Judgement Calls Read online

  put up with me, and trying to burn off all the crap I eat, I have just

  enough time left for my chunky little pal. I have no idea how other

  people manage to be needed by whole other tiny little individual people

  and still maintain their sanity.

  I went into the kitchen and checked the level on Vinnie's feeder to be

  sure he ate. He had. He takes after me that way. Every little

  meat-flavored morsel was gone. I was sorry I missed it. Vinnie's so

  low to the ground that he has to reach his neck up over the bowl and

  then plop his whole face inside to eat. Then he picks out all the soft

  and chewy nuggets from his Kibbles "N Bits. When those are gone, he

  eats the dry stuff. When he really gets going, he breathes fast and

  loud like an old fat man.

  I must've been really hungry, because that mental image actually made

  me think of food. I was torn between the refrigerator and my bed.

  I was leaning toward the latter when I noticed the message light

  flashing on my machine. I knew if I tried to sleep now, I'd be lying

  in bed wondering who called. I hit the Play button and unpeeled a

  banana that was turning brown and spotty on the counter.

  "Sammie, it's your old man. Are you there? I guess not. Glad to see

  you're out and not sitting at home alone reading a book with that

  rodent you call a dog. Hi, Vinnie. You know I'm only kidding. You

  can't help being ugly, little man."

  I love it that my father laughs louder at his own jokes than anyone

  else. I wonder if he knows the people doubling up around him when he

  talks are enjoying Martin Kincaid's contagious delight with life and

  not the substance of what he's saying.

  "Anyway, baby, I hope you're doing OK. You got a hot date or

  something? I was going to come by today and mow your lawn if it was

  dry again, but old Mother Nature, she had other plans. I went and saw

  a movie instead. I tell you, that Kevin Spacey is something else. You

  have to see this picture. OK, I don't want to take up your whole

  machine. You've probably got all kinds of men trying to call you. Some

  real winners from down at the courthouse. I'm just giving you a hard

  time, Sammie. You know I'm proud of you. You're a top-notch human

  being. Give me a call tomorrow if you've got some time. "Bye."

  I'd finished my banana by the time he hung up. The length of my

  father's phone messages correlates directly with how lonely he is in

  his empty house. My mother died almost two years ago, just seven

  months after doctors found a lump in her right breast. As much as I

  wish I had never married my ex-husband, the marriage had at least

  brought me back to Portland, so I was here for my mother's last few

  months.

  In retrospect, it was quick as far as those things go, but at the time

  it seemed like an eternity. Mom was as tough a fighter as they make,

  but in the end the cancer was too much even for her. People like to

  say that my father and I are lucky that she passed quickly, once it was

  clear that treatment was futile. Maybe I'm selfish, but I don't

  agree.

  Since Mom died, I'd spent more time with my father as he adjusted to

  life as a widower. He was doing as well as could be expected under the

  circumstances. He retired from federal employment as a forest ranger

  last year, so he has a good pension and reliable benefits. Without a

  job to go to, he now finds comfort in his routine. He goes to the gym,

  takes care of the yard, watches his shows, goes target shooting, and

  plays checkers with his ninety-year-old next-door neighbor.

  I see my dad at least every weekend. We usually catch a movie and then

  wind up talking for a few hours afterward. Grace comes with us

  sometimes. So does Chuck, when we're getting along. I think it makes

  Dad happy to see me with friends he's known and liked since I was a

  kid. He never did like Shoe Boy and thinks most of my lawyer friends

  are snobs. Too bad I didn't inherit his good judgment.

  It was much too late to call him back, so I got ready for bed, snuggled

  into the blankets, and picked up a mystery I'd started the week before.

  Vinnie followed me into bed, lying by my feet on his stomach with all

  four legs splayed out around him like a bear rug. I only made it

  through a few pages before I nodded off and dropped the book on my

  face. There's a reason I only read paperbacks.

  The sun shining through my bedroom window woke me the next morning

  before the alarm. It was a nice change from a typical Portland

  February, when the excitement of the holidays is over and the endless

  monotony of dark, wet, gray days makes it hard to get out of bed. It

  was just after six o'clock, leaving me enough time for a quick run

  before work. I hopped out of bed, pulled on my sweats and running

  shoes, and brushed my teeth before setting out on a four-mile course

  through my neighborhood.

  For the first time since October, I was able to look around clearly at

  my neighborhood rather than squint through a steady fall of drizzle. As

  I ran past the coffee shops, bookstores, and restaurants along the

  tree-lined streets of my historic neighborhood in northeast Portland

  called Alameda the brisk dry air stung my cheeks and filled my lungs.

  Running clears my head and helps me see the world in a better light.

  I finished up my fourth mile about a half hour later, and hung on to my

  good mood while I listened to a block of "Monday Morning Nonstop Retro

  Boogie" in the shower. One of the benefits of living alone is that you

  can belt out the entire Saturday Night Fever sound track in the shower

  if you feel like it, and no one complains, even if you sing like me.

  Grace had recently convinced me to trade in my usual shoulder-length

  bob for a wispy little do. When she dried it at the salon, my hair

  looked like it belonged on one of the more glamorous CNN anchors. When

  I tried it at home, I ended up looking like a brunette baby bird. It

  wasn't too bad today, so I spruced it up with gel and slapped on some

  blush and eyebrow pencil. I caught a quick look in the mirror. At

  five-eight and through with my twenties, I still have good skin and a

  single-digit dress size. Not bad. By the time I was done, I had time

  to catch my regular bus in to work.

  Southwest Fifth and Sixth Avenues constitute Portland's bus mall,

  carrying thousands of commuters from various communities within the

  metropolitan area through downtown Portland. I hopped out at Sixth and

  Main and walked the two blocks to the Multnomah County Courthouse on

  Fourth, stopping on the way to fill my commuter's mug at Starbucks with

  my daily double-tall nonfat latte.

  I was running a few minutes shy of the time the District Attorney liked

  us to be here. But I was well ahead of the county's newest jurors all

  summoned to appear for orientation at 8:30 a.m. and the county's

  various out-of-custody criminal defendants scheduled for morning court

  appearances.

  I'm not sure which way it cuts, but I have always found it odd that the

  criminal justice system throws jurors and defendants side by side to

  pass throug
h the courthouse's metal detectors and to ride the

  antiquated, stuffy elevators. In either event, I beat the crowd and

  didn't have to push through the rotating throng that would be huddled

  outside the doors of the courthouse for the remainder of the day trying

  to suck down a final precious gasp of nicotine before returning to the

  halls of justice.

  I made my way through the staff entrance, took the elevator up to the

  eighth floor, tapped the security code into the electronic keypad next

  to the back entrance, and snuck into my office without the receptionist

  noticing I was a little late.

  My morning and what was supposed to be my lunch hour were consumed by

  drug unit custodies the police reports detailing the cases against

  people arrested the previous night. The Constitution affords arrestees

  the right to a prompt determination of probable cause. The Supreme

  Court seems to think forty-eight hours is prompt enough, meaning an

  innocent person might have to sit in jail for a couple of days until a

  judge gets around to checking whether there's any evidence against him.

  In Oregon, we only get a day, so we have to review the custodies and

  prepare probable cause showings before the 2 p.m. JC-2 docket. If we

  don't get them arraigned by the afternoon docket, they get cut loose.

  Around two o'clock, just as I was getting antsy about not having heard

  anything about the warrant, my pager buzzed at my waist. It was the

  MCT number.

  Chuck picked up on the first ring.

  "How much do you love me?" he asked.

  "Only men I love right now are Vinnie and my daddy. But you can tell

  me what you've got anyway if you want."

  "I'm not sure I believe you, but I guess it'll have to wait for another

  day. Lesh signed off on the warrant last night, but like I thought, we

  couldn't get the lab folks out here until this morning. You're not

  gonna believe it. Not only did Derringer put a new coat of paint on

  that P.O.S." looks like he had it completely overhauled. New carpet,

  new upholstery, the works."

  "How do we know it's new?"

  "Stupid bastard must've forgotten to check his car when the work was

  finished. We found the shop work order under the front passenger floor

  mat. Got it done Sunday morning at some shop over on Eighty-second and

  Division. Paid eight hundred dollars cash."

  "So we don't have any blood evidence," I said.

  "Nope. The tech guys had a lot of fun ripping out all of this

  asshole's new stuff, but it doesn't look like any blood soaked through

  to the cushions. But come on, Sam. What's a loser like Derringer

  doing pouring that kind of cash into a thousand-dollar car? Didn't you

  say the guy does temp work?"

  "That's what his PO says. I didn't say it wasn't good. I just thought

  the news would be better since you seemed so excited."

  "I'm not done yet. I was giving you the bad news first. The lab

  called me this morning." He paused to make me wait for it.

  "DNA?"

  "Damn, Sam. You're shooting a little high there."

  "So no DNA," I said.

  "No. What'd you expect? Kendra said the guy did it in her mouth.

  Hardly ever get anything from that."

  "Unless it happens to fall on some intern's navy blue dress, right?"

  "Yeah. Bill definitely caught a bad break on that one. Anyway, we

  don't have any DNA, but there is good news. They found a latent print

  on the strap of Kendra's purse. They matched six points to

  Derringer."

  "Is the tech willing to call it on that?" I asked.

  "Yes. I called her back to be sure. It's Heidi Chung. You know

  her?"

  "Yeah. She comes in on drug cases sometimes. Seems pretty good."

  "She's a ten. Anyway, Heidi says Derringer's got some kind of broken

  ridge on his right index finger that's pretty unusual."

  Experts quantify the similarity between an identifiable latent print

  left at the scene with a suspect's print based on the number of points

  that match. When I was back at the U.S. Attorney's Office, the FBI

  usually wouldn't call a match until they had seven points. But a match

  can be called with fewer points when the ones that are there are

  especially rare. Luckily, Derringer's prints were as screwy as he

  was.

  "OK, now that rocks. You just made my day."

  "I knew you'd be happy. Not quite love, but I feel appreciated."

  "It's huge," I said. "Good job finding that purse in the first place.

  We've got that little shit."

  We went over everything we had. Kendra's ID of Derringer, the

  proximity of Derringer's apartment to the crime scene, the shaving of

  his body hair, the car work, and now his fingerprint on Kendra's purse.

  It felt like someone had pulled a sack full of rocks off my

  shoulders.

  The talk about Kendra's purse reminded me of my conversation with Mrs.

  Martin. "Oh, speaking of Kendra's purse, we should probably get her

  keys back to her. Her mom was going to get a new set made, but there

  may be other things she needs."

  "What keys?"

  "Her house keys were in her purse. Remember? We had to leave the door

  unlocked for her last night?"

  "No, Sam, I don't remember. She said she didn't have keys and her mom

  was getting a set made. I just assumed she didn't have any because she

  hadn't been living there. Shit!"

  "What's the difference? Just get the keys back."

  "The difference is that there weren't any keys in the purse, Sam.

  Fuck!"

  Why hadn't I checked with him? I had just assumed. I replayed last

  night in my head. When I drove Kendra home, I made sure that the back

  door hadn't been tampered with, but I hadn't gone in with her. "Did

  you call her? Have you talked to her today?" I said.

  "No," he said. "I was going to as soon as I got off the phone with

  you."

  "Oh my God. What have I done?"

  "Calm down, Sam. She's probably fine." He was talking fast now.

  "Think. Is there any way Derringer or his buddies could get Kendra's

  address from the court case?"

  "No. No, the judge ordered the defense attorney to withhold the

  address from Derringer, and Lisa wouldn't violate that. They know her

  name, though."

  "What about the mom's name? Do they have that?" he asked.

  I thought through all of the filings in the case. "No. It's not in

  there. Just Kendra's." Luckily, Martin was a common surname, so the

  phone book wouldn't do them any good.

  "OK. It's OK. Ray and Jack checked with her after we found the purse

  to make sure she didn't have anything in there with her mom's address

  on it. I was out there this morning for my car, and everything looked

  normal. You stay calm. I'll call you right back."

  I tried to calm down. She should be OK. If something had been wrong

  when Andrea got home from work, we'd know by now.

  Despite all the logical reasons not to worry, it was hard to

  concentrate, so I distracted myself by checking my bottomless voice

  mailbox. Along with the usual stuff, there was a message from

  O'Donnell. "Hey, Sam, O'Donnell here. I waited around in your office

&nbs
p; awhile, but I guess I missed you. Hope you're not still riled up about

  the other day. The guys and I were just having some fun. Anyway, I

  hear you did a number on the Derringer indictment. Since it was my dog

  to start with, I thought I'd call in and see if you have anything new.

  I assume you're going to have to plead it out at some point, right?

  Those Measure Eleven charges aren't gonna stick. Give me a call when

  you've got a chance and let me know where things stand."

  For the same reason I always eat the vegetables on my plate first, I

  went ahead and called him. Better to get it over with.

  I gave him a quick rundown on where we stood.

  "Shit, Kincaid. With only a six-point latent on the print, you're

  toast without DNA. It's your case, but I'd plead it out quick if I

  were you. Case like this, you might be able to squeak out a decent

  deal before the guy realizes you're shooting blanks."

  "I'll take it into consideration. Thanks. Anything else?"

  "How's that vice angle going? Didn't Garcia say something about trying

  to use the vie to get some intel on pimps?"

  "Yeah, Tommy thought it might pan out. Turns out the girl hadn't been

  working long. And what she did, she did on her own. I've got some

  pictures she took of some other girls, but it doesn't look that

  promising."

  "Yeah, I saw those on your desk when I was in there earlier. Didn't

  realize the connection. It's not too late to pull out, you know. You

  could still dump the mandatory minimums and send it down to general