Violent Crimes

by Phillip Margolin

  The bartender was fortyish, bald, and potbellied. He was mopping up a spill at the end of the bar near the door when Kate sat down in front of him.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “A Black Butte Porter would be nice,” Kate said.

  When the bartender returned with an ice-cold bottle and a glass, Kate flashed her credentials.

  “My name is Kate Ross and I’m an investigator.”

  The bartender smiled. “I thought you guys couldn’t drink on duty.”

  Kate smiled back. “That’s cops. I’m private, Mr. . . .”

  “Bob—Bob Reynolds. So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m working for the attorney who’s representing Tom Beatty. He was involved in a fight here last night.”

  “They charged him?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, yeah. That asshole Harold Roux started it, and he threw the first punch.”

  “So you saw the whole thing?”

  “Most of it, and I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Outside of one of those kung fu movies, I never saw anything like it.” The bartender shook his head. “Tom’s been in here a couple of times. He keeps to himself, watches the game, then leaves. Never causes any trouble. So I didn’t figure him for a guy who could fight like that.”

  “Can you walk me through the fight from the beginning?”

  “Harold and Tom were next to each other on stools at the bar.”

  “What’s Harold like?”

  “He’s a loudmouth, one of those guys who peaked in high school. I think he was an all-district lineman or something because he knows everything about football, if you know what I mean.”

  Kate nodded. “If he played on the line, he must be much bigger than Tom.”

  “Oh, yeah, but the weight’s mostly fat.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “He delivers beer to supermarkets, drives a truck.”

  “Okay, so what happened?” Kate asked.

  “I was at one end of the bar when I heard Harold yell. He sounded angry, so I turned around. Harold stepped back from the bar and glared at Tom while he wiped beer off his shirt. I walked over because I know Harold and I thought there might be trouble.

  “Anyway, everyone backs away and Tom tells Harold he’s sorry. Harold said, ‘Sorry won’t cut it,’ so Tom offered to buy him a beer. Harold says, ‘What about my shirt? You gonna buy me a new one?’ Tom just stared at him. I could see his face close up. When Tom didn’t answer, Harold said something like, ‘Well, asshole? I’m talking to you,’ and when Tom still didn’t say anything Harold hauled off and started to throw this big roundhouse punch. A second later he’s flat on his back, screaming. His nose was broke but Tom did something to his leg too, only it was so fast I couldn’t be sure what he did.”

  “You’re certain Harold was the aggressor and threw the first punch?”

  “Definitely!”

  “Would you be willing to sign an affidavit that sets out what you just told me?” Kate asked.

  “They arrested Tom?”

  Kate nodded. “He spent the night in jail.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll definitely sign an affidavit. And the beer is on me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Veterans Administration hospital was located off Southwest Terwilliger Boulevard high up on one of the hills that overlooked downtown Portland. A week after taking on Tom Beatty’s case Amanda Jaffe entered the office of Dr. Martin Fisher armed with a waiver signed by her client that authorized the psychiatrist to talk openly with Amanda about Tom Beatty’s medical problems.

  Dr. Fisher was a tall, angular African-American with high cheekbones, a wide forehead, and dark brown eyes that appraised Amanda through thick tortoiseshell glasses. His office was typical government issue: a gray, gunmetal filing cabinet, cheap wooden bookshelves stuffed with medical tomes, and an old scarred desk that had probably been doing duty since World War II. The dull green walls were decorated with university and medical school diplomas as well as photographs of the doctor in uniform nestled among other soldiers in some tropical setting. From the doctor’s salt–and-pepper hair, Amanda guessed the photo might have been taken in Vietnam.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Fisher,” Amanda said. “I’m representing Tom Beatty, one of your patients. He’s been charged with assault growing out of a bar fight. My investigator interviewed several witnesses and they all say that Mr. Beatty did not start the fight and was defending himself against a man named Harold Roux, who is much bigger than Tom.”

  “Then why do you need to talk to me?” Dr. Fisher asked.

  “Roux is in the hospital with some pretty bad injuries. I’m afraid that the district attorney may take the position that regardless of who started the fight, Tom used way more force than was necessary under the circumstances. Tom says you’ve been treating him for post-traumatic stress disorder, and I thought it might have some bearing on the way he reacted.”

  “It might,” Dr. Fisher said.

  “Can you tell me about Tom’s military service and how he developed PTSD?”

  “I can tell you that he was a Navy SEAL, but I’m not authorized to tell you the details of Tom’s missions even with a release, except to say that he was involved in serious combat operations.”

  “Okay, I’ll accept that. But he has developed PTSD as a result of his military service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under Oregon law a person acting in self-defense can use a degree of force he reasonably believes is necessary for the purpose,” Amanda said. “Roux’s knee was shattered, his nose was broken, and his shoulder was dislocated in a matter of seconds. I need to know if you think Tom’s response was overkill or the reasonable use of force, given the circumstances, Tom’s training, and his PTSD.”

  “Tell me the facts surrounding the fight.”

  Dr. Fisher listened closely while Amanda laid out the story that Kate Ross had pieced together. When she was finished, he stared into space for a while. Then he refocused on the attorney.

  “Roux is much bigger than Tom?” he asked.

  “He’s several inches taller and outweighs him by fifty pounds or more.”

  “And they were in very close quarters?”

  “Yes. Could his condition have influenced the way he reacted to Roux’s provocation?”

  “That’s a definite possibility,” Dr. Fisher said. “People suffering from PTSD can be more irritable and impulsive than someone without the problem. It would be reasonable to assume that Tom might not take as long to think about how to react to a punch as a person without PTSD. Then you factor in that Tom was not just in the military—he was in an elite fighting unit. This could have a bearing.”

  “How so?” Amanda asked.

  “Elite forces like the Navy SEALs, Green Berets, and Delta Force work mostly in secret and they are frontline troops sent time and again into the most dangerous and violent sections of war zones. Elite forces are trained to take care of problems with overwhelming force. In combat, you kill. There is no mercy because, in addition to defending yourself, you have to look out for the people in your unit and eliminate any threats to your comrades. From what you’ve told me, Tom kept striking Roux until he was convinced that no threat existed. This would fit with his training. Civilians who are not used to being in fights would be hesitant to strike someone, and loath to hurt someone they’ve struck. Tom would have none of those restraints. Given his background and the circumstances of the attack, I would say that it was entirely reasonable for someone with Tom’s condition and training to act as he did.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Multnomah County Courthouse is a brutish, eight-story gray concrete building that takes up the entire block between Fourth and Fifth and Main and Salmon in the heart of downtown Portland. When Amanda stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor, she almost ran into Mike Greene. Amanda and Mike had been dating steadily for a year,
and they flashed wide smiles the minute they saw each other.

  Mike had curly black hair, pale blue eyes, and a shaggy mustache. People always assumed that he had played football or basketball because of his massive, six-five body, but Mike, who didn’t even watch sports on TV, was a jazz musician and an expert-rated chess player.

  “What are you doing in my domain?” the chief criminal deputy of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office asked.

  “I’m here to try to convince Larry Frederick to dismiss a case,” Amanda answered.

  “If your client is innocent, I’ll instruct Larry to resist your entreaties,” Mike answered sternly. “Anyone can convict the guilty. Convicting the innocent presents a challenge.”

  “Have I ever told you that you are a fascist pig?”

  “Frequently.”

  “What are you up to?” Amanda asked.

  “A short appearance in Judge Embry’s court. I should be finished in a half hour if you’re up for coffee.”

  “I can’t. I’m interviewing a new client at the office. But you can take me out for sushi tonight.”

  “Deal. I’ll pick you up at your office around five,” Mike said before heading to Judge Embry’s courtroom.

  Larry Frederick was a mild-mannered Georgetown Law grad, whose wire-rimmed glasses were always slipping down his nose and who constantly brushed back the long brown locks that fell across his brow. Amanda got the impression that Frederick wore his hair long not for style but because he forgot to get it cut. The deputy DA took an intellectual approach to his cases, and Amanda appreciated Frederick’s reasonable attitude. She could not say the same for Detective Alan Hotchkiss, a stocky ex-wrestler who dealt with defendants in the same overly aggressive way he’d dealt with his opponents when he’d been racking up pins for Oregon State.

  “What have you got for me?” Frederick asked with an easy smile once Amanda had seated herself across from him. Amanda could see a section of the West Hills through the window behind the DA. The fact that Frederick’s office had a view was a tip-off that he was a senior deputy.

  “It’s Tom Beatty’s assault case. My investigator has interviewed four witnesses to the fight, and they all say that the complainant started it and threw the first punch.”

  “Did they also tell you that Beatty broke the victim’s nose, dislocated his shoulder, and smashed up his knee so bad he needs surgery?” Detective Hotchkiss said.

  Frederick held up his hand to silence the detective. “This wasn’t your average barroom brawl, Amanda. Mr. Roux is in terrible shape. When Alan talked to him at the hospital, he was in a lot of pain.”

  “I feel sorry for Mr. Roux and so does Mr. Beatty, but Mr. Roux is much bigger than my client and he was the aggressor.”

  Amanda handed Frederick a stack of investigative reports. “Every witness says that Mr. Roux is a bully. This isn’t the first time he’s picked on someone smaller. What he didn’t know is that Tom is a hero, a decorated Navy SEAL. He can’t tell me about his missions except to say he was in Iraq and Afghanistan, but he did say that he’s skilled at hand-to-hand combat. When Roux started the fight, Tom got scared, and he acted on reflex.”

  “If he’s so good why couldn’t he just deflect the punches?” Hotchkiss asked. “There’s defending yourself and there’s beating the piss out of someone. He could have killed Roux.”

  “You’re right, Alan,” Amanda agreed. “Tom could have killed Roux easily, but he didn’t. Tom feels terrible about Roux’s injuries, but Roux is so much bigger Tom couldn’t take a chance. He told me he had no idea how good a fighter Roux was and the fact that Roux was so aggressive made him keep fighting until he felt safe.”

  “I hope you’re not buying this John Wayne crap, Larry,” the detective said.

  “I’m not going to form any opinion until I’ve read these reports and you do a follow-up,” the DA answered. “Then I’ll get back to you, Amanda, okay?”

  “Sure. And why don’t you hold off on an indictment.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t go to a grand jury unless I’m convinced your client wasn’t acting in self-defense.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Something was definitely wrong. The figures didn’t make sense. Take Dale Masterson’s income. In order to meet the conditions of bank loans that had helped Masterson, Hamilton weather the recession, the partners had agreed to take less when income was distributed, and the auditor reported that Dale’s draw was substantially lower than it had been. But Dale’s credit card statements had been included in the mounds of material she’d been given, and Christine had noticed that Masterson was spending a lot more money than he was being paid by the firm.

  And the taxes. She’d asked for the firm’s books but Masterson kept putting her off, so she’d pulled the actual invoices from cases to see how much the firm made. The taxes the firm were paying were far in excess of what they should have been paying. Why would that be? One explanation that had occurred to Christine was that the income in the books that had been shown to the auditor was inflated to make the firm’s financial situation look healthier than it really was; the reported income would require the firm to pay more taxes than it should have been paying. Christine had rejected that explanation early on, but now she was beginning to wonder if it might be true.

  Christine wanted to ask Mark Hamilton or Dale Masterson about these and other discrepancies, but they had been meeting with the Global representatives at an undisclosed location and had been out of the office for two days, with no indication of when they would return. She looked at her phone. It was seven thirty. She blinked. She had been so wrapped up in the dilemma posed by the firm’s figures that she’d lost all track of time.

  When Christine stood up and stretched, she noticed that the normal hum of conversation and machinery had disappeared from the office. She walked into the hall. Somewhere in the distance she heard voices, but most of the floor was silent. Dale Masterson’s office was at the end of the hall. She turned toward it. A member of the cleaning crew was vacuuming the floor after having emptied the trash can. An idea occurred to her. A few months back, Dale had needed some information from his computer during a negotiation and had given her his password so she could locate an e-mail that was essential to settling a term in a contract. She remembered the password, which would give her access to Masterson’s computer and, she hoped, the answers to some or all of her questions. But that would mean intruding on the privacy of one of the firm’s senior partners without his permission. If Masterson found out . . . Well, she didn’t want to think of what would happen to her.

  Christine went back to her desk and stared at the figures again. The auditor had found nothing wrong. All Dale had asked her to do was explain the condition of the firm as set forth in the auditor’s report. The auditor didn’t have any doubts about the firm’s financial position, so why should she? The easy thing to do would be to go with the flow, but her conscience wouldn’t let her tell the people at Global that everything was just great when her gut told her that it wasn’t.

  Christine went into the hall again. The voices she’d heard earlier had gone quiet and she saw two associates heading for the elevators. She looked around and listened. Nothing. She was alone. She looked at Dale’s office again. She knew she shouldn’t, but she had to. Christine headed down the hall. She hesitated at the entrance to Masterson’s office, then took a deep breath, walked behind his desk, and sat down in front of Masterson’s computer. She booted it up, then paused, her fingers floating above the keyboard. One more deep breath and she was typing in Dale’s password. Moments later, she was in.

  The first thing she did was try to locate the books, but they weren’t in any file she could find. Maybe, she thought, they were forwarded to Masterson in an attachment to an e-mail. She logged on to Masterson’s e-mail account and thought for a moment. Then she typed in “Kenneth Jennings,” the name of the auditor. A large number of e-mails came up. Some were from Jennings, some were to Jennings, and one of the more recent e-mails
was from Mark Hamilton to Dale Masterson concerning Jennings. Christine read it, and grew light-headed.

  “Jennings taken care of,” it said. “He’s playing along—the report will provide smooth sailing and everything is going as planned.”

  Christine leaned back and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt like she might throw up. When she had regained her composure she reread the e-mail and tried to put a different spin on it, but there was no interpretation she could think of that would do that.

  Christine went through the other e-mails that mentioned Jennings but found no more incriminating texts. She turned off the computer and the lights in Masterson’s office. She walked back to her office in a daze. She loved her job and she was definitely on track to move up in the firm, but she had evidence that her bosses were committing fraud. If she exposed the fraud, her career would be destroyed. If she didn’t, she would be abetting a crime. Christine slumped in her seat and put her head in her hands. An hour later, after she had pored over the records again, she turned off the lights and went home, with no idea of what she should do.

  CHAPTER 7

  Amanda had been having a terrible week. On Monday, July 7, she’d lost a motion to suppress that she thought she was going to win. On Tuesday, the Court of Appeals had affirmed the conviction of another client. An old superstition held that things happened in threes, so she feared the worst when Larry Frederick called her on Wednesday morning.

  “What’s up, Larry?” Amanda asked.

  “I’ve got an early Christmas present for you,” the DA said. “I’m not prosecuting Tom Beatty.”

  “Thank you,” Amanda said after exhaling with relief.

  “I’m just doing what I think is right. Alan disagrees with my decision, but after talking to the bartender and the other witnesses to the fight, I’m convinced Mr. Beatty acted in self-defense. Considering the sacrifices your client has made for his country, I’m relieved that I won’t have to go after him.”