enough to confine his

  bitching to the bureau, but Griffith's still gonna want a briefing."

  "I think we're OK from that end. The husband's attorneys turned over

  some information last night, and the police arrested Melvin Jackson a

  few hours ago." I left out the part about one of the attorneys being

  my ex-husband. Although people in the office knew I was divorced, only

  a handful of them knew who the ex was. One of the advantages of

  keeping your own name. "When I left MCT last night, the husband's

  people were playing nice. I think the press conference was a wake-up

  call."

  "Looks like it worked. Jackson's the disgruntled tenant?"

  I nodded.

  "What did they find on him?"

  I told him about Dunn Simon's list of nonunion labor at the office park

  and the evidence the police found when they executed the search

  warrant. "I was just doing the complaint. Do you want to see the file

  before arraignment?"

  "You know you should have called me, Kincaid."

  "I thought you told me to run with it until we got to proceedings."

  He looked at me skeptically.

  "There's nothing to worry about, Russ. Everything's under control."

  In light of how things had come together, he couldn't argue with that.

  "All right, let me see the complaint." He took a quick look. "Good

  call. If you add in a rape charge, it might cloud the motive. Most

  newbies would've thrown in every theory they could think of."

  "You only need one when it's good," I said. "I'm going to head over at

  two for the arraignment. I assume you don't need to come with me."

  "The DA at the Justice Center can handle it, Kincaid."

  "Nope. It's my first arraignment on an agg murder. I'm doing it

  myself."

  "Are the screens done?"

  "They will be soon."

  "All right. Don't forget to call Duncan."

  I didn't need to. When I got back to my office, I had a voice mail

  from Duncan's secretary asking me to come down to his office.

  Terrific.

  He had seen the press conference. Even worse, he had gotten a phone

  call from Dennis Coakley. Dennis must have slept on it and woken up

  even angrier.

  I tried to calm him down by telling him about the Jackson arrest, but

  the distraction proved temporary.

  "What exactly did we talk about in here yesterday?" he demanded.

  "Duncan, I know you're upset, but please don't talk to me like I'm in

  kindergarten."

  "When you act like a child, Samantha, you get treated like a child."

  I couldn't help it. I exhaled in a way that might have sounded like a

  scoff. "I can't believe you actually just said that. Does anyone

  really say that?"

  "Watch it, Sam. You're a good attorney, but I won't have my people

  talk to me that way."

  Threatening to fire me was the typical trump card around here, but now

  I had one of my own. "Or what, Duncan? You're going to fire the woman

  who almost got killed last month on the job because she ruffled some

  feathers trying to find the madman who's snatching women off the

  street?"

  "Don't even think about playing that game with me. Next thing you

  know, you'll be the talented young attorney who was never the same

  after that shooting."

  The entire time I'd worked here, I'd always caved when it came down to

  the last shove. If I was going to stick around, it was time to set

  some boundaries. I couldn't spend the rest of my career being lectured

  on a daily basis.

  "I guess what it comes down to is how bad you want me to apologize. I

  refuse to suck up to Dennis Coakley."

  "You are so off base. This is not about Coakley, it's about your

  respect for me and the authority of this office. I asked Dennis what

  time you hauled him over for the pissing match. You went straight from

  here to Lesh's. You didn't listen to me at all yesterday."

  "You're forgetting the part where I went off on my detective about the

  polygraph request and then called you to make sure everything was

  fine."

  "See, only you could turn that phone call into something that helps you

  here. You didn't mention anything about Coakley, did you? It's always

  bits and pieces of information from you, Sam, and it's getting old."

  "OK, so maybe I could have mentioned it to you then while we were

  talking," I conceded, "but I won't apologize for what I did to get

  those files. It was important, and Coakley was being an ass."

  "Well, at least you recognize that it wasn't exactly masterfully

  executed internally." We were finding just enough common ground for

  our egos to cling to as we brought the conversation down to a calmer

  level. "I don't know, Sam, maybe I put you into this a little too

  quickly. I called Lesh. He did his best to cover for you, but I could

  tell he was worried about you too. And we haven't even talked about

  this press conference. Wasn't that your ex-husband?"

  I nodded. Duncan's memory ran deep.

  "I think I should pull you off," he said. "Maybe out of MCU entirely,

  but definitely off this case."

  "I can't believe I'm saying this, Duncan, but if you do either of those

  things, I won't want to work here anymore. And I won't go quietly."

  Whether it was because he valued my work or feared what I could do to

  him in the media, the threat actually worked.

  "Then here's the deal. This is the last time we have one of these

  talks. You start thinking about the ramifications of what you do, or

  you're going to have to go your own way."

  "Deal," I said, with a salute. It was as much as either of us could

  hope for right now, but at least we were talking instead of yelling.

  "Christ, your ex-husband? There's stubborn, Sam, and then there's just

  plain masochistic."

  "Think of it this way. I guarantee you: No way does Roger Kirkpatrick

  call you to complain about this case. It would take all the fun out of

  torturing me."

  "I'll take some comfort in that, then. All right, if you're staying on

  this thing, we'll need to schedule a conference with the death penalty

  committee to talk about what sentence to seek."

  That's right. We've got a death penalty committee. It's not as bad as

  it sounds. When Duncan ran for district attorney in this liberal

  county, he acknowledged that he was personally opposed to the death

  penalty but nevertheless promised to administer it since it was Oregon

  law. The purpose of the committee is to have the same group of

  attorneys all experienced career prosecutors evaluate every aggravated

  murder case in comparison to previous ones and try to achieve the

  impossible: the even-handed application of the death penalty.

  "I'll send out an e-mail looking for times," I said.

  "They usually take about ninety minutes. And invite the family to come

  an hour after we start. I guess we'll need to go through the husband's


  lawyers now that he's represented. And, remember, I don't care what

  your ex did to piss you off. Be civil."

  I worked like a fiend all morning so I could run off some of my

  resentment at noon. I changed into my workout clothes in the

  eighth-floor locker room and was warmed up by the time I got to the

  river. I decided to bump it up from my usual flat three-mile loop

  along the Willamette and did a five-miler around the west hills

  instead.

  I slowed to a jog after a brutal half mile up a steep incline. I was

  out of breath and wishing I'd brought a water bottle when I realized I

  was just a couple of miles from Susan Kerr s house. I decided I had

  time for a short detour.

  I recognized the Expedition in the driveway with the OHSU parking

  permit. My immediate reaction was to wonder what Townsend was doing at

  Susan Kerr's in the middle of a workday. Then I realized he wouldn't

  be back to work this soon after his wife's murder. So how suspicious

  was it for him to be here? The two of them did, after all, have a

  friendship through Clarissa and were both stomaching the same loss.

  Maybe they were talking about Jackson's arrest.

  Remembering Duncan's ultimatum, I held off on interrupting them and

  decided to add Townsend's visit to the list of things I needed to

  discuss with Susan Kerr.

  By the time I made it down the hill, into the courthouse, and out of

  the locker room shower, I had just enough time to tuck my damp hair

  into a clip and walk across the Plaza Blocks to Jackson's

  arraignment.

  The Plaza Blocks' official designation as a park is a bit of an

  overstatement. They're nothing more than two city blocks of grass with

  a few trees and some benches. In the mid-1800s, the two blocks

  epitomized a quaint vision of city life, providing a forum for citizen

  oration and assembly. The south block, Lownsdale Square, was the

  gentlemen's gathering place, while women congregated safely in the

  north side Chapman Square.

  These days, the one thing that distinguishes the Plaza Blocks from some

  of the more remarkable downtown parks is their location beneath the

  seventh floor of the Justice Center, otherwise known as the Multnomah

  County Detention Center. Once word got out that MCDC inmates had a

  view of the park, the plaza blocks became home to more than their fair

  share of singing, sign holding, and breast flashing.

  Although it was just after lunch, it was still pretty early in the day

  for your average criminal's loved ones, but one young devotee was

  already out. She was probably in her twenties but looked older.

  Several years of chain smoking, combined with regular methamphetamine

  use, is hell on the skin. She wore skin-tight dark-blue Wrangler

  jeans, a thick brown belt with a heavy gold buckle, and patent-leather

  stilettos. A spaghetti-strapped red lace camisole revealed a

  multicolored tattoo of a large eagle in the cleavage of her impressive

  bosom. She was yelling, "I got this for you, Darryl! It stands for

  freedom, baby! Can you see it?" The refined gentlemen of Lownsdale

  Square would not have been pleased, but I decided I liked her.

  I took the stairs to JC-2, the courtroom for the two o'clock

  arraignments. There was a stir when Judge Levinson called for Melvin

  Jackson. Given the continuous news coverage on the case, even the

  courthouse regulars were curious. Jackson's orange jail uniform was

  accompanied by handcuffs and leg shackles. Apparently he hadn't been

  on good behavior since his booking.

  It showed. His hair was matted, and his eyes were blearier than the

  usual first-morning bloodshot. I suspected pepper spray.

  Jackson qualified for court-appointed counsel. Because this was an

  aggravated murder case, the attorney was sure to be good, a member of

  Oregon's capital defense bar.

  This afternoon's lucky winner? Graham Szlipkowsky, public defense

  veteran and colorful courthouse regular. Graham is probably fifty and

  tries cases in corduroys and tennis shoes. With salt-and-pepper hair

  cut like a mop and a matching beard, he looks more like a Muppet than

  one of the city's most experienced trial attorneys. He told me once

  that his mother insisted on the waspy first name to even out his Polish

  father's last name. As a result, neither of his names quite suits him,

  and everyone calls him Slip instead.

  Slip's a straight shooter, perfect for this case. He didn't need the

  glory of a high-profile trial and would be smart enough to know the

  situation was hopeless. After some unsuccessful motions to suppress

  the critical evidence, he'd be looking for a plea to avoid a death

  sentence.

  The appearance should have been perfunctory. A quick waiver of speedy

  trial rights from Jackson, a token request for bail from Slip, and

  Judge Marty Levinson would order the defendant remanded until trial.

  Any other result at an agg murder arraignment was largely

  theoretical.

  On the other hand, there's something about me and theoretical

  possibilities that seems to click. After the usual brief conference

  with his client, Slip asked Levinson for additional time in light of

  "some unusual circumstances." A rookie defense attorney would've been

  torn a new one, but Slip had enough earned credibility that the judge

  deferred.

  Great. For my own satisfaction, I'd walked over for a routine hearing

  that was technically the responsibility of the JC-2 DDA. Now that I

  knew "unusual circumstances" had arisen, I had to stay. You don't know

  from waiting until you've spent time in a courthouse. Doctors?

  Mechanics? The DMV? Forget about it. I settled into a seat at the

  front of the galley while the assigned arraignment deputy moved through

  more routine matters.

  Seven arraignments and forty minutes later, Slip informed the clerk he

  was ready to go back on the record in Jackson. I took my place again

  at counsel table, called the case, and asked the judge to hold the

  defendant without bail.

  As expected, Slip contested the request.

  "May it please the court, Graham Szlipkowsky for the defendant, Mr.

  Jackson. Your honor, my client respectfully requests that the court

  consider alternatives to remand without bail. We recognize that the

  charge of aggravated murder triggers a presumption of no bail, but it

  is, after all, merely a presumption. Mr. Jackson has no prior

  criminal record and is the single father of three young children who

  require his care."

  So far, so routine. And so hopeless. It was the next part of Slip's

  request that must have reflected the forty-minute recess.

  "Regardless of defendant's custody status pending trial, Mr. Jackson

  does not waive his right to a prompt hearing of probable cause. We

  request that a preliminary hearing be scheduled at the earliest

  possible date so that my client can contest the charges immediately. He

  sees no need to await a trial date."

  Levinson was neither impressed nor amused. He took off his glasses,

  scratched his bald head, and said, "You're kidding me, right?"

 
; Most people have heard of prelims from the high-profile California

  cases. They're mini-trials to determine whether there's sufficient

  evidence to hold the defendant over for trial. The federal system and

  just about every state uses the less burdensome, more secretive grand

  jury process instead. Oregon, as usual, had forged a third way: a

  theoretical procedure for conducting preliminary hearings that never

  actually took place. As a result of confusing court decisions and

  years of local practice, indictment by grand jury was the routine.

  Jackson did not, however, want to do this the routine way.

  "I would never kid, your honor." Slip was good at handling

  cantankerous judges.

  "You've explained to your client that the State's burden at a

  preliminary hearing is considerably lower than at trial?" Levin-son

  asked. The question was more for Jackson's sake than Slip's. "That

  all the State has to do is show probable cause? And that the Court is

  required to draw every possible inference in favor of the State?"

  "I've explained that all to him, your honor. Mr. Jackson's highest

  priority is to be with his children. He is afraid he'll lose his kids

  if he doesn't nip these charges in the bud. He knows it's an uphill

  battle, but he wants at least to have that chance. As your honor well

  knows, the grand jury process is even more lopsided."

  The prosecutor runs the show with the grand jury. No judge, no defense