Missing Justice sk-2 Read online

  owners of the office park who happen to be your clients as with the

  police."

  "Samantha, you're embarrassing yourself," he said.

  "No, she's not." It was Russ. "What's embarrassing is your attempt to

  bully this office. You assume that because we're prosecutors, we're a

  bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks. As for the bureau's delay homing in on

  Jackson, your client wasn't exactly forthcoming. The cops had to get

  their information from the workers on the site, and funny they seemed

  to be under the impression that it was union work."

  Talking about the Glenville development project brought Mrs. Jackson's

  words back to me.

  "Who is your client anyway, Roger?" I asked.

  "I told you," he said. "Dr. Easterbrook came to us through OHSU."

  He knew exactly what I was talking about. "Who's in charge of the

  construction in Glenville?"

  "I wasn't aware that the DA's office had taken over the operations of

  the National Labor Relations Board. For what it's worth, the nonunion

  work on the site was permissible."

  "So tell me who the client is. I want to know how they came to hire

  Melvin Jackson. From what I've heard of him, I'm not sure I'd want him

  to mow my backyard, let alone hire him on a major development

  project."

  But Roger was done talking to me. He stood up and offered Duncan his

  hand. "Duncan, unless you have any more questions, we'll be on our

  way. Please let me know your decision once you've made it."

  Then I got a glimpse of how Duncan Griffith had earned his political

  reputation. When he took Roger's hand, I could tell his grip was firm.

  "The decision was made before you interrupted me with the theatrics,

  son. We'll be asking for life without parole. You might want to

  consider knocking the last twelve minutes off Dr. Easterbrook's bill.

  Now, if it's all right with you, I'll walk you out so I can thank your

  client for coming in."

  We were still rehashing the events of the meeting when Duncan returned.

  "Anyone got a problem with that?"

  No problems. "Very good then," he said, knocking on the table as he

  walked out. "Oh, and by the way, Samantha, your ex-husband's a major

  asshole."

  I don't think Duncan realized he was dropping a bombshell. I

  hightailed it out of the room while my coworkers were still begging for

  the tawdry details of my short-lived marriage.

  A few minutes later, Russ came into my office.

  "I hope you didn't mind me sticking up for you back there. I know you

  had everything under control, but, Jesus, what a prick."

  "And they say chivalry is dead," I said.

  "Yeah, well don't let the word out. I've got a reputation to

  protect."

  "Don't worry. One act of semi decency won't make a dent," I said,

  smiling. "So I was surprised Duncan made a decision. You think it was

  because of the racial politics or to appease the husband?"

  "Christ, Kincaid, you're almost as bad as your limousine-liberal ex.

  Duncan might have done it because he thought it was the right thing to

  do."

  I suppose with politicians it's the decisions that count, not their

  reasons for making them.

  "So how long were you guys married?" Russ asked.

  I felt like I owed him at least the party line. "Not long. Things

  were all right for a few years in New York, but they fell apart when we

  moved to Portland." Then I surprised myself by not stopping in the

  usual place. "We seemed to have a disagreement over the appropriate

  use of his penis."

  Russ almost spit out the coffee he had just sipped.

  "Sorry," I said sheepishly. "A little too much information?"

  "No, just a well, it was a funny way of putting it. You're not one of

  those girls, are you?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, but I know I haven't been any

  kind oigirl since I was seventeen years old."

  "Excuse me, Gloria Steinem. You're not one of those crazy women who

  always goes after the bad boy, are you? First it's that guy, now it's

  Forbes. You know something none of the other women around here know,

  or do you just like to flirt with disaster?"

  "I've known Chuck Forbes since I was fifteen years old, and he's

  nothing like Roger Kirkpatrick."

  The silence was not just uncomfortable. It made me wonder what

  everyone in the office must be thinking. And saying.

  "Sorry," he said, "it's none of my business. You ready for the prelim

  tomorrow?"

  I was grateful for the change of subject. "Piece of cake," I said.

  "Was it just me, or did Roger seem reluctant to give us anything about

  the owner of the Glenville property?"

  Russ shrugged his shoulders. "He's probably no different from the rest

  of those private-firm fucks. Acts like the big man, but when push

  comes to shove he's scared shitless of his clients. You don't need it,

  but if you're really curious, call one of the paralegals in the

  child-support enforcement unit. They're pros at running down

  property-owner records."

  Maybe I would.

  "If I don't see you, good luck tomorrow," he said. "Do you know who

  the judge is yet?"

  "Prescott."

  "Got news for you, Kincaid. You could be looking at a long day."

  Kate Prescott is the slowest judge in the courthouse. A big

  fund-raiser for the Democratic Party, she came to the bench a year ago

  from a large corporate firm. She tries to make up for her lack of

  litigation experience by being thorough. I had a plea fall apart once

  in her courtroom when a transexual prostitute who'd been through the

  system a hundred times finally gave up on the process. In her words,

  "Honey, if I knew it was gonna take this long, I'd have asked for my

  trial. If I'm losing time on the street, it might as well be

  interesting."

  If Prescott didn't move things along, Jackson's prelim could be

  painful.

  "Page me if you need anything," Russ offered. "And, Kincaid, for what

  it's worth, any guy who'd even think of stepping out on you is clearly

  out of his mind."

  Now that might ruin Russell Frist's tough-guy reputation.

  Roger's show was not the only power play I'd have to contend with that

  day. As I was getting ready to leave, Duncan called. Before he got to

  the point, he had to dress me down for my outburst in the meeting.

  "Don't get me wrong," he said, "it wasn't what you said that was the

  problem. He deserved every word of it. But when I'm in the room,

  you've got to trust that I'll handle it."

  "Does this mean I'm fired?"

  "I'll give you a Get Out of Jail Free card for that particular

  outburst. Your reward for being married to the jerk. But, seriously,

  over time I hope you'll stop trying to carry the load all on your

  own."

  "I'm independent, sir."

  "Tell me about it. So don't freak out that I'm calling to give you a

  heads-up. T. J. Caffrey just called. He's rabid. Seems your defense

  attorney has subpoenaed him to the prelim."

  I couldn't say I was surprised. Slip knew he stood little chance of

  getting the case kicked at a preli
m. He was trying to give us a

  preview of the mess he'd create for us at trial. Fortunately, Duncan's

  own trial experience wasn't too far in the past for him to recognize it

  was inevitable too.

  "I told him there was nothing I could do," he said, "but his attorney

  wants a courtesy sit-down with you tomorrow morning. I told him you'd

  oblige."

  It gave me something to look forward to.

  Nine.

  Grace had left a voice mail while I was in Duncan's office. "Hey,

  Sammikins. Want to grab some dinner tonight? And before you say

  you're busy, I'm just warning you; you're turning into one of those

  women who dump their girlfriends when they're getting laid. I'm

  thinking cocktails and truffle fries."

  That could only mean one place: 750 ml, a cool but cozy Pearl District

  wine bar. Even though we were the only declasse martini drinkers in

  the joint, the main attraction was the french fries tossed in white

  truffle oil.

  Grace likes her drinks the color of Maybelline nail polish, and this

  week's preference was a ginger-infused something or another. Beach

  vacations aside, I usually stick with the standards, switching

  periodically between my favorite gin and my favorite vodka. Tonight,

  Bombay Sapphire beat out Grey Goose.

  I tried to fight Grace when she told the bartender to jazz it up for

  me, but Grace just couldn't help herself. When a guy's that gorgeous,

  she'll find any excuse to talk to him.

  He turned away to muck up a perfectly good olive by stuffing it with

  bleu cheese, and Grace's eyes were anywhere but on me. "Ahem, my dear,

  but I do believe you accused me today of ignoring my girlfriend in

  favor of the boy du jour."

  "Well, in your case, that'd be the boy du decade."

  It dawned on me that her jab was accurate. Literally. Truly

  pathetic.

  "Now does this mean we're going to have an evening without the boy

  talk?" she asked.

  "Unless you've got something."

  She eyed the bartender again. "Not yet," she said, smiling and taking

  another sip of her pink drink. In truth, Grace has a fairly routine

  dating life, but she enjoys hamming up the sex goddess persona. "So

  why didn't I hear from you last night? Another evening with Chuck?"

  "I'm afraid so. We're moving toward boring domesticity remarkably

  quickly."

  I thought about mentioning the weirdness with my father, but talking

  about it would only upset me more. The truth was, I knew I'd been

  keeping myself busy to avoid calling him. Part of me was afraid he

  might actually tell me whatever he was holding back. From the look on

  his face the other night, it seemed pretty disturbing.

  Instead, I talked about work, confessing my guilt over the accusatory

  tone I'd used the previous day with Susan Kerr.

  "Susan Kerr with sort of wild brown hair? A little older than us?"

  "Wild to you, maybe, but take a look at who you're talking to.

  Actually, she had it pulled back when I saw her."

  "That's because her hair's completely uncontrollable. She's a

  client."

  "What do you think of her?"

  "She's awesome my kind of chick. Did you really accuse her of sleeping

  with her dead friend's husband? I don't even want to think about how

  she handled that."

  "No, luckily I kept that suspicion to myself and found out the visit

  was perfectly innocuous. But I did ask whether she thought it was

  possible Clarissa was having an affair."

  "I suspect even that was enough to set her off." It was.

  Grace shrugged her shoulders. "She always speaks her mind. She

  started coming in probably a year before her husband died, right around

  the time I opened. When word started to leak he was losing it, she was

  ferociously protective. I remember her telling me about this one woman

  who was the source of most of the gossip. Susan found out the cow had

  a nasty little coke habit, cornered her in the gym, and threatened to

  out her unless she started singing another tune."

  "I didn't realize the two of you were so close."

  "We're not," she said with a laugh. "But that's what Susan's like an

  open book. Hell, she seemed proud of it, and why shouldn't she be? She

  was sticking up for her husband. The sad part is, I heard later that

  the husband got wind of what she'd done and had the nerve to take her

  to task for it. Rumor is, Susan got so pissed at the ungrateful fuck

  she flung his humidor of Cubans into the fireplace."

  "I guess I'll try not to make her mad," I said. "She's worried that

  the trial's going to turn into an attack on Clarissa's character."

  "And, of course, there's no chance of that, right?" Grace asked

  facetiously.

  "Let's just say between Susan Kerr and you the other day at Greek

  Cusina, I've gotten the message."

  She touched my forearm and smiled. "I'm just giving you a hard time,

  sweetie. I know you do what you can. What else has been going on? Oh

  my God, I almost forgot to ask any run-ins with Shoe Boy?"

  I gave her a blow-by-blow of Roger's visit to the office.

  "You had quite the busy day today, didn't you? Have another

  martini."

  A second wouldn't kill me. "He's screwing up my judgment. I feel

  total confidence in my case against Jackson. Then he pisses me off,

  and I find myself wanting to complicate things, just so we're not on

  the same side."

  "Sorry, hon, but it doesn't sound like there's much to complicate. I

  believe this one's what your buddies call a slam dunk."

  I told her what Mrs. Jackson said about her son's sudden employment at

  a well-funded suburban construction site.

  Grace shook her head. "That's probably not unusual. Development out

  there has gotten so out of control it's attracting some pretty low-rent

  people. I wouldn't be surprised if some little outfit got in over its

  head and tried to trim the budget by hiring the cheapest labor it could

  find."

  "Well, I'll tell you what complicates things. One of Griffith's

  political cronies has been subpoenaed by the defense and is going to

  raise a stink tomorrow."

  "Holy shit, Samantha. If this case gets any hotter, you're going to

  wind up on Court TV."

  "No, Grace, you can't give me a new haircut." She was disappointed

  that I'd seen right through her. It takes more than a martini or two

  before I let her get too creative.

  "So who's the crony?"

  "I really can't say, Grace."

  "Oh, yes, you will. You can't tell me a little, then not disclose.

  Against the rules."

  It was pretty sensitive information, but, hell, this was Grace. We

  told each other everything. I even told her about my most embarrassing

  trial story, the time I reached into my suit jacket for my Sharpie pen

  and pulled out a Tampax instead. She never told a soul.

  I leaned in so close to her ear that I almost fell off my bar stool.

  She was shocked.

  "Oh .. . my .. . God. And he's supposed to be such a do-gooder."

  "Maybe they're all pigs."

  "Don't be bitter," she said, throwing her maraschino cherry stem at me.r />
  Chewing on another french fry, she said, "Now if you're looking for

  coincidences, he'd be what you're looking for."

  "Maybe I should have passed up that second drink, because I'm not

  following."

  "You know. The thing with the Metro Council."

  I didn't know.

  "A second ago, you said it was a coincidence that a fringy guy like

  Jackson was working on the Glenville site. But the real coincidence is

  that your defendant dumped the victim on a property that's smack dab in

  the middle of a Metro controversy."

  "What's that office park got to do with Metro?"

  "I told you all about this at Greek Cusina. Remember? The second

  Lockworks I was going to open? Not to be rude, Sam, but sometimes I

  could swear that you can't chew and listen at the same time. And given

  the way we eat, that could be a major problem."

  "Hey! I was listening. You weren't sure if the growth was going to

  continue, but prices were already high, so you backed off."

  "Right," she said, "and the reason prices are so high is that everyone

  thinks Metro's going to expand the urban growth boundary right in that