As she turned the key in the lock, she felt a little guilty. Inside Percy’s office, with the door closed, she picked up the photograph with his mother that Percy kept on his desk. Looking at his broad smile, she wondered whether he had any way of knowing now what she was doing. Probably not, she thought, but in her shoes, he would have done the same exact thing, she was sure of it.
Heidi went directly to the file drawer of Percy’s desk and retrieved the cell phone records and business expense reports that the police had photocopied and she had refiled. After checking the hallway to make sure it was clear, she made copies for herself.
Then she spent the next two hours gingerly organizing and wrapping Percy’s belongings, filling each cardboard box with the respectful care of a mortician preparing a coffin for burial.
Back at her apartment, Heidi eyed the business expense reports first. Percy had attended a conference of black journalists in Atlanta four months earlier. He also kept track of his mileage for monthly reimbursement requests, but the paper still used the honor system for these and did not require reporters to itemize each trip and the locations visited.
The cell phone records were slightly more promising. The vast majority of his calls were incoming. Heidi thought about the pattern and decided it made sense. She had seen Percy in his office, dialing potential sources doggedly. He’d use his desk phone to make the calls but invariably give his cell phone number in the messages he left. Unfortunately, the bills did not reflect originating telephone numbers for incoming calls.
They did, however, contain a list of all of the telephone numbers Percy had dialed in the last several months of his life. Two of them she recognized right off the bat: the paper’s voice-mail system and a pizza place on Northwest 23rd that she herself called at least weekly. The rest would take some work.
She connected to the Internet on her I-Mac and searched for a reverse phone directory. For the first seven numbers she entered, she got only one hit, and that was for the deli next door to the newspaper. Just as she feared, these directories were no better than they were four years ago when an ex-boyfriend from college had begun crank-calling her obsessively. Unavailable new and unlisted numbers, cell phones, and direct business extensions made for unproductive amateur sleuthing.
There was another way to do this, of course. Heidi grabbed her phone book, confirmed that *67 would block anyone she called from identifying her number, and started dialing.
On the first call, she got a machine. Hello. You have reached the home of Larry and Patricia Crenshaw. We’re not home right now, but— Percy’s parents had been the last number dialed on his phone. She hoped he got through.
She tried another number and got another recording, the service desk of a Mercedes dealership. Percy and his car.
She dialed again. Berlucci’s. Pickup or delivery?
“Sorry, wrong number.”
Heidi reconsidered her plan. Paging through the last three months of Percy’s bills, she compiled a list of all of the numbers dialed, keeping tally marks next to those that were repeats.
She picked up the phone again and entered the number he called most often. Tex-Mex Express. Pickup or delivery?
This time, she just hung up. Did Percy ever eat at home?
She tried the next most frequent number and heard a familiar Doo-doo-doo. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Dammit!
She moved down the list to the next one.
“Northeast Precinct. Is this an emergency?”
“Um, no. No emergency. I think I dialed wrong.”
She hung up quickly. Northeast Precinct. Or, as Percy had abbreviated it, NEP.
12
I woke up Wednesday morning unrested, unfulfilled, and with a crick in my neck. Great. After a marriage where sleep had been a strictly no-touching activity, I’d finally gotten used to having another human being in my bed—one who liked to spoon me like a Jell-O mold. One night without Chuck’s intrusive cuddling, and I was falling apart.
On the way to work, I nearly nodded off on the number 9. I took some occasional ribbing for riding the bus, but as long as I used public transportation more often than not, I felt I was doing my fair share for oil conservation. Unfortunately, for every person like me there’s an asshole in a Humvee.
Three people were standing outside the locked entrance to the District Attorney’s Office. That’s usually my cue to head for the other—unmarked—staff door. As far as I’m concerned, helping out confused people who mistake me for the receptionist is not in my job description.
Before I could turn in the other direction, though, one of the group homed in on me.
“Well, hello there. Samantha, isn’t it?”
I recognized the woman’s round caramel-colored face from the meeting at the Kennedy School. I reached for my mnemonic to recall her name but couldn’t remember it.
“Samantha Kincaid,” I said. “We met yesterday. And your name also begins with an S—” I left out the fact that S stands for senior citizen.
“That’s right,” she said warmly. “Selma Gooding. You have a good memory.”
Yeah, right. She was accompanied by a man and another woman, both of whom looked to be in their late sixties. The man was tall, with graying hair and a matching mustache. He wore a light gray three-piece suit and held a dress hat in his hands. I suspected the clothes were left over from days long ago, before retirement. The woman next to him had dark skin, piercing eyes, and glossy mahogany lipstick. Her hair was worn in a short natural Afro. She was petite but stood straight as a rail, with the kind of poise young girls practice with books on their heads. The effect was almost regal.
I managed an “I’m sorry” in their direction as I tried to clear my full hands for a well-mannered shake. Tucking my half-eaten croissant away proved to be an impossible task as I struggled with my briefcase, gym bag, and coffee cup.
“Let me help you,” the man offered, taking the Marsee’s bakery bag and holding it open for me. I dropped the pastry inside and wiped my right hand on my raincoat before offering it to him.
“Samantha Kincaid. I’m one of the attorneys here.”
“I’m Larry Crenshaw. This is my wife, Patricia.”
Percy’s parents. I felt even worse about my disheveled appearance.
“Oh, I had no idea you were coming in. I left a message yesterday at your home. I’m handling the case involving your son.” Why did that sound so bad? Did the case really “involve” their dead son? “I want to say how sorry I am for your loss. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do while you’re here in town—”
With the grace I would have expected from her physical appearance, Patricia Crenshaw saved me from my awkward babbling. “How about just a few chairs for now? I’m afraid we’re not at the best age for all this standing.”
I tapped the security code into the keypad on the door and escorted them to a conference room adjoining the lobby.
“You said you left us a message?” Larry Crenshaw asked, once they were seated.
“I did, at your home in California yesterday.”
“We must have left by then,” Patricia said.
An awkward silence followed. “I was calling to tell you that the police arrested two suspects in the case.”
“Yes, we found out when we arrived last night,” Patricia said. She anticipated the apology I was about to offer before I could get to it. “But that’s all right. We certainly appreciate that you tried to tell us yourself.”
“I’m glad you came in.” I gave them a brief summary of the charging process and my typical explanation that you could never tell how long the case might take to get to trial, but that I would consult with them along the way on important developments. I held off mentioning the motion that Lisa Lopez had already filed. I’d call them later if a judge scheduled it for a quick hearing.
“One thing we need to talk about is the potential sentence,” I said. “Oregon does have the death penalty, but jurors tend to apply it cautiousl
y. I’ll meet with some other attorneys before we make a final decision, but it would certainly help to know what your thoughts are on the subject. Obviously, I can give you some time to think it over together.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. We don’t need any time on that.” Larry took his wife’s hand in his on the conference table. “We don’t believe in vengeance. Lord knows it will take some time, but, the way Patricia and I see it, we should try someday to find forgiveness for these men.”
“You sound fairly certain about that.”
“We are,” he said gently, his wife nodding beside him.
“Then I will let the District Attorney know.” The family’s opinion would seal the deal; we would not pursue the death penalty.
“And the two men who have been arrested,” Larry said. “You’re sure these are the men who did it?”
“Yes, we are. The superintendent at Percy’s complex identified them as the men he saw in the parking lot at ten o’clock at night, which falls within the medical examiner’s estimate of when the confrontation occurred.” I paused, wondering whether the word confrontation was appropriate, but continued. “We have multiple witnesses who place them in the area adjacent to the complex earlier that night, armed with a baseball bat and using it. We even have videotape of one of them—Todd Corbett—running in the street with the bat. And when Corbett was arrested, he confessed to killing your son and also implicated the other man, Trevor Hanks.”
The expression on her face suggested that Patricia was processing the information, but I could tell from the strength of the grip of her husband’s hand that she was having a hard time. I kept my eye contact with Larry.
“And this was all about that silly car of his?” he asked.
I nodded. “According to Corbett’s admission, yes. Also, a neighbor of your son heard a man’s voice mention the car shortly after ten P.M., so it’s all consistent. The defendants had taken methamphetamine earlier in the night, and that most likely played a role as well.”
The three of them exchanged glances that appeared to hold a secret meaning. Perhaps there was no way for them to hear about two white men killing a black man without wondering if there was more to the story. They would eventually find out at trial about Hanks’s comment when he was arrested. It was better for me to break the news now than to have them be surprised later.
“There is an indication that at least one of the two defendants—Trevor Hanks—holds some racial prejudices.” I told them about the epithet that Hanks used when he claimed we couldn’t prove he killed Percy. The Crenshaws tightened their hand clasp, and Selma simply shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know that’s very hard to hear.”
Mr. Crenshaw cleared his throat. “Is there any possibility that the story about taking Percy’s car could be a cover, perhaps?”
“A cover for what?”
After another pause, Mrs. Crenshaw spoke up. “The last couple of times we spoke to Percy, he seemed a little nervous about something he was working on. He cut Larry off on the phone one night, saying he thought someone was following him in his car.”
“When was this?”
“Only a couple of weeks ago. When he called back, he pretended like it was just his crazy imagination, but we could tell there was something wrong.”
“Did he ever mention it again?”
“No, but we talked to him a few times after that. He just didn’t sound right to us.”
It sounded like typical parental worrying to me.
“At this point, there’s no evidence that this was connected to your son’s work or that the defendants even knew what your son did for a living.”
When I stopped talking, more silence followed.
“Do you have any questions for me?” I asked.
No response, but they also didn’t appear to be getting ready to leave. I sensed that they needed to think of something other than the aftermath of their son’s death. I searched for a change in subject.
“The folks at the paper told me you were from California. Do you mind if I ask how you know Mrs. Gooding?”
Selma Gooding jumped at the opportunity to cut the tension. “I just met the Crenshaws this morning. And please, honey, call me Selma. You see, I had the pleasure of knowing Percy. And when I heard what happened, I called up the paper and made sure to tell them to pass my number to his parents. I knew they didn’t have any people up here and figured they could use some.”
The Crenshaws smiled appreciatively.
“How did you know Percy?” I asked.
She paused before responding. “I see you don’t know me well enough yet to realize what a funny question that is. I just have a way of knowing everyone who comes around my way. Like yesterday. You come up to the school, and now I know you too, don’t I? See how easy that is?”
I was smiling now too.
“Anyway, Larry and Patricia called me up last night, and the three of us climbed into a taxi this morning to come down here and find out where things stood. Little did I know I could have just called you.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to come downtown. I can ask one of our investigators to drive you home when you’re ready.”
Selma looked at her new friends across the table expectantly. The two of them said nothing.
“Fine,” Selma announced. “I’ll bring it up. What these two aren’t saying is that they’re not from here, so they can’t exactly go home from here, now can they? They tell me the police still have Percy’s apartment closed up, so they stayed at a hotel last night. I’ve offered to let them stay with me, but they won’t hear anything of it. I told them to ask about getting some help, but apparently they don’t want to.”
Selma Gooding deserved her name, indeed.
I hopped on the phone and called the various victims’ advocates in the offices until I found one who was in, Jill Holland. Jill met us in the conference room and explained the help that was available from the state’s victims’ compensation fund, both while they were in town and afterward. I usually don’t stick around for these conversations, but I made an exception in this case, happy to feel I was part of something that made a difference, however small.
Back in my office, I couldn’t shake off the anxiety of my mucked-up personal life. Another reason not to have a personal life. Every few minutes, I checked my pager and cell, but there were no calls. I stared at my office phone, resisting the urge to pick it up.
I’ll be home tomorrow night, his note had read. After twenty minutes of dissecting that one sentence in a phone call to poor, patient Grace, I had concluded that he didn’t want to talk to me until we were both home. Part of me wanted to call him anyway, to hear his voice, to know that everything was OK. Why wait until tonight if we could smooth it all over right now? But part of me recognized the possibility that the story begun with my phone call might not have a happy ending.
He might tell me he didn’t want to talk about things until later, and I’d be left wondering for the rest of the day what the “things” were that he didn’t want to say. Or we might fight again, reigniting the emotions that had flared last night. Or worst of all, maybe he wouldn’t answer his cell, and I’d be forced to picture him staring down at my name displayed across the digital readout, ignoring the beckoning chirp. No, thank you. Better to play it cool and hope for the best when we got home. In the meantime, the waiting was hell.
I did have to call Mike Calabrese, though. When he picked up, it was apparent that Chuck had already delivered the news about Lisa’s motion.
“You’re fighting her on it, aren’t you?” Mike demanded. “I mean, even the part about my jacket?”
“Of course I am. You know we’ve got an agreement with the bureau on that.”
“Is that the only reason you’re doing it? Because a judge will know if your heart’s not in it.”
So now Mike was giving me lessons in litigation. “Mike, I’ll go to bat for you, but you’ve got to face facts here. The confession’s the heart of our case against Corbett, and you’re the o
ne who elicited it. Given what’s at stake, a judge might want to see the file. Is there anything I need to worry about?”
“Yeah. I don’t want my jacket turned over to some scumbag public defender.”
“I get the point. But, if worse comes to worst, how bad is it? The argument’s in ninety minutes, and IA still hasn’t sent the file over.”
Mike gave me the same vague response I’d gotten from Chuck the night before: All cops have complaints against them, and they’re all bullshit.
“How many do you think?” When he said he didn’t know, I pressed him. “Five? Twenty? A hundred?”
“Yeah, right, a hundred. I’ve been at PPB for seven years. My guess is maybe fifteen complaints, max, made it to IAD. Mostly from patrol days.”
A couple a year seemed a little high but nothing too unusual. “Have any of them been sustained?”
“Not a one,” he said proudly.
Of course, if Lisa got the file, she’d flip the numbers around to argue that despite double digits of complaints, the bureau had done nothing to rein Mike in. As long as there are complaints, there is no way to win. That’s why we never turn over the files voluntarily.
“I’ll call you when I have a ruling.”
I had just enough time to get through the MCU screening pile before I had to meet Lisa. Today’s lucky sicko to be plucked from the pile was Edward Beattie, a twenty-eight-year-old registered sex offender on parole for a Rape II against a thirteen-year-old girl. He also had four priors for public indecency, all involving victims younger than twelve.
Beattie had been apprehended in a citizen’s arrest. A seventeen-year-old boy chased him down the street for peering through the bedroom window of his nine-year-old little sister. I noticed the boxes checked on the police report, indicating that Beattie complained to the responding officer about injuries to his face. That’s what I call a good big brother.
The officer had been smart, asking the little girl to describe exactly what she had seen inside her room. She said the magic words: Beattie had slid her unlocked window open, cupped his hands over the ledge, and reached his head through to look down into her bed. That slight entry past the threshold of the house was enough to arrest for criminal trespass.
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