“This is bullshit.” He says it under his breath looking now at Holland, little slits of meanness.
It is all that is needed.
“I second the motion,” says Holland. His look says it all, “there take that.” “And I call the question,” he adds. This latter shuts the door on any debate, with Geddes only halfway out of his chair.
“All those in favor,” I say, “of taking evidence in the murder of Abbott and Karen Scofield, please raise your hand.”
Like stalks of corn in a Kansas field, twenty-two arms reach upward, toward the ceiling.
Geddes makes a face, a deep groan. In his own way, he has done me an inestimable service. This jury, with a little help, has finally found its voice. It has also cut William Geddes adrift, leaving him alone on the high seas of human contempt.
I look over at Lenore. She is all smiles, the look of one whose well-laid plans have paid off. We will drink later this evening, after session, at Tories, the bar around the corner, Lenore Goya, myself, and of course William Geddes, for Geddes has played his part to perfection. In this little episode I draw a singular lesson, that Lenore Goya is a quick study in the science of social dynamics. Hers indeed was a better idea.
It was a well-hatched plan, one that closely but cautiously skirted the bounds of jury tampering. Geddes, while baiting the others to draw a motion, could not himself make the motion, second it or even vote for it. To that extent he had been compromised by Lenore’s brief conversation with him. She had explained to him, outside the record, why we wanted to bring the evidence in. He cut her off, told her to say no more. The rest was pure Geddes. It is said that no actor plays any role so well as himself. In the case of William Geddes, I am now left to wonder.
Claude has been busy dogging William Rattigan, the elusive director of the World Center for Birds of Prey, a man in perpetual motion. Claude finally nailed him yesterday in his office, only to discover that Rattigan was about to leave on another trip, this time to Southern California, a seminar at UCLA.
It took some talking by Claude, references to the broad subpoena powers of a grand jury in this state. Rattigan has agreed to a slight detour, to meet with us this morning at the Capital City Airport. Anything he can do, he says, to cooperate.
This morning, he sits across the table from Claude and me, in the crowded airport restaurant, shaking his head solemnly.
“It was routine,” he says. Rattigan’s talking about the work that Abbott and Karen Scofield were doing.
“He was contracted to perform some early research on diminishing peregrine populations in the eastern coastal range of your state,” he says. “He was one of three regional research directors we had working on the project.
“There’s nothing to hide,” he says. “No mysteries. Peregrine populations in the U.S. have been on the decline for years. They’ve been an endangered species now for more than a decade. But they are a resilient breed. It’s why we keyed on them, as opposed to other species. We believed that there was a strong possibility that with work we could restore them. If not to their original numbers, at least we could bring them back from the brink of extinction.”
“So what was Scofield’s part in this?”
“He did initial research for us out here. Mostly locating sites for natural habitat. Places where the birds would have a chance to gain a foothold if released into the wild.”
“What kind of research?” I ask. I want to know if these activities might have caused him to cross paths with his killer.
“We had a protocol,” he says. “We would check for a number of things: the absence of natural predators; pesticide use in the area; human foot traffic; projected growth and development; civilian aviation that might disturb breeding patterns.
“We worked from a list. The data was all fed into a computer and favorable target areas were identified, mostly public lands, where we could release the birds into the wild. Sometimes they would migrate short distances and resettle. Usually not too far.”
“Anything else besides research?” Claude is probing.
“Under the contract, Dr. Scofield was also responsible for releasing the birds and monitoring them for a brief time afterward.”
“The falcons, where did he get them?” I ask.
“We bred the initial birds at the center. When they were able to fly and hunt, so they could feed off the land, we would ship them out,” he says, “to Dr. Scofield. Part of his contract called for assisting us in the release of the birds into the wild. They were tagged. He would feed them for a while and monitor them for survival and adaptation to their surroundings, nesting, breeding of young.”
“That explains the feed pellets and the mice,” says Claude. He’s talking about the items purchased by Scofield in large quantities but not found at his lab.
“These birds would eat mice?” says Claude.
“Live if possible,” says Rattigan.
“Do you know where Dr. Scofield released the birds?” he asks. “Exactly where on the Putah Creek?”
“Where?” says Rattigan.
“The Putah Creek.”
“That doesn’t sound familiar,” he says. “Let me check.” He pulls his briefcase onto the table.
“I have copies of his working maps with me,” he tells us. “But Putah Creek—that does not sound right. As I recall, from my discussions with Abbott, the areas of release called for the birds to be placed in the coastal range.”
Rattigan finds a large map in the flap inside the cover of his attache case. He opens it on the table and studies it for several seconds, tracing features with a forefinger.
“Here,” he says. “This is the spot. In this area.”
He points to a location on the far side of the Napa Valley, a hundred miles from the site of the Scofield murders and the bird blind in the trees along the Putah Creek.
Claude gives me one of those looks, the kind reserved for strange phenomena. Then he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out four clear plastic envelopes, little Ziploc bags, and lays them on the table.
“Could you look at these and tell us what they are?” he says.
Rattigan picks them up, one at a time and studies them, carefully. He lays three of them on the table.
“No question,” he says. “Peregrine feathers. Chicks,” he says. This confirms the information from the wildlife lab in Oregon. The last pouch he’s still holding in his hand, lifting it toward the light in the ceiling. It’s a larger feather, broad and ruffled, striated in its coloration.
“Not this one,” he says.
It’s one of the feathers we’ve not yet been able to identify. We are still waiting on the lab report from Oregon.
“Do you know what it is?” I say.
“Were all of these found in close proximity?” He answers a question with a question.
“Yes,” I say. “They were virtually mixed together. On the ground,” I say. Actually they were found together in the blind, but I keep this to myself.
“I don’t understand it,” he says.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Abbott’s surveys. They didn’t show any trace of predators. We checked carefully. It’s the first thing we always look for.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This feather,” he says. “It belongs to a great horned owl. It’s a bird that’s not indigenous to this area.”
“You mean the area on the map. The coastal range?”
“I mean this state,” he says. “The great horned owl is native to the northern forests, Canada and the Northern Rockies. Not down here.”
Claude and I look at him.
“So that I understand,” I say. “This owl. It would kill the falcons if they were in the same area together?”
“In an instant.” He looks up from the table, and
the feathers cased in plastic. “It is a mortal predator of the peregrine falcon,” he says. “But don’t ask me how it got here.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Lately I have been drawing subtle pressure from the county grandees to make a package deal of this prosecution, to charge all six of the murders to the Russian. It would be an easy thing to do. It would clean the plate, make a lot of friends for me in this county, among the city and university hierarchy.
But there is a problem. I harbor deep suspicions that Chambers is playing this hand with still one more trump card, something he is holding in reserve, until trial. I got a glimpse of it that day, outside the Russian’s apartment as the police searched inside. It was in the newspapers on the floor, outside in the hallway. Two of these were dated before the Scofield murders, a hint that the Russian was already gone.
It is something you develop in the practice of trial law, a sixth sense. Too often it comes as a prelude in the shadow of disaster, like a fly being swatted on glass.
We have not been able to establish on what date the Russian crossed over into Canada. But I suspect that Chambers can. If I am correct, he is waiting in the weeds, to spring this on me. If I charge his client with these last two murders, he will present a gold-plated alibi, ringing down the curtain of doubt on all of the charges. It is why it is so important that I make a plausible wedge that I can drive between the murders of Abbott and Karen Scofield and the student killings.
There’s a knock on my office door, knuckles rapping on glass. It opens. It’s Jane Rhodes, my secretary.
“Someone here to see you,” she says. She’s holding a business card in her hand, looking down, reading.
“A Mr. Golumbine,” she says. She steps in and drops the card on my desk.
DENNIS GOLUMBINE
DEPUTY ATTORNEY GENERAL
GOVERNMENT LAW SECTION
“Show him in,” I say. I have been waiting for this visit.
A second later, a guy whose age I would not guess, gaunt like some cadaver, thinning dark hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, is ushered into my office. He forces a smile, a thousand more creases in a face like a withered prune.
“Mr. Madriani,” he says. He extends a hand. We shake.
I look at his card. “Mr. Golumbine.”
“Bean,” he says. Pursed lips for precision. “It’s pronounced Golum—bean.”
“Have a seat,” I say. I gesture toward one of the client chairs on the other side of the desk. I can guess why he’s here. The seriousness of purpose is plastered on this countenance like a fresco on a Renaissance wall.
“What can I do for you?”
“We have a complaint,” he says. “Regarding your office, and I’ve been assigned to look into it.”
I give him a face, like is this so?
“Yes,” he says. He reaches down into a briefcase, a bell-shaped affair down by his feet, and comes up with a yellow notepad. “A complaint regarding the current prosecution of,” he looks at his notes, “Andre Iganovich I think is the defendant’s name.”
It has taken a while for the Coconut’s correspondence to float to the top of all the effluent clogging the AG’s in-basket.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say. I pick up the receiver and press the com-line, then a couple of numbers.
“I wonder if you could come down here for minute?” I hang up.
I turn back to Golumbine. “You were saying?”
“We have a complaint regarding the handling of this case, specifically errors made in the processing of a request for extradition. We would like your cooperation in gathering information so that we can respond to this, and determine what if any errors were made.”
I make a face, an invitation for him to go on.
“It’s a rather serious matter,” he says.
“It’s also ancient history,” I tell him. “You’re aware that Mr. Iganovich now resides in the Davenport County Jail and is awaiting trial on multiple counts of murder?”
“We had read that,” he says. “Still.”
“Tell me a little about this complaint,” I say. “Who filed it?”
“That’s confidential,” he says.
“By law?”
“Department policy,” he tells me.
“Surely you can tell me its contents?”
He shakes his head.
The door opens, and Lenore Goya comes in. Golumbine looks at her and is up out of his chair. I introduce them. He has the manner of a village lecher, leering looks as he takes her in, and a limp handshake.
“Ms. Goya’s been assisting me in the prosecution of this case.” Lenore has also been doing a little homework with Kay Sellig. She had warned us that somebody would be coming over from Justice. She didn’t know who. She also told us that Acosta’s letter did not get a receptive hearing from the attorney general. The man is an astute politician. Why get drawn into parochial battles? He shuffled it down the line to others with no direction or clear mandate.
“You say department policy prevents you from sharing the contents of your complaint with us?”
“That’s correct,” he says.
I look at his card again. “What’s the Government Law Section got to do with extradition?” I say. “I thought extradition was a special section over there.”
He coughs a little hack and straightens his tie. He shoots a glance at Lenore, whose skirt has ridden up a few inches on her crossed thigh. “We help out where we can,” he says.
I nod and smile. “Just helping out.”
“Yes,” he says.
“So what is it you want?” I ask him.
“Access to your working papers, your files,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Everything?”
“Yes.”
He may look like warmed-over milk toast, but the man has balls of brass.
“Can I ask you,” says Lenore, “what’s your authority?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your statutory authority,” she says, “to intervene in a pending prosecution?”
“Oh we’re not intervening,” he says. “Merely making an inquiry in response to a complaint.”
“Fine,” she says, “what’s your authority for such an inquiry?”
He’s no longer looking at her legs. Instead he’s now fumbling through his briefcase which rests in his lap, going through this like Fibber McGee in his cluttered closet. After assorted papers and a day-runner, he comes up with a blue-bound paperback volume, an abridged Penal Code. Several seconds thumbing with a wet finger and he cites her a section.
“Can I see it?” she says.
“Certainly.” He hands her the book.
“This pertains to the attorney general’s right to review requests and orders for extradition, before and while they are pending,” she says. “I see nothing here about requests for extradition which have been dismissed or otherwise terminated.”
“I think it’s not clear,” he says. “We believe we have broader authority.”
“We?” she says. “You’re talking about the attorney general? Has he specifically ordered this inquiry?”
“Well, my superiors,” he says.
“And who might that be?” I ask him.
Golumbine’s beginning to sweat.
He gives me a couple of names, mid-level functionaries in the Government Law Section.
I take him in another direction, over the falls.
“I understand you know Judge Ingel?” I say.
He looks at me, wariness crowding into his eyes now.
“He’s an acquaintance,” he says.
“Oh, I understand you guys used to work together in the AG’s office, that you were pretty close.”
“We know each other,” he says. A little color,
the flush of discovery coming into his cheeks.
“He didn’t call you by any chance, in connection with this, did he?”
A lot of coughing, his hand covering his mouth. A handkerchief comes out, but instead of wiping his mouth he uses this to sweep the sweat from his forehead.
“We can’t discuss the particulars of an official inquiry,” he says.
“Ah. Official inquiry.” I nod, like I understand this.
“Do you have a formal opinion interpreting this section?” says Lenore.
Golumbine is beginning to feel like he’s caught in a vise, between Goya and me.
“Emm?” He looks at her.
“An AG’s opinion setting forth your office’s authority relative to this section?” She’s pointing at the provision of the Penal Code that Golumbine would try to ride into the confines of our files.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Well, maybe you can look.” She dumps the volume back in his lap. “And a letter signed by your boss.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ms. Goya makes a good point,” I say. “It would be nice, just to cover all our bases, if we could have a letter of request signed by the attorney general before we opened our files. You understand.” I’m up out of my chair, hand extended, like this meeting is over.
“It was good meeting you,” I say.
Golumbine’s scrambling, one hand filled with assorted papers and his notepad, the other holding the Penal Code from his lap. He is trying to juggle his briefcase, clinging to the handle with one pinky finger. He will need a brace on this tomorrow.
Lenore opens the door for him and points the way out. Stooped at the waist he shuffles out the door with all of his shit. For the moment we’ve dodged the Coconut’s latest bullet.
William Geddes has withdrawn from the grand jury, pleading undefined personal hardship. Alienated from his colleagues on the panel, the price of his little performance, an early departure was Geddes’s idea. And I did not discourage it.
Given his ex parte conversation with Goya, brief as it was, the fact that he will not now vote on any of the counts completely dispels even the slightest hint that she might have tampered with this jury. Geddes has been replaced by one of the alternates, a woman who has heard all of the evidence.
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