Jamison had gotten as much information as he could from Harker’s prison jacket, his file. At first, he had spent time in a segregated housing area at San Quentin for high profile prisoners. Jamison had seen that facility before, a cold concrete edifice that was a constant cacophony of noise, clanging steel doors, and words reverberating off of hard walls that kept such prisoners separate from the mainline, the hard-core prisoners. The floor was usually slick with water dripping from men leaving the showers, which added to the mélange of odors that permeated the walls of such closed facilities. It was not a pleasant place in a warren of unpleasant places but it was reasonably safe from the alternative.
If you acted up or were difficult, then you went to the mainline, and if you went there, it was often the end of the line for men like Harker. Even hard-time prisoners had standards, a pecking order. Rapists and child molesters were always at the bottom and Harker had managed, with his crime, to slide even below the bottom-dwellers in the prison cesspool. For such people, there were constant assaults and you either fought or died or you ended up in the SHU. And if you ended up dead, nobody expressed outrage except at the additional paperwork, not when you were a man whose life was confined by a six-by-ten room to keep you away from everyone else.
Harker nodded at Gifford. He didn’t say anything. His face showed the onset of the lines of middle age. He carried no extra weight, the orange jumpsuit hanging loosely on him. But his eyes were hard, glinting through a squint as he swung his head around the room. As with many such men, his reputation and his crime were far more threatening than the way the man actually looked.
“He doesn’t look like a vicious murderer, does he?” Jamison nudged O’Hara.
“They never do—except when they admit it.” O’Hara spoke from years of experience. He often observed that for most people, murderers looked no different than the person who sat next to them on the bus.
The bailiffs pushed Harker into the seat next to his lawyer while one of them knelt down and attached the leg irons to a bolt in the floor. They then released the handcuffs and slid off the belly chain. To the world Harker would look like he was just sitting at the counsel table but beneath the table he would be leashed by chrome-colored steel restraints. As he made himself comfortable, the chains rattled. He had just enough room to stand when the bailiff called the court to order.
Judge Herman Wallace didn’t walk through the door that led to his chambers; he burst through the door without waiting for ceremony. His massive bulk was draped in a black robe that was large enough that the running courthouse joke was that it could also be used as a small car cover. The robe was only slightly darker than Wallace’s complexion, and his eyes seemed to burn when he looked at you. Wallace’s raspy voice asked everyone to be seated. He took the file from his clerk and read the name for the record. “In the matter of Richard Harker, case number F 36842.”
Wallace peered over the reading glasses perched on his nose and acknowledged Gifford and Jamison before addressing the focus of the hearing. “You are Mr. Richard Harker, I presume?”
Gifford responded, standing quickly. “Yes, Your Honor, Mr. Harker is present in court.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gifford. My question is addressed to the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor. Richard Harker, that’s me.”
Wallace shuffled paper in the thick file and then flipped through what Jamison assumed was the order returned from the supreme court. “Well, Mr. Gifford, it seems you got somebody’s attention in San Francisco.” Most people assumed the supreme court was in the state capitol of Sacramento, but it had been in San Francisco since the turn of the last century. Wallace coughed. “So what are your intentions, Mr. Gifford—a full-blown hearing?”
Gifford rose from his seat. “Yes, Your Honor. As the court is aware, my client has been granted a right to a full hearing, which we would like as soon as possible. He has been in prison for twenty-six years.”
“When will you be ready to proceed, Mr. Gifford?” Wallace ignored the thinly veiled sarcasm from Gifford. He was used to Gifford’s opinions of the justice system.
“I can be ready in a week, Your Honor, the court’s calendar and Mr. Jamison’s schedule permitting.”
Jamison had been waiting for his moment. “Your Honor, the People can be ready to proceed quickly but first there are some preliminary matters to clear up. What witnesses does Mr. Gifford intend to present?”
Gifford turned sideways and spoke to Jamison rather than the court. “That depends, Mr. Jamison, what witnesses do you plan to present?”
Wallace’s hand slammed against the surface of the bench. “Mr. Gifford, Mr. Jamison, you will address the court, not each other.”
Gifford made a desultory effort to be contrite, as Jamison directed a response to Wallace. “Your Honor, my answer to Mr. Gifford’s question is we don’t intend to present any witnesses at this time since we don’t know what evidence or who Mr. Gifford plans to present. The ball is in his court. He’s the one who has to show that there is some reason to overturn the conviction, not me.”
The judge turned to Gifford. “Mr. Jamison is correct. At this point it’s unclear what the evidence is that you plan to present. Until that’s known, there is no basis for him to present evidence. Let me suggest this. Let Mr. Jamison know who your witnesses will be, and then he will be in a position to investigate and respond. Your client is obviously in custody and he has no speedy trial rights under the circumstances so we will do the hearing in parts. I will allow you, Mr. Gifford, to present your case. Mr. Jamison can cross-examine, and then he can put his witnesses together and respond if he has any rebuttal. We will do this over several weeks. I have a busy trial calendar and I can’t interrupt it with this case because the other cases have been set for a considerable period of time, but I will give you Fridays, and if there is a break in my trial schedule I will give you those days. We will work around my schedule and yours. That’s the best I can do unless you want me to set this case at least three months from now.”
“Your Honor,” Gifford said in a measured tone, “my client has been in custody a long time. We understand the court’s trial schedule. I have trials also as, I imagine, Mr. Jamison does. Mr. Harker accepts the schedule of the hearing.”
Jamison considered the proposal. The hearing would be stretched out over several weeks, but what Wallace was proposing would give him time to investigate and to react instead of scrambling trying to put together a case when he didn’t know what Gifford had. “Acceptable to the People, Your Honor,” he said.
“Anything else?” Wallace said, as he flipped through the file.
“On behalf of Mr. Harker, we would like access to the evidence in the case and a copy of all the reports. I believe we have everything, but I just want to be sure.”
Jamison thought about the bulging boxes of reports. There was no point in arguing. Gifford was entitled to them as well as access to the evidence. “I will begin the process of copying as soon as I return to my office. And just so we don’t waste a lot of time, if the court pleases, what is the answer to my question? What witnesses does the defense plan to present?”
“On behalf of Mr. Harker, we plan to call Clarence Foster, Christine Farrow, and Detective Mike Jensen. And possibly—Mr. Harker.” Gifford paused, glancing over at Jamison. “And we will be calling the district attorney, William Gage, and Justice Jonathon Cleary.”
Jamison reacted immediately. “What is it that Mr. Gage and Justice Cleary will be asked about? They were the prosecutors in this case. I see no relevance to their testimony. Everything is in the reports and in the trial record.”
“I suggest you ask them, Mr. Jamison.” Gifford closed his briefcase. “I suggest you ask them.”
Chapter 19
O’Hara and Ernie followed Jamison into his office, waiting to discuss what had happened in court. O’Hara spoke up first. “Okay, Boss, so where do we start? We know what Christine Farrow’s going to say. Why he wants Gage and Judge Cleary, I haven
’t figured out.”
“What I want to do is prepare for cross-examination of Gifford’s witnesses.” Jamison scanned his notes from the hearing. “That means I’ll need all the background on Foster and Christine. I think we can pretty much guess that Foster’s going to claim that Sample did it or something like that, or that he lied. Whatever. It doesn’t make any difference. We need to be ready for him. I want to look at the file on the killing of Sample also. Probably nothing there but you never know. Ernie, get me the background on Christine’s shrink, Vinson. I’ll talk to Gage one more time. Then we talk to Judge Cleary. Probably nothing there but we need to close the door.”
“What about the files from Harker’s first lawyer, Grady?” Ernie asked.
“And what about your old man’s files? He’s the one that represented Foster. Maybe there’s something there?” O’Hara said it quietly because he realized it would touch a nerve with Jamison, but it seemed like a logical place to start.
Jamison shook his head. “We can’t do either one. Grady was Harker’s lawyer and attorney-client privilege applies. Same with my father’s files on Foster.”
“Do you still have your father’s files?” Ernie asked.
“Yeah, I think they’re in storage. My mother wouldn’t have thrown them out. Still pays the storage bill for his stuff. I don’t know why.”
“Well, maybe you could look? Who’s going to know?” O’Hara had the look on his face that he got when he was sliding by what he considered a legal technicality.
“I would know. Under the law, anything Foster said to my father was privileged and Foster has to give us permission. Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. I’m guessing no. Same with Harker. For right now, Bill, I want you to get me the background on the Sample case. Maybe there’s a connection, probably not. Ernie, I want you to get me the background on Vinson and poke around and see if there’s anything on Christine Farrow, but take it real easy with her, nothing direct. I’m going to see Gage and then I’ll go see Judge Cleary.”
As usual, Gage’s secretary was the ferocious gatekeeper. “Mr. Gage isn’t available, Matt. I can call you when he breaks free but he’s been on the phone constantly.” Jamison knew Sheila well enough to know that she wasn’t being entirely candid. Gage didn’t want to see him, but he needed to see Gage.
“Tell him that he’s going to be subpoenaed in the Harker case, him and Judge Cleary. I’ll wait.”
Ten minutes later the phone buzzed on Sheila’s intercom line. She answered and then nodded at Jamison. “Mr. Gage will see you now.”
Gage was sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers on an open space between piles of papers and reports that looked like polling statistics and fundraising records. “Sheila says I’m going to get a subpoena in the Harker case? Okay, so you move to quash it. I don’t have time to testify and I would prefer for that to all end without a lot more attention.” To quash the subpoena meant to ask the court to refuse to force the witness to respond to the subpoena because there was no showing of good cause or necessity.
“I’m not going to be able to quash the subpoena, Bill, and you know it. If Gifford wants to call you, he’s going to call you. And besides, refusing to testify will be taken the wrong way by the press. What I need to know is what do you think he’s going to ask? The other thing I need to know is”—Jamison’s voice rose more than he intended—“why the hell didn’t you tell me that my father represented Clarence Foster? I had to find that out from Foster.”
There was no shred of contrition in Gage’s answer. “I didn’t say anything about your old man because you would’ve just argued with me. It doesn’t make any difference about you handling the hearing. So your father represented Foster and got him immunity. Your dad just did what defense lawyers do. So what? I know you, Matt. You would’ve spent wasted hours trying to figure out if there was some technical ethical bullshit. There isn’t. Besides, you’re into the case and you’re my guy. That’s it. Move on. What else?” The tone of Gage’s response made it clear the subject was closed as far as Gage was concerned. It wasn’t closed as far as Jamison was concerned but at this point he was astute enough to realize that further argument wouldn’t do any good.
“Okay, Bill. Foster’s going to testify and so will Christine Farrow and Jensen. I have to talk to Judge Cleary. Is there anything, anything at all that you think Gifford is going to bore in on?”
Gage’s expression hardened. “Gifford has a guilty client. I put Harker in the gas chamber where he belonged, and that weak-ass judge let him out. Gifford doesn’t have shit. He just wants to parade me in court and ask a lot of questions with a lot of innuendo and implications with nothing behind them. I can handle myself. You handle Gifford.” The vehemence in Gage’s voice startled Jamison but it also told him the conversation was over.
Jamison rose from his chair and started toward the office door before turning again to Gage. “You should’ve told me about my father. Maybe it doesn’t make any difference, but you should’ve told me.”
Gage’s voice softened. “Maybe so—but it doesn’t make any difference. I need you on this, Matt. I need my best man. Take care of it. I know you had issues with your dad. A lot of sons have issues with their dads. Your dad was a great lawyer. You’re a great lawyer. Just take care of it. Okay?”
That afternoon O’Hara walked into Jamison’s office. “It took me a while to dig all the reports out on the Sample killing. The evidence is in storage and I’ve asked them to pull it.”
“So give me the short version.” Jamison was eyeing the thick file.
“It looks like Sample was in Jack’s Place. You’ve been there before, remember? That’s the place where that biker shooting went down last year?” Jamison nodded. He remembered. Jack’s was a rough place even by the standards of a rough place, a redneck, honky-tonk bar where the only person inside who wasn’t armed was a guy who walked in by mistake.
“Anyway, the Sample killing,” O’Hara continued. “It was October 1998. There were only a few people in the bar and, as usual, nobody saw nothin’. According to the reports the bartender gave a statement. Said that Sample wasn’t a regular, but he came in once in a while. But that night there was a guy that came in and sat next to him. He didn’t pay any attention to his face and the guy had the hood up on a sweatshirt. You know the drill. Jack’s isn’t the kind of place that you stare at anybody very long unless you’re looking for a fight. The bartender thought the guy had a ball cap on because he thought he remembered the bill of the hat sticking out. Seemed to the bartender like they knew each other because he remembered Sample nodding to him when the guy sat down next to him. Something made him think the guy was out of place but he said it was just a gut feeling, had something to do with the way the guy moved, like he wasn’t comfortable being there. I’ll bet he remembered that because Jack’s is a place folks stay away from if they don’t fit the crowd, ‘specially if it was a black dude. A lot of assholes.”
O’Hara grinned. He liked nothing better than walking into redneck beer joints where everyone turned when he came through the door. “Anyway, according to the report the bartender heard the two of them getting loud and told them to take it outside. He said he didn’t pay any more attention until his cleanup guy came in at the end of the night and said there was a dead guy out by the trash cans. Well, to be more accurate, I guess he was in the trash can—the dumpster anyway. He went and looked, then called the police. Said it was the guy who had been on the stool that got into an argument.”
“No identification of the suspect?”
“The usual. Bartender said they all looked alike to him. That’s a quote, by the way. Said he couldn’t ID. Basic description, male, maybe white, maybe Hispanic, maybe black. Not a whole lot there. One sixty-five to one seventy, ball cap, older, maybe fifty or so but could have been younger or older. Thought he remembered a mustache and goatee with a little gray in it but he also said he might be thinking of somebody else. Didn’t remember any tattoos but made some smartass remark abou
t not being able to see them anyway, ‘specially if he was black. That’s it. Obviously, the bartender knew more than he was willing to share but you expect that in a place like that. I’m sure the detective who wrote the case up figured the same, but you squeeze an asshole and you know what you get.”
Jamison grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a skill set. Some people play golf.” O’Hara gave a little grin.
Jamison ignored O’Hara’s game. “Any follow-up? Photo spread for identification? Anything?”
“There wasn’t anything to go on. They backtracked but couldn’t find anybody that had seen Sample with someone fitting the description, which could have been anybody. It was a dead end. Typical Saturday night bar killing. No prints that they could find. Bartender said he wiped the whole bar down before he knew anybody was dead. My bet is that he hadn’t wiped that bar down since the place first opened but it was clean when the forensic boys went over it. The bartender did say one thing, though. He said that when he asked the guy what he wanted he could tell by the way he looked at him that he’d been around.”
“Been around?”
“The joint. Been around the joint. Said he could tell by the look. Said that his regular crowd probably averaged at least one felony conviction just to get a seat at the bar. That’s it. Seems to me if the dude was black that the bartender could have told that when the guy looked at him, but you know the routine. The detective was going through the motions because he knew he wasn’t going to close the file the minute he walked into the place. It was Saturday night, business as usual on that side of town.”
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