“Ms. Kincaid?”
The key is to establish a good reason to hold on to the defendant without showing more cards than you need to. “The defendant poses a risk to the public that cannot be overstated. He is a paroled sex offender who is only four months out of prison. His prior offense was an attempt to sodomize a fifteen-year-old girl. In this case, he is charged with kidnapping a thirteen-year-old girl, violating her with a foreign object, and then directing his unidentified accomplice to rape and sodomize her. According to his parole officer, the defendant’s only employment since his release from prison has been through temporary agencies. If released, he is not only a flight risk, he also poses an enhanced safety risk to the community.”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough. How ’bout I split the baby on this one. I’ll make him eligible for release on enhanced bail of four hundred thousand dollars. If he posts bail, he will be released to Close Street Supervision.”
“Your honor, the State also requests that you grant our motion to withhold the victim’s name, telephone number, and address from the defense.” Oregon’s discovery laws require the State to notify the defense of every potential witness’s name and location information, unless the court finds good cause to withhold discovery. “She is a child witness, and the nature of this offense makes her vulnerable to intimidation. The risk of contact with the victim is aggravated in this case, where an unknown and unindicted co-conspirator remains at large.”
Nothing was ever easy with Lisa. “I object to the State’s motion, Judge. The prosecution’s entire case rests on this girl’s identification of my client. Obviously, I need to know who she is and what her history is. I also have a right and an obligation to contact her to see if she’ll talk to my investigator.”
The docket was crowded today, and Weidemann was taking a typically Solomonic approach to keep it moving. The problem with this was that it prompted sneaky lawyers like me and Lisa Lopez to argue for more than what we actually wanted so we’d get a bigger chunk of the pie.
All I really wanted was to keep Kendra Martin’s address from Derringer. I’ve never seen a case where the court protected the victim’s identity. And Lisa had been around long enough to know that no judge was going to hand over the victim’s home address once a DA had argued that she might be at risk. Yet here we were, arguing.
The result was predictable. “The State will disclose the victim’s identity to the defense. As for the victim’s location information, reasonable information will be provided to Ms. Lopez so she can prepare for trial. She will not, however, be permitted to divulge the location information to Mr. Derringer.”
Once the contested issues were addressed, Lopez recited the usual waivers and invocations of rights for the record. Derringer invoked his Sixth Amendment right to counsel, meaning we couldn’t question him without Lopez’s presence. And he waived his speedy trial rights. Technically, there’s a statute that gives defendants the right to be tried within thirty days unless they’re released on their own recognizance. No one wants to go to trial that quickly, so defendants routinely waive their speedy trial rights at arraignment once the pretrial release decision has been made.
I made the appropriate notes in my file, picked up the paperwork from the court clerk, and left, satisfied. With that high a bail, Derringer would need to post $40,000 cash to get out. Even if his family was willing to put up their own money for him, I doubted they had it. Worst case was that he’d be out on Close Street Supervision. If I called in a favor, they’d use electronic monitoring to put him on house arrest pending trial. It would also be some consolation that we could watch the house and get a phone tap to try to find the second guy.
Lisa caught up with me on the stairs outside the courtroom and gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks for the case, Samantha. My alibi versus your heroin-shooting prostitute? Looks like a winner.”
“I’m sure your client will be happy to have served as trial practice for you when he’s serving twenty years with a reputation as a child molester who can’t even get it up. Just a tip, but you might want to check out Derringer’s brother before you hang your hat on him.”
I was going to have to tell her about the problems with Derringer’s alibi witness eventually, so I might as well do it now to knock her down a few pegs. As is the case with most bluster, I didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth a shot. Lopez was right. The case would be tough without additional evidence. I walked back to the courthouse praying that MCT would find me something more.
* * *
Spending the first seven hours of my day on a case I hadn’t even known about until this morning had taken its toll. By the time I got back to my office, I had fourteen voice mail messages, a stack of police reports to review, and a flashing message on my computer screen announcing I had mail. If people would just behave themselves, my job would be so much easier.
Still, I managed to leave the office in time to make my dinner reservation in the Pearl District. Until a few years ago, no one distinguished between the Pearl District and Old Town. Growing up, we defined Old Town as the entire area north of downtown, between the Willamette River and I-405. Other than the train station and a few restaurants Portlanders called China Town, there weren’t many legitimate reasons to go to Old Town back then. Those three square miles harbored the majority of the city’s homeless population, a thriving drug trade, and cheap bars with underground behind-the-counter needle-exchange programs. Most of the buildings in the area were abandoned warehouses.
But life north of Burnside changed in the early 1990s, when Portland’s economy began to experience its current boom with the help of Nike, its nationally recognized ad agency, and more high-tech companies than you could shake a stick at. Portland became the sought-after new address for thousands of upwardly mobile young professionals.
To uprooted Californians and to Easterners like my ex-husband, a move to Portland was supposed to represent a dedication to a new way of living, a clean slate, a commitment to a simpler lifestyle that balanced work, play, and family. Their office walls were lined with photographs of them hiking in the Columbia Gorge and skiing Mount Hood, and they bought life memberships in the Sierra Club. But they also drove Range Rovers and Land Cruisers that got eleven miles to the gallon and had never actually been muddied by off-road use.
One upside of the Yuppie Takeover, however, was the development of the Pearl District. A group of savvy developers foresaw the desire of this new crowd to live in upscale housing close to downtown. They purchased entire blocks of warehouses on the west end of Old Town and refurbished them as loft apartments and townhouses. Buildings you used to be afraid to walk by now boasted million-dollar apartments. Along with the housing had come a slew of chic restaurants, retail shops, hair salons, interior decorators, and every other business that might make the life of some thirty-year-old millionaire a little more comfortable.
Some of the old-timers, artists who had used the warehouses as inexpensive studio space, complained about the gentrification. But most Portlanders, like me, were happy to have a neighborhood close to downtown where they could go after work for dinner and a drink.
Tonight’s dinner was at Oba, my favorite Pearl District spot. The bar in the front of the restaurant was, at least for now, the beautiful people’s place to see and be seen. And, although I didn’t have first-hand knowledge, Oba enjoyed a reputation as a good place to find a companion for the rest of the night. I came for the food.
Grace was already there when I arrived. Despite the throngs of people packed into the bar, my best friend had managed to procure a seat at a table of young and painfully attractive men. One of them was returning from the bar with her favorite drink, a Cosmopolitan. And, of course, all of them were laughing. Grace Hannigan is one of the funniest people I know.
I worked my way over to the table and leaned over so Grace could hear me. “You been here long?”
“Hey, woman. I didn’t see you come in. I just got here a little bit ago.”
One of the
men at the table got up and offered his chair.
I could barely hear Grace over the noise. She leaned in. “This one on my right is a client. He saw me walk in and waved me over. He’s a computer programmer. The rest of them are with him.” She leaned in even closer and said in my ear, “The blond one’s got potential. He’s coming in next week. I made room on my calendar.”
Grace cuts hair. It’s a good thing she’s got the kind of job where a guy can make an appointment to see her on a risk-free basis, or she would probably never get a date. You know how actresses and models say that guys never ask them out? You’re supposed to infer that they’re so beautiful that men are too intimidated to risk rejection. I wouldn’t have believed it unless I had a best friend like Grace. She has collagen-free pouty lips, bright white teeth, and flawless skin that’s alabaster in winter and bronzed in summer. Her hair looks different every time I see her, but her natural curls always frame her face just right. And she can eat all the junk she wants and never get fat. I’m so glad I know her, or I’d probably hate her.
Despite Grace’s looks, men who are obviously attracted to her rarely ask her out. Instead, they make appointments for haircuts. Eventually, they get around to asking her if she has time to grab a drink or dinner afterward, but they always use the haircut as the way in. Grace says she can never tell whether a man’s appointment is a pre-date formality or if he just wants his hair cut, but I keep telling her that any man willing to pay $60 for a haircut is probably looking for a date. A nice shag. A good bang. A first-rate bob.
I ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, but we didn’t last at the bar for long. We were eager to talk about the week that had passed since we’d last seen each other, and the noise was too much, so we moved to our table.
I let her go first, because her news was always more fun. Most of her week this time was spent working on the set of a movie being filmed in the area. Grace’s business had been thriving in town for years, but in the last couple of years she had developed a strong reputation as an on-set stylist for the increasing number of film productions that were coming to Portland.
As much as Grace enjoyed the new field of work, what she really seemed to love was the dish. Grace had always acted as part-time therapist to clients who trusted her with their life’s secrets, and she actually refrained from passing these tidbits on to others. However, she felt no such loyalty toward pretentious thespians and spoiled prima donnas. Working regularly on production sets satisfied Grace’s lust for good, spreadable dirt.
Tonight’s topic was the disagreeable side of America’s most beloved actress. Physically, she was as perfect as Grace had expected. But after working with her for three days, Grace now believed her to be one of the ugliest people she’d met.
“This girl was killing me, Sam. She likes to tell all those magazines that her famous hair just looks that way on its own? Well, God let me make it through the weekend so I could tell you otherwise. She must’ve stopped shooting six times a day, yelling at me, ‘It’s drying out, it’s drying out. Can’t you see I need a mist?’ Then I’d have to stop what I was doing and spray her head with a mixture of moisturizer and Evian water. She says regular water leaves a ‘residue.’ Then everyone had to sit there and wait while I scrunched her hair with my fingers until it dried, to lock in what she says are natural curls.
“So, during a break, when I was touching her up, I mentioned in passing that shooting schedules can be hard on the hair. You know, all that blow drying, crimping, curling, and whatnot really takes its toll. Truth is, her hair’s toast, beyond saving. I pulled her hair up around her shoulders and told her she’d look just as beautiful with a short cut if she wanted a change after this movie’s done. The girl wigged.”
Grace lifted her head and affected a slight southern accent. “‘I’m not some housefrau who needs a frumpy easy-to-manage hairdo. With all due respect, you’re not being paid to think. You’re being paid to make sure I look good. And this hair is what looks good, what has put me on the cover of hundreds of magazines, and what makes me worth twenty million dollars a film.’ It was all I could do not to cut that shit right off her head. Add the fact that she picks her teeth and reeks of garlic, and I don’t see her as America’s little sweetheart anymore.”
People judge others by their professions, but the reality is that Grace, in addition to being funny and extremely good at what she does, is incredibly smart. She always has been. In high school, the two of us were always neck and neck at the top of the class. Although we started to lose touch a few years into college, she was the first person I called when I moved back to Portland, and we picked up the friendship right where we’d left off.
As much as I was enjoying Grace’s comic relief, I couldn’t get the Derringer case out of my mind. I laid out everything I knew so far.
She shook her head. “I don’t know how you handle a job where you have to think about that kind of stuff. There must be some happy medium between those sick subjects and the superficial junk I have to deal with all day.”
“Maybe we should both hang it up and become accountants.”
“Nah, too boring,” she said. “We’ll just have to keep trying to balance each other out.”
“Seriously, it’s not just that it’s hard, Grace. I’ve gotten used to dealing with unpleasant subjects at work. I’m scared I’m going to lose. These are the most serious charges I’ve ever filed against anyone, and part of me’s excited about it. But if it falls apart, I won’t just look bad at work, I’ll feel like shit for letting this dirtbag go free.”
“Sam, you’ve got to put it in perspective. If it weren’t for you, this guy would already have won. Tim O’Donnell would’ve issued that chippy assault charge against him. What could he get for that?”
“With his record, maybe two years at most after conviction. He’d be out in eighteen months, maybe even nine if he pled guilty,” I said.
“See? And, even in a worst-case scenario, you’ll still get that, right?”
“I think so. Even if the case falls apart, I think Lopez would plead Derringer out to assault to avoid going to verdict on the attempted murder.”
“So what are you worrying about? Sounds to me like you saved the day just by getting involved, no matter what happens. This way, the police are still working on the case, so they might even catch the second guy. You need to look at it from that perspective. You may win. But even if you don’t, you haven’t really lost anything.”
She was right. I should feel good about what I did today. It was time to put aside the serious stuff and talk to her about the personal side of this case.
“Oh, and I may have neglected to fill you in on the identity of one of the main investigators.”
“Why would I care? Is he a cutey?” She feigned enthusiastic curiosity and gave me a wink.
“Um … No! Well, I mean, yeah. I don’t really know. Look, what I mean is that for once this man actually has something to do with me and not you.”
“Excuse me for assuming. I’ve gotten used to you never being interested. It’s been two years since your divorce, and you still act like men don’t get to you anymore, except … oh, lord, Sam, you’re not actually going to try working with Lucky Chucky, are you?”
It’s been more than fifteen years since Chuck Forbes’s football buddies had come up with that nickname. Two of them had barged into Chuck’s house carrying a keg one weekend when his parents were out of town. I guess we didn’t hear them over “Avalon.” For the rest of high school, Chuck was Lucky Chucky. They finally stopped calling me Been-laid Kincaid at the end of senior year.
“Can’t we move a little bit past that, Grace?”
“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Chuck. It’s what’s wrong with the two of you. When are you going to realize that he makes you crazy? You either need to write each other off or lock yourselves in a room together until you get it out of your systems. You have this twisted love-hate, only-happy-when-you’re-not-getting-together kind of relationship. An
d every time you see him, you dwell on it for the next two weeks but won’t let yourself follow through. I am driven crazy by osmosis. Please don’t do this to me. Is that why you took this case?”
“Oh, please. No, I swear, Grace. I would’ve taken it anyway, for all the reasons we talked about. But I don’t know how I’m going to handle this. Just reading the police reports, I find myself poring over every word of his, admiring what a good cop he’s become. I guess I’m just going to have to deal with it.”
“Deal with it? You’ve only ever had one way of dealing with Chuck Forbes. You decide you can keep the relationship platonic. You start hanging out, kidding around, watching games on the weekends, all the things that friends do. But then the chemistry kicks in and the next thing you know you get scared and back off, he gets mad, and you both go off into your separate corners and pout until you once again trick yourselves into believing that you can make the friendship thing work and the whole damn cycle begins again. Did it ever dawn on you that Roger might have felt a little left out?”
I stared at her. Roger’s my ex-husband. We met at Stanford Law School. Dad thought Roger was too much of a blueblood, but Mom and I thought he was perfect: a grownup who knew what he wanted and how he was going to get it. Smart, good-looking, and ambitious, Roger had wanted to marry me right out of law school so we could start our perfect life together back in New York. We moved into the Upper East Side apartment his family bought us as a wedding present, him working toward partnership at one of the country’s biggest firms, me working as an Assistant U.S. Attorney.
Judgment Calls Page 4