Judgment Calls Read online

  When I got into my office, I checked my voice mail, hoping for a message from Chuck. No luck. He hadn’t called my home or cell, either. I did, however, get a message from Griffith, summoning me to his office.

  When I got there, he handed me a piece of paper and asked me what I thought.

  It was a letter from Griffith to Governor Jackson, supporting the pardon requests of Margaret Landry and Jesse Taylor. It explained that all currently available evidence indicated that Frank Derringer and Tim O’Donnell had killed Jamie Zimmerman during a rape arranged through a teenage prostitution ring managed by the Derringer brothers. O’Donnell had pursued the case against Landry and Taylor based upon the circumstantial evidence that existed, possibly providing the confidential information to Landry that eventually helped secure the convictions. Then, when Frank and an unnamed suspect assaulted Kendra, he’d done what he could to get rid of the case. When I thwarted his efforts to issue it as a general felony, he fabricated the Long Hauler by using confidential information he found about unsolved murders in the cold case database and then ordered me to dismiss the case.

  The memo went on to explain my discovery of the Derringers’ connection to the sex industry. After briefing Griffith, I’d obtained an indictment against Derrick Derringer as the first step in an envisioned investigation into the Zimmerman and Martin cases. Unfortunately, O’Donnell had discovered the investigation and tipped off the Derringers. They broke into my house, I heroically saved the day, and Griffith would be pursuing any remaining culprits to the full extent of the law.

  It was accurate in the ways that counted, and at this point I really didn’t care if Duncan wanted to cover his ass. He was covering mine too, and the end result was the right one. “Looks good,” I said. “Will Jackson issue the pardon?”

  “It’s a done deal,” he said. “The governor’s office will announce it tomorrow, and Landry and Taylor should be out by that afternoon. We need to talk about tying up the loose ends. We’ll have problems going after Culver. You know that, don’t you?”

  I told him I did, but he still seemed to think he needed to convince me.

  “Even if your victim can ID him, we’re gonna have the same problems you had with Derringer. No physical evidence. No corroborating testimony, because everything you heard between the Derringers is hearsay. No direct evidence of intent to kill. Not to mention the time that’s passed since the offense.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You think this guy’s attorney will go for a preindictment deal?” he asked.

  “Depends on the terms,” I said, “but, yeah. Culver’s scared. Now that he knows the Derringers aren’t going to kill him, I think he’d like to take his lumps and get it over with.”

  “Alright. I was thinking of something like Rape Three. Have him do a few years but no Measure Eleven charges. Part of the deal could be a scholarship account for the girl, since this guy’s got a business. How’s that sound?”

  We both knew Culver deserved to go away for good. The Derringers may have pretended that the violence was staged, but it took people like Culver and O’Donnell to choose to believe it. The reality was that Griffith had come up with a deal that was the most we could hope for under the circumstances. Sometimes that’s as close to fair as we get around here.

  “I’ll call Henry Lee with it. He’ll be happy to hear he doesn’t have to try an actual case.”

  “Then why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’d say you’ve earned it.”

  I turned back before leaving the office. “Tim said he didn’t give anything to Landry, that he assumed Forbes did,” I said.

  “She gets out either way, Sam. Unless you think Forbes is a long-term problem, it’s cleaner this way.”

  “I can’t make that call right now.”

  “I know. That’s why I made it.”

  I started to leave again but stopped at the door.

  “Now what?” he said.

  “Thanks, Duncan.”

  “Anytime, Deputy Kincaid.”

  I ignored the stares again on the way back out of the courthouse. Let ’em think I was in trouble. Tomorrow, I’d be a hero.

  I wanted to go home and sleep for the next twenty hours, but there was someone I needed to see.

  * * *

  Like most prisons, the Oregon Women’s Correctional Institute had been dumped in the middle of nowhere to avoid public outrage and plummeting property values. The only other buildings within a three-mile radius were two similarly ostracized yet essential enterprises, a casino and an outlet mall. Needless to say, the combination made for an interesting mix of soccer moms, prison families, and senior citizens in RVs.

  The guard brought Margaret Landry to meet me in one of the sterile rooms used for attorney-client conferences. As I had requested, he moved her in leg shackles and handcuffs.

  When he brought her into the room, I said, “I don’t really think those are necessary, Deputy. Would you mind removing them and leaving us alone? I’m sure Ms. Landry and I will be just fine here without all of this.”

  If the guard ever got tired of corrections, he should try Hollywood. His best attempt to look worried about my request was pretty realistic. He removed the cuffs and shackles and left us alone.

  I’d seen pictures of Margaret Landry, of course, but she’d aged considerably during her two years in prison. Assisted by too many cigarettes and too little sleep, she’d gone from looking well fed and nurturing to haggard and crotchety.

  After I introduced myself, she said, “I been dealing with someone in your office named O’Donnell.”

  I dropped the bomb on her and announced that O’Donnell was dead. To simplify things, I told her that Jamie Zimmerman’s murderers had been identified and killed, but not before they had shot Tim O’Donnell. I figured it might be hard to earn her trust if I revealed that a member of my office was a homicidal rapist. She’d get the details from someone else down the road, anyway.

  “Because of everything that’s happened, you’ll be getting out of here tomorrow,” I said.

  “Where are they moving me to?”

  “You can stay wherever you want. Maybe with your daughters until you adjust to things. You’re being pardoned, Margaret. You’ll be free, with no criminal record.”

  Her lower lip began to shake, and pretty soon she was crying.

  When she’d finally stopped trembling, she lifted her head to the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if she was looking for answers or trying to thank someone, but I could tell she hadn’t felt however she was feeling for a long, long time.

  “I never meant this to happen,” she said. “I kept calling the police on Jesse, but wouldn’t no one help me. When Jamie’s body turned up and I saw her in the paper, I thought I’d finally get that son of a bitch out from under my roof, but they didn’t believe me. They told me I didn’t have no ‘corroboration.’ I kept digging myself in deeper and deeper, and next thing I know I’m under arrest myself and can’t take any of it back.”

  “I feel bad for you, Margaret, but you put an innocent man in prison and kept the police from looking for the men who actually killed Jamie Zimmerman.”

  “Jesse Taylor ain’t no innocent, but you’re right about that last part. As sorry as I feel for myself, I can’t help thinking that them other girls would be alive if I hadn’ta done all this.”

  I thought about letting her in on the truth about the Long Hauler, but the fact of the matter was, her actions had cleared the way for the Derringers to hurt Kendra and countless other girls. The rest of the story was minutiae.

  “The pardon will make it clear that you’re innocent, Margaret. When you get out tomorrow, you’ll not only be free, you’ll have your good name back. It must have been awful for you these past years, having people think you did something so horrible, knowing you were innocent.”

  Her eyes started to well up again.

  “And when you get out tomorrow, everyone’s going to hear that you were telling the truth at your trial. They’ll
know that that detective, Chuck Forbes, helped you come up with corroboration to set up Jesse.”

  Mid-sob, she went silent, and I heard her breath catch in her throat. It was time to ask the question that had brought me here.

  “You knew her, didn’t you, Margaret? You knew Jamie Zimmerman. That’s how you knew what kind of earrings to buy, how you knew her mother’s phone number?”

  I’d seen the look on her face countless times. It’s the look witnesses get when they want to talk but they’re scared, even though they know you already know what they have to say.

  “After what you’ve been through, no one’s going to prosecute you for trying to help yourself out a little on the stand. The only thing that changes here is what people are going to make of Chuck Forbes, whether they’re going to assume he did something that maybe he didn’t do. The choice is yours, Margaret. You’re getting out tomorrow either way.”

  She was tough, but one more push should do it.

  “How’d you know her?”

  “She’d come into Harry’s Place sometimes when she was trying to go straight.” She started to explain that Harry’s was the teen homeless shelter, but I let her know with a nod that I was familiar with it.

  “I went to Harry’s for a while when I was volunteering for Art Therapy,” she said. “They sent us out to different nursing homes and shelters to paint ceramics, arts and crafts, that kind of thing. Jamie was such a sweet girl. She stopped coming in for such a long time, and then I saw her in the paper. They found her body and they were looking for information. I started wondering who could do something like that to her. Then I started thinking that I lived with someone who could do that. A few days went by, and they still hadn’t found her. I thought I could mess Jesse up with his parole officer, but then it just snowballed. I thought it would look even worse if they knew I knew Jamie, so I said I got it from that young cop. I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

  I left her there crying. I needed the emotional energy for myself.

  When I got to my car, I found a message from Ray Johnson on my cell phone. He had run all the names of Frank and Derrick’s known associates. Turned out that one of Derrick’s old bunkmates was on probation for driving a brown Toyota Tercel with a suspended license. He spilled his guts the minute he heard Derrick and Frank were dead. He owed Derrick money and was repaying the debt by following me around and reporting back to Derrick. Derrick used the information about my whereabouts to break into my house, crank-call me, and feed the Oregonian anonymous tips about my sex life. Funniest thing was, a search of the guy’s belongings turned up a dollar bill with his license plate number scrawled on it. He must’ve followed me on one of my many food stops.

  I thought the guy deserved a life sentence for helping the Derringers scare the shit out of me and publicly exposing my sex life, but in the end I wasn’t sure he’d done anything illegal. Maybe I’d think about it later when my brain started to work again.

  For now, all I wanted was to go home and go to sleep. But I had one more thing to do. I sat in my car in the prison parking lot, staring at my cell phone, before mustering the courage to dial.

  The sound of his recorded voice was anticlimactic. I did my best at the beep, but I knew it was going to take more than a phone call.

  When I pulled into the driveway, he was waiting on the front porch. I had a lot to make up to him, if he’d give me the chance. It would start with a kiss on the forehead and, I hoped, a very long nap.

  Acknowledgments

  Judgment Calls is the product of the tremendous support I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy throughout my legal career and during my work on this first novel.

  I am especially grateful to my colleagues at Hofstra Law School; Multnomah County Senior Deputy District Attorney John Bradley; Michael Connelly, Jonathon King, and Maggie Griffin for convincing me my manuscript would be finished; Jennifer Barth, editor-in-chief at Henry Holt, for her incredible work, intelligence, and creativity; Philip Spitzer, the most loyal and supportive agent on the planet; Scott Sroka; and, above all, my phenomenal family.

  Samantha’s dedication and humanitarianism are modeled on the hard work I observed among former coworkers at the Multnomah County DA’s Office. You know who you are.

  Read on for an excerpt

  from Alafair Burke’s next book

  MISSING JUSTICE

  Now available from

  Henry Holt and Company

  If it’s true that dreams come from the id, then my id is not particularly creative.

  The dream that makes its way into my bed tonight is the same one that has troubled my sleep almost every night for the past month. Once again, I relive the events that led to the deaths of three men.

  The walls of the stairway pass as a man follows me upstairs. I force myself to focus on my own movements, trying to block out thoughts of the other man downstairs, armed and determined to kill me when I return.

  Time slows as I duck beside my bed, reach for the pistol hidden inside my nightstand, and rise up to surprise him. The .25 caliber automatic breaks the silence; more shots follow downstairs. Glass shatters. Heavy footsteps thunder through the house. In the dream, I see bullets rip through flesh and muscle, the scene tinted red like blood smeared across my retinas.

  I usually wake during the chaos. Tonight, though, the silence returns, and I walk past the dead bodies to my kitchen. I open the pantry door and find a woman whose face I know only from photographs and a brief introduction two years ago. She is crouched on the floor with her head between her knees. When she looks up at me and reaches for my hand, the phone rings, and I’m back in my bedroom.

  It is four o’clock in the morning, and as usual I wake up chilly, having kicked my comforter deep into the crevice between my mattress and the footboard of my maple sleigh bed. I fumble for the phone on my nightstand, still ringing in the dark.

  “This better be worth it,” I say.

  It’s Detective Raymond Johnson of the Portland Police Bureau’s Major Crimes Team. A member of the search team has found a woman’s size-seven black Cole Haan loafer in the gutter, but Clarissa Easterbrook is still missing.

  * * *

  The call came only eight hours after my boss, District Attorney Duncan Griffith, had first summoned me to the Easterbrook home. It was my first call-out after a month-long hiatus and a new promotion from the Drug and Vice Division into Major Crimes. I was told it would just be some quick PR work to transition me back into the office.

  So far, the transition had been rough.

  When I pulled into the Easterbrook driveway that first evening, I cut the engine and sat for a few last quiet moments in my Jetta. Noticing Detective Johnson waiting for me at the front window, I took a deep breath, released the steering wheel, and climbed out of the car, grabbing my briefcase from the passenger seat as I exhaled.

  I climbed a series of steep slate steps, a trek made necessary by the home’s impressive hillside location. Despite the spring mist, I was able to take in the exterior. Dr. Townsend Easterbrook was clearly no slouch. I wasn’t sure which was bigger, the double-door entranceway or the Expedition I’d parked next to.

  Johnson opened one of the doors before I’d had a chance to use either of the square pewter knockers. I could make out voices at the back of the house; Johnson kept his own down. “Sat in that car so long, Kincaid, thought something might be wrong with your feet.”

  At least my first case back on the job brought some familiar faces. I had met Raymond Johnson and his partner, Jack Walker, only two months ago, when I was a mere drug and vice deputy. But given the history, however recent, I felt a bond with these guys—the gunky kind that threatens to stick around for good.

  “You must not have given up all hope, Johnson. You were waiting at the door.”

  “I was beginning to wonder, but then you tripped something off walking up the path, and I heard a voice somewhere announcing a visitor. George fucking Jetson house. Gives me the creeps.”

  The Easterbrook
home wasn’t exactly cozy, but I’d take it. Neutral colors, steel, and low sleek furniture—the place was a twenty-first-century update on 1960s kitsch.

  With any luck, Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up soon, and there’d be no need to disrupt all this coolness.

  Johnson caught my eye as I studied the house. “Look at you, girl. You’re almost as dark as I am.” He grabbed my hand and held it next to the back of his. Not even close. Johnson’s beautiful skin’s about as dark as it comes.

  “Yeah, but you’re still better looking.”

  He laughed but it was true. He also dressed better than me, more Hollywood red carpet than police precinct linoleum. “Griffith dragged you back from Maui just for this?”

  “I flew in last night, but I sort of assumed I’d have Sunday to myself before I headed back in tomorrow. Maybe the boss thought it would do me good to get some hand-holding practice while we wait for Easterbrook to turn up. You know, ease me out of drug cases into the new gig.”

  “They usually do,” Johnson said. “Turn up, I mean. She probably went shopping and lost track of time or went out for a drink with the girls.”

  “Right, because, of course, that’s all women do in their spare time: shopping and girl talk.”

  “This is going to take some getting used to, Kincaid, after seven years of MCT work with O’Donnell.”

  I didn’t react to the mention of my predecessor. “Just doing my part to lead you down the path of enlightenment, Ray. Clarissa Easterbrook’s an administrative law judge, not some bored housewife.”

  “Oh, so it’s only women lawyers who excel beyond malls and gossip. Got it. Note to all detectives,” he said, as if he were speaking into a dictation recorder, “the new Major Crimes Unit DA says it’s still okay to dis housewives.” He dropped the routine and cocked a finger at me. “Busted!”