With no one in evidence at the reception desk, I bypassed it and took a look at the tenant directory made of white plastic letters on a black background under glass. B. Jones was listed for apartment 112, so I went by instinct and located it at the far end of a hallway on the ground floor. Many of the residents had decorated their doors with wreaths or cutely painted Welcome signs. Billie’s door had none of that. I pressed the button and heard a fairly loud buzzer inside.
The door opened and a tiny, gray-haired woman stared through thick eyeglass lenses at the bouquet in my hands.
“Billie Jones?”
She nodded in a wobble-necked sort of way. Unsure of what to say first, I held out the flowers. She backed away and raised both palms.
“Who sent those? I hate flower arrangements. Reminds me of a funeral.”
Okay, awkward. I apologized and set the flowers on the floor in front of a neighbor’s door. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
She started to close the door and I had to act fast. “I’m Charlie Parker and I just wanted to talk to you for a couple of minutes. Really. It has nothing to do with the flowers, and that was a bad idea on my part. I’m working for Fergus McNab.”
Clearly, she didn’t remember him, so I went into the quick explanation about Rory’s trial. It took reminders about the dates and the names of the key players before a spark of recognition dawned.
“Oh, yes, what an aggravation, being called back as a witness against that young man.”
“Could we talk inside for a minute?” Two people who’d passed me in the hall had blatantly craned their necks in my direction.
Billie backed into the apartment and showed me to a flowered sofa in a tiny living room. She perched at the edge of a chair, facing me.
“The original case, where Rory McNab was defending the drug dealer, Damian Baca—” I paused for her to catch up with me. “Were you visited by someone who told you to make sure Baca was found guilty?”
She toyed with the edging on the arm of the chair, running a nail along the seam repeatedly. “I don’t remember that.”
“What about later, when they came after the lawyer Rory McNab for jury tampering, you were a witness that time. Did anyone tell you what to say?”
“I don’t like answering this.” Her voice became shaky and I could tell she was so rattled that, even if she remembered, she wasn’t going to say.
“Okay. I understand. It’s scary being involved in court cases, isn’t it?”
A nod.
I stood to go. “Let me leave my card with you. If you begin to remember anything about those times, especially whether any of the lawyers or someone else contacted you about how you were going to vote or what you would say on the stand … would you call me? It’s really important to an old man who’s dying, and to his son. They may never see each other again if we don’t figure this out.”
Yes, that was rotten of me to play the dying-old-man card with a recent widow. A tear slid from the corner of her eye as I laid my business card on the coffee table. I gave what I hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder and let myself out. Heading for the elevator, I noticed the flower arrangement was gone from the neighbor’s entryway. At least I had brightened someone’s day.
Since I was near the hospital, I popped in to check on Elsa. She looked much more cheerful, sitting on the edge of the bed in her own jammies and robe. An orderly was in the process of helping her up.
“We were just about to take a little walk,” the young man said.
I offered to take over, and Elsa requested a stop at the bathroom on the way. “Can you manage by yourself?” I asked. She seemed steady enough on her feet so I let her go in alone. This was one of those tests they wanted her to master before going home. It seemed like a good omen that she could do this. As soon as she came out, we walked the length of the corridor and back. It was a snail’s pace, to be sure, but she barely leaned on my arm for support. Test two, passed.
Back in her room she was obviously tired so I helped her settle into bed while I filled her in on our new case. Taking an interest in outside events: another positive step. I watched until her eyelids began to droop, then gave her a kiss on the cheek and tiptoed out.
Emelia Sanchez’s address was in the north valley, just off Twelfth Street. I wasn’t familiar with the area, but the street grid was easy to negotiate once I got away from the tangle of freeway exits that seemed constantly under construction.
I found myself in a neighborhood of older single-story bungalows that probably dated back to the 1950s, little cinderblock and stucco places that must have been starter homes where the baby boomer generation was born. Mature trees were shedding golden leaves on the small squares of lawn. Pumpkins sat on more than one front porch, and cut-outs of skeletons in windows attested to the fact that some younger families had once again taken up residence.
The address I sought had showy flowerbeds along both sides of the short driveway and rose bushes in front of the porch. The woman who was aiming a hose at the flowerbed to the east looked up when I pulled to a stop. As I got out of the Jeep she shaded her eyes with one hand, trying to figure out who her visitor was.
“We already attend church,” she said, eyeing the folder in my hand. She wore khaki slacks and a T-shirt with a light jacket tied around her middle. Strands of white ran through her straight dark hair, and her cocoa skin showed a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
“I’m not here about that, I assure you.” I complimented her gardening skills, wishing I could get my own roses to look as good this late in the year. “I’m looking into an old legal case—Rory McNab, the lawyer who was accused of jury tampering. Do you remember it?”
“Of course. How could I forget? First being on the jury where he was the defense lawyer, then getting called back. They had me worried I was in big trouble.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, they tell you the lawyer was going to prison for a long time … it made me really nervous.”
“Could I go back to the original trial and ask what you remember?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t mind tagging around the yard with me. I got all these beds to water and it’s supposed to get pretty warm by noon.”
We moved to the western edge of the flowerbed and she laid the bubbler attachment at a high spot so the water would flow to all the plants.
“The case where Rory McNab was the attorney defending Damian Baca—you were a juror on that one, right?”
She nodded and moved the hose a couple of feet farther along.
“Did anyone approach you and ask you to vote a certain way, to find Baca not guilty?”
“Yes. I’m telling you the very same thing I said in court as a witness two years later. A man came up to me in the parking lot near the courthouse after the second day of testimony. We’d been hearing all this stuff about how Damian Baca was a drug dealer, he was corrupting little kids, he was working for some bad people. But, you know, I didn’t see real evidence of how bad they made it sound. It seemed like he was dealing some pot to the winos that hung around down on First Street near the railroad tracks. They didn’t really bring in any young kids or teens to say he’d sold anything to them.”
“What did the man in the parking lot say?” We’d passed through a side gate and Emelia dragged the hose to a bed at the side of the house filled with pyracantha loaded with orange berries.
“He said he wanted to let me know that Damian wasn’t guilty and he sure hoped the jury would agree.”
“Did he say he worked for Mr. McNab’s law firm?”
“No … not really, but he left that impression.”
“Did you ever see him later—say, at the trial of Rory McNab?”
“Not then, no. The thing is—and I didn’t say it back then—I spotted him at different places. He was out in the parking lot the next day, too, but he didn’t come up to me then. Just hung around. He made eye contact with me, though. That same night I ran to the market for somethi
ng and he was there. Stared at me when I came out. That scared me—I ran to my car and got in real fast and drove away.”
“Did you find out who he was, his name?”
She shook her head. “I’ll never forget what he looked like. Hispanic, probably about thirty, hard eyes, a scar near his upper lip. But I never learned his name. After the Baca trial I never saw him again.”
“What about the other jurors—did any of them mention him?”
“Not at the time. But I noticed several of them who had been ready to vote guilty, they changed their minds. In the end everyone talked about it and decided the charges weren’t that serious and the evidence wasn’t … what do you say—conclusive. We unanimously voted that Baca was not guilty.”
“How many of those jurors were called back to testify later, when Mr. McNab was on trial for tampering and getting people to vote his way?”
She’d begun to gather a pile of clippings near the corner of the house and dump them into a huge plastic bin. Now she paused and gazed skyward for a moment.
“Let’s see … there was a businessman from the northeast heights. He was always impatient to get out of there. He’d been ready to convict Damien Baca from the start, and he was one of the last holdouts to change his mind. I think he went along just to get it over with, not really because he cared either way about the verdict. Anyway, apparently he wasn’t one who was approached about changing his vote—or at least that’s what he said. Then there was an older lady, real unsure of herself, and she didn’t seem to give straight answers. I remembered from the first time that she was a real nervous type.”
“Do you remember either of their names?”
“The lady was Billie—I remember that because I had a friend with that name and their personalities were so different. The man … he owned some kind of an import store. Had a weird name, Karkakian or some such thing. Most of us just went by Juror Number One or Two or whatever. We really didn’t have to exchange names but some of us did. That Karkakian guy threw his name out there to let us know how important he was and when it was all over he invited us to come check out his store. Selling all the time, I swear he was.”
I chuckled along with her.
“Do you think the lady, Billie, had she been approached by the same man who talked to you?”
“She never said but I kind of got the impression she did. She parked in the same lot where I did because we walked out there together after court. He easily could have found her.”
Not that I would gain anything by going back to Billie Jones anyway, but it was interesting to note.
“I guess you heard that Rory McNab disappeared before he was actually sentenced or went to prison,” I ventured.
Emelia paused in mid-stride. “That’s right—now that you mention it. I’d forgotten. Is that what you’re here about?”
“Indirectly. His father is dying and wants to see his son exonerated. If there’s anything you can tell me that would help prove Rory McNab was not the one involved in contacting you …”
“I wish I could say for sure,” she said, eyeing me honestly. “My impression was that the man who came up to me somehow knew Damian Baca. They might have even been related … Don’t quote me on that—it’s just a guess. But whether Baca’s attorney had anything to do with it, I really don’t know.”
Chapter 15
I left after thanking Emelia profusely and decided to head toward Old Town for a green chile fix at Pedro’s. Drake would be away overnight, so I might as well feed myself sumptuously at lunch and be done with meals for the day.
Ron called while I was en route, checking on my progress with the case, and he agreed to meet me there. I arrived first and secured our normal corner table, giving a quick wave to a busy Concha behind the bar and noting another regular who appeared to already be working on a tequila shot. Manny is a grizzled old guy whose history I know nothing about, other than the fact that he’s frequently to be found here at Pedro’s at nearly any hour of the day. He drives a battered old pickup truck, but he must live nearby. Surely Pedro wouldn’t fill him with tequila shooters and allow him to drive afterward. I picture him ambling happily home for a long siesta after his liquid lunch.
A basket of chips appeared magically on the table and I’d just taken my first dip into Concha’s fiery salsa when Ron walked in. Pedro used hand signals to ask whether we wanted margaritas. In the evening I would definitely give that a thumbs-up, but with half the day still ahead I’d better keep my wits about me so I settled for iced tea.
Ron parked his Stetson on the rack near the door and took the corner seat so he could watch the room.
“I told Concha we’d want our usual,” I said, once the first shock of the salsa subsided. Must be the season’s new crop and a powerful one, at that.
While Ron made a good-sized dent in the supply of chips, I told him about my two interviews of the morning. “I thought I’d look up the other juror Emelia mentioned, the import store guy. He sounds like the kind of person who wouldn’t be shy about talking.”
“I can see what I might learn about Damian Baca,” Ron said. “My brain is in background-search mode anyway right now.”
Across the room, Manny stirred. “Damian Baca—pah!” he said with a disdainful look on his face.
I must admit to being startled; it was the first time in ages I’d heard Manny utter three words in a row. I turned to face him.
“What do you mean? Do you know him?”
He shifted on his barstool and scratched at the five-day whiskers on his chin. “My niece’s kid. Punk hotshot. Always into something.”
“I heard he was in trouble with the law about ten years ago,” I said. “Is that a pattern with him?” For all we knew Damian could very well have gone to prison by now. At least we’d know where to find him.
Manny shrugged. “Maybe. But now he’s got friends high up.”
“What does—?” I stopped, realizing Manny had turned back to his drink. He drained it in one gulp and fished around in his pocket for cash.
I started to get up, thinking I would get more information, but Ron laid a hand on my arm. He was right—if we wanted to question Baca, maybe it wasn’t smart to alert the family. Besides, our chicken enchiladas arrived just then and I’m not one to let a good, steaming plate of food get cold. We always knew where to find Manny another day if we needed more information.
“So, our next step will be to learn a little more about this Damian character,” Ron said, after Manny walked out the door and sauntered down the street. “I’ll work on that. See if I can ferret out who these ‘high-up’ friends of his might be.”
“If you come across a Hispanic man with hard eyes and a scar on his upper lip, check him out too. He’d be in his forties now.”
Ron gave me a look. Other than the scar, it could describe hundreds of men in this city.
“Just saying. If a man of that description is connected with Damian now, he very well could be the one who intimidated Emelia and probably Billie too. It would be worth tracking him down.”
“I want to look more closely at the judge,” Ron said. “Aldo Blackman is a familiar name and it seems he’s risen socially and politically a lot faster than most judges ever do.”
He wiped his hands on his napkin and pulled out his phone, doing a quick search. When he showed me the picture, I recognized the judge. Handsome in a Bill Clinton sort of way, with salt-and-pepper hair expensively styled, a well-cut suit, and a suitably coiffed woman of about his own age on his arm. The caption said ‘Judge and Mrs. Blackman at the art museum’s annual fundraiser soirée.’ Ron scrolled through his search results and found two additional society events the judge had recently attended.
“Wouldn’t it be convenient if one of these buddy-buddy shots had Damian Baca in it? We could certainly prove a connection that way,” I mused as I scanned the other faces in the pictures. No Damian and no man with a scar on his lip.
We finished our enchiladas, split the check, and each headed in ou
r own direction. Ron’s mission was Damian Baca; mine was to figure out whether Fergus’s assertion that the judge was crooked had any merit. My job seemed like the tougher of the two.
Since I was only a few minutes from home, I made that my destination. Poor, abandoned Freckles could have a run outside and I could make calls and do some online research from the comfort of my living room sofa. And if I felt a nap coming on after the heavy lunch, well, so be it.
It had turned into such a glorious autumn day that I opted to carry my work project out to the gazebo in the back yard where I knew, from past experience, our router signal reached fairly well. Watching Freckles and accomplishing something felt very productive. After a couple minutes of simply enjoying the view, I started my online search for Judge Aldo Blackman and his activities.
Initial results were much the same as Ron had turned up—social occasions and fundraisers were big at this time of year. I noted the types of places Blackman had been photographed publicly—cancer research, heart disease research, and a children’s home were most prominent. There was also the theater scene and finale to the season at the Santa Fe Opera. The man got around, I had to admit, and it gave me an idea, in case I wanted to manage a face-to-face meeting.
Meanwhile, a similar search on Damian Baca’s name brought a different sort of results. Where I had half expected to see that he’d eventually been imprisoned for some sort of drug charges, it turned out he’d become gainfully employed at one of the casinos on the edge of Albuquerque. Somehow, he had even managed to get promoted to pit manager. Once again, I found myself enlarging the photos and looking for the man with the hard eyes and scar on his lip. Nothing showed up connecting such a man with Baca. Crowds at the judge’s various social occasions yielded the same—no visible connections.
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