Prime Witness

by Steve Martini

  We are meeting here in the cafeteria at the Capital County courthouse during a midday break. I am finishing up one of my old cases, a request from Harry, the first time I have been back across the river on business in over a month, and strangely, it feels good.

  “The place,” says Nikki, “this center is located in Boise, Idaho. The phone number is from information. It’s a current listing,” she says. “I called it last night and got a message tape.”

  “Enough,” I say. “You were only supposed to search the computer.”

  “No extra charge,” she says. She gives me a mischievous grin. “Now do your part and finish the case.”

  There’s no address written on the slip of paper, just a post office box.

  “How much of the correspondence were you able to retrieve?”

  “Just bits and pieces,” she says. “The backup files were incomplete.”

  “It would have been nice to know what was in those other letters,” I say.

  “You’re lucky you got this,” she tells me. She’s spooning yogurt in little delicate tastes, turning the spoon over onto her tongue, this from a small plastic container that reads “Yoplait.” We’re sitting in the cafeteria as the noontime crowd mills around us, people looking for tables, a place to sit and eat.

  “How was Fern Gully?” she says. She’s laughing at me. Nikki took care to ensure that I honored my word to entertain Sarah while she worked on the computer last night. She brought along a dozen kids’ books, the ones with letters the size of skywriting and a videotape that I played on the office equipment. I was camped in my office, Sarah curled up on my lap, reading and watching, until she fell asleep two hours later.

  Nikki worked out the final missing pieces from the lost data this morning.

  “I got his name, and the name of this center from an envelope she addressed using the computer, probably a label,” says Nikki. “It said ‘William.’ I figure it had to be this guy ‘Bill’ in the letter. It’s all part of the same directory.”

  I look at her. “A bit of a reach, isn’t it?”

  “Better than nothing.”

  I concede the point. “I’ll put Dusalt on it this afternoon.”

  Nikki’s looking at the newspaper I have spread in front of me on the table, reading upside down.

  “I hope you weren’t planning on running for public office,” she says. A little dig. She’s referring to the headline, halfway down the page.

  D.A. BLUNDERS

  SUSPECT FREED

  It’s a big, bold two columns. It reads like a lead albatross around my neck.

  “Farthest thing from my mind,” I say. I am ruing the day I crossed the river to Davenport, took on this thing from Feretti. Nikki and Harry were right. Only pride prevents me from giving them the satisfaction of admitting this.

  “If this keeps up, I’m going back to my maiden name,” she tells me. Nikki hasn’t seen the “Davenport Urinal” which boiled me in oil this morning. The larger papers down south and the wires are treating the story straight-up, that Iganovich is under surveillance and is likely to be rearrested as soon as the documents can be prepared, a minor clerical glitch. It is the best spin we can put on the current state of affairs.

  It’s a different story here. I am being tarred and feathered in the local papers. The blame for release of Andre Iganovich has fallen squarely on the prosecutor’s office, and more particularly on me. Emil Johnson is quoted in this morning’s paper, stating in definitive terms that the release of Iganovich “is a failure of our legal process,” something that Emil sees as distinct and apart from the agencies of law enforcement, especially his own. Emil excels in the talents of politics. Voters will not see him standing around long near the scene of this car wreck.

  Ingel has been all over my ass, an hour screaming at me on the phone. He tells me that this folly will track me back to Capital City, a black mark on my career, and that Acosta is waiting for me there. As for Ingel, he is making noises about calling in the state attorney general’s office for a thorough-going investigation of the errors that led up to Iganovich’s release, pointed questions for me to answer. “It looks to me like gross negligence,” his final farewell before he rings off.

  I look over by the cash register, the stainless steel conveyor of trays and customers. I see Lenore Goya. She would not be here, across the river, unless it was something important. She’s scanning like a radar beacon, looking for me. I give her a high-sign with one arm. She sees us, works her way to the table.

  “Have a seat,” I say.

  She nods at Nikki, a warm smile, the strap of her purse slung on one shoulder; she throws her head to the side, flinging dark tresses from the side of her face.

  “No time,” she says. “We’ve got problems.”

  “It can’t get much worse,” I say.

  “Don’t bet the farm on it,” she says. “Jacoby just called. The Canadian cops have lost Iganovich. He slipped away from them. Last night.”

  I’m at full-tilt running for my car in the courthouse garage, heading for Davenport and whatever news I can get of the Russian’s disappearance up in Canada. The court has given me a continuance on my afternoon session here.

  I see my car, a figure standing by it in the dim overhead fluorescence of this concrete bunker. I draw up. In the shadows, the face turns. It is Armando Acosta.

  “My bailiff told me you were headed here.”

  “Word travels fast,” I say.

  “I want to talk to you,” he says. “I want to know what the hell is going on up in Canada. You’re a goddamn incompetent,” he says.

  I wonder for a moment if he’s already heard, whether he knows that Iganovich has disappeared. Is it possible that his pipeline is better than my own?

  “I’m in a hurry,” I say.

  “You blew it,” he says. “The extradition. They tell me you have to start the whole process over,” he says. “How many months?”

  I look at him. He doesn’t know. Not yet. He is thinking that the worst of it is more delay. Wait till he finds out the suspect is gone. My real troubles will start then.

  “I warned them,” he says. He’s talking about Ingel and the supervisors over in Davenport, where he tried to blackball me on the assignment. I’m beginning to wish that maybe he’d succeeded.

  “I have no time for this.” I push past him to the door of my car, unlock it with the key. He grabs my shoulder. I pull away from him. At this moment it comes as close to blows as we ever have. For an instant we stare at each other, intense and molten. Then he takes his hand from my shoulder, his eyes two burning coals. It is not the anxiety borne by his sister that troubles the Coconut. It is that I have not genuflected to his authority.

  “I warned you,” he says. He is back to finger gestures in my face, an inch away. “That if you fucked up, I’d have your ass.”

  I’m in the seat, behind the wheel, the door closed, engine started. He’s in my open window, which I have rolled down so I can see, to avoid crushing him against the car next to me, though the impulse at this moment is strong.

  I begin to roll. His hands grip the top of my window.

  “I’m going to the AG,” he says. “A formal complaint. I’m demanding an investigation of your conduct. The attorney general should have had this case from the beginning. They will be all over your ass,” he says. “Do you hear me? All over your ass.” He’s beginning to shout as I pull back, out of the parking space. I ignore him through all of this, like he’s not there.

  As I drive away down the line of cars headed for the exit, I can hear his solitary voice, stripped of its feigned articulation, no longer elegant or precise, spitting venom at the back of my car, echoing off the concrete ceiling:

  “The AG, you sonofabitch. Do you hear me? You’ll be hearing from the AG.”

  Lenore, Claude and I are
in Emil Johnson’s office, on the speaker phone. I’ve gotten Harry to cover my afternoon court appearances. Emil is giving me stern looks from the other side of his desk, a prelude of worse things to come in the press, I think.

  Johnson’s got his feet planted in the middle of the desk, two gunboats, snake-hide cowboy boots with silver tips.

  Denny Henderson is relaying from Vancouver the details of Iganovich’s disappearance.

  “It was early this morning,” he says. “About four o’clock. He slipped away from the two cops staked out in front of his motel.” Coming over the line Henderson sounds like he’s talking through a hose.

  “They think he had help,” says Henderson.

  Emil is all eyes at this news.

  “Help to escape?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “What kinda help?”

  “They think there were two of ’em. The cops up here have no idea who they were, but one of ’em caused a diversion, a fire in a dumpster down the street, a big blaze,” says Henderson. “The cops thought it was a building. They left for two minutes to check it out. When they got back in position everything looked fine. In the morning they discovered that Iganovich was gone. The motel clerk says he saw him leave with two people, in a late model sedan.”

  “Great,” says Emil. “Sounds like they oughta hire the clerk to do surveillance. At least he sees what’s goin’ down. Stay with it. And call us as soon as there’s anything else.” Emil punches a button on the phone. The speaker goes dead.

  “Hot damn,” he says. His feet are off the desk, his gut up against it. “At least that explains the Scofield stuff.”

  “Emm.” Claude is looking at him. “How so?” he says.

  “There were three of ’em. The Russian did the kids. These other two did the Scofields.” In Emil’s mind, it’s a nice neat little package. I think maybe he’s planning to serve it up to the press before the Canadians can reveal that Iganovich is gone.

  “Why? What’s the motive?” I say.

  “They’re crazy,” he says. “You saw the bodies. Tell me, are those the acts of sane people, logical minds?”

  Lenore scoffs at this. “If they were working together, why didn’t we find evidence at the Russian’s apartment, or in the van? Forensics would have found hair, prints, something,” she says. “And if they were working together, why the different rope on the Scofields, and failure to grind the stakes to a point?”

  Emil gives her a sneer, as much as to say if she wants to join the club, play with the boys, she should at least humor his theories.

  But Goya is a quick study. In one day, after coming on board, she digested all of the evidentiary reports. She can now spit the facts of the case at Johnson like a computer.

  Emil looks as if he’d like to brush all this aside, troublesome little details. But Lenore is right. Something else is happening here.

  “Well, what do we do now?” says Emil.

  “We wait,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Till we see what the Canadians come up with.”

  “That’s fine for you,” he says. “Some of us have to run in this county, for re-election.” He emphasizes the end of this word.

  “Not in the next two days,” I tell him.

  “The public is fickle,” he says. “They tend to remember things like this.” Helped along by one’s opponent he means. Emil would like to put a favorable spin on things before the pieces of this disaster become fixed like concrete in the public psyche.

  “And what if we run to the papers, and the next day the Canadians take him again? You’d look a little foolish,” I say.

  “Still, they fucked up,” he says. “He got away on their watch. I’m not gonna wait for ’em to remind the papers that the only reason our guy was on the street was because of a mistake made in your office,” he says.

  “I’ve got another what-if,” says Claude.

  “Yeah?” Emil’s waiting for this latest contribution.

  “What if he kills again, up there?”

  Emil’s eyes get big and round. He hasn’t considered this scenario. “Sonofabitch,” he says. “We call a press conference right now and take the high ground.”

  The arrest warrant and diplomatic note have arrived in Canada, and the political heat is now getting severe. Claude and I have prevailed on Emil Johnson to hold off on any disclosures, his threatened news conference, at least for twenty-four hours. By then, if the Canadians have not found Iganovich, we will no longer be able to keep the lid on this thing.

  For the moment I am dealing with matters closer to home, Roland Overroy and his incompetence.

  “Coulda happened to anybody,” he says.

  This is Roland’s excuse for the error that freed Andre Iganovich, Overroy’s failure to check the pocket parts for the current law, the controlling murder statute in this case.

  It is nearing six o’clock, the last business of the day. I have instructed Roland to stay after for this meeting. I have held off until most of the office staff have gone home. Overroy is in my office, called on the carpet to answer for his interference in the Putah Creek cases.

  “What do you expect?” he says. “In working conditions like this. I’m buried in cases. You put me in a closet down the hall and expect me to perform. You could at least have Lenore pick up some of her old cases.”

  I remind him that the crucial error on the murder statute was made before he assumed Lenore’s workload, back when he had time for afternoon cruises on the Delta.

  He ignores this.

  “You knew I was working on these cases. Why didn’t you tell me about the phone call from Washington?” I ask this in measured tones, trying to curb my natural enmity toward this man.

  “Because I already handled it,” he says. He is flip in his manner, dismissing the question. His idea of handling it was to deliver a statute repealed from the law nine years ago. I shake my head.

  I have wondered whether this mishap was more a matter of design than negligence, Roland’s way of doing me damage. But he is such a giftless bastard that in the past I have dismissed such notions.

  Now I begin to wonder about the news stories, the disclosure to the press of our theories concerning a second, copycat killer. Such revelations are not beyond Overroy, I think. His is a sacred crusade, recouping his pride and power.

  I tell him there are people now making noises, demanding an inquiry by the state attorney general. This does not seem to bother him much, like maybe the buck in the office stops with me. I’m sure Roland could come up with a dozen artful answers to any probe, each one aimed at deflecting blame back on me.

  I would fire him on the spot, but the Civil Service Commission would never allow it. They like graduated penalties, a million mistakes, each documented a dozen times in writing, with counseling sessions so that the culprit knows what he did wrong, and marathon warnings. So obsessive and time-consuming is the process that Roland and hundreds like him have carved notches of incompetence, like badges of honor, on the arms of their desk chairs. Hawking each of his mistakes through the course of a single day would consume all of my time. And so he has survived through the better part of three decades, and five DA’s.

  “If you wanna blame somebody,” he says, “blame that bimbo.”

  I look at him questioningly.

  “Perez,” he says. “It was her job to get the pocket parts back in the books. She can’t keep out of her own way. You ought to be riding her ass,” he says. One of Roland’s crowning traits, blaming others.

  The phone on my desk rings, the back line. I pick it up. It’s Claude, calling from the county jail.

  I watch Overroy as I listen to Dusalt on the phone. Roland is beginning to muster signs of anger, working it into his face with effort. I have heard from others that he staged little screaming ses
sions with Feretti whenever required. And when it was over, they would bury it and forget, and Overroy would go on as before.

  I listen with interest to what Claude is telling me. Overroy is trying to read what is happening in my face, what tidbit may be on the phone. I make my face a bare stone tablet to keep it from him. “I’ll be over there in five minutes,” I tell him, and I hang up.

  Roland doesn’t miss a beat. Before the phone is in the cradle, he is talking. “Next time somebody calls for something in a rush, I’ll ignore it,” he says. His opening shot.

  “Is that a promise?”

  This pushes him a notch higher.

  “Since you arrived, you’ve been a sonofabitch,” he says. A little name-calling to stoke the coals. “You’re worried I might get Feretti’s job. You’ve been doing a number on me since you arrived. Constant harassment,” he calls it. “Degrading assignments. You take a junior attorney in the office and give her the hot cases. It makes me wonder about you and her . . .” He bites his tongue before finishing this. The little gray cells are churning upstairs. False charges of advancement in return for erotic favors would constitute actionable sexual harassment by Goya against him. He knows this. She would have his ass in a federal court on a Title VII action before he could turn around. This whole thing is eating at him, that Goya is now in line for his old position. With Roland it is not merely that he himself must do well with virtually no effort, but that by his terms, the only measure of true success is when the careers of those around him are in free-fall like plummeting drops of rain.

  “What do you want me to say, Roland? You want my candid evaluation of your abilities? You won’t like it,” I say. “But if that’s what you want”—I shrug—“fine. You’re not much of a lawyer. On a scale of one to ten I’d rate you a two. You’re lazy, incompetent. You lack initiative.” I gaze toward the ceiling as if I’m running over some checklist I have previously made. “And I suppose I would have to say that on the whole, you’re a major bore. Is that plain enough for you? Now that we’re finished, I’ll memorialize it in writing and we can put it in your personnel file. Now are you happy?”