Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

I nodded, but wasn’t sure what I was going to do. The thought of packing a gun around didn’t thrill me, particularly since I didn’t have a permit to carry a concealed weapon in the first place. On the other hand, squaring off against Semyon again, unarmed, didn’t thrill me either.

  Nando must have sensed my ambiguity, because he added, “If this Semyon confronts you again, he will do more than cut up your ear, Calvin.”

  I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it.” Then I pushed the shrimp around on my plate before saying, “Are you going to tell me about Weiman’s accident or what?”

  Nando ate another shrimp and took a long pull on his Tropical. His face brightened. “Hugo Weiman lives with all the other millionaires on the north side of Lake Oswego. I have befriended his gardener, a Mexican from Oaxaca named Clemente Rodriquez. He has worked for Señor Weiman for eleven years. He remembers when El Patron shot himself. He wasn’t there when it happened, but a live-in maid was, a woman named Maria Escobar. She now lives and works in North Portland.”

  “Did you approach her?”

  “No. Rodriquez said she has good English, so I figured you would want the pleasure. But here is the best part—he also told me that the accident did not happen at the house in Lake O.”

  “I knew it,” I blurted.

  “Maria told him Weiman came home wounded that night. He arrived in his wife’s car with a bloody towel wrapped around his hand. The wife was driving and they were both very upset. Maria said something very bad had happened.”

  I smiled so hard it hurt my ear. “Nice work, Nando. How can I get hold of her?”

  He fished a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It had a street address and phone number written on the back. “She lives in St. Johns. She owns a taqueria there, Maria’s. I have heard the fish tacos are to die for. There’s one potential problem. Rodriquez thinks she might be unwilling to talk to you about this matter.”

  “Why?”

  “He said Escobar stopped talking about the incident shortly after it happened and then left Weiman’s employ a week later. He thinks Weiman might have paid for her silence.”

  “There’s always a catch,” I said, scraping garlic sauce off a shrimp with the shard of a tostones before taking a small bite. My headache was nearly gone, but my stomach was still tentative. I pushed my plate toward Nando. “Here. Take the rest of my shrimp. The ones I ate are thrashing around in my stomach.”

  Before Nando left, he took another look out on the street. The Russians weren’t there, but he still made a show of checking his shoulder-holstered revolver. Setting an example, no doubt.

  I was in bed reading a James Crumley paperback when Picasso called thirty minutes later. He told me Joey was expecting me the next night, and I told him I’d be there after dinner. I put the book aside and sat propped on a pillow for a while. Archie came over and laid his head on the bed next to me for an ear scratch. Food, an occasional run, and a nightly ear scratch—that’s all he required of me in exchange for his unconditional love. I finally turned off the light, and the last thing I remember thinking before slipping off was how many people in Portland seemed to be hurting and in need of help. Too many, by my count.

  The next morning I did some more research on the VA policies on PTSD and checked my office voice mail. I returned two calls from prospective clients, proving not everyone in the northern valley listened to Vincent’s View.

  I left for Maria’s Taqueria at a quarter past ten. I didn’t have a plan except that I wanted to be her first customer for lunch. I took the 405 over to Highway 30 and crossed the St. Johns Bridge. The massive Gothic towers of the structure made it look like something spanning the Thames in London. It was a fine day and people were out on the streets in St. Johns, a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood in North Portland crammed with small shops and two-thousand-square-foot houses.

  The taqueria was located in a converted Cape Cod painted green with bright yellow trim and a red door. A sign in a window read Gringos Welcome. It wasn’t open yet, so I crossed the street and got a cappuccino to ease the wait. That’s one of Portland’s finer points—you’re never far from a great cup of coffee.

  At 10:25, a young, attractive Hispanic woman hurried down Lombard and let herself into the taqueria. She wore white sneakers and a white cotton blouse over cropped pants. She was probably six months pregnant, and her stride was strong and purposeful, reminding me of Anna Eriksen. A few minutes later, two older women in white blouses showed up and were let in. The hired help, I guessed. At eleven, someone inside flipped the closed sign on the door to open.

  The place had a warm, spicy smell: tomatoes, cumin, and red peppers. One of the older women was in the kitchen, the other busy placing menus on the tables. The woman I assumed was Maria Escobar was behind the small counter next to the entry, scanning a clipboard, pen in hand. She had a round face, high cheek bones, and a rosebud mouth accentuated with blood red lipstick. She glanced up and smiled. I smiled back and keeping it light, said, “Hi. Maria Escobar?”

  She maintained the smile, but her face stiffened slightly. “Yes, I am.” Her look was direct, her dark eyes wary.

  I found myself wondering if I looked like an immigration officer or something. I handed her a card, introduced myself, and told her I’d like to ask her a few questions about a previous employer, Hugo Weiman.

  “What would you like to know?”

  I glanced around and said, “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”

  She nodded toward the back of the dining room. “We can talk back there, but I don’t have much time. We’ll be busy soon.”

  I followed her to a back table, and after we sat down I plunged right in. “I’m investigating an accident Hugo Weiman had back in 2005, on May 18. A gun accident.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Her posture became more erect. “I know nothing about this accident,” she said, her voice not quite defiant. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.”

  She started to push away from the table, and I raised a hand. “Wait. I need your help, Ms. Escobar. I know what you told the gardener, Clemente Rodriquez. The accident didn’t happen at Weiman’s home. It happened someplace else. Weiman lied about it.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  “Because a young man’s life hangs in the balance,” I shot back. “I’m trying to help him find out who murdered his mother eight years ago.” I opened a folder I’d brought with me and handed her two pieces of paper clipped together. “This is a copy of a newspaper article about the murder.”

  She took the papers and dropped them on the table without looking down. “I am sorry this boy lost his mother, but I know nothing about it.”

  “I know you don’t. What I need from you is the truth about what happened to Hugo Weiman and his wife that night. That’s all I’m asking.”

  She stood up, and I followed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Claxton.”

  “It’s been eight years. Did Weiman pay you to be quiet?”

  Her eyes flashed sharp daggers and her mouth quivered. “I did not take his money. I decided to work somewhere else. That was all.”

  “So why not talk to me then?”

  She dropped her eyes and rested her hand on the gentle swell of her stomach. “I don’t want to get involved. I have others to think about.” She turned and walked away.

  I followed, and speaking to her back, said, “I understand, Ms. Escobar. I’m just asking you to tell the truth about that night, that’s all.” Of course, she was right to be wary. If she were illegal, getting entangled in the justice system, even as a witness, would pose serious risks for her. I knew it, and she knew it. I said, “Look, I’ll treat everything you tell me as strictly confidential and keep your identity anonymous.” This would mean using her only as a source but not as a witness, a tradeoff I was willing to make.

  She turned around. “I’m sorry, Mr
. Claxton. I cannot help you.”

  So much for tradeoffs. “You have my number. Think about it. It’s the right thing to do.”

  I left the taqueria feeling thoroughly dejected. The only good news was that Maria Escobar’s reluctance to talk seemed to corroborate what the gardener, Clemente Rodriquez, had told Nando. Weiman had tried to buy her silence, but she had refused the money. It seemed certain now that Hugo Weiman had covered up the true circumstances of his gunshot wound on the evening Nicole Baxter disappeared. I only lacked the details. How much did Maria Escobar know?

  An east wind from the Gorge buffeted my car as I headed back over the St. Johns Bridge. The river was flecked with glistening white caps. I thought about this young woman turning down easy money offered to her by Hugo Weiman. I’d seen pride as much as anger flash in her eyes. Suddenly I felt a little better about my chances of hearing again from Maria Escobar. Maybe she would do the right thing.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A TriMet bus had just dropped off a group of passengers in front of the Columbia River Correctional Institution as I was parking on Sunderland Avenue. It was around 6:30 that evening, and I was on my way to meet with Picasso and his friend Joey at Dignity Village, which was next door to the prison. A man and woman in crisp blue uniforms peeled off from the group and headed for the prison. The rest made for the entrance to the village, located on a flat, treeless chunk of unused city property. I clipped Archie on his leash and fell in behind them.

  A woman missing her leg below the knee swung adroitly on a pair of crutches. A short man with tangled, shoulder-length hair held hands with a tall, angular woman carrying a black puppy. Another man in a stained sweatshirt carried a sign on which was scrawled “I’m homeless and need work.” They ignored the distant thunder of a 747 taking off at PDX across a wide, empty field from the village. The jet lifting off seemed to accentuate the isolation of the place, and I wondered if the people walking in front of me yearned to be on that plane. People who fly, after all, have jobs, homes, and important destinations.

  Picasso and Joey were sitting in front of Picasso’s place on a pair of rickety folding chairs. Joey had a plastic bottle of water in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His full beard looked matted and unkempt, his forearms even bigger than I remembered them. I thought of Popeye. As I approached, Picasso flashed a rare smile, turned to Joey and said, “See? I told you he’d show.”

  Joey flicked me a half salute, and they both stood up. Archie went up to Picasso for a head pat, then turned to Joey. He dropped to one knee, said, “Hey, buddy,” and gave Arch a bear hug.

  I laughed. “He doesn’t let just anybody hug him like that. You just made a friend.”

  Joey said, “He reminds me of a Bernese I had once. Best dog I ever had.”

  I turned to Picasso. “Lots of construction going on around here.”

  “Yeah,” Picasso responded, “Part of the deal with the city is that all these structures in here have to be brought up to code.” He put quotes around the word “code” with his fingers. “It’s a giant pain in the ass.”

  “The Man will have his way,” Joey chimed in.

  “Are you two within code?”

  Picasso tugged on his eyebrow ring a couple of times. It was back in place. “I’m okay, I think. My roof leaks, but that’s allowed.”

  Joey laughed. “My place leaks, too, man. I just ran out of duct tape.”

  I chuckled and set my briefcase down. “Do you have another chair? We can work out here until it gets dark.”

  I knew Joey had fought in the battle of Fallujah, the bloodiest single battle of the Iraq war. It was intense, often hand to hand combat in the narrow streets of an ancient city. I had him take me back through his experiences while I asked questions and took notes. When he finished, I said, “What you’ve told me so far is good background, but I could have read about it online. I’m more interested in what happened to you personally, Joey. What caused your PTSD? The VA terms it the “stressor,” the event that triggered your symptoms. You must have gone through a lot. Is there any one event that stands out?”

  Joey combed at his beard with his fingers and shifted in his seat. His eyes were recessed below the thick bone of his forehead like lights in a cave. “It all sucked, man. They told us the civilians had fled, but that wasn’t the case. People were caught in the crossfire. Shit, we didn’t know the insurgents from the civilians. It was a cluster fuck.”

  I shook my head. “It must have been brutal.”

  He smiled ruefully, took a deep drag on his cigarette and didn’t respond.

  “What stood out, Joey?”

  He exhaled the smoke slowly through his nose as he twisted a lock of his beard between his thumb and forefinger. “We were in the Julan district, trying to take this big, honking mosque the insurgents were holed up in. They loved the mosques, man. They were built like brick shithouses. Anyway, I see this woman in a doorway. She’s waving her hand. Then I see this kid across the street. Couldn’t have been more than twelve. He makes a run for his mother. I think he’s gonna make it, but somebody pops him half way across.”

  Picasso and I gasped in unison. Picasso said, “He got shot?”

  “Yeah. Some trigger-happy marine. The dumb fuck.”

  Joey tapped the long ash from his cigarette, took another drag and exhaled. “The kid was flailing around out there and crying. I put my weapon down and ran out in the street and scooped him up. By the time I got him back to our position, he’d lost a lot of blood and gone limp. I went ape shit, man, screaming at the medic to save the kid.” He flicked the cigarette, and it landed with a shower of sparks in the gathering twilight. In a barely audible voice, he added, “He didn’t make it.”

  The three of us sat there for a long time without speaking. I broke the silence after jotting down a few lines. “What happened next?”

  Joey put his head in his big hands and without looking up, said, “That’s the thing, man. After we took that block, the mother came looking for her son. She finds him under a bloody tarp. I go over to her to try to say something, you know, to console her. She turns around and screams something in Arabic, then she slaps me hard, and starts going for my eyes with her fingernails. By the time I got her off me, we’re both crying.”

  Another long silence. Finally, I asked, “How did you feel after that?”

  “Okay for a while, then I started dreaming about the kid. I—”

  Joey stopped speaking at the sound of several people approaching on the path from the main gate of the village. Archie, who was lying between Picasso and Joey, stood up and made a low, guttural sound. The three of us looked around. Lieutenant Scott and Detective Jones came striding into view out of the low light. Four uniformed officers followed them. I stood up, and Joey and Picasso followed. I said, “Evening, gentlemen,” but got no response.

  Scott’s face was tight, his mouth a thin line. Jones had an I-told-you-so look on his face. I felt an urge to slap him. They stopped in front of Picasso. Scott said, “Daniel Baxter, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mitchell Conyers,” then proceeded to read him his rights.

  Picasso managed a defiant smile, but even in the low light I could see the fear in his eyes. Jones cuffed his hands behind his back and they started to lead him away. Suddenly Joey appeared in the path. I hadn’t noticed he’d slipped away in all the commotion. His bear-like bulk blocked the path completely, and he was holding a large, chrome plated revolver in his right hand. It was pointing toward the ground. Speaking in a level, almost casual voice, he said, “Let my friend go. He didn’t kill anybody.”

  All six cops drew their service weapons in unison. Scott said, “Drop the gun right now, son, and step back.”

  There was a long pause. I could hear the crickets in the field behind us and the soft murmur of voices in the village. Joey’s hand started to move up and Picasso broke from the group and ran toward
him screaming, “NO, JOEY, NO!”

  I lunged at Picasso, missed him and yelled to everyone with a gun, “NO! DON’T SHOO—”

  The shots shredded the stillness of the evening in a staccato pattern that’s still etched on my brain—Bam bam, bam bam bam, bam bam, bam. I got to them first. Picasso was sprawled on top of Joey, who was face down in the path. I kicked Joey’s revolver away from his outstretched hand and rolled Picasso off of him. Picasso’s face had gone white, and it was contorted with pain. Blood was spurting from a wound just above his elbow at a frightening rate. “He’s bleeding to death,” I yelled.

  Scott was right behind me. “Pressure point’s just below his armpit. Get on it,” he hissed to me as he rolled Joey over to assess his condition. A moment later I heard him say under his breath, “Oh, mother of Christ.”

  I couldn’t get a decent grip on Picasso’s arm because it was pulled tight against his body by the handcuffs. Scott was still working on Joey. I turned to Jones, who was standing there, gun in hand, eyes wide with disbelief. “Get the damn cuffs off him,” I barked. “I can’t get to the pressure point.” Picasso moaned, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped backward in my arms. Jones slid on one knee and unlocked the handcuffs. I fumbled around frantically for what seemed an eternity before the blood loss slowed. I kept Picasso’s artery clamped against his arm bone until a paramedics team arrived from Emanuel Legacy.

  I wanted to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but I was a material witness to a double shooting and knew I wasn’t going anywhere. The last image I remember of Picasso that night was his head lolling from side to side as they slid him into the ambulance, a uniformed policeman scrambling in behind him. Joey’s bullet-riddled, lifeless body remained at the scene—exhibit A.

  The rest of that night at the village was a blur of questions and confusion. It wasn’t long after they’d taken Picasso away that I realized Archie was missing. I became frantic with worry—thunder and fireworks make him crazy—but they weren’t about to cut me loose so I could look for him. I told myself he’d settle down and find his way back to me. I must have told my version of the shootings at least three times. After giving their statements, Scott, Jones, and the four uniforms were whisked from the scene. As Scott was leaving, I managed to corner him for a few moments. “What the hell triggered the arrest?”