Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  Gardner smiled. “I’m going to beat you, Kent.”

  King started to answer but bit his lip. A few days ago he was certain they had Brown in the bag. But now he wasn’t so sure. Being a prosecutor was a lot tougher than he’d imagined.

  Jennifer placed her name on the sign-in sheet of the courthouse vault and told the clerk she was there to review some exhibits from a post-conviction proceeding. But she was acting under false pretenses. The vault contained evidence from criminal cases, stacked in folders, awaiting appellate action. And it also stored evidence from current cases assigned to special prosecutors.

  The attendant released the bolts, drew back the metal door, and switched on the light. Jennifer entered the elongated chamber and walked to the shelves at the far end. Soon the attendant left, and there was no one else in the iron room.

  Jennifer scanned the top shelf and found two new cardboard boxes labeled: “BROWN.” She checked the door and took a box down. The top was covered with masking tape. Jennifer peeled it back and opened the flap.

  There was a plastic bag inside the box, and inside that, a pair of men’s shoes. The tag read: “THOMAS RUTH.” Jennifer examined them through the transparent covering. Traces of black fingerprinting powder clung to the plastic. She put the shoes down.

  Jennifer lifted another bag from the cardboard box. It was a set of police files, marked “SUSPICIOUS DEATH INVESTIGATION—JOSEPH BROWN, SENIOR.” She flattened the plastic and read the name “Davis” at the bottom of a report. The report itself was a surveillance log of Ruth sightings. “Daily adherence to schedule,” the officer had noted.

  Jennifer moved on to the next exhibit, the autopsy file of “Joseph Brown, Sr.” She caught a glimpse of a photo of Joseph on the slab, and covered it with her hand. Below that was a supplemental report by Davis. She speed-read to the bottom line: “After thorough investigation it has been concluded that there is insufficient evidence of foul play to warrant further action. Pursuant to the medical examiner’s finding and the lack of forensic proof to the contrary, the death of Joseph Brown, Sr., is hereby ruled to be: by natural cause.” There was a notation stamped below the conclusion: “Case closed.” And under that, Brownie had written in red ink: “Bullshit.”

  Jennifer shut the file and removed another plastic bag from the box. It was inscribed: “PERSONAL PAPERS AND PHOTOGRAPHS.” She peeled off the tape and dumped out the contents: letters, notes, lists, and old photos.

  Jennifer picked up one of the notes. “TO DO LIST” was written at the top. Typical Brownie, so organized, Jennifer mused. She then dropped her eyes to the single entry below. “Execute,” was all it said. Jennifer shuddered, and let the note slip from her fingers.

  She moved on to the photos. They were high school shots of a younger and thinner Brownie. At the bottom of the pile was a picture of a teen-age Brownie and a lookalike, arm-in-arm. She turned to the back of the picture. “P. & J.” was inscribed at the top.

  Jennifer returned to the box and lifted the single remaining plastic bag. It contained a rap sheet: a certified criminal record. The requesting authority was: “Brown, Sgt.Joe,” and the record was listed as: “BROWN, PAUL.”

  Jennifer began to remove the rap sheet from the plastic when the sound of voices entered the vault. She slipped the bag into the box and piled the other exhibits on top of it. In a second, everything was back in its proper position. Jennifer moved away from the shelf. The security man poked his head into the door. “Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jennifer replied on the way out.

  She ran down the corridor and out into the squall. The wind was driving the chilly rain against the granite building. Raising her collar, she sprinted for the car.

  Brownie’s insistence on suicide had been a tip-off. He was refusing to call it murder anymore, and he was even willing to be convicted. For Brownie, that had to mean one thing: he was covering for someone. Jennifer leaped into her car and shut the door.

  Brownie knew who killed Thomas Ruth and was protecting him. And now Jennifer had a clue as to who it was.

  eighteen

  Jennifer looked at the clock. It was eight P.M., and Gardner had not returned to the town house. The autumn squall had settled in the valley, and the wind was rattling the windows and whining in the vestibule. Tightening the cord on her bathrobe, she adjusted the thermostat and then sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

  An hour later Gardner dragged himself through the back door. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes as red as his wind-burned cheeks.

  “Gard,” Jennifer exclaimed. “I was worried.”

  He dropped an armful of files on the table. “Sorry, Jen. I tried to call, but the storm must have knocked down a line.”

  Jennifer checked the wall phone. There was no dial tone. “It’s out,” she said, putting her arms around him.

  He tried to give her the customary peck, but she clutched him tightly and prolonged the kiss. Gardner relaxed against her. Finally he broke the kiss off and leaned back so he could focus on her face. “What was that all about?”

  She held him around the waist. “Told you I was worried.”

  Gardner smiled. “I’m okay.” He removed his overcoat and hung it on the peg.

  “So how did the meeting go?”

  Gardner sat down. “I dropped the bomb.”

  Jennifer sat next to him. “What was King’s reaction?”

  “He played it cool, but I could tell it stung him.”

  “What did you do later?”

  “Research and phone calls, trying to line up an expert witness to help out with the defense.”

  “Any luck?”

  “I got some leads on a guy we might want to use. His name is Dr. Julius Sand.”

  “So you’re firm on the suicide defense?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s a mistake.”

  Gardner shivered. “I got that impression this morning.”

  Jennifer retrieved a quilt from the hall couch and put it across his shoulders. “We know it wasn’t suicide. How can we present a defense we don’t believe in?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice. You said it yourself. We either accept it or get out of the case. There’s no wiggle room.”

  “We have to get a complete profile on Ruth to make it work,” Jennifer said. “What did King say about the files?”

  “Claims he doesn’t have them.”

  “Then we have to make a good-faith effort to obtain them on our own, before the court will order him to comply.”

  “That’s going to be the hard part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody at CAIN wants to talk. I called the new honcho, Fairborne, several times this afternoon. He won’t take my calls, and he won’t call me back. We need his cooperation.”

  They lapsed into silence. Jennifer wanted to tell Gardner what she’d learned in the vault, but held back. It was only supposition, and she needed more proof before she broke the news. “How firm is the suicide defense?” she finally asked. “Do we have a backup position to go to?”

  “At the present, no. Brownie has made that impossible.”

  Jennifer touched his arm. “So what would happen if a new defense presented itself? Would you be amenable?”

  “What are you up to, Jen?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t BS me. You’re scheming. What are you working on?”

  “Nothing. Really.”

  “This is dangerous territory, Jen. We can’t play both sides. We made a commitment to go with suicide and we have to stick with it. We can’t jump and switch every five minutes. That’s what being a defense attorney is all about.”

  “How would you know?”

  Gardner adjusted the quilt around his neck. “I’m learning. As prosecutors we were trained to always seek the truth. But we don’t have to do that anymore. We have to please our client. And he wants us to go the other way.”

  “Away from the truth. Do you t
hink you can do it? Ignore the truth?”

  Gardner closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “I’m going to try, and so are you.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Yes.”

  Jennifer stood up, moved behind him, and kissed the top of Gardner’s head. “Do you think it might be possible for a couple of defense lawyers to make love?”

  “That might be arranged.”

  “Sure you’re not too tired?”

  Gardner rose, and holding each other in a loose embrace, they climbed the stairs together.

  Kent King and Lin Song were barricaded in King’s law office library, a legal fortress lined with books and computer terminals. “I warned you about this,” Lin said. “It makes sense. They blast holes in our case and drive the suicide theory through.”

  King turned from his monitor. “There are no holes in our case, Lin. Get that through your head. The evidence is overwhelming. No jury would ever buy the self-electrocution theory. This is a disclosure problem. Lawson is on a fishing expedition, hoping to find a smoking gun. It’s up to us to see that he doesn’t. It’s that simple. What have you come up with on the medical records issue?”

  Lin pushed a book aside and laid out her pad. “Rollie was right. If we have such records in our possession and the suicide defense is raised, we are obligated to turn them over.”

  “What if we have them and don’t comply?”

  Lin checked her citations. “That would be a violation of the discovery rules.”

  “For which there are no sanctions.”

  Lin pulled a photocopy out of her file. “Most of the time, no. But in this situation, there could be a problem. Fanner here says that dismissal of the case would be appropriate if the state knowingly refuses to turn over relevant psychological evidence.”

  King grabbed the copy. “Was that a suicide defense?”

  “No. It was an insanity plea on a felony, but the principle is the same.”

  King tossed the paper back. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have the records anyway.”

  “That brings us to the next point. What is the state’s obligation to obtain information not in their possession?”

  “I say none,” King replied.

  “Again, you’re right… up to a point.”

  “None is none. That’s it.”

  “The question turns on access,” Lin continued. “Lawson claims that only we have access to the records in question, that he is not in a position to obtain them himself.”

  “So?”

  “So the law says that if access is denied to one party and the information sought is necessary and relevant to the defense, there may be an obligation to produce it.”

  “May,” King said. “That’s our escape valve.”

  “The defense has to make a good-faith effort to obtain the information themselves, and then, if they fail, they can apply to the court for an order requiring the state to get it for them.”

  King smiled. “So we don’t have to do anything out of the gate.”

  “Not now, no. We can submit a memorandum to Rollie spelling it out, but by doing so we acknowledge that it’s our responsibility. We can’t say no if Lawson comes back empty-handed. Then we have to make an attempt to get them.”

  King frowned. He hated to concede anything to Lawson. “Any other options?” he asked.

  Lin shook her head. “No.”

  “So the bottom line is that we determine whether or not the records exist. If we find that they do, we have to turn them over, but if we find that they don’t, then the issue is moot. Lawson is out of luck, and we’re back on track.” King picked up his telephone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Frank Davis. He’s the CAIN expert. He should know if Ruth had a medical file.”

  “And if Ruth did?”

  King cupped the phone. “Frank will just have to lose it.”

  “Please,” Gardner asked. “Let me talk to someone.” He was at the gate to the quarry where a new sign and a reinforced fence had been erected. KEEP OUT, the painted letters warned as an armed guard patrolled to be sure that visitors understood.

  “Sorry,” the guard said through the wire. “Mr. Fairborne does not wish to talk with you.”

  Gardner looked past the guard toward the buildings that lay at the far end of the road. There was smoke drifting skyward from a chimney, and a couple of vehicles. “I don’t have to speak to Fairborne. Anyone else who saw Thomas Ruth the day he died would be fine.”

  The guard was in his early twenties, short-haired and blue-eyed. “Can’t do it. No one can discuss the case unless they get summoned to court.”

  “Says who?”

  The sentry shifted his hunting rifle to the other shoulder. “That’s the order.”

  “Do you know if they received my letter? I requested a release of Ruth’s medical records.”

  The guard looked toward the quarry. “You’re Mr. Lawson, lawyer for the guy who killed Thomas Ruth?”

  “Alleged to have killed Ruth,” Gardner corrected. “Yes, I’m Lawson.”

  “They got a letter. I heard talk about it.”

  Gardner touched the fence with his fingers. “Then you know what I’m claiming—that Thomas Ruth took his own life.”

  “I heard that.” The man smiled.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “Some of them do. You didn’t know Thomas Ruth. No way he killed himself. They say it’s a lawyer trick to get his killer off.”

  “Were you here, then?” Gardner asked.

  “Yeah, I was here.”

  “You knew Thomas Ruth?”

  The guard swept the gun barrel past Gardner’s knees. “Yeah. I knew him pretty good.”

  “And you don’t think he could have killed himself?”

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Ever see him angry or upset?”

  “Yeah. A few times.”

  “Ever see him go into a trance, anything like that?”

  The guard stopped pacing. “When he was preaching. But he never preached nothin’ about suicide. We’re into life here, not death. This ain’t no Jonestown or Waco.”

  “I understand that,” Gardner said. “Do you remember what he got angry about?”

  The guard swung the gun again. “You people.”

  “Us?”

  “He was bein’ harassed. That upset him.”

  “Do you know who was harassing him?”

  The guard laughed. “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The cop.”

  “Sergeant Brown?”

  The guard nodded. “Thomas Ruth got stopped every time he left the quarry. By a cop. He even went to a lawyer about it. But… it was too late.”

  Gardner suddenly felt burning in his chest. Brownie had stated that he’d only stopped Ruth one time. “Are you sure it was Sergeant Brown who did this?”

  “I know it was a cop.”

  “But did Ruth ever specify who it was?”

  The gun came up. “I never heard a name.”

  “Did you ever hear anyone say who it was?”

  The guard shook his head.

  Thank God. Maybe Brownie wasn’t the one. Maybe it was someone else in the department. Maybe…

  * * *

  Brownie stopped his car at the gas station on Blocktown Road. It was a secluded spot, away from the major traffic patterns. He’d spent most of the day before with Gardner, going over endless questions about the case. The suicide option was a possible way out, but he still felt like a shit. Gardner was trying so hard. Too bad Brownie couldn’t tell him the truth.

  Brownie checked the perimeter. The run-down station was empty of vehicles, the single set of pumps unoccupied. Old Man Jakes was snoozing in his warm office. It was a typical fall morning in the Blocktown shallows.

  Brownie walked to the pay phone at the rear of the building. He’d concluded a while back that he couldn’t use his own equipment. King was probably still monitoring
his calls.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Mid-State Cellular,” a feminine voice cooed.

  “This is the county police,” Brownie said. “Need to talk to your security chief.” He’d been so tied up with his own case, he’d not had a chance to follow up the cellular phone lead he’d pried from Henry Jackson at the jail. Now he finally had a window of opportunity to check it out.

  “One moment, sir.”

  There was a click-over, and a man came on the line. “Travis.”

  “This is Officer Brown from the county police,” Brownie said. “How’re you today?”

  “Fine. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m workin’ a cellular theft ring and got a lead on some stolen phones. Do you have an updated printout of clone complaints in the past year or two?”

  “Believe we do, yes.”

  “How about I run some numbers by you, and you tell me if they’re on the list?”

  There was a pause. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Brown, county police.”

  “We don’t usually do this over the phone.”

  Brownie ground his teeth. He’d expected resistance. “Listen”— his voice went low—“I’m in the field right now. Got a suspect in the squad car, and he’s spilling his guts. I don’t have enough to lock him up yet, but if you can confirm some of the numbers he gave me, I’ll bust him on the spot. What do you say?”

  There was another hesitation.

  “Come on, man. The dude is getting restless.”

  “All right,” Travis agreed, “since it’s an emergency.”

  “That it is.”

  “Read me the numbers.”

  Brownie pulled a list from his pocket and ticked off the digits Henry Jackson had given him in the jail.

  “Slow down,” Travis said. He was entering each one into the computer. “File-searching now.”

  “Let me know when you have something.”

  “Two hits,” Travis finally replied.

  Brownie readied his pen. “Give ‘ em to me.”

  Travis read the two cellular phone numbers that had been scanned and cloned.

  “Great,” Brownie said. “That’ll fix this bozo’s wagon. Now I’m gonna need some call information on the clones, what numbers were called in September. Can you hook me up on that, too?”