The Last Innocent Man (12 page)

“You won’t need them. Officer Ortiz is not your ordinary witness, Mr. Nash. He is a trained and experienced policeman. I think his testimony is sufficient and I am going to deny bail.”

David saw Stafford sag for a moment beside him. Monica was collecting her papers and Ortiz was starting to leave the witness stand.

“I can take this up to the supreme court on mandamus, Larry. If we—”

“It’s okay,” Stafford said in a defeated voice. “I knew we were dead when I saw Judge Autley. You did a great job, Dave.”

“Do you want me to come back and see you?”

“No. It’s all right. Just set the trial date set as soon as you can. I don’t know if…Just set the trial date soon.”

Stafford walked over to the guard, who led him back to the holding area. David saw Terry Conklin fold a secretarial notebook and head for the door of the courtroom. Jennifer was waiting just outside the courtroom.

“He’s not getting out. The judge denied bail,” David said bitterly. He was disappointed. He had wanted to win, because he wanted Jennifer to see him win and because he thought that Stafford should be out. But he had lost, and it was starting to get to him: the shock of the court’s rapidfire decision was just wearing off, and the fact that bail had been denied was just seeping through.

“He didn’t seem to even listen,” Jennifer said incredulously. “He didn’t even let you put on our witnesses.”

“I know. I’ll petition the supreme court for a writ of mandamus, but I doubt they’ll grant one. They rarely re
verse a discretionary decision of a judge unless there’s a gross abuse.”

“Well, isn’t this…?” Jennifer started.

David shook his head. “No. He just gave a lot of credence to Ortiz’s testimony. Another judge might not have. That son of a bitch. Maybe I should have…”

David stopped himself.

“Look, Jenny, I’m going to meet with my investigator. I know we lost this time, but I developed several important points during my examination of Ortiz. Points that could win us the trial. And that’s the important thing.”

“Won’t it be the same at trial? They’ll take his word because he’s a policeman. They won’t believe…”

David put his hand on her shoulder before he realized what he was doing. Jennifer looked startled, and he recalled the first time they had touched; saw her standing with her forehead pressed against the cold glass of his windowpane. He released his hand slowly. She looked away.

“At trial we’ll have a jury and it will be different,” he said, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “Juries are very fair. They do make the State prove its case, and I think the State is going to have a harder time than it thinks, if I’m right about a few things. Now, let me get to work, okay?”

“Yes. Of course. I…Thank you, David.”

“Don’t thank me. So far all I’ve done is lose.”

“You’ll win in the end. I know.”

They both stood in the hall, unwilling to break away. When David finally turned and walked over to Terry Conklin, he felt very depressed.

I
T TOOK ONLY
a few minutes with Conklin to restore his spirits. They walked from the courthouse to the Shingle
Tavern, discussing the case as they went. Conklin had spotted the same thing David had, and the fact that his investigator had been thinking along the same line sent his adrenaline pumping. If they were right, David would have an excellent shot at an acquittal.

“When can you get on it?” David asked excitedly.

“I’ll do it this evening, if I can find the man I need.”

David sipped his beer, then bit into his ham sandwich.

“I want Ortiz’s medical records. Do you know anyone at Good Sam?”

Conklin thought for a moment. “It might cost a few bucks, but I think I can swing it.”

“Don’t worry about the money. There are a few other things. See if I’m right on the Mercedes and check the shirt.”

“I’ll do that this week.”

“Good. You know, Terry, I’m starting to feel very good about this case. Very good.”

R
ON
C
ROSBY WORKED
the long, sauce-covered noodles around his chopsticks until he had them where he wanted them. Then, with a swift, stabbing movement, he jabbed the rolled noodles into his mouth.

“This place makes the best Chinese food in town,” he said. A piece of chewed noodle slipped out of the side of his mouth, and he nudged it back with his chopstick.

“How does it look, Ron?” Ortiz asked. He was toying with his food and had eaten little of it.

“Nash is smooth. That’s why he does so well. He scored a few points, but Stafford’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

“Only because Autley was on the bench. He wouldn’t let the pope out on bail. I’m not fooling myself. I made a
lousy witness, and Nash didn’t take the gloves off like he will at trial.”

Crosby put down his chopsticks. “What’s bothering you, Bert?”

“Nothing. It’s just…Well, I feel responsible for…If I’d acted sooner, Darlene might still be alive. And now…I want that bastard, Ron, and I’m afraid I’ll screw up again and Nash will get him off.”

“You didn’t screw up the first time. Nobody thinks you did. Hersch was green and she was trying to prove how tough she was. She’s dead because she broke the rules. And Nash isn’t going to get Stafford off, anyway.”

Something in Crosby’s tone made Ortiz look up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Eat your noodles and I’ll tell you,” Crosby answered, pulling a folded police report from his inside pocket. “Do you know a pimp named Cyrus Johnson?”

“T.V.? There isn’t a vice cop in town who doesn’t know that asshole.”

“Check out this report,” Crosby said, handing it to Ortiz, “then have a talk with T.V. It might prove interesting.”

C
YRUS
(T.V.) J
OHNSON
was probably the easiest person to find in the city of Portland. Every evening he parked his pink Cadillac outside the Jomo Kenyatta Pool Establishment so junkies would know where to make their connections, and his whores would know where to bring their take. T.V. was not the biggest pimp or pusher in Portland, but he was the most notorious. He had once had the temerity to be interviewed as part of a locally produced tele
vision special entitled
Drugs in Our Schools
, and thus the sobriquet.

Ortiz parked his car in front of the Cadillac and tried to make out T.V. through the haze of smoke that obscured the activity going on behind the storefront window. He could not see Johnson, but that didn’t matter: he knew exactly where he was. T.V. always held court from an expensively upholstered armchair he had had the owner install in the rear of the pool hall. The armchair, surrounded as it was by the room’s shabby furnishings, was a symbol of T.V.’s affluence, and it was understood that heavy penalties attached if anyone else used it.

Ortiz snaked his way around the players and their extended cues, aware that the noise level dropped as soon as he neared a table. A few players turned to watch him, but none moved out of his way. It was a game that Ortiz was used to playing. You trained yourself to suppress the anger that the defiance kindled inside you. A white face in a place like the Kenyatta usually meant cop, and the men who played their pool here had no use for him.

T.V., as usual, was dressed in one of his flamboyant outfits. He hadn’t always dressed like the stereotype pimp before his television appearance, and it was only by coincidence that he had been wearing an anklelength fur coat and garish gold jewelry when the television cameras had happened along. But the word was that T.V.’s television performance had been the high point of his life, and since that day he had dressed to fit the part in case the cameras should call again.

T.V.’s nostrils flared as Ortiz approached, and he sniffed the air.

“We havin’ bar-be-cue tonight, Kermit?” he asked the
large man standing to his left, in an exaggerated Negro accent. “’Cause I believe I smell pig.”

The large man fixed Ortiz with a cold, challenging stare. Ortiz recognized Kermit Monroe, a bodyguard who had played pro ball for Detroit before injuring a knee.

“You seem to be in good spirits, T.V.,” Ortiz said calmly.

“Why, sho’ nuff, massah. We colored folks is always happy.”

“Do you think you can cut your routine long enough for us to have a little talk?”

The grin faded and T.V. eyed him suspiciously. Ortiz was no stranger. He had busted T.V. twice, but neither rap had stuck. The last time Ortiz had split T.V.’s lip. T.V. was vain about his looks and had not shown up at the pool hall for a week. He had also taken out his anger on one of his girls and sent her to the hospital. T.V. held Ortiz responsible for the girl’s lost earnings, as well as his humiliation.

“Whatcho want to talk about?”

“In private,” Ortiz said, gesturing toward Monroe.

“Uh-uh. I got nothin’ to say to you I can’t say in front of my friends.”

“Why don’t you piss off, Ortiz?” Monroe said. His voice was deep and smooth. Ortiz didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He knew Monroe would not hesitate to kill a policeman. He might even enjoy it.

“I want some information about a white man who had some dealings with you and one of your girls a few years back,” Ortiz said, ignoring Monroe and pulling a mug shot of Larry Stafford out of his pocket. He noticed Monroe’s hand move inside his leather jacket when his own hand moved.

“Girls? What girls he talkin’ about, Kermit?” T.V. asked Monroe over his shoulder.

“I heard Ortiz don’t like girls. I hear he likes little boys,” the bodyguard said with a sneer.

T.V. took the photo and studied it. If he recognized Stafford, it did not show.

“This your boyfriend, Ortiz?” T.V. asked.

“You like to do it with boys, Ortiz?” Monroe asked, echoing his boss. There was no emotion in his voice.

“Do you know him?” Ortiz asked T.V.

T.V. smiled. “I ain’t never seen this white boy, massah.”

“I think you have.”

Ortiz noticed that the noise in the pool room had stopped. He suddenly regretted his decision to come alone.

“You sayin’ I’m lying, Ortiz?” T.V. asked. Monroe moved a step closer to Ortiz. T.V. took another look at the mug shot.

“You know, Kermit, this looks like that white boy who offed the lady pig. I read about that in the papers. The word is that Ortiz here fucked up. The word is she’s dead because of you.”

He directed his last shot at Ortiz, and it scored. Ortiz could feel his stomach tighten with a mixture of rage and anguish. He wanted to strike out, but his own uncertainty about his role in Darlene’s death sapped him of his will. T.V. read the uncertainty in Ortiz’s eyes, and a triumphant smirk turned up the corners of his lips. Ortiz stared at him long enough to collect himself. Then he took the picture back.

“It’s been nice talking to you, T.V. We’ll talk again.”

He turned his back on Monroe and Johnson and
walked back through the maze of black figures. There was laughter behind him, but the ebony faces in front of him were blank and threatening.

His hand was shaking as he turned the key in the ignition. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. He had made a fool of himself. He knew it. Suddenly he was filled with rage. That black bastard was going to talk to him. That son of a bitch would tell him what he wanted to know. And he knew just how to make him tell.

D
avid looked down at the stack of papers scattered across his desk. He had brought home a legal memorandum in the Stafford case to proofread, but he was too tired to go on. He closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids. The pressure felt good.

He stood up and stretched. It was ten-thirty. He looked out his den window. A pale-yellow half-moon was peeking around the side of the hill.

It was two weeks after the bail hearing, and the case was starting to shape up nicely. Conklin had secured a copy of Ortiz’s medical file, and it had proved interesting reading. His idea about the Mercedes had panned out, too. Most important, Terry Conklin had finally got around to taking the shots he wanted at the motel. The pictures had
not been developed yet, but Terry was confident that they would show what they both thought they would.

David had learned a lot about Larry Stafford, too. He and Terry had talked to people who knew Larry. A picture had emerged of a person who was always under a little more pressure than he could handle. Larry was a striver, never secure with what he had, always reaching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Larry’s father had divorced his mother when Larry was in his teens. Larry stayed with his mother, who was never able to cope with the destruction of a life she had built around one man.

Larry’s father was a military man and a stern disciplinarian. Larry idolized him. Although there was no truth to it, Larry half believed that his father had left because Larry had not lived up to his expectations. He had spent the rest of his life trying to prove himself.

Larry had not just joined the Army, he had joined the Marines. In college and law school he had studied constantly, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion. Socially it had been the same story. He read all the books on self-improvement, drove the latest sports cars, often piling up debts to get them, and dressed according to the latest trends. Anyone who did not know Larry well would assume that he had achieved the success he sought, but Larry had achieved only a state of perpetual fear that drove him toward goals he could never reach.

David had come to feel sorry for Stafford. Jenny was right when she said he was like a little boy. He had no idea of what was really important in life, and he had spent his life running after the symbols of success. Now, just as he
had grasped those symbols, they were going to be stripped away.

Stafford had married wealth and beauty, but his marriage would not last. Jenny was protective of her husband, but David knew that it was out of a sense of duty, not love. He felt sure that when the trial was over, no matter what the outcome, Larry Stafford would lose his wife.

Larry would never make partner at Price, Winward, either. David had talked to Charlie Holt about that. Before his arrest there had been no clear consensus among the partners. Stafford did not have a first-class legal mind, but he did well in matters that required perseverance. Stafford’s arrest had unbalanced the scales. The firm could not afford the publicity. If acquitted, Larry could look forward to a year more as an associate to give the appearance that the firm was fair, but it would be made clear to him that there would never be an offer of a partnership.

The doorbell rang and David went to answer it. Jennifer Stafford was waiting when he opened the door.

“Can I come in?” she asked, a bit unsure of herself.

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside.

Jenny was dressed in jeans, a black turtleneck, and a poncho. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked very beautiful.

“I was going to call,” she said hesitantly, “but I was afraid you would tell me not to come.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said a little too quickly. “I’ve been locked up with my law books all evening, and I can use some human companionship.”

David watched her wander across the living room. There was a fire in the fireplace, and Jenny stood in front of it, her back to him.

“Can I get you a drink?” David asked.

“Please.”

The liquor was in another room and he wanted a chance to settle down. Jenny had not been to his house since the night they had made love. Now she had come to him, and he was very unsure of himself. There had not been a moment since he had seen her again at the courthouse that he had not wanted her, but there was an unspoken understanding between them that made any personal discussions taboo.

Jenny was sitting in front of the fire, leaning against a large pillow, when he returned with her drink. He sat beside her, listening to the logs crackle and watching the flames twist and curl.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Busy. School’s back in session. I’ve had lesson plans to prepare, and they’ve given me a class of exceptional children. They really keep you on your toes.”

“Have you had any problems because of the case?”

“No. Actually, everyone has been very kind. John Olson, our principal, told me I could stay out for the whole trial.”

“That’s great.”

“My folks have been unexpectedly supportive, too.”

“Why, didn’t you expect them to be?”

“Mom’s never approved of Larry. You know how mothers are.” Jenny shrugged. “Anyway, Mom even volunteered to go to the jail with me on visiting day.” Jenny laughed suddenly.

“What’s so funny?”

“Mom at the jail. You wouldn’t understand unless you knew her.”

Jenny laughed again. The laugh was warm and open, without a trace of the self-consciousness that had characterized their relationship from the start. David wanted to hold her very much at that moment. She must have sensed this, because she stopped and her smile faded.

“David, I want you to be honest with me. Are you going to win? Will Larry be acquitted?”

“I think so. The State’s whole case rests on Ortiz, and I think I’m going to be able to take him apart.”

David expected Jenny to ask him how he planned to get to Ortiz, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood up and walked toward the window. He rolled onto his side and watched her.

“If Larry was convicted…” she started. “If you didn’t do your best to…”

She didn’t finish. He stood up and walked over to her. When he spoke, his voice was firm.

“But I wouldn’t do that and you wouldn’t want me to. That’s not the solution to our problem, Jenny.”

“David, I—”

He stopped her by placing the tips of his fingers against her lips.

“We’re both under a lot of pressure, Jenny. I should never have taken this case, but I did. I’ve tried to kid myself, but a lot of the reason was so I could see you again. That’s a very bad reason, but there it is and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Oh, David,” she said, and it sounded like the sigh of a lost soul. David put his arms around her and they stood there, her head on his shoulder, not holding tight, but holding soft and caring.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you,” she
said, “but I couldn’t hurt Larry. After that evening…I felt so confused and guilty. And I didn’t know what the evening meant for you. You were so self-assured, as if you had done…been to bed with other women so often. I was afraid that it had just been sex for you and that I would make a fool of myself.”

“It was never just sex,” David whispered.

“Then Larry was arrested and Charlie told me to hire you. It made it worse for me, but Larry needed you.”

“And I need you, Jenny, very much.”

She looked up at him. She was frightened. They both were. Then their lips met, and they sank down on the soft carpet and made love in front of the fire.

Afterward she slept curled up in his arms. When David was certain he would not wake her, he eased her down and covered her with a blanket. Flame shadows played across her face, and she looked as peaceful as a sleeping child.

David put another log on the fire; then he sat across from Jenny so he could see her. She had come so close to saying something he did not want to think about. He could lose the trial, and their problems would be solved. But he would not. He would win an acquittal for Larry Stafford by trying the best case he had ever tried.

What kind of life could he and Jenny have together if he intentionally lost Larry Stafford’s case? Even if no one else ever knew, they would know, and that knowledge would destroy them.

Jenny said that Larry was innocent, and Terry Conklin’s pictures would prove it. Larry Stafford would be acquitted. Then Jenny would make her choice. A free choice.