Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  it only took a few minutes."

  "And why didn't you call me or Walker? We're the leads."

  "I did call you, but you weren't in." He didn't respond. "Look, do we

  have a problem here?"

  "Just remember how you felt when I went around you for the polygraph.

  You've got my pager number."

  "I didn't go around you, Ray. It was a quick walk across the street,

  and Chuck happened to be in." Again with the silence. "If you want to

  say something, just say it."

  "I just think it's funny how you say your old buddy just happened to be

  in when you wanted something done on a cleared case. Maybe part of you

  knew I wouldn't be too happy about doing work that's going to bite me

  in the ass down the road."

  "And how's that?"

  "When you tell me three months from now that you're pleading the case

  down because of something the defense attorney's twisting around. You

  know, it's always those little extra details stupid things like a safe

  deposit key or the occasional extramarital roll in the sheets. Stuff

  that we both know or at least I know doesn't change the fact that

  Melvin Jackson's guilty."

  "I don't know what to say, Ray. I wasn't trying to hide anything from

  you, or I wouldn't have called you just now. And I wouldn't ask you to

  do something if I didn't think it was important."

  "If you want to call the LT, that's fine with me," Ray said. "But for

  now, we're not supposed to be working a cleared case. I don't want to

  get stuck between my boss and your office."

  Neither did I, I thought, as I hung up. One thing was for sure: I

  wouldn't be getting any more help from the bureau.

  The notes that Clarissa stashed in her safe deposit box mentioned a

  case she referred to as Grice. It still felt familiar.

  I found my own notes from the review of Clarissa's files. It didn't

  take long to realize where I'd seen Grice's name before. It was in the

  list of cases from which Clarissa had recused herself. According to my

  notes, Grice Construction was the company that had complained that the

  city had unfairly denied its request to rehabilitate some Pearl Street

  buildings. The date of Clarissa's recusal was the same day she had

  apparently talked to DC about both the Grice case and the case

  involving Gunderson's own rehabilitation program. If DC was Coakley,

  that might explain what Nelly overheard at City Hall.

  I didn't know the details yet, but it was becoming clear that Gunderson

  had some kind of connection to Clarissa.

  Good thing I knew who his lawyer was. I even had his home number.

  I was surprised when a woman answered. When I asked to speak to Roger,

  she asked who was calling. I was tempted to tell her she was right to

  be suspicious, but I gave her the boring answer instead.

  "It's for you," she hollered. "Someone named Samantha Kincaid."

  I wasn't sure which was worse, to be known as the evil ex-wife or not

  to be known at all.

  "Hello?"

  "Is that company, Roger, or a roommate?"

  "Something in between, actually, but I assume the point of the question

  was more in the asking than the answering. If you're calling about

  Townsend, yes, we plan on being there tomorrow."

  "Nice to know, but that's not why I called. I want to talk to Larry

  Gunderson."

  It always feels good to show another attorney you know more than he

  thought you did. But this time it was especially rewarding.

  "Why would you be calling me about that?"

  There were lots of bad things to be said about Roger, but lawyering

  skills were not among them. His question was perfect in its ambiguity,

  neither denying nor confirming knowledge of Gunderson.

  "Because you said Dunn Simon represented him. Remember? That's how

  you got Melvin Jackson's name? If you're saying you're not Gunderson's

  lawyer, that's fine. I'll contact him directly." I read Gunderson's

  street address from my PPDS printout.

  "I'm not actually Gunderson's lawyer. One of my partners is, Jim

  Thorpe."

  I remembered seeing his name on Gunderson's appeal. "Fine. I'll call

  him. What's his home number?"

  "Jesus, Samantha. What's your problem? Can't this wait until

  tomorrow?"

  "XT

  Nope.

  Roger might have come into the firm as a partner, but he was still

  junior to a corner office guy like Thorpe. Junior partners who hand

  out home phone numbers to government lawyers stay in the middle of the

  hallway.

  "Fine. Tell me what you want to know, and I'll talk to Jim and get

  back to you."

  I could hear his house guest slash live-in beginning to whine in the

  background. Apparently Roger had found what he never had in me someone

  who needed his undivided attention to be happy.

  I didn't show him all my cards, just enough to ensure I'd get

  Gunderson's attention. "It turns out that in addition to being Melvin

  Jackson's employer and the owner of the property where Clarissa's body

  was found, Gunderson also had a case in front of Clarissa a few months

  ago. In light of that, I think we should at least talk to him about

  how Jackson happened to find himself on Gunderson's radar."

  "I'll get back to you, but don't hold your breath. Given the

  insinuation, he's more likely to be insulted."

  It had to have been one of the fastest decisions ever made by a lawyer

  who gets paid by the hour. Eleven minutes later, my phone rang.

  "It's Jim's call, and he advised Gunderson to enjoy the rest of his

  weekend. If you want to work something out for this week, get in touch

  with Jim at the office tomorrow."

  "Unbelievable, Roger. I've got the rest of the preliminary hearing

  tomorrow, and you guys think it's a good idea to tell your client to be

  uncooperative. Does Thorpe know enough about criminal practice to

  understand how suspicious it makes Gunderson look?"

  "To you, maybe. Quite frankly, I don't see the problem."

  "Well, since I'm handling the case, I guess my opinion has to matter to

  you on this one."

  "Sam, if you're doing this because you're pissed off at me, I'm sorry I

  said some harsh things about your office at the meeting, but they

  weren't directed at you personally. I was only trying to get Duncan's

  attention. Hell, you're the one who told me at one time all he cared

  about was politics." He laughed, but I didn't see what was funny.

  "Can't you just be happy that you finally got the promotion you wanted

  and that your first big case came together? I realize I'm not the best

  messenger for this, but you're not acting like yourself on this one."

  "You're a piss-poor messenger, Roger. You don't even know me

  anymore."

  "Well, you're not acting like the person I used to know. Look at the

  evidence: You've got a fingerprint, the weapon, motive, something

  approaching a confession. Prescott all but told you on Friday she'd

  hold Jackson over. And you're spending your Sunday night chasing down

  figments of your imagination. Gunderson's just some guy who gave

  Jackson a job."

  "And who happened to have an appeal in front
of the victim."

  "And how long ago was that, Samantha? And how many cases did

  Easterbrook hear on a monthly basis? It's like you're trying to make

  your job harder than it is I don't know maybe to recapture some of the

  glory days back in New York."

  It was a telephonic slap in the face. Before Roger took the job at

  Nike, I had been an up-and-comer in the busiest federal prosecutors

  office in the country, on my way to handling complex high-stakes

  conspiracies. We both knew that in the world of lawyers who never stop

  measuring themselves against one another, I had suffered a serious slip

  down the ladder when we moved to Portland.

  He was already trying to apologize, telling me he didn't mean it the

  way it sounded. But, to me at that moment, there was only one possible

  meaning.

  "The only slumming I ever did, Roger, was when I married you."

  I wanted the satisfaction of slamming the phone into a cradle, but all

  I had was my thumb against the disconnect button of my cordless.

  I tried not to let his comment get to me. Not that Rogers opinion

  mattered, but I knew I wouldn't even be a prosecutor if it weren't for

  him. I graduated from law school planning on selling out as necessary

  to pay off my mountainous debt. But when I was offered a position as a

  federal prosecutor in New York, Roger was the one who told me I had to

  take it. And when he moved us to Portland for his Nike job and I

  couldn't transfer into the U.S. Attorney's Office here, he was the one

  who encouraged me to remain a prosecutor, even though the choice

  required a 50-percent pay cut and a serious hit in the prestige

  department. He paid off my loans in full, using the bundle we'd made

  selling the New York apartment his parents had given us. Then, when I

  kicked him out of the house and insisted on a quick divorce, he nearly

  floored me when he told my attorney to forget about the money. He

  wouldn't be able to live with himself if I had to represent corporate

  clients because of him.

  I knew I'd been a bigger jerk than I should have been, but I didn't

  know what to think about his criticism. It was easy to imagine the

  lawyer in Roger trying to psych me out so I wouldn't subpoena Gunderson

  and disturb Jim Thorpe. On the other hand, Roger wasn't the only

  person telling me I was wildly off the mark on this one.

  The train was about to run right over Melvin Jackson, and I could do

  nothing to stop it. I wasn't even sure I wanted to; I just wanted to

  make sure that we were heading in the right direction. But the bureau

  had essentially washed its hands of this case, and if I tried to haul

  Gunderson into the prelim, a quick call from Dunn Simon to the boss

  would get me overruled and probably fired. And, if Jackson really did

  it which he most likely did it would all be for nothing.

  Luckily, I'd been doing this long enough to know that one of the best

  ways to wield power is to do it subtly.

  I left a message for Graham Szlipkowsky to call me right away.

  I had been home from a run for thirty minutes, my stomach was growling,

  and I was getting ready to cave in to take-out cravings when the phone

  rang.

  "Hey, babe. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I'm beginning to miss

  you. If you're willing to chance my cooking, how does a quiet dinner

  at your place sound?"

  There's something to be said about a man with good timing.

  Unfortunately, in this man's case, that something was that he couldn't

  cook. So we compromised. After a quick run to Fred Meyer, he was

  washing and chopping, and I was doing the stuff that mattered.

  When we finally sat down at the table, he could tell I was exhausted.

  "What's up with you? Big party last night?"

  "You bet. The orgy didn't end till four; then I had to deal with the

  bikers. Between the meth and the Jack "

  "Seriously, Sam, what's going on?"

  "Nothing. I've been working my ass off, and I'm tired."

  "Is this still on the Jackson case?" I nodded since I had a mouth full

  of sea bass. "What have you been digging around in? I thought that

  case was locked up."

  Add another to the list of people reminding me the case was cleared.

  "I'm just double-checking."

  "Here's an idea. Why don't you tell me what you're unsure about. I

  have some experience dealing with these kinds of things, you know."

  It would be nice to have his take on the case, but I didn't want him to

  be in a position where he was torn between me and the department. When

  we eventually decided whether we could handle working on the same

  cases, I'd have to add that to my reasons for believing it was a bad

  idea.

  For now, I was keeping it vague. "I've been looking into some things

  Clarissa might have been involved in, making sure they're not related

  to the murder."

  "Does this have something to do with the conversation we had with Pink

  and the fax I sent to the property room on Friday?"

  "Maybe. I haven't quite figured it out yet."

  "I see. Let me be more specific. What exactly did that key open, and

  what was located inside?"

  "Don't interrogate me, Chuck."

  "You're not giving me any choice, Sam. Getting information out of a

  perp is a cakewalk compared to a conversation with you these days."

  "Here's an idea. You let me do my job, and I'll talk to you as much as

  you want about anything else you choose."

  "I'm not trying to be a jerk, Sam. There are two separate issues here.

  One is the bureau being pissed off that you appear to have second

  thoughts on the case. I don't give a shit about that. But the last

  time you left me in the dark about the poking around you were doing,

  you almost got killed. I'm worried about you. Please just tell me

  enough so I know you're not playing cowboy again."

  "If you're going to worry about me every time I'm dealing with bad

  people, this is never going to work."

  "Sam, this isn't about you going after bad guys. Don't you get it? I

  love it that you do what you do. You could be making half a million

  bucks a year by now as some corporate drone, but that's not who you

  are, and that's great. But you have a tendency to want to go it alone,

  no matter how wacky the plan. I don't want you to get hurt again."

  "Look, it's fine. What happened before was different. I went in blind

  knowing someone was out of custody and angry at me, to say the least.

  Right now, the worst that's going to happen to me is that I ruffle a

  few political feathers." I left out the part about the mystery man at

  the library, since I wasn't actually sure that it was Billy Minkins or

  that he had been watching me. "I'm taking enough crap from my father

  about this. I don't need it from you too."

  For the next few minutes, the only sounds were our forks against the

  plates and Vinnie breathing under the table.

  "Ever since I got this case, he's been on a trip about so-called

  powerful people and the way they can take away everything from me if I

  get in their way. He's always been suspicious of authority "

  Chuck was laughing, and I looked at him to see if
he was going to

  continue listening to me. "Sorry," he explained, "but that sounded

  funny, coming from you."

  "Well, I guess we know where I get it. Anyway, I assumed he was

  worried that someone as influential as Townsend would be calling for my

  head if I screwed things up. But then this morning I asked him about

  some work he did when I was a kid, and he got all quiet and weird. I've

  never seen him like this before."

  "What did you ask him?"

  "Nothing, really. When I was doing that research at the library, I

  came across an old newspaper clipping of him when he was with OSP. I

  asked him about this legislator he used to drive, and he clammed up."

  "Who was the legislator?"

  "A guy named Clifford Brigg."

  "Never heard of him." Chuck was familiar with political circles

  through his father, but Brigg's time was long ago. He didn't offer to

  ask about him, and I didn't ask. Chuck and his father weren't exactly

  close; the former governor, Charles London Forbes, Sr." made little

  effort to conceal his disappointment with Chuck's career choice. "Did

  you try to talk to him about it?"

  "Of course."

  He looked at me skeptically. "For more than a couple of minutes?"

  "A few." Having been on the other side of my impatience before, Chuck