The Last Innocent Man

by Phillip Margolin

  “And the year and model?”

  Ortiz paused.

  “No. I only knew it was a beige Mercedes on that night.”

  “So it could have been an ’89 or an ’85 Mercedes?”

  “I later saw Mr. Stafford’s car and it was the same one.”

  “Do you know what a 1989 Mercedes looks like?”

  “No.”

  “Or an ’85?”

  “No.”

  “The only time you saw the killer’s face was just before you passed out, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you and where was he, when you saw his face?”

  “I was lying on my back on the floor looking up, and Mr. Stafford…”

  “Your Honor, I move to strike that response,” David said. “He’s saying it was Mr. Stafford. That’s a conclusion a jury or judge will have to draw.”

  “Oh, let him go on, Mr. Nash. I’ve been around.”

  Judge Autley turned to Officer Ortiz and smiled. David didn’t like that. It was rare that anyone was graced with an Autley smile, and if the judge was bestowing one on Ortiz, that didn’t bode well.

  “Just say ‘suspect,’ Officer, and Mr. Nash won’t get all bent out of shape.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Ortiz said. “I was lying on my back on the floor, my head was against the bed, and the suspect was standing in the doorway.”

  “Could you step down to the easel and draw a picture for us?”

  Ortiz turned to the judge and the judge nodded. There was an easel with drawing paper and felt-tipped colored pens propped against the wall. Ortiz pulled the easel closer to the witness stand and picked up a black pen.

  “This would be the doorway,” he said, tracing a rectangle on the paper. “I was here, against the bed.” He drew a stick-figure bed and a stick-figure man. The man’s head rested against a leg of the bed with its eyes facing the door.

  “The door was open. It opened inward and it was half-open, about where I’d kicked it. I guess it must have swung back a ways. He was standing at the door frame, leaning into the room.”

  “How far in?”

  “Not much. I think his body was at a slight angle, and his right leg and arm were outside the door, but the left leg and his left arm were inside the room a bit.”

  “And where was his head?”

  “Leaning down toward me. Looking at me.”

  “You are certain?”

  Ortiz looked directly at David. Then he looked at Larry Stafford.

  “I will never forget that face.”

  David made some notes, then directed Ortiz back to the stand.

  “Were you seriously injured?”

  “I was in Good Samaritan Hospital for a day or so.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Good Samaritan.”

  “How long did you view the killer’s face?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A long time?”

  “No.”

  “How long did the man stand there?”

  “A few seconds. Then he bolted.”

  “So you saw him for a few seconds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Less than a minute?”

  “Maybe five, ten seconds. But I saw him.”

  David consulted his notes. He looked at the judge.

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Judge Autley looked at Monica Powers.

  “Any further witnesses?”

  “No, Your Honor. The State feels that it has met the standards set out in the case law. Officer Ortiz is a trained police officer. He has identified the man he saw at the Raleigh Motel as being the defendant. His testimony is corroborated by the fact that the defendant drives a car similar to the car seen at the motel and has similar clothes.”

  “Mr. Nash?”

  “Your Honor, I don’t feel that a five-second identification by a man who had just been struck sufficiently hard to require hospitalization is the type of proof that creates a presumption of guilt that is evident or strong as is required by the Chambers case.

  “Furthermore, Officer Ortiz can only say that the car was a Mercedes. He embellished that description with information he learned later.”

  “Have you made your record, Mr. Nash?”

  “I do have several character witnesses here to testify in the defendant’s behalf.”

  “You won’t need them. Officer Ortiz is not your ordinary witness, Mr. Nash. He is a trained and experienced policeman. I think his testimony is sufficient and I am going to deny bail.”

  David saw Stafford sag for a moment beside him. Monica was collecting her papers and Ortiz was starting to leave the witness stand.

  “I can take this up to the supreme court on mandamus, Larry. If we-”

  “It’s okay,” Stafford said in a defeated voice. “I knew we were dead when I saw Judge Autley. You did a great job, Dave.”

  “Do you want me to come back and see you?”

  “No. It’s all right. Just set the trial date set as soon as you can. I don’t know if…Just set the trial date soon.”

  Stafford walked over to the guard, who led him back to the holding area. David saw Terry Conklin fold a secretarial notebook and head for the door of the courtroom. Jennifer was waiting just outside the courtroom.

  “He’s not getting out. The judge denied bail,” David said bitterly. He was disappointed. He had wanted to win, because he wanted Jennifer to see him win and because he thought that Stafford should be out. But he had lost, and it was starting to get to him: the shock of the court’s rapidfire decision was just wearing off, and the fact that bail had been denied was just seeping through.

  “He didn’t seem to even listen,” Jennifer said incredulously. “He didn’t even let you put on our witnesses.”

  “I know. I’ll petition the supreme court for a writ of mandamus, but I doubt they’ll grant one. They rarely reverse a discretionary decision of a judge unless there’s a gross abuse.”

  “Well, isn’t this…?” Jennifer started.

  David shook his head. “No. He just gave a lot of credence to Ortiz’s testimony. Another judge might not have. That son of a bitch. Maybe I should have…”

  David stopped himself.

  “Look, Jenny, I’m going to meet with my investigator. I know we lost this time, but I developed several important points during my examination of Ortiz. Points that could win us the trial. And that’s the important thing.”

  “Won’t it be the same at trial? They’ll take his word because he’s a policeman. They won’t believe…”

  David put his hand on her shoulder before he realized what he was doing. Jennifer looked startled, and he recalled the first time they had touched; saw her standing with her forehead pressed against the cold glass of his windowpane. He released his hand slowly. She looked away.

  “At trial we’ll have a jury and it will be different,” he said, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “Juries are very fair. They do make the State prove its case, and I think the State is going to have a harder time than it thinks, if I’m right about a few things. Now, let me get to work, okay?”

  “Yes. Of course. I…Thank you, David.”

  “Don’t thank me. So far all I’ve done is lose.”

  “You’ll win in the end. I know.”

  They both stood in the hall, unwilling to break away. When David finally turned and walked over to Terry Conklin, he felt very depressed.

  It took only a few minutes with Conklin to restore his spirits. They walked from the courthouse to the Shingle Tavern, discussing the case as they went. Conklin had spotted the same thing David had, and the fact that his investigator had been thinking along the same line sent his adrenaline pumping. If they were right, David would have an excellent shot at an acquittal.

  “When can you get on it?” David asked excitedly.

  “I’ll do it this evening, if I can find the man I need.”

  David sipped his beer, then bit into his ham sandwich.

&
nbsp; “I want Ortiz’s medical records. Do you know anyone at Good Sam?”

  Conklin thought for a moment. “It might cost a few bucks, but I think I can swing it.”

  “Don’t worry about the money. There are a few other things. See if I’m right on the Mercedes and check the shirt.”

  “I’ll do that this week.”

  “Good. You know, Terry, I’m starting to feel very good about this case. Very good.”

  Ron Crosby worked the long, sauce-covered noodles around his chopsticks until he had them where he wanted them. Then, with a swift, stabbing movement, he jabbed the rolled noodles into his mouth.

  “This place makes the best Chinese food in town,” he said. A piece of chewed noodle slipped out of the side of his mouth, and he nudged it back with his chopstick.

  “How does it look, Ron?” Ortiz asked. He was toying with his food and had eaten little of it.

  “Nash is smooth. That’s why he does so well. He scored a few points, but Stafford’s still in jail, isn’t he?”

  “Only because Autley was on the bench. He wouldn’t let the pope out on bail. I’m not fooling myself. I made a lousy witness, and Nash didn’t take the gloves off like he will at trial.”

  Crosby put down his chopsticks. “What’s bothering you, Bert?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…Well, I feel responsible for…If I’d acted sooner, Darlene might still be alive. And now…I want that bastard, Ron, and I’m afraid I’ll screw up again and Nash will get him off.”

  “You didn’t screw up the first time. Nobody thinks you did. Hersch was green and she was trying to prove how tough she was. She’s dead because she broke the rules. And Nash isn’t going to get Stafford off, anyway.”

  Something in Crosby’s tone made Ortiz look up.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “Eat your noodles and I’ll tell you,” Crosby answered, pulling a folded police report from his inside pocket. “Do you know a pimp named Cyrus Johnson?”

  “T.V.? There isn’t a vice cop in town who doesn’t know that asshole.”

  “Check out this report,” Crosby said, handing it to Ortiz, “then have a talk with T.V. It might prove interesting.”

  Cyrus(T.V.) Johnson was probably the easiest person to find in the city of Portland. Every evening he parked his pink Cadillac outside the Jomo Kenyatta Pool Establishment so junkies would know where to make their connections, and his whores would know where to bring their take. T.V. was not the biggest pimp or pusher in Portland, but he was the most notorious. He had once had the temerity to be interviewed as part of a locally produced television special entitledDrugs in Our Schools, and thus the sobriquet.

  Ortiz parked his car in front of the Cadillac and tried to make out T.V. through the haze of smoke that obscured the activity going on behind the storefront window. He could not see Johnson, but that didn’t matter: he knew exactly where he was. T.V. always held court from an expensively upholstered armchair he had had the owner install in the rear of the pool hall. The armchair, surrounded as it was by the room’s shabby furnishings, was a symbol of T.V.’s affluence, and it was understood that heavy penalties attached if anyone else used it.

  Ortiz snaked his way around the players and their extended cues, aware that the noise level dropped as soon as he neared a table. A few players turned to watch him, but none moved out of his way. It was a game that Ortiz was used to playing. You trained yourself to suppress the anger that the defiance kindled inside you. A white face in a place like the Kenyatta usually meant cop, and the men who played their pool here had no use for him.

  T.V., as usual, was dressed in one of his flamboyant outfits. He hadn’t always dressed like the stereotype pimp before his television appearance, and it was only by coincidence that he had been wearing an anklelength fur coat and garish gold jewelry when the television cameras had happened along. But the word was that T.V.’s television performance had been the high point of his life, and since that day he had dressed to fit the part in case the cameras should call again.

  T.V.’s nostrils flared as Ortiz approached, and he sniffed the air.

  “We havin’ bar-be-cue tonight, Kermit?” he asked the large man standing to his left, in an exaggerated Negro accent. “’Cause I believe I smell pig.”

  The large man fixed Ortiz with a cold, challenging stare. Ortiz recognized Kermit Monroe, a bodyguard who had played pro ball for Detroit before injuring a knee.

  “You seem to be in good spirits, T.V.,” Ortiz said calmly.

  “Why, sho’ nuff, massah. We colored folks is always happy.”

  “Do you think you can cut your routine long enough for us to have a little talk?”

  The grin faded and T.V. eyed him suspiciously. Ortiz was no stranger. He had busted T.V. twice, but neither rap had stuck. The last time Ortiz had split T.V.’s lip. T.V. was vain about his looks and had not shown up at the pool hall for a week. He had also taken out his anger on one of his girls and sent her to the hospital. T.V. held Ortiz responsible for the girl’s lost earnings, as well as his humiliation.

  “Whatcho want to talk about?”

  “In private,” Ortiz said, gesturing toward Monroe.

  “Uh-uh. I got nothin’ to say to you I can’t say in front of my friends.”

  “Why don’t you piss off, Ortiz?” Monroe said. His voice was deep and smooth. Ortiz didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He knew Monroe would not hesitate to kill a policeman. He might even enjoy it.

  “I want some information about a white man who had some dealings with you and one of your girls a few years back,” Ortiz said, ignoring Monroe and pulling a mug shot of Larry Stafford out of his pocket. He noticed Monroe’s hand move inside his leather jacket when his own hand moved.

  “Girls? What girls he talkin’ about, Kermit?” T.V. asked Monroe over his shoulder.

  “I heard Ortiz don’t like girls. I hear he likes little boys,” the bodyguard said with a sneer.

  T.V. took the photo and studied it. If he recognized Stafford, it did not show.

  “This your boyfriend, Ortiz?” T.V. asked.

  “You like to do it with boys, Ortiz?” Monroe asked, echoing his boss. There was no emotion in his voice.

  “Do you know him?” Ortiz asked T.V.

  T.V. smiled. “I ain’t never seen this white boy, massah.”

  “I think you have.”

  Ortiz noticed that the noise in the pool room had stopped. He suddenly regretted his decision to come alone.

  “You sayin’ I’m lying, Ortiz?” T.V. asked. Monroe moved a step closer to Ortiz. T.V. took another look at the mug shot.

  “You know, Kermit, this looks like that white boy who offed the lady pig. I read about that in the papers. The word is that Ortiz here fucked up. The word is she’s dead because of you.”

  He directed his last shot at Ortiz, and it scored. Ortiz could feel his stomach tighten with a mixture of rage and anguish. He wanted to strike out, but his own uncertainty about his role in Darlene’s death sapped him of his will. T.V. read the uncertainty in Ortiz’s eyes, and a triumphant smirk turned up the corners of his lips. Ortiz stared at him long enough to collect himself. Then he took the picture back.

  “It’s been nice talking to you, T.V. We’ll talk again.”

  He turned his back on Monroe and Johnson and walked back through the maze of black figures. There was laughter behind him, but the ebony faces in front of him were blank and threatening.

  His hand was shaking as he turned the key in the ignition. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. He had made a fool of himself. He knew it. Suddenly he was filled with rage. That black bastard was going to talk to him. That son of a bitch would tell him what he wanted to know. And he knew just how to make him tell.

  5

  David looked down at the stack of papers scattered across his desk. He had brought home a legal memorandum in the Stafford case to proofread, but he was too tired to go on. He closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids. The pressure felt go
od.

  He stood up and stretched. It was ten-thirty. He looked out his den window. A pale-yellow half-moon was peeking around the side of the hill.

  It was two weeks after the bail hearing, and the case was starting to shape up nicely. Conklin had secured a copy of Ortiz’s medical file, and it had proved interesting reading. His idea about the Mercedes had panned out, too. Most important, Terry Conklin had finally got around to taking the shots he wanted at the motel. The pictures had not been developed yet, but Terry was confident that they would show what they both thought they would.

  David had learned a lot about Larry Stafford, too. He and Terry had talked to people who knew Larry. A picture had emerged of a person who was always under a little more pressure than he could handle. Larry was a striver, never secure with what he had, always reaching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  Larry’s father had divorced his mother when Larry was in his teens. Larry stayed with his mother, who was never able to cope with the destruction of a life she had built around one man.

  Larry’s father was a military man and a stern disciplinarian. Larry idolized him. Although there was no truth to it, Larry half believed that his father had left because Larry had not lived up to his expectations. He had spent the rest of his life trying to prove himself.

  Larry had not just joined the Army, he had joined the Marines. In college and law school he had studied constantly, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion. Socially it had been the same story. He read all the books on self-improvement, drove the latest sports cars, often piling up debts to get them, and dressed according to the latest trends. Anyone who did not know Larry well would assume that he had achieved the success he sought, but Larry had achieved only a state of perpetual fear that drove him toward goals he could never reach.

  David had come to feel sorry for Stafford. Jenny was right when she said he was like a little boy. He had no idea of what was really important in life, and he had spent his life running after the symbols of success. Now, just as he had grasped those symbols, they were going to be stripped away.

  Stafford had married wealth and beauty, but his marriage would not last. Jenny was protective of her husband, but David knew that it was out of a sense of duty, not love. He felt sure that when the trial was over, no matter what the outcome, Larry Stafford would lose his wife.