"My papers," she started to say. Then the chair hit the window again and she clamped a hand to her mouth when she noticed the blood-smeared glass for the first time. Buckley locked her client in and pushed the woman into the hall with the elevators. This time she didn't protest. Buckley followed her and locked the door. If Dupre broke through the glass he would still be trapped in the narrow hall outside the visiting rooms.
"This is Sergeant Rice. What's the situation?" a voice asked over Buckley's radio.
"There's a prisoner in one. I just locked him in. I don't know if there's an inmate in three yet, but someone was supposed to bring Kevin Hoch down. I'm in the hall outside the elevators with two attorneys. I think Wendell Hayes is dead." Buckley heard an intake of air. "He's inside room two with Jon Dupre. Dupre stabbed him several times. He's got some kind of knife."
"Okay. Hold your position, Buckley. The jail is locked down and I'll have help to you in another minute. Then I'll go in through the back door with the CERT boys."
As they spoke, the elevator doors opened and ten members of the Corrections Emergency Response Team rushed out of the elevator in flack jackets and face shields. They were all carrying nonlethal weapons, like Mace, and three of them had man-sized Plexiglas shields.
"Buckley?" one of the men asked. Adam nodded. "I'm Sergeant Miller. What's our situation?"
Buckley repeated what he'd told Sergeant Rice.
"Let's go in," Miller said. Buckley opened the door to the hallway. Over the radio, Buckley could hear Sergeant Rice talking to Dupre.
"Mr. Dupre, this is Sergeant Rice. I'm on the other side of this door with fifteen armed men. If you look into the corridor, you'll see many more armed men."
Dupre spun toward the window. He looked desperate. Both of his hands were bleeding and he was holding something shiny. Wendell Hayes was sprawled on his back. His throat and face were drenched in blood.
"We don't want to hurt you," Sergeant Rice told Dupre. "If you put down your weapon and surrender we'll just cuff you and return you to your cell. If you don't surrender I can't guarantee your safety."
Dupre's eyes darted to the men in the corridor. They looked intimidating in black, with their weapons and shields.
"What will it be, Mr. Dupre?" Sergeant Rice asked calmly.
"Don't come in here," Dupre shouted.
It was quiet for a moment. Then the rear door crashed into the room and four men swarmed in, their body shields leading the way. The room was narrow and there was nowhere for Dupre to run. He jabbed at the shields as he was driven into the wall. A CERT team member sprayed Mace in his eyes. Dupre screamed, and two of the men grabbed his legs and brought him down while the other two wrestled the knife from his hand. In less than a minute, Dupre was cuffed and in custody. Buckley saw another deputy rush over to Hayes. She searched for a pulse, then shook her head.
Chapter Fourteen.
Court adjourned early, so Amanda decided to head to the Y for a workout. It crossed her mind that she might see Toby Brooks, a possibility that made her uneasy. She tried to stop thinking about him but that was impossible. "This is stupid," she said out loud. "He's a normal guy. He won't hurt you." Then she felt sad. Before the Cardoni case, meeting someone like Toby Brooks would have excited her. The greatest casualty of her degradation at the hands of the surgeon had been her ability to trust people.
In the locker room, Amanda changed quickly, grabbed her goggles, stuffed her long black hair under her swim cap and headed for the pool. As she neared the revolving door, she grew short of breath and felt foolish. Brooks probably wasn't even working out. And if he was, he'd be swimming and there was no way she'd be able to talk to him.
But Toby was at poolside. As soon as he saw Amanda, he grinned and waved.
"Change your mind about swimming on the team?" he asked.
"Nope," she managed. "I'm just here for a workout."
"Too bad. Senior Nationals are in a few months. Then there are the Senior Worlds. They're in Paris, this year."
"Chlorine in Paris. How romantic," she said, forcing a smile.
Toby laughed. The Masters swimmers finished a set and started to group by the pool wall.
"I've got to get these guys moving. Have a good workout."
Toby turned to his swimmers and yelled out their next set as Amanda grabbed fins and a kickboard from a pile on the pool deck. She was putting them on the edge of the pool in front of her lane when she saw Kate Ross walking up the ramp from the locker room, dressed in tight jeans, a blue Oxford work shirt, and a bomber jacket and carrying her shoes and socks. A twenty-eight-year-old ex-cop whose specialty was computer crime, Kate was a muscular five seven, with a dark complexion, large brown eyes, and curly black hair. Several months before, while working as an investigator at Portland's largest law firm, she had asked Amanda to represent Daniel Ames, a first-year associate who was charged with murder. Amanda had helped clear Daniel's name, then hired him as an associate at Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi. Shortly after, Amanda lured Kate to the firm.
"Come for a swim?" Amanda asked, her good mood fading because she realized that Kate's appearance meant her workout plans were kaput.
"I don't do water."
"What's up?"
"Judge Robard tried to reach you in Judge Davis's courtroom, but you'd skedaddled. He's waiting for you in his chambers. Your dad sent me to find you."
Amanda's shoulders sagged. Judge Robard had made her life miserable in the few trials that she'd been unfortunate enough to have before him. The only solace in being in his court was that he made life equally miserable for the prosecution. Now he'd ruined her workout. Unfortunately, there was no way that she could turn down an urgent summons from a circuit court judge without ruining her legal career.
"I'll change and go straight downtown," she sighed. "You can go back to my dad and tell him you've accomplished your mission."
"He's cooking dinner for you at his house and wants you to drop by after you see Robard."
Judge Ivan Robard was a fitness fanatic who spent his vacations running marathons. A vegetarian diet and all that exercise had left him with zero body fat on his five-foot-six frame. Robard's sunken cheeks and deep eye sockets reminded Amanda of a shrunken head she'd seen in a New York City museum. It was Amanda's theory that the judge would be much more pleasant if he ate more and worked out less.
Robard was seated behind his desk writing an opinion when Amanda was shown into his chambers. The walls were covered with pictures of the judge racing along city streets in Boston, New York, and other marathon locales, standing on top of mountains, hang gliding, bungee jumping, and white-water rafting. Just looking at them was exhausting.
"At last," Robard said without looking up from his work.
"My investigator dragged me out of the pool," Amanda answered. If she was looking for sympathy from a fellow athlete, she didn't get it.
"Sorry about that," Robard answered without conviction as he stacked the papers on which he was working in a neat pile and finally looked at Amanda, "but we've got a situation."
A punch line from an old joke--"What you mean we , white man?"--raced through Amanda's head, but she held her tongue.
"You heard about Wendell Hayes?"
"It's all anyone's been talking about."
"You know anything about the guy who killed him, Jon Dupre?"
"Only what I read in the paper."
"He's a pimp, a drug dealer. I just heard a prostitution case where he was the defendant."
Amanda suddenly knew the reason for Robard's hasty summons and she didn't like it one bit.
"What happened?" she asked, to stall for time.
"I had to dismiss. The state's key witness no-showed. After I dismissed, she turned up dead. Anyway, Harvey Grant got the bright idea of assigning me the homicide because I handled the other case. So, as I said, we've got a situation. The Constitution says that I have to appoint counsel for Dupre, but that wonderful document doesn't tell me what I'm supposed to do when ever
y attorney I call says that they would rather not represent someone who stabbed his previous lawyer to death."
Amanda knew what Robard wanted her to say but she wasn't going to make it easy for him, so she sat silently and waited for the judge to continue. Robard looked annoyed.
"What about it?" he asked.
"What about what?"
"Miss Jaffe, the one thing you are not is stupid, so don't fence with me. I asked you here because you've got more guts than any lawyer in town, and I need a lawyer with guts on this case."
Amanda knew that he was thinking about Cardoni, and she wanted to tell him that her lifetime allotment of courage had been used up last year.
"You should hear the excuses I've been getting from your fellow advocates," Robard went on. "What a bunch of babies."
"I thought Dupre had the money to hire a lawyer. The papers said his parents are rich."
"They disowned Dupre when he was kicked out of college and decided to deal drugs and sell women."
"What about the lawyer who handled the promoting case?"
"Oscar Baron? Don't make me laugh. He's as scared as the rest. Says Dupre can't afford his fee. And he's got a point. Only millionaires can scrape up the money to pay a lawyer in a capital case. Besides, he's not qualified to handle a death-penalty case. So, what do you say?"
"This is a bit overwhelming, Judge. I'd like some time to think, and I'll want to talk it over with my father."
"I spoke with Frank earlier," Robard answered with a weaselly smile. "I can tell you that he's all for it."
"Oh he is, is he? Well, I'd like to know why. So it's either give me some time or I'll politely decline your kind offer to spend the next few months with a homicidal maniac."
"Time is of the essence, Miss Jaffe."
Amanda sighed. "I'm having dinner with my dad tonight. I'll get back to you tomorrow."
Robard's head dipped a few times. "That's fair, that's eminently fair. I'm usually here at seven." Robard scribbled something on his business card. "Here's my back line. My secretary doesn't get in until eight."
Amanda Jaffe's mother had died the day Amanda was born, and Frank Jaffe was the only parent she'd ever known. In his youth, Frank had been a man's man, a brawler and carouser who believed that a woman's place was in the home. He had never imagined himself raising a little girl by himself. Then Amanda's mother died, and Frank put every ounce of his energy into the job. Because he had no idea what he was supposed to do, Frank did everything. There had been dolls and ballet lessons, but Amanda had also learned to raft white water, pump iron, and shoot a gun. When she showed an aptitude for swimming fast, Frank became her biggest supporter, praising her when she won--which was often--and never getting down on her when she didn't.
Six years ago, Amanda had hesitated when Frank offered her a job as an associate in his firm. She wondered at the time if her father wanted her for her legal skills or because she was his daughter. In the end, she'd accepted the offer over several others because criminal law was the only type of law Amanda wanted to practice and Frank Jaffe was one of the best criminal lawyers in the country. Now her reputation was approaching that of her father's and there were only rare occasions in her professional life when Frank acted like a parent and not a law partner. When that happened, Amanda set him straight, which was what she was determined to do when she pulled her car into the driveway of the steep-roofed East Lake Victorian where she had grown up.
Frank was only an adequate cook, but he excelled at matzo-ball soup and potato pancakes, his mother's specialties. When Amanda was a little girl, Frank had prepared these dishes for her as a special treat. When Amanda saw the fixings on the kitchen counter she knew her father was feeling guilty.
"I always thought we got along, and I haven't heard that the firm needs to downsize," she said as she chucked her coat onto a chair. "Is there some other reason you want me to die?"
"Now, Amanda . . ."
"Did you tell the Honorable Ivan Robard that I would accept his offer to represent a lawyer killer?"
"No, I did not. I simply said that you were up to the job."
"So are you. How come you didn't volunteer to help this poor unfortunate boy?"
"I can't take the case. I knew Travis. I was in a foursome with him at the Westmont, last week."
"Oh, I see. You can't be a human sacrifice because Travis is an old golfing buddy, but I don't play golf, so I'm fair game. What on earth were you thinking?"
"I had a few reasons for suggesting that Ivan ask you to take the case. There's the general one about every defendant deserving the best representation possible, and it bothers me that lawyers are refusing to take on this case because they're scared. But neither of those is the reason I'd like to see you represent Dupre."
Frank paused. When he spoke, he looked concerned.
"That business last year was awful. You know how proud I am of the way you handled it, but I also know that since the Cardoni case ended you've stayed away from cases involving violence. I can see why you'd do that. I wish I could wipe out the bad memories. And I was thinking that maybe one way you can get past what happened is by getting back on the horse."
Amanda had to admit that since Cardoni she had been involved in only a few murder or assault cases, and even there, with the exception of Daniel Ames's case, she had limited herself to helping other attorneys in the firm with legal research or pretrial motions. She just did not want to see any more violence. And that presented a problem when you were practicing criminal law.
"You're right, Dad. I have been running scared. But that case . . ." She flashed on the Mary Sandowski video, and a shudder ran through her. "It's been very hard for me."
Frank's heart ached at the memory of what his daughter had gone through.
"I know, kid," he said, "and I wouldn't blame you if you tried something else, another area of law. But you've got to face up to your fears if you're going to stick with criminal law. It's your choice and I'll support any decision you make, but this is as good a way as any to test yourself if you want to stay with the practice."
"I'll think about it."
"Good, but you can't do that on an empty stomach. So, enough law. Let's eat."
Part Three
THE PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE
Chapter Fifteen.
Shortly before quitting time, Jack Stamm summoned Tim Kerrigan to his office. When his senior deputy arrived, the Multnomah County district attorney waved him into a chair and signaled his secretary to close his door. Stamm, who was usually upbeat, was not smiling.
"Can you believe this mess with Wendell Hayes? In the jail of all places. It makes everyone in law enforcement look like a boob."
Stamm ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them. Kerrigan guessed that the DA had slept very little since the Hayes killing.
"I want you on this, Tim. I want Dupre on death row for the murders of Wendell Hayes and Harold Travis."
This was not what Kerrigan wanted to hear. The case would be huge, but there was Ally Bennett to consider. She hadn't shown any sign that she knew who he was when they'd had sex at the motel, but his face would be on television and in the newspapers every day if he prosecuted Jon Dupre. What would she do if she discovered who he was? He'd be wide-open to blackmail.
"Can't someone else handle it?" Tim asked.
Stamm failed to hide his surprise at Kerrigan's reluctance to prosecute these headline-grabbing cases.
"Your unit had Dupre's pimping case," the DA answered, "and you're already on the senator's case."
Kerrigan needed time to think, so he asked a question to divert Stamm.
"Are we even going after Dupre for Travis's murder? The evidence is skimpy. We don't have him anywhere near the scene . . . ."
"You've got that earring, you've got him arguing with Travis the day before the senator was murdered. Besides, it doesn't matter how much evidence we have in Travis's case. We'll piggyback the trials. G
o after Dupre for Hayes first. That case is a walk in the park. Dupre was locked in with Wendell. We've got an eyewitness. The little prick brought the murder weapon with him to the conference. Proving intent and deliberation will be a snap."
"If it's that easy you don't need me for Hayes. A rookie DA could get a death sentence for a violent pimp under these circumstances."
"It's not that simple, Tim." Stamm leaned forward. "I've received a few calls from some very influential people. They told me that you've been offered a shot at Harold Travis's seat."
Kerrigan stifled a curse. He should have seen this coming.
"These cases will put you in the spotlight for months and, as you just told me, Wendell's case is open and shut--so simple that a rookie DA could get a death sentence. You couldn't ask for a better way to get exposure. You'll have national coverage."
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