sentence, but I knew his mind was made up. Letting
Jackson enter a plea without that information might not violate the
ethics rules, but it still seemed sleazy.
"That's all right. It's just talk for now. I won't make a deal
without running it by you and Duncan."
"Anything else?" he asked.
I decided not to hold back on him. I told him about my conversation
with Nelly and the key she'd given me. "I might ask Johnson to track
it down for me, find out what she was hiding."
"Don't even think about it, Sam. How many times do I have to tell you?
The case is cleared. You eat up bureau overtime chasing down what's
probably a stupid luggage key, and there's going to be pressure to rein
you in. Save us both the headache."
I pulled the key from my pocket and showed it to him. "It's not a
luggage key. It looks like it's for a safe deposit box."
"Jesus Christ, Kincaid. Why isn't that in the police property room?
You can't go lugging evidence around in your pocket. Get it through
your head: You're the prosecutor, not Jackson's defense attorney. You
put that in the property room, make sure Slip gets a copy of the
receipt in discovery, and forget about it."
In the spirit of cooperating with my new, relatively decent supervisor,
I would put the key away as instructed, but I wasn't about to forget
about it.
It took the guy in the precinct property room less than five minutes to
add the key to the other evidence seized in the Jackson case and
complete a supplemental report to document the addition. I pocketed
two photocopies of the supplemental, one for the file and one for some
mischief-making.
Slip was waiting at the bar at Higgin's, looking at his watch. "You
starting to think I was standing you up?" "There are a couple of
people in your office who find that sort of thing humorous," he said.
"And do I strike you as one of them?"
"Nope. That's why I waited."
We ordered our drinks at the bar and found a quiet table in the corner.
Higgin's looks exactly like the kind of bar where you'd expect lawyers
to meet after work to talk cases. Dark wood, brass fixtures, the
works.
"So how've you been, Sam? I haven't seen you much since you handed my
ass to me in trial about a year ago."
I wrinkled my nose. "I don't remember it being quite that bad."
"So tell me the truth. How many times have you pulled that "Don't take
it out on my case that I'm young' shit?"
"Only with you, Slip. Had to do something to level the playing field
against your cords and tennies."
I have this thing I do to counteract the shtick that some of the older
attorneys have developed over the years. In my final closing, I give
the jury my best doe-eyed look, even turning slightly pigeon-toed if I
can get away with it. Then I say something like, "I might not have as
much trial experience as the defense attorney, but don't take it out on
this case. The evidence is there, etc. etc." It gets the jury back
on track, and is a lot more subtle than saying, "I'm not as slimy as
the rest of these guys."
In my last trial with Slip, he'd gone after my cops on a reverse drug
buy. I suppose it's the only tack for a defense attorney to take when
his client insists on putting his word against an undercover officer's.
When little innocent me got done with the jury, they saw things the way
they really were.
"Well, it's a cute trick, Kincaid. I wanted to haul out your power
resume and hold it up against my University of Oregon degree."
"As much as I enjoy your company, Slip, I assume we're not here to
reminisce. What's up?"
"The Jackson case, of course."
"What about it?"
No attorney ever wants to be the first to say plea. It's a sign you
don't have faith in your case. I'd sit here all night if I had to, but
Slip was the one who'd asked for this meeting.
"It's fishy."
Now that was not what I was expecting.
I plucked a ten from my wallet and put it on the table as I stood to
leave. I had planned on giving Slip the report from the property room
to make sure Clarissa's secret key didn't get lost among the discovery,
but now that I knew his agenda, it was time to go. That old saying
about family describes how I feel about my cases: Only I can bad-mouth
them. I got enough argument from defense attorneys during the workday;
I wasn't about to spend my Friday night on this.
"Please stay, Sam. I thought you knew me well enough, but ask around
the courthouse if you have to; I don't bullshit. Posture one too many
times, and you can never get a prosecutor to listen to you again."
That was his reputation.
"Hear me out," he said. "I know it rarely happens, but I really am
starting to think this guy's being set up. And it's a good set-up.
He's poor, and he's black, and your victim is incredibly
sympathetic."
I was still standing with my briefcase, but I hadn't walked away.
"Honestly, I'm scared shitless I'm going to lose this case and never be
able to sleep again."
I think I had been fearing the same thing. I sat down again, and he
started his pitch.
"What's bothering me most is how neatly it all adds up. What's a guy
who lives hand-to-mouth doing getting a phone call one day on a fancy
new development job?"
"Easy," I said. "Developers are greedy and will try to save money
wherever they can. What do they care who does the landscaping?"
There was too much evidence against Jackson for that one nagging point
to prove a setup, especially since Grace had explained it wasn't
particularly unusual for developers to use day labor. I told Slip he'd
need to explain away the most incriminating pieces before I could take
him seriously.
"Without waiving privilege?" he asked.
I gave him my word.
"First of all, we've got that thing your cops keep calling an
admission."
"It's a classic admission, Slip. The police kick the door, and your
guy blurts out, "I know what you're looking for." Leads them right to
the paint."
"Right. He leads them to the paint. If he's giving himself up, why
doesn't he point them to the hammer? Because he didn't know it was
there."
"But what made him think they were there for the paint? Because he saw
the early news stories about paint being on the dog," I said, answering
my own question.
"No, Sam, because he stole it. He's been keeping his nose so clean he
thought the police were barging in over a couple of cans of paint he
took from the building site. He was going to paint his mom's house."
"Isn't that sweet?"
"You're starting to sound as insensitive as the rest of your office."
"Sorry, Slip, but I'm not buying it. A judge he's threatening turns up
dead, and when the police look at him, he thinks it's for petty
theft?"
"He didn't know the woman was dead. This is not a man who keeps up
with the news. I'm telling you, I believe him. You've got to
&
nbsp; understand, the only thing that drives this guy is keeping his kids. He
thought if he got caught with the paint, he'd lose the Glenville job
and it would hurt him with everything else that's going on. I guess
one of the other workers at the site saw him take it, so when the
police showed up, he assumed the guy had ratted."
Now that was interesting. It would tie whatever Slip was talking about
back to the property. "What do you mean someone saw him?"
"He noticed that some workers had left a couple buckets of paint
outside on Friday, so he went back with his truck to pick them up. He
says another worker was still there and saw him. Melvin started to
make up a story, but the guy told him to go ahead; he wouldn't tell
anyone."
"Does he know who the man was?"
"Since we're being so honest with each other, all he could tell me was
'some white guy." But, c'mon, there are lawyers in your office who've
given a witness a lineup with worse initial statements. Get me some
pictures and I'll see what I can do."
I shook my head. "There's a ton of people working down there. And it
doesn't do you any good anyway. So what if he stole the paint? It's
still on the victim's dog, so he's still tied to the victim's
disappearance."
Unless, of course, the mystery man who spotted him with the paint had
something to do with it.
"Let me ask you something," I said, "what does Jackson say about how he
got the job?"
Slip pulled a file from his briefcase. "I was getting there. Melvin
runs an ad in the Penny Power classifieds. Two lines only costs a few
bucks, and he occasionally gets a home maintenance job, that sort of
thing. Well, last Monday, he gets a phone call from a Billy Minkins.
Melvin's pretty sure about the name, but he never actually met him. He
hired Melvin as an independent contractor for twenty bucks an hour,
more than Melvin's ever made."
I scribbled down the name on a cocktail napkin.
"The check he got is from a company called Gunderson Development."
I didn't need to write that one down.
"I didn't find a listing for either Minkins or the company," Slip said,
"but you're probably in a better position to track someone down. Maybe
you can get a picture of Minkins, see if he's the one who told Melvin
to take the paint."
"You're pushing your luck, Slip. I'm here to listen. Don't tell me
how to do my job. Tell me about the fingerprint on the door."
If Slip was convinced Melvin was innocent, he must have an explanation
for the print.
"Melvin went to the house Wednesday night. He was so excited about the
new job, he thought it might help if he talked to her in person."
That's what Melvin's mother had said.
"How'd he know where she lived?" I asked.
Slip looked down then looked back to me. "Let's just say that part
doesn't help me so much."
"I'm going to assume he did something stalkerish, like follow her home
at some point."
Slip's silence was enough.
"So what happened when he knocked?" I asked.
"Nothing. No one was home. After he left, he realized that showing up
on her front door was probably not the wisest litigation strategy."
"But threatening letters are?"
"I never said Melvin was rational," he said, "just innocent. By the
way, he tells me he mailed that last letter Monday morning,
and I believe him. And, I know you can explain it away if you need to,
but you've got to admit that Melvin as a sex offender doesn't ring
true. That leaves you having to explain how your vie got dressed after
she died. Come on, Samantha, part of you has a hinky feeling about
this."
I let the comment go. I didn't need him telling a judge down the road
that I had supposedly expressed doubt about the prosecution. "How come
I haven't heard anything about an alibi?"
"That part doesn't help either," he said.
"Slip, that's usually shorthand for sitting alone by himself, with no
one to verify it."
"The kids go to church with Grandma on Sundays. You know those
Baptists; it's an all-day thing."
"And I assume under your theory, someone planted the hammer," I said.
"There are no prints on it. And you heard Johnson. He tried to call
Caffrey before he homed in on Melvin. If Caffrey was doing your
victim, he'd know about Melvin. That's plenty of time to dump the
hammer. And, hell, Caffrey's powerful enough to have someone do it for
him. Melvin was at the mall with the kids from six to nine that
night."
Now that I heard Slip's attempt to explain the things that had been
nagging at me, it sounded ridiculous.
"How does someone get inside the apartment? My cops didn't see any
sign of a break-in."
"Melvin doesn't bolt the door, and you should see the locks on public
housing. It took my investigator about four seconds to slip it with a
credit card."
It still didn't sound right. The framing of a defendant is rare
enough, but the way Slip spelled it out, this one involved not only
someone from the property site but also an elected official. It didn't
fly without a connection between the two.
not
Maybe Slip would find one. I fished the property receipt out of my bag
and scribbled my home phone number on the back.
"Here's a present," I said. "Don't say I never did anything for you.
I had some work to do this weekend too, but first I needed to track
down the envelope that Jenna Markson had sent interoffice.
Searching for it in my office, I remembered that I still hadn't
returned Susan Kerr's call from the morning. Better to do it now than
to call her over the weekend or let it sit until Monday.
She thanked me for calling. "I feel stupid bothering you when you're
in the middle of the hearing, but I "
"Don't worry about it, Susan. What's up?"
"I was just wondering how Townsend was at the hearing today."
"He was there with his lawyer, but as it turned out he didn't need to
testify."
"Is that good?"
"Sure. Court proceedings are always difficult for victims."
"But when you first said he didn't need to testify, you said it in a
way that suggested you were particularly appreciative. Was there a
reason for that?"
I wouldn't normally run down my victim's husband, but Susan and Tara
had already expressed concern about Town-send's recent appearance, so
it wasn't like I was saying something new. "Well, quite honestly, he
didn't look like he was up to it."
"So you can see it too." Susan sounded relieved. "I was wondering if
it was just my imagination. I'm really starting to worry about him.
When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I
only saw him have one drink."
I thought about it. Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death
penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then
or today in court.
"Maybe it's just lack of sleep," I offered. "And he might still be
suffering from shock."
"You're probably right. Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure
you want to go home. I was really only calling to see if you could try
to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't
necessary."
"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."
"Not a problem. I'm just glad you think what he's going through is
normal. You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,
fortunately."
Actually, I hadn't. I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man
whose wife had been murdered. And Townsend was a man with access to
his own personal prescription pad.
"Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask
Clarissa's family to do the same. He could be prescribing himself
medication."
"I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it. He could
lose his license for that, couldn't he?"
"Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of
ourselves. Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine
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