Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  "I'm sure you understand, Detective, that given the course of the

  investigation, my client would feel better knowing for certain that the

  warrant has been approved. I'll wait until it's finished."

  I knew from experience that there was no point arguing with Roger. What

  he lacks in personality he makes up for in tenacity. I was surprised

  he didn't insist on reading the document over my shoulder. Instead, he

  retreated back to the interview room.

  Johnson's affidavit was nothing pretty, but it was a rush job and

  contained what it needed: Melvin Jackson's pending appeal, his letters

  to Clarissa Easterbrook, and this was the biggie the documents

  confirming his recent employment as a part-time landscaper at the

  Glenville office park.

  "Jesus, Johnson," I said, signing the cover form on the DA review

  line.

  "I know. It's bad."

  I didn't care if he knew. This was unbelievable. "How in the world

  could we have possibly missed this? You have the employee lists; you

  have Jackson's file. You're tracking down a crotch grabber, but you

  need the husband to hire a fucking lawyer to find Melvin Jackson's name

  sitting right there?"

  "We were stupid, but we weren't that stupid. Remember I told you that

  we got the list of workers from the unions?" I nodded. "Well, we did

  it through the unions because when we asked the site's foreman for a

  list, he told us which unions were doing the work. Apparently, though,

  the contractor for the build is allowed to use some nonunion labor,

  which he didn't exactly advertise at the site. Melvin Jackson was one

  of the nonunion guys. Landscaping."

  "So how did a bunch of Dunn Simon pencil-necks figure it out?"

  "Luck." Johnson didn't know me well enough yet to know that I think

  luck is for whiners. He did know me well enough not to leave it at

  that. "When I talked to Townsend last night,

  I told him we'd look into people who worked at the site as part of the

  investigation. He probably mentioned that to his lawyer, but the

  lawyer didn't start with the foreman to get a list of employees; he

  started with the company that owns the property. Turns out Dunn Simon

  represents them too. One big happy family."

  "Well, it's signed now, so you can send them all home for the night. I

  hope you'll understand if I don't stick around for the goodbyes. What

  judges are on call duty tonight?"

  "Maurer and Lesh."

  "You should be all right with either one of them. Maurer's got kids,

  but Lesh is probably still up. Loves the Daily Show. Call me if you

  have any problems."

  "Sure thing."

  He stopped me as I was walking out. "Hey, Kincaid. Thanks for

  understanding. We'll make up for it tonight."

  "Sounds like it could've happened to anyone." In truth, I wasn't

  convinced there hadn't been some sloppiness, but he was beating himself

  up enough as it stood. Laying off felt like the right thing to do,

  given our afternoon confrontation. "I'm just glad someone caught

  it."

  "Well, between me and you, considering the someone? That shows real

  class. And, just to prove I know I got some time out in the doghouse,

  that's all I'm gonna say about your old law school friend back there.

  That could've been hours of material."

  More like days, but he didn't know the half of it. "Much appreciated,

  Ray. You be careful on that search. Jackson's desperate."

  When I finally got home, it was too late to call my father. I checked

  the machine; no messages.

  Vinnie was waiting for me in bed with a note tied to his collar.

  I recognized Chuck's scribble. "I couldn't fit through Vinnie's doggy

  door so I guess it's another night alone. Sweet dreams."

  The best I could do was no dreams, which was as good as it was getting

  these days. Unfortunately, the slumber didn't last long. Five hours

  in, Jack Walker called to fill me in on the search.

  "You guys find anything?" I asked, groping for the lamp.

  "You could say that. This thing's ready to go."

  I asked him to walk me through it from the start.

  "Lesh agreed to sign the warrant as a no-knock," he explained, meaning

  they could enter the house without knocking first. "So we call out the

  emergency response team just in case the entry goes bad. Never know

  with the kids and all.

  "We kicked the door. Jackson's asleep on the couch. His three kids

  are sacked out in the bedrooms. We took them out into the hallway to

  secure the apartment and get the scene under control."

  "Handcuffs?" I asked.

  "Just for Jackson. He was one unhappy camper about us waking the kids,

  and we didn't want him going mental on us." Under the circumstances, a

  court would go with that.

  "Then what?"

  "Once we secured the apartment, our first priority was placing the

  kids. We had SCF on-site with a foster placement ready, but Jackson

  wigged when he saw them coming. He was a complete wreck, pretty much

  offered to confess if we'd call his mom."

  "He admitted it?"

  "Hold on. I wrote it down verbatim." I heard him flip some pages.

  "Here it is. "You're here for me. This don't involve my kids. I'll

  show you what you came for; now just let them stay with their nana.

  These kids been through enough.""

  "Holy shit."

  "It gets better. SCF calls the mom did it right there in front of

  Jackson so he'd know we weren't jamming him. We tell him she's on the

  way and even let the kids lay down in the apartment next door while

  they're waiting. So then Raymond goes, "All right, Melvin. We're all

  stand-up here. Now what were you saying about showing us what we came

  for?" Melvin says, "It's in the van. Keys are on the table."

  "We leave backup watching Melvin and the apartment while we head out to

  the parking lot with the keys. We slide open the door, step in, and

  find six gallons of mocha cream paint."

  "Anything else?" I asked.

  "Not in the van. So we go back up to the apartment and say to Jackson,

  "I guess you've been watching the news, Melvin." He must've lost his

  desperation by then, knowing that his mom's on the way for the kids. He

  tries to play it cool and is all, "The news? Man, I don't know what

  you're talking about, the news." And I said, "You must've known we

  were looking for the paint, Melvin. You just told us where to find

  it." And so then he admits that he knew we'd been looking for the

  paint."

  "Anything in the apartment?"

  "Oh, yeah. Melvin keeps a great big fat file on his eviction case,

  including copies of all the letters he sent the vie. We also found

  some drafts of letters he must not have sent, and those were even

  worse. We bagged 'em up already, but I wrote down here that one of

  them said, Maybe someone should show you what it's like to lose

  everything, bitch. Guess he decided that wasn't likely to get him

  anywhere."

  Neither would her death, but murder is rarely rational.

  "Then Melvin's mom shows up. And let me tell you, Mama Jackson is a

  major piece of work. Came damn close to waki
ng up the entire floor.

  Kept screaming at us to get her boy out of those handcuffs. We were

  trying to calm her down. Then

  Raymond walks out of the back of the apartment with a hammer looped

  over his pen."

  "What hammer?"

  "I'm getting there. I thought I was supposed to give you the facts in

  the order they happened."

  Cops love to fuck with lawyers, even when they're prosecutors, and, as

  much as Walker loves me, I am still a prosecutor.

  "Ray found a hammer stashed on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.

  Looked like it had been wiped down, but you could still see a little

  blood. The crime lab's checking for sure. We should have an answer by

  morning."

  "So what happened when Jackson saw that you found the hammer?"

  "That's what was fucked up. It wasn't so much what Jackson did; it was

  what the mother did. She went absolutely nuts. Hands on the hips,

  doing the sassy head thing: "I knew this wasn't no routine search. This

  here's about that white judge. I been trying to tell this fool the

  police gonna be knockin' on his do', but, no, Melvin, you got yo'self

  too busy to listen." Then she starts homing in on Johnson, going off

  about how he planted the weapon and how could he turn his back on his

  own people, that kind of shit."

  "Can't be the first time you guys had to deal with a pissed-off

  mother."

  "Sure, you get used to it, but she took our attention away from

  Jackson. No one got a chance to see his reaction when he realized

  Johnson found the hammer. There's something about that first look,

  that expression on their face when they realize you've got 'em. It's

  too bad you can't get that look into evidence, right there for the

  jury. Because the minute you see it, you know. You know it in your

  gut, This is the guy. And we missed it."

  "Oh, come on, you know it's your guy anyway. You got the weapon, the

  paint, the letters. You said yourself that Jackson practically

  confessed."

  "I didn't say he was getting off. Shit, the guy's toast. But it's the

  look, Kincaid, and the mom kept us from seeing it. You've got no clue

  what I'm talking about, do you?"

  I did, actually. There's a thrill no, it's nothing short of a high

  when you've got the defendant on the stand, you're building a rhythm

  with him on cross, and then you ask the karate chop question, the one

  you've been headed for from the very start. But you sneak up to it

  through the back roads, taking every possible detour, so no one knows

  it's coming, least of all the defendant. And when he realizes there's

  no good way to answer it, he gets that look. He flashes back to his

  attorney warning him to stay off the stand. Then to him telling the

  attorney, "That bitch ain't got nothing on me." And then he pictures

  what you both know is coming, the jury reading that verdict. It's a

  look of panic and utter hatred.

  An arrest without the look was like hitting it out of the park without

  the crack of the bat. Or a perfect drive off the tee without feeling

  the ping of the ball against the sweet spot of your club. For Walker,

  this case clearance was purely utilitarian.

  "Maybe it's not too late for you to get the look," I told him. "Is

  Jackson talking?"

  "Doesn't look like it. He's the type who would have, but once the mom

  was done giving Johnson the black-pride trip, she started in on Melvin

  about a lawyer." Walker slipped back into his Mama Jackson routine.

  '"Don't you be talkin' to that Uncle Tom and his cracker-ass police

  buddies. You get yo'self a public defender." Before you know it,

  Melvin's lawyering up."

  "How clear was it?" I asked. Thanks to the Supreme Court, the police

  are allowed to ignore a suspects reference to an attorney if it's

  ambiguous.

  "Couldn't get any fucking clearer: "I want a lawyer." "

  The four magic words. We couldn't touch him. If we were going to get

  anything else out of him, it would have to be through his

  court-appointed lawyer.

  "It's all right," I said. "We don't need it. The statements he made

  before he invoked will come in, and they look bad, especially with the

  threats. Assuming the crime lab finds the vies blood on the hammer,

  he's done."

  "I got to say, given our fuckup earlier, it felt good to nail the

  bastard. Johnson's down there now booking him at MCDC, and I'm writing

  up the reports." Jackson would spend the night in the Multnomah County

  Detention Center so he could be arraigned tomorrow morning. "We're

  both running on empty right now and have a back load of comp time. Call

  us tomorrow if you need follow-up, but I don't think either of us will

  be at the precinct. My wife's gonna leave me if I don't eat a meal

  with her and the girls soon."

  "She'd rather have you at the house than the OT? Must be true love,

  Walker." And it was, too. Take a look around a detective squad, and

  the cubicles are filled with comically enhanced mug shots, doctored rap

  sheets, and the occasional pinup. Walker's is filled with photographs

  of his wife, Sandy, and their houseful of daughters. I'd never met

  them, but I'd followed their lives through pictures from the wedding

  day to their Six Flags vacation last August.

  "Still don't know how I got so lucky." I was touched that Walker would

  express that kind of sentiment to me. Then came the follow-up. "From

  what I hear, I could've wound up with a prick like Roger

  Kirkpatrick."

  "Just for that, Walker, I'm starting a list of tomorrow's follow-up

  work. Some for you for saying that, and some for Johnson for telling

  you about it."

  We both got a laugh out of it. "See?" he said. "I wouldn't have said

  it if I didn't think you could handle it."

  "Sure you would." These guys think I don't know what they put some of

  my coworkers through. "Now get some sleep and enjoy your day off.

  We've got more than enough for arraignment tomorrow. Just tell the

  crime lab to call Chuck or Mike with the lab results, OK?"

  "Done. You're going Agg Murder, right?"

  With what we had, proving Jackson killed Clarissa wouldn't be hard. But

  to get an aggravated murder conviction, I'd need to prove that the

  murder occurred under one or more special circumstances.

  I knew what Walker was really asking, but answered the question

  narrowly to avoid the discussion. "I'll plead it tomorrow as an agg,

  probably based on the vic's status as a judge."

  Walker wasn't interested in legal theories. He knew you could file

  aggravated murder charges without seeking the ultimate sanction. "But

  will your office go for the death penalty?"

  "I'm sure that will be discussed. Whatever happens, it won't be my

  decision."

  It was the same cop-out I used whenever I wondered what would happen if

  I ever got a death penalty case, and I tried to find comfort in it as I

  hung up the phone. As opinionated as I am, this issue is one of the

  few that leaves me scurrying up the nearest fence.

  When I finally fell back asleep, it was only because I convinced myself

&n
bsp; that Jackson's sad circumstances and lack of a prior criminal record

  would limit the stakes of the case to a life sentence.

  Seven.

  It was there in the pile of custodies the next morning. My first Major

  Crimes Unit call-out had been cleared and was ready for issuing. Unit

  rules be damned; I grabbed the file off Alice Gerstein's desk so I

  could prep the complaint against Melvin Jackson before turning to my

  screening cases.

  For now, I kept the complaint simple, one count of aggravated murder

  and one alternative count of plain old garden-variety murder. Pleading

  the case as an agg murder requires a special circumstance. If Jackson

  killed Clarissa during the commission of either a kidnapping or rape,

  that would qualify. But there were problems with both theories. We

  had the condom and the ME's opinion that Clarissa's clothes were put

  back on her after she was killed, but we didn't have the traditional

  indications of rape. Clarissa's shoe and the paint provided

  circumstantial indications that Jackson pulled Clarissa into the van

  before he killed her, but if he killed her during the struggle and then

  put her in the van, it wasn't a kidnapping.

  I avoided both possibilities and instead used Clarissa's employment as

  an administrative law judge as the special circumstance. As long as

  the jury believed that Melvin killed Clarissa because of her official