“Where were you at two p.m. on October eleventh of this year?”
The date rang a bell. Betsy checked the police reports. Victoria Miller was reported missing that evening.
“In my room at the Hacienda Motel,” White said.
“Where is that motel located?”
“It’s in Vancouver, Washington.”
“Why were you in your room?”
“I just checked in. I had a meeting scheduled for three and I wanted to unpack, take a shower and change out of my traveling clothes.”
“Do you remember your room number?”
“Well, you showed me a copy of the ledger, if that’s what you mean.”
Highsmith nodded.
“It was 102.”
“Where is that located in relation to the manager’s office?”
“Right next to it on the ground floor.”
“Mr. White, at approximately two p.m. did you hear anything in the room next to yours?”
“Yeah. There was a woman yelling and crying.”
“Tell the judge about that.”
“Okay,” White said, shifting so he could look up at Judge Norwood. “I didn’t hear anything until I got out of the shower. That’s because the water was running. As soon as I turned it off, I heard a shriek, like someone was in pain. It startled me. The walls in that motel aren’t thick. The woman was begging not to be hurt and she was crying, sobbing. It was hard to hear the words, but I’d catch a few. I could hear her crying, though.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Not long.”
“Did you ever see the man or the woman in the next room?”
“I saw the woman. I was thinking of calling the manager, but everything quieted down. Like I said, it didn’t last long. Anyway, I dressed for my appointment and I left around two-thirty. She was coming out at the same time.”
“The woman in the next room?”
White nodded.
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
“Oh, yeah. Very attractive. Blonde. Good figure.”
Highsmith crossed over to the witness and showed him a photograph.
“Does this woman look familiar?”
White looked at the photograph. “That’s her.”
“How certain of that are you?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Your Honor,” Highsmith said, “I offer State’s exhibit thirty-five, a photograph of Victoria Miller.”
“No objection,” Betsy said.
“No further questions,” Highsmith said.
“I don’t have any questions for Mr. White,” Betsy told the judge.
“You’re excused, Mr. White,” Judge Norwood told the witness.
“State calls Ramon Gutierrez.”
A neatly-dressed, dark-skinned young man with a pencil-thin mustache took the stand.
“Where do you work, sir?” Randy Highsmith asked.
“The Hacienda Motel.”
“That’s in Vancouver?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your job there?”
“I’m the day clerk.”
“What are you doing in the evenings?”
“I’m in college at Portland State.”
“What’s your field of study?”
“Premed.”
“So you’re working your way through?” Highsmith asked with a smile.
“Yes.”
“That sounds tough.”
“It isn’t easy.”
“Mr. Gutierrez, were you working at the Hacienda on October eleventh of this year?”
“Yes.”
“Describe the layout of the motel.”
“It’s two stories. There’s a landing that goes around the building on the second floor. The office is at the north end on the ground floor, then we have the rooms.”
“How are the rooms numbered on the ground floor?”
“The room next to the office is 102. The one next to that is 103 and so on.”
“Have you brought the check-in sheet for October eleventh?”
“Yes,” Gutierrez said, handing the deputy district attorney a large, dull-yellow ledger page.
“Who was checked in to Room 102 that afternoon?”
“Ira White from Phoenix, Arizona.”
Highsmith turned his back to the witness and looked at Martin Darius.
“Who was checked into Room 103?”
“An Elizabeth McGovern from Seattle.”
“Did you check in Ms. McGovern?”
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“A little after noon.”
“I am handing the witness State’s exhibit thirty-five. Do you recognize that woman?”
“That’s Ms. McGovern.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yeah. She was a looker,” Gutierrez said sadly. “Then, I saw her picture in the Oregonian. I knew her right away.”
“To what picture are you referring?”
“The picture of the murdered women. Only it said her name was Victoria Miller.”
“Did you call the district attorney’s office as soon as you read the paper?”
“Right away. I talked with Mr. Page.”
“Why did you call?”
“It said she disappeared that night, the eleventh, so I thought the police might want to know about the guy I saw.”
“What guy?”
“The one who was in the room with her.”
“You saw a man in the room with Mrs. Miller?”
“Well, not in the room. But, I saw him go in and come out. He’d been there before.”
“With Mrs. Miller?”
“Yes. Like once or twice a week. She would register and he would come later.” Gutierrez shook his head. “What I couldn’t figure out is, if he wanted to sneak around, why did he drive that car?”
“What car?”
“This fantastic black Ferrari.”
Highsmith searched for a photograph among the exhibits on the clerk’s desk, then handed it to the witness.
“I’m handing you State’s exhibit nineteen, which is a photograph of Martin Darius’s black Ferrari and I ask you if it looks like the car driven by the man who went into the room with Mrs. Miller?”
“I know it’s the car.”
“How do you know?”
Gutierrez pointed at the defense table. “That’s Martin Darius, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Gutierrez.”
“He’s the guy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Victoria Miller?” Betsy asked Martin Darius as soon as they were alone in the visiting room.
“Calm down,” Darius said patiently.
“Don’t you tell me to calm down,” Betsy responded, infuriated by her client’s icy composure. “Damn it, Martin, I’m your lawyer. Don’t you think I would find it interesting that you were screwing one of the victims, and beat her up, the day she disappeared?”
“I didn’t beat up Vicky. I told her I didn’t want to see her anymore and she became hysterical. She attacked me and I had to control her. Besides, what does my fucking Vicky have to do with getting bail?”
Betsy shook her head. “This could sink you, Martin. I know Norwood. He’s straight-laced. Real old-fashioned. The guy’s been married to the same woman for forty years and goes to church on Sunday. If you’d told me, I could have softened the impact.”
Darius shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, without meaning it.
“Were you having sex with Laura Farrar or Wendy Reiser?”
“I hardly knew them.”
“What about this party for the mall?”
“There were hundreds of people there. I don’t even remember talking to Farrar or Reiser.”
Betsy leaned back in her seat. She felt very uncomfortable alone with Darius in the narrow confines of the visiting room.
“Where did you go after you left the Hacienda Motel?”
Darius smiled sheepishly. “To a meeting at Brand, Gates and V
alcroft with Russ Miller and the other people working on the advertising for Darius Construction. I’d just seen to it that Russ was put in charge of the account. I guess that won’t work anymore.”
“You are one cold son-of-a-bitch, Martin. You screw Miller’s wife, then throw him a bone. Now you’re joking about her when she’s been murdered. Dr. Gregg said she could have been alive for hours, sliced open, in the most godawful pain. Do you know how much she must have suffered before she died?”
“No, Tannenbaum, I don’t know how much she suffered,” Darius said, the smile leaving his face, “because I didn’t kill her. So how about spreading a little of your sympathy in my direction? I’m the one who’s being framed. I’m the one who wakes up every morning to this jail stench and has to eat the slop that passes for food.”
Betsy glared at Darius and stood up. “Guard!” she shouted, pounding on the door. “I’ve had enough of you for today, Martin.”
“Suit yourself.”
The guard bent down to put the key in the lock.
“The next time we talk, I want the truth about everything. And that includes Hunter’s Point.”
The door opened. As Darius watched her walk away, the thinnest smile creased his lips.
CHAPTER 13
One
International Exports was on the twenty-second floor of the First Interstate Bank Tower in a small suite of offices tucked away in a corner next to an insurance company. A middle-aged Hispanic woman looked up from her word processor when Reggie Stewart opened the door. She looked surprised, as if visitors were an uncommon sight.
Moments later, Stewart was seated across the desk from Manuel Ochoa, a well-dressed, heavy-set Mexican with a swarthy complexion and a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache.
“This business with Martin is so terrible. Your district attorney must be insane to arrest someone so prominent. Certainly there is no evidence against him?” Ochoa said as he offered Stewart a slender cigarillo.
Stewart raised his hand, declining the smoke.
“Frankly, we don’t know what Alan Page has. He’s playing his cards close to the vest. That’s why I’m talking to people who know Mr. Darius. We’re trying to figure out what in the world Page is thinking.”
Ochoa shook his head sympathetically. “I’ll do anything I can to help, Mr. Stewart.”
“Why don’t you explain your relationship to Darius.”
“We are business partners. He wanted to build a shopping mall near Medford and the banks would not finance it, so he came to me.”
“How’s the venture going?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. Martin has been having trouble lately. There is the unfortunate business with the site where the bodies were discovered. He has a lot of money tied up in the town house project. His debts are mounting. Our venture has also been stalled.”
“How serious is Darius’s financial situation?”
Ochoa blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Serious. I am concerned for my investment, but, of course, I am protected.”
“If Mr. Darius stays in jail or is convicted, what will happen to his business?”
“I can’t say. Martin is the genius behind his firm, but he does have competent men working for him.”
“How friendly are you with Mr. Darius?”
Ochoa took a long drag on his cigarillo.
“Until recently, you could say we were friends, but not close friends. Business acquaintances would be more accurate. I have had Martin to my home, we socialized occasionally. However, business pressures have strained our relationship.”
Stewart laid photographs of the three women and a sheet of paper with the dates of their disappearances on the blotter.
“Were you with Mr. Darius on any of these dates?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“What about the photographs? Have you ever seen Mr. Darius with any of these women?”
Ochoa studied the photos, then shook his head. “No, but I have seen Martin with other women.” Stewart took out a pad. “I have a large house and I live alone. I enjoy getting together with friends. Some of these friends are attractive, single women.”
“Do you want to spell this out for me, Mr. Ochoa?”
Ochoa laughed. “Martin likes young women, but he is always discreet. I have guest bedrooms for my friends.”
“Did Mr. Darius use drugs?”
Ochoa eyed Stewart curiously. “What does that have to do with your case, Mr. Stewart?”
“I need to know everything I can about my client. You never know what’s important.”
“I have no knowledge of drugs and,” Ochoa said, looking at his Rolex, “I’m afraid I have another appointment.”
“Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“It was my pleasure. If I can be of further help to Martin, let me know. And wish him the best for me.”
Two
Nora Sloane was waiting for Betsy on a bench outside the courthouse elevator.
“Did you talk to Mr. Darius?”
“Martin says you can tag along.”
“Great!”
“Let’s meet after court and I’ll set up some ground rules.”
“Okay. Do you know how Judge Norwood is going to rule?”
“No. His secretary just said to be here at two.”
Betsy turned the corner. Judge Norwood’s court was at the far end of the hall. Most of the people in the corridor were congregating outside the courtroom door. Television crews were grouped around the entrance and a guard was checking people through the metal detector. Betsy flashed her Bar card at the guard. He stood aside. Betsy and Sloane cut behind him and went into the courtroom without having to go through the metal detector.
Martin Darius and Alan Page were in court. Betsy slid into the chair next to Darius and took her files and a pad out of her attaché case.
“Have you seen Lisa?” he asked.
Betsy scanned the packed courtroom. “I told my secretary to call her, but she’s not here yet.”
“What’s he going to do, Tannenbaum?”
Darius was trying to sound casual, but there was an edge to his voice.
“We’ll soon find out,” Betsy said as Harvey Cobb rapped the gavel.
Judge Norwood strode out of his chambers. He was clutching several sheets of yellow, lined paper. Norwood was a shoot-from-the-hip guy. If he’d taken the time to write out the reasons for his decision, he was expecting it to be appealed.
“This is a very troubling case,” the judge said without preliminaries. “Someone brutally tortured and murdered four innocent people. That person should not be roaming our streets. On the other hand, we have a presumption in this country that a person is innocent until proven guilty. We also have a guarantee of bail in our Constitution, which can be denied a defendant in a murder case only on a showing by the State that there is clear and convincing evidence of guilt.
“Mr. Page, you proved these people were murdered. You proved they were buried at a site owned and visited by Mr. Darius. You proved Mr. Darius knew the three women victims. You also proved he was having an affair with one of them and may have beaten her the day she disappeared. What you have not shown, by clear and convincing evidence, is a connection between the defendant and the murders.
“No one saw Mr. Darius kill these people. There is no scientific evidence connecting him to any of the bodies or the homes from which they disappeared. You have matched the tires on the BMW to the tracks left at the murder site, but Mr. Darius visited that site frequently. Granted, it is suspicious that the tracks led up to the hole in the fence, but that’s not enough, especially when there is no evidence connecting the BMW with any victim.
“Now I know you’ll tell me that Mr. Darius destroyed the evidence by cleaning the trunk of his car, and that looks suspicious. But the standard I must use to deny bail is clear and convincing evidence, and the absence of evidence, no matter how suspicious the circumstances, is not a substitute for evidence.
“Really, Mr.
Page, the crux of your case is the information given to you by this Gordon woman. But she wasn’t here to be cross-examined by Mrs. Tannenbaum. Why isn’t she here? We don’t know. Is it because of foul play or because she made up the story she told you and is smart enough to avoid committing perjury?
“Even if I accept what you say, Mr. Darius is guilty of the Hunter’s Point murders only if we accept Detective Gordon’s theory. This Henry Waters fellow was named by the Hunter’s Point police as the killer. If Waters is the killer, then Mr. Darius was a victim of the man.”
Judge Norwood paused to take a sip of water. Betsy choked back a victory grin. She glanced to her left. Alan Page was sitting stiffly, eyes straight ahead.
“Bail will be set in the sum of one million dollars. Mr. Darius may be released if he posts ten percent.”
“Your Honor,” Page exclaimed, leaping to his feet.
“This won’t help you, Mr. Page. I’ve made up my mind. Personally, I’m surprised to see you force this hearing with such a skimpy case.”
Judge Norwood turned his back on the prosecutor and walked off the bench.
“I knew I did the right thing hiring you, Tannenbaum,” Darius exclaimed. “How long will it take to get me out of here?”
“As long as it takes you to post the bail and the jail to process you.”
“Then call Terry Stark, my accountant at Darius Construction. He’s waiting to hear from you. Tell him the amount he has to post and tell him to get it down here immediately.”
Nora Sloane watched Betsy field questions from the press, then walked with her toward the elevators.
“You must feel great,” Sloane said.
Betsy was tempted to feed Sloane the same upbeat line she had given to the reporters, but she liked Nora and felt she could confide in her.
“Not really.”
“Why is that?”
“I admit, winning gives me a rush, but Norwood is right. Page’s case was very skimpy. Anyone would have won this hearing. If this is the best Page can do, he won’t get his case to a jury.
“Also, I don’t know who Martin Darius is. If he’s a husband and father who found his wife and child brutally murdered, then I did something good today. But what if he really murdered the women in the pit?”
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