Missing Justice sk-2 Page 25

  sentence, but I knew his mind was made up. Letting

  Jackson enter a plea without that information might not violate the

  ethics rules, but it still seemed sleazy.

  "That's all right. It's just talk for now. I won't make a deal

  without running it by you and Duncan."

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  I decided not to hold back on him. I told him about my conversation

  with Nelly and the key she'd given me. "I might ask Johnson to track

  it down for me, find out what she was hiding."

  "Don't even think about it, Sam. How many times do I have to tell you?

  The case is cleared. You eat up bureau overtime chasing down what's

  probably a stupid luggage key, and there's going to be pressure to rein

  you in. Save us both the headache."

  I pulled the key from my pocket and showed it to him. "It's not a

  luggage key. It looks like it's for a safe deposit box."

  "Jesus Christ, Kincaid. Why isn't that in the police property room?

  You can't go lugging evidence around in your pocket. Get it through

  your head: You're the prosecutor, not Jackson's defense attorney. You

  put that in the property room, make sure Slip gets a copy of the

  receipt in discovery, and forget about it."

  In the spirit of cooperating with my new, relatively decent supervisor,

  I would put the key away as instructed, but I wasn't about to forget

  about it.

  It took the guy in the precinct property room less than five minutes to

  add the key to the other evidence seized in the Jackson case and

  complete a supplemental report to document the addition. I pocketed

  two photocopies of the supplemental, one for the file and one for some

  mischief-making.

  Slip was waiting at the bar at Higgin's, looking at his watch. "You

  starting to think I was standing you up?" "There are a couple of

  people in your office who find that sort of thing humorous," he said.

  "And do I strike you as one of them?"

  "Nope. That's why I waited."

  We ordered our drinks at the bar and found a quiet table in the corner.

  Higgin's looks exactly like the kind of bar where you'd expect lawyers

  to meet after work to talk cases. Dark wood, brass fixtures, the

  works.

  "So how've you been, Sam? I haven't seen you much since you handed my

  ass to me in trial about a year ago."

  I wrinkled my nose. "I don't remember it being quite that bad."

  "So tell me the truth. How many times have you pulled that "Don't take

  it out on my case that I'm young' shit?"

  "Only with you, Slip. Had to do something to level the playing field

  against your cords and tennies."

  I have this thing I do to counteract the shtick that some of the older

  attorneys have developed over the years. In my final closing, I give

  the jury my best doe-eyed look, even turning slightly pigeon-toed if I

  can get away with it. Then I say something like, "I might not have as

  much trial experience as the defense attorney, but don't take it out on

  this case. The evidence is there, etc. etc." It gets the jury back

  on track, and is a lot more subtle than saying, "I'm not as slimy as

  the rest of these guys."

  In my last trial with Slip, he'd gone after my cops on a reverse drug

  buy. I suppose it's the only tack for a defense attorney to take when

  his client insists on putting his word against an undercover officer's.

  When little innocent me got done with the jury, they saw things the way

  they really were.

  "Well, it's a cute trick, Kincaid. I wanted to haul out your power

  resume and hold it up against my University of Oregon degree."

  "As much as I enjoy your company, Slip, I assume we're not here to

  reminisce. What's up?"

  "The Jackson case, of course."

  "What about it?"

  No attorney ever wants to be the first to say plea. It's a sign you

  don't have faith in your case. I'd sit here all night if I had to, but

  Slip was the one who'd asked for this meeting.

  "It's fishy."

  Now that was not what I was expecting.

  I plucked a ten from my wallet and put it on the table as I stood to

  leave. I had planned on giving Slip the report from the property room

  to make sure Clarissa's secret key didn't get lost among the discovery,

  but now that I knew his agenda, it was time to go. That old saying

  about family describes how I feel about my cases: Only I can bad-mouth

  them. I got enough argument from defense attorneys during the workday;

  I wasn't about to spend my Friday night on this.

  "Please stay, Sam. I thought you knew me well enough, but ask around

  the courthouse if you have to; I don't bullshit. Posture one too many

  times, and you can never get a prosecutor to listen to you again."

  That was his reputation.

  "Hear me out," he said. "I know it rarely happens, but I really am

  starting to think this guy's being set up. And it's a good set-up.

  He's poor, and he's black, and your victim is incredibly

  sympathetic."

  I was still standing with my briefcase, but I hadn't walked away.

  "Honestly, I'm scared shitless I'm going to lose this case and never be

  able to sleep again."

  I think I had been fearing the same thing. I sat down again, and he

  started his pitch.

  "What's bothering me most is how neatly it all adds up. What's a guy

  who lives hand-to-mouth doing getting a phone call one day on a fancy

  new development job?"

  "Easy," I said. "Developers are greedy and will try to save money

  wherever they can. What do they care who does the landscaping?"

  There was too much evidence against Jackson for that one nagging point

  to prove a setup, especially since Grace had explained it wasn't

  particularly unusual for developers to use day labor. I told Slip he'd

  need to explain away the most incriminating pieces before I could take

  him seriously.

  "Without waiving privilege?" he asked.

  I gave him my word.

  "First of all, we've got that thing your cops keep calling an

  admission."

  "It's a classic admission, Slip. The police kick the door, and your

  guy blurts out, "I know what you're looking for." Leads them right to

  the paint."

  "Right. He leads them to the paint. If he's giving himself up, why

  doesn't he point them to the hammer? Because he didn't know it was

  there."

  "But what made him think they were there for the paint? Because he saw

  the early news stories about paint being on the dog," I said, answering

  my own question.

  "No, Sam, because he stole it. He's been keeping his nose so clean he

  thought the police were barging in over a couple of cans of paint he

  took from the building site. He was going to paint his mom's house."

  "Isn't that sweet?"

  "You're starting to sound as insensitive as the rest of your office."

  "Sorry, Slip, but I'm not buying it. A judge he's threatening turns up

  dead, and when the police look at him, he thinks it's for petty

  theft?"

  "He didn't know the woman was dead. This is not a man who keeps up

  with the news. I'm telling you, I believe him. You've got to

&
nbsp; understand, the only thing that drives this guy is keeping his kids. He

  thought if he got caught with the paint, he'd lose the Glenville job

  and it would hurt him with everything else that's going on. I guess

  one of the other workers at the site saw him take it, so when the

  police showed up, he assumed the guy had ratted."

  Now that was interesting. It would tie whatever Slip was talking about

  back to the property. "What do you mean someone saw him?"

  "He noticed that some workers had left a couple buckets of paint

  outside on Friday, so he went back with his truck to pick them up. He

  says another worker was still there and saw him. Melvin started to

  make up a story, but the guy told him to go ahead; he wouldn't tell

  anyone."

  "Does he know who the man was?"

  "Since we're being so honest with each other, all he could tell me was

  'some white guy." But, c'mon, there are lawyers in your office who've

  given a witness a lineup with worse initial statements. Get me some

  pictures and I'll see what I can do."

  I shook my head. "There's a ton of people working down there. And it

  doesn't do you any good anyway. So what if he stole the paint? It's

  still on the victim's dog, so he's still tied to the victim's

  disappearance."

  Unless, of course, the mystery man who spotted him with the paint had

  something to do with it.

  "Let me ask you something," I said, "what does Jackson say about how he

  got the job?"

  Slip pulled a file from his briefcase. "I was getting there. Melvin

  runs an ad in the Penny Power classifieds. Two lines only costs a few

  bucks, and he occasionally gets a home maintenance job, that sort of

  thing. Well, last Monday, he gets a phone call from a Billy Minkins.

  Melvin's pretty sure about the name, but he never actually met him. He

  hired Melvin as an independent contractor for twenty bucks an hour,

  more than Melvin's ever made."

  I scribbled down the name on a cocktail napkin.

  "The check he got is from a company called Gunderson Development."

  I didn't need to write that one down.

  "I didn't find a listing for either Minkins or the company," Slip said,

  "but you're probably in a better position to track someone down. Maybe

  you can get a picture of Minkins, see if he's the one who told Melvin

  to take the paint."

  "You're pushing your luck, Slip. I'm here to listen. Don't tell me

  how to do my job. Tell me about the fingerprint on the door."

  If Slip was convinced Melvin was innocent, he must have an explanation

  for the print.

  "Melvin went to the house Wednesday night. He was so excited about the

  new job, he thought it might help if he talked to her in person."

  That's what Melvin's mother had said.

  "How'd he know where she lived?" I asked.

  Slip looked down then looked back to me. "Let's just say that part

  doesn't help me so much."

  "I'm going to assume he did something stalkerish, like follow her home

  at some point."

  Slip's silence was enough.

  "So what happened when he knocked?" I asked.

  "Nothing. No one was home. After he left, he realized that showing up

  on her front door was probably not the wisest litigation strategy."

  "But threatening letters are?"

  "I never said Melvin was rational," he said, "just innocent. By the

  way, he tells me he mailed that last letter Monday morning,

  and I believe him. And, I know you can explain it away if you need to,

  but you've got to admit that Melvin as a sex offender doesn't ring

  true. That leaves you having to explain how your vie got dressed after

  she died. Come on, Samantha, part of you has a hinky feeling about

  this."

  I let the comment go. I didn't need him telling a judge down the road

  that I had supposedly expressed doubt about the prosecution. "How come

  I haven't heard anything about an alibi?"

  "That part doesn't help either," he said.

  "Slip, that's usually shorthand for sitting alone by himself, with no

  one to verify it."

  "The kids go to church with Grandma on Sundays. You know those

  Baptists; it's an all-day thing."

  "And I assume under your theory, someone planted the hammer," I said.

  "There are no prints on it. And you heard Johnson. He tried to call

  Caffrey before he homed in on Melvin. If Caffrey was doing your

  victim, he'd know about Melvin. That's plenty of time to dump the

  hammer. And, hell, Caffrey's powerful enough to have someone do it for

  him. Melvin was at the mall with the kids from six to nine that

  night."

  Now that I heard Slip's attempt to explain the things that had been

  nagging at me, it sounded ridiculous.

  "How does someone get inside the apartment? My cops didn't see any

  sign of a break-in."

  "Melvin doesn't bolt the door, and you should see the locks on public

  housing. It took my investigator about four seconds to slip it with a

  credit card."

  It still didn't sound right. The framing of a defendant is rare

  enough, but the way Slip spelled it out, this one involved not only

  someone from the property site but also an elected official. It didn't

  fly without a connection between the two.

  not

  Maybe Slip would find one. I fished the property receipt out of my bag

  and scribbled my home phone number on the back.

  "Here's a present," I said. "Don't say I never did anything for you.

  I had some work to do this weekend too, but first I needed to track

  down the envelope that Jenna Markson had sent interoffice.

  Searching for it in my office, I remembered that I still hadn't

  returned Susan Kerr's call from the morning. Better to do it now than

  to call her over the weekend or let it sit until Monday.

  She thanked me for calling. "I feel stupid bothering you when you're

  in the middle of the hearing, but I "

  "Don't worry about it, Susan. What's up?"

  "I was just wondering how Townsend was at the hearing today."

  "He was there with his lawyer, but as it turned out he didn't need to

  testify."

  "Is that good?"

  "Sure. Court proceedings are always difficult for victims."

  "But when you first said he didn't need to testify, you said it in a

  way that suggested you were particularly appreciative. Was there a

  reason for that?"

  I wouldn't normally run down my victim's husband, but Susan and Tara

  had already expressed concern about Town-send's recent appearance, so

  it wasn't like I was saying something new. "Well, quite honestly, he

  didn't look like he was up to it."

  "So you can see it too." Susan sounded relieved. "I was wondering if

  it was just my imagination. I'm really starting to worry about him.

  When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I

  only saw him have one drink."

  I thought about it. Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death

  penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then

  or today in court.

  "Maybe it's just lack of sleep," I offered. "And he might still be

  suffering from shock."

 
"You're probably right. Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure

  you want to go home. I was really only calling to see if you could try

  to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't

  necessary."

  "Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."

  "Not a problem. I'm just glad you think what he's going through is

  normal. You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,

  fortunately."

  Actually, I hadn't. I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man

  whose wife had been murdered. And Townsend was a man with access to

  his own personal prescription pad.

  "Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask

  Clarissa's family to do the same. He could be prescribing himself

  medication."

  "I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it. He could

  lose his license for that, couldn't he?"

  "Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of

  ourselves. Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine