Violent Crimes

by Phillip Margolin

  “What happened?” Amanda asked as soon as the guard left.

  A good defense attorney never asked that question because of the limitations it put on the defense if a client confessed guilt. But the news of Christine’s death had stunned Amanda and she had forgotten to act professionally.

  Tom shook his head. He looked exhausted.

  “I don’t know. The police were all over my house when I came home. They took me to my bedroom. Christine . . .”

  Tom paused and wet his lips. “She was lying on my bed. Her face . . .”

  Tom shook his head again, and that gesture convinced Amanda that her client was innocent. She guessed that Tom had seen horrible sights as a soldier and would be this moved only by the unexpected, violent death of someone he knew and cared for.

  “Why was Christine at your house?” Amanda asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And she was murdered?”

  When Tom looked up, anger animated his expression.

  “She was beaten to death. Her face was pulp. When I get out of here, I will find the person responsible and make them wish they had never been born.”

  “Tom, do not say anything like that to anyone but me. Do you understand?”

  Tom’s features hardened, and he did not respond. Amanda understood his anger and didn’t press the point.

  “Where were you before you came home?” she asked to change the subject.

  Confusion replaced anger and Tom lost focus.

  “Tom?”

  “It was a setup.”

  “What was a setup?”

  Tom looked at Amanda. “Everything. It was around seven, I was reading, and the phone rang. The caller said he was Albert Roth. He said he was an associate at the firm and Randall Spaulding wanted me to come back to the office.”

  “Who is Randall Spaulding?”

  “He’s a junior partner.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know who he is but I’ve never done any work for him.”

  “What about Roth? Do you know him?”

  “No, I’d never heard of him, but there are so many attorneys in the firm that I wasn’t concerned.”

  “What did they want you to do?”

  “That’s the thing. When I got to the office, Mr. Spaulding wasn’t there. I used the office directory and got his home number. He said he had no idea who Albert Roth was and denied he’d asked anyone to call me. Then I looked for Roth in the directory. No one by that name is listed.”

  “So, whoever murdered Christine lured you downtown so they could put the body in your bedroom.”

  “And plant heroin in my basement.”

  “The police found heroin in your house?”

  “I have never used or sold heroin, Miss Jaffe.”

  Amanda had occasionally been conned by clients, but she was pretty good at spotting a lie. If she had to bet, she would bet that Beatty was telling the truth.

  “Do you have any idea why someone would murder Christine and frame you?”

  “No . . .” Tom paused. “Well, there was one thing. When you called me to tell me that my case had been dismissed, I went to Christine’s office to tell her the good news. I walked up. The door to the stairwell is at one end of a long corridor and Christine’s office is about midway. When I walked into the hall I saw Christine leaving Dale Masterson’s office. She looked upset. Before I could get to her she shut her office door, so I didn’t go in. Instead, I asked Brittney, Christine’s secretary, to call me when she thought it would be a good time to talk to Christine.

  “Later, Brittney called and told me to come up. Christine was happy that the case had been thrown out, but I could see something was worrying her. I asked her why she was upset. She told me that the firm was trying to get Global Mining as a client. She thought something funny was going on with the firm’s books and she wanted me to help her look into it. She said she thought someone high up in the firm was juggling figures to make the firm’s bottom line look better than it was.”

  Tom looked down. “I . . .”

  “Yes.”

  Tom reddened. “I told her I wouldn’t help her.”

  His eyes pleaded with Amanda for understanding. “I was afraid. I really needed my job, and I needed peace and quiet. I didn’t want to get involved. I’d just been arrested; if you hadn’t cleared everything up I could have been fired. So I said I wouldn’t help and we had an argument. I felt awful, after she’d stood by me, but I . . . I just couldn’t take the risk of losing my job.”

  Tom looked down, ashamed. “Maybe if I’d been there for her like she was for me . . .”

  “Do not beat yourself up,” Amanda said firmly. “Whoever killed Christine had a well-thought-out plan. I doubt there was anything you could have done to save her. What you have to concentrate on now is saving yourself, because the police won’t look for Christine’s killer as long as they’re convinced that you murdered her.”

  “Okay, but I don’t know anything.”

  “You said that Christine thought someone high up in the firm was doing something with the books. Did she tell you who she suspected?”

  “No.”

  “She was upset when she left Dale Masterson’s office. Did she suspect him?”

  “I cut her off before she gave me a name; I told her I didn’t want to know. Mr. Masterson is one of the most powerful partners, so it could have been him.

  “Tom, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need a completely truthful answer. And remember, anything you tell me is confidential; your answer stays between us.”

  Beatty looked directly at Amanda. “What do you want to know?”

  “A prosecutor doesn’t have to prove what motivated a criminal to commit a crime, but the first thought that will pop into the mind of a juror when a woman is found murdered in a man’s bedroom is that a lovers’ quarrel was the motive. What was your relationship with Christine?”

  “Christine was my boss,” Tom stated emphatically. “She was also my friend, but there was never anything romantic between us.”

  “Will the police be able to find witnesses who can make a case to a jury that you were romantically involved?”

  “How would they do that?”

  “If I was prosecuting you, I’d show the jury that Christine bailed you out when you were arrested. Why did you call her?”

  Tom looked down at the tabletop. “I don’t have friends here. I get up in the morning and go to work. Then I come home. Every once in a while I go to a movie or the Lookout to watch a game. The only people I know well are the people I work with and Christine is . . . was the partner I worked with the most.

  “When I was arrested for the fight, they told me I could call a lawyer. I didn’t want anyone at the firm to know I’d been arrested for fighting in a bar—I was scared I’d lose my job. But Christine . . . I thought she wouldn’t judge me, that she’d listen to my side, and she’s a lawyer. I knew she didn’t practice criminal law, but I hoped she’d know a lawyer who could help me.”

  “So that’s all there was to it. You never went out socially, say to dinner or a movie, with Christine?”

  “Never.” Beatty paused. “We did have breakfast after she bailed me out. But all we did was talk about what happened, and that’s the only time we ever ate together. We never dated.”

  “Did you ever argue?”

  “Just when I said I didn’t want to get involved in her investigation of the firm’s finances.”

  “Could anyone have heard you argue? This is important, because she was killed soon after.”

  “Brittney could have heard us.”

  “That’s Christine’s secretary?”

  Beatty nodded. “And there are other secretaries and paralegals who sit near her.” Beatty shrugged. “The walls aren’t that thick. The partners on either side could have heard us.”

  “Okay. I think that’s enough for now. But we do have to discuss my fee. Defending a murder case is expensive . . .”

  “I ca
n cover it. My folks died in a car accident. Between the insurance and my inheritance . . . I have some money.”

  “I’ll need two hundred and fifty thousand to start.”

  “I can do that.”

  “All right. I’ll get a better idea of what we’ll need for experts and investigation when I have a better handle on the case.”

  Beatty gave Amanda the name of the person who was managing his finances.

  “Am I going to get out?” he asked while she was writing down the information.

  “There’s no automatic bail in a murder case. I’ll set up a bail hearing when I’ve gone over the discovery, but you’ll have to sit tight for a while. Will that be a problem?”

  “I’ll be okay. I trust you to do your best.”

  “Thanks, Tom. Be assured that your case is my top priority.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Carol White’s apartment was a real shithole. Peeling wallpaper, mold growing on a pee-colored carpet encrusted with food she’d dropped and never bothered to pick up, all topped off by a terrific view of a brick wall and Dumpsters. Carol lay on her side on her bed. Its mattress sagged and the stained and sweat-soaked sheets stank, but she was hurting and she didn’t have the energy to think about her apartment, her bottom-feeder life, or anything beyond how she was going to get a fix.

  Carol needed a fix bad, and she’d already burned through the money she’d been paid to lie about this Beatty guy. She had to think, but thinking was hard when the craving was on her.

  The TV was on. It was her only companion and she kept it running every minute of the day whether she was awake or asleep. The programs distracted her and the sound was comforting. Carol rolled onto her side and stared at the screen. A lacquer-haired broadcaster was talking about a lawyer at a big law firm who had been beaten to death. A man named Tom Beatty was under arrest.

  Carol started to hyperventilate. She had not signed on for this. This was fucked. Carol sat up and gulped down air until she was calmer. Then she forced herself to think. The adrenaline generated by the news story had sharpened her senses, and a plan flashed into her suddenly alert brain. These people were not people you fucked with, but she was desperate, and it occurred to Carol that this could be the opportunity of a lifetime if she played her cards right.

  Carol made a decision. She found her phone and punched in a number. Moments later, she heard a familiar voice.

  “What are you doing calling me?” the man asked. Carol could tell he was furious. She willed herself to stay businesslike.

  “It was on TV. You never told me someone was going to be killed.”

  “I’m not going to get into this on the phone.”

  “Then we should meet, and when we do you’re going to give me ten thousand dollars.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then the man said, “Tonight. We’ll meet, we’ll talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Give me what I asked for and you’ll never see me again. I’ll move far away. Otherwise, I’m sure the DA would love to hear about your little plan.”

  When the man spoke again he sounded contrite. “Okay, you hold all the cards. Pick a place. It should be private—we don’t want to be seen.”

  Carol had started to say something when warning bells went off. A lot of things could happen to her in a private place.

  “We meet downtown in Pioneer Courthouse Square.”

  “Someone could see us there.”

  “So wear a disguise. We won’t be together very long anyway. We walk past each other and you hand me the bag with the money. After that, I’m gone.”

  “Okay. What time?”

  “Five o’clock,” she said, picking an hour when there would be plenty of people around.

  Carol hung up. She was scared but she also felt proud of herself. She’d been in control, in charge. And she’d soon be rich. Ten thousand fucking dollars. She’d never possessed anything near that sum. Carol paused. Maybe she should have asked for more. Then she shook her head. No, that was a lot of money, and there was no need to be greedy.

  Carol left her apartment at four thirty. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a hoodie, and she was carrying her worldly possessions in a backpack. Pioneer Courthouse Square was on the other side of the river and too far to walk, so she headed for the bus stop. The thought that she was going to be rich energized her. She was so pumped that she didn’t pay attention to what was going on around her until a black van pulled to the curb. Its side door slid open and the man who had been following her shoved her into the opening. Carol started to scream but a cloth was pressed over her mouth. Seconds later, Carol and her dreams died.

  CHAPTER 11

  Two days after Tom Beatty’s arrest, Kate Ross told her boss that the scuttlebutt around the courthouse was that Larry Frederick had begged for Tom’s case. When his wish was granted, he quickly convened a grand jury that returned a true bill charging aggravated murder. One of the potential penalties for aggravated murder was death.

  That afternoon a messenger delivered a thick manila envelope with a copy of the indictment and several hundred pages of police, forensic, and autopsy reports. After receiving the discovery, Amanda placed a call to Larry Frederick. His secretary told Amanda that the DA was unavailable, and he remained unavailable every time Amanda called. That was odd, because Larry Frederick was one of the most accessible prosecutors in the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office.

  The day after she received the discovery package, Amanda went to the courthouse for Tom Beatty’s arraignment. The case had been assigned to the Honorable David Chang, a former prosecutor who had shown no favoritism to the prosecution or the defense since taking the bench five years before. Cathy Prieto-Smith was the only lawyer seated at the prosecution table. She was tall and slim, had auburn hair cut in a pixie style, and was wearing a severe black business suit and an open-neck, cream-colored blouse. Amanda wondered if Larry Frederick was going to skip the arraignment.

  Amanda took her seat at counsel table and set up her laptop while she waited for the deputies to bring in her client. Moments later, the courtroom door opened and Frederick entered. He did not look at Amanda when he walked to his seat or after he sat down, so Amanda took the initiative.

  “Hi, Larry,” she said when she was standing next to the DA. When he turned toward her, she was shocked. Frederick had the washed-out appearance of a man who was having trouble sleeping.

  “Amanda,” Frederick answered tersely.

  “You know I’ve been calling since I heard you got Tom’s case.”

  “I do. And I haven’t returned the calls because we have nothing to talk about. I blame myself for Christine Larson’s death, and I’m going to set things right by putting your client on death row.”

  “You’re not serious? You have a duty to see that justice is done in every case you handle. Tom acted in self-defense—your own investigation showed that. If you hadn’t dropped the case, you would have been violating your oath.”

  “I’m in no mood to discuss legal philosophy and ethics. Christine Larson is dead because I didn’t prosecute Beatty and I’m not making the same mistake twice. So let me make myself clear: There will be no plea-bargaining in this case; no life without parole, no plea to manslaughter. Your client is going to die for what he’s done.”

  “Jesus, Larry.”

  “I assume you received the discovery.”

  “Yes. Thank you for being so prompt.”

  “I intend to follow the letter of the law in this case. You will receive everything you are entitled to when you are entitled to receive it. If you have any problem with the way I’m conducting this case let me know. I am going to cross every t and dot every i, and when you go through the transcript during your preparation for your client’s appeal of his sentence of death, you will discover no errors. Your client will go from our jail to death row and stay there, thinking about what he did to Miss Larson until his miserable life ends in the death chamber.”

  Neither Amanda
nor Mike was a decent cook and their jobs often kept them in their offices well past five o’clock, so they ate out a lot. On the day of Tom Beatty’s arraignment, the couple met for dinner at an Italian restaurant on Morrison. Amanda was a hearty eater, so Mike knew something was up when she spent the first ten minutes picking at her food and staring at the table.

  “What’s wrong?” Mike asked when he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Off limits,” she answered.

  “I want to help.”

  Amanda looked up, and Mike could see she was in distress. “I can’t, Mike. When we started dating we agreed that we would never discuss our cases if the discussion might create an ethical conflict. If I told you what’s bothering me it would put you in a bind. You could be accused of helping me.”

  “Let me guess. It’s the Beatty case.”

  “I told you, I can’t discuss it.”

  “Larry is stonewalling you. No plea bargaining, right?”

  “Goddamn it, Mike.”

  Mike didn’t let Amanda’s anger faze him. “Larry has a hard-on about this case. It’s a vendetta. I didn’t want him to prosecute it because he’s too involved personally but I was overruled. You are going to have to live with the fact that this one is to the death, literally. So stop worrying about how unfair Larry’s attitude is and fight for your client.”

  Amanda stayed angry for a few seconds more. Then she looked embarrassed.

  “You’re right, Mike. Thanks for giving me a stiff kick in the butt.”

  “Well, it’s a very nice butt so it’s my pleasure.”

  Amanda laughed. “You know what I like best about you? You’ve always been there for me, even when I treated you like shit.”

  Mike smiled. “It’s worth the abuse. You’re very special.”

  Then Mike stopped smiling and looked uncomfortable.

  “There’s something we need to discuss,” he said. Amanda heard a slight tremor in Mike’s voice, which surprised her. If there was one thing she knew for certain about her boyfriend, it was that he was always self-confident.