Fugitive

by Phillip Margolin

  Jarvis flushed and looked down. “Uh, I’m not certain.”

  “Maybe I can help. If I told you that I had my investigator review every divorce case you’ve filed in the past five years and he told me that he could only find six such cases, all involving sums of less that two million dollars, would that surprise you?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “You don’t normally handle big-ticket divorce cases, do you?”

  “No, not normally.”

  “And you don’t normally represent prominent members of the Oregon community, do you?”

  “No.”

  “So the congressman would be quite an unusual and exciting client for you, wouldn’t he?”

  “I…yes.”

  “And the sum of money involved would be way more than you normally deal with, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want this jury to believe that you can’t remember how many millions of dollars were involved?”

  “I, um, it just slips my mind, at the moment.”

  “Or, perhaps, you don’t know how much money was in his estate because you never met with Mr. Pope.”

  “I definitely met with him. I just don’t remember how much money he had.”

  Frank noticed a few jurors taking notes. He moved on.

  “Are there Oregon firms that routinely represent parties in divorces who are wealthy?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank rattled off the names of several law firms in the metropolitan area.

  “Any one of those firms would be used to handling cases with assets in the millions of dollars, wouldn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “During your years in practice, have you had ten complaints filed against you with the Oregon State Bar?”

  Jarvis flushed. “I’ve had some complaints filed. I don’t remember the number.”

  “Have you been suspended by the state bar from the practice of law for six months on two occasions for ethics violations?”

  “Yes,” Jarvis answered angrily.

  “Mr. Jarvis, do you still want this jury to believe that a man like Arnold Pope Jr., with all the contacts he had, chose to consult about his divorce with a lawyer who has rarely handled a society divorce or a divorce with these kinds of assets and who has bar complaints filed against him and who has been suspended several times for being unethical?”

  “I…he didn’t tell me why he chose me. Maybe he was afraid that it would get back to his wife if he went to one of the big firms.”

  “How did Mr. Pope arrange to meet you at the tavern?”

  “He phoned my office.”

  “Was there anything that would have prevented Mr. Pope from calling someone at a big firm to arrange a secret meeting at the tavern where you and he allegedly met?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Do you bill by the hour, Mr. Jarvis?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “So, you can produce a record of the initial call from the congressman if I subpoenaed it?”

  “No. I don’t think there is a record.”

  “There must be a record of the time spent during this conference. You can produce the file, can’t you?”

  “I didn’t make a file. The congressman didn’t hire me. We just consulted.”

  “But he paid you for the consultation? There’s a check, isn’t there?”

  “He…he paid me in cash. He didn’t want any record of the meeting his wife could discover.”

  “I assume you recorded the transaction somewhere so you’d remember to report the fee as income on your taxes?” Frank asked with a sweet smile.

  Jarvis looked like a deer caught in very bright headlights. “Uh, I may have forgotten.”

  “I see,” Frank said. “So, let me get this straight: there are no witnesses to this meeting, no records, no proof that it ever happened, except, of course, for your word?”

  “Why would I lie?” Jarvis asked, but he sounded desperate.

  “Good question. Did Arnold Pope Sr. pay you for your testimony?”

  Jarvis shot an involuntary glance at Senior then pulled his eyes away as soon as he realized what he’d done. Frank couldn’t see Senior’s reaction but he did notice several jurors look in Senior’s direction.

  “No. That’s not true,” Jarvis answered.

  “Then can you explain where you got the money you used last month to pay off the several thousand dollars in debt on your credit cards?”

  “I was in Las Vegas recently and I did very well at the tables,” Jarvis answered lamely.

  “Did you report your winnings to the IRS, or did you forget to make a note of them like you did the fee Congressman Pope allegedly paid you?”

  “I…I will at the appropriate time.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Jarvis. No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “THE STATE CALLS Anthony Rose, Your Honor,” Karl Burdett said as soon as Otto Jarvis fled the courtroom.

  While one of Burdett’s deputies ducked into the hall to summon the witness, Frank reread the meager investigative report Herb Cross had put together. Rose had gone to high school in Sisters, Oregon, a small town in the center of the state. He’d been a star on the tennis team but his grades weren’t good enough for a college scholarship, so he’d enlisted in the army. Rose had made an attempt to get into the Rangers but had not been selected. Herb had talked to a few of Rose’s acquaintances, who said he’d told them he’d made jumps from airplanes and excelled in marksmanship but washed out because of a hostile officer. Rose was honorably discharged from the military and enrolled in college at Ohio State, where he’d excelled on the tennis team, making the quarterfinals of the NCAA tournament his senior year. After a brief flirtation with professional tennis, Rose returned to Oregon, where he was hired as the club pro at the Westmont.

  The courtroom door opened but Frank waited for his first look at Sally’s lover until Rose raised his hand to be sworn. The tennis pro looked like a poster boy for a country club gigolo. He was handsome, athletic, and dressed in a navy blue blazer, neatly pressed tan slacks, and a sky blue shirt that was open at the neck enough to show a tuft of chest hair. Frank noticed that his smile caused the face of every woman on the jury to light up.

  “Mr. Rose, are you acquainted with the defendant?” Burdett asked after a few preliminary questions. Rose locked eyes with Sally. With his head turned, the jurors didn’t see him smirk.

  “You might say that,” Rose answered.

  “In what capacity have you known her?” the prosecutor asked.

  “In several capacities. She was my student-I gave her tennis lessons-I like to think we were friends and we were definitely lovers.”

  There were murmurs in the spectator section. Frank saw several jurors scrutinize Sally Pope in a distinctly unfriendly manner at the mention of a second extramarital affair.

  “How long did your sexual relationship with the deceased’s wife go on?”

  “A few months.”

  “Why did it end?”

  Rose paused for dramatic effect before answering.

  “She wanted me to murder her husband and I refused.”

  Frank heard gasps from the gallery and saw shocked expressions on more than one juror’s face.

  “That’s a lie,” Sally whispered vehemently.

  “Can you relate the conversation in which the defendant asked you to kill her husband?” Burdett asked as he struggled successfully to stifle a triumphant smile.

  “Certainly. We were at a gathering on an estate in Dunthorpe at which Charlie Marsh, or Guru Gabriel Sun, or whatever he was calling himself, was lecturing about inner peace or some such nonsense. Mrs. Pope asked me to go outside after the lecture. She led me to a secluded spot in the garden. As soon as we were alone and out of the hearing of the other guests, Mrs. Pope asked me if I would like to earn a quarter of a million dollars. I asked her how I could do that. She said her husband was planning to divorce her. There was some kind of contract the congressman’s father
had insisted Mrs. Pope sign under the threat that he would disinherit his son if she didn’t. I don’t remember all of the details but the one that worried Mrs. Pope left her in bad shape financially if there was a divorce. But if her husband died before a divorce was final, she would inherit a fortune. She also said there was a life insurance policy for several million dollars. She sounded desperate.”

  “What did she suggest you do to help her avoid the consequences of a divorce?”

  “She wanted me to take care of her husband before he could file.”

  “What did she mean by ‘take care of’?”

  “Kill him. Murder him.”

  “There’s no question in your mind about that?”

  “None. She said she wanted him dead and how I did it would be left up to me.”

  “What was your response to Mrs. Pope’s request that you assassinate a member of the United States Congress?”

  “I told her she was nuts; that I wasn’t going to kill anyone, no matter how much money she offered me. Especially not a member of Congress. I mean, I’d have the whole federal government after me: the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service.

  “To tell the truth, I was also offended that she had such a low opinion of me that she thought I’d kill somebody for money. And it was pretty clear that she was using me. I mean, she acted like she loved me and she hinted that we could get married after Junior was out of the way, but I know she didn’t have any real feelings for me.”

  Rose shrugged. “She was great in bed, but she lost interest as soon as she climaxed, if you know what I mean.”

  Burdett chose to move on rather than follow up on that topic.

  “How did the defendant act after you refused to help her murder her husband?”

  “She was very upset. She called me names, insulted my manhood.” Rose shrugged again. “Mrs. Pope was used to getting her way with men and I think she was shocked that any man could refuse any request she made, no matter how crazy.”

  “Did anything happen while you were arguing?”

  “Yes, sir. Charlie Marsh showed up. It was obvious that he wanted to impress Mrs. Pope by coming to her rescue.”

  “What happened?”

  “He hit me when I wasn’t prepared. Then he had his bodyguard rough me up.”

  “Did the bodyguard display a weapon?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t get a good look at it but there was a gun in his waistband. He made sure I saw it.”

  “Was there anything distinctive about the weapon?”

  “I do remember a fancy handle.”

  Burdett asked permission to approach the witness and showed Rose the murder weapon.

  “Is this the gun Mr. Marsh’s bodyguard was carrying?”

  Rose took the revolver and examined the grip. “I can’t be certain,” he said. “I only saw the handle for a second. But this could be it.”

  Burdett returned the exhibit to the table holding the evidence, before continuing to question the witness.

  “Did you hear anything Mr. Marsh said to the defendant or anything she said to him after you fought?”

  “No. The bodyguard hauled me away and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t leave immediately. To tell the truth, after my conversation with Mrs. Pope I was pretty anxious to get as far from her as possible.”

  “Did you have any more contact with the defendant after your argument?”

  “No, sir. She did cancel her tennis lessons, but she did that with the pro shop.”

  Burdett consulted his notes. Then he addressed the judge.

  “No more questions on direct, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Jaffe?” Judge Hansen asked.

  Frank had no idea how to cross-examine Rose, so he did the only thing he could think to do.

  “It’s getting late, Your Honor,” Frank said. “I wonder if we can recess for the day?”

  Judge Hansen glanced at the clock. It was 4:45. “Very well, Mr. Jaffe. We’ll reconvene in the morning.”

  Frank had maintained a stone face during Rose’s devastating testimony. As soon as the jury left the courtroom, he leaned over to his client.

  “He made that up,” Sally Pope said before Frank could get a word out.

  Her voice was tight with anger.

  “It’s a crime to commit perjury. He could go to prison if I prove he’s lying. Why is he doing this?”

  “I can think of two reasons he’d lie under oath. One is revenge. When we went into the garden, I told Tony I didn’t want to see him anymore. He was upset when I broke it off.”

  “Rose doesn’t strike me as the type who’d lose sleep over a woman telling him their affair was over. No offense, but I’m guessing you’re not the first club member he’s seduced.”

  “I know for a fact I’m not. And, for the record, I seduced him. But Tony is used to being the one who breaks off the affair and I think I bruised his ego.”

  “What’s your other idea?”

  “Senior got to him just like he got to Jarvis. Tony’s not real big on ethics. He’d have no compunction about lying under oath if he was paid enough. Hell, if I had offered him a quarter million dollars to kill Arnie I bet he’d have done it.”

  Frank was about to say something else when Herb Cross pushed through the courtroom doors, sporting a wide smile.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked.

  “I found the photographer.”

  “Great work. Have you talked to him yet?”

  “No, but I know where he lives. I figured you’d want to come along.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Hey, is this Jack Rodriguez?” Herb Cross asked as soon as someone answered the phone. Cross was calling from Frank’s car, which was parked across the street from a poorly maintained rental home in a rundown section of North Portland. Weeds outnumbered grass in the overgrown postage-stamp front lawn, and the small Cape Cod hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in recent memory.

  “Who’s this?” was the cautious answer.

  “Are you the private detective?” Cross asked, trying to sound as paranoid as the man to whom he was speaking.

  “Yeah,” Rodriguez answered, perkier now that he smelled a buck. “What can I do for you?”

  “Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking on the phone, if you know what I mean.”

  “Certainly. I definitely understand the need for confidentiality. So, where do you want to meet?”

  “Do you have an office?”

  “No, I find it’s better not to draw too much attention to myself.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. Mr. Jarvis told me you don’t have an office. I forgot.”

  “Who?”

  Cross heard panic in the PI’s voice.

  “Otto Jarvis, the lawyer. He gave me your number. He said you do really good work.”

  There was dead air. When Rodriguez spoke, he sounded very nervous.

  “Here’s the thing. I just checked my calendar and I forgot about a project that’s going to take me out of town for a while. So I don’t think I can do anything for you right now.”

  “Oh man, that’s disappointing, because Mr. Jarvis said you’re the go-to guy if someone thinks their wife is, uh, you know what I mean.”

  “Not really, and I think you have the wrong guy, anyway, because I don’t know this Jarvis guy. So, good luck with your wife.”

  The moment Rodriguez hung up, Cross called Frank, who was stationed near the back door of the PI’s house.

  “He denied knowing Jarvis, but he got very panicky as soon as I mentioned his name. I figure he’ll be coming out any minute. I’ve got the front.”

  Cross put the cell phone in his pocket and started across the street. He saw a curtain move. He hoped Rodriguez would make a break for it so they wouldn’t have to figure out how to get in his house. He also hoped the PI didn’t have a gun.

  FRANK HAD SWAPPED his suit for a black leather jacket, a black turtleneck, and black slacks, which-along with his thick upper body and broken nose-made him look like a thug. As soon as he heard t
he back door open and close, he stepped around the corner of the house and into Rodriguez’s path.

  “Where you headed, Mr. Rodriguez?” he asked as the PI skidded to a stop. Rodriguez was skinny and about five foot seven. His long black hair was greasy and unkempt and Frank saw acne scars on his sunken cheeks. The lawyer didn’t think Rodriguez would try to fight but he looked like he might be fast, so Frank clamped a hand on his forearm.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Rodriguez asked, trying to sound tough and failing miserably.

  “Why don’t we tell you inside,” Frank said as Herb Cross walked up behind the PI.

  Frank’s investigator had his hand stuffed in his jacket pocket as if he were holding a gun. Rodriguez’s eyes darted between his captors. While the PI was making up his mind, Herb opened the back door and Frank made the choice for him by pushing Rodriguez inside.

  The blinds were down and a low-wattage bulb in a standing lamp cast a sickly pale light over a disgustingly dirty living room. Soiled clothes, skin magazines, and dirty dishes were strewn around. The smell of stale pizza and sweat made Frank wince. He decided that calling the house a pigsty would insult swine everywhere. The only neat spot was a corner of the room given over to a computer, printer, fax, and telephone. Frank guessed that this oasis of cleanliness served as Rodriguez’s office.

  “How do you live here?” Frank asked.

  “Fuck you,” the PI answered without much conviction.

  Frank shoved Rodriguez onto the couch and stood over him, because he was afraid to sit on any of the furniture.

  “What’s this all about?” Rodriguez asked.

  “We know you took the pictures of Sally Pope with Charlie Marsh,” Frank said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rodriguez said as he folded his arms across his chest and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Frank.

  “Explain how he fucked up,” Frank said to Cross.

  “You made a really amateurish mistake, Jack,” Frank’s investigator said. He handed the PI one of the photographs that had been shot through the windshield of a car.

  “I’ve never seen this before.”