Authors: Phillip Margolin
The Jungle Club was housed in a square pink-and-green concrete box that sat in the middle of a parking lot on a busy intersection on Columbia Avenue. The gaudy neon sign was turned off during the daylight hours. Once the sun went down, a naked woman was clearly outlined in flashing lights that also spelled out GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS, leaving no doubt about what the curious would find inside.
Amanda parked in the lot at noon, when the patrons would be hard-core perverts who would be too busy ogling the strippers to pay much attention to her. Once she was inside, Amanda realized that any fears she had that she would be recognized were groundless. The club was kept dark so the voyeurs wouldn't notice the age of some of the dancers, and any customer who pulled his eyes away from the gyrating ecdysiasts to peer in her direction would not have enough light to make her out.
The bouncer at the door was an old client. He greeted Amanda warmly before pointing her toward Martin Breach's office, which
was at the back of the club at the end of a short hall. Martin kept the music cranked up loud enough to be disorienting, on the theory that the cacophony would make life very difficult for eavesdropping FBI, DEA, or PPB agents, so Amanda had to pound on the office door to get his attention. After four thumps it opened, and Art Prochaska glared at her.
Prochaska, Breach's right-hand man and only friend, was a giant with thick lips, a broad nose, and pencil-thin eyebrows. In his days as a collector for the mob he had used his huge bullet-shaped head to stun recalcitrant debtors. As soon as Prochaska recognized Amanda, he broke into a grin. Amanda had beaten a murder charge for Prochaska, who had, in this rare instance, been completely innocent.
The walls of Breach's office were decorated with pictures of strippers who had performed in the club and an out-of-date calendar from a motor oil company that he never replaced. The rickety furniture was mostly secondhand and the décor was designed to deflect attempts by the Feds to run a net worth on him.
“Look who's here,” Art called over his shoulder.
Martin Breach had started out in the trenches with Art, breaking legs for Benny Dee, before staging a coup d'état during which Benny mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. Now Breach ran the most efficient and ruthless crime organization in the Pacific Northwest.
Breach's sandy hair was thinning, his drab brown eyes were watery, and he had a pale, vampirish complexion because his skin rarely came in contact with sunlight. He had hideous taste in clothes, and his loud, mismatched outfits made him look like a clown. Over the years, several enemies had treated him with dis
dain right up to the point where they'd found themselves strapped to a table, listening to Breach tell really stupid jokes while going to work on them with a power drill.
Amanda had mixed feelings about Breach, and no illusions. She knew he was a ruthless criminal, but she also knew that he cared for her in a weird way and had helped her out on a few nerve-racking occasions.
Amanda got another big grin from the crime boss. “You look great,” he said. “Take a seat.”
Amanda lowered herself cautiously onto a straight-back wooden chair that looked like it might give way at any moment.
“So what brings you to my den of iniquity?” Breach asked with a smile.
“I have a serious problem, Martin. Two men tried to kill me yesterday.”
Breach stopped smiling. “What happened?”
“I have a client who's on the run. The police want to find him, but so do the men who attacked me. They bugged my home and office and followed me when I hiked deep into Forest Park. I've been told that the bugging equipment is state-of-the-art and I'm guessing that the men were ex-military. I never knew they were tailing me.”
“What did they do to you?” Breach asked.
“They . . . they threatened to torture me if I didn't tell them where to find my client.”
Breach's features hardened, and Amanda got a glimpse of the way Martin's victims saw him when he wasn't playing the jolly fool.
“How did you get away?” he asked.
“My client took care of them.”
“Oh?” Breach said as he cocked his head to one side.
“They're dead.”
“If they're dead why do you need my help?”
“You know Mike Greene?”
“The DA who prosecuted Art.”
“Yeah, well, he's my boyfriend. We're living together.”
“I thought he was an okay guy even though he wanted to send me to death row,” Prochaska said.
“Thanks, Art,” Amanda said. She turned back to Breach.
“I'm certain the men who tried to kill me were hired help, so whoever sent them could send someone else. If they want to get to me they might try to threaten me by going after Mike, but I can't tell him what happened in the park because he's a prosecutor and he'd have a duty to tell the police. Mike won't know he's in danger, so I need someone to watch his back until I can figure out who they worked for and whether we're still in danger.”
“And you've come to me because . . . ?”
“Can you still get in touch with Anthony?” Amanda said, naming a highly trained assassin and bodyguard who had saved her life when she threatened to expose a criminal conspiracy composed of powerful and ruthless men.
Martin squinted at Amanda. “It's that serious?”
Amanda nodded.
Martin frowned. “I haven't had any contact with Anthony since he babysat you when you had that problem with the Vaughn Street Glee Club, so I have no idea where he is or what he's up to.”
“But you can get in touch with him?”
“I can try. Meanwhile, I'll have one of my people watch Mr. Greene's back.”
“Whoever sent those men after me is ruthless and probably responsible for several brutal murders. I don't want to endanger any of your men.”
“The person I have in mind for the job is used to dangerous situations. And I would feel awful if anything happened to my favorite mouthpiece's boyfriend when I could have prevented it.”
“I don't know how to thank you, Martin.”
Breach grinned. “An invite to the wedding would be nice, and so would a discount on your legal fees if I ever need your assistance.”
Amanda smiled back. “No one's getting married just yet, but the next time you or one of your henchmen are busted, you'll get the repeat-offender discount.”
Alan Hotchkiss was working on a police report when his phone rang.
“Alan, it's Holly Reed from the crime lab.”
“Hey, Holly, how you doing?”
“Great. I just solved a problem generated by evidence in the Masterson case that's been driving me crazy.”
Hotchkiss swiveled his chair and propped his heels up on his desk.
“What did you find?”
“Do you remember those berries we found in Dale Masterson's den?”
“Not really.”
“They were mashed up in some soil on the rug near his desk. I didn't pay much attention to them at first, and then when I finally got around to studying them, I couldn't figure out what plant they were from.”
“And?” asked Hotchkiss, who was anxious to get back to his report and not the least bit interested in berries.
“They're from a pokeweed.”
“And I should care because . . . ?”
“They're rare, Alan. In fact, you can only find them in one place in Portland.”
Hotchkiss lifted his heels off his desk and sat up.
“You've got my full attention, Holly.”
“You're the detective and I'm just a techie drudge, but if I was a detective I would conclude that there is a good possibility that the person who murdered Dale Masterson was in a remote part of Forest Park shortly before Dale Masterson was murdered.”
“Tom Beatty!” Hotchkiss said.
“Figuring out whodunit is your job, Sherlock.”
“I owe you one,” Hotchkiss said.
“No, you owe me two. I got my info from Nellie Norwood at the Forest Park Conservancy and she told me that I was the second person she'd told about the pokeweed and where it grows. The first person was Paul Baylor.”
“Son of a bitch!” Hotchkiss swore. He knew Paul from Paul's time in the Oregon State Crime Lab, and he also knew that Baylor was the person Amanda Jaffe used when she needed a forensic expert.
“Detectives Brewster and Hotchkiss are in the waiting room,” Amanda's receptionist said, “and they'd like to talk to you.”
The two detectives pushed their way into Amanda's office seconds later. They were dressed in windbreakers, jeans, and muddy hiking boots.
“Where is Tom Beatty?” Hotchkiss demanded the minute he set foot in Amanda's office.
Amanda expected Hotchkiss to be rude, but Billie Brewster looked as angry as her partner. Normally she would have thrown out anyone who stormed into her office like this, but something was definitely up, so Amanda reined in her anger.
“What's going on?” Amanda asked.
“What do you know about pokeweed?” Hotchkiss asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Amanda asked, fighting hard to keep a placid expression on her face.
“You know damn well why we want to know,” Hotchkiss said. “We've just come back from a remote area of Forest Park that happens to be the only place in Oregon where you can find pokeweed. Want to guess what else we found? I'll save you the trouble. We found two dead men in a shallow grave and the remnants of a campsite.”
“This has gone far enough, Amanda,” Brewster said. “We know Nellie Norwood at the Forest Park Conservancy told Paul Baylor about the pokeweed and where it grows. That's Beatty's camp, isn't it?”
Amanda felt sick. Suddenly her potential conflicts problem was full-blown reality.
“You have to leave,” she said without conviction.
“Amanda, Beatty is no longer someone who may have been framed for Christine Larson's death,” Billie said. “He's become a mass murderer. How many more people have to die because you refuse to help us catch him?”
“I have to think,” Amanda said.
“Well, don't think too long,” Hotchkiss said, “or the next victim is on you.”
As soon as the detectives left, Amanda's receptionist told her that Brandon Masterson had just called and left a message on Amanda's voice mail. Amanda accessed the message. Brandon sounded subdued and frightened.
“Hey, um, can you come see me, please? If you can come up right away, I'd . . . Please.”
Amanda replayed the short message. Brandon sounded desperate, and a trip to the hospital would distract her from her dilemma. Amanda told the receptionist that she was going to the hospital to visit her client.
Amanda walked into Brandon's hospital room and took a good look at his face. Brandon's bruises had faded to dull purple and jaundice yellow, but he still looked like someone who had been badly beaten.
“Thank you for coming,” her client said. He sounded sub
dued, and Amanda noticed that the arrogance that had characterized his demeanor had drained away, leaving him pale and scared.
“I listened to your voice message,” Amanda said. “You sounded very upset.”
“I . . . I have something I have to tell you.”
“Go ahead,” Amanda said as she carried a metal chair to the side of her client's bed.
“I didn't do it. I didn't kill my father.”
“I never thought you did,” Amanda said. “Tell me why you confessed to such a horrible crime.”
Amanda was certain she knew the answer to her question, but she wanted to hear it from her client. Brandon's chin sunk to his chest and he stared down at his blanket. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I hate . . . hated my father, and I wanted to use my trial to tell the world what a bastard he was and how much harm he was doing to the Earth.”
“What made you change your mind about claiming you killed him?”
Brandon choked up and started to weep. “I can't go back there. I had no idea . . .”
Brandon looked up. Tears stained his cheeks and he looked completely lost.
“They beat me. I've never been beaten like that. The pain was awful. I was so helpless, so humiliated.”
Amanda reached out and placed her hand over his. “It's okay, Brandon. I know people at the jail. I'll try to keep you here as long as I can, and I'll make sure you're safe if you have to go back.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, let me ask you something. Veronica Masterson saw you running away from your father's house, and you had blood on you. How did the blood get on your clothes?”
“I got in the way I said, with my key; they hadn't changed the locks. I called out when I was inside because I didn't know where he was. No one answered, so I went into the living room. Then I went into the den. That's where I found him, on the floor.”
“And the blood?”
“There was blood all around him. He . . . he looked dead, but I couldn't be sure so I dropped to my knees next to him. That's when I got some of the blood on my jeans.” Brandon shook his head as if he was trying to clear away the image of his father's battered face. “I'm not too clear on what I did after that. I was in shock, I wasn't thinking. I did touch him. I was looking for a pulse. I think I shook him. Then I jumped up and saw the blood on my hands. I wiped it on my shirt and pants as I was backing out of the den. Then I panicked and ran. I was running back to my car when Veronica drove up.”
“Did you see the person who killed your father?”
“No, I didn't see anyone. He must have left before I got there.”
Amanda paused as she debated bringing up a subject that had to be discussed. Then she took a deep breath and plunged in.
“I have a problem. It might not be possible for me to continue to represent you.”
“What? Why?” Brandon asked. He sounded panicky.
“I represent a client who may have killed your father.”
“Who?”
“I can't tell you or anyone else his name, because he's my cli
ent and some of the evidence I have is statements he made to me that are privileged.
“Normally in a case like yours I would argue to the jury that someone other than you killed Dale Masterson, only I can't do that because it would be unethical to show the jury evidence that proved my other client is a killer. You see my problem? In this type of situation it is the best practice for the attorney to resign from both cases and have the clients hire new attorneys.”
“No, I don't want another attorney. I want you to represent me.”
“I may not have a choice, Brandon.”
“Don't desert me, please. I trust you. You've been so straight with me.”
“This is a death penalty case, Brandon. Your life is quite literally at stake. You don't want a lawyer representing you who has one hand tied behind her back.”
“Can't I sign a waiver? Can't I tell the judge I want you even though you have a conflict?”
“You could sign a waiver, but I don't think that would end it. I'm not going to stay on your case if I think it will lead to you being executed. I couldn't live with myself if you died because evidence that could have cleared you was denied to the jury because of my conflict.
“Look, we're both stressed out. I'm going to go now, and I'm going to try and figure a way out of this mess. If I can't, I'll have to resign. While I'm working on this problem I want you to think about what I said. You don't have to make a decision today, but you're probably going to have to make one soon. And remember: Your life could depend on the choice you make.”