A Reasonable Doubt

by Phillip Margolin

  Jimmy found his old cellmate sitting on his front porch.

  When Timothy saw Jimmy, he stood up and greeted him with a big grin. “Hey, man, I heard you got out.”

  “And I heard you been fucking my woman,” Jimmy said as he drew his gun and aimed it at Timothy’s chest.

  Timothy’s eyes went wide, and he threw his hands in the air. “What woman?”

  “Loretta.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Pete Knox.”

  “Knox is lying. He thinks I ratted him out to the cops, which I didn’t. And Loretta doesn’t even live around here anymore. She moved years ago.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. If she moved, she woulda told me.”

  Jimmy squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Timothy in the chest. Timothy screamed. The bullet bounced off his chest. Jimmy’s eyes went wide. He pulled the trigger again, and the bullet bounced off Timothy’s chest again.

  This time, Jimmy screamed. Then he threw the gun in the air, yelled, “Jesus save me, Jesus save me,” and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Jimmy passed a church during his flight from Timothy’s house. When he saw a statue of Jesus on the lawn, he stopped dead. Moments later, he was in confession. Less than an hour later, the priest had walked Jimmy to the nearest police station, where he told a detective what he had done.

  It is true that Jimmy started going to chapel because it was an essential part of his plan to get out of prison, but somewhere during those years of churchgoing and talks with the chaplain, Jimmy had taken the Lord into his heart. When he told the parole board that he had found God, he wasn’t really lying, and it was his sincerity that convinced the board members to grant his parole. Still, there was a part of Jimmy that wondered if God really existed. That all changed the second he shot Timothy Rankin in the chest twice at point-blank range and saw the bullets bounce into the air.

  The priest who accompanied Jimmy to the police station believed that Jimmy O’Leary had truly accepted Christ. He also believed that Jimmy needed a good lawyer, and he remembered Barry McGill, one of his parishioners, telling him about a very good lawyer named Robin Lockwood who worked out at his gym.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Barry McGill waited to talk to Robin until she came out of the locker room. “You got a minute?”

  Robin stopped and put down her gym bag.

  “You know I go to church.”

  “I do.”

  “So, this Sunday, after the service, Father Gregory, my priest, asked me if I knew a good criminal lawyer.”

  “The priest isn’t in trouble, is he?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. It’s this guy who ran into his church and confessed to shooting this other guy. Only the guy that got shot didn’t die, and something really strange happened.”

  “‘Strange’ like how?”

  * * *

  Robin dropped her workout gear in her office. Then she went to see Jeff, who was eating a doughnut and sipping coffee while reading the sports page. Robin knocked on the doorjamb.

  Jeff looked up and smiled. “You look very sexy this morning,” he said.

  “And you look like you’re engaged in frivolous activities on company time.”

  “Hey, I have to keep up on the sports news in case a Trail Blazer wants to hire us.”

  “I apologize,” Robin said as she dropped onto a chair across from her boyfriend. “But it’s time for you to earn your keep. We have a case right out of The Twilight Zone.”

  “Oh?”

  “Our newest client shot a guy twice at point-blank range, and the bullets bounced off his chest.”

  “‘On any other day, that might seem strange,’” the investigator said, quoting his favorite line from Con Air, one of his all-time favorite movies. Then he held up the Arts and Entertainment section of the newspaper and pointed to a full-page ad.

  “You’re kidding?!”

  The ad contained a color photograph of Robert Chesterfield in a flowing black robe surrounded by three beautiful women—a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette—who were dressed in bright red robes adorned with yellow hieroglyphics. It proclaimed that Lord Robert Chesterfield—“one of the world’s great magicians”—was going to rise from the dead during the premiere of the Chamber of Death at the Imperial Theater.

  “Has Chesterfield or any of his people called?” Robin asked.

  “Not that I know,” Jeff said.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think we have to think about Robert Chesterfield unless he does call us. Now, tell me about this bullet thing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Homicide Detective Carrie Anders spotted Roger Dillon’s car when she pulled into the rain-soaked supermarket parking lot at 11:15 in the evening. There was only a sliver of moon, but light from the poles the store had spread around the lot cast a soft glow over the puddled asphalt.

  Detectives Dillon and Anders were a study in contrasts. Roger was in his fifties, and he dressed in fashionable suits and wore expensive, conservative ties. He was average height and slender, and his salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses made him look like an academic.

  Anders was thirty-four, over six feet tall, and weighed a hulking 220 pounds. She dressed for comfort in pant suits that were often wrinkled and man-tailored shirts. People frequently underestimated her intelligence because of her bulk, her placid expression, and the slow way she spoke, but she had been a math major in college and was whip smart.

  Anders walked to Dillon’s car as soon as he opened his door. Heavy drops pounded down from roiling black clouds, and Dillon pulled up the hood attached to his windbreaker when he got out.

  “Congratulations,” Anders said to her partner. “I hear Tara was accepted at Berkeley.”

  Dillon beamed. “She’s also been accepted at a few other schools. Serena and Tara are going to visit her top choices next week.”

  The two detectives talked about the colleges Dillon’s daughter had gotten into as they walked toward an area of the parking lot that had been cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape.

  Sally Grace, the medical examiner, walked over to greet the detectives.

  “What have we got?” Dillon asked.

  “A white male, late sixties, early seventies,” Dr. Grace said. “There was a bag of groceries next to the body. The keys in his pocket opened the car he was lying behind. It looks like he was going to put the groceries in the trunk when the killer came up behind and shot him.”

  “Any ID?”

  Grace shook her head. “No wallet, so I’m guessing he’s the victim of a robbery. But you’re the detectives.”

  Dillon and Anders followed Grace to the body, which was surrounded by techs from the crime lab. A tent had been erected over the corpse to shield the area around the body from the rain, but Dillon figured that any evidence that might help find the perpetrator had been washed away by the heavy downpour.

  He started to say something, then stopped in midsentence and squatted next to the corpse. “This is Henry Beathard. He was a Multnomah County Circuit Court judge until he retired a few years ago.”

  Anders stared at the dead man’s face. Then she shook her head sadly. “You’re right. I testified in his court a few times. He was a good guy and a fair judge. What a shame.”

  Dillon stood up. “Are there any witnesses?”

  “A shopper walked past the body on the way to her car and called 911. The first responder took her statement. She didn’t hear the shots. There weren’t many cars here this late, so she probably would have seen a car leaving, but she says she didn’t see anyone walking or driving away.”

  Dillon used his phone to take a picture of Beathard’s face. “I’m going inside to talk to the people in the store,” Dillon said. “Maybe someone noticed a person watching the judge or acting oddly.”

  “See if they have security cameras trained on this spot.”

  “Will do.”

  “Let us know what the autopsy t
urns up,” Anders said to Dr. Grace.

  The detectives headed for the store. Dillon had heard the judge was married and had grandkids. He sighed. You work hard, keep your nose clean, look forward to retirement, and life happens. It wasn’t fair, but Dillon knew that life’s not being fair was the rule and not the exception.

  * * *

  Regina Barrister and Stanley Cloud were cuddling on the sofa, holding hands when the evening news came on. Regina had made a habit of watching the evening news years ago when she started practicing law, because people featured at eleven o’clock at night often phoned her first thing in the morning. She’d kept the routine even when events that should have been familiar became less so.

  “A fatal shooting in the parking lot of a Portland supermarket has brought a tragic end to the life of Henry Beathard, a retired and respected Multnomah County judge,” the newscaster said as the screen showed yellow crime-scene tape brightening a dark, waterlogged parking lot.

  “Ah no,” Stanley moaned.

  Regina’s brow furrowed. “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, and you did, too, Reggie. You had several cases in Henry’s court.” Stanley sighed. “He was a really good guy. We had dinner with him and Marie a few times too. You liked Henry. You thought he was a very good judge.”

  Regina paused as a thought tickled the edge of her memory. “Did I have any big cases in his court?”

  “You might be thinking about a man you defended a long time ago, Robert Chesterfield. He’s a magician.”

  “Why does he sound so familiar?”

  “Robin, your partner, represented him a couple of years ago. She came here to talk to you about him. Then he disappeared. His name was in the paper today. He’s back in town, and he’s going to perform a show at the Imperial. That’s what you’re probably thinking about.”

  “Robert Chesterfield,” Regina repeated. “What did he do?”

  “They said that he murdered two people, but you were brilliant, and you forced the DA to dismiss the case.”

  “Was he guilty?”

  “You were evasive the only time we talked about the case. You said that you would have had a reasonable doubt if you served on his jury, but you never told me what you really thought about his culpability.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Robin entered the contact visiting room at the jail, she found James O’Leary sitting with his hands folded in front of him, smiling serenely like a Buddhist who has achieved Nirvana.

  “Hi, Mr. O’Leary. My name is Robin Lockwood. I’m a lawyer, and Father Gregory asked me to help you with your case.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” Jimmy said.

  “You’re charged with attempted murder, so you probably do need a lawyer.”

  “God is my attorney.”

  “God won’t be able to represent you in an Oregon court unless he’s a member of the Oregon State Bar.”

  The smile never left Jimmy’s face, but he did shake his head. “It ain’t nice to joke about the Lord, Miss Lockwood.”

  “You’re right. I apologize. But Father Gregory is very worried about you, and he wants me to help out. Do you have any objection to my working with God to help him get a just result?”

  Jimmy thought for a moment. “I guess that would be okay.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Jimmy told Robin about Peter Knox, Loretta, and Timothy Rankin. Then he told her about digging the gun and the bullets out from under the junk in the shed and what had happened at Rankin’s house. When Jimmy had finished, Robin had a few ideas about what had turned Timothy Rankin into a superhero.

  * * *

  Several days of rain had given way to a few dry days. A heavyset man with a beer belly and thick beard was sitting on his front porch, drinking a Widmer IPA and taking advantage of the weather.

  “Timothy Rankin?” Robin asked when she and Jeff Hodges walked up.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Robin held out her business card. “I’m Jimmy O’Leary’s attorney, and this is Jeff Hodges. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Is this about Jimmy saying he tried to shoot me?”

  “Yes.”

  Rankin broke out laughing. “Those cops said Jimmy told them he shot me in the chest and the bullets bounced off.” Rankin laughed again. “Does Jimmy think I’m Superman?”

  “So, you’re saying that Jimmy didn’t shoot you.”

  “Would I be talking to you if Jimmy shot me?” Rankin shook his head. “Did they test Jimmy for drugs, because it sounds to me like he was smoking something powerful.”

  “If Jimmy didn’t shoot you, why did you call the police?”

  “I didn’t.” Rankin cocked his head toward the house next door. “It was the neighbor. She’s always sticking her nose in where it don’t belong.”

  “Jimmy said he threw the gun away. Did the police find the gun or the bullets?”

  “I saw them looking around, but I don’t know how they’d find something that was never there.”

  “Am I correct in concluding that you will not testify that Jimmy O’Leary tried to kill you?” Robin asked.

  “Of course not. I like Jimmy. We were cellmates. I don’t know why he made up this crazy story, but it is crazy.” Rankin chuckled. “Jimmy is fucked up in the head, if you ask me. Bullets bouncing off me. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  Robin decided to go while the getting was good. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rankin.”

  “I ain’t got nothing but time. Say hi to Jimmy for me when you see him, will you?”

  Jeff led Robin to their car.

  “What do you think really happened?” Jeff asked when they drove away.

  “I think Jimmy shot Mr. Rankin, but Rankin doesn’t want to press charges.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe because he’s helping a friend who was lied to by Peter Knox, or maybe he’s afraid Jimmy’s friends will come after him if he testifies.” Robin shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter, if we can get the DA to dismiss.”

  “And the gun and the bullets?”

  “My guess is that Rankin got rid of them.”

  “What about O’Leary’s crazy story about the bullets bouncing off Rankin?”

  “It’s not so crazy. I talked to Paul Baylor at Oregon Forensics. Those bullets had been sitting around for a long time in an old shed. Jimmy told me that the cardboard box that held the bullets was waterlogged. When you fire a gun, the hammer hits the back of the bullet cartridge and ignites the primer, which ignites the powder charge. If the charge was wet, it could deteriorate and you could get a dud that would travel only a few feet with very little power.”

  “So maybe Jimmy isn’t crazy.”

  “Crazy or not, it looks like he’s going to walk.”

  * * *

  Robin went back to her office and called the deputy DA who had the O’Leary case. He wasn’t in, so she left a message asking him to call her. As soon as she completed the call, she started checking her emails. Halfway through, the receptionist told her that she had a call.

  “Miss Lockwood?” a voice from the past asked.

  “Chesterfield?!”

  “It is I.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “Do you still have my retainer?”

  “It’s in my trust account.”

  “How much is left?”

  “Most of it. I didn’t do much work on your case.”

  “Excellent. I was wondering if you might bring the balance to me in cash.”

  “I’ll have my secretary go to the bank tomorrow. Come by after noon, and it will be at the front desk.”

  “Actually, I was hoping that you could meet me this afternoon.”

  “I have a lot of work to do. It would be easier if you came here.”

  “I agree, but I’m being followed, and I’m concerned that these individuals might stake out your office.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in, Robert?”
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  “It’s nothing you need worry about.”

  “You just told me that people are watching my office. If these people warrant concern, then I am going to worry. What is going on?”

  “I’ll explain when you bring the money.”

  Robin debated refusing to bring Chesterfield the cash, but her curiosity overrode her common sense. “Where do you want to meet?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Robin left the bank and walked across the Burnside Bridge to the east side of the Willamette River. The sky was threatening another deluge, and the streets were deserted. Chesterfield had spooked Robin with his talk of stakeouts and stalkers, so she was hypervigilant as she headed to the Stumptown Tavern.

  Robin thought she saw the same person following her on two occasions, but she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a trick played by her imagination. She doubled back twice, cut through an alley, and didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious by the time she reached her destination.

  Robin searched the tavern’s dark interior. A couple in their forties occupied a booth near the front, and three men who looked like laborers occupied another booth. The rest of the booths were vacant. An overweight woman in jeans and a sweatshirt and a man who was too tall to be Chesterfield were seated at the bar. Robin took a seat in an empty booth in the back, and that gave her a view of the front door. She had been sitting in the booth for ten minutes when a man in a baseball cap and a soiled raincoat materialized across from her.

  “Sorry if I startled you, but I had to make sure you weren’t followed,” Chesterfield said as he slid onto the bench across from Robin and took off the cap.