Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated. "The more I

  pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get

  off this case. Then we both realized we weren't getting anywhere."

  "You Kincaids are a stubborn people. What did someone put in the water

  supply at that house?"

  "Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula."

  "You should try to talk to him about it again. But in the end, Sam, if

  he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that."

  "I know. Honestly? I think the reason I haven't talked to him since

  then is that I don't want to see that look on his face again. It's

  like he was ashamed of something. Seeing that was absolutely horrible.

  I thought I was going to lose it."

  The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father.

  I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.

  It was Slip.

  "Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I spent my entire day

  down at Inverness trying to see Melvin. And people wonder why defense

  attorneys hardly speak to their clients."

  "So, what'd you find out?"

  "Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me. He's never seen the

  old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the

  paint."

  "How good was the ID? And no puffing. You know I'm out on a limb."

  "The truth? It could've been stronger. But it was probably just as

  good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for

  the courtroom."

  Jackson hadn't ruled Minkins out. If he was high up enough with

  Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup. If,

  of course, there was a setup.

  "Anything else?"

  "My investigator's got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc.

  I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out

  of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list.

  And speaking of total idiots, that's what I felt like when Jackson

  asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn't say

  anything. Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse

  groupies, why don't you let me in on the secret."

  "Hold on a second." I made it look like I needed something from my

  desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn't overhear. "Got anything up

  your sleeve for court tomorrow?"

  He laughed. "Yeah, my piece of shit watch. Prescott's obviously

  inclined to find PC, and I don't have squat. The best I can hope for

  is to buy more time."

  More time was what we both needed. Getting anyone to take a second

  look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood. If

  Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it

  would be impossible.

  "I'll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you'll do something

  for me. I've got an idea that might help both of us."

  Twelve.

  I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when

  Jessica Walters walked in.

  "Hey, there. Thought I'd stop in and see how you're holding up after a

  week in here with the boys."

  "Crazier by the day, but I'm sticking it out."

  "Good for you. You want to grab some coffee?"

  I held up my Starbucks commuter cup. "Already went, but definitely

  some other time. I'm getting ready to go back in on the Jackson

  prelim."

  The legal pad I'd been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the

  top page barely legible from all the black ink. Walters saw it and

  laughed. "A woman after my own heart. Do those notes actually mean

  anything to you?"

  I laughed too. "No. But maybe if you scribble enough, it's like a

  giant Rorschach." I held the pad up to her. "Tell me, Ms. Walters,

  what do you see in this one?"

  She squinted at it, exaggeratedy furrowing her brow. "Let me see." But

  then her expression turned serious. "Grice? You have a case on

  someone named Grice?"

  "No, just a name that came up in an investigation."

  "It's not Max Grice, is it?"

  "Actually, I don't know the first name." I hadn't written it in my

  notes, and I hadn't called Nelly yet to try to get another look at the

  file.

  "Oh-kay?" She said it slowly, inviting an explanation for why I

  wouldn't know the first name of someone involved in one of my cases.

  "Why? Who's Max Grice?"

  "A major pain in my ass is who Max Grice is. Some schlep per

  contractor who's been bitching to anyone who will listen about his

  business problems. I wanted to blow him off, but you know the boss.

  Any allegation of official misconduct gets a thorough vetting. I'm

  probably going to wind up letting the guy have a say in front of the

  grand jury, then I'll tell them to no-bill it."

  "What kind of misconduct?"

  "The guy's paranoid. I guess there's this process they have to go

  through to get permission to make certain changes to historically

  significant properties, which includes just about every old building in

  the central corridor. His company's request got declined, and he's

  claiming that someone at City Hall's on the take, since other companies

  don't seem to have any problems."

  "Why would that come to you?"

  "It shouldn't. There's a city process the guy's using, and the police

  could potentially investigate the allegation as a crime if there were

  any meat there. But this guy called Duncan personally, so now I'm

  stuck trying to find a palatable way to dump it. Technically Gangs is

  the white-collar unit."

  The reality, of course, was that this office had never prosecuted a

  significant white-collar criminal. Those cases went to the feds, and

  the small-time embezzlers simply got away with n, the victims brushed

  off with an explanation that the theft was "a civil matter" or an

  "employment issue."

  But now wasn't the time to hash out office filing decisions. I wanted

  to know more about Grice.

  "So if someone called the switchboard and asked for whoever dealt with

  white-collar crime or government corruption or something like that, Liz

  would connect them to you?"

  "She should."

  "Then I think I know why Clarissa Easterbrook called you. Is Max

  Grice's company called Grice Construction?"

  "I'd have to double-check, but that sounds right."

  "Clarissa recused herself from a case where Grice Construction appealed

  an adverse decision relating lo a remodel of a Pearl District

  warehouse."

  "That'd be my guy."

  And the guy was complaining about the very program that had been at

  issue in Gunderson's case in front of Clarissa. A case where Gunderson

  had won because of Clarissa's decision.

  I looked at my watch. "I've got to go over to the Justice Center. But

  can you get me a copy of whatever you have on Grice?"

  "No problem."

  Roger was already waiting in the courtroom with Townsend. In the row

  in front of them, two men I recognized as Gunderson and Minkins sat

  with a lawyer type I assumed was Jim Thorpe. I should get a kickbackr />
  for all the fees I was bringing in to Dunn Simon.

  I noticed that four of the five of them watched me as I passed. Men

  tend to do that when there's nothing else going on. Although they all

  looked unhappy, Roger looked particularly pissed. At a formal level,

  I'd hidden my role in what brought them here, but Roger knew me well

  enough to suspect something.

  The fifth guy, Minkins, was still wearing his hat and turned his head

  the other way when I walked by. That's what we lawyers call

  consciousness of guilt. Like a suspect who flees, Minkins was hiding

  something. I was pretty certain that the something was his snooping

  around at the library.

  Judge Prescott walked out of her chambers promptly at ten. She noticed

  Gunderson et al. in the front row. "I see we've got some newcomers,

  but where, pray tell, is Mr. Szlipkowsky?"

  "I haven't heard anything, your honor," I said, "but I'm sure he'll be

  here. He left me a message last night saying he had subpoenaed some

  additional witnesses."

  I heard someone huff behind me and guessed it was probably Gunderson.

  Prescott ordered her clerk to tell her as soon as Slip arrived and then

  headed back to her chambers. Some judges enjoy the chitchat that goes

  on with the lawyers before proceedings commence. Not Prescott.

  Her departure left the courtroom awkwardly silent. Since I was

  supposedly an innocent, I figured I'd better play the role of

  cooperative prosecutor. When I walked back toward Roger and Townsend,

  I noticed that, once again, Minkins looked away.

  "Hi, Townsend. How are you holding up?"

  "Fine," he mumbled, "under the circumstances. Thanks." Then he went

  back to staring at the bench in front of him.

  "Well, I don't think you'll have to testify today. The defense

  attorney said he served some subpoenas last night, but his message

  didn't say anything about calling you."

  He just nodded. I was beginning to think he might actually be on

  something. Roger rolled his eyes at me. "I went ahead and told

  Townsend about the subpoenas. As you can imagine, Jim Thorpe called me

  right away when they were served."

  "So I assume the two of you have talked about the possible conflicts of

  interest involved. I mean, Dunn Simon is now representing multiple

  witnesses in the same case."

  Big surprise. According to Roger, they'd already discussed the matter,

  and the whole lot were snug as bugs with the current situation. That's

  the problem with a rule that lets the conflicted lawyer be the one who

  discusses the conflict with the clients; I seriously doubted if

  Townsend had gotten the big picture. If he was in a position to

  understand how wrapped up Gunderson was in his wife's life, he wouldn't

  feel so comfortable about sharing a lawyer with him.

  Before Roger got a chance to grill me about the coincidence of Slip's

  eve-of-hearing decision, I heard tennis shoes squeaking outside the

  courtroom. The door wrenched open, and in walked Slip, out of breath,

  using one hand to hold all his belongings while his other hand fumbled

  to fasten his belt buckle.

  A nice person would have rushed over to help him. I bent over

  laughing.

  "I'm sorry, but that looks really bad."

  "And they say men have dirty minds. I was already running late, and

  then I got stuck at security. It's getting as bad as the airport down

  there."

  He shoved his briefcase in my arms so he could finish the belt, then

  started to steer me into the hallway. We never made it to the door.

  "Nice of you to join us this morning, Mr. Szlipkowsky." Prescott was

  out of her chambers and ready to go.

  "My apologies, your honor. I was delayed at security."

  "And yet everyone else managed to be here on time. Amazing. Don't let

  it happen again." As she was telling the sheriffs deputy to bring

  Jackson in from the holding cell, Slip continued to throw me eager

  looks. He definitely wanted to talk.

  "I'm sorry, counselors, is there a problem?"

  We both shook our heads like kids who've been caught roughhousing in

  the classroom. Whatever Slip had to say to me, it was going to have to

  wait.

  Jackson took his place at the defense table, looking the worse for wear

  after nearly a week in jail.

  Prescott called the case and put us back on the record. "OK, when we

  left on Friday, it was unclear whether the parties intended to call

  additional witnesses before I ruled. Where do things stand now? I see

  Jim Thorpe is with us this morning from Dunn Simon."

  Thorpe started to rise, but Slip beat him to the punch. When a court's

  viewing a dispute cold, it's always better to get your side out

  first.

  "Your honor, last night my investigator delivered subpoenas to Larry

  Gunderson and William Minkins. Larry Gunderson is president of

  Gunderson Development, which owns the property where Ms. Easterbrook's

  body was found and where my client was employed as a landscaper. Mr.

  Minkins is an employee at Gunderson and hired my client to work at the

  site. As I have investigated this case, it has become clear to me that

  both Mr. Gunderson and Mr. Minkins hold relevant evidence that casts

  serious doubt on the guilt of my client. Just to give you one example

  "

  Prescott cut him off. "Wait a second. No need to get into your

  proffer before there's been an objection. Mr. Thorpe, why don't you

  go ahead and approach? Your clients may remain seated."

  "Good morning, your honor. Jim Thorpe from Dunn Simon, representing

  Gunderson Construction, its principal officer Larry Gunderson, and its

  employee William Minkins. I understand that your honor quashed a

  subpoena on Friday in this case after Mr. Szlipkowsky tried to haul in

  a member of the Metro Council for a fishing expedition. This morning,

  he's at it again with my clients. They know nothing about this case,

  have been pulled away from business on absolutely no notice, and wish

  to be relieved from this court's jurisdiction forthwith."

  Forthwith? That's why big-firm lawyers often get their asses handed to

  them in jury trials. Who the hell says forthwith?

  Prescott sighed and gave Slip a look to kill. I wasn't sure how she'd

  done it, but somehow it seemed as if her bun had been pulled back even

  more tightly during Thorpe's statement. "Now, Mr. Szlipkowsky, why

  don't you proceed with your proffer "

  "Excuse me, your honor," I interrupted. "I just wanted to make sure

  all the parties realized that the media are present in the

  courtroom."

  I gestured toward Dan Manning from the Oregonian at the back of the

  room, sitting with a few others who presumably were also reporters.

  Cameras aren't permitted in Oregon courtrooms, and lawyers who don't

  spend a lot of time around the courthouse don't always recognize the

  media. Just me, trying to be helpful.

  It got the response from Thorpe that I wanted. "In that case, your

  honor, we request that the proffer be delivered in chambers. Whatever

  Mr. Szlipkowsky is about to say is groundless speculation, and the

&n
bsp; damage to my client would be further aggravated if it were repeated in

  the media."

  Thorpe, Gunderson, Minkins, Slip, and I followed Prescott through the

  door behind the bench. I got a better look at Minkins when he passed

  me. He could definitely be the guy from the library, but I still

  wasn't positive.

  Since Roger was there as Townsend's attorney, he had to stay outside.

  All to the good, since he knew better than Thorpe how devious I could

  be. Jackson stayed put too. I'd long gotten used to the criminal

  justice systems practice of leaving the defendant at the counsel table,

  just in case he was beginning to think his presence was relevant.

  Slip and I were at the back of the pack, and no one seemed to be paying

  attention to us. He scribbled something on the corner of his legal

  pad, ripped it off, and passed it to me as I walked through the door

  behind him. By then, Prescott was sitting at her desk, so I slipped

  the page into a folder. If the teacher caught us passing notes, we'd

  get the grown-up equivalent of detention, and whatever was on that

  piece of paper would be public information.

  "Let's hear it, Mr. Szlipkowsky."

  "Melvin Jackson is presumed innocent. So presume just for a moment,