Fugitive: A Novel

by Phillip Margolin

  “Did you win the lottery?” he asked.

  “Sort of. I’ve just been hired to defend the case of the century.”

  “Enough already,” Frank said, unable to contain a grin. “Out with it. What case is big enough to warrant this type of retainer?”

  “Charlie Marsh is returning home to stand trial for the murder of Arnold Pope Jr.”

  Frank stopped smiling. “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m dead serious. He’s on his way back to the States from Africa as we speak. World News magazine is going to put him up in New York until I can arrange for his surrender.”

  “How is he paying you?”

  Amanda told her father about the book deal and Martha Brice’s expectations regarding World News’ exclusive coverage of the case. When his daughter finished, Frank frowned.

  “I don’t like this business with the reporter.”

  “Me either, but I can control him, and Brice agreed to my restrictions.”

  “Or said she did. From what you’ve told me, she’s the type who will promise the world and not mean a word of it. She’ll count on you not being able to give up a half million dollars once it’s in your account. When she has you involved she’ll push the envelope.”

  “Or try to. I made it clear that Charlie is my client, not she. And I hope you know I can handle the Martha Brices of this world.”

  “That I do, but it won’t be easy, and you’ve never been involved in a media circus like the one you’re about to encounter. It can be intoxicating. How many world-class lawyers have you seen turn into fools as soon as they were given a chance to pontificate on national television?”

  “Point taken, but you forget that I’ll have a wise old mentor to guide me while I’m on my journey along the yellow brick road. I’m sure I can count on you to pour a bucket of cold water on me if I start acting like a jackass.”

  Frank smiled. He’d have the bucket ready, but—knowing his daughter as he did—he doubted he’d ever have to use it.

  “I have two requests, Dad,” Amanda said. “Can you fill me in on the Pope case? I read the papers and saw some of it while you were trying it, and we talked a little, but that was twelve years ago and I could do with a refresher course.”

  “You want me to do that now?”

  “Give it a shot.”

  “I don’t know if I can, off the top of my head. Look, I do have to finish this memo. So why don’t we order in and talk in the conference room at lunch? I’ll have the file brought up from storage. That will give me time to think.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You said you had two requests. What the second?”

  “It dawned on me that we might have a conflict problem. I haven’t talked to the bar yet, but I’ll be representing a codefendant of someone you represented. She can’t be charged again, but I can still imagine problems. So, I wondered if you would get Sally Pope to sign a waiver.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Frank said, his face displaying none of the emotions that the thought of seeing Sally Pope evoked.

  Frank and Amanda talked for a while more. Then Frank told her that he needed to get back to his memo and she went to her office. Frank did have to finish the memo but he really wanted time alone to deal with the possibility that he would have to see Sally Pope again. She’d been out of his life for a long time but there were still scars.

  Frank leaned back in his chair and stared out of his window at the green hills that towered over downtown Portland. The sky was clear and blue and dotted with white clouds; a tranquil scene that was at odds with the emotions boiling up inside him. Thinking about Sally Pope was painful, so Frank turned his attention to Charlie Marsh. Frank’s client may have been Sally Pope but the trial had always been about Marsh, and Charlie’s story began with the prison standoff.

  PART II

  State of Oregon v. Sally Pope 1996–1997

  CHAPTER 10

  Minutes before Crazy Freddy Clayton started his hare-brained attempt to escape from the state prison, he and Charlie Marsh were working on a writ of habeas corpus at a table in the rickety wooden stacks that held the prison library’s woefully inadequate collection of legal texts. The cellmates were best friends and a truly odd couple. They were dressed in identical prison Levi’s and blue work shirts, and they were both a shade under six feet but that was where the similarities ended.

  Charlie had blond hair and no tattoos. Freddy had shaved his head and resembled an art gallery when naked. Charlie was looking at parole in a few weeks on a three-year sentence for credit card fraud. Crazy Freddy was serving consecutive twenty-year terms for attempted murder and armed robbery and would be using a walker by the time he left the prison. Charlie had pumped a little iron since beginning his incarceration but the muscle he’d added to his slender frame was difficult to discern. During his many incarcerations, Freddy had developed bulging, well-defined lats, abs, pecs, and biceps by following a workout regime that bordered on the psychotic. Crazy Freddy was psychotic so the effort hadn’t cost him much.

  While Freddy lived for violence, Charlie was a pacifist for practical reasons; he was a coward who had lost almost every fight in which he’d been involved. In fact, if it weren’t for Freddy, Charlie would have been one of the most picked-on boys in school and someone’s bitch in the prison. But Freddy had grown up next door to Charlie and they’d been best friends since elementary school. Charlie hid Freddy in his house whenever Clayton’s drunken father went on a rampage, and he’d helped Freddy—who was not too bright—with his schoolwork from day one. Freddy reciprocated by beating the crap out of anyone who dared to pick on his friend. It was amazing, but Freddy—a true paranoid—trusted Charlie. When he found out Charlie was headed for his lockup, he’d made certain that the inmates knew that his pal was off-limits and he had arranged to bunk with him.

  Like most sociopaths, Freddy was convinced that he was highly intelligent and he was constantly coming up with “brilliant” ideas for overturning his convictions. These were the kind of ideas that never held up under close scrutiny, but Freddy rarely had his ideas scrutinized, because no one had the courage to argue with him. Debate was useless anyway, since Freddy would pound his critic into pulp when Freddy grew frustrated over his inability to understand the critic’s logic. Charlie never suggested directly that his friend’s ideas were stupid. Freddy had never touched him in anger during all the years they’d been pals, but it was always better to play it safe where Freddy was concerned.

  “I’m not finding anything,” Charlie said. He’d been reading cases in which the courts overturned convictions because of incompetence of counsel.

  “Look harder. There’s gotta be something about it in them books.”

  “I don’t know, Freddy,” Charlie said cautiously. “I just don’t see the Supreme Court overturning your conviction because the guy peed a lot.”

  “Listen, man, you ever have to go real bad?”

  “Sure.”

  “How well are you thinking when you got to go real bad?”

  “It is distracting.”

  “That’s my point. The motherfucker was peeing at every recess, and those court sessions were long. How the fuck is he gonna be concentrating on my case when he has to pee so bad? When that snitch motherfucker Jermaine was testifying against me, my lawyer was twitching and wiggling around so much I thought he was gonna fall off his motherfucking chair. I bet he didn’t hear a word that lying motherfucker said. Now that’s motherfucking incompetence, ain’t it?”

  “Well, yes, it would be like falling asleep. There are cases where the courts have held that a defendant didn’t receive an adequate defense when his lawyer fell asleep during the trial.”

  “See, now you’re thinking.”

  “An incontinence defense would certainly be revolutionary.”

  “A what?”

  “Incontinence. It means the guy can’t hold it in, he wets himself. This might lead the Supreme Court to order all lawyers to wear Depends.”
>
  Freddy smiled. “I like that.”

  It was at this moment that warden Jeffrey Pulliams entered the library with prison guard Larry Merritt and three librarians from the county library system—Mabel Brooks, Ariel Pierce, and Jackie Schwartz. Warden Pulliams was a chubby, balding optimist who believed in rehabilitation. During his tenure, he had striven to build ties between the prison and the community to aid the transition of ex-convicts from incarceration to a productive life in society. This tour was part of the warden’s outreach program. It was his hope that the librarians would not only send books to the prison, but would also help promote the literacy and creative writing courses he had introduced into the prison curriculum.

  Freddy Clayton was well known to the warden. They’d had a heart-to-heart talk each time the inmate had been released from solitary. The warden believed in the basic goodness of man and he never gave up on one of his charges. He was very pleased to find Freddy in a library. Of course, Crazy Freddy was not interested in outreach or broadening his mind. His main interest in life was getting out of prison in any way possible. He believed that the fortuitous appearance of the three lady librarians presented him with a faster way of achieving this goal than pursuing a writ of habeas corpus through the courts.

  “Ladies,” Warden Pulliams said, “I’d like you to meet Frederick Clayton and…?”

  “Charles Marsh, sir,” Charlie said when it was obvious that the warden had no idea who he was.

  “Of course, Mr. Marsh. These women are librarians and I’m giving them a tour of our facility. Would you like to explain how important this library is to you?”

  Charlie stood up but Freddy stayed seated.

  “A well-stocked library is essential in a prison,” Charlie said. “As you may imagine, ladies, prisoners have a lot of idle time, and idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. This library enables us to put our idle time to good use.”

  While Charlie’s bullshit answer was enchanting the warden, Freddy bent down and pulled a shiv out of his sock.

  “I couldn’t have expressed it better, Mr. Marsh,” the warden said with a wide smile, which vanished instantly when Freddy yanked Jackie Schwartz away from the group and pressed the razor-sharp blade of his prison-made knife against her jugular vein.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie yelled.

  “I’m getting me the fuck out of here,” Freddy told his friend. Then he turned his attention to the warden.

  “I’ll gut this bitch if you don’t do exactly what I say. Do you understand me, motherfucker?”

  “Mr. Clayton…” the warden began.

  “Shut the fuck up. I do the talking here. Anyone says a word and I start cutting. Now get the fuck over to the storeroom.”

  Freddy nodded his head toward the far wall, where a door opened on a storage area that contained cleaning supplies, extra books, and odds and ends.

  The guard started sliding his hand toward his nightstick.

  “I saw that,” Freddy said, sliding his blade an inch to the right. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down the hostage’s throat. Mabel Brooks gasped.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch, and you, drop the stick and start moving. Next time you move funny she dies and I just start stabbing until someone brings me down.”

  The warden had read Clayton’s file several times and knew he would kill without remorse.

  “Do as he says,” Pulliams ordered in a shaky voice as he started walking toward the storage room.

  The other inmates who were using the library had heard the commotion and they wandered over as Freddy herded his hostages through the stacks.

  “Get out,” Freddy commanded. “You don’t want to be in here.”

  The men didn’t stop to think. Charlie started to follow them but Freddy stopped him.

  “Not you, Charlie. I need you with me, bro.”

  Charlie’s heart sank. He was just weeks away from parole. Now Freddy was making him an accomplice in crimes that could keep him behind bars forever.

  As soon as the hostages were inside the storeroom, Freddy looked around. His eyes stopped on a large spool of cord.

  “Tie them up, Charlie.”

  “Maybe we should…”

  “Nah, we got to tie them up so they won’t cause trouble.”

  Freddy used the shiv to cut several lengths of rope. While Charlie was tying up the hostages, Freddy’s eyes roamed the room. When everyone but Jackie Schwartz was secure and seated on the floor, Freddy turned the quivering woman over to Charlie and inspected several cans of paint that were stored in a corner of the room. Next to the paint cans were several tins of paint thinner, which bore labels warning that the product was hazardous and flammable.

  Freddy searched the warden and the guard but didn’t find what he was looking for. Then he collected the women’s handbags and searched through them. He smiled when he found a pack of cigarettes in Mabel Brooks’s bag and grinned broadly when he discovered her lighter.

  “This is just what I need,” Freddy said. He walked over to the painting supplies and carried one of the tins of paint thinner over to the spot against the wall where Charlie had lined up the hostages.

  “This here’s my insurance,” Freddy told Charlie. Then he turned to the hostages. “You all are gonna get a bath. I see anyone try to escape…”

  Freddy flicked the lighter. Mabel Brooks stared at the tiny flame and started to weep, and Jackie Schwartz was white-faced from shock.

  Freddy opened the tin and doused the woman. Then he moved to the next hostage. When he was done, Charlie pulled him aside and whispered so the hostages wouldn’t hear him.

  “Freddy, this isn’t good. Maybe you should stop now. No one’s been hurt too badly. Maybe we can convince the warden to let bygones be bygones if you let everyone loose.”

  “Warden ain’t gonna forgive and forget, are you?” Freddy asked Pulliams. The warden didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought. Nah, Charlie, we’re in this for the long haul. It’ll be freedom or death.”

  “I got freedom coming up, Freddy. I’m gonna get paroled real soon. How about letting me walk on this?”

  “Can’t do it, bro. You know I ain’t good at expressing myself.”

  “You talk fine. You’re a bright guy.”

  “Not like you, Charlie. I wouldn’t know the words. I’m gonna need you to talk for me.”

  Charlie glanced over at the women. They were terrified. The guard was trying hard to stay cool, but Warden Pulliams was sweating badly. Charlie felt sorry for them. He also felt sorry for himself and pissed off at Freddy for getting him into this mess.

  Charlie’s relationship with Freddy was complicated. They were best friends, but Charlie disapproved of almost everything Freddy did. If it weren’t for the bonds they’d forged since childhood, Charlie would have stayed miles from Clayton. Still, there was no denying that he would have been badly injured several times if Freddy hadn’t protected him, so he did owe Freddy for that. If Freddy released him to negotiate he could run, but that would probably mean that the hostages would die or a SWAT team would come in blazing and Freddy would die, and he didn’t want that on his conscience.

  “Okay, bro. I’ll help you out here, but you have to promise me that you won’t hurt anyone.”

  “Hey, if someone gets out of line, I’ll draw the line.”

  “True enough, but I’ll have a hard time selling your program if I can’t assure the negotiators that all of the hostages are unharmed.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Great. So, what’s your plan?”

  This was a difficult question for Freddy to answer, since he had acted on impulse without a strategy.

  “Well, we tell the motherfuckers to let us out of here or we kill these motherfuckers.”

  “Okay, that’s a start, but where do you want to go once you’re out?”

  This was an even tougher question. Freddy hadn’t been too many places besides prison. Then he remembered a television show that had featured a ho
stage situation.

  “A tropical island, man. I want to go to a tropical island. And I want a jet and one million…nah, make it two million dollars.”

  Charlie nodded several times. “That sounds doable,” he lied.

  A tentative knock on the storeroom door startled everyone.

  “Get the fuck back, motherfucker, or I’ll start cutting on these bitches,” Freddy yelled.

  “It’s me, Jack Collins,” the trustee librarian answered in a shaky voice. Collins was a seventy-year-old lifer who had been a fifty-two-year-old bookstore owner until he shot his brand-new, twenty-year-old wife and her lover. “They told me to talk to you, Freddy.”

  “What do they want?” Freddy asked.

  “They want you to let everyone go. They won’t hurt you if everyone’s okay.”

  “You tell them I ain’t letting anyone out until my demands are met. If they don’t meet my demands, people are gonna die. I got them all covered with paint thinner. If I don’t get what I want we’re gonna have an old-fashioned barbecue in here.”

  “What…what do you want?”

  “My man, Charlie, knows our demands. Who’s out there with you?”

  “Nobody. Just me.”

  “You better be telling the truth or we’re gonna have crispy-fried librarian for dinner.”

  “Don’t hurt anyone, Freddy. Okay? I’m the only one in the library.”

  “I’m sending out Charlie. He’ll tell them what we want. And I’d better get it.”

  “IS FREDDY INSANE?” Collins asked when he and Charlie were far enough from the storeroom so Freddy couldn’t hear him through the door.

  “Are you referring to his mental state or his plan?” Charlie answered bitterly.

  “The question was rhetorical,” said Collins, who knew that Freddy was a head case and that Charlie knew what “rhetorical” meant.

  “I don’t know why Freddy does this shit,” Charlie complained. “But then neither does he, half the time.”