Judgement Calls Page 5

  alibi witness eventually, so I might as well do it now to knock her

  down a few pegs. As is the case with most bluster, I didn't know if it

  would work, but it was worth a shot. Lopez was right. The case would

  be tough without additional evidence. I walked back to the courthouse

  praying that MCT would find me something more.

  Spending the first seven hours of my day on a case I hadn't even known

  about until this morning had taken its toll. By the time I got back to

  my office, I had fourteen voice mail messages, a stack of police

  reports to review, and a flashing message on my computer screen

  announcing I had mail. If people would just behave themselves, my job

  would be so much easier.

  Still, I managed to leave the office in time to make my dinner

  reservation in the Pearl District. Until a few years ago, no one

  distinguished between the Pearl District and Old Town. Growing up, we

  defined Old Town as the entire area north of downtown, between the

  Willamette River and 1-405. Other than the train station and a few

  restaurants Portlanders called China Town, there weren't many

  legitimate reasons to go to Old Town back then. Those three square

  miles harbored the majority of the city's homeless population, a

  thriving drug trade, and cheap bars with underground behind-the-counter

  needle-exchange programs. Most of the buildings in the area were

  abandoned warehouses.

  But life north of Burnside changed in the early 1990s,

  when Portland's economy began to experience its current boom with the

  help of Nike, its nationally recognized ad agency, and more high-tech

  companies than you could shake a stick at. Portland became the

  sought-after new address for thousands of upwardly mobile young

  professionals.

  To uprooted Californians and to Easterners like my ex-husband, a move

  to Portland was supposed to represent a dedication to a new way of

  living, a clean slate, a commitment to a simpler lifestyle that

  balanced work, play, and family. Their office walls were lined with

  photographs of them hiking in the Columbia Gorge and skiing Mount Hood,

  and they bought life memberships in the Sierra Club. But they also

  drove Range Rovers and Land Cruisers that got eleven miles to the

  gallon and had never actually been muddied by off-road use.

  One upside of the Yuppie Takeover, however, was the development of the

  Pearl District. A group of savvy developers foresaw the desire of this

  new crowd to live in upscale housing close to downtown. They purchased

  entire blocks of warehouses on the west end of Old Town and refurbished

  them as loft apartments and townhouses. Buildings you used to be

  afraid to walk by now boasted million-dollar apartments. Along with

  the housing had come a slew of chic restaurants, retail shops, hair

  salons, interior decorators, and every other business that might make

  the life of some thirty-year-old millionaire a little more

  comfortable.

  Some of the old-timers, artists who had used the warehouses as

  inexpensive studio space, complained about the gentrification. But

  most Portlanders, like me, were happy to have a neighborhood close to

  downtown where they could go after work for dinner and a drink.

  Tonight's dinner was at Oba, my favorite Pearl District spot. The bar

  in the front of the restaurant was, at least for now, the beautiful

  people's place to see and be seen. And, although I didn't have

  first-hand knowledge, Oba enjoyed a reputation as a good place to find

  a companion for the rest of the night. I came for the food.

  Grace was already there when I arrived. Despite the throngs of people

  packed into the bar, my best friend had managed to procure a seat at a

  table of young and painfully attractive men. One of them was returning

  from the bar with her favorite drink, a Cosmopolitan. And, of course,

  all of them were laughing. Grace Hannigan is one of the funniest

  people I know.

  I worked my way over to the table and leaned over so Grace could hear

  me. "You been here long?"

  "Hey, woman. I didn't see you come in. I just got here a little bit

  ago."

  One of the men at the table got up and offered his chair.

  I could barely hear Grace over the noise. She leaned in. "This one on

  my right is a client. He saw me walk in and waved me over. He's a

  computer programmer. The rest of them are with him." She leaned in

  even closer and said in my ear, "The blond one's got potential. He's

  coming in next week. I made room on my calendar."

  Grace cuts hair. It's a good thing she's got the kind of job where a

  guy can make an appointment to see her on a risk-free basis, or she

  would probably never get a date. You know how actresses and models say

  that guys never ask them out? You're supposed to infer that they're so

  beautiful that men are too intimidated to risk rejection. I wouldn't

  have believed it unless I had a best friend like Grace. She has

  collagen-free pouty lips, bright white teeth, and flawless skin that's

  alabaster in winter and bronzed in summer. Her hair looks different

  every time I see her, but her natural curls always frame her face just

  right. And she can eat all the junk she wants and never get fat. I'm

  so glad I know her, or I'd probably hate her.

  Despite Grace's looks, men who are obviously attracted to her rarely

  ask her out. Instead, they make appointments for haircuts. Eventually,

  they get around to asking her if she has time to grab a drink or dinner

  afterward, but they always use the haircut as the way in. Grace says

  she can never tell whether a man's appointment is a pre-date formality

  or if he just wants his hair cut, but I keep telling her that any man

  willing to pay $60 for a haircut is probably looking for a date. A

  nice shag. A good bang. A first-rate bob.

  I ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, but we didn't last at the bar for

  long. We were eager to talk about the week that had passed since we'd

  last seen each other, and the noise was too much, so we moved to our

  table.

  I let her go first, because her news was always more fun. Most of her

  week this time was spent working on the set of a movie being filmed in

  the area. Grace's business had been thriving in town for years, but in

  the last couple of years she had developed a strong reputation as an

  on-set stylist for the increasing number of film productions that were

  coming to Portland.

  As much as Grace enjoyed the new field of work, what she really seemed

  to love was the dish. Grace had always acted as part-time therapist to

  clients who trusted her with their life's secrets, and she actually

  refrained from passing these tidbits on to others. However, she felt

  no such loyalty toward pretentious thespians and spoiled prima donnas.

  Working regularly on production sets satisfied Grace's lust for good,

  spreadable dirt.

  Tonight's topic was the disagreeable side of America's most beloved

  actress. Physically, she was as perfect as Grace had expected. But

  after working with her for three days, Grace now believed her to be one

  of the
ugliest people she'd met.

  "This girl was killing me, Sam. She likes to tell all those magazines

  that her famous hair just looks that way on its own? Well, God let me

  make it through the weekend so I could tell you otherwise. She must've

  stopped shooting six times a day, yelling at me, It's drying out, it's

  drying out. Can't you see I need a mist?" Then I'd have to stop what

  I was doing and spray her head with a mixture of moisturizer and Evian

  water. She says regular water leaves a 'residue." Then everyone had

  to sit there and wait while I scrunched her hair with my fingers until

  it dried, to lock in what she says are natural curls.

  "So, during a break, when I was touching her up, I mentioned in passing

  that shooting schedules can be hard on the hair. You know, all that

  blow drying, crimping, curling, and whatnot really takes its toll.

  Truth is, her hair's toast, beyond saving. I pulled her hair up around

  her shoulders and told her she'd look just as beautiful with a short

  cut if she wanted a change after this movie's done. The girl

  wigged."

  Grace lifted her head and affected a slight southern accent. " "I'm

  not some house frau who needs a frumpy easy-to-manage hairdo. With all

  due respect, you're not being paid to think. You're being paid to make

  sure I look good. And this hair is what looks good, what has put me on

  the cover of hundreds of magazines, and what makes me worth twenty

  million dollars a film." It was all I could do not to cut that shit

  right off her head. Add the fact that she picks her teeth and reeks of

  garlic, and I don't see her as America's little sweetheart anymore."

  People judge others by their professions, but the reality is that

  Grace, in addition to being funny and extremely good at what she does,

  is incredibly smart. She always has been. In high school, the two of

  us were always neck and neck at the top of the class. Although we

  started to lose touch a few years into college, she was the first

  person I called when I moved back to Portland, and we picked up the

  friendship right where we'd left off.

  As much as I was enjoying Grace's comic relief, I couldn't get the

  Derringer case out of my mind. I laid out everything I knew so far.

  She shook her head. "I don't know how you handle a job where you have

  to think about that kind of stuff. There must be some happy medium

  between those sick subjects and the superficial junk I have to deal

  with all day."

  "Maybe we should both hang it up and become account-ants.

  "Nah, too boring," she said. "We'll just have to keep trying to

  balance each other out."

  "Seriously, it's not just that it's hard, Grace. I've gotten used to

  dealing with unpleasant subjects at work. I'm scared I'm going to

  lose. These are the most serious charges I've ever filed against

  anyone, and part of me's excited about it. But if it falls apart, I

  won't just look bad at work, I'll feel like shit for letting this

  dirtbag go free."

  "Sam, you've got to put it in perspective. If it weren't for you, this

  guy would already have won. Tim O'Donnell would've issued that chippy

  assault charge against him. What could he get for that?"

  "With his record, maybe two years at most after conviction. He'd be

  out in eighteen months, maybe even nine if he pled guilty," I said.

  "See? And, even in a worst-case scenario, you'll still get that,

  right?"

  "I think so. Even if the case falls apart, I think Lopez would plead

  Derringer out to assault to avoid going to verdict on the attempted

  murder."

  "So what are you worrying about? Sounds to me like you saved the day

  just by getting involved, no matter what happens. This way, the police

  are still working on the case, so they might even catch the second guy.

  You need to look at it from that perspective. You may win. But even

  if you don't, you haven't really lost anything."

  She was right. I should feel good about what I did today. It was time

  to put aside the serious stuff and talk to her about the personal side

  of this case.

  "Oh, and I may have neglected to fill you in on the identity of one of

  the main investigators."

  "Why would I care? Is he a cutey?" She feigned enthusiastic curiosity

  and gave me a wink.

  "Um .. . No! Well, I mean, yeah. I don't really know. Look, what I

  mean is that for once this man actually has something to do with me and

  not you."

  "Excuse me for assuming. I've gotten used to you never being

  interested. It's been two years since your divorce, and you still act

  like men don't get to you anymore, except.. . oh, lord, Sam, you're

  not actually going to try working with Lucky Chucky, are you?"

  It's been more than fifteen years since Chuck Forbes's football buddies

  had come up with that nickname. Two of them had barged into Chuck's

  house carrying a keg one weekend when his parents were out of town. I

  guess we didn't hear them over "Avalon." For the rest of high school,

  Chuck was Lucky Chucky. They finally stopped calling me Been-laid

  Kincaid at the end of senior year.

  "Can't we move a little bit past that, Grace?"

  "It's not that there's anything wrong with Chuck. It's what's wrong

  with the two of you. When are you going to realize that he makes you

  crazy? You either need to write each other off or lock yourselves in a

  room together until you get it out of your systems. You have this

  twisted love-hate, only-happy-when-you're-not-getting-together kind of

  relationship. And every time you see him, you dwell on it for the next

  two weeks but won't let yourself follow through. I am driven crazy by

  osmosis. Please don't do this to me. Is that why you took this

  case?"

  "Oh, please. No, I swear, Grace. I would've taken it anyway, for all

  the reasons we talked about. But I don't know how I'm going to handle

  this. Just reading the police reports, I find myself poring over every

  word of his, admiring what a good cop he's become. I guess I'm just

  going to have to deal with it."

  "Deal with it? You've only ever had one way of dealing with Chuck

  Forbes. You decide you can keep the relationship platonic. You start

  hanging out, kidding around, watching games on the weekends, all the

  things that friends do. But then the chemistry kicks in and the next

  thing you know you get scared and back off, he gets mad, and you both

  go off into your separate corners and pout until you once again trick

  yourselves into believing that you can make the friendship thing work

  and the whole damn cycle begins again. Did it ever dawn on you that

  Roger might have felt a little left out?"

  I stared at her. Roger's my ex-husband. We met at Stan ford Law

  School. Dad thought Roger was too much of a blue blood but Mom and I

  thought he was perfect: a grownup who knew what he wanted and how he

  was going to get it. Smart, good-looking, and ambitious, Roger had

  wanted to marry me right out of law school so we could start our

  perfect life together back in New York. We moved into the Upper East

  Side apartment his family bought us
as a wedding present, him working

  toward partnership at one of the country's biggest firms, me working as

  an Assistant U.S. Attorney.

  The perfect life didn't last long. Roger landed a job as in-house

  counsel with Nike, so we wound up moving to Portland after only a

  couple of years in New York. A few months later, I discovered that my

  husband had taken literally his new employer's ad slogan encouraging

  decisive, spontaneous, self-satisfying action. We both thought I would

  be working late preparing for a trial set to start the following day,

  but the case had settled with a last-minute guilty plea. My intention

  was to surprise Roger by coming home early with dinner and a movie in

  hand.

  Instead, I found him doing it with a professional volleyball player on

  top of our dining room table. I got the house and everything in it,

  but I made sure he got the table.

  Now Grace and I rarely referred to my former husband as anything other

  than Shoe Boy or for any reason other than comic. We definitely never

  insinuated that I was somehow responsible for his infidelities.

  "That's totally unfair, Grace. You know that Chuck and I have been

  nothing more than friends since I came back to town. Unlike some

  people, I took my marriage vows seriously."

  "Come on, Sam. I'm not saying Roger was justified to whore around. I'm

  just saying he might have been bothered when you and Chuck started

  spending time together again. Roger thought leaving New York was going

  to change things, but you were still putting in the same kind of hours

  and running thirty miles a week. Then you started making time for

  Chuck. Say what you want about only being friends, but to Roger it was