I looked at the photograph. “Is that Kenny?”
“Yes, with his mother, Krysta.” Rori looked away. “Krysta died of ovarian cancer a year after Kenny was convicted.” She hesitated a moment, then looked back at me. “The cancer got diagnosed late, and I don’t think she had the will to resist. The conviction took the fight right out of her.”
“What a shame. What about his father?”
She shrugged. “His biological dad’s out of the picture. He took off after Krysta got pregnant with Kenny, and we never saw him again. It was good riddance. The only thing he ever mastered was rolling a joint. She married again when Kenny was ten. She and Walter split up shortly after the trial. Just as well. Walter Sanders wasn’t much of a husband, or a father, either. Money was his thing, money and prestige.”
“Tell me about the crime.”
She sipped some coffee, set the cup down, and leaned forward. “The victim was Walter’s business partner, a guy named Sonny Jenson. They owned a company that dealt in real estate and other businesses.” She hiked a corner of her mouth up in derision. “Seemed like they were always one deal away from hitting it big back then. Somebody killed Sonny at his home. His wife found the body in the garage. Beaten to death. When I saw the first photo at the trial, I had to look away. It was god-awful.”
“Murder weapon?”
“A blunt object. Could’ve been a hammer from his tool rack, but it was never recovered, and his wife couldn’t say whether one was missing or not. He was in his garage, and someone apparently surprised him.”
“Any evidence tying Kenny to the scene?”
“Well, they found his fingerprints in a couple of places in the garage and on a bloody gardening glove that they made a big deal of. Kenny cleaned Sonny’s pool and did yardwork there, so duh. What did they expect?”
“They lifted a print from a glove?”
“It was cloth on the top and smooth rubber underneath. There were two prints on the rubber side. One was Kenny’s, and the other was too smeared to identify. The glove was apparently used to wipe the killer’s hands, maybe the murder weapon, too. We argued that Kenny’s print was already on the glove.”
“It must have been a messy scene. Did they look for Sonny’s DNA on Kenny?”
“Yes, and they found nothing. His car was clean, too. Turns out he went surfing the next morning without a wetsuit, and they used that as an excuse for not finding anything on his body. And Krysta did the wash that Saturday morning like she always did. They used that excuse, too.”
“Anything missing from the house?”
“Yeah. Some cash, his wedding band, and a bunch of his wife’s jewelry. None of that stuff ever turned up.”
“How was Kenny implicated?”
She drained her coffee, combed her hair with the fingers of one hand, and frowned. “It was a Friday night. Kenny was out delivering a package at Barview on the west side of the bay at the time of the murder. The customer never showed, and no one saw him out there. The deputy sheriffs picked him up the next day.” She sighed deeply. “He never got out of jail after that.”
“Deputy sheriffs? Sonny lived outside the city?”
“Yeah, Crown Point, on the east side of the South Slough. So the murder fell in Sheriff Stoddard’s jurisdiction, not the city’s. Anyway, those bastards grilled him for twelve hours straight and got him to sign a confession. We got him an attorney the following day, Kenny immediately recanted the confession, the damage was done.”
“Was the attorney local?”
“Lincoln City. A lawyer named Arnold Pierce. Walter, Kenny’s stepfather, found him.” She laughed bitterly. “Pierce was an incompetent ass. We tried to repair the damage on appeal, but we failed.”
“Why did the cops suspect Kenny in the first place?”
She sighed again. “He’d been working for Sonny for six months or so. They, ah, got into an argument over the amount of money Kenny was owed. Kenny shoved him, apparently, and then keyed Sonny’s new Prius on his way out. Sonny called the cops, and Kenny got arrested. But Walter intervened. That was a month before the murder.”
“Where does Howard Coleman fit in?”
“Coleman was in jail for an assault charge of some kind when Kenny got arrested. He and Kenny shared a cell for a day or so. He testified that Kenny bragged to him that he ‘beat some dude to death and robbed him.’” Her eyes narrowed down, and I could feel the heat of her brooding anger. “Coleman got a reduced sentence after that.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“A woman saw a young man get out of a Honda like Kenny’s at a Jiffy Mart near Sonny’s home at about the time of the murder. She picked Kenny out of a lineup.”
I fell silent for a few moments before meeting Rori’s eyes, which were fixed on me. Her expression was half defiance and half supplication. I said, “From twenty-thousand feet, it’s a pretty damning picture. Kenny had the semblance of a motive, he apparently couldn’t prove he wasn’t there, and he certainly had the means. Why are you so sure your grandson’s innocent?”
Rori didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, he’s my blood, so I’m going to be supportive. But, my God, if I felt Kenny really killed Sonny Jenson I wouldn’t be talking to you.” She hesitated, seeming to search for the words. “If that beautiful daughter of yours were accused of some horrendous crime, you’d know whether she did it or not, right? I mean, I can sense you two have a close relationship.” I nodded. She had that right. “Well, that’s the way it is between Kenny and me. I know he didn’t do it, Cal.”
I was moved but not convinced. After all, angry male teens were capable of unthinkable violence these days, although assault rifles and not hammers were usually the weapons of choice. But Rori’s analogy to Claire resonated with me. “I’m no appellate attorney, Rori, and it sounds like there aren’t any viable appeals that haven’t already been tried, but it might make sense to have a fresh pair of eyes look at the evidence and talk to some of the principals involved. Maybe some facts got overlooked. It happens. Of course, the case is cold, so it’s a long shot at best.”
Her face brightened. “You would do that?”
I looked her in the eye. “I’d want to talk to Kenny first.”
She caught my drift and smiled with confidence. “Sure. Of course. You’ll realize immediately that you’re talking to an innocent young man.”
“I’ll call the prison to request a visit as his attorney. You need to give Kenny a heads-up that I’m coming and explain that I just want to go over the case with him. Don’t promise anything.”
“Okay, I can leave him a message on the prison’s voice mail system. Um, what will you charge, I mean if you decide to take his case?”
I shrugged. “Nothing until I talk to him. If we decide to go ahead, I’ll need a retainer, say, a thousand dollars. When that runs out, we’ll review the bidding. I’m still on vacation, too, so I’m not proposing a full-time job here.” Rori extended her hand, and we shook on it. “Good. Now, what can you tell me about Howard Coleman?”
She rolled her eyes. “He was a few bricks short of a full load, that’s what. Drove a truck when he wasn’t selling drugs or carousing. He did love to fly-fish”—she looked at me and smiled—“so he must have had some redeeming virtues. Lived off and on with a woman named Sissy Anderson. Last I heard she was waiting tables at the Fishmonger in North Bend.”
“Who’d Howard drive for?”
“Sloat Trucking. Biggest in the area.” A knowing smile. “Some of its drivers have been known to move more than timber.” I gave her a blank look, and she added, “Drugs.”
She answered a few more questions before we said our goodbyes. I’m no adrenaline junkie, but I admit I left Rori Dennison that day feeling a sharp sense of anticipation. If Kenny Sanders convinced me he was innocent, then the hunt would be on for the real killer. At the same time, I knew my offer of help had built an inflated
sense of hope in Rori. I could see it in her eyes. The thought of failing her and Kenny brought my pulse back down.
Call it a standoff.
Chapter Six
Waterdrops shed by Claire’s unfurling fly line sparkled like jewels in the sunlight. She snapped her forearm forward, and the line reversed course, carrying the bright yellow bass popper forty feet in front of her in a graceful arc. “Nice cast! Now let the popper sink a foot or two… That’s right. Now strip some line. Quick jerks. That’s it… Nice… Okay, bring it in and cast again. There’s a big old bass down there somewhere, I can feel it.”
It was two days later, and I was coaching Claire on the finer points of fly-fishing for smallmouth bass. We were on the lower Umpqua River, above the tidewater zone at Reedsport, and this was her go at smallies, who strike a fly with a ferocity that belies their name. It was a breezy, sun-dappled day, and the river ran smooth and deep past banks crowded with alders and maples. Our plan was to mix a little pleasure with a trip inland to the State Penitentiary, where I’d arranged a meeting with Kenny Sanders that afternoon.
Always fascinated with my work, Claire had lobbied to sit in. “I can take notes and give you a second opinion on the kid,” she argued.
I valued her judgment and having a notetaker would free me up during the interview, but this was a sensitive area. “I don’t know, Claire,” I responded. “I’d have to declare you my legal assistant to get you in there, and I can’t lie about that.”
“I’ve got a flexible schedule right now, Dad. I could stay and assist you until you decide what you’re going to do.” She gave me that smile. “I’ll be the best damn assistant you’ve ever had.”
There were potential attorney-client privilege issues that would have to be addressed, but how could I turn down an offer like that? I agreed, and since I had a contact at the prison I was able to expedite her background check.
Claire caught on fast to the bass fishing and must have hooked into and released a half dozen big olive green and bronze beauties before we called it a morning. We changed out of our fishing garb and followed the river inland on the Umpqua Highway. For my money, that river valley was one of the prettiest in Oregon—an emerald green topography of rolling hills, river drainages, and dense forests punctuated with small farms and the occasional vineyard.
After putting the Coast Range behind us, we took I-5 north, passing the turnoffs to Oregon’s two main college towns—Eugene, and then forty-five miles later, Corvallis—before exiting the interstate in Salem. Like a fortified island in a two-hundred-acre buffer zone, the State Prison lay just a mile and a half from the Oregon State Capitol, if flown by a crow. We found a shaded parking spot, and after a short walk, Archie resigned himself to a wait in the car. He knew the drill.
For a prison, the three-story administration building wasn’t that ugly, sporting what looked like a fresh coat of dun-colored paint with dark trim, arched windows, and an entrance with a double-sided staircase and actual landscaping. After signing in and showing our driver’s licenses and my Oregon Bar card, we passed through security and were led across a courtyard in the shadow of a twenty-five-foot concrete wall. Glimpsing an armed guard watching us from above, Claire said “whoa” under her breath.
We were shown into a windowless conference room that adjoined the maximum-security wing, which housed the most violent offenders, including better than thirty condemned to die by lethal injection. Since the current governor was honoring a death penalty moratorium put in place by her predecessor, these prisoners were in limbo. Claire’s laptop was allowed in for note-taking, but we’d been stripped of pens, pencils, and keys.
A few minutes later, Kenny Sanders was brought in and shackled to a steel chair across from us. He was tall, at least six three, and despite his loose-fitting denim uniform, I could see he was ripped. He had Rori’s slate-blue eyes, a round face, and a downy blond mustache and goatee that fell well short of making him look older. After I introduced Claire and myself, he rested his eyes on my daughter for a couple of beats. She shifted in her seat and glanced at me. His look wasn’t salacious, more like that of a man who’d just arrived at a blooming oasis after a long slog in the desert. Judging from Claire’s expression, she wasn’t offended, and I wasn’t, either.
He swung his gaze to mine and without blinking said, “Grandma Rori said I’m supposed to convince you I’m innocent. How does that work?”
“I don’t want you to try to convince me of anything, Kenny. Just tell me the truth about what happened. If I think I can help you, I’ll give it a try.”
He shrugged, looking unimpressed. “I’ve run all my appeals out. What could you possibly do?”
“That’s a fair question. Maybe nothing. I won’t know until I get all the facts on the table, and it starts with you. Are you willing to help me?”
He shrugged again. “I got nothin’ else to do.”
I leaned in. “Let’s start with Howard Coleman. You know he’s dead, right?”
“Yeah. Grandma told me. Said you two found his body. That’s pretty weird, huh?”
I nodded. “How did you make contact with Coleman after you were arrested?”
Kenny shrugged. “For the first couple of days they put me in with the general population. He was in there, too.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah, but he’s the one who, out of the blue, came up to me and started shooting the breeze the second day. I thought it was a little strange at the time. I mean, why did he pick me out? There were lots of guys in that cell.”
“Did you talk about Sonny’s murder with him?”
“Hell, no. I didn’t say a word about it to anybody in that jail.”
“Any idea why someone would kill Coleman?”
Another shrug. “There’s a tight Coos Bay–North Bend network in here. Maybe a year ago, I heard he was heavy into the fentanyl and heroin business on the coast. Maybe he stepped on somebody’s toes?”
“Okay, let’s go back in time. Tell us about the fight you had with Sonny Jenson.”
“That? It was a joke, man. He was supposed to be this model citizen and all, but he was a bastard to work for. Always nitpicking and bitching, but he got majorly pissed when his pool had a pea-green algae bloom. He tried to blame it on me, but I’d been telling him to buy more chlorine for weeks. So he says he’s not going to pay me.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him that wasn’t fair, that I wanted my money. He said I couldn’t talk to him like that, got right in my face and pushed me hard, told me to get out. I shoved him back and he went into the pool, wearing his Rolex and carrying his cell phone. He came up sputtering, and I told him I quit. Okay, when I left I decorated his Prius with a key.” Kenny showed a sly smile, as if relishing the memory. “That hybrid was his pride and joy. Mr. Environmental Consciousness.”
“You didn’t hit him?”
“Hell, no. He didn’t have a mark on him, but he called the cops and said I not only scratched up his car but that I physically assaulted him. All I did was shove him back. Luckily, my stepdad was his business partner. But Walter wouldn’t have done a damn thing to help if my mom hadn’t stepped in.”
“That’s the whole story?” He nodded. “Do you know of anyone who would’ve had a reason to kill Sonny?”
Did his eyes widen ever so slightly? I wasn’t sure. “No. As I said, he had this do-gooder reputation, at least that’s what he wanted people to think. I knew better. He was two-faced. Maybe somebody else knew that, too.”
I paused for Claire to finish typing. “Tell us about the night of the murder, where you were, what you did.”
“I was getting ready to meet my girlfriend when a job came up. I used to deliver drugs now and then to make extra money for college.” He paused to gauge my reaction. I didn’t give him one, although I was annoyed that Rori had left the drug dealing out. He continued. “I d
rove down to Barview, but the guy never showed.”
“And nobody saw you there?”
“I don’t think so. I waited in the parking lot of a little market there. I thought it was a little weird, but I had had no-shows before.”
“Did you take the order on your cell?”
“No. A dude named Jerry Crawford gave me the job in person. He was an ecstasy supplier. I only sold that and weed. No hard shit.”
“Did Crawford corroborate your story?”
Kenny laughed. “No. He claimed he didn’t even know me.”
After getting Crawford’s full name, I said, “Is he still in the area?”
“Nah. I heard he moved up to Seattle.”
“Any reason to think he set you up?”
Kenny twisted a lock of his beard between his thumb and forefinger. “He was no friend of mine, but I don’t know why he’d do that.”
“Who was his source?”
“He never said. Maybe someone at Sloat.”
“The trucking company?”
“Yeah, you know, they sometimes have a little extra room in their trucks.”
“That’s what your grandmother told me. Didn’t Howard Coleman drive for Sloat?”
Kenny shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What about the witness who put you in the vicinity of the murder scene?”
“Marion the Librarian?” He exhaled a breath in frustration, and I caught Claire suppressing a smile. “Her name’s Ellen Dempsey. Volunteers at the library or some shit. She picked me out of that lineup, said I was at the parking lot of the Jiffy Mart in Crown Point.” His eyes flared ever so slightly. “She was mixed up or lying. I wasn’t anywhere near there.”
“Did you have a cell phone with you that night?”
He shook his head. “My cell crapped out the week before, so I didn’t ping any towers, if that’s what you’re asking.”
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