The Conviction

by Robert Dugoni

  “Whoa.” Row after row of plants in different stages of growth, from seedlings to a foot tall sprouted in rich dark soil.

  “What are you doing in here?” Jake wheeled at the question. A guard stood at the entrance, hands on hips. “I asked, what do you think you’re doing in here?”

  Jake held up the pick handle. “It broke. I was told to get a new one.”

  “You’re not allowed in here. You need another tool, you ask for one.”

  “I did.” Jake caught himself. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know.”

  The guard stepped closer. “You better learn to respect the rules around here,” he said. “Now get the hell out.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE SUTTER BUILDING

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Tom Molia sipped at the cold remnants of his coffee. When he had bought it, at the crack of dawn, he’d damn near burned his lips with the first sip, and he was still spitting pieces of dead skin peeling off the roof of his mouth. He’d maintained his vigil all night, taking breaks only to relieve his bladder and to get the cup of coffee when daylight slowly crept up the street, pushing back the shadows and the morning chill.

  The security guard on duty when Molia had arrived at the Sutter Building was relieved at midnight, confirming twenty-four-hour security. If the guards worked eight-hour shifts, the graveyard would end in roughly fewer than seven minutes. Molia only had to wait two minutes to confirm his deduction. A car turned into the parking lot adjacent to the building, parked next to the car the guard drove in at midnight, and the relief guard got out.

  “I love it when I’m right,” Molia said, waiting for the guard to walk toward the entrance before exiting Dave Bennett’s truck.

  The temperature had warmed with the rising sun, but Molia still felt a chill in his bones from sitting through the night. He wasn’t as young as he’d been when he’d started his career. Back then he could do a ten-hour shift, get off duty, lift weights for two more hours, and get home to make love to Maggie after she got the kids out the door to school. The thought of her made him melancholy, but he pushed those feelings aside, slowing his pace to time his approach with the relief guard’s arrival at the front door. He didn’t try to hide Bennett’s video camera. To the contrary, he brought it up and flipped open the side panel, stopping to film the stone building, which caused the guard to stop and consider him.

  Molia lowered the camera. “Is it okay? I just love these old buildings; you don’t see many like this where I’m from.”

  “Knock yourself out.” The relief guard tapped a key on the glass and waited for the guard in the lobby to gather his things.

  Molia panned up and down the building, zooming in and out, catching the guard looking back over his shoulder. “If you really like old buildings you should drive into Old Town.” The man pointed. “Just down the bottom of the hill.”

  “I read about it in the brochure,” Molia said. “That’s where I was headed when I saw the placard and figured I’d stop and have a look-see.”

  “That’s the original Winchester,” the man said. “They got all kinds of old buildings down there.”

  “Well I am itching to see them, too,” Molia said.

  The guard arched his eyebrow as the guard inside unlocked the door. He considered Molia before handing his relief the key, just as the first guard had done when he’d arrived at midnight.

  By the time Molia returned to Dave Bennett’s truck the relief guard had taken up his spot at the desk, where he would remain for the next eight hours. He would get up to stretch the boredom and fatigue from his muscles and maybe once or twice to use the bathroom around the corner from the elevator doors that never opened, but he would not use the elevator. He would not open the door to the stairwell to the second floor. He’d never make rounds inside or outside the building. There was no need. The lack of cars in the parking lot was the final bit of information Molia needed to confirm that, on a Monday morning, nobody was coming to work in the Sutter Building.

  Whatever line of business Trinity Investments was in, it didn’t require manual labor.

  WINCHESTER COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  CLERK’S OFFICE

  WINCHESTER, CALIFORNIA

  Sloane had Dave Bennett call Eileen Harper to give her a heads-up, not wanting to startle her. Still he had to give Harper credit for her acting skills. Though Harper had to be nervous, she didn’t show it when Sloane walked into the clerk’s office bright and early Monday morning. She just continued going on about her work. The morning light from one of three arched windows spilled across her desk, though it did not yet reach the counter where Sloane awaited assistance.

  Sloane had debated the consequences of what he was about to do. It wasn’t exactly subtle, as he and Molia discussed, but subtle wasn’t his nature. He wanted Boykin, and whoever else was involved, to know that if they messed with Jake, Sloane would push even harder to find out all their dirty little secrets. And he hoped that would draw their attention from Jake to him.

  As with every other county in the state, and likely the country, the Winchester County Courthouse records and files were accessible online; the legislatures required it, and the courthouses, even the historic ones, were obligated to comply. Sloane had gone online first thing that morning, printed the request slips, and filled in the case numbers for the files he wanted to review, and he had a hunch it would set off a few alarms, no matter how quietly he went about it. Evelyn Newcomber met him across the polished oak counter. In her midfifties, Newcomber looked to have a flare for the dramatic with long painted fingernails, purple this morning with a blue crescent moon, and colorful bead necklaces. “Mr. Sloane, you’re back,” she said, a touch of surprise in her voice.

  Sloane acknowledged the smile. “Actually, I never left; stayed the whole weekend right here in Winchester County.”

  She glanced at the sheets of paper. “Are you filing something this morning?”

  “Not this morning. This morning I’m looking to review a couple of files.” He handed her the request forms, and she separated them on the counter.

  “These are closed files. They’ll be in storage. It could take some time for me to have them pulled.”

  “I’ll wait,” Sloane said.

  “Might take some time,” she repeated. “Why don’t you leave a number and I’ll call when they’re ready.”

  “I have no place else I need to be,” Sloane said.

  “I can get them.” Eileen Harper approached the counter, her voice even. “I’m not busy this morning; I can pull them for you.”

  Newcomber’s smile soured, but with Sloane waiting she couldn’t very well tell Harper to mind her own business. “Thank you, Eileen.” She handed Harper the request slips without further comment. “You can take a seat,” she said to Sloane, pointing to a wood-slat bench against a wall lined with a series of black-and-white period photographs depicting the clerk’s office through the years. Sloane considered them, though the photographs weren’t his interest. The light through the arched windows reflected in the glass covering the photographs in such a way that he could see the workspace behind the counter. Newcomber made busywork for a bit, moving a few piles around her desk as if attending to matters. Then she picked up the phone, turning her back to Sloane. It wasn’t long after she’d hung up that Archibald Pike walked in, glanced in Newcomber’s direction, and approached where Sloane waited.

  “Mr. Sloane.” Pike tried to act surprised, but he was not nearly as competent an actor as Eileen Harper. “Are you filing additional pleadings?”

  Sloane shook his head. “Not here,” he said, the implication being something would be filed that morning with the Third District Court of Appeal in Sacramento. Sloane offered nothing further, which allowed for an awkward pause. Silence unnerved most people, especially people seeking information. Pike hadn’t come to shoot the breeze.

  “So then what brings you back?” Pike asked.

  “Just interested in reviewing a couple of files.” The paddle f
ans rotated slowly overhead.

  Pike waited. When Sloane didn’t add anything he said, “A couple of files?”

  Sloane nodded. “That’s right.”

  Pike cleared his throat. “I’ve, uh, been here a long time. Perhaps I can help. Is there some file in particular you’re interested in.”

  “Small town?” Sloane said.

  “Small town,” Pike agreed.

  Sloane waited, as if giving the offer due consideration. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

  “No trouble.”

  “It’s probably a more appropriate discussion to have with the city attorney anyway. They’re civil matters.”

  “Not much passes through here I don’t know about,” Pike reiterated. “Civil and criminal.”

  “Well, since you offered. I’m interested in a lawsuit filed by a contractor.” Sloane opened a folder and pretended to search for the name. “Tom Goode Construction. He sued the county over the build-out of the Fresh Start facility.”

  “That’s right. What’s your interest in that case?”

  “You’re familiar with it?”

  “Some.”

  “I read an article in the archives that Goode sued the county for cost overruns and received one point five million dollars, I believe.”

  “I don’t recall the dollar amount,” Pike said.

  “I’m looking for the city attorney’s motion to disqualify Judge Boykin.”

  The arrow hit its mark. Pike flinched. “Why, why would the city attorney have sought to disqualify Judge Boykin?”

  “So it was Judge Boykin who tried that case? The article didn’t say.”

  Pike pinched his lips.

  “Tom Goode Construction was the contractor on the remodel of the judge’s home.” Sloane had started his morning at the Winchester County Building Department.

  Pike smiled but disbelief crept into his voice. “Remodel? The judge’s house?”

  “Goode’s name is on the set of construction drawings at the building department. I didn’t see any permits actually pulled for that work, though. Did the judge have his home remodeled?”

  Pike shaded red. “I really wouldn’t know.”

  “No? Small town and all?”

  “He may have. I think he started the process. I don’t know.”

  “Well, I would think that would be a conflict, wouldn’t you?”

  “Unless the city attorney didn’t see it that way, as a conflict I mean; he might not have. Judge Boykin knows a lot of people. If he was challenged each time he knew a party or witness he’d be sitting on the sidelines more than on the bench.”

  “But he wasn’t on the sidelines for the lawsuit by the Estate of John Wainwright.” Pike looked like he was shitting a brick. “He did sit on that case, didn’t he?” Sloane asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m not following you; what is it about that file you’re interested in?”

  “Same thing, motion to disqualify.”

  “And the basis for a disqualification in that case would have been what?”

  “The defendant was Winchester First Street Bank.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Judge Boykin sits on the bank’s board of directors.” Sloane paused to allow for the figurative “thud.” Thank you, Alex.

  Pike started to reply, but Eileen Harper returned carrying two bulging files. She put them on the counter, calm and professional as ever. “You can’t remove them but I can provide you with a desk while you review them,” she said.

  Sloane hadn’t taken his eyes off Archibald Pike. “That’s okay,” he said. “I think I have all the answers I need. The prosecutor might want to review them, though.”

  FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY

  SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS

  Jake set his tray down and sat across from Bee Dee, Henry, and T.J., all of whom were moving slowly and looked a bit worse for wear this morning. Dirt caked their hands and forearms, and blackened their fingernails. With the morning light at their backs they looked like construction workers getting ready to start their shift. The guards had worked them until ten minutes before lights-out Saturday night, got them up early Sunday, and continued the labor camp. They gave them little to eat and did not allow them to shower or to brush their teeth, at night. They marched them straight to their dorms. Henry told him Overbay couldn’t work them Monday because of the teachers and counselors.

  Now they all sat trying to wake up. Only Henry was eating, stabbing at his pancakes and making short work of sausage links.

  “What do you know about the greenhouse?” Jake asked as Henry shoved a large wedge of pancake dripping with maple syrup into his mouth.

  “It’s restricted. You can’t go in,” he mumbled, jaws working overtime.

  “I did.”

  Henry stopped chewing. “They lock it,” he said, which came out sounding like, “They wock it.”

  “The door was unlocked. I broke my pick and was looking for another one.”

  Henry drank milk and swallowed with effort. “What’s in there?”

  Jake shrugged. “Plants. Lots of them.”

  T.J. shrugged fatigue from his shoulders and joined the conversation. “So why do they lock it?”

  “That’s that I’m wondering,” Jake said.

  Henry used the final wedge of pancake to mop up what was left of the syrup. “I don’t know.” He stabbed his fork at the second of T.J.’s pancakes. “Are you going to eat that?” T.J. slid his plate to the side.

  “They have a bunch of string, too.”

  Henry nodded. “They use it for the hops,” he said, rolling the pancake into a burrito and eating it with his hands.

  “What are hops?” Jake asked.

  “It’s a plant. They use them to make beer. I’ve seen ’em before. They grow on the string like a vine. They grow them up in the mountains. They make us work up there.”

  “When do they do that?” Jake asked.

  “They plant in April or May and go through the summer. That’s when they cut down the vines, like August or September. The brewery uses the hops to make its beer. The guards pick kids out and take them up there. It’s in the brochures. They call it outdoor education and make it look like you’re learning all these cool survival skills, but it’s all bullshit. The kids in the brochures are actors. They make us work.”

  “Have you ever been?” Jake asked.

  “Once. And it sucked big time.”

  “Is that what they use the horses and donkeys for?” Jake asked.

  Henry nodded. “They have to pack everything in. They drive you in the bus as far as they can. Then they make you hike the rest of the way. That sucks big time, too. They fit you with these heavy packs and it’s steep as hell.”

  The first bell rang, signaling the end of breakfast. They had fifteen minutes to get their rooms straightened for inspection and to brush their teeth before the second bell, a five-minute warning to get to class. Henry folded the remainder of T.J.’s pancake around another sausage link and shoved it in his mouth in two bites.

  When Jake stood to clean his plate T.J. asked, “Have you heard anything?” T.J. had asked him the same question five times over the weekend. Jake hadn’t told him what Bee Dee had said, that Big Baby and T-Mac had likely kept their mouths shut because they wanted an opportunity to get even.

  “Nothing.” Jake put his tray with plate and utensils on the conveyor belt, and it rolled through the window into the washroom.

  “So we’re good then,” T.J. said, following Jake and Bee Dee to the exit. “If nobody has said anything by now, they’re probably not going to, don’t you think?”

  “Probably not,” Jake said, glancing back to reassure him and nearly running into the back side of Bee Dee, who had come to an abrupt halt just outside the mess hall.

  Atkins had stepped into their path. “Well, look what we have here. Inmate Stand-up, have you made yourself some friends over the weekend?”

  Jake didn’t answer.

  Atkins leaned for
ward. “I heard about what happened.” The smile vanished. “Don’t think for a minute I don’t know who was behind it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

  Atkins smiled. “That’s what I heard everyone was saying this weekend. But you do… You know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “We’re going to find out. Tomorrow we’re going hiking again, and this time it’s not going to be just a day hike. We’re going overnight, Stand-up. And we’re taking your newfound friends with us. I think you’re going to really enjoy it. You might even remember some of those things you seem to have forgotten.”

  WINCHESTER SUPERIOR COURT

  JUDGE EARL BOYKIN’S CHAMBERS

  Archibald Pike did the unthinkable. Then again, he wasn’t really thinking. He flung open the door to Judge Boykin’s chambers and entered without even a courtesy knock. Carl Wade sat in one of the chairs across from Judge Boykin’s desk. Hands in his lap, his wide-brimmed hat teetered on the edge of the judge’s desk. Wade looked as relaxed as a southern gentleman whittling wood on a hot summer day.

  “Where’s Judge Earl?” Pike asked.

  Wade pointed a finger from his lap. “Still on the bench, I guess.”

  Pike considered his pocket watch, snapped it shut. An awkward silence ensued. “Do you have a meeting with the judge?” he asked.

  Wade shrugged. “Judge asked me to be here at eleven. So here I sit. Something wrong? You look like you saw the courthouse ghost.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “You going to close the door?”

  Pike shut the door and stepped farther in. Four generations of Boykins stared at him with eyes as dark as a crow’s. The black-and-white portraits hung in succession, starting with great-grandfather Earl, and they always gave Pike the willies. The family resemblance was truly remarkable, especially the eyes, cold and dark. Pike wandered to the second chair, pulled out his pocket watch, and reconsidered it.