“My daughter,” I corrected, showing a slight smile. “We’re staying south of Yoakam Point, on Sunset Lane. Vacation for both of us.” I offered my hand. “I’m Cal Claxton.”
She looked a little embarrassed but met my eyes and shook my hand with a firm grip. “Aurora Dennison, but everyone calls me Rori. Where are you from, Cal?”
“Dundee.”
“The wine country. You a vintner?” She smiled, suggesting a playful side. “I love a good Oregon pinot.”
I laughed again. “Me, too, but no, I’m a lawyer not a vintner. I’ve got a one-man law practice there. My daughter’s visiting from Massachusetts, and we both love the coast, so here we are.”
Her smile turned wistful. “It’s nice you can spend time together like this.” The comment rang with emotional subtext, but I had no clue what it was.
“Yes, it is. She doesn’t get out to Oregon very often.” I hesitated for a few moments, then said out of curiosity more than anything else, “Uh, yesterday, I happened to overhear you talking about a man who drowned over on the Millicoma River.”
She swung her eyes to mine and locked on them. “Howard Coleman. You know him?”
“No. My daughter and I were fly-fishing on the river two days ago. We found his body and called 911.”
Her eyes got huge. “No. And then you came in here and heard Skip Feltzer and me talking about it?”
“Yeah. It was such a bizarre coincidence I thought I’d mention it. Have you told your grandson?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You were listening, weren’t you? No, I haven’t told him yet. He’s, ah…away.”
More subtext. “Well, I don’t envy you the task. My daughter actually found the body. It was pretty traumatic for her.”
“I can imagine.” She studied me for a moment as if turning something over in her mind. “I’m taking a break now, Cal. Can I interest you in another cappuccino? I’m buying.”
I could have easily made an excuse. After all, Claire was waiting for me back at the beach house, but curiosity got me again. “I never turn down a cup of coffee.” I followed her over to the bar. The decision seemed innocuous enough, but at the same time I had a feeling that having coffee with Rori Dennison would have consequences.
How right I was.
Chapter Four
Rori Dennison was a handsome woman. Sure, a lifetime of coastal living was evident in her face—the weathered complexion, deeply set laugh lines, and nests of fine wrinkles adjacent to striking, slate-blue eyes—but the result somehow enhanced her appearance, a face not spoiled by beauty, you might say. And there was something about her bearing, too, and the set of her jawline that told me she didn’t suffer any fools, a trait I valued highly.
“What kind of law do you practice, Cal?” She handed me a cappuccino after insisting I take a seat while she fetched our coffees.
“I’m a jack-of-all-trades. Have to be in a one-man practice in a small town. I also spend a day a week in Portland doing pro bono work.” She raised her eyebrows again. “Anybody who stops in off the street, indigents, homeless people. They have legal needs, just like the rest of us.”
“That’s quite a commitment.”
I sipped some coffee. “My way of giving back, I suppose. It’s never boring, either.”
Her eyes registered curiosity. “Giving back seems to be going out of style these days.” She paused, but I didn’t respond because I wanted to hear what she had to say. “We have a growing population of homeless people here in Coos Bay. I guess I don’t know where they get legal help.”
“The need usually goes unmet unless they’re being prosecuted. Then they have access to a public defender.”
She puffed a derisive breath. “Public defenders. They’re not worth the powder to blow them up. Our criminal justice system’s rigged for the rich.” She took a sip of coffee and abruptly changed to the subject I figured was on her mind. “Was Coleman really tied up like Skip said?”
“Yes. It appeared to be an execution.” She winced. “Your grandson knew the victim?”
“Yeah. He and Kenny have some history, and it isn’t good history.”
“What happened?”
She hesitated. “Howard Coleman was a jailhouse snitch. He lied in court, which helped convict my grandson of murder. Kenny got a life sentence without parole. He was sixteen at the time, just a kid, a beautiful kid. They tried him as an adult.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Rori. Did you appeal?”
“Oh, yeah. We appealed. And when we lost we filed a Petition for Review with the Oregon Supreme Court, but they refused to hear it. Then we tried both a Federal appeal and a Writ of Habeus Corpus with the Supreme Court, but those went nowhere.” She looked around and managed a wan smile. “Now I’m damn-near broke. My husband—God rest his ornery soul—left me a pile of money, but this shop’s all I’ve got left.”
“Have you talked to the Innocence Project people?”
“Yeah, they, ah, did review Kenny’s case, but they said they didn’t think they could help us.” She shrugged. “There’s no DNA evidence or anything like that. And Kenny confessed. It was coerced, and he recanted once we got him a lawyer.” She eyed me carefully to gauge my reaction, and when I simply nodded, she went on. “I pleaded with the Innocence folks, but it didn’t do any good.” By this time, her eyes burned with conviction. “That boy’s innocent, Cal. He didn’t kill anybody. And I’m not giving up on him.”
“When did this happen?”
She closed her eyes and ran the fingers of both hands through her hair. “Four years ago. Two years ago, when he turned eighteen, they transferred him from the juvenile facility to the state prison in Salem.” Her eyes filled. “Now he’s in with grown men, and he’s still just a kid.”
I shook my head. “How’s he holding up?”
She looked past me and gritted her teeth, forcing back tears. “He’s a good-looking kid, you know? But he’s big and strong, and he’s a fighter.” Her voice grew husky. “Prison’s truly hell on earth.”
“I know. It’s good he’s a fighter.” I paused, my mind going back to the sense of connection the coincidence engendered, however ephemeral. “Is there any reason to believe Howard Coleman’s murder is related to your grandson’s case?”
“Probably not. Coleman’s lifestyle finally caught up with him, most likely.” She allowed the wisp of a smile. “I should be considered a suspect, you know. God knows I had a motive to kill the lyin’ son of a bitch.”
A couple of shoppers were cruising the book aisles by this time, and one was standing at the counter with a couple of books. Rori stood up and smiled apologetically. “Sorry to cry on your shoulder, Cal. Coleman’s death really stirred me up.” She offered her hand, and when I took it she squeezed. “Thanks for listening.”
I left Coffee and Subversion that day feeling stirred up myself. I was touched by the depth of Rori Dennison’s commitment to her grandson, and I had questions. Lots of questions. And that was always a dangerous thing.
* * *
“What took you so long?” Claire asked, a little annoyed. “I packed us a snack and a thermos of coffee. We need to get on the road if we’re going to make the falls today.” She was referring to Golden and Silver Falls, our destination for a mellow afternoon hike. The second- and third-tallest waterfalls in the Coast Range, they were sure to be booming this time of year.
“Sorry. Got to talking to the woman who owns the bookshop, the one with the colorful hair.”
“About the body?”
“Yeah, that and other things.”
“She seemed interesting.”
I smiled. “She’s that, for sure.”
We took Route 241 east out of Coos Bay into the Coast Range, and as I drove, we talked about what Rori told me. When I finished describing what happened to Kenny Sanders, Claire said, “Are you kidding me? He got life
at sixteen? That’s horrible. I didn’t know Oregon tried juveniles as adults.”
“They didn’t until ’94, when voters passed a ballot initiative requiring it for certain crimes like rape and murder.”
“Do juries decide the penalties?”
“Yeah, but only within a narrow range of choices. For aggravated murder, they can choose death, life without parole, or life with the possibility of parole after thirty years.”
“What did the kid do?”
“I didn’t get any details, except that he confessed, then recanted. She said it was coerced.”
“Coerced? Is that a thing?”
“It can be, especially for someone young and naive. Trust me, law enforcement knows a lot of dirty tricks.”
“Well, even if he did it, a sixteen-year-old doesn’t have anything close to an adult brain yet. How can he be tried as an adult? That’s draconian.”
“I agree. The other side of it is that the murder must have been egregious for the jury to opt for no parole.”
“Still, a kid can be rehabilitated, even if he killed someone. His grandmother says he’s innocent. Does he have any chance of ever getting out of jail?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t sound good. They lost their appeals, and apparently the Innocence Project passed on it.”
“There’s an Innocence Project in Oregon?”
“Yeah. I don’t know any of their lawyers, but I hear they’re good.”
“Why did they pass on him?”
“I’m not sure. They decided they couldn’t help him, for whatever reason. They don’t have a lot of resources, so they have to prioritize. There might be one avenue of appeal left—the Supreme Court ruled recently that juvenile offenders can only be denied parole when they’re judged to be beyond redemption. That could provide grounds for a last-ditch appeal. The issue would be what factors were considered by the sentencing court.”
“Did you tell the grandmother that?”
“I didn’t, but she probably knows. Trouble is, the appeal would only provide eligibility for parole in the distant future. She wants exoneration, not a parole hearing when her grandson’s fifty.”
Claire sat back in her seat and crossed her arms. “Sickening.”
At the trailhead parking lot, Archie bounded out of the back seat like an escaping prisoner. We let him run and sniff for a while before snapping on his leash. The short hike to Silver Falls proceeded through towering old-growth Douglas firs mingled with alders and maples, all growing in a green sea of sword ferns and salmonberry. As a special treat, the whole scene was overlaid with a spray of white trillium. Claire bent over one of the delicate blossoms for a closer look, then turned to me, beaming. “These just bloomed, Dad, probably this morning.”
I laughed. “I ordered it up just for you, sweetheart.”
Silver Falls cascaded over a rocky dome, then halfway down its one-hundred-and-sixty-foot descent it was transformed into a fine mist that billowed up at the base like smoke. We moved in close for some pictures, then quickly out again to keep from getting soaked by the dew, laughing the whole way.
After hiking the steep trail to the top of Golden Falls, we took a break. Fed by a swifter, more voluminous creek, the higher falls plunged over an upper tier before hurtling down a sheer, rocky embankment. I gave Arch some water while Claire poured us coffee and squeezed peanut butter from a tube onto crackers, our go-to trail snack. “Bon appétit,” she said, handing me a cracker.
We ate in silence for a while, the sun gently warming us and the steady thrum of the waterfall like a mantra. Claire took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Mom would have loved this place. Wish we would have done more hiking back then.”
“Me, too,” I said as my chest tightened a little. “She was busy teaching, and I was busy being an asshole.”
Claire brought her eyes up to mine and didn’t smile at my self-deprecating remark. “I didn’t mean that as criticism, Dad. It wasn’t your fault, what happened to Mom.”
I’d heard that from my daughter many, many times. She forgave me for being a selfish jerk, who was so self-absorbed that he misjudged the depth of her mother’s depression. But I hadn’t forgiven myself. I looked away. “Yeah, you’re right—your mom would have loved this place.”
Claire started to respond but was cut off by the sharp cry of a bald eagle that swooped down not fifty feet from us and then banked into a sharp turn, showing the full spread of its wingspan and eliciting a couple of startled barks from Archie. Claire leaped to her feet. “Oh, Dad! Isn’t he magnificent?”
I jumped up, too, and we stood watching as the big raptor glided out of sight. After the excitement, Claire didn’t come back to the subject of her mother. I was thankful for that. Whoever said time heals all wounds was dead wrong.
* * *
That night, after dinner, Claire said, “You’ve been really quiet, Dad. You’re not upset about what I said up at the falls, are you? That was dumb of me.”
“It wasn’t dumb, and I’m not upset about anything. I, uh, I guess it’s this Kenny Sanders thing. Finding the body on the river and then learning about the connection to him. I don’t know, it’s just hard to shake, for some reason.”
She looked at me and sighed. “I think that woman convinced you that her grandson’s innocent. If that’s the case, maybe you should talk to her again. There might be something you can do to help the kid.” I looked back at her, surprised she would grant me such permission. She smiled, and I saw her mother’s face for a moment. “You won’t be good company unless you do, Dad.”
She was right, of course.
Chapter Five
“Remember, check the IDs of everyone who signs. We don’t want any glitches in these petitions,” Rori Dennison said to a group of people assembled in front of the community bulletin board at Coffee and Subversion. Although she wore jeans and a peasant blouse, she had the bearing of a commanding general. I’d just entered the bookstore the next morning and was standing at the back of the crowd. A young man with a nose ring and inked-up forearms handed me a sheet of paper that read:
Stop the LNG Export Terminal at Jackson Point
We, the undersigned, request that our state take decisive action to block the proposed liquified natural gas terminal and pipeline connection at Jackson Point. If our state government is as committed to combatting climate change as it says, it is madness to pipe LNG from the fracking fields of Colorado across southern Oregon to Coos Bay, impacting 485 rivers, streams, and wetlands along the way. This project threatens our water, our air, our wildlife, and our fishing and tourism industries.
STOP THIS ENVIRONMENTAL CATASTROPHE, MADAM GOVERNOR!
Rori answered a bevy of questions, and then the group filed out of the coffee shop, each carrying a thick stack of petitions and an obvious fervor for the mission. Without seeing me, she went into the back of the shop with two other people without seeing me, so I migrated over to the stacks to look around. I found myself browsing through the poetry section, where I spotted a worn copy of Silvia Plath’s Ariel, my wife’s favorite book. I opened the slender volume and read the one that had touched her most, the title poem describing a horse ride for the ages. At the time, it never occurred to me that Nancy and Sylvia were kindred souls, suffering from the kind of sensitivity that makes it difficult to cope in this world. I closed the book and started to put it back.
“Hello, Cal. Welcome back.” I turned around and Rori smiled, eyeing the book in my hand. “One of my favorite books of poetry.”
“It was my wife’s favorite book, period.” Her brow raised slightly, acknowledging either the significance of that statement or my use of the past tense, or maybe both. “A little too bleak for my taste,” I added.
“It was Plath’s way of keeping her demons at bay.” A lot of good it did her, I thought but didn’t say. Rori continued, “I’m kind of embarrassed to admit it, but I g
oogled you last night, Cal. Felt like an invasion of privacy. You’ve been involved in some interesting cases over the years.”
I nodded, realizing we were headed in the same direction. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking about your grandson’s case last night and had a couple of questions.”
A wry smile. “Coffee’s on me again.”
The book aisles were empty, so after we got our drinks Rori told the barista—a young man named Anthony—to watch both sides of the house. As she led me through a back door, I said, “You really fired up the troops out there. How’s the LNG fight shaping up?”
“Horrible,” she said, as she stopped and turned to face me, her eyes blazing. “We got our asses kicked on a local ballot measure to stop the thing last year. The corporate interests poured a ton of money into it, and we couldn’t begin to compete. We’re so divided here. God knows we need the jobs, but setting aside the global-warming issue, siting a mega facility in an earthquake and tsunami zone’s plain stupid. Look what happened at Fukushima, for Christ’s sake.”
“Where does the governor stand?”
Rori’s laughter rang with sarcasm. “We’re not sure. It’s an election year.”
She turned back, and I followed her into a small space that doubled as a storeroom and office. Boxes of books, most of them used, and some framed photographs lined one wall, and a series of shelves holding bags of coffee beans, napkins, and other supplies lined the other. She took a seat at a battered metal desk, and I sat down across from her.
“Looks like your shop is headquarters for the opposition.”
A look of pride crossed her face momentarily. “It is. For the LNG fight and a lot of other causes. I used to sit on the sidelines and grumble, but after what happened to Kenny, I got woke, as they say.” She laughed again. “But don’t get me started.”
A photograph of a woman and a young boy sat on a cluttered table behind the desk. Ten or twelve, the towheaded boy looked straight at the camera with bright, eager eyes and a broad smile. With an arm slung around the boy, the woman had a more practiced smile and eyes that expressed love and pride but hid something, too. Pain, maybe.
No Way to Die Page 3