Black River

by G. M. Ford

  Judge Howell gave a cursory bang of the gavel. “So stipulated,” he said.

  Warren Klein shuffled through his notes for a moment before continuing. “Dr. Goldman, for the sake of the jury could you give us a brief”—he looked over his shoulder at the jury box—“layman’s description of the San Andreas Fault system.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “What is commonly referred to as the San Andreas Fault is quite simply an eight-hundred-mile crack in the earth’s crust.”

  “Eight hundred miles?”

  “It runs northwesterly from the Gulf of California all the way to Cape Mendocino, just north of San Francisco.”

  “Would it be safe to say, Dr. Goldman—”

  Before he could finish the question, Bruce Elkins was on his feet again. “The defense will also stipulate as to the existence of—”

  Klein raised his voice. “If Your Honor please, I would like to be permitted to present my case in the manner I see fit.”

  Now Elkins looked like his feelings were hurt. “I was merely trying to comply with the bench’s repeated admonitions regarding undue delays,” he said. “Mr. Klein is reinventing the wheel here.”

  “I don’t require his forbearance, Your Honor,” Klein complained.

  Fulton Howell glared at the lawyers as if they were a pair of unruly schoolboys before waving them up toward the bench. “Approach,” was all he said.

  Renee Rogers leaned toward Ray Butler, her forehead pleated.

  “Since when does Elkins stipulate anything?” she asked.

  “Been bothering me all day,” Butler said. “I’ve never seen him this agreeable before.”

  Renee Rogers turned the other way. On the far side of the courtroom, Nicholas Balagula sat, staring absently off into space, like a snake sunning itself on a rock.

  Klein built a case the way a castaway builds a fire: urgently, but with great care, adding one tiny twig at a time and letting it burn until ready for something bigger, then adding another.

  Elkins had, on five separate occasions, offered to stipulate for the record the very avenue of inquiry upon which Klein was at that moment driving. On each occasion, the judge had admonished him for undue delay, reminded him to stop referring to Klein’s case as “Earthquake 101,” and invited him to sit down.

  Klein had been pecking at Dr. Goldman for nearly three hours when he hurried over to the prosecution table and retrieved a document. Renee Rogers got to her feet and took him by the elbow. She leaned over and spoke directly into his ear. “You need to pick up the pace, Warren. They’re going to sleep in there,” she said, tilting her head toward the jury box. Klein looked over at Butler, who nodded his solemn agreement. Klein heaved a sigh, dropped the document on the desk, and he turned back toward his witness.

  “Dr. Goldman…how many earthquakes occur in California every year?”

  “Certainly thousands. An exact number would be extremely difficult to compute.”

  “How so?”

  “A great many of the shocks are sufficiently small as to escape notice.”

  “What’s the smallest earthquake noticed by humans?”

  “Something like a two on the Richter scale.”

  “For the sake of our jury, Dr. Goldman, could you give us a layman’s explanation of the Richter scale?”

  “The Richter scale measures the magnitude of an earthquake. The jury needs to know”—he indicated the jury box—“that the Richter scale is logarithmic.”

  “Which means?”

  “A recording of seven, for instance, signifies a disturbance ten times greater than a disturbance of six.” Goldman began talking directly to the darkened black panel. “What you on the jury must also understand is the amount of energy released in a seven is thirty times greater than that released by a six.” Klein opened his mouth to ask another question, but the doctor, unsure as to whether he’d made his point, kept talking. “If you push those figures up one more notch, you get a better idea of how the scale operates. A recording of eight, would be”—he drew in the air with his finger—“thirty times thirty, or nine hundred times more powerful than our original reading of six.”

  Klein gave the jury a minute to do the math, before asking, “So, if anything under a two on the Richter scale is at the lower end of the spectrum, what is the upper end of the spectrum like?”

  Hiram Goldman thought it over. “The two largest earthquakes ever recorded happened in 1906 off the coast of Ecuador and Colombia and in 1933 off the east coast of Honshu, Japan. Both were recorded at eight point nine on the Richter scale.”

  “And in California?”

  “The 1906 quake was listed at a magnitude of eight point three.”

  Klein spoke directly to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in order to give you some sense of the magnitude of an eight-point-three disturbance, Dr. Goldman has been kind enough to bring along an exhibit from the Library of the University of California at Berkeley.”

  He turned on his heel and headed for the easel. He put one hand on the white material that covered the exhibit and whipped it off like a magician producing a rabbit.

  Black-and-white photograph. A crowd of people stood along the jagged edge of a road that had been torn in two. To the right of the spectators, risen up to head level, was the continuation of the road, as if the earth had been ripped asunder by some unruly child.

  “Dr. Goldman, would you tell the court what it is looking at here?”

  “That’s a photo from the 1906 earthquake. You’re looking at a road that ran across the head of Tomales Bay. The road was offset nearly twenty-one feet.”

  “Can you explain the forces that caused this to happen?”

  “Certainly. In this case, the Pacific plate moved nearly twenty-one feet north of its original position along the North American plate. The scraping together of these two plates is what causes the seismic activity in this region.”

  “And this was caused by an earthquake of a magnitude of eight point three?”

  “Yes.”

  “How large was the earthquake that destroyed the north wall of Fairmont Hospital?”

  “Two point one,” he said immediately.

  Klein made himself look surprised. “I thought you said anything under two was not noticeable by human beings.”

  “I did,” the doctor said. “It was a murmur, a belch.” He waved a hand. “It was hardly noticed at all.”

  “Other than to the hospital, what was the extent of damage to surrounding property?”

  “None.”

  Klein did his astonished routine. “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Insurance companies run their claims by my department for documentation of the disturbance. As of this date, not a single insurance claim—other than those related to Fairmont Hospital, of course—not a single claim has been filed.”

  “No further questions,” Klein said.

  The judge checked his watch. “Cross, Mr. Elkins.”

  Elkins got to his feet. “I have no questions of this witness,” he said.

  Bang. “Court’s adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” Bang.

  16

  Thursday, October 19

  5:01 p.m.

  “How’d you find me anyway?” Marie Hall demanded.

  Corso reached into his jacket pocket and came out with the wedding invitation. He slipped the rubber band off, unrolled the picture, and turned it her way. “I went to the church. They sent me to your parents.” He shrugged. “The rest is history.”

  She lived in the top half of a duplex at the south end of Phinney Ridge: a nicely furnished one-bedroom, overlooking an elementary school playground. Everything had color-coordinated ruffles and shams, right out of some decorating book.

  She shook her head disgustedly. “I thought it was so romantic to have the invitation picture taken in the Japanese Garden,” she said. “Never occurred to me for a minute that Donald picked it because it was free.”

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, an
d offered one to Corso, who turned it down.

  “Like I told you on the phone, I don’t see how I can help you. I haven’t seen or spoken to Donald since the day I walked out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Fourteen months ago.”

  “Mind telling me why you walked out?”

  “The question’s not why I left Donald, it’s how I managed to live with the guy for seven years. That’s the mystery.”

  “Lotta people feel that way when it’s over.”

  She stared off into space for a moment. “I just couldn’t see myself without a man. The idea that I might be something above and beyond my role in a relationship was totally beyond me.” She shrugged. “That’s why I put up with it for so long. Why I lived like that.”

  She’d been pretty once: Kewpie-doll lips, nice even features, and a pair of big blue eyes. Somewhere in her mid-thirties and getting thick in the hips. Her shaggy blond hair had grown out brown at the roots and looked like she’d cut it herself.

  “Was your former husband abusive?” Corso asked.

  She sighed and stirred her coffee. “There’s abusive, and there’s abusive,” she said. “If you mean did he physically assault me, the answer is no.” For the first time, she made eye contact with Corso. “But if you’re asking me whether or not I’m sorry he’s gone, the answer is also no.” She waved a hand. “I know how that sounds, and I don’t much like it.” She kept her gaze locked on Corso. “But there it is.”

  “If it’s any consolation, seems like you have a lot of company who felt that way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Donald Barth dropped out of sight for the better part of three months and nobody even reported him missing.”

  “Donald wasn’t the type to inspire much of anything.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he didn’t have a life.”

  “Everybody has a life.”

  “He went to work; he ate; he slept; he’d screw me twice a week if I let him.” She waved a hand. “That was it. If he really wanted to push the envelope, Donald would stop at a convenience store on the way home and buy himself a pint of buttermilk. Buttermilk was Donald’s idea of a big time.” She read Corso’s face. “You think I’m making it up.”

  Corso held up a hand. “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  Her expression became almost wistful. “He could be very charming, when he wanted to be. He was better looking than that picture you got.” She crossed the bookcase and eased an unframed photograph out from between a tall pair of art books.

  He was thinner than in the wedding-invitation picture, with the craggy face of a mountain climber. A thick head of black hair was combed straight back from his forehead. He was smiling with his mouth, while his eyes said they wished they were somewhere else. “Quite the handsome guy,” she said, in a practiced tone. “I was twenty-seven when I met Donald. I’d just run away from my first marriage. I was on my own for the first time in my life.” She shook her head sadly. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but I didn’t really have an identity of my own. I was just part of whoever I was connected to.”

  “We all make mistakes.”

  “In the beginning, I thought he was saving money…so we could buy a house or something like that. So for the first four years or so, I shut up about only owning three dresses. I told myself you had to suffer a little to get what you wanted. Then, when he started giving it away—”

  “Giving it to who?”

  “Prep schools and then colleges.”

  She read Corso’s confusion and continued. “He’s got a son from his first marriage: Robert Downs. He uses his mother’s name.”

  “How many…?”

  “I was his third.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He had this…this…thing…about how Robert had to have it better than he did. Robert had to go to the finest schools and get the best education so he could become a doctor.”

  “Lotta people feel that way about their kids.”

  “Yeah, but not like Donald. With him it was like a religion. It didn’t matter that we lived in subsidized housing. It didn’t matter that he never in seven years went out to lunch with the other guys or that the people where I worked were whispering behind my back about my ragged clothes. Nothing—none of that mattered as long as he could keep the damn tuition paid.”

  “You worked.”

  “Same job I’ve got now—except back then I came home and gave my check to Donald, who promptly sent it off to Harvard or someplace, while we didn’t have a television. While we didn’t turn on the lights until it was too dark to see.” She jabbed at her palm with her index finger. “While we never once in seven years went out to a movie!” She heard the stridency in her voice and looked away. “I know I sound like a bitch, but it’s true.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I walked out of seven years of slavery with just over fifteen hundred bucks.”

  “What happened to community property?”

  “What property?” she scoffed. “We didn’t own anything but a pile of cheap furniture and that beat-up old truck he drove. I took the bus to work.” She waved her hand around the room. “This might not be the Ritz, Mr. Corso, but it’s way better than anything Donald Barth ever provided for me.”

  She was right. Her apartment and its carefully chosen contents were far newer and far grander than the rubble Donald Barth had left behind. She thrust her chin at Corso. “I’m halfway to my accounting degree. I’ve been going nights to Seattle Central. Unlike my ex-husband, I’ve got plans for the future,” she said.

  Corso leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “So I guess you can’t think of any reason why somebody would want to murder your ex-husband.”

  “The only person with a reason to murder Donald Barth was me.”

  Corso gave her a small smile. “What finally gave you the courage to leave?”

  She turned away. “No one thing. It just sort of happened. I got so I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him. About six months before we separated, I cut him off.” She fixed Corso in her gaze, as if defying him to take issue with her. “That’s the only time I ever thought he might get violent. He told me I was his wife and had an obligation to take care of his needs.” She laughed a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine that? Like we had a contract or something.” She sighed. “Next thing I know he’s not coming home after work. I start getting these phone calls that hang up.” She got to her feet and crossed the room. “I moved into a women’s shelter.” When she turned back toward Corso, her eyes were wet. “You know what?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “He never even came looking for me. Never tried to talk me into coming back. Not once. He just went on with his life.”

  “You think he had a girlfriend while you were still married?”

  “I’m sure of it. Donald wasn’t about to go without his Monday and Thursday screw.”

  “If he had a regular girlfriend, you’d think she’d have noticed his absence.”

  She laughed. “I said Donald liked sex; I didn’t say he was any good at it.”

  A smile from Corso seemed to encourage her.

  “What Donald liked best about sex was that it was free.”

  17

  Thursday, October 19

  6:36 p.m.

  “He ain’t got a clue,” Gerardo said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “ ’Cause he’s back here again. He had a clue, he wouldn’t be comin’ to the same place twice.”

  “Hmm,” was all Ramón said.

  They were parked a half mile north of the Briarwood Garden Apartments, backed out onto the dike that defined the north end of the marsh.

  “He’s spinnin’ his wheels,” Gerardo insisted.

  “How’d he put the girl and the truck guy together?” Gerardo shrugged. “What’s it matter?”

  “It matters because we’re not clean on this thing until we figure it out. There’s something . .
. some connection he’s following here we don’t understand, and as long as he’s following some trail we can’t see, we got big problems.”

  “We never shoulda lied about the guy in the truck,” Gerardo said.

  Ramón could feel the anger burning in his cheeks. They’d been through it fifty times. He spoke through clenched teeth. “What fucking difference did it make? We shot him; some other asshole shot him. Makes no goddamn difference. Either way, him and the truck end up in the hill and then come sliding out on their own, and we gotta pop the Ball guy. Don’t matter a rat’s ass who done the work. All that other shit happens anyway.”

  “Nothin’ been right since we done it,” Gerardo said. “It’s like the whole damn world’s out of balance or something.”

  “Then we better spend our time figuring out what trail he’s following, huh?” He looked over at Gerardo, who was slouched down behind the wheel with his lips pressed tight.

  “Or maybe we just cut his trail and be done with it,” Gerardo offered. “I’m startin’ to think maybe that’s the way to make things right again.”

  Ramón gave the smallest of nods. “Could be,” he said. “Could be.”

  “I’m tellin’ you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “So?”

  “So tonight we don’t lose him. Tonight, we find out where he lives.”

  Thursday, October 19

  7:16 p.m.

  The Briarwood consisted of eight one-story four-plexes, built in the form of a square: two buildings to a side, facing outward, away from one another, with the parking lot in the middle. Only the bedroom and bathroom windows looked out over the lot.

  Figuring Barth and the truck had to have been abducted from somewhere and that the Briarwood parking lot was as good a bet as any, Corso had decided to knock on doors, hoping maybe somebody had seen or heard something useful. No such luck.

  Third or fourth door, the Somali family had invited him in and let him take a look around. That’s when he knew he was screwed. The way the apartments were laid out, there was absolutely no reason to be looking out at the parking lot. Matter of fact, if you wanted to look out the bedroom window, you had to stand on the bed; if you wanted to look out the bathroom window, you had to stand on the toilet—which was where his hopes rested as he approached 2D, the apartment where Donald Barth had lived.