by Val Bruech
The atmosphere in the office changed, like someone switched all the light bulbs from white to deep violet. Griffen stared at his computer monitor, but it was with the look of someone whose thoughts are miles away.
“My last year of law school I came here to watch Sam on trial,” Griffen began. “He was defending a guy charged with armed robbery. The victim was an old man, seventy if he was a day, and the defendant had shoved a gun in his face. When Sam cross-examined him he confused the poor old guy so badly he looked like a fool.”
I cleared my throat. “That’s his job, Griffen. Once the witness is in the box you aim right between their eyes, if they’re seven or seventy. That’s what the oath you took is all about.”
He tapped the business end of a pen on the desktop. “I can’t be a zealot like that for every client who comes along.”
“No problem. If you can’t play to win, go plan estates. Try appliance repair school.”
As a brand new lawyer some fifteen years ago, I was chagrined to learn that public defenders were somewhere south of spit in the estimation of judges and, frequently, their own clients. I decided to cut Bartley some slack.
“Law school teaches you how to think like a lawyer, but the profs don’t tell you how to deal with dopers, rapists, and liars. Oh, did I mention insurance adjusters? The first year out of school is tough for everyone, Griff.” I sat down in the chair he had cleared off. “I wasn’t sure I’d make it to my first jury trial ’cause I was throwing up in the john. I did my entire opening statement to the jury with vomit on my black patent-leather shoes.”
He looked at me with suspicion, trying to figure out how much of what I said was true. Then he smiled. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better. But honestly, if playing to win means abusing a witness like Sam did to that poor old guy, maybe I should write appellate briefs and forget trial work.”
“Griff, that wasn’t abuse! His client was looking at years in the joint. Sam’s duty was to keep him out.”
I leaned forward, careful to choose the right words. “If you ever do try a criminal case, make sure you visit the penitentiary first. Know the stakes you’re playing for.”
He had one of those compressed air cans for cleaning keyboards on his desk. I picked it up, pointed it at his chest and pulled the trigger.
“Ahhh!” He grabbed his chest and fell back. “Shot by the woman of my dreams!”
I leaned over the desk, can in hand. “Which lawyer did you say you’re working with on the Domestic Abuse statute?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Did I wake you, dear?”
Betty’s voice on the phone was like a warm, cozy comforter. I squinted at the alarm. 9:16 a.m. “No problem.”
“It’s Sunday, you know.” Despite my status as a mid-life adult, she was reminding me to go to church.
The witty lobe of my brain was still asleep but the rest of it was awake enough to know that any response would be the wrong one.
She hummed into the phone a moment, then stopped abruptly. “I came across something in Sam’s den and I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“What is it?”
“It looks like that Righetti file you two worked on a while ago.”
I felt a buzz like a triple espresso just kicked in. “No kidding. Can I come over?”
We arranged to meet at her house at 6:30, then go out to dinner.
I couldn’t stay in bed after Betty’s bombshell, so I padded out to the espresso machine, ground the beans, and a minute later was sipping the heavenly brew. I have a large deck and an enormous back yard that slopes down to a creek. It was too cold to go out, but as I watched two squirrels chase each other, a plan evolved. I showered and dressed and headed for Brenda Haskins’ subdivision.
The homes were large and well-maintained, but not snooty. No inground pools or gated entrances. I always visit the scene of a felony trial, but the Righetti case was a post-conviction proceeding without factual disputes so I hadn’t bothered to view the locale.
A Crown Victoria with four antennas was anchored in the Haskins’ driveway. It had no official markings but was obviously a cop-mobile. I pulled to the curb, brimming with curiosity. Was this the site of another crime? Was Brenda all right? Minutes later the front door opened and Al Tite emerged, resplendent in a brown suit, dark blue shirt and gold tie. What was he doing here?
I whistled loudly as he inserted the key into the Crown Vic and his head snapped up. He looked around, puzzled, then eyed me suspiciously.
“Counselor.”
He sauntered across the ten yards that separated us, leaned on my passenger side window and peered in.
“What brings you to these parts, Ms. Marshfield?”
“You know, a week ago you were a perfect stranger, and now I’ve seen you four times in the last five days.”
“Life is strange. But I appreciate you describing me as perfect.”
He tapped the roof of my car. “Why are you here?”
“Here? Where’s ‘here’? I’m on the way to church.”
He glanced at my jeans and sweatshirt. “Try again.”
“Do you get the feeling our conversations are ritualized? You ask questions, I try to answer them, then you denigrate my answers.”
“No. I get the feeling you dance around whatever it is I’m trying to ask you.”
“Lighten up, lieutenant. Life’s too short to let me get to you.”
He turned and walked deliberately around my car, dropping out of sight at the back end. Damn! He was checking to see if my vehicle registration was current. Did I put that renewal sticker on the rear license plate?
I pushed a button and the door locks popped open. After a minute he surfaced, opened the front passenger door, pushed the seat back as far as it would go and corkscrewed in.
“Third time’s the charm. You’re at Brenda Haskins’ house because…?”
“Who came into the courthouse through the jail Wednesday morning and didn’t sign in?”
His eyes shifted a fraction and I knew I had a winner.
“Ms. Marshfield, you and I are here for the same reason. We’ll catch the guy who did Judge Kendall a whole lot sooner if you play straight with me and cut the games.”
I tapped the steering wheel absent-mindedly. Al just admitted he’s visiting Brenda because there’s some connection to Sam. So far as I know, the only link between the two is Ellen Righetti’s case. Had Tite found out about the post-conviction matter or was there another link? The lieutenant wouldn’t give me anything out of the goodness of his heart. Time for Negotiation 101.
“Let me tell you something that could be significant. A couple weeks before he was killed, Sam had lunch at Major’s with a younger, well-dressed black woman. They had a bunch of papers spread out in front of them.” I hesitated. “Sam would have mentioned this to me a year ago, but as you know, we’ve drifted apart. It’s worth checking out.”
“I agree,” he nodded. “We could talk to Majors, find the charge slip, and interview the waitress.” He paused. “Or I could just tell you right now the woman’s name is Nina Burkhart and she was pitching life insurance.”
“His calendar.” Tite didn’t waste time.
“Verified by Burkhart and her boss. And?”
I’ll never get what I don’t ask for. “I want in on your investigation, lieutenant. You think it’s nuts, but I can give you something in return. Sam and I handled a case together that may have some unfinished business. If we each work an angle, we might get somewhere.”
Tite watched, expressionless, throughout my pitch. When I was finished, he turned to face me. “Ms. Marshfield, there’s a person out there who killed your friend and did a pretty savage job of it. You see these guys in court, shackled and guarded, on their best behavior. ‘Working an angle,’ as you put it, is not the best idea you’ve had this week.”
“Lieutenant, there’s no law granting police the sole authority to investigate crimes. I can help you, but I need your help in return. That’s my
offer.”
He looked out the front window pensively.
“It’s the text, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “You feel bad because you weren’t there when Sam needed you.”
I choked back the expletive that almost escaped. His words ricocheted in my head like the silver sphere in a pinball game.
A minute passed.
“It’s not your fault.” Tite’s tone was neutral, matter-of-fact.
“It may be a while before I believe that,” I said.
“Is that why you’re so…relentless about wanting in on the investigation?”
“The text is part of it,” I acknowledged quietly. “But there’s more.” I pushed the driver’s seat back all the way and turned to face him. “I have to know why. When people were rotting in their cells, absolutely powerless against the state, Sam went to bat for them. He was their champion, and most of them were scum. He worked his butt off for them. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Al cast a pointed glance at my hands. They were clenched into tight fists.
“And you want to make it right?” His tone was merely curious, devoid of sarcasm.
“I’m not looking for vengeance.” I shook my head. “I just need to know the reason. And the killer…when the state tries to crush him…I want him to know there’s no one like Sam to fight for him anymore.”
I had just committed the cardinal sin of attorneys, opening my mouth without knowing what was going to come out, but it was liberating.
“Remember the Haskins murder case, lieutenant?”
“Sure. Neighbor lady offed Dr. Haskins ’cause he messed up the anesthesia on her daughter…or son, I forget which. We don’t get many murder calls from places like this.” He inclined his head at the Type A neighborhood.
“Right. The neighbor was Ellen Righetti. You know what a post-conviction petition is, Al?”
“Educate me.”
“P.C. for short. You have to allege and prove a substantial denial of constitutional rights: the prosecution withheld evidence of the accused’s innocence; a juror was bribed; the defendant didn’t have effective assistance of counsel. There are several options, but they’re all tough to prove. It means something happened behind the scenes that wasn’t kosher.”
“So, a p.c. asks that the convicted person be released?”
“Yeah, but that almost never happens. If you’re really, really lucky, you get a new trial.”
“You’re telling me this because…?”
“Ellen filed one on her own after she was convicted and sentenced. Sam and I were appointed to represent her. She insisted she didn’t murder Gordon Haskins, and Sam believed her. I never saw him work as hard as he did on that case. He was possessed by it.”
“You lost, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but not from lack of trying.”
“And…?” He peered at me, totally focused.
Deep breath.
“I have a sneaking suspicion Sam never quit working on the case, even after we lost. He never let on to me; it’s just a hunch. That’s why I’m here today. Brenda Haskins was the main prosecution witness. Sam cross-examined her at the hearing and then, surprise, surprise, she shows up at his wake.”
He unwrapped a Tootsie Pop, regarded it suspiciously, and popped it into his mouth.
“So Sam was trying to prove someone else killed Haskins?”
“It’s the best I can come up with.”
Al stared at the Haskins’ home through the windshield. “Lawyers keep notes of everything they do, don’t they?”
“We record time for billing. Some lawyers charge for every time they think about a case, even if they’re in the bathroom.”
“Would Sam have done that?”
I shook my head. “As a record-keeper, he was a malpractice disaster waiting to happen. What he didn’t keep in his head, he wrote down on napkins, or maybe on his hand. And I doubt if he kept records at all after he got on the bench—no need to.”
“Don’t attorneys have to keep files for a certain time after they’re closed? For appeals and what not?”
I mustered a straight face. “Right. Sam’s old firm should have his file.”
“And if you worked on the case, you must have a file too?”
“I do, Al. I’ve been through it. It’s pretty straightforward, but you’re welcome to take a look.”
He contemplated me at some length. “Ms. Marshfield, I’m going to trust you on this one. I hope I’m not being had.”
“I’m playing straight with you, lieutenant, just like you asked.”
“This Righetti case may be the break we need. Maybe Sam found the murderer but then the murderer found him.”
There was animation in Tite’s eyes I hadn’t seen before.
“Can you meet me in Sam’s chambers tomorrow, and bring your Righetti file? I’ll let you go through his stuff, and we’ll see if we can make any progress.”
“That works,” I said cautiously. “I’ve got a trial at nine-thirty, but it might settle.”
He pondered a moment. “Tell you what. Leave your file with the receptionist at Sam’s firm. I’ll look at yours and his together. Call me when you’re finished in court, and we’ll meet in his chambers.”
“Okay,” I nodded and continued without skipping a beat. “So what brings you from hearth and home to talk to Brenda Haskins?”
He worked the Tootsie-Pop from one side of his mouth to the other. It was like watching a tennis ball being volleyed between two solid baseline hitters.
“I’m cramped in here. Mind if we walk for a while?”
I looked at him suspiciously. “Sure.”
We emptied out of the car. Neither of us spoke for the first block.
“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you,” he said.
I stopped mid-stride.
“Play fair,” I warned. “I spilled my guts about Righetti.”
A frown worked its way across Tite’s face. “Right at this moment, I can’t tell you why I was at the Haskins’ house. It could jeopardize the investigation and maybe you too.” He turned to me, a hint of something other than police arrogance on his face.
“There’s one more thing. I have to ask you—in all seriousness—not to talk to Brenda Haskins.”
“What?” I stared in disbelief.
“Haskins is off-limits,” he said with finality.
A flood of white-hot heat ignited in my gut and rocketed to my brain. “How do you get off telling me what I can’t do?” I kicked an unfortunate stone on the sidewalk and sent it into space. “Screw you, Tite! I give you the best lead in the case and then I’m supposed to let it go? You want any more ‘cooperation’ from Marshfield you’ll have to subpoena me to a grand jury!”
I turned on my heel and spun away. He grabbed my left hand from behind. I pulled fiercely, but to no avail. I turned, bringing my right hand back to slap him. He was expecting it and caught my wrist halfway to his face.
“Marshfield, listen.” His eyes burned. “There’s too much we don’t know yet. If the wrong person finds out you’re asking questions, it could be a disaster. Wait twenty-four hours. I’ll make it up to you.”
In spite of every instinct, in defiance of all reason, I found myself trusting him.
“How about the…the jail?” I stammered. He held both my hands.
He inhaled deeply.
“Tomorrow, when we meet in Sam’s chambers. Promise.”
“Why should I believe anything you tell me?”
His hands released mine, gently caressing my fingers as he let go. A charge passed through me and I couldn’t move, like we were a shared pair of atoms.
“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He stepped toward me and we were inches apart. He smelled better than I did, like woods after a cleansing rain. His eyes glittered.
I drew back, feeling like a kite in a thunderstorm. A gentle smile ambled across Tite’s face. We stood, not touching, then he winked and walked back to the cars.
He got into the Crown Vic and pulled up to where I was standing, slightly catatonic, next to the Acura.
“See you tomorrow.” He gave a casual salute and cruised away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I don’t like cops, and I don’t want to. I particularly do not want to like Al Tite.
The pool is my refuge and haven. I swim when I’m feeling up, down, or maybe just dazed, like now. As I did my laps I replayed the last scene with the lieutenant a kazillion times and convinced myself that he had played me for a fool. Hadn’t I learned anything from my hapless clients who had been duped by badges? It was mid-afternoon when I left the “Y,” a civilized hour to call on Mrs. Haskins. Tite could go spit.
Her house hadn’t changed since morning. The door chime welcomed me with a few bars of Some Enchanted Evening. A glance into the vestibule revealed fresh flowers in an expensive-looking vase on a chi-chi table, right out of House Beautiful.
A late model Cadillac convertible, red, top down, purred up the drive just as the song faded. Brenda Haskins’ white-blond hair flashed in the sun. The bay door of the garage yawned open and the car disappeared.
I waited, then rang again. This time the lady of the house answered promptly, adorned in pale pink tights and a leotard, hair drawn back into a tight pony tail. Her tanned and deeply lined face put her between fifty and sixty, but the spandexed body belonged to an in-shape forty-something. The woman either starved herself or had cornered the market on fitness tapes.
“Hi, Mrs. Haskins. Susan Marshfield.”
“I remember.” She glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone more interesting accompanied me. “What in the world do you want?”
“I wonder if you could spare a few minutes?”
“No.”
“I need to talk to you about Sam.”
Her gaze shimmied scornfully from my blue Cubs sweatshirt down to my running shoes.
“There may be a connection between Sam’s death and your husband’s.”
“That’s impossible!” she bristled. “Look, you and Judge Kendall lost Ellen’s case. Get over it and leave me the hell alone!”
“I am a pest,” I acknowledged. “But you’re the common denominator between your husband and Sam; you may know something that could help find the murderer. Humor me, Mrs. Haskins, just for a minute.”