Proof Positive (2006) (8 page)

Take this home, count it, then tell me if it's enough. If it ain' t, tell me what you need. Nothing's too good for Artie.

Frank found Breach's show of affection touching, and had to remind himself that Breach and Prochaska's friendship had been forged by joint acts of mayhem that would have horrified Hannibal Lecter.

Hey, I just remembered something. One of the cops asked Artie if he knew a guy named Vincent Ballard. Breach held up a hand. Don't worry, Artie didn't answer. In fact, he didn't answer none of their questions and the only thing he said was that he wanted a lawyer. But I did some digging and a guy named Vincent Ballard got popped a few days ago in a fleabag motel over on Eighty-second, the Continental.

Frank knew that Martin had cops on his payroll, so he didn't bother to ask how he'd gotten his information.

Did Art know this guy? Frank asked.

Breach smiled. Why don't you ask him? I don't want to put words in Artie's mouth.

Of course. I must be tired, Frank said, realizing his mistake. Breach was too clever to implicate himself or Prochaska in any way.

I'd ask if you wanted a beer or something stronger, but I can see you' re all in, Martin said. Charlie will drive you home. Get a good night's sleep and see Artie in the morning. He's expecting you.

Frank picked up the briefcase with the cash. Nice seeing you again, he said, half meaning it. He couldn't help liking Breach, especially after what he'd done for Amanda. Of course, he didn't kid himself. He knew that Martin was the type of guy who could be your best friend one minute, then cut off your head to get your tie if he was late for an appointment.

Say hello to Amanda. How's she doing?

She's good, Martin. Thanks for asking.

Hey, I like her, and she ain't ugly like her old man.

Frank smiled and opened the door. I'll take good care of Art, he assured Breach.

Do your best.

Chapter
10.

WHEN FRANK JAFFE ENTERED THE CONTACT-VISITING ROOM AT the jail the next morning, Art Prochaska was seated at the table, looking as relaxed as a meditating monk. Frank couldn't help smiling. It was a pleasure to deal with a client who wasn't a mess after a night in jail. Of course, this client's calm came as no surprise. In Prochaska's world, jail time was part of doing business.

How you doing, Frank? Prochaska asked, returning Frank's smile.

Better than you, Art, Frank answered as he sat across from his client. He laid a pen and a yellow lined legal pad on the table. I hear you' ve got a problem.

Not me. I didn't do nothing. With you on the job I'll be out of here soon.

We'll see, Art. You know me, I never promise anything.

Prochaska's grin widened. But you do deliver, just like the Domino Pizza man.

Frank laughed, then forced himself to become serious.

Look, Art, I know you' ve heard this before, but I'm going to give you my lawyer speech before we discuss your case, to make sure you understand what I will and won't do for you, and some of the consequences you might suffer if you break my rules.

Sure thing, Frank, Prochaska answered, folding his hands on the table like a student on his first day at school. His brow furrowed as he concentrated on what Frank had to say.

First off, you know that anything you tell me is confidential. In other words, it stays between us, I won't tell anyone unless you say it's okay. You got that?

Prochaska nodded.

Okay, Frank continued. If you tell me something, it should be the truth. I won't get upset if you lie, but I'm going to have to make decisions in your case and I don't want to do something that hurts you because you lied to me.

Prochaska nodded again, but he didn't tell Frank that he wouldn't lie. If Art was guilty, Frank was certain that he'd never hear the truth from his client.

I have to warn you that I'm an officer of the court as well as your attorney. If you admit the crime you' re charged with I can't let you take the stand and deny you committed the murder. If you do lie in court I won't reveal the perjury to the judge or the DA, because of the attorney-client privilege, but I'll resign from the case and you'll have to get a new lawyer. If some of your buddies lie for you, I won't have an attorney-client relationship with them, so I will tell the judge and the DA. You following this?

Sure, Frank.

Okay, so do you know the cops who busted you?

Yeah, it was that black lady detective, Brewster, and her partner, Zeke Forbus. You know them?

Yeah, Frank said as he wrote the names on his legal pad. Why did they say they were arresting you?

Frank always phrased the question this way so his client's answers wouldn't be a confession.

They think I killed a guy named Vincent Ballard. But I want you to know up front that Marty and I had nothing to do with this guy getting killed, nothing at all.

Marty said someone by that name was murdered at a motel a few days ago.

I don't know anything about that.

Did you know Ballard?

I bump into guys all the time at the clubs, but the name don't ring no bells.

Frank thought that the answer sounded evasive. He had looked up the story about the murder on the Internet before coming to the jail, and he told Prochaska the date of the killing.

Do you remember where you were that evening? he asked.

I might have been home with Maxine, but I can't be sure. I'd have to think.

Who is Maxine?

A girl who works at the Jungle Club. We been dating.

A stripper was not going to be the best alibi witness, but Frank didn't tell that to Prochaska.

I should talk to her before you do, Prochaska said. If I wasn't with her I don't want to waste your time.

Frank knew that Maxine would be calling him as soon as one of Breach's men told her to establish Prochaska's alibi, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Prochaska was impervious to lectures about ethics and morality.

What about the gun beef? Frank asked. Martin said you' re also in here for ex-con in possession.

Brewster showed me a gun and ammo she says she found in my closet, a 9-mm Glock.

Do you think the lab is going to find your prints on that gun?

Prochaska thought for a moment. Hey, he asked, do you think Brewster could have planted the gun?

Anything's possible, but she's got a reputation as a straight shooter.

Art nodded. Frank paused. When it was obvious that no answer to his question about the prints would be forthcoming, he told Prochaska what he'd found out before walking over to the Justice Center.

Mike Greene is the DA on your case. He's okay. I tried to talk to him this morning, but he's out with a cold. As soon as he's back I'll get the police reports. You' re going to be arraigned this afternoon. I'll ask for a bail hearing but don't get your hopes up. There's no automatic bail in a murder case like there is in other cases.

That's okay, Frank. You do your best. If I gotta sit for a while I'll be okay.

Frank handed Prochaska his business card. I'm going to head back to my office. Call me collect, anytime.

Okay.

Frank stood up and pushed a black button under a speaker that was attached to the wall near the door. The speaker crackled, and Frank told the guard that he was ready to go. He chatted with Art until the door opened.

I'll see you in court this afternoon, Frank said before the guard closed the door.

During the elevator ride to the jail waiting area, Frank thought about the difference between representing his average client and representing a professional criminal. Most clients were a bundle of nerves and very demanding. This never upset Frank. He knew that it was incredibly stressful for the average citizen to be charged with a crime. An arrest was humiliating, and it destroyed your reputation even if you were innocent. Being charged with a crime tore you out of your routine and forced you to imagine a life without freedom.

Professionals like Art Prochaska and Martin Breach rarely made demands, and they let Frank do his job. They trusted him and they accepted a conviction without rancor, as long as they were convinced that Frank had been honest with them about their chances and had given one hundred percent. And he got paid. That was another difference. Frank had never been stiffed by the people in Martin Breach's organization because they knew they might need him again.

The downside of representing professional criminals or most criminals, for that matter was that they were usually guilty as charged. What kept Frank going was his belief that America had one of the best criminal justice systems ever devised. There was no question that injustices occurred. You only had to read the papers to find the latest story about a prisoner who had been released from death row after a DNA test proved his innocence. But the object of the system was to protect the innocent, and it usually succeeded. The cost of maintaining a system this good was the occasional acquittal of a guilty person. Frank believed that this risk was worth taking. He wouldn't have continued working so hard if he didn' t.

Chapter
11.

THE STOCKMAN BUILDING HAD BEEN A FIXTURE IN DOWNTOWN Portland since 1915, and the facade displayed the ornate stone scrollwork that was sadly missing from the modern skyscrapers interspersed among the older buildings in the heart of the city. When Frank Jaffe entered the lobby, his thoughts distracted him, and he didn't bother to glance up at the granite cherubs and gargoyles that peered down at him.

There was a week's worth of phone messages in Frank's slot at the front desk, and he gathered them up and headed down the hall to his office. As a senior partner and one of the founders of Jaffe, Katz, Lehane, and Brindisi, Frank rated a large corner office with a view of the tall green hills that stood only twenty or so blocks from the west bank of the Willamette River. The office was decorated with his diplomas and framed news stories detailing his most famous cases. Law books and state and federal statutes filled a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. A long credenza stuffed with files from his active cases ran under his window.

Frank dropped the huge sample case containing the case files from the meth trial on the floor in front of the credenza. Then, as he did every morning, he looked at the framed pictures of Amanda and her mother, Samantha, which stood on a corner of a large, scratched and gouged desk that had been abused by cigarette burns and coffee stains since he began practicing soon after his graduation from night law school.

Samantha was the great love of Frank's life so great a love that he had remained single since her death. Raising an infant while building a law practice had consumed Frank after his wife died. It had also helped him to hide from his grief. But the intense sorrow that Samantha's death had caused was always just below the surface. Frank's friends tried to fix him up with other women. Occasionally, he would try a date with someone who came highly recommended by people whose judgment he trusted. These women were very nice, and often beautiful and intelligent as well, but they could never be compared to Samantha. Now Amanda was the only woman in Frank's life, and he was incredibly proud of her strength, intelligence, and goodness of heart. He knew that growing up without a mother and living with a father who worked as hard as he did had been tough, but she accepted her life without complaint, and he had been thrilled when she decided to work with him.

Frank pulled himself away from the photographs and was starting to put the files from the Medford meth case into his credenza when Amanda poked her head in the door.

You' re back.

I got in late last night and didn't want to bother you.

What happened? she asked as she walked into the office.

Frank told Amanda about the mistrial.

You must have been pissed.

I'm still pissed.

Do you think Featherstone mentioned the conviction on purpose because he thought you were winning?

I wish that was it. I'd have a good chance of getting the charges dismissed. Frank shook his head in disgust. Featherstone's not the sharpest arrow in the quiver. I think he got worked up during closing and forgot the judge's ruling.

Are you going to file a double-jeopardy motion anyway?

Oh, sure, I have Daniel working on it, but I don't think I'll win. Right now I just want to forget the case for at least a week. In fact, I picked up a new case last night that should help take my mind off it. It's a murder, and guess who the client is.

I have no idea.

Art Prochaska.

No kidding?

You' re surprised?

Not that he'd kill someone, but I am surprised that a pro like Art was caught. How strong is the case?

I don't know much about the facts, except that the victim was killed at a motel on Eighty-second. I just got back from the jail. Art says that he doesn't know anything about it. Mike Greene is the DA and he's out with a cold, so I couldn't get any more info.

Amanda's stomach tightened when her father mentioned Mike, but she hid her distress from him.

Art's arraignment is this afternoon, Frank continued. Maybe I'll learn more then. So what have you been up to while I was having fun in Medford?