The Last Innocent Man (8 page)

“Sorry to bother you, Judge,” Monica said when the door opened. “Do you know Ron Crosby and Bert Ortiz?”

“I’ve met Detective Crosby before,” the judge said as he led them into his den. “I don’t believe I know Officer Ortiz.”

As soon as they were seated, Monica handed the judge the search warrant and the affidavit Ortiz had sworn to in
support of it. The affidavit set out all the information that Ortiz felt supported his belief that Lawrence Dean Stafford had murdered Darlene Hersch and that evidence of that crime could be found in Stafford’s house. The judge looked grim when he finished reading it. He looked at Ortiz long enough to make the policeman feel uncomfortable.

“Are you aware that Larry Stafford was in my courtroom this very day, Officer Ortiz?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosenthal reread a section of the affidavit.

“I’ve read this, but I want you to tell me. Are you positive that Larry Stafford is the man you saw at the motel?”

Ortiz’s mouth felt dry. Was he positive? Could he have made a mistake? No. He had waited outside Stafford’s office at seven. He had seen Stafford leave the office. He had seen the face of Darlene’s killer.

“Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch,” Ortiz answered, but there was a slight quiver in his voice.

“And you, Miss Powers?”

“I don’t like this any more than you do, Judge, but I’ve worked with Officer Ortiz before, and I trust his judgment.”

The judge took a pen out of his pocket.

“I’m going to sign this warrant, but you’d better keep a tight lid on this if you don’t make an arrest. This case is going to be sensational. If you’re wrong,” he said, looking directly at Ortiz, “the publicity alone will be enough to destroy Larry Stafford’s career at a firm like Price, Winward. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Ortiz said.

No one spoke when Rosenthal signed the warrant. Monica picked up the documents and they left, Monica for
home and Ortiz, Crosby, and a second carload of men for Larry Stafford’s house.

N
EWGATE
T
ERRACE WAS
a long, winding, tree-lined country road fifteen minutes from downtown Portland. At uneven intervals driveways led the way to expensive homes, few of which were visible from the street. Stafford’s home was at the end of a stretch of straight road. A row of tall hedges screened the house from view, and the policemen were not able to see it until they had driven a short distance up the driveway. The house was a two-story Tudor design painted a traditional brown and white. The grounds had the well-manicured look of professional care, and there were several large shade trees. The driveway circled in front of the house, and Ortiz imagined the Mercedes parked in the garage that adjoined it on the left.

The young woman who answered the door was puzzled by the appearance of two carloads of uniformed policemen at her doorstep.

“Mrs. Stafford?” Ron Crosby asked.

“Yes,” the woman answered with a tentative smile.

“Is your husband home?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please ask him to come to the door?”

“What’s this all about?”

“We have a matter to go over with your husband. I’d appreciate it if you would get him.”

The woman hesitated for a second, as if hoping for more of an explanation. She got none.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get him,” she said, and walked toward the end of the hall, disappearing around the back of a staircase that led upstairs from the foyer. Ortiz watched
her go and his stomach tightened. In a few moments the man who killed Darlene Hersch would come down that hall.

Ortiz was in uniform, and he had placed himself at the rear of the small group of policemen. He wanted a long second look at Stafford before the lawyer got an opportunity to recognize him. Crosby and two policemen had stepped into the foyer to await Mrs. Stafford’s return. A moment later Larry Stafford, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, walked down the carpeted corridor. His wife trailed behind, more visibly worried now.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a wide smile. Ortiz concentrated on the face. There was so much light in the hallway, and there had been so little in the motel room. Still, he was sure. It was him.

Crosby handed Stafford the search warrant. Ortiz watched him carefully as he read it. If Stafford was nervous or upset, he did not show it.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand…. What did you say your name was?”

“Crosby. Detective Ron Crosby, Mr. Stafford.”

“Well, Detective Crosby, I don’t understand what this is all about.”

“That is a search warrant, Mr. Stafford. It is an authorization by a judge to search your house for the items listed in the warrant.”

“I can see it’s a search warrant,” Stafford said with a trace of impatience. “What I want to know is why you feel it is necessary to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and rummage through my personal effects.”

“I’d prefer not to go into that right now, Mr. Stafford,”
Crosby said quietly. “If you’ll just permit us to do what we came for, we won’t take much of your time.”

Stafford scanned the warrant again.

“Judge Rosenthal signed this warrant?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir.”

Stafford said nothing for a moment. There seemed to be a private war waging inside him. Then he relaxed.

“Search if you want to. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll even make it easy for you. I own several sport shirts of this type,” he said, indicating the list of clothing set out in the warrant, “and at least three pair of tan slacks. Why don’t you come up to my room and I’ll show you. Then, if you’re not satisfied, you can search the house.”

Stafford was not reacting the way Ortiz had expected him to. The man was too self-possessed. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he had gotten only a fast look at the murderer’s face, and he was dazed and in pain at the time. And there was the lighting. No, there had been enough light. The globe outside the motel room was very bright. Still, it had been so fast.

Stafford started to climb the stairs to the second floor with his wife close behind. Ortiz stayed to the rear as several officers followed Crosby. Two men stationed themselves in the foyer.

Stafford’s bedroom was toward the rear of the house. It was bright and airy and had a decidedly masculine feel about it. A sliding glass door led to a small balcony, and Ortiz glanced out into the darkness. A twin bed sat against the north wall. It was unmade, and the edge of one of the blankets touched the hardwood floor. A large walk-in
closet occupied the east wall, and an expensive-looking chest of drawers stood to their right as the party entered the room. Stafford pulled out one of the middle drawers and stood back.

“My sport shirts are in here. My slacks are in the closet.”

Crosby signaled to Ortiz and the policeman stepped over to the closet. He opened the louvered doors and started to examine several pairs of slacks that hung on a long row of wooden hangers. He pushed several aside before stopping at a pair of tan slacks. He wasn’t positive, but they were close. It was the shirt he could be sure about. The flowered pattern was distinctive.

He finished sorting through the hangers, then walked back down the line and selected the tan pants. He looked at Stafford. The man had not changed his expression of detached interest, and he had given no indication that he recognized Ortiz.

“Let me see the shirts,” he said to Crosby. The detective stepped back, and Ortiz carefully lifted one shirt after another out of the drawer, placing them in a neat pile on top of the chest of drawers. Midway down, he stopped. It was sitting there. A shirt of brown and forest-green with a leaf-and-flower design. The shirt that the man who killed Darlene Hersch had been wearing. Ortiz called Crosby aside, and the two men conferred in the corridor. Mrs. Stafford stood on one side of the room, nervously shifting her attention between her husband and the door to the hallway. Crosby and Ortiz reentered the room. They looked grim. There were two other policemen with them. That made a total of six officers, and the large bedroom was beginning to shrink in size.

“Mr. Stafford, I am going to have to place you under arrest.”

Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.

“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”

“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”

“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”

Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.

“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”

“Who?” Stafford asked, his brows knitting in puzzlement. Mrs. Stafford’s hand flew to her mouth, and Ortiz heard her say, “My God.” Crosby began reciting Stafford’s Miranda rights.

“You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to—”

“Wait a second. Wait a second. Who is Darlene Hersch? Is this a joke?”

“Mr. Stafford, this is no joke. Now, I know you’re an attorney, but I am going to explain your rights to you anyway, and I want you to listen carefully.”

Mrs. Stafford edged over to her husband with a slow, sideways, crablike movement. Stafford was beginning to look scared. Crosby finished reciting Stafford’s rights and took a pair of handcuffs from his rear pocket.

“Why don’t you change into a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt?” Crosby said. “And I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m sorry about that, but it’s a procedure I have to follow.”

“Now, you listen to me. I happen to be an attorney—”

“I know, Mr. Stafford.”

“Then you know that as of right now you are going to be on the end of one hell of a lawsuit.”

“Getting excited is not going to help your situation, Mr. Stafford. I’d suggest that you keep calm and have your wife contact an attorney.

“Mrs. Stafford,” Crosby said, turning his attention to the lawyer’s wife, “you had better contact an attorney to represent your husband. He will be at the county jail within the hour.”

The woman acted as if she had not heard Crosby. Stafford started toward her, stopped, and looked at Crosby.

“May I talk to my wife in private for a moment?”

“I can send most of my men out, but someone will have to stay in the room.”

Stafford started to say something, then stopped. He seemed to be back in control.

“That would be fine.”

Stafford waited to go to his wife until all but one policeman had left. She looked confused and frightened.

“Larry, what’s going on?”

Stafford took her by the shoulders and led her to the far corner of the room.

“This is obviously some mistake. Now, call Charlie Holt. Tell him what happened and where I am. Charlie will know what to do.”

“He said murder, Larry.”

“I know what he said,” Stafford said firmly. “Now, do as I say. Believe me, it will be all right.”

Stafford changed his clothes and his wife watched in silence. When Stafford was finished, Crosby put on the handcuffs and escorted the prisoner downstairs. Ortiz
watched Stafford closely. He said nothing as they led him to the car. He walked with assurance, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Mrs. Stafford stood alone in the open doorway. Ortiz watched her shrink in the distance as they drove away.

“T
here’s a Mr. Holt to see you, Mr. Nash,” the receptionist said. “He says it’s urgent.”

David looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. He had been at the office since seven working on a brief that was due in two days, and he was only half-done. He was tempted to tell Charlie to come back, but Charlie would not be at his office this early unless there was an emergency. He sighed.

“Tell him I’ll be right out.”

He finished editing a paragraph and carefully moved his work to one side. He placed an empty legal pad on his blotter, straightened his tie, and put on his suit jacket.

Charlie Holt was pacing in front of the bar that separated clients from the well-endowed redhead who served as
the receptionist at Banks, Kelton, Skaarstad and Nash. Only Charlie was not looking at the girl. His eyes were straining toward the swinging doors that opened onto the lawyers’ offices. Charlie was a tall, balding securities lawyer who had never lost the military bearing he had acquired in the Marines. His movements were always sharp and jerky, as if he were on parade. It was an exhausting experience spending time with Charlie: you always felt like a passenger in a sports car driving on a winding mountain road at top speed.

David pushed through the swinging doors and Charlie rushed toward him.

“Thanks, Dave,” Holt said quickly, pumping David’s hand. “Big trouble. Sorry to interrupt so early.”

“That’s okay. What’s up?” David asked as he led Holt back down the corridor to his office.

“Larry Stafford, one of our associates. Do you know him?”

“I think I met him at the bar-association dinner last month.”

Charlie sat down without being asked. He looked at the floor and shook his head like a man who had given up hope.

“Really shocking.”

“What is?”

Holt’s head jerked up. “You didn’t read it in the papers?”

“I’ve been here since seven.”

“Oh. Well, it’s front page. Bad for the firm.” He paused for a moment and thought. “Worse for Larry. He’s been arrested. Wife called me last night. In tears. Doesn’t know what to do. Can I help? I went out to the jail, but I’m
no criminal lawyer. Hell, I’d never even seen the jail before this morning. Your name naturally came to mind, if you’ll take it.”

“Take what, Charlie? What’s he charged with?”

“Murder.”

“Murder?”

Holt nodded vigorously.

“They say he killed that policewoman. The one who was pretending to be a prostitute.”

David whistled and sat down slowly.

“He’s very upset. Made me promise to get you out there as soon as I could.”

Holt stopped talking and waited for David to say something. David started to doodle on the legal pad. A lawyer. And that murder. That was a hot potato. Lots of press and TV coverage. A good investigation, too. The police were not going to go off half-cocked and look bad later. They would make damn sure they had a good case before they moved. And it would be better than damn good before they arrested an associate from the biggest and most influential law firm in the city. Hell, half the politicians in town had received sizable contributions from Seymour Price.

“Who’s footing the bill, Charlie? This will cost plenty.”

“Jennifer. Mrs. Stafford. They have savings. She has family. I asked her and she said they could manage.”

“What do they have on him, Charlie?”

Holt shrugged. “I don’t know. I told you, I’m no criminal lawyer. I wouldn’t even know who to ask.”

“What do the papers say?”

“Oh, right. Something about an eyewitness. Another
policeman. Jennifer says they searched the house and took some of Larry’s shirts and pants.”

“That’s right,” David said, remembering one of the newspaper stories he’d read. “Bert Ortiz was working with her and got knocked unconscious. But I didn’t know he’d seen the killer.”

“You know this Ortiz?”

“Sure. He’s a vice cop. He’s been a witness in several cases I’ve tried.”

“Will you go out and see Stafford?”

David looked at the half-finished brief. Did he want to get involved in a case this heavy right now?

“Jennifer swears he didn’t do it. Says they were home together the night the girl was killed.”

“She does? Do you believe her? After all, she is his wife.”

“You don’t know Jenny. She’s a peach. No, if she says so…”

David smiled, then laughed softly. Holt looked at him quizzically.

“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s just that you don’t run across too many innocent men in this business. They’re about as rare as American eagles.”

David felt a surge of excitement at the thought. An honest-to-goodness innocent man. It was worth a look. He’d finish the brief tonight.

“A
M
I
GLAD
to see you,” Larry Stafford said. The guard closed the door of the private interview room, and David stood up to shake hands. Stafford was dressed in an illfitting jumpsuit.

“Sit down, Larry,” David said, indicating a plastic chair.

“How soon can you get me out of this place?” Stafford asked. He was trying to keep calm, but there was an undercurrent of panic flowing behind his pale-blue eyes and country-club tan.

“We’ll be in front of a judge later this morning, but this is a murder case, and there’s no requirement that the judge set bail.”

“I…I thought they always…there was always bail.”

“Not on a murder charge. If the DA opposes bail, we can ask for a bail hearing. But there’s no guarantee that the judge will set an amount after the hearing, if the DA can convince the court that you may be guilty. And even if the judge does set an amount for bail, it could be high and you might not be able to make it.”

“I see,” Stafford said quietly. He was trying to sit straight and talk in the assured tone he used when conferring with attorneys representing other people. Only he was the client, and the news that he might have to remain in jail caused a slight erosion in his demeanor. A slumping of the shoulders and a downcasting of the eyes indicated to David that the message was starting to get through.

“On the other hand,” David said, “you are an attorney with a good job. You’re married. I doubt the district attorney’s office will oppose bail, and if they do, I’m pretty sure most of the judges in the courthouse would grant it.”

Stafford brightened as he clutched at the straw David had held out to him. David did not like to build up a client’s hopes, but in this case he was certain that his evaluation of the bail situation was accurate.

“How have you been treated?” David asked.

Stafford shrugged.

“Pretty well, considering. They put me by myself in a small cell in the, uh, ‘isolation.’”

“Solitary.”

“Yes.” Stafford took a deep breath and looked away for a second. “All these terms. I never…I don’t handle criminal cases.” He laughed, but it was forced laughter, and he moved uncomfortably on the narrow seat. “I never wanted to get involved in it. Now I wish I’d taken a few more courses in law school.”

“Have the police tried to interview you yet?”

“Oh, yeah. Right away. They’ve been very polite. Very considerate. Detective Crosby. Ron is his first name, I think. Treated me very well.”

“Did you say anything to him, Larry?”

“No, except that I didn’t do anything. He…he read me my rights.” Stafford laughed nervously again. “Just like television. I’m still having a hard time taking this seriously. I half believe it’s some fraternity prank. I don’t even know anything about the case.”

“What did you say to the police?” David asked quietly. He was watching Stafford closely. People who were not used to the police or prison situations often talked voluminously to police detectives who were trained to be polite and considerate. Once the prisoner was cut off from his friends and family, he would open up to any concerned person in hopes of getting support. The voluntary statements of helpless men were often the most damaging pieces of evidence used to convict them.

“I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I don’t know anything about this.”

“Okay. Now, I want to say a few things to you and I want you to listen very carefully. I am going to explain the attorney-client relationship to you. I know you are a lawyer by profession, but right now you are a prisoner charged with murder, and the lawyer in you is not going to be functioning very well, because people are never very objective when they are dealing with their own problems.”

Larry nodded. He was leaning forward, concentrating on every word.

“First, anything you tell me is confidential. That means that not only won’t I tell anyone what you say to me, but I cannot, by law, reveal the contents of our conversations.

“Next, you should tell me the truth when we discuss this case. Not because I will be offended if you lie to me, but because if you tell me something that is not true, I may go off half-cocked in reliance upon what you’ve said and do something that will hurt your case.”

David stopped and let the point sink in. Stafford looked very uncomfortable.

“Dave…look, I want to get one thing clear. I’m not going to lie to you, because I didn’t do anything. I have nothing to lie about. This whole thing is one ridiculous mistake, and I can promise you that I am going to sue those bastards for every cent in the city treasury when I’m finished with this business. But there is one thing I want to get straight between you and me. I…I have to be sure that the lawyer who represents me believes me. I mean, if you think I’m lying…well, I don’t lie, and when I say I’m innocent, I am innocent.”

David looked straight at Stafford, and Stafford returned his stare without wavering.

“Larry, what I’m telling you I tell every one of the people I represent, and I tell them for a reason. Let me make one thing clear to you. You don’t want a lawyer who believes you. You want a lawyer who will clear you of the charges against you. This isn’t Disneyland. This is the Multnomah County Jail, and there are a large number of well-trained people in this county who, at this very moment, are conspiring to take away your liberty for the rest of your life. I am the only person who stands between you and prison, and I will do everything in my power, whether I believe you or not, to keep you out of prison.

“If you want someone to hold your hand and say that they believe you and tell you what a good guy you are, there’s a baby-sitting service I know of that can take care of that. If you want to get off, that’s another matter, and I’ll be glad to take your case.”

Stafford looked down at the floor. When he looked up, he was flushed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that…”

“It’s just that you’re scared and cut off from your family and friends, and you’re confused and you want to know that someone is on your side. Well, I’m on your side, Larry, and so is your wife and Charlie Holt and a lot of other people.”

“I guess you’re right. It’s just so…so frustrating. I was sitting in my cell and thinking. I don’t even know how this happened.”

“It has happened, though. And that’s what we have to deal with. Can you tell me where you were on the evening of June sixteenth and the early-morning hours of June seventeenth?”

“Is that when the murder occurred?”

David nodded.

“What day of the week was that? A weekday or weekend?”

“June sixteenth was a Thursday.”

“Okay. Without my appointment book and talking with a few people, I couldn’t say for sure, but I probably worked at the office and went home.”

“How late do you usually work?”

“I put in pretty long hours. I’m still an associate at Price, Winward. Hoping to make partner pretty soon, but you know what that’s like. And I had a fairly complicated securities case I was working on about that time. I was probably at the office until seven at least. It could have been later. I really can’t say until I see my book.”

“Who would have that?”

“Jennifer. My wife.”

David made a note on a yellow lined legal pad.

“Let’s talk about you for a bit. How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Education?”

“I went to law school at Lewis and Clark,” Stafford said. David nodded. Lewis and Clark was a private law school located in Portland.

“I was back east for my undergraduate work.”

“Are you from the East Coast?”

“That’s hard to answer. My father was in the military. We traveled a lot. Then my folks got divorced, and I lived with Mom on Long Island, New York, until I went into the Army.”

“You were in the service?”

Stafford nodded.

“Was that before or after college?”

“After college and before law school.”

“Did you go to work for Price, Winward right after law school?”

“Yes. I’ve been there ever since,” Stafford said. David noticed something peculiar in the way Stafford answered, but he moved on.

“Larry, have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

“I had some trouble in high school. Minor in possession of beer. But that was cleared up.”

“I’m only interested in criminal situations after the age of eighteen where you were either found guilty by a jury or by a judge or pleaded guilty.”

“Oh, no. I never had anything like that.”

There was a knock on the door and the guard stuck his head in.

“He’s got to go to court soon, Mr. Nash.”

“How much time have I got, Al?”

“I can give you five minutes.”

“Okay. Just knock when you’re ready.”

The door closed, and David started collecting his material and placing it in his attaché case.

“We’ll finish this later. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.”

“I’m sorry about that business before. About…”

David stopped him.

“Larry, you’re under more pressure now than I’ve ever been, and I think you’re holding up very well, considering. I’m going to try to find out what the DA has on you, then I’ll meet with you again and we’ll start plotting strategy. Try to relax as much as you can. This is out of your hands now, and there isn’t much you can do. So try not to brood about the case. I know that that’s impossible advice to
follow, but you pay me to do your worrying, and you’ll be wasting your money if you do that part of my work for me.”