Woman with a Gun

by Phillip Margolin

  When Jack stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor of the courthouse a female deputy district attorney he’d seen around smiled at him. Jack smiled back. As he rounded the corner he spotted Ronald Kinsey conferring with his client on a bench next to the door to the courtroom. This time Jack’s smile wasn’t a pleasant smile like the one he’d flashed at the deputy DA. It was the smile you would see on a cat, if cats could smile, as it was creeping up on a helpless bird that had no idea it was being stalked.

  Kinsey’s client was Irene Plessey, a drop-dead gorgeous fashion model who had done some acting. She’d been arrested for driving under the influence of intoxicants and had been found “not guilty” after testifying that she was completely sober. She explained the ticket by claiming that the arresting officer had hit on her and had gotten angry when she refused to give him her phone number. Her passenger, Tammy Longwell, another model, had backed up Plessey’s story. There were six men on the jury. The verdict had been a unanimous “not guilty.” After her criminal case, Irene hired Kinsey’s firm to sue the police department for false arrest. Jack was representing the company that insured the city.

  Jack had talked to the arresting officer and the prosecutor. Officer Howell swore that Plessey had been intoxicated and had offered to have sex with him if he didn’t write her up. When he turned her down, she had been furious and she’d sworn to make his life hell. The officer and the DA both said that Plessey had turned on tears while testifying but was cold as ice whenever the jury was out of the room.

  Yesterday Booth and Kinsey had picked a jury and had given their opening statements. Then Plessey had testified about her ordeal and even had Jack believing her. Court recessed after Jack’s cross-examination, during which he had scored no points.

  “Hey, Ron, can I talk to you for a minute?” Jack said.

  “What do you want?” Kinsey asked. “Court’s gonna start soon.”

  “This will only take a minute,” Jack answered. He walked far enough down the hall so Kinsey’s client wouldn’t be able to overhear them. As Kinsey walked away, he sighed to give his client the impression that having to converse with opposing counsel was a major imposition on his time on earth. Jack thought that Kinsey might have a crush on his sexy client and was acting tough to impress her.

  Jack didn’t like Kinsey one bit. The twit had only been out of law school for two years but he was an associate at one of Portland’s prestigious law firms and he thought that endowed him with some kind of magical power. He was overweight and overconfident and he had treated Jack disrespectfully every time they met. Jack found it especially annoying that Kinsey acted like the verdict was a foregone conclusion.

  “I talked to my client,” Jack said when Kinsey waddled over. “If Miss Plessey will settle we’ll give her fifteen hundred dollars.”

  Kinsey threw his head back and laughed. “Why don’t you ask us to pay you, Booth? Fifteen hundred is an insult. We’ll settle for one hundred and fifty thousand plus attorney fees. That’s a lot less than what the jury is going to award.”

  “Last chance, Ron,” Jack said.

  Kinsey snickered and walked back to his client. Jack waited a minute before following. When he passed their bench he heard Kinsey tell his client that he and Jack hadn’t discussed anything important. Jack smiled and entered the courtroom.

  “The plaintiff calls Miss Tammy Longwell, Your Honor,” Kinsey said as soon as court convened. Longwell was a knockout with wide blue eyes, silky blond hair, full red lips, and long legs. Jack was certain that every male on his jury had gotten a hard-on when she walked to the witness stand. He was equally certain that Kinsey believed that Longwell’s testimony would cement the verdict. Jack agreed.

  “Miss Longwell, were you a passenger in Miss Plessey’s car when Officer Howell pulled her over?” Kinsey asked after a few preliminary questions.

  “I was.”

  “Now, the officer cited Miss Plessey for driving under the influence of intoxicants. Do you have an opinion about Miss Plessey’s state of sobriety at the time of her arrest?”

  “I do.”

  “And what is your opinion?”

  Tammy Longwell turned her head and stared across the room at Irene Plessey. Jack also turned his head so he could watch Kinsey’s reaction to the answer.

  “Irene was drunk,” Longwell said.

  Irene Plessey turned bright red and glared at Longwell. Kinsey’s mouth gaped open and he was robbed of the power of speech for a moment.

  “You mean sober?” he managed.

  “I do not,” Longwell insisted.

  Kinsey riffled through his papers until he found a copy of the witness’s trial testimony.

  “Do you remember testifying at Miss Plessey’s trial?”

  “I do.”

  “And isn’t it true that you testified under oath that Miss Plessey was completely sober when Officer Howell pulled her over?”

  “Yes. Irene begged me to lie. She had another DUII pending and she was afraid she’d go to jail if she got two convictions. I’m not proud of what I did, but I feel bad about getting that nice officer in trouble. He was very professional even after Irene offered to sleep with him if he’d drop the charge. Then she threatened him. He was only doing his duty. I wouldn’t have said anything if she’d stopped after she was acquitted, but I don’t think it’s right for her to get rich after she lied in court.”

  Officer Howell thanked Jack profusely as soon as the jury found in his favor. When the policeman left, Jack packed up his papers. He didn’t know that his opponent had reentered the courtroom until he spoke.

  “You knew Longwell was going to turn, didn’t you?” Kinsey said. “That’s why you made that lowball offer.”

  “Miss Longwell had a crisis of conscience and called me last night,” Jack said.

  “And you didn’t tell me? That’s . . . that’s unethical.”

  Jack’s features hardened and he took a step toward Kinsey. Kinsey grew pale and took a step back.

  “I don’t like being called names, Ron. Longwell was your witness. I didn’t have to tell you jack shit about her call. And you should be careful before accusing me of being unethical. I bet you didn’t tell your client about my offer. What do you think the rules of ethics say about that?”

  “You’re not going to get away with this, and neither is Longwell. I’ll see that she’s prosecuted for perjury.”

  “Not gonna happen, Ron. Tammy got immunity this morning. It’s Miss Plessey who should start worrying about whether she’s going to end up as Miss June in next year’s Department of Corrections calendar. Now, why don’t you run along and explain to the partner who trusted you with this sure winner how you fucked up.”

  Kinsey made a comment to save face that Jack didn’t catch because he had turned away from the lawyer. On the way back to his office he had a big smile on his face. He loved to win, but that wasn’t why he was smiling. He was remembering Longwell’s phone call. Longwell had not come clean about what happened during Plessey’s arrest because she felt sorry for Officer Howell. She had turned on Irene Plessey after discovering that the woman she had always considered to be her closest friend had been screwing her boyfriend.

  Jack was in a great mood when he got back to his office at six. It lasted only as long as it took him to answer Stacey Kim’s voice mail message. She said she was calling from New York but she didn’t say why. Jack had never heard of Stacey Kim but she’d phoned from the Big Apple and that made him curious.

  “Thank you so much for getting back to me,” Stacey said.

  “No problem. But your message didn’t mention why you wanted me to call.”

  “I’m a writer and I’m working on a novel. I’m flying to Portland in a few weeks and I was hoping you could spare some time for me.”

  “I’m confused. I don’t know anything about writing a novel. I’m an attorney.”

  “I know. That’s why I want to talk to you. I’m interested in learning about a case you prosecuted.”

>   “What case is that?”

  “I just saw Woman with a Gun at the Museum of Modern Art. I was blown away by it and did some research to find out what inspired the photograph. That’s how I learned about the Cahill case.”

  “There’s nothing much to talk about, Miss Kim. The Cahill case was never solved.”

  “I’m not writing a true crime book,” she said quickly. “Cahill is just the inspiration for the novel. The book is going to be a heavily fictionalized version of the case. For instance, I’m making the prosecutor a woman. I just wanted to talk to you for background.”

  “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got a very busy practice.”

  “I’ll meet you anytime, anywhere. We can have breakfast, lunch, on me.”

  The line went quiet.

  “I don’t want to be a pest, Mr. Booth. I know you’re busy. I’ll accommodate your schedule.”

  “Call me when you get in and we’ll see.”

  “Thank you so much,” Stacey said.

  As soon as he hung up, Booth walked to the wet bar he’d had installed in his corner office when he made partner. He poured a shot of very good scotch and carried his glass to the floor-to-ceiling window that faced east. Across the river, the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood loomed over the foothills, but nothing in the picture postcard scene registered. Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  It had been a while since Jack had thought about what had happened between him and Kathy Moran after his involvement in the Cahill case ended. Or, more accurately, what hadn’t happened. The Woman with a Gun photograph sparked interest in the murder case, which already had legs because the cast of characters included a stunningly gorgeous wife, a multimillionaire husband who had been murdered on his wedding night, and an ex-professional football player. Kathy became an instant celebrity. Galleries in Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago started showing her work and selling it for thousands of dollars. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful and photogenic. National television shows wanted her as a guest; she was interviewed in national magazines and prominent newspapers and was hired to do photo shoots all over the world.

  Jack had called once or twice but Kathy was always traveling and had not returned his calls. When they finally spoke, she was in a hotel in New York, dressing for a gallery opening. The conversation had lasted fewer than five minutes, and Kathy had politely explained that she liked Jack but her life was so hectic that she didn’t have time for a serious relationship. When the phone call ended, it was crystal clear that Kathy Moran was now part of a world of A-list celebrities in which an assistant state attorney general who lived in Salem, Oregon, on a government salary would never fit.

  Jack had moved on but sometimes late at night, when he was alone, thoughts of Kathy Moran would slip in unbidden and leave him sad and wanting. Jack had been with women as beautiful and as intelligent as Kathy Moran, but he didn’t think about them after the affairs ended. What was it about Kathy that kept him unsettled and longing after all these years? Was he frustrated by his inability to conquer her? Had she evoked some emotion that drove him to try to save her after her fall from grace? Was it some unexplainable chemical reaction that scrambled his emotions without affecting her? He could not pin it down but there was still something deep inside that tied him in knots whenever he thought about her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The light of a summer sun seeped through the thin shades that covered the bedroom window of Stacey Kim’s apartment in Portland, Oregon, and woke her from a deep, peaceful sleep. Stacey opened her eyes and smiled as she did every time she thought about the lucky break that had led her to Portland. If she had not read about the Dalí exhibit, if it had been bigger and it had taken all of her lunch hour to see it . . . If, if, if. One break in the chain and she would still be spending endless hours suffering behind the reception desk in Wilde, Levine and Barstow instead of forging forward with her novel in this jewel of a city in the Pacific Northwest.

  Stacey had fallen in love with Portland even before her plane touched down. One glance out her window at the snow-covered peak of majestic Mount Hood and the lush forests that surrounded it and she was sold. Growing up in the flatlands of the Midwest had not prepared her for the verdant splendor of the hills that towered over Portland’s west side or the massive mountains of the Cascade Range that dominated the scenery to the east. Portland was a city of varied and colorful architecture; a city of bridges that spanned the Columbia and Willamette rivers, which met in the city and divided it; a city without humidity or annoying bugs in summer but with an overabundance of bright, multicolored flowers.

  After a few days of living in a hotel, Stacey found a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an early-twentieth-century Victorian that had been turned into a triplex. The apartment had high ceilings and spacious rooms and it was only a few blocks from Northwest Twenty-third, a delightful street lined with boutiques and restaurants. After her claustrophobic dump in Chelsea, the flat seemed like Versailles.

  In Manhattan, it had taken real effort to get out of bed in the morning, but Stacey couldn’t wait to start her days in Portland. Transferring to the West Coast had reinvigorated her and restored her belief that she was capable of crafting the novel Professor DeFord had been confident she would write. There was a coffeehouse two blocks from her apartment where she spent part of each day sipping caffe lattes while working on her laptop. Ideas were tumbling out now and Stacey had filled several pages with rough character sketches and notes for scenes and plotlines. She had some idea who her murderer would be, but she had only vague ideas about how her book would end, and she hadn’t settled on the clue that would let her hero or heroine figure out whodunit. This didn’t worry her. She had shed the negative feelings that had crippled her in New York and she was confident that she would conquer any obstacle placed before her.

  Stacey sat up and stretched. Waking in a real bed instead of a foldout sofa was so nice. She showered and dressed quickly before going to the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast. After breakfast, she checked the clock. It was a little before nine. She hoped that Jack Booth would be at work.

  Booth had been so negative during their first conversation that Stacey worried that he would refuse to meet with her. Of course, she could still write her novel without his help. On the first day of class, Professor DeFord had said that novelists were basically liars who made up stories about things that never happened. Stacey could always invent a prosecutor. Her DA was going to be a woman anyway. And there were many ways she could learn about trying a murder case. But it would be a lot easier if she could find out what happened in the Cahill case from the prosecutor who investigated it.

  Stacey took a deep breath, gathered up her courage, and punched in the number for Jack Booth’s law office.

  Stacey experienced déjà vu when she walked out of the elevator on the twenty-eighth floor of the office building that housed Jack Booth’s law firm. Through floor-to-ceiling glass doors that were almost identical to the doors to Wilde, Levine and Barstow she could see a clone of the reception desk behind which she had spent so many excruciating hours. When Stacey told the receptionist that she had an appointment with Jack Booth she was greeted with the same phony cheer Stacey had exuded every day for almost one year.

  After a hushed exchange, the receptionist told Stacey that Mr. Booth would see her in a few minutes. Stacey took a seat on a very comfortable couch. On the coffee table in front of her were that day’s edition of the Wall Street Journal and a selection of business and news magazines. Stacey was halfway through an article about a new development in neuroscience that had implications for selecting stocks for investment when a tall man dressed in a navy blue, pinstripe suit came into view.

  “Miss Kim?” Jack Booth said.

  Stacey thought that the lawyer looked stern and humorless. This impression jibed with the mental image Stacey had constructed after both of their phone conversations. When she had called two days ago he had agreed to see her but he hadn’t soun
ded happy.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Booth,” Stacey said as she stood up.

  Jack nodded, then turned without making a comment and led the way down a long corridor to a corner office with breathtaking mountain views. He gestured toward a sofa and took an armchair catty-corner to it. As Stacey seated herself, she looked around the room. It was sterile. The paintings on the walls were unexciting abstracts that had probably been selected by an interior decorator. College and law school diplomas and certificates attesting to Jack’s admission to state and federal bar associations hung on the walls. A few golf trophies stood on a credenza, but there were no family photographs or anything else in the room that gave Stacey a glimpse into Jack’s personal life.

  Stacey booted up her laptop. “Do you mind if I make notes while we talk?”

  “No, that’s fine.” Jack looked at his watch. “Why don’t you start?”

  Stacey noticed that Jack had not engaged in any small talk. He hadn’t asked her how she was enjoying Portland or where she’d gone to school and it was clear that he was uncomfortable. Stacey wasn’t sure how long Jack would tolerate her so she decided to get to the point.

  “Do you still think Megan Cahill was part of a conspiracy to kill her husband?” Stacey Kim asked an hour later when Jack finished telling her about the Cahill case.

  “I don’t know. I’ve thought about the case off and on over the years. At one point I wondered if Crouse and Megan faked their differences when it became obvious that Raymond Cahill had a romantic interest in her.”

  “You think their divorce was a sham and they planned to kill and rob Mr. Cahill all along?”

  Jack shrugged. “It was just an idea, and even if Megan was involved in a plot to kill her husband there still had to be a third person, because Megan couldn’t have killed Crouse. I always figured Gary Kilbride for that role, but he’s dead so we’ll probably never know.”

  “Did any of the items stolen from Mr. Cahill’s collection ever turn up?”