Sleeping Beauty

by Phillip Margolin

  Weller had barely been able to contain his excitement during the crosstown walk from his law office to the jail at the Justice Center, a sixteen-story concrete-and-glass building a block from the Multnomah County Courthouse. The jail took up the fourth through tenth floors of the building, but the Justice Center was also the home of the central precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the Multnomah County district attorney’s office, several courtrooms and, currently, Joshua Maxfield, the country’s most notorious serial killer.

  Two years ago, Weller had left the public defender’s office after five distinguished years to go into private practice. It had been rough sledding the first year, but business had finally started to pick up. Weller had been in court yesterday with one of his clients when Maxfield was arraigned. He was certain that the famous defendant would hire one of Portland ’s big-name criminal attorneys. When his secretary told him that Joshua Maxfield was calling from the jail, visions of Mercedes began dancing in Weller’s head.

  Barry showed his bar card to the corrections officer who was manning the reception desk in the jail, then passed through the metal detector. The jail elevator let him off in a concrete corridor painted pastel-yellow. He rang for the guard and waited nervously in front of a thick steel door. The guard let Weller into another narrow corridor and opened the door to one of the contact visiting rooms in which attorneys met their incarcerated clients.

  “Ring when you want out,” the guard said, pointing to a black button affixed to an intercom that was built into the wall. Then he locked the door behind him.

  Weller sat on one of two plastic chairs that were separated by a small circular table secured to the floor by metal bolts. He was arranging his note-pad and composing his thoughts when the steel door to the corridor that led to the cells opened. A moment later, Joshua Maxfield entered the contact room.

  Maxfield was about Weller’s size. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and his hands were manacled, but he didn’t seem to mind. The corrections officer unlocked Maxfield’s chains and motioned Joshua onto the empty chair.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Weller,” Maxfield said as soon as the door closed behind the guard.

  “Call me Barry,” Weller responded with a smile.

  Maxfield smiled back. “Barry, then. I must tell you that I was flattered when you took my call. Everyone in the jail speaks so highly of you that I assumed you’d be too busy.”

  Weller tried to conceal his surprise and pleasure. He’d had some modest successes but he had no idea that his reputation had grown so fast.

  “I’m never too busy to take calls from the jail. I know how isolated a person feels when they’re locked up.”

  “That’s true. I’ve never been in a situation like this. It’s very unnerving to be totally at the mercy of other people.”

  Weller thought Maxfield looked anything but unnerved. In fact, he seemed remarkably composed for a man who was almost certain to face the death penalty.

  “Are they mistreating you?”

  “I’m fine. Actually,” Maxfield said with a smile, “I watch a lot of crime movies and I was a bit disappointed when no one brought out a rubber hose.”

  Weller laughed. Good, he thought. A client with a sense of humor.

  “What about when you were arrested?”

  “The police were all holding guns and yelling but they calmed down when I told them I wouldn’t resist. Since then, everyone has been a perfect gentleman.”

  “Have you been questioned by the police?”

  “A little.”

  Weller had lost count of the clients who had convicted themselves by talking too freely to the police. He hoped the damage wasn’t irreparable.

  “Where was this?” the lawyer asked.

  “In Nebraska, after my arrest.”

  “Who interrogated you?”

  “The two detectives who flew me back to Portland.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Not much. They wanted to know what happened in the boathouse. I told them I didn’t do it.”

  “How long did this conversation with the detectives go on?”

  “Not long. We just talked for a bit. Then I got suspicious that they were trying to get me to say something incriminating, so I asked for a lawyer and they stopped questioning me.”

  “From now on, you don’t discuss your case with anyone, understand?”

  “Of course. I’m not stupid.”

  “You don’t have to be stupid to say something that can hang you. Even the most innocent statements can be misinterpreted.”

  “That couldn’t possibly happen to my statements, Barry. I’m completely innocent.”

  Weller smiled but the smile was forced. Before coming to the jail, Barry had demanded discovery from the DA who was handling Maxfield’s case. What he’d read was not good. But before he discussed the facts of the case there was an important matter that Weller had to get out of the way.

  “I want to get to the nuts and bolts of your case, Mr. Maxfield…”

  “If I’m going to call you Barry, you should call me Joshua.”

  “Joshua it is. If we’re going to work together it’s good to be on a first-name basis. But before we decide whether you want me to represent you, you need to know how much my representation is going to cost.”

  “Ah, business. Let’s get it over with.”

  “I always get the money part out of the way first, so I can concentrate on your case and not get distracted.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Let me be frank with you. The state is going to go for the death penalty. And we’re talking about more than one murder charge and possibly more than one set of murders.”

  Maxfield looked puzzled. “When I was in court the other day all the judge talked about was the murder of Terri Spencer and an assault on Casey Van Meter. What else could there be?”

  “The DA has a theory that you’re a serial killer.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “It’s based on a confession they found in your bungalow.”

  “What confession?”

  This was the first time that Maxfield had displayed any emotion since the interview started. The sudden outburst convinced Weller that the thread that was holding Maxfield together was very thin.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here, Joshua,” the attorney said. “We need to agree on a fee first. Then we can discuss the DA’s case and our strategy.”

  Maxfield seemed anxious to ask more about the confession but he regained his composure.

  “What is your fee?” he asked.

  “Investigating a capital murder case is not like investigating any other kind of criminal case. A death case is divided into two trials. Every other murder case only has one, the trial to decide guilt or innocence. In a death case, there is a second trial to decide the penalty if the defendant is found guilty of a type of murder that has death as a possible sentence. This second phase starts right after a guilty verdict, so I can’t wait until you’re convicted to prepare for the penalty phase. I have to start that investigation immediately even if we have a strong defense. So we’re really talking about two complex investigations instead of one and, in this case, I may have to investigate a number of murder allegations in Oregon and in other states.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Barry. What is this going to cost me?”

  Weller’s stomach churned as he prepared to state a fee that was far greater than all the fees he’d collected in his two years of private practice.

  “I’ll need an immediate retainer of $250,000, but the final amount could be much higher.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “That’s great,” Weller said, hiding his surprise.

  “In fact,” Maxfield said, “you can count on collecting far more than a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Weller looked puzzled. Maxfield grinned. “I’m thinking you’ll end up with at least a million dollars, win or lose. But you’ll have
to do a little extra work to earn it.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “I’ve heard that top criminal lawyers have a knack for cutting good deals with prosecutors. Are you a good negotiator?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Excellent. You’re going to need your skills as a negotiator to maximize your fee.”

  “You want to plead guilty?”

  “Definitely not.” Maxfield folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. He looked intense. “What do I do for a living, Barry?”

  “You’re a writer.”

  “A best-selling writer. How much money do you think my publisher will pay for a firsthand account of the trial of the century written by a best-selling author accused of serial murder?”

  “You’re going to write a book about your case?”

  “I heard that you were quick,” Maxfield said with a big smile. “Let me tell you how a writer is paid. When you ink a contract with a publisher you receive a chunk of money called an advance. Getting a quarter million for my story will be easy. If you’re a good negotiator, you might get a publisher up to a million or more.

  “But that’s not all. The advance is technically an advance against royalties. My contract will guarantee me a certain percentage of the cover price on every book that sells. Let’s say that the royalties are ten percent, the book goes for twenty-five dollars and it sells one million copies. Do the math, Barry.”

  “That’s two million, five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “On the hardcover. There’s also a paperback edition and foreign sales and movie rights and books on tape, and you will be collecting half of everything I receive if you take my case whether you win or you lose. How does that sound?”

  Barry was having trouble breathing. “You’ll split everything down the middle?” he managed.

  “What choice do I have? I need your help and this is the only way I can get the money to hire you. Is it a deal?”

  “I’ll have to give it some thought,” Weller said, regaining some of his senses. “I’ve never done business like this.”

  “That makes two of us. Before you leave I’ll tell you how to structure the contract and the name of my editor. He’s in New York. With all this publicity he might even call you when he learns you’re representing me.

  “Now, do you feel comfortable telling me what you found out about my case even though you haven’t formally accepted my offer?”

  “Sure. Most of what I’m going to tell you was in the papers, anyway. The indictment focuses on the murder of Terri Spencer and the assault on Casey Van Meter. As best I can make out, Ashley Spencer, Terri’s daughter, is the key to the state’s case. She says that she was jogging in the woods at the Oregon Academy when she saw you walking toward the boathouse. Shortly after she saw you she heard two screams from the direction of the boathouse. She looked in the window and saw you standing over Casey Van Meter, who was stretched out on the floor with her head against a wooden beam. You were holding a knife and the blade was covered with blood. She also saw her mother lying on the floor. Spencer says that you saw her and chased her.”

  “Poor kid.” Maxfield shook his head. “She’s telling the truth.”

  “You killed Spencer’s mother?” Weller asked, surprised.

  “No. I didn’t hurt anyone,” Maxfield said. “I was in the boathouse but Terri was dead and Casey was unconscious when I got there. I’m innocent. But I can see why Ashley thought I killed Terri and attacked the dean.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I often take a walk around the grounds in the evening. That’s why I was near the boathouse. It’s on the way to my cottage. I heard the same screams that frightened Ashley. Like I said, the women had already been attacked when I got there.”

  “What about the knife?”

  “It was lying on the ground near Terri. I picked it up because I thought that the killer might be hiding in the boathouse and I was in fear of my life. Ashley looked in the window a second after I got it. At first, I thought she was the murderer. I probably made an aggressive move toward her because she startled me. Then I recognized her. She must have been as scared as I was and she rushed off. I chased her to explain that I hadn’t hurt anyone but she was too fast for me and I never caught up. Then I realized how everything looked and I panicked and ran.”

  Weller made some notes. Maxfield waited patiently.

  “Tell me about the confession,” Maxfield said, when Weller looked up.

  “It’s not exactly a confession but the police are viewing it as if it was. It’s your novel about the serial killer. You read a section of it to your writing class.”

  “So?”

  “There have been murders in different parts of the country that the police believe were committed by a serial killer. In several cases the police held back evidence from the public. Your book contains scenes that have this evidence in them. For instance, when Ashley Spencer’s father was murdered and her friend was killed, the murderer went into the Spencer kitchen and ate a piece of chocolate cake. At another murder the killer ate a piece of pie. In the scene you read to your writing class your killer eats dessert before raping and killing a victim.”

  Maxfield looked incredulous. Then he laughed. “You’re not serious?”

  “The DA is very serious.”

  “It’s a novel. I made up everything.”

  “The state’s position is that the details about eating the food are too grotesque to be a coincidence.”

  “They’re wrong. Life imitates art all the time. Jules Verne predicted submarines, Tom Clancy had terrorists crash a plane into the White House.”

  “That’s true, but in those cases the fictional incident preceded the real one.”

  “What does that matter?” Maxfield was very upset now. “They can’t hang me because I have a good imagination.”

  “They’re going to claim that you weren’t imagining anything, that you were writing what you know. Isn’t that what they tell you in writing classes?”

  Maxfield looked like he was ready to explode. Then, as suddenly as he’d become unhinged, he calmed down.

  “Write what you know,” he repeated. Then he laughed. “Write what you know. Wouldn’t it be hysterical if that old cliché put me on death row?”

  The author stared into space for a moment. Then he smiled at Barry.

  “You certainly have your work cut out for you. Are you up to it?”

  “Definitely,” Weller answered.

  “The money should motivate you to do your best. Let me tell you the ABCs of negotiating my book contract.”

  Barry had planned to ask about something in the police reports that bothered him, but he forgot about the case as Maxfield taught him how to become a literary agent. One million dollars, two million dollars, three million dollars. Thinking about the money made it tough to concentrate on something as mundane as murder.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deputy District Attorney Delilah Wallace had grown up in the poorest neighborhood in Portland and cleaned houses to pay her way through school. She couldn’t help gawking at the Van Meter mansion’s entry hall, which looked as big as the house she’d grown up in. The hall was paneled in dark wood and decorated with shields, maces, swords, battleaxes, and a massive tapestry portraying unicorns and the ladies of a medieval court cavorting in a copse of trees. Suspended from the ceiling was a gigantic iron chandelier originally designed to hold candles but wired for electricity. A suit of armor stood on either side of a grand stairway that swept upward to the second floor.

  As the Van Meters’ houseman led the way down a drafty corridor toward the library where Miles and Henry Van Meter waited, Delilah turned to Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney.

  “This place looks like the Oregon branch of Buckingham Palace,” she whispered.

  Stamm laughed because he’d had the same reaction the first time he set foot in the Van Meter home.

  “The Van Meters started as dirt-poor
loggers and built a timber empire,” Stamm whispered back. “I guess they felt they earned the right to live like emperors.”

  The Multnomah County DA was a rail-thin bachelor with thinning brown hair and blue eyes. His deputy was a big-boned, ample-breasted, African-American woman with arms as wide around as a steel worker’s. Delilah dwarfed her boss and Dr. Ralph Karpinski, a dapper dresser in his early sixties, who brought up the rear. As they walked toward the library, Delilah took in the artwork and museum-quality antiques that decorated the hallway. The library was what she expected, another massive space with a huge stone fireplace, more wood-paneled walls, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Henry Van Meter was sitting in a high-backed armchair next to the fireplace, which had a fire roaring in it despite the summer weather. Miles Van Meter walked over as soon as they entered the room. He was wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit, a maroon tie, and a white silk shirt with French cuffs secured by gold cufflinks. Miles shook Stamm’s hand.

  “Thank you for coming, Jack,” he said.

  The Van Meters had always been big contributors to Jack Stamm’s political campaigns and there was never any question that he would respond to Miles’s request for a personal update on the Maxfield case.

  “It’s no trouble, Miles. I can only imagine how hard this has been on both of you.” Stamm turned toward his companions. “This is Dr. Ralph Karpinski, an expert on comas. We’ve been consulting with him about how to proceed with our indictment. And this is Delilah Wallace. She’ll be prosecuting Joshua Maxfield.”

  “Do you have any experience with murder cases?” Henry Van Meter asked, eying the black woman suspiciously. The question was really a challenge, but Delilah simply smiled.

  “Yes, sir, I do. My brother was killed in a drive-by when I was in high school, so I take my murder cases personally. They’re my specialty and I haven’t lost one yet. And I’m definitely not what you’d call soft on crime. I’ve tried five death cases and there are five men sitting on death row today because I asked the jury to put them there. I intend to make Mr. Maxfield number six.”