My Sister's Grave (33 page)

“In my more than thirty years on the bench, I have never been witness to such a seeming miscarriage of justice. I do not know for certain what transpired some twenty years ago—that will be a matter, I presume, for the Justice Department to decide, along with the fate of those responsible. I do know the defense has proven in
this proceeding
that there are substantial questions as to the validity of the evidence put forward to convict the defendant, Edmund House, in 1993. While my written findings will detail those seeming improprieties in detail, I take this opportunity now because I cannot in good conscience send this defendant back to prison for even one more day.”

House again turned to Dan, confused and disbelieving. A low murmur swept over what remained of the crowd. Meyers silenced it with a single rap of the gavel.

“Our judicial system is premised upon the truth. It is premised upon the participants in that system respecting and providing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth . . . so help them God. It is the only way our system of justice can properly function. It is the only way we can ensure a fair proceeding for the accused. It is not a perfect system. We cannot control those witnesses who have no regard for the truth, but we can control those who participate in the judicial process—law enforcement officers and the men and women who have taken oaths to practice before this bench.” In one sentence, Meyers had condemned Calloway, Clark, and DeAngelo Finn. “It is not a system without faults, but as my fellow jurist William Blackstone stated, ‘It is better that ten guilty men go free than one innocent man be wrongfully convicted.’

“Mr. House, I do not know whether you are guilty or innocent of the crime of which you were accused, tried, and found guilty. That is not for me to determine. It is my opinion and conclusion, however, based on the evidence presented before me, that serious questions exist as to whether you received a fair trial as is mandated by the Constitution and our forefathers who drafted it. Therefore, it will be my recommendation to the Court of Appeals that they remand this matter to the trial court and that you receive a new trial.”

House had his palms pressed flat on the table. He dropped his chin to his chest and his huge shoulders rose and fell with an enormous sigh.

“I am not naïve,” Meyers was saying. “I recognize that, during the past twenty years, evidence has gone stale and witness recollections will have likely eroded. The State’s burden will be even greater than it was twenty years ago, but if that be a prejudice, it is a prejudice self-inflicted. That is not my concern.

“It will take some time to prepare my written findings of fact and conclusions of law, and I presume it will take time for the Court of Appeals to review them. I also assume it likely that the State will appeal my decision. There will also be the inevitable delay before the matter can be remanded to this Superior Court for the purpose of conducting a new trial, if that is to occur at all. Mr. House, those are not delays with which you need concern yourself.”

Tracy realized where Meyers was headed. So too did those in the gallery, who continued to whisper and shift in their seats.

“I am, therefore, ordering your release, subject to your being processed at the Cascade County Jail and the imposition of certain conditions upon your freedom. I will not impose bail. Twenty years was more than a sufficient price. I am ordering, however, that you remain within the state, that you check in daily with your probation officer, that you abstain from alcohol and drugs, and that you obey the laws of this state and this nation. Do you understand these terms?”

Edmund House, mute for three days, stood and spoke. “I do, Judge.”

CHAPTER 49

A
s Judge Meyers rapped his gavel a final time, reporters rushed to the railing, shouting questions at Dan and Edmund House. Dan pacified them as the correctional officers reapplied House’s handcuffs and shackles to escort him out the back door to the Cascade County Jail for processing.

“We’ll be holding a press conference at the jail just as soon as my client is processed,” Dan said.

Finlay Armstrong stepped to Tracy’s side to escort her out of the courtroom. In the midst of the commotion, she looked back over her shoulder, and for a brief moment she flashed back to that moment she had looked through Ben’s truck-cab window and seen Sarah for the last time, standing alone in the rain.

Dan looked up and met her gaze, giving her a small, contented smile.

Finlay ushered Tracy out the courtroom door and down the marble staircase leading to the rotunda. Some of the reporters, perhaps sensing they would not get anything from Dan or House, hurried after her, cameramen rushing ahead to film and take photographs of Tracy descending the interior courthouse steps.

“Do you feel vindicated?”

“This wasn’t about vindication for me,” she said.

“What was it about?”

“It’s always been about Sarah, about finding out what happened to my sister.”

“Will you continue your investigation?”

“I will ask that the investigation into my sister’s murder be reopened.”

“Do you have any idea who killed your sister?”

“If I did, I would bring that to the attention of those who will be investigating.”

“Do you know how your hair got in Edmund House’s truck?”

“Someone put it there,” she said.

“Do you know who?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Do you believe it was Sheriff Calloway?”

“I wouldn’t know for certain.”

“What about the jewelry?” another reporter asked. “Do you know who planted it?”

“I won’t speculate,” she said.

“If Edmund House did not kill your sister, who did?”

“I said I won’t speculate.”

In the marbled rotunda, more cameras and microphones assaulted her. Realizing it was futile to avoid them, she stopped.

“Do you think your sister’s killer will ever be brought to justice?” a reporter asked.

“Today was about taking the first step to getting Sarah’s case reopened. I plan on taking the rest of this one step at a time.”

“What will you do now?”

“My immediate plans are to return to Seattle,” she said. “But that will have to wait until the storm blows through. I’d suggest we all get to where we need to be.”

She pushed through the crowd, Finlay assisting. Outside, several of the more persistent reporters continued to follow, but they quickly gave up, perhaps cognizant of the worsening weather. The snowflakes fell thick as a lace curtain, swirling in a persistent and occasionally gusting wind. Tracy pulled on a hat and slipped on gloves. “I can take it from here,” she said to Finlay.

“You sure?”

“You married, Finlay?”

“Very. I got three kids under the age of nine.”

“Then get on home to them.”

“I wish. Nights like these are usually bad for us.”

“I remember when I worked patrol.”

“For what it’s worth . . .”

“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”

Tracy descended the courthouse steps. She’d not had a chance to change from her heels into her snow boots—the steps were slick and her footing treacherous. She had to take caution with each step. Moisture seeped through the leather of her pumps and she felt the cold invade her toes. She was going to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes.

She raised her eyes to consider the traffic exiting the parking lot and beginning to back up on the road in front of the courthouse—cars and trucks, some with tire chains making a clinking noise that reminded her of Edmund House shuffling into the courtroom at the start of each morning and leaving each afternoon. A flatbed truck with large snow tires slowed as it approached the intersection. The right rear brake light illuminated. The left did not.

Tracy felt a rush of adrenaline. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up her pace, hurrying as quickly as the footing allowed. As she stepped from the bottom step, her foot came out from under her and she slipped, but managed to maintain her grip on the handrail in order to keep from completely sprawling onto the snow-covered pavement. By the time she’d pulled herself back to her feet, the flatbed had reached the intersection. She hustled across the street to the adjacent parking lot, straining to see, but it was too far a distance and the snowfall too thick for her to make out the letters and numbers on the license plate. A metal cage across the back window also blocked her view inside the cab. The truck made a right turn at the intersection, continuing on the road on the northern side of the courthouse.

Tracy slid between rows of the remaining parked cars. Exhaust belched from the tailpipes as drivers stood outside furiously scraping snow and ice from the front and back windows. Some backed from their stalls without clearing the snow. Others pulled forward to exit the lot, adding to the congestion. Tracy kept her eyes on the flatbed and didn’t see the car backing from a parking space until the bumper nicked her leg. Snow covered its back window. She slapped the trunk to get the driver’s attention and pivoted to avoid getting hit, but felt her shoe slip, and this time her knee smacked a patch of asphalt where the car had been parked, preventing the accumulation of snow. The driver got out, apologizing, but Tracy was already getting up, searching for the flatbed. It had stopped three cars from the next intersection for the main road. She cut between another row of parked cars, her lungs burning, calves aching from the strain of trying to maintain her balance. The truck reached the intersection and turned left into the blinding snow, away from her and in the direction of Cedar Grove.

Tracy stopped her pursuit and bent, hands on knees, keeping her head raised and watching until she could no longer see the vehicle. Her labored breathing marked the air in white bursts and the cold gripped her chest and lungs, stinging her exposed cheeks and ears. She realized that in her fall she’d torn her nylons and banged her knee, which ached. Her toes were numb.

She fumbled in her briefcase for a pen, bit off the cap, and wrote the letters and numbers of the license plate that she thought she’d been able to make out on her moistened palm.

Back at her car, she started the engine and turned the defroster on high. The wiper blades made a horrific noise as they scraped across the ice-encrusted windshield. Her fingers still numb, Tracy had trouble keying in the numbers for the call. She made a fist, blew into it, and flexed her fingers before trying again.

Kins answered on the first ring. “Hey.”

“It’s over.”

“What?”

“Meyers ruled from the bench. House is getting another trial.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in later on the details. Right now I need a favor. I need you to run a license plate for me. I only got a partial so I’m going to need you to try some different combinations, whatever you can.”

“Hang on. Let me get something to write with.”

“It’s a Washington plate.” She provided him what she thought had been the letters and numbers on it. “Could be a
W
instead of a
V
and the three might have been an eight.”

“You realize this could pull up a lot of possibilities.”

Tracy transferred the phone and blew into her other fist. “I understand. It’s a flatbed truck so it could be a commercial plate. I just couldn’t get a good-enough look.” She switched the phone again, flexed her fingers, and blew into her other fist.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. Storm is supposed to hit hard here. I’m hoping Monday at the latest.”

“We’re already getting hit here. I can hear the trucks out sanding the roads. I hate it when they do that. After a while it’s like driving through a cat-litter box. Let me call this in so I can start for home. I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

No sooner had she hung up when her phone rang.

“I’m heading over to the jail,” Dan said. “We’re going to hold a press conference when House is released.”

“Where’s he going to go?”

“I haven’t talked to him about that. Kind of ironic, though.”

“What’s that?”

“His first day of freedom and the weather has made prisoners of us all.”

CHAPTER 50

R
oy Calloway did not go home after the hearing. He went where he always went, where he’d gone nearly every day of his life for the last thirty-five years—rain or shine, weekday or weekend. He went where he felt most comfortable, more comfortable than his own living room, and why not? He spent far more time in his office than he did at home. He sat behind his desk, the desk with the nicks and scrapes on the corner where he had a habit of resting his boots. The desk at which he told people they’d find his dead body, because he wasn’t leaving until then, or until someone got a crane to haul his ass out from behind it, kicking and screaming.

“Hold all my calls,” he said to the desk sergeant. Then he sat back at his desk, propped his feet on the corner, and rocked in his chair while considering his mounted prize trout. Maybe it was time he acceded to his wife’s wishes and retired. Maybe it was time to catch some more fish and lower his golf score. Maybe it was time to step aside and let Finlay take over, let a younger man have his turn. Maybe it was time for Calloway to go and spoil his grandkids.

It sounded good. It sounded right.

It sounded like a cop-out.

And Roy Calloway had never copped out. He’d never run from anything in his life. And he wasn’t about to start now. He also wasn’t about to make it easy on them. Call him stubborn, obstinate, proud. Pick one. He didn’t give a shit. They could call in the feds, the Justice Department, the Marines, whoever the hell they wanted. He wasn’t ceding his desk or his office to anyone, not without a fight. They could speculate. They could opine about the evidence being questionable. They could intimate about wrongdoing. What they couldn’t do was prove it.

Not one damn thing.

So let them come with their accusations and their pointed fingers. Let them come with their high-and-mighty attitudes. Let them come with their speeches on the integrity of the judicial system. They didn’t know. They had no idea. Calloway had had twenty years to think it all through. Twenty years to ask whether he’d done the right thing. Twenty years to confirm what he’d known the moment they’d all made the decision. And he wouldn’t change a thing, not one damn thing.