Judgment Calls Read online

  Chuck’s mind clearly had wandered in a different direction. “I had a hard enough time swallowing a death sentence on a case I worked on, but when it comes out of the courtroom of some ass like Hitchcock, I almost hope it does get thrown out.”

  After decades without a death penalty, the Oregon legislature had approved one in 1988. The relatively gentle jurors of Oregon had delivered capital sentences to only a handful of people, and most people assumed that those defendants would die natural deaths in prison before Oregon’s courts would permit an execution to be carried out.

  Despite the unlikelihood of an Oregon execution, handling murder cases in what was now theoretically a death penalty state still bothered Forbes and other people in law enforcement with mixed feelings about the issue. Like me, Chuck could not definitively align himself with either side of the debate. Unlike most knee-jerk opponents, he recognized that an execution could bring a kind of closure to a victim’s family that a life sentence could not. But he continued to be troubled by the role of vengeance and the inherent discrimination that too often lay at the heart of the death penalty’s implementation.

  “Where is that case anyway?” I asked.

  “Last I heard, Taylor hated prison so much he’d fired his attorneys and waived his appeals, but the State Supreme Court was still sitting on it. I almost hope they throw the sentence out. As long as the conviction stands, it’s still a win for us.”

  Maybe Chuck had finally taken a position on the issue after all.

  “Hey, enough of this. Why don’t you head on home?” Chuck suggested.

  “No, I’ll stay here. I’m OK.”

  “You’ve got less sense than a thirteen-year-old. Do I have to talk to you like you talked to Kendra?” He counted the multitude of reasons I should go home on his fingers. “I probably won’t even do the search tonight. There was a shooting a couple hours ago up in north Portland, so the night-shift crime lab team is probably tied up out there. The car’s in the impound lot, so it’s not going anywhere. Go home. Vinnie misses you.”

  Vinnie is my French bulldog. He moved in with me a couple of years ago, the day my divorce was finalized. He gets upset when I stay out late.

  Chuck wrinkled up his face and pulled out his ears, like a mean-looking pug with bat ears. In other words, he looked like my Vinnie. “I can picture him right now. He’s going, ‘Mmm, these curtains taste good. This carpet looks a lot better soaked with a huge puddle of French bulldog piss.’” For whatever reason, Chuck had decided that if Vinnie could speak he’d sound like Buddy Hackett.

  “You’re right. I’m going home. And the search can wait until tomorrow. Don’t you work too late either,” I said.

  “Aye-aye,” he said, waving his hand in a quick salute.

  I stopped as I was walking toward the door. “Will you be able to get your car OK?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get a patrol officer to take me out there.”

  I turned around again at the door. He was making copies of the warrant. “Hey, Chuck.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re really good at what you do.”

  His face softened, and his eyes smiled at me. “Thanks. Back atcha, babe. Now go home. You’re only this sweet when you’re tired.”

  I drove home smiling.

  5

  By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. Vinnie was waiting for me at the door, very disappointed. In my head, I heard Chuck’s Buddy Hackett impersonation, scolding me for being out so late.

  I threw off my coat, picked him up, made all sorts of embarrassing cooing noises, and scratched him ferociously behind those big goofy ears. When the snorts began, I knew he’d forgiven me.

  Vinnie’s basic needs are met when I’m gone. He has his own door in back that goes out to the yard. An automatic feeder keeps him portly. He’s even capable of entertaining himself. I’m pretty sure he thinks his rubber Gumby doll is his baby. But at the end of the day, he’s a momma’s boy and needs me to talk to him.

  Between work, keeping in touch with the few friends who are willing to 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 bef
ore 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 through 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 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.”