“Technically, you’re not,” Ben replied. “But there are exceptions. Such as when newly discovered evidence arises. Or when there was good cause for the failure to raise the issue earlier.”
“Or the Coleman exception,” Christina added. “When the failure to present the issue would result in a fundamental miscarriage of justice.”
“Right. Which the Gilbert case defined as arising when a constitutional violation resulted in the conviction of an innocent person. Which gives us a back door to argue Ray Goldman’s actual innocence. We’ve got a hearing in less than a week. We need to be ready to present strong evidence that Ray was wrongfully convicted.”
“How are we going to do that?” Jones asked. “Now that Erin Faulkner is dead.”
“That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. What we need is a million-dollar answer.”
“She actually said that? She said, ‘no grabass in your Trans Am’?”
Mike nodded. “Her exact words. And get this. When I pulled up to take her to the crime scene—she wanted to drive. Even after I warned her.”
“Your Trans Am?” Sergeant Tomlinson slapped his forehead. “She must’ve been kidding.”
“She was not kidding. She was trying to rattle me.”
Frank Bolen, the third cop in the canteen, a large man with a voice as deep as a well, was equally amazed. “I woulda thought she’d rather have you drive. To keep your hands occupied.” He winked. “So you wouldn’t be playin’ grabass.”
“It’s a control issue,” Mike said, cradling his coffee. “She wants to prove she’s on top. That she’s the boss.”
“And she’s been here how long?” Tomlinson asked. “A day and a half?”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Bolen said. “She’s a damn fine-looking woman. I’d let her be on top. So to speak. I love the way she fills out those Levi’s. She’s a got a first-rate ass. Don’t you think, Mike?”
“Hadn’t noticed,” he said, not making eye contact.
“But all the cotton candy in the world ain’t gonna make me go for some chick who always wants to drive.”
“I think she had some bad experiences in Oklahoma City. I don’t know. But she’s definitely got her panties in a twist about something.”
“Maybe that time of the month,” Tomlinson offered.
“From what I hear,” Bolen said, “this chick’s got permanent PMS. The all-year, all-the-time variety. Thank God Blackwell didn’t stick her with me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not going to last,” Mike said confidently.
“What makes you so sure?”
“The fact that I have more vacation and sick time saved up than everyone else in the department combined. As soon as this suicide is closed, and before Blackwell can give us anything else, I’m going on vacation. And while I’m out basking on the sunny shores of some tropical beach, darn it, I’m likely to become sick.” He winked. “Bad case of the blue flu.”
“You rogue,” Tomlinson said.
“Yeah,” Bolen echoed. “Hope it ain’t terminal.”
“Blackwell won’t be able to let her sit idle forever. He’ll have to pair her with someone else. At any rate, he won’t see my butt back till he does.”
“Blackwell isn’t stupid. He won’t like it.”
“Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have tried to palm her off on me in the first place.”
“He had to give her to someone.”
“Not me.” Mike polished off the rest of his coffee. “I know Blackwell’s trying to punish me for that Burger Bliss screwup. But the weird thing is—I get the impression he’s trying to punish her, too.”
“Then he oughta just give her a spanking,” Tomlinson said. “She might like that.”
“I’ll punish her,” Bolen said boisterously. “I’ll punish her with my brush hog.”
“But to do that, you’d have to get your blade up,” said a voice from the back of the room. “Which I very much doubt you could do.”
Three jaws dropped.
Sergeant Baxter was standing behind them, at the door.
“Baxter,” Mike said, tossing his crumpled cup into the trash. “How long have you been standing there?”
“So long I’ve heard enough macho bullshit to fill the Augean stables.”
“Aw, Baxter, we were just—”
“Could I please have a word with you, Major Morelli? Partner?” she added icily.
“Of course,” he said, eyes and teeth clenched as if in pain. Or about to be. “If you’ll excuse me, boys.”
“Remember,” Tomlinson whispered, “don’t let her drive.”
“Brush hog,” Bolen muttered. “Brush hog.”
“Can’t we put someone else on the stand to talk about what Erin said?” Loving asked Ben. “Like, you, f’r instance?”
“That would make things simpler, wouldn’t it?” Ben answered. “But unfortunately, it would be hearsay. Even given the fact that Erin is now unable to testify, no judge would let it in. And even if one did, how persuasive would it be? The guy’s defense attorney says that the recently deceased witness for the prosecution retracted her testimony? We’ll never get Ray out with that.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. Yet. That’s what I want all of you to find out.”
“Sure thing, Boss,” Jones said. “While I’m at it, I’ll get you a hot stock tip from Loving’s international banking cabal.”
“This is not the time for sarcasm, Jones. This is the time to roll up our sleeves and work. Loving, I want you to start digging into Erin Faulkner’s life. Digging deep. I want to know everything about her. I want you to talk to her friends, her coworkers, her psychiatrist. Anyone and everyone. I want to know everything she’s done in the seven years since the assault on her family.”
“I’ll get right on it, Skipper.”
“Good. She told us her testimony was false. She might’ve told someone else.”
“She said she hadn’t,” Christina reminded him.
“Nonetheless. She might’ve let something slip. In therapy. At a pajama party, when she’d drunk too much. Even a hint. Anything would help.”
“All right,” Loving said. “Will do.”
“Some of the people you interview may not be eager to talk to you. Especially after you tell them you’re working for Ray Goldman. But I know you won’t let that slow you down.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes, Ben.”
“Good.” He adjusted his chair. “Jones, I want you to dig up everything you can about the home invasion at the Faulkner residence seven years ago. Absolutely everything. We’ve already got extensive files on it. I want more. And I’d like it on my desk as soon as possible.”
“Okay. Why?”
“It’s a long shot, but there might be some clues there. Some hint of what really happened.”
“Ben, what are the odds that we’re going to find something seven years after the fact that the police didn’t catch?”
“I’m a lawyer, not a bookie. I don’t care about odds. I want facts.”
Jones shrugged his shoulders. “Then you’ll get ’em. But it seems like—”
“Remember, the police were certain, almost from the start, that Ray was their man. They might’ve overlooked anything that didn’t point his direction. They might have even buried it.” He gave Christina a knowing look. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“It’s even possible Ray was intentionally framed.”
“By the police?”
“By someone. We have to check every possible angle. So find out everything possible about the crime, Jones. And I’d like whatever you can scrape up about this suicide, too.”
“Roger wilco.”
Ben turned his chair full circle. “Christina, first and foremost, you’ve got to educate yourself on the law pertaining to federal habeas appeals. The attorney general’s office has people who specialize in these. And most of the time, t
hey win. You’ve got to go toe-to-toe with the big boys.”
“Understood.”
“They’ll be wanting to beat you over the head with the ‘presumption of finality.’ Barefoot v. Estelle and all that. You have to be ready to counter them, point by point.”
“Got it.”
“But I’d also like you to get involved in the investigation of Erin Faulkner. I want your take on her.”
“Really? Why me?”
“You’re a woman.”
Christina fluttered her eyelashes. “At last he notices.”
“What would cause a woman to keep quiet for seven years while an innocent man sat on death row? What would motivate her to speak now, after all that time? If we had more insight on those questions, we might be able to figure out what happened.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Pardon me for being the voice of reality,” Jones said, “but I know for a fact that Ray Goldman’s defense fund ran dry a long time ago. He hasn’t got a dime to his name and he hasn’t worked for seven years.”
Ben and Christina exchanged a look. “Jones—”
“Forgive me for being so venal, but some of us like to eat regularly. Maybe we should let Indigent Appeals handle this. Are we going to make any money?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said, “and frankly, I don’t care. Not at the moment, anyway. We can worry about practicalities later. First and foremost has to be the appeal. This is our last chance.”
He looked at each of them, a grim expression set on his face. “Our time is running out. And if our time runs out—so does Ray’s.”
“C’mon, Baxter,” Mike implored. “We were just shootin’ the breeze.”
“Bull. You were shooting off your mouths, as a metaphor for shooting off something else.”
“We were only having a little fun.”
“That was not fun. That was not fun for me at all.”
“Well . . . I’m sorry. But it was harmless.”
“It was not harmless!” She whirled around, jabbing the heel of her palm into his chest. They had walked to the stairwell between the third and fourth floors of the downtown headquarters building. The stairwell was reasonably secluded, but whenever Baxter shouted, it echoed tremendously. Mike suspected the mayor could probably hear what she said three stories down.
“It was not remotely harmless. It was damaging to my reputation.”
“Aw, no one takes that stuff seriously.”
“I do! I’m new here, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m still trying to fit in, to make friends. And I can’t do that when you’re running around trashing me.”
“No one was trashing you.”
“Just shut up and listen. You’re one of the senior men in the department. People look up to you. If you act like you like me, or at least accept me, they will, too. But if you act like I’m a joke—then I will be.”
“I think you overrate my importance.”
“I know how it works. I’ve seen it happen before. And I’m not going to let it happen again!”
Mike dug his fists deep into his coat pockets. “Could we just . . . calm down here? If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it happened and—”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d—what?”
“You’d like to forgive and forget, since you have nothing to forgive. Let me tell you something, buddy. It ain’t gonna be that easy.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I told you I wouldn’t put up with any sexist crap, and I meant it. You’re going on report.”
“Now wait just a minute!”
“Too late, chumley. Too damn late.”
“I have not done anything inappropriate.”
She smiled. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“Baxter, if you file a report on me, it could screw up my whole career.”
“Well, I guess you should’ve thought of that before you started talking about your partner’s panties, huh?”
Mike threw up his hands. “Fine. Do your damnedest. No one will take you seriously.”
“Wrong as rain, slick. They don’t have any choice. In case you haven’t heard, sexual harassment is against the law. I could sue the department for big bucks and they know it.”
“Sexual harassment! We didn’t even know you were in the room!”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s called creating a hostile environment. And you and your buddies were in there doing it big time.”
“I can’t believe this!” Mike bellowed. “How in God’s name did I get saddled with such a miserable—”
“Go on, say it,” she dared. “Give my report a blockbuster finish.”
“Arrrgh!” Mike pounded his fists against the wall. “I can’t believe this!” He whirled around. “Was this all you wanted?”
“Actually, no. I wanted talk about the Faulkner case.”
“That case is closed. Forget about it.”
“I don’t want to forget about it. I think you’re wrong.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t know why you’re so anxious to close this investigation.”
“If you’d seen as many suicides as I have—”
“But this one’s different.”
“They’re all different.”
She grabbed his arms and forced him to face her. “Would you listen to me?”
“I guess that would keep you from starting your report.”
“You know as well as I do that women almost never use guns to commit suicide.”
“Who’s being sexist now?”
“It’s true. Women use poison or pills or slit their wrists in the tub. Which, by the way, she had been in, minutes before her death. There was a razor close at hand. Why would she get out, get a gun, and blow her head to bits? It’s just not what a woman would do!”
“Sometimes people don’t act according to the statistics. Sometimes people do strange things. And this woman was obviously not thinking clearly.”
Baxter held tight to his arms. “Second, her body was found naked.”
“Thanks, I picked up on that already.”
“Doesn’t that seem strange?”
“No. She just got out of the bath.”
“And shot herself? Without putting any clothes on? No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because the one thing a woman knows with absolute certainty when she kills herself is that eventually her body is going to be found. Does she want to be found naked?”
“Evidently she didn’t care.”
“C’mon, Morelli, work with me here. There was evidence at the crime scene that she had just shaved her legs and underarms. That she painted her nails. She does all that to make herself look better—but then shoots herself without putting any clothes on? It just won’t wash.”
“Once again, I will remind you that the woman obviously was not entirely rational. I’ll also remind you that we found marijuana at the scene and that it was in her bloodstream. She was high. You can’t expect her to behave normally.”
“What is this, a scene from Reefer Madness? No joint is going to make a woman so strung out she forgets to dress!”
“I’m sorry, Baxter. I admire your enthusiasm—sort of—but I don’t agree with your conclusion.”
“The gun was still in her hand.”
“And your point—?”
“My point is that, as we both well know, that’s not how it works. In movies and bad TV shows, they show suicides still clutching the gun, but in real life, even the smallest gun has recoil. And a person who’s just blown a hole in her head is not going to be able to marshal the strength to resist it. Consequently, in most suicides, the gun is found a few feet from the body.”
Mike took a deep breath. What she said was true. But he couldn’t make himself agree with her. “I grant you, that’s typical. But it’s not a dead cert.”
“There’s no such thing as a dead cert. But whe
n all the evidence points in a different direction—”
“Baxter, the paraffin test proved she had fired the gun.”
“The bullet in the ceiling.”
“She missed the first time.”
“Yeah, she missed, but what was the target? Herself—or an intruder?”
“Baxter, you’re living in fantasyland.”
“Am I? Or do you just not want to admit I’m right because that would damage your fragile ego?”
Mike fought to contain himself. “You know, you really are insufferable.”
“I don’t much care. Just so I’m right. And I am.”
Mike felt his entire body tensing like a much-too-tightly-strung guitar. “Look—let’s at least think about this, okay? Give it some calm, reasoned deliberation. Before you file a report.”
“Too late. I already did.”
“What?”
“I filed my report. Explaining my concerns about your rush to judgment.”
“I’m the senior officer on the case!”
“And you filed your report. Which was totally erroneous. So I filed mine as well.”
Mike turned one way then another, as if searching for a rag doll he could shred. “If you’ve filed a report suggesting Erin’s death might not have been a suicide, Blackwell will have to keep the investigation open.”
“I would imagine so.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, partner. I think we’re going to be working together for a good long while.”
Chapter
11
Christina took another sip of her caffe latte and continued burrowing through the miserably thick file. She actually enjoyed bringing her work to bookstores in the evenings, and Novel Idea was just a mile south of their Warren Place offices. To some degree, coming here went against her natural instinct to avoid all things trendy, but hey—if you have to work late, at least you can have something to imbibe scrummier than that sludge Jones called coffee.
Although to get through a file like this one, she might need something stronger than coffee. She was wading through the police reports on the Faulkner home invasion, looking for any scrap of a hint of a detail that might lend some insight as to how to get Ray released. And it was making her sick.
Death Row Page 10