The Last Innocent Man (13 page)

“N
ice of you to drop by,” Larry said sarcastically as soon as the guard shut the door to the private visitor’s room.

“Don’t, Larry,” Jennifer began. She wanted to say more, but her courage failed her. Larry started to say one thing, changed his mind, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry. It’s just with the trial starting…I just thought you’d visit more.”

Jennifer did not answer. She turned and walked to the far end of the narrow room. Larry followed her and touched her arm.

“I said I’m sorry, kitten. I’m all wound up.”

“I know,” she said quietly. He had lost weight, and he looked sad and defeated. She did not want to hurt him any
more than he had already been hurt, but she knew she would have to.

“Larry, I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

Larry paled, just staring, his mouth partly open.

“What…what do you…?”

“It’s no good. They’ll see that I’m lying and it will make it worse for you.”

“No. No. You’ll do okay,” Stafford said desperately. “Nash believes you, right? He’s a pro. If we’ve got him fooled, the jury will be easy.”

Jennifer tried to say something. To talk to him. But her stomach was cramped with fear and self-loathing, and she felt short of breath. Larry just stared at her, afraid to speak. The silence in the room terrified him.

“Jenny, they can’t prove anything,” he said finally. “How will they know?” He stopped. He was pleading. “Besides, it’s the truth. I told you that, didn’t I? I swore to God.”

Jenny still could not speak. She could see the panic in his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he said, his voice rising, “you can’t change your story now. You’ll crucify me.

“Say something. It’s your fault I’m here. Do you want to bury me now?”

His voice rose in pitch and cut through her. She started to cry.

Larry grabbed her roughly by both arms. His fingers dug into her flesh, hurting her.

“Answer me, Jenny. Do you want me to die? Because that’s what’s happening to me here. I couldn’t stand prison, locked away. I can’t stand it now. The noise, the smells. This filth.”

He raised his arm like an accusing angel and pointed at the room.

“Do you hate me so much that you want me to live the rest of my life like some animal?”

She started to cry, turning her head from him, not wanting him to hold her or comfort her. He was right. She did not hate him. She was only tired of him. Disillusioned by the destruction of the love that she had once felt for him. She couldn’t let him end up in a place like this. Not even if he had…She could not complete the thought, because if Larry had killed that woman, then she was partly to blame.

“All right,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “All right.”

Stafford let her go. He was afraid and alone, and he could see the strands of his slender lifeline unraveling before his eyes.

O
RTIZ SLOUCHED DOWN
in the passenger seat of the unmarked police car. He had on a heavy jacket and a sweater, and he was still cold. Beside him Jack Hennings blew into his cupped hands, then tucked them under his armpits for warmth.

“I can’t believe it’s this fucking cold,” he complained.

“Tell me about it,” Ortiz mumbled. He leaned forward and wiped a space on the windshield clean where it had fogged over.

“I don’t see why we can’t just bust in and arrest him,” Hennings said.

“I told you why. My snitch said T.V.’d have it on him. I’m not going to risk missing it in a search and have that asshole laughing at me up and down the avenue.”

“I’d rather have every nigger in the city laughing at me than have to sit out here for another hour.”

“Besides, Kermit is probably in there with him, and I want to be sure where he is when we move.”

“Monroe’s a pussy,” Hennings said. Hennings was big and talked tough, but Ortiz doubted he’d be able to take Kermit Monroe one on one.

“If you think it’s so easy, Lone Ranger, why don’t you go over there all by yourself and call me when it’s over?”

Hennings grinned. “Don’t get so nervous, Bert. I know karate.”

“Oh, Jesus, that’s all I need.”

“Besides,” Hennings said, holding up the Magnum he had placed on the seat of the car, “the man won’t be doin’ much wrasslin’ with his balls in China. Now, if—”

Ortiz sat up. The door to Johnson’s house opened, and two men were illuminated by the porch light. From where they were sitting, it was easy to make out Johnson in his ankle-length fur coat.

“Let’s go,” he said, and the two policemen left the car. Johnson and Monroe talked as they walked to the curb. Ortiz and Hennings moved quickly, trying to attract as little attention as possible as they approached. Monroe turned his back to them and opened the passenger door for his boss. The howling wind muffled the sound of footsteps. Monroe turned and made a move for his gun. He stopped when he saw Hennings poised in a shooting stance.

“Freeze!” Hennings shouted.

Johnson stood with his hands half-raised and a stunned expression on his face. Then he bent his head and squinted into the dark and cold.

“Is that you, Ortiz?”

“Shut up and spread against the car.”

“What the fuck you doin’, man? I’m clean.”

“I said, against the car. Both of you.”

“I ain’t humiliatin’ myself in no—”

Ortiz hit Johnson in the solar plexus as hard as he could, then kicked him in the crotch. The pimp looked as if he were going to be sick. He slipped to his knees. A quick look of surprise crossed Hennings’s face. Monroe started to lower his hands.

“Just try it, fuck face. I’d love to waste you,” Ortiz said, swinging his weapon in Monroe’s direction. The big man looked uncertain for a moment, then slowly leaned against the car as he had been told.

“Now, spread,” Ortiz commanded, pulling Johnson to his feet and shoving him against the car. Hennings kept a few paces back and Ortiz frisked Monroe. He handed a gun and a switchblade to his partner. Hennings placed them in his pocket. While Hennings’s attention was distracted, Ortiz slipped the plastic baggie from his pocket and palmed it. Johnson was still doubled over and in pain, but he was doing his best to spread-eagle in order to avoid another beating. There were no wisecracks now, Ortiz thought with satisfaction. No bad-mouth.

Ortiz reached around in front of the pimp and pretended to search inside his coat for a weapon. Suddenly, he pulled his hand out of T.V.’s pocket and waved the baggie toward Hennings.

“Bingo,” Ortiz said.

T.V. turned his head. His eyes opened wide when he saw what Ortiz was holding.

“What’s that?” he asked, surprise distracting him from his pain.

“Your passport to the penitentiary, T.V. Now, move over to that police car so we can escort you downtown.”

“You planted that!” T.V. said incredulously.

“Shut up,” Ortiz said softly.

“You in on this too, pig?” T.V. asked Hennings.

“Didn’t you hear Officer Ortiz tell you to shut your face?” Hennings asked.

Ortiz jerked Monroe’s hands behind him and cuffed the big man. He made sure that the cuffs were too tight. He gave T.V. the same treatment.

“I’m going to read you your rights, gentlemen,” Ortiz said as the prisoners were hustled to the police car.

“You are really a sick son of a bitch, Ortiz. You plant that shit on me, then talk about rights.”

Ortiz read the Miranda rights to the prisoners, then motioned them into the back of the police car. There were no handles on the inside of the back door, and a wire screen separated the back seat from the front. Hennings drove and Ortiz leaned back. Monroe looked out the back window, accepting his fate silently. Johnson slouched beside him with a sullen expression on his face. The whole thing was unfair. He expected a beating now and then. He had seen police lie on the witness stand when an arrest was legitimate but the defendant would escape on a technicality if the truth came out. But this was different. It was…was…unfair.

Johnson looked through the mesh at the back of Ortiz’s head. Ortiz wanted something. He had a feeling about it. Something he wanted bad enough to break the rules. He’d wait and see what it was. If he could, he’d do what Ortiz wanted; then he would wait for his chance.

“W
HY YOU PLANT
that dope, Ortiz?” T.V. asked when they were alone in the interrogation room.

“I didn’t plant any dope on you, T.V. My informant said you’d have it on you and you did. Anyone who watches television knows you’re a notorious pusher. Why wouldn’t you be carrying narcotics?”

“My lawyer gonna tear that story apart. You got no case on me.”

“Oh, yeah? When you talk to your lawyer, ask him how he’s going to do that. A court won’t order me to tell you the name of an informant. It’s the law, T.V.”

T.V. was silent for a moment. His eyes darted nervously from one side of the room to the other, as if looking for some way out of his predicament.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a crooked cop, Ortiz.”

“Try and prove that in court. You think a jury will take the word of a nigger pimp against mine? You’re gonna do ten hard years on this, T.V., unless…”

T.V. looked up from the floor. “Unless what?”

“Unless you tell the truth about what that white man did to your whore friend.”

“You still on that kick?” Johnson asked, surprised.

“The truth, T.V., will set you free.”

“How? How you gonna arrange for me to beat this rap?”

“I found the evidence, I can lose the evidence. You play ball with me, and this case will disappear like one of Houdini’s card tricks. But you fuck with me, and I’ll see you in the penitentiary doing hard time. My word.”

“Your word ain’t worth shit,” Johnson said in a sudden burst of anger.

“Maybe,” Ortiz said with a broad smile, “but it’s all you’ve got.”

Johnson stood up and walked to the far wall. He turned his back on Ortiz. It was quiet in the soundproof room.

“And suppose I tell you what I know? Is that all?”

“No. You tell the jury. You testify.”

“I gotta…I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Well, you better decide fast. The trial starts tomorrow and you don’t have much time.”

A
fog bank drifted across the sand, obscuring the terrain of the endless beach. Monica stopped, terrified and alone. She turned slowly, looking for a landmark, but the fog had made subtle changes and she felt lost.

The fog lifted for a moment, and a figure, half-shrouded by the mist, floated away from her. She ran after it, lifting her legs high to avoid the sand that clutched at her ankles. She must not fall or the sand would suck her down.

The fog was drifting back and her quarry was slipping into the shadows. She ran faster, the pounding of her heart drowning out the cadence of the incoming tide. Faster. She was losing ground. Faster. She was falling, screaming, flailing helplessly as she hurtled downward into darkness.

Then the beach was gone, and the only part of her dream that remained was the beating of her heart.

Monica looked around the room. It was her bedroom and she was sitting up in her bed, drenched in sweat. The clock read six
A.M.
She could try to sleep for another half hour, but she was too wound up.

Monica turned on the light and went into the bathroom. The face she saw in the mirror was pale and had bags under the eyes. Not good, she thought, but it would not get better if she did not get a decent night’s sleep.

She had been exhausted during jury selection, and her opening statement lacked the punch of David’s emotional declaration of his client’s innocence. Monica had watched the jurors as she outlined the evidence she would produce at trial. They had listened attentively, and she was convinced that they were responsible people who would convict Larry Stafford if they believed he was guilty. But would they believe that, or would David fool them?

Fool them. That was an odd way to describe the function of the defense bar, but Monica felt it was an accurate description. When they had lived together, David often talked of himself, self-deprecatingly, as a magician whose job it was to make people see what was not there and to conceal what was there. Monica believed that Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch, and she was afraid that David would make her evidence disappear with a wave of his verbal wand.

Monica opened the refrigerator and took out a container of orange juice. She put a kettle of water on the stove and tried to decide between cold cereal and frozen waffles. She settled for two pieces of whole-wheat toast.

Judge Rosenthal had been chosen to preside at the
trial, and David did not object, even though Rosenthal had issued the search warrant. Jury selection had taken longer than expected because of the difficulty in finding twelve Portland residents who had not formed an opinion about the “Policewoman Murder.” Monica and David had agreed on a jury shortly before noon on the second day of trial. They had concluded opening statements after lunch, and she had presented the testimony of Dr. Francis R. Beauchamp, the medical examiner, before Judge Rosenthal had called a halt to the proceedings for the day.

The coffee was bitter and Monica grimaced as it went down, but she needed the caffeine. The toast was burned, too. Shit! She felt like smashing something. Not a good way to begin the most important day of the State’s case. She tried to calm down.

Monica was always tense when she was in trial, but it was worse when she tried a case against David. She was a highly competitive woman who enjoyed winning. When Monica tried cases against other attorneys, she thought of them strictly in business terms. She could never think of David that way. Even after all these years she was still a little in love with him, and she knew it, so she overcompensated whenever they were matched against each other, and ended up pushing herself harder than she had to, out of fear that her feelings for him would influence her performance.

There was an added reason for her anxiety this morning: Ortiz and his surprise witness. Last night, after court recessed, she had been making notes on Beauchamp’s testimony when Ortiz and Crosby came into her office. She was in a foul mood and wanted to leave, but the two policemen seemed excited.

“Beauchamp was pretty convincing, I hear,” Crosby said, settling into a chair. Dr. Beauchamp was a frustrated actor with a knack for describing fatal wounds that made them appear more revolting than a color photograph ever could.

“All Beauchamp established was that Darlene Hersch was struck in the abdomen and neck, then had her throat slit. He didn’t establish who did it,” Monica replied testily.

“I don’t think pinning this on Stafford is going to be a problem anymore,” Ortiz said with a confident smile.

“I’m glad to hear that, Bert. I thought we had problems.”

Ortiz’s face clouded over. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“The case is flimsy. No offense, Bert, but all we have is your ID based on a few seconds’ observation after you had been struck on the head hard enough to require hospitalization. I’m beginning to think we may have moved too fast on this one.”

“You can stop worrying, because I’ve got the man who is going to do it to Mr. Stafford.”

Monica put her pen down and waited for Ortiz to continue. Ortiz had a tendency to be dramatic, and he paused to heighten the tension.

“Remember Ron called you when Stafford was arraigned and asked you to oppose bail?”

“Yes,” she said, turning toward Crosby. “You said that another officer was certain that Stafford had beaten up a prostitute and was going to try to find the police reports. I also recall being put off by you every time I’ve asked you about that report,” she added angrily. “I put myself on the line at the bail hearing because of your assurances.”

“You have every right to be angry, Monica,” Crosby said sheepishly. “Tracking down our witness just took longer than we thought.”

“You have a witness who saw Larry Stafford beat up a prostitute?”

“Exactly,” Ortiz said.

“Who is it?” Monica asked.

“Cyrus Johnson.”

“Cyrus—Jesus, Bert. I’m not going to vouch for the credibility of a known pimp and dope dealer.”

“Who else would be able to testify about Stafford’s sex habits? It’s the fact that he’s a pimp that makes him credible.”

“Bert, you’ve seen David operate. Do you know what he’d do to Johnson? The man sells dope to schoolchildren, for Christ’s sake.”

“If you’re afraid of Nash, you shouldn’t be trying this case,” Ortiz said, suddenly very angry.

Monica jumped to her feet. “Get out of my office,” she shouted. “I’m not going to take that shit.”

Crosby put his hand on Ortiz’s elbow and Ortiz was immediately contrite.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I think you’re a hell of a good lawyer. It’s just…well, the case means a lot to me and I want to make sure Stafford doesn’t get away.”

Monica sat down and leaned back in her chair. The outburst had taken a lot out of her.

“Apology accepted. The case is getting to me, too.”

“Will you at least talk to Johnson and read this police report?” Crosby asked, placing the report in front of her.

“Yeah. I didn’t really want to go home, anyway. But you two are going to stand me dinner. I’m starving.”

T
HE INTERVIEW WITH
Johnson created more problems than it solved. The man was smooth, and she could not determine if he was telling the truth. True, the story he told her was the same story he had told the police two years ago, but he had reason to lie to the police then, and he was in trouble, and obviously anxious to deal now. Monica wanted to convict Stafford, but she would not put on testimony she believed might be perjured.

Even if the story was true, she did not know if she could get Johnson’s testimony into evidence. Johnson would be testifying that Stafford had committed a prior criminal act, and the rules of evidence forbade the introduction of that type of evidence, with only a few narrowly defined exceptions. Monica was not convinced that Johnson’s evidence fell under any of them. David was an expert on the rules of evidence, and she would have to research the question of admissibility thoroughly, because she knew how hard David would fight when he learned about Johnson.

Monica finished combing her hair and put on her coat. Her key witnesses, Grimes and Ortiz, were scheduled to testify today. If they survived David’s cross-examination, she might not have to put on Johnson.

“A
ND WHAT HAPPENED
then, Mr. Grimes?” Monica asked. The motel clerk had just taken the stand and had been preceded by several laboratory technicians, a supervisor from the Motor Vehicles Division who established Stafford’s ownership of the Mercedes, and Detective Crosby, who testified about the search of Stafford’s house.

“I gave her the key and she left. I went back to readin’, and the next thing I know, I hear these screams.”

David leaned forward and began making notes about Grimes’s testimony on a yellow legal pad. Larry Stafford sat beside him at counsel table, looking businesslike in a conservative dark-blue three-piece suit. David had intentionally dressed more casually than his client to give the jury an initial visual impression that Stafford, not he, was the defense attorney.

“Where were the screams coming from?” Monica asked. David heard Stafford shift nervously in his seat. He glanced at his client and caught him looking over his shoulder at the crowded courtroom. Stafford was looking for his wife, and David felt a slight pang of conscience that momentarily dampened his otherwise expansive mood. David knew where Jenny was and why she was late for court this morning. They had spent the night together, and she had returned home to change while he dressed for court.

“Did you notice Jenny this morning?” Stafford whispered, as if reading David’s thoughts. There was an edge to Larry’s voice, and an air of tension around him that David had noticed since the start of the trial. David expected a person on trial for murder to be nervous, but he sensed that there was something else eating at his client and that it concerned Jenny.

“She’ll be along,” David whispered back. “And don’t look so down in the mouth. Take notes and concentrate on the witnesses, like I told you. I don’t want the jury to see your interest lag for one second.”

“I couldn’t tell who was screamin’ at first,” Grimes continued, “so I went outside in the lot. The motel rooms
are behind the office, and I had to go around the corner of the building. That’s when I seen this guy come bustin’ out of twenty-two.”

“Did you get a good look at the person you saw running away?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. He was runnin’ too fast and there’s a lot of shadow up there.”

“Go on.”

“Well, by now the screamin’ had stopped, and I looked up at twenty-two to see if anyone’d come after the one that run out. I seen the door was wide-open, but no one was comin’, so I started across the lot to see what’s what. Just then this car came from the rear parking lot. It was the same one the girl’d come in, but she wasn’t in it.”

“Who did you see in that car?”

“It was a man drivin’, but I didn’t get a clear look at him.”

Monica stood up and walked across to the witness box. “Mr. Grimes, I hand you what has been marked as State’s exhibit number five, and I ask you if you recognize the car in that picture.”

Grimes took the color photograph of Stafford’s Mercedes and studied it carefully.

“I can’t say for sure, but it’s like the car that girl came in.”

“Thank you,” Monica said, returning the exhibit to the bailiff. “After the car left the lot, what did you do?”

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t too anxious to find out why there’d been all that screamin’, but I got to thinkin’ that someone might be hurt up there, so I went up to the room. That’s when I seen ’em.”

“Who was that?”

“Well, the lights were out, so I didn’t see her at first. The man was lyin’ with his head against the bed. He was bleedin’ and I thought he might be dead. Then I seen he was breathin’, so I went to use the phone. That’s when I saw her. You see a lot workin’ in the hotel business, but that was terrible. I ran outa there and called the cops from my office.”

“And did the police come?”

“A few minutes later. An ambulance came too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grimes. I have no further questions.”

“Mr. Nash,” Judge Rosenthal said, nodding in David’s direction.

David took a final look at the report Detective Crosby had made of his interview with Grimes, and Terry Conklin’s report of their interview. It was quiet in the courtroom, and David could hear a juror shifting in his seat and the nervous drumming of Stafford’s fingers on the wooden table.

“Just a few questions, Mr. Grimes. As I understand your testimony, you did not get a good look at the man who was driving the Mercedes while Darlene Hersch was registering.”

“That’s right.”

“And you did not get a good look at him when he ran out of the room where the murder was committed?”

Grimes nodded.

“Did you get a look at him as he drove out of the parking lot, after the murder?”

“Like I said, not a clear look.”

“Did you see his hair well enough to describe it to the jury?”

Monica had been going over her notes and listening to
David’s examination with half an ear. Now she lowered her pen and concentrated. She could tell from David’s tone that something was up.

“Yeah, I seen his hair,” Grimes answered. “Just for a second, but I seen it.”

“Did the driver of the Mercedes have blond curly hair like Mr. Stafford?”

Grimes leaned forward and studied Larry Stafford.

“Could he turn around?” Grimes asked, turning toward the judge. “I only seen him from the back.”

“That’s up to Mr. Nash,” Rosenthal replied.

“Certainly,” David said, and Larry stood up and turned his back to the witness stand.

“I don’t remember it lookin’ like that,” Grimes said decisively.

“How would you describe the driver’s hair?”

“Well, like I said, I only seen it for a second, but it looked brown-colored to me, and he had one of them cuts that came down a ways.”

“Thank you. I have nothing further.”

Monica reread the police report on Grimes rapidly. There was nothing about hair color in the report. She turned to the third page and saw why. The son of a bitch was going back on his statement to the police. This was bad, because Grimes had the appearance of an honest witness. His testimony about the hair color could be crucial in a close case.