Judgement Calls

by Alafair Burke

  more good in this rotten office without the Derringer case than I'd do

  at some private law firm fighting over money for energy and tobacco

  companies.

  "The Derringer case is my only MCT file," I said.

  If someone had asked me the night before, I would've said I'd do just

  about anything to rid myself of the case: I was going down in flames

  and about to grovel for a plea. Now I wanted nothing more than to keep

  my hand in the mix, at least in some small way.

  "Duncan, I think it would be a good idea if O'Donnell and I met with

  defense counsel together to cut a plea. If the defense thinks I'm

  totally out of the picture, they'll think they've won. They won't want

  to deal."

  "Can't do it, Sam. You're out. And I'm going to make it damn clear to

  O'Donnell not even to attempt to pressure a plea until IA tells us

  where we are with this guy's letter. We got lucky that the Oregonian

  withheld the specifics. That letter includes extremely detailed

  descriptions of those murders. If IA verifies it, we've got a major

  wing nut on our hands. "The Long Hauler." Jesus Christ, what a

  fucking nightmare."

  It's frustrating when people don't listen to you, but it's downright

  infuriating when you know you're right.

  "Why's IA involved?" I asked. "I thought Walker and Johnson were

  leads on this."

  Griffith shook his head. "No. Too much at stake now. The first

  letter, anyone who read up on the Zimmerman case could've written it.

  Looked like it wouldn't lead to anything, so the bureau thought it was

  good enough to keep Forbes off it. If it turns out Landry and Taylor

  are actually innocent, your boyfriend's in deep doo doo. Starts to

  look like Landry was finally telling the truth when she said Forbes was

  feeding her the details."

  "But go back to what O'Donnell told the jury. Why would Chuck do that?

  The governor's son can get through the ranks without framing people."

  "See what I meant about bias, Kincaid? You're smart enough to see that

  the whole governor's son angle cuts both ways. You could also say it

  puts pressure on him to be a star, to stand out as his own man, make it

  big in a way that no one could say it was because of the old man. And

  hey, he probably thought she really did do it. He wouldn't be the

  first cop to bend some rules to make a case stronger to get the bad

  guys."

  It did look different from that angle. Given what I'd seen good cops

  do to help convict the guilty, why couldn't I believe that Chuck might

  occasionally do the same? Even in high school, Chuck had resented the

  inherent unspoken separation from his peers that came with being the

  governor's son. If that pressure had been bad as a teenager surrounded

  by the offspring of lawyers and doctors, what had it been like with

  rookie patrol officers? If Chuck felt in his gut that Lan-dry had been

  guilty and wanted to bring down a freak like Taylor, might he help her

  along with a few details to shore up her story?

  As I walked out of Duncan's office, I could barely stomach what I was

  thinking. He was right. I couldn't be objective.

  Since my regular caseload hadn't included MCT cases before the

  Derringer file came along, you'd think life with my run-of-the-mill

  drug and prostitution cases would have felt like a return to normalcy.

  Instead, it just felt anxiety-ridden. I didn't think anything would

  feel normal to me again until the bureau finished its investigation and

  I could finally find out what others decided about the future of Frank

  Derringer and Chuck, not to mention me.

  Chuck had been suspended from all MCT investigations and put on

  temporary assignment to patrol. Since detectives don't work patrol,

  the police union was filing a grievance, claiming that Chuck had

  essentially been demoted without a hearing. The union's interest was

  to make the bureau's staffing as inflexible as possible, so the bureau

  has to hire new bodies whenever it has a shortage in any single area.

  The bureau was fighting the beef, claiming that the change was a simple

  reassignment, since Chuck's salary hadn't been docked. Chuck, of

  course, wasn't given a say in any of it and was back on patrol, angry

  but cognizant of the fact that he could have been suspended.

  Personally, I'd rather be suspended. Maybe if I'd boinked the entire

  Major Crimes Team, I'd be one of those lucky public employees who got

  suspended for a couple of years with pay until a lengthy investigation

  resulted in my return to full employment with no discipline other than

  an extended paid vacation. But sex with just one detective left me

  where I was, back with my drug and vice cases.

  Lopez had agreed to an adjournment. True believer that she was, she

  wouldn't have acquiesced unless she thought the delay would help

  Derringer. Based on that, I tried telling O'Donnell that the time was

  ripe to approach the defense with a decent plea agreement. But he

  refused, reminding me that the boss had ordered him not to pressure a

  plea until the police determined whether the Long Hauler was for

  real.

  O'Donnell had continued to surprise me with relatively decent behavior.

  He agreed that I'd handle communications with Kendra and Andrea about

  the case. Even though I suspected he did it to save himself the work

  of victim handhold-ing, I was grateful that Kendra wasn't going to have

  to hear about the turn of events from someone other than me.

  The night after I'd been kicked off the case, I had taken Kendra out to

  dinner and did my best to explain why the case was being set over. I

  wanted desperately to answer all her questions about what was going to

  happen, whether Derringer was still going to go to jail, why some

  "stupid" letter had to affect her case, and everything else she asked

  me as she played with her food. All I could do was tell her not to

  give up hope. We'd have to wait and see.

  We both kept up a good front, but the signs of demoralization were

  clear in her untouched plate.

  Now that the case was over, there wasn't much of an official role for

  me to play in Kendra's life. I talked to her about enrolling in the

  LAP teen program. Learning Alternatives to Prostitution was intended

  for court-mandated treatment of criminal defendants, but anyone could

  enroll. I'd already contacted them, and a counselor had told me she

  could get Kendra a volunteer tutor to help her with school and Kendra

  could participate in weekly group therapy sessions. Sometimes the

  "therapy" took the form of activities like painting and gardening, but

  those might be just the things Kendra needed to reenter life as a

  somewhat regular thirteen-year-old.

  Now, Monday morning. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be

  acting like a lawyer. I spent the afternoon returning phone calls and

  covering grand jury hearings. One guy I indicted definitely earned the

  dope-of-the-day award, if not the year. The defendant marched into the

  lobby of Southeast Precinct to report a fraud and pulled fifteen ounces

  of heroin and a scale from his gym bag. Turns out the seller c
harged

  him for a pound. Outraged by the one-ounce shortage, the defendant

  thought the police would help him get what he called "reparations."

  Ordinarily, this would have carried me through the day. But even the

  reprieve from crank calls, break-ins, head cracks, and brown Toyota

  Tercels wasn't enough to make me appreciate my return to the mundane. I

  couldn't keep my mind off the so-called Long Hauler and his claim of

  responsibility for the attack on Kendra. Something just didn't feel

  right about it. I needed to get more evidence against Derringer, so I

  could trash him no matter what the Long Hauler's story turned out to

  be.

  I decided to take a little detour on the way home from work. I

  wouldn't even say that I decided to do it; it was more like my body

  willed me. Right after my usual merge onto the 1-5 from the Morrison

  Bridge, I noticed the exit sign for the Lloyd Center mall. I reminded

  myself of how good I'd been about following Duncan's orders. I thought

  of the trouble I'd be in for snooping around, the way O'Donnell's

  nostrils would flare in anger if he found out, and the possibility that

  it was all a waste of time anyway. The next thing I knew, I was

  parking my Jetta outside of Meier & Frank in the Lloyd Center parking

  lot and walking into the handbags department.

  Now, if this had been a premeditated case of meddling into affairs that

  were no longer mine, I would have checked Kendra's purse out of the

  evidence locker and taken it with me to the counter. But since this

  was impromptu meddling, I was left describing the purse to the nitwit

  at the counter.

  Nitwit was about seventeen years old. Her blond hair tumbled out of

  the knot at the back of her head like a fountain designed by someone on

  a heavy acid trip. From the bottom up, everything she wore was

  irritating: platform sandals that made my feet wince, jeans slung low

  enough to reveal a navel ring and bony hips, and a tight belly shirt

  that evidently operated like a tube of toothpaste, pushing all her

  bodily fluids into her head and retarding the firing of her synapses.

  My badge, ID, and lengthy explanation of what I was looking for and why

  were apparently lost on her, because she seemed to think I was browsing

  around for a new handbag.

  And, of course, everything she said ended with a question mark. "We

  don't really have any bags by Esprit right now? But we have, like, a

  ton of black leather purses, OK? We have some really cute Nine West

  purses over here? And there's some on sale over there? But I really

  like these Kate Spade ones?" I was beginning to think she was an evil

  robot, programmed to prattle on about purses until her frosty-pink lip

  gloss dried up.

  I explained it to her a few more times. I wasn't interested in buying

  a new purse. I was from the District Attorney's Office working on a

  criminal investigation and needed to know whether they carried a

  certain black leather purse by Esprit last autumn.

  After the fourth try, Nitwit clued in and the frosty lips started

  moving again. "OK, like, I totally didn't understand that before? You

  want to ask about something we had, like, way back in November? I so

  didn't work here yet?"

  I finally uttered the magic words that should have been my first. "Is

  there, like, a manager or something?"

  Sweet lord, a woman in her thirties was never such a relief! Her name

  tag identified her as Jan, senior sales associate. All that mattered

  to me was that she'd worked there for two years and spoke that

  increasingly endangered language known as grown-up.

  "OK, let's see .. . black leather handbag by Esprit. Around November."

  I was nodding as she thought out loud. "Yeah, we had a line of leather

  bags by them last year. They normally do more canvas and novelty bags.

  What kind of strap did it have? There was one that was more like a

  backpack, one that had a shorty little handbag strap, and then a couple

  with shoulder straps."

  I told her it had a regular shoulder strap and then did my best

  sketching it on a piece of scrap paper she gave me.

  "Yeah, that looks like one of the shoulder strap ones we had." She

  walked around the counter and pulled a bag out that was on display.

  "Does it look kind of like this one, but with seams on the side and

  without this little buckle here?"

  "That's just what it looks like," I said, surprise in my tone. I

  couldn't believe anyone could distinguish among purses in such detail,

  but I guess others would marvel at my ability to distinguish Grey Goose

  from Smirnoff.

  "Do most of the people who were here last fall still work with the

  company?" I asked.

  She looked up in the air like she was thinking and counting. "Yeah,

  not everyone, but mostly."

  "And what are the chances one of them might remember selling that

  particular purse to someone if I get you a picture of the person?" I

  asked, my smile revealing that I knew it was a long shot.

  "Boy, pretty slim. That was six months ago." She could see my

  disappointment register. "Hey, it's worth a shot,

  though. Tell you what, you give me the picture and I'll make sure

  everyone takes a look at it."

  "Great." I thought about the easiest way to get a picture of Andrea to

  Jan and slipped into thinking aloud myself. "OK, I can get a booking

  photo of her from January, which should be pretty much how she looked

  last November."

  Solid, reliable Jan looked alarmed at the mention of a booking photo,

  and I laughed. "Oh, don't worry. She's not a hardened criminal or

  anything." Of course, the truth is that hardened criminals come to the

  mall and buy regular, boring things from stable, reliable people like

  Jan every day, but I didn't see the need to tell her that. "It's

  actually kind of a long story. A security guard at Dress You Up

  excluded her from the store. It was really more of a misunderstanding,

  but they had her arrested a few months later when she came back."

  Jan tilted her head. "God, that rings a bell. I sold a purse to a

  woman, and I remember she was red hot about some security guard at

  Dress You Up. The guy had accused her of shoplifting, and even though

  she told them to look through her stuff and they didn't find anything,

  he kicked her out of the store. Didn't apologize or anything. You

  know, that would've been around November."

  I had to refrain from throwing my arms around solid, reliable Jan. It

  had to have been Andrea. She must've bought the purse the same day she

  had the run-in with Kerry Richardson at Dress You Up.

  "And this woman bought the Esprit purse we've been talking about?" I

  asked.

  "I have no idea. I just remember the thing about the security

  guard."

  "What about the woman who bought the purse? Was she about thirty-five?

  Brown shoulder-length hair? About my height?" I was doing my best to

  describe Andrea, whose appearance was most notable for being

  nondescript.

  Jan shook her head. "I don't know. Like I said, I just remember that

  conversation. Mayb
e if I saw her picture "

  I dashed back to my car and drove over to Northeast Precinct. It was

  only a couple of miles, but pesky things like lights, cats, and

  frolicking children kept getting in the way of my car. The forty

  minutes it took me to print Andrea's booking photo from X-imaging and

  take it back to Jan felt like an eternity.

  Jan looked carefully at Andrea's picture and said, "Yeah, I think

  that's the woman. I remember her now." It wasn't the best ID in the

  world, but it was a hell of lot more than I had a few days ago.

  I was too excited to go home to my usual routine, so I picked up Vinnie

  for a visit to Dad's. In the car, I checked my cell for messages.

  There were two from Chuck. I'd been avoiding him since the shit hit

  the fan in Duncan's office. Hell, I had to face him eventually. I

  left a message to meet me at Dad's if he felt like it.

  Dad was so happy to see me he didn't even complain about Vinnie tagging

  along.

  Going to Dad's is a major treat for Vinnie. Dad's yard is large enough

  that there were still some bushes that Vinnie hadn't managed to pee on

  yet. Vinnie would sniff around back, seeking out unsoiled ones to

  violate. Add the Milk Bones that Dad keeps around to control Vinnie's

  breath, and Dad's house was the Vinnie equivalent of a Yankees-Mets

  game.

  By the time Chuck showed up, Dad and I had fed Vinnie, gone to the

  market for the "grocks" as Dad called them, and put a dish of baked pen

  ne in the oven.

  Dad took great pleasure announcing Chuck's arrival before he headed

  back to the kitchen. "Sam, your man's here and he's got wine."