The Last Innocent Man (7 page)

J
udge Rosenthal looked across the courtroom toward the clock that hung above the empty jury box. The last witness had just been excused, and there was plenty of time before lunch.

“You might as well argue now, gentlemen,” he said to the two attorneys seated at opposite tables in front of the bench. Walter Greaves struggled to his feet. He had been fighting a battle with arthritis, and, the judge reflected sadly, he seemed to be losing. That was too bad. He’d known Wally for thirty years, and he had a genuine affection for him.

The judge let his eyes wander over to opposing counsel. Larry Stafford provided a perfect contrast to Greaves. He looked so healthy that he made the judge self-conscious
about his own physical condition. There had been an upsurge of work during the past few weeks, and he had been passing up his noontime squash games. He was suddenly aware of the pressure of his waistband against his belly. The pressure made him feel guilty and uncomfortable, and he tried to take his mind off it by listening to Greaves’s argument.

When Greaves sat down, the judge nodded at Stafford. The young lawyer had been before Rosenthal on a few occasions representing Price, Winward, Lexington and Rice, Portland’s largest law firm. Rosenthal considered him to be conscientious and thorough, if not exceptionally bright.

Stafford was dressed in a lightweight plaid suit that was conservative enough for the courtroom, yet sufficiently summery to fit in with the unseasonably mild September weather. Stafford was just under six feet in height, but his slim, athletic build made him look taller. When he spoke, the pure white of his teeth contrasted with his deep tan. The boy was good-looking enough to be an actor, Rosenthal thought.

“As the Court is aware, and I set this out in full in my trial memorandum, the Uniform Partnership Act permits a limited partner to have some degree of control over the conduct of the business with which he is involved. Mr. Tish has done nothing more than the limited partners did in the Grainger case or the Rathke case. I don’t want to go into this too much more, because I’d just be repeating the brief, but I don’t see where the plaintiffs have established liability. If the Court has any questions…”

“No, Mr. Stafford. I’ll tell both of you gentlemen that this question is too close for me to make a decision now.
I’ve read your briefs, and I want some time to do some independent research before resolving this. I’ll try to have a written opinion in a week or so. If you have any supplemental authorities, you can submit them in letter form. Anything further?”

The attorneys shook their heads.

“Then we’ll adjourn. Have a nice lunch, gentlemen.”

The judge rose and disappeared through a door behind his seat. Larry Stafford started collecting his notes and putting them into his file in an orderly manner. The notes, written in a neat, precise hand, were set out on index cards. Andrew Tish, Stafford’s client, asked for an opinion on how the case had gone. Stafford tucked a law book under his arm and hefted his attaché case as he shook his head and started for the courtroom door.

“No way of telling with Rosenthal, Andy. The guy’s bright, and he’ll give a lot of thought to the case. That’s about all I can say.”

Walter Greaves was waiting in the hall outside the courtroom.

“Larry.”

Stafford stopped and asked Tish to wait for him.

“I talked with my people, and they’re willing to come down on the settlement offer.”

“I’ll tell Tish, but I’m going to advise him to hang tough.”

“I’m just conveying my client’s offer.”

Stafford smirked and walked down the hall that led to the elevators. The courthouse had four corridors that ran along the sides of an empty central shaft. Greaves picked up his briefcase and walked toward the rear of the building. He did not like dealing with Stafford. He was too cocky.
Very…superficial—that was the word. Nothing under the surface. Come on like Mr. Nice Guy one minute, then you find out you’ve been double-crossed. And in this case it had not been necessary to do some of the borderline ethical things the boy had done. Hell, Stafford had him dead to rights. His clients were just trying anything they could to prop up a dying business. Greaves shook his head and moved aside to get out of the way of a young man dressed in jeans and a work shirt. This young man had a dark complexion, a shaggy black mustache, and thick black hair and he was staring down the corridor toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom.

“A
ND THEN WHAT
happened, Officer Ortiz?”

“My job was to wait outside the residence in case any of the suspects attempted to escape. The other officers went inside to execute the search warrant, and Officer Lesnowski and I waited near the front of the building.”

“Did you actually take part in the search?”

“No, I did not.”

“What happened then?”

“Shortly after, Officers Teske and Hennings exited the residence with the two prisoners and a bag containing evidence. Officer Teske gave me the evidence bag, and he and Hennings drove to the station house with the prisoners.”

“Did you talk with either of the prisoners or look in the bag?”

“No, sir.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Judge McDonald nodded toward the public defender, who was conferring with his client, a teenage black man accused of possession of cocaine. Ortiz relaxed. He had
been cross-examined by this asshole before, and he expected the interrogation to be long and stupid, even though he had no information of interest to anyone.

But the prospect of cross-examination didn’t bother him. He was happy just being back at work. First there had been the stay in the hospital, then the vacation he had not really wanted to take. The department had insisted, though. It wanted him to rest and get his memory back, because his memory was the only thing the department had left in the Darlene Hersch case.

He had dropped in on Crosby before going to court, and nothing had changed. No fingerprints, no other witnesses, no leads. Crosby had moved around the edges, not wanting to ask the question directly. Probably under the orders of some department shrink. So Ortiz had answered the unspoken question. Nothing had changed. He still had trouble sorting out what had happened. His memory was getting better every day, but it blurred and faded, and even when his idea of things seemed clear, he could not be sure if what he was seeing was what had really happened.

The public defender was still gabbing, and Ortiz shifted in his chair in the witness box. Thinking about his memory and that night had spoiled the feeling of peace he had experienced when he had started giving testimony. It was Darlene that troubled him. He was afraid of the pictures he would see when his memory came back. Afraid that he had been responsible for her death. Everyone assured him that it wasn’t so, but how did they know? How could they be so sure of what had happened that night?

The public defender looked up from his notes. Ortiz waited for the questions, grateful for a chance to escape from his own thoughts.

“Officer Ortiz, what happened to Officer Murdock and Officer Elvin after Teske and Hennings left the scene?”

“They remained in the residence.”

“Thank you, I have no further questions.”

“You’re excused,” the judge said. Ortiz was surprised he had gotten off so easily. Maybe the schmuck was learning.

Jack Hennings, Ortiz’s partner, looked up from his newspaper when the courtroom door opened.

“You’re on,” Ortiz said.

Hennings handed the paper to Mike Elvin and went through the door. Ortiz turned toward Elvin to ask for the sports section when he noticed two men talking at the other end of the corridor. His hand started to shake and his chest felt suddenly constricted. The two men concluded their conversation, and the older man walked toward him. Ortiz did not see him. His eyes were riveted on the younger man—the blond. He had started down the hall that led to the elevators, but Ortiz was seeing him in a different place. He was remembering a man with curly blond hair walking quickly along the landing that ran outside the rooms at the Raleigh Motel, and he was seeing a face spotlighted for a moment in the doorway of the motel room where Darlene Hersch had died.

The older man passed him, and the blond disappeared around the corner.

“Tell Jack to wait for me,” he said to Elvin. Elvin looked up, but Ortiz was already halfway down the corridor.

There was no one in the hall when Ortiz reached the corner. He looked up at the floor indicator. Both elevator cars had reached the ground floor. Ortiz walked back toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom. The law student who
served as the judge’s clerk was reading a textbook in the empty courtroom and munching on a sandwich.

“Excuse me,” Ortiz said. The boy looked up.

“There was a lawyer in here just now, with blond hair. Can you tell me who he is?”

“Why do you ask?” the boy asked suspiciously.

Ortiz realized that he was dressed for undercover work and looked as grubby as the degenerates he had to mix with. He walked across the room and flashed his badge.

“Now, can you tell me his name?”

The boy studied his badge, then hesitated. Ortiz knew he was thinking about the constitutional rights his professors had told him he had.

“I don’t know if—” the boy began.

“You’d better,” Ortiz said softly, and there must have been something in his tone, because the boy spoke.

“Stafford. Larry Stafford.”

“And where does he work?”

“The Price, Winward firm. It’s in the Standard Plaza Building.”

Ortiz put his badge away and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.

“This is official police business, you hear, and I don’t want this mentioned to anyone. If it gets back to me that you opened your mouth, you’re in serious trouble.”

There was a pay phone near the elevators. The phone book had two listings for Lawrence Dean Stafford. Ortiz wrote them both down; then he called homicide. Ron Crosby answered.

“This is Bert Ortiz, Ron. I want you to check something for me. I need the make of car for Lawrence Dean Stafford, 22310 Newgate Terrace.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just do it for me by this afternoon, okay? I’ll be back to you.”

“Does this have something to do with the Hersch case?”

“Everything.”

T
HE LUNCH HOUR
crawled by and Ortiz made his second call to Crosby shortly after one.

“I’ve got your information,” the detective said quietly. The tension on the other end of the line was the tip-off. Crosby had struck pay dirt. “There are two cars registered to Lawrence Dean Stafford. The first is a Porsche and the second is a Mercedes-Benz.”

Ortiz said nothing. He was cradling the phone and staring at the wall of the phone booth, without seeing it or feeling the plastic thing in his hand. He was back on Morrison Street and the Mercedes was right in front of him.

“Is this your man, Bert?”

“I think so, but I have to see his face.”

“You saw the killer’s face?”

“Before I blacked out. I know the man’s face.”

“Where are you? I’ll be right over.”

“No. Let me handle this. You get a DA and have a judge on standby to issue a search warrant. I want to be sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Follow him. If it’s the car, I’ll know. Then we can search for the clothes. But I want it all legal. I don’t want this one to slip away.”

“P
RICE
, W
INWARD
, L
EXINGTON
and Rice,” the receptionist said in a pleasing singsong.

“I’d like to speak to Larry Stafford.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Stan Reynolds. I was referred to Mr. Stafford by an old friend.”

“Please hold and I’ll see if Mr. Stafford is in.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Ortiz held the receiver to his ear and waited. Thirty seconds later there was another click.

“This is Larry Stafford, Mr. Reynolds. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m in a kind of a bind and I was told you’re the man to see. I run a small construction company. Spec housing. I’m doin’ pretty good now financially, but I’m beginnin’ to have some hassles with my partner, and I need some advice fast.”

“Well…” Stafford said, and Ortiz could hear paper rattling, “I’ve got a spot open tomorrow at…Let’s see. How about three o’clock?”

Ortiz was taking in the voice and trying to size up the man. The voice had strong, confident qualities, but there was a slick gloss to the tones, as if the timbre and pitch were learned, not natural.

“Gee, I was hopin’ I could see you today.”

“I’m afraid I have a pretty full schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I see,” Ortiz said. He paused, as if thinking, then asked, “How late will you be at your office?”

“My last appointment should be over at seven.”

Ortiz paused again.

“Well, I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

They hung up and Ortiz stepped out of the booth. He was across the street from the Standard Plaza. The light changed and he crossed the street. It took him ten minutes to find the beige Mercedes in the underground garage. It was near the fire door toward the rear of the second parking level. He checked the license number against the number Crosby had given him; then he left the building. All he had to do now was wait for seven o’clock.

A
BNER
R
OSENTHAL WAS
a small, dapper man with a large legal reputation. He had made a fortune as a corporate lawyer, then taken an enormous cut in salary to become a circuit-court judge. It was common knowledge that he had passed up several opportunities to be appointed to the state supreme court because he enjoyed being a trial judge. Rosenthal especially liked criminal cases, and he had developed an expertise in the area of search-and-seizure law. The police usually sought him out when they needed a search warrant in a particularly sensitive case.

The doorbell rang just as the judge was finishing dinner. His teenage son started to stand, but Rosenthal waved him down. Monica Powers had called him earlier to alert him that there was a breakthrough in the Darlene Hersch case.