Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  “What about a murder weapon?” Sylvia asked. “I mean, how was she killed?”

  She and Eddie didn’t need to know about the lug wrench. “I’m not sure, but they must have found something that led to the arrest.”

  Eddie said, “I never blamed Jim a bit for losing his cool with Lori. She was such a selfish bit—”

  Sylvia said, “Don’t, Eddie. What would Jim say if he heard you running down Lori, for God’s sake?”

  “Well, you know it’s true, Syl,” Eddie shot back. “She thought she was going to be crowned the wine queen of Oregon when she married Jim. Boy, was she surprised.”

  When we arrived at the county jail, I asked to see Jim and was told he was still being processed. We waited an hour and a half in a cold, echoing hallway until a uniformed woman showed up and escorted me to a secure conference room. Wearing a bright orange pullover and pants, a pair of white canvas slip-ons, and stainless steel handcuffs, Jim was led to a chair across from me. The guard uncuffed him, nodded to me, and left the room.

  Jim puffed a breath and shook his head. “You’d think I was Hannibal Lecter.”

  “Did Ballard and Rodriquez try to interview you?”

  “Yeah. I told them I wouldn’t talk without you present. What did Eddie and Sylvia say?”

  “They were incensed. They came with me.”

  He blinked rapidly a couple of times and looked down, avoiding tears. “My sister’s gone. They’re the only family I’ve got. But they shouldn’t have come.” He exhaled and shook his head. “This is humiliating. First the goddamn fight in the cemetery, now this. Did you talk to Candice?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, she’s handling the situation back at Truc.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. His beard suddenly looked unkempt, as if being arrested caused it to go wild. “I wanted that dinner to go well, you know?” He looked at me, his eyes shiny in the garish fluorescent lights.

  “I know. Look, Jim. I need you to focus. We have important issues to deal with here.”

  He put his hands up. “Okay, okay. What happens next?”

  “You’ll be arraigned on Monday morning. They’ll outline the charges against you, and you’ll be given an opportunity to enter a plea.”

  He nodded. “Not fucking guilty, that’s my plea. You’re going to be my lawyer, right?”

  “For this phase, then we’ll see.”

  He was incredulous. “See about what?”

  “This is an important decision for you. You may want to shop around.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “When can you get me out of here?”

  “I’ll ask for a bail hearing at the arraignment. The judge will set a date. But, getting you out on bail is problematic.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “There’s no bail for murder in Oregon unless we can show that the prosecutor’s evidence is lacking, and that’s a very high bar.”

  “What if I don’t get bail? How long before we get this thing cleared up?”

  I knew this question was coming and dreaded it. “Uh, it could be twelve months or more before your case comes to trial.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? I’d be sitting in jail all that time?” That can’t happen, Cal. I’ve got wine to make. If I can’t work I’ll lose Truc, and I’ll go fucking crazy, too.”

  I put a hand up. “Whoa. We’ll argue hard for bail. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “Alright. Suppose I do get bail, what’ll it cost me?”

  “It varies with the judge, but murder comes in high, two hundred fifty, maybe three hundred, possibly more.”

  “Thousand?”

  I nodded. You don’t need a bond in Oregon, but you’ll need to post a ten percent deposit. When you show up for trial, you’ll get it back less the fifteen percent the court keeps.”

  “So, I need thirty-five thousand in cash up front? He slid down in his seat. “Oh, shit, I don’t have that kind of cash lying around right now.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope. I run close to the bone. Our grapes came in way above what I forecasted this year. That required a big crew, and I just paid them all. That depleted my cash drawer.”

  “Can’t you borrow against your property?”

  He puffed a breath and shook his head. “Already been to that well. I’ll, uh, have to sell some Remonds, maybe discount some bulk wine for a fire sale.”

  “Remonds?”

  “French oak barrels, best on the market. Got a pretty high inventory right now. Maybe I can sell twenty-five or thirty to someone on the hill. Candice can take care of that and see about moving some wine in a hurry.”

  We agreed that I’d talk to her about setting this up and tell her not to pull the trigger until we knew how the bail hearing came out. At this point it was clear Jim couldn’t afford one of the bigger law firms in Portland for his defense, which is what I was going to advise him to consider. After all, I was a one-man show, and a murder trial sucks up the resources like an industrial vacuum cleaner. But he couldn’t afford the retainer for those firms, let alone the fees.

  There was another issue that crossed my mind—if I took the case I needed to be damn careful it didn’t break me as well.

  Jim seemed to sense my concern. He opened his big hands and leaned forward. “Look, Cal, I want you to represent me. And don’t worry, I’ll pay your fee, I promise you.”

  “I know you will, but I can’t take my entire fee in wine.” We both laughed, and then I met his eyes. “I want you to know that I believe in your innocence.”

  “I didn’t think you lawyers were supposed to worry about that.”

  I smiled. “You’re right. It’s not supposed to be about guilt or innocence but whether or not the prosecution can prove its case. There are plenty of lawyers out there who’ll gladly take any case that comes along, but I figure life’s too short to spend it trying to get people off.”

  He held my gaze. “Thanks, Cal. I’m glad you’re in my corner.”

  It was settled. I would defend my friend against a charge of murder brought by the District Attorney of Yamhill County on behalf of its citizens. I pulled out a small spiral notebook and a pen I’d found in my glove compartment and took Jim through the few questions I could think to ask at that point. I learned that he never kept his Jeep locked and that it was used frequently by Juan and some of the field hands to take trailer loads to a compost heap they kept on the east end of the property. There had been no break-ins or suspected ones, either, at Le Petit Truc.

  “You mentioned using the lug wrench on your tractor,” I went on. “Who was involved in that work?”

  “Juan and one of the field hands, Xavier Duran, I think. We were repacking the wheel bearings.” He snapped his fingers. “Maybe that’s why the cops took that can of Arrow. That’s the grease we use.”

  I nodded. “I think they’re going to claim a lug wrench like yours was used as the murder weapon. Maybe they think the grease can help them tie it to you.”

  Jim smirked. “Sounds like they’re reaching.”

  “We’ll see what they have. Now, what about Lori? Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?”

  He flinched at the sound of her name. “Like I told the detectives, no one.”

  “What about friends, people she would confide in?”

  He massaged his forehead for a moment. “She didn’t have a lot of girlfriends, you know? Candice was one, and Sylvia. Some others I can’t think of right now. The woman who cut her hair, I think.”

  “Candice’s last name is Roberts, right?”

  “Yeah. They were pretty tight.”

  “What about you? Any enemies I don’t know about?”

  He managed a smile. “Just my competitors. But it’s always been friendly competition, with the exception of Blake Daniels, I suppose.”

 
Daniels owned Rolling Hills, a big winery whose acreage was separated from Jim’s by Sean McKnight’s farm. I knew he was divorced and had a reputation as a player. “What’s the problem between you and Daniels?”

  He shrugged. “Philosophy, mainly. He’s nouveau, you know. It’s all about technology with him. He’s got a master’s in enology from UC Davis. I’m old school, self-taught.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I’m all about the Burgundian method. I mean, who can argue with centuries of success? We’re after quality not yield. We use a slow fermentation with native yeasts, age in French oak instead of stainless steel, and we don’t rush a damn thing except the grape harvest. No pesticides, either. For Daniels, profits are front and center. He can’t seem to get it in his head that a ton and gun operation like he runs is not going to produce a truly fine wine. We used to be, you know, cordial, but as Truc started to build a name, he’s become a real asshole.”

  “Competition alone made you two enemies?”

  Jim’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw his jaw flex beneath his beard. “I didn’t like the way he looked at Lori, either. The man thinks he’s a fucking gift to women.” He shifted in his seat and looked past me. “We were out drinking one night after a vintner’s social. I went to take a leak, and when I came back, Daniels has his head in close, talking to Lori at the bar. It wasn’t the first time he’d been sniffing around her. I spun him around, and we would have gotten into it right there if Eddie hadn’t stepped in.”

  “Looks like Eddie makes a habit of intervening on your behalf.”

  “Yeah, you could say that. He’s a good kid. Crazy about my niece, too.”

  “What about Lori’s stepbrother, Abernathy? I wouldn’t say he’s any fan of yours.”

  “Aaron? Yeah, he and I clashed from day one. I can’t abide that hipster bullshit.” He laughed dismissively. “He wanted me to loan him the money to start a retail marijuana business in Portland. Thought I was loaded, I guess.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “To pack sand, that’s what. He would have smoked up all the profits.”

  “Did Lori pressure you any?”

  “Nah. She wasn’t about sharing our money with anyone.”

  “How did he get along with Lori?”

  “They weren’t blood, and they weren’t close. He probably thought she should have done more to twist my arm about the head shop, but I can’t say for sure. The Old Man, Aaron’s dad, thought the world of Lori, so maybe some jealousy mixed in, too.”

  We talked some more, but that was all I got that was potentially useful. Jim borrowed my notebook and wrote out a couple of pages of instructions for Juan and another couple for Candice and gave them to me. I waited while the guard came in and led him out. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” I told him. “Keep the faith.”

  Keep the faith. I said that as much to myself as to Jim. I didn’t like the way this was lining up. Clearly, the murder charge, whether we eventually beat it or not, was a shot below Jim’s waterline, a shot that was premeditated and well executed. And win or lose, the cost of conducting a full-blown murder trial was prohibitive, to say the least. Of course, there was one way to short circuit this—not by developing an alternate theory of the crime, but by finding out who really killed Lori Kavanaugh.

  That was a tall order, but sometimes the best defense is a good offense.

  Chapter Nine

  “Let me know when the arraignment is, Cal. I want to be there,” Eddie said, after I briefed him and Sylvia on the way back to Le Petit Truc.

  “It’ll be short but not sweet,” I warned. “They’ll charge him, we’ll plead innocent, and we’ll ask for a bail hearing.”

  “I don’t care how short it is, I’ll be there if I can.”

  The crowd had cleared back at Le Petit Truc, and Juan and Candice were both busy on the terrace with the cleanup. They looked up in unison when we approached. “Jim’s okay,” I said. “He was concerned that his arrest would spoil the feast.”

  Candice furrowed her forehead. “People left early, but they managed to finish off most of the food and wine. I told them it was a mistake, like you suggested, but some people knew about the incident at the cemetery and left shaking their heads.” She drew her mouth into a firm line and looked me in the eye. “No way Jim would harm a hair on Lori’s head. Are you going to defend him, Cal?”

  I nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “Good.”

  I gave Jim’s note to Juan, and after reading it he said, “No problem. We’ll make sure the fermentation goes well. Jim shouldn’t worry about this.” He folded the note, placed it in his shirt pocket, and shifted his feet. “I checked on the man you asked me about, Luis Delgado. He was a coyote de drogas, a drug smuggler, but small time, you know? He also worked in the fields and vineyards, some, in between trips to Mexico.”

  “Did he have family here or friends he hung out with?”

  “I’m still working on that. I’ll let you know.”

  “That would be helpful. Another thing”—I took the notebook out and paged through it—“Jim mentioned a man named Xavier, Xavier Duran. He said he helped with some work on the tractor a couple of months ago. What do you know about him?”

  “He’s new to the hills. A good mechanic.”

  “Did he handle the lug wrench from Jim’s Jeep?”

  Juan paused for a couple of beats. “I guess so. All three of us did.”

  “Did the wrench get put back in the Jeep?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Who put it back?”

  He paused again. “I’m not sure. Probably Jim.”

  “Any way I could talk to Duran?”

  Juan nodded. “He has some English. I’ll set it up.”

  Before I left, I explained the bail situation to Candice and gave her Jim’s note. I also told her I wanted to talk to her, and we exchanged cell phone numbers.

  It was early days, but I left Le Petit Truc that night feeling like I wasn’t in this fight completely alone.

  ***

  That Friday, I coupled a court date in McMinnville—the restraining order hearing for Audrey Steele—with a short visit to Jim in the county jail. His beard was even more disheveled, and his eyes had taken on an almost feral quality. “I don’t know what’s worse, Cal,” he told me by way of a greeting, “thinking about my wine going to shit or about my wife lying in a cold grave.”

  He broke down, and I held my friend while he sobbed. “Give it some time,” was all I could think to say.

  After regaining his composure, he sat down. “Did you give Juan my note?” I assured him I had and that the fermentation was proceeding apace. “What about Candice? She think she can raise the cash?”

  “She said don’t worry about the money. She’ll get it.”

  That seemed to calm him down somewhat, and after going through the arraignment procedure, he wrote out another set of notes for Juan and Candice. I left feeling uneasy. Some people are psychologically ill-equipped to deal with incarceration, and Jim was obviously one of those people. I hated to think what a year of waiting for a trial would do to him, or, God forbid, losing the case. A fist formed in my gut and twisted a half turn.

  ***

  Archie lobbied hard for a jog that Saturday morning, but the temperature dropped overnight and a cold rain had swept in off the valley. I stood at the kitchen sink sipping a cappuccino as drops of viscous rain sloshed against the windows and my resolve weakened. Arch lay in front of the kitchen door, his chin resting between his white-booted paws and his big chestnut-colored eyes watching me expectantly. “It’s not going to happen, Big Boy, I told him as I carried my coffee into my study and logged in.

  My heart swelled a little when I saw an e-mail from my daughter, Claire. With a newly acquired Ph.D. in environmental science, she was doing research on
climate change at Harvard now. Complaining about starvation wages, she asked if I could spring for a plane ticket so she could come home for Christmas. I told her I could and that I would try to arrange some decent snow on Mt Hood for skiing, too.

  I was lost in thought about Claire when Juan called with two pieces of information. First, he gave me the cell number of Xavier Duran, who, he explained, would be expecting a call from me. Second, he told me Luis Delgado used to hang out at a little bar in Dundee called the San Blas with a guy whose street name was El Burro because of all the crack and heroin he carried up from Mexico.

  “Will he talk to me?”

  “I don’t know, Cal. He works for cartel scum.” He paused for a moment. “Is this about Jim?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I want to talk to this guy. Today, if possible. Tell him I’m not a cop or a narc.”

  Another pause. “I’ll try to set it up. He likes the happy hour at the San Blas. I’m told he’s in town, so tonight’s good. If he’s there and agrees I’ll bring him out to your car, say, around five thirty. He won’t want to be seen talking to a gringo.”

  That afternoon, Xavier Duran met me for a coffee. A cheerful man with an open demeanor, his account of the work on the tractor was similar to Juan’s. They all used the lug wrench, and if anyone put it back in the Grand Cherokee it was probably Jim. “How easy would it have been for someone to take the lug wrench out of the Jeep after Jim put it back?” I asked.

  “Oh, no problem. It’s never locked, and everyone knows that.”

  At five twenty that evening I sat at the far end of the San Blas parking lot in my old 3-series Beemer, which was idling with the heater on. Juan arrived shortly after me, went into the bar, and several minutes later came out with a beefy, slope-shouldered guy with an intricate crosshatch of neck tattoos. I rolled the window down, Juan introduced El Burro, nodded to me, and left.

  “I’m sorry that your friend, Luis Delgado, was killed,” I began after he seated himself and closed the door. He nodded, his eyes shadowed in the low light. “I’m a lawyer here in Dundee, and I’m not involved in the case in any way.” Another nod. “A friend of mine was killed the same night Delgado was. You may have read about it, a woman named Lori Kavanaugh.” He shrugged. Complete indifference. “People are saying that Delgado was killed because of his business dealings in Mexico.” I paused, and El Burro’s face remained impassive. “I’m wondering if you have an opinion about this.”