"Who says they get to decide that?" Talon huffed. "They don't get to decide that. And they sure as hell don't get to decide that and just bury it in a property sheet with some three-letter abbreviation. Whoever decided it had no value should have written a report about why they think that."
But Curt shrugged. "They always dust weapons for prints. Usually there aren't any, or, like here, they aren't any good. They aren't gonna write a report every time they try something and fail."
"I want the jury to hear every time they try and fail," Talon shot back. "Every single time."
Curt nodded, but didn't change his dubious expression.
Talon narrowed her eyes at him. "Whose side are you on anyway?"
Curt shook off his expression. "Yours. Of course."
Talon returned her eyes to her reports. "Damn right you are."
CHAPTER 15
Washington State Penitentiary was located just northwest of downtown Walla Walla, Washington. The city had done its best to project a tourist-friendly image of wineries and sweet onions—and had been relatively successful, at least within the Northwest. But when the state's highest security prison, complete with an actual death row, was located there, too, it was bound to define the city. At least for the types of business travelers whose business was crime and punishment. Travelers like Talon Winter and Curt Fairchild.
"I thought it would look drabber," Talon commented as they arrived on the secured campus. She pointed at the largest and nearest building. "More black and gray, less taupe and green. It looks like a high school."
Curt cocked his head and appraised the structure. "Yeah, I guess it kind of does. Only with guard towers."
"Have you been here before?" Talon asked.
Curt nodded. "Oh yeah. Remember, I've been doing this longer than you have. I've probably been to every prison in the state by now. And definitely Walla Walla."
Talon thought for a moment. Then she just nodded and said, "Oh."
* * *
Visitors were required to check in at the front control area. Family and friends could only visit during predetermined visiting hours, but attorneys, and their investigators, could schedule a visit any time between 8:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. Talon nodded toward the chairs in the waiting area, then told Curt, "Go grab a seat. I'll check us in."
Curt opened his mouth to say something, but Talon walked away before he could say it.
"Hello," she greeted the uniformed prison guard through the metal grate embedded in the bulletproof glass that surrounded his cubicle. She offered her driver's license and state bar card. "I'm attorney Talon Winter. I'm here to meet with prisoner Jamal Jeffries."
The guard seemed unimpressed, but he turned to his computer and confirmed her appointment. He opened a slat at the bottom of the glass, and positioned two visitor badges to slide to Talon. Before doing so, though, he nodded toward Curt, who had walked past the chairs and was leaning against a post, looking out the window. "Is he with you?"
Talon turned around reflexively, even though she knew who he was referring to. There was no one else in the lobby at 8:20 on a random Tuesday. "Yes. He's my investigator."
"I'll need his I.D. too," the guard explained.
Talon sighed, then called out, "Curt."
Curt turned to face her, then smiled and walked over. He slid his driver's license to the guard without being prompted.
The guard took the I.D.s and pushed forward the visitor badges. Curt clipped his to his shirt pocket.
"You knew they were going to need your I.D. too, didn't you?" Talon asked as she clipped her own visitor badge to her jacket.
"Of course," Curt replied. "I told you I'd been here before."
"Why didn't you say something?" Talon asked.
Curt chuckled. "Remember how you're not subtle?" he said. "Well, you also don't listen to people you think you're better than."
Talon wasn't sure what to say. But it didn't matter. She didn't have time to say it anyway.
"Winter! Fairchild!" A second guard called out from a secure door he had just opened at the side of the check-in cage. "Follow me."
* * *
They walked behind the guard—a big burly fellow, probably in his late fifties—into the bowels of the prison. Or at least the upper colon. Talon supposed they wouldn't be allowed too deep inside. At least she hoped so. The drabness that had been lacking outside was on full display inside. The walls were painted two-tone gray, the darker shade extending from the gray linoleum floor to about waist height. The seriousness of the location suffocated any inclination to talk with Curt, especially with the guard right in front of them. But she wasn't about to let that last comment go unchallenged forever.
"We're here," the guard announced as they arrived at a row of doors marked 'Attorney Meeting Rooms.' He opened the second door from the left and gestured for them to enter. "Jeffries is already inside."
Talon motioned for Curt to go in first, then followed him inside where she finally got her first look at her star witness. She was disappointed.
Jamal Jeffries just looked small. He was shrunk into a small chair in the corner of the room, behind a table that was also small but which seemed larger in comparison to him. He was slouched with his hands clasped down between his knees. He had long hair that might have made an impressive afro, if he'd had the inclination to maintain it. Instead, his hair just extended straight backward from his face, as if pulled repeatedly with his own fingers. It left the impression of something surprising, or windy, or explosive, directly in front of his face. His eyes were deep set, but open a little too wide, embedded in black bags against his otherwise medium brown skin. His lips were cracked.
“So, you’re Jamal Jeffries?” Talon asked after a moment.
“Sure am,” the prisoner replied with a weak grin.
Talon sighed. “Great.” She motioned for Curt to take a seat at the table, opposite Jamal. She joined him and took a legal pad out of her briefcase. She clicked her pen, and sighed again. Then she got to it.
“Did Zeke have enough time to tell you what to say?”
Jamal blinked those wide eyes of his. “Uh… I know I’m supposed to tell the truth.”
Talon laughed. “You know you’re supposed to say that, too, right?” she asked. “Save it for the jury. This isn’t court. You can say whatever you want. Whatever you think you’re supposed to. If I don’t believe you, then I don’t call you as a witness. No one even knows I was here.”
“Except Zeke,” Jamal added.
“Except Zeke,” Talon confirmed. “He knows we came here. And I’ll tell him what you say. But it’s my decision whether to call you as a witness, and I’ll do that based on whether I believe you can help the case. And whether I believe you, period.”
Jamal thought for a moment. “Is it true Zeke is looking at life without parole?”
“Yes,” Talon confirmed with a tight nod. “If the gun and the drugs were both his. If it was only one or the other, then he’s okay. He’ll still go to prison, but he’ll get out again.”
Jamal returned his own nod. “So, which one is better to say was mine? The gun or the drugs?”
“How about the one that actually was?” Talon answered.
“Or the gun,” Curt jumped in. “The gun is better.”
“Yeah?” Jamal asked.
Talon paused. Then, “Yeah, the gun is better.”
“Okay, then,” Jamal said. “The gun was mine.”
But Talon wasn’t comfortable with how they’d gotten there. “Were you even there that night?”
“What night?” Jamal asked.
“The night the cops stopped the car,” Talon expanded.
Jamal frowned. “Why’d they stop it?”
Talon laughed. “Black males in a shitty car after dark in the wrong neighborhood? Why do you think they stopped it?”
“Yeah, well, look,” Jamal shrugged in reply. “I’ve been in for a few weeks now. I was out on a drug sentencing alternative, but I stopped going to treatment, so
they revoked me. Now I’m sitting on three years. But while I was out, well, I don’t remember a lot. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay clean for two whole years, so I figured I’d get as high as I could for as long as I could before they found me. So, you tell me. Was I there?”
Curt pulled out some papers and compared dates. “You were definitely out of custody on the date of the stop,” he confirmed. “But were you hanging out in South Tacoma then?”
“Sure,” Jamal offered.
“’Sure’ isn’t gonna cut it,” Talon interjected. “If I do use you, if I do put you on the stand, I’m gonna need better than ‘sure.’”
“Okay.” Jamal nodded. “’Yes.’ Is that better?”
“Sure,” Talon grinned.
Curt smiled at that too. “So, were you hanging out with Zeke before you went back in?”
“Man, I was hanging out with anyone who had drugs, you know?” Jamal answered, sounding truly honest for the first time. “If Zeke had drugs, I was there.”
Talon clicked her tongue. “Not exactly what I want to tell the jury,” she said. “Who else was there?”
Jamal hesitated.
“And don’t say, ‘Who do you want me to say was there?’” she instructed.
Jamal shook his head. “No, no. I was just trying to remember. I wasn’t there when the car got stopped, but I was hanging out with them before, and I remember when Bear got the car.”
“Bear?” Talon interrupted. “Who’s Bear?”
“Bear is Bear,” Jamal answered. “Some White dude with black hair and way too many tattoos. I don’t know his real name.”
Talon closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Curt took over. “So Bear got the car?”
“Yeah,” Jamal confirmed. “It was a smoker loaner. Traded it for some dope. I don’t know if it was hot or what, but we just needed a ride to get from point A to point B.”
“You mean, drug house A to drug house B?” Talon ventured.
Jamal shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
“So Bear got the car for you guys,” Talon said. “Who got the gun?”
Jamal shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Bear, too, I guess.”
“I thought you were going to say it was your gun?” Curt reminded him.
“I don’t know whose gun it was,” Jamal answered. “’Cept I know it wasn’t Zeke’s.”
“How do you know that?” Talon asked.
“’Cause Zeke doesn’t like guns,” Jamal answered. “He likes crack, but he doesn’t like guns. Some guys, they’re always flashing their guns around, like it makes them cool or whatever. Zeke was the guy sitting in the corner, ignoring those guys with the guns. He was looking for a high, not to get shot. And ain’t no better way to get shot than to be flashing a gun around.”
Talon looked to Curt. “The gun was under the driver’s seat.”
Curt nodded. “So it was probably this Bear guy’s.”
“Something to argue anyway,” Talon concluded.
“Especially if that print has some value after all,” Curt added.
“So, it’s okay I didn’t say it was my gun?” Jamal asked. The glint of fear had returned to his eyes.
“It’s great,” Talon reassured him. “I want to call you as a witness, but I can’t do that if I think you’re lying. What you just said helps us. And it sounds like it might even be true.”
CHAPTER 16
The truth shall set you free, Talon thought as she rode the elevator back up to the ninth floor of the County-City Building in downtown Tacoma. Maybe it would set Ezekiel Frazier free too.
But she wasn’t holding her breath.
She stepped off the elevator and into the well-appointed lobby of the Prosecutor’s Office. Laura Alcott had been professional enough to schedule another meeting with her, after Talon emailed that she had new evidence that might make her reassess her position. But she hadn’t seemed enthusiastic about it. Worse yet, she hadn’t seemed interested. At a minimum, the prosecutor should be interested in evidence that might cast doubt on a defendant’s guilt. Shouldn’t she?
Alcott was punctual, at least, as she opened the door to the lobby. But she was less friendly than last time. Last time, they hadn’t really known each other. Now they each had reasons to dislike the other.
“So,” Alcott sat at her desk and folded her hands, “you have new evidence or something?”
“Or something,” Talon repeated, already losing hope. “I found a witness who will testify that the gun didn’t belong to my guy.”
“Oh, really?” Alcott replied, her hands still folded on her desk. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Who is it, his mom?”
“No,” Talon answered, ignoring the jab. “It’s just some guy who was hanging out with him around the time of the stop. He’ll testify that my guy didn’t like guns and the car was a smoker loaner from some guy named Bear. The gun must have been his.”
“Bear?” Alcott raised an eyebrow. “Do you know his real name?”
Talon shook her head. “No. These guys weren’t planning on opening a business together, you know? They weren’t passing around social security numbers and W-2’s. Bear got the car, the gun was in the car, my guy didn’t know about it.”
“And where is this witness of yours now?” Alcott asked, leaning back in her chair.
Talon did her best to maintain a poker face. “Washington State Penitentiary.”
“Walla Walla?” Alcott laughed. “Your star witness is in a maximum security prison?”
“That’s how these cases are,” Talon defended. “I take the witnesses who were there. There aren’t a lot of priests and rabbis hanging out at two a.m. in South Tacoma smoking crack.”
“Mm-hm, sure,” Alcott said, like that teacher no one liked. She turned to her computer. “And what’s Mr. Walla Walla’s name? Or is it just ‘Turtle’ or ‘Giraffe’ or something?”
Talon again ignored Alcott’s little joke. “Jamal Jeffries.”
“Do you have a date of birth?” Alcott asked as she typed the name into the system.
“It’s in my file.” Talon didn’t reach down to pull it out of her briefcase. “But you’ll see him. His middle name is Malcolm and he’s got a lot of history. He’s doing three years at Walla Walla.”
Alcott typed a few more keystrokes, then hit enter. As she waited for the results, she turned back to Talon. “How was he hanging out with your guy if he was doing three years in Walla Walla?”
“He was on a diversion,” Talon explained. “But he skipped out on treatment and warranted. They found him right after my guy got arrested.”
“Again, how convenient,” Alcott sneered. “And I bet it’s not Strike Three for him, is it?”
“It wasn’t my guy’s gun, so it’s not Strike Three for anyone,” Talon answered. “At least it shouldn’t be. Except maybe Bear.”
“Well, maybe,” Alcott suggested with a saccharine smile, again like that teacher everyone hated, “your guy is Bear.”
Talon shook her head. “No, Bear was White. That much I confirmed.”
Alcott nodded and turned away again with a grunt that seemed to translate as ‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’
“Hm,” she said after a few moments. “Jeffries has a lot of history,” she confirmed, “but no prior strikes. Mostly drug stuff and thefts.”
“Which are also drug stuff,” Talon pointed out. “But that’s good, right? You’re in the drug unit. My guy will plead guilty to the drugs, and we can send him off to Walla Walla for a couple of years. Maybe he can even be cellies with Mr. Jeffries.”
“I am in the drug unit,” Alcott admitted, “but I’m not getting out of here by dumping gun charges in exchange for more drug convictions. And I’m sure as hell not going to get out of here dropping a third strike to a simple possession just because some defense attorney feeds me a line of B.S. about some career criminal in Walla Walla who’s going to perjure himself and say the gun was his.”
Talon blinked at her. “There is so m
uch wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start.”
“You could start,” again, that terrible teacher, “by telling your client that you won’t put on perjured testimony just to save him from the sentence the law requires for his crimes.”
“I have a witness,” Talon slowed and deepened her voice, “who says the gun didn’t belong to my client. That means he’s innocent.”
“That means,” Alcott returned, “your witness is lying to get him out of life without parole. I don’t believe it. And neither will the jury.”
“But it’s true,” Talon urged.
Alcott just crossed her arms and shrugged.
“So, what?” Talon followed up. “No deals? No offer? Nothing?”
“I’m afraid not,” Alcott answered. “As far as I’m concerned, this changes nothing.”
Talon nodded. “Yeah, I kind of figured you’d say that.” She finally reached down to her briefcase and pulled out some papers. “Here.”
“What’s this?” Alcott uncrossed her arms to take the pleading Talon was handing her. “Motion to suppress evidence? On what grounds?”
Talon shrugged. “Take your pick. No warrant, no warrant exceptions, lack of probable cause, lack of jurisdiction, change of venue, statute of limitations, laches. Whatever I can think of. If I can get either the gun or the drugs suppressed, it’s goodbye Strike Three. If I get them both suppressed, it’s goodbye to your entire case.” She threw her arms open to Alcott’s office. “And hello to the drug unit forever.”
There was no point to being nice any more. That ploy had failed. Now it was time to needle. An angry prosecutor was a sloppy prosecutor. It was for strategic reasons. Mostly.
“So, you’re just filing some B.S. motion because you want a deal?” Alcott demanded. “Not based on any facts or law? Do you defense attorneys even know what ethics are?”
Talon paused. An angry defense attorney could also be a sloppy defense attorney. She was angry. But she wasn’t about to let herself get sloppy.
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