“Okay. Tell us about your arrest and the interrogation.”
He looked away and blinked rapidly to stave off the tears, and when he looked back the tough-guy veneer was gone. “Stupidest thing I ever did, that confession. Cost me my freedom, everything.” His voice got thick. “I still…can’t explain it.”
“Try,” I said, nodding encouragement.
He twisted his beard again. “So, two county deputies came by the next afternoon and asked me to come down to the station. Said they had some questions but didn’t tell me anything else. No big deal, I figured, so I drove down there and walked in without a worry in the world.”
“Then what?”
“Two dudes named Wilson and Drake got me in a conference room and started in on me. Dumb and Dumber. At least that’s what I figured at first. They told me about the murder, said they just wanted to get a statement from me. I was shocked as hell. I mean, it was Sonny Jenson. I knew him. They went right to the run-in I had with Sonny, and I told them everything that happened. I remember Drake saying something like, ‘You must have been really angry to shove him in the pool and mark his Prius up like that, right?’” Kenny sighed and shook his head. “I should have seen where he was going with that, and I should have been more respectful of the dude. I mean he was dead. But reality hadn’t sunk in yet, you know?”
“Sure. I can understand that.”
“Anyway,” Kenny went on, “I said, ‘Yeah, Sonny was an asshole. I was pissed at him.’” Shame and disgust washed over his face. “They used that quote at the trial and kept coming back to it.”
I nodded, glancing at Claire, who was capturing every word and gauging Kenny’s body language with quick glances.
“Wait, it gets better,” Kenny went on. “I made my next mistake when they asked me where I was the night before.” He shook his head and swung his eyes from me to Claire and back again. “I should have told the truth—that I was out dealing. But I told them I was just riding around, no place in particular. Stupid, huh?”
I shrugged. “I can see why you didn’t want to admit what you’d been doing.”
“Yeah, whatever. So they jumped on it. They were, like, you were riding around alone? What sixteen-year-old does that? And I had to admit no one could back up my story. Arnold, my attorney, had me tell the truth later, but then Crawford denied it, so I was up shit’s creek. Still, I wasn’t worried at the time, because I hadn’t been near Sonny’s place. Drake ducked out after my dumb lie, and I caught a glimpse of him talking to Sheriff Stoddard. He kept ducking in and out of the rest of interrogation like he was taking orders or some shit.”
“About what time did Drake talk to the sheriff the first time?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Maybe two hours in.”
“Did they video or record your interrogation?”
“Nope. Wilson took notes. That was it. They said at the trial that their system was down, which was bullshit. So Drake comes back in looking all grim. He says, ‘This isn’t looking good for you, Kenny. We just found your fingerprints on a bloody glove in the garage. You were there, weren’t you?’ I said, ‘Yeah, I was there, but not last night. I worked there for six months, you know.’ Then they started in on me again, made me go back over everything in detail, over and over. I’m getting tired. I’m famished. But they just kept hammering on me.”
“Did you ask for a lawyer?”
“Yeah, sort of. Somewhere along in there I said, ‘You guys really think I killed Sonny Jenson? Maybe I should get a lawyer.’ Wilson pipes up, ‘You can do that, Kenny, but it’s just going to make you look even guiltier. Work with us to clear this up, we’re almost there.’ Drake goes out and talks to Stoddard again. He comes back in and says, ‘We’ve got a warrant to examine your car and the clothes you were wearing last night. We’re going to find a lot of Sonny’s blood, aren’t we, Kenny?’ I told them they were crazy, and they started in all over again.”
“Did they bring you anything to eat or drink?”
“Some water a couple of times. No food.”
“What time did they bring the first water?”
“I don’t know. I lost track of time. I kept asking when we’re going to finish, when I could go home. They kept saying ‘we’re getting close, Kenny.” He twisted his beard and smiled with one side of his mouth. “Yeah, close to breaking me. By this time, they’re trying to get me to describe what happened in the garage, you know, suggesting how I might have clipped Sonny with a hammer or something and robbed him. Asking where I put the wallet and jewelry and stuff. I’m telling them they’re full of shit, but they keep going over it again and again.”
“What happened next?”
“Drake goes out to powwow with Stoddard, and when he comes back he says, ‘Look, Kenny, we don’t need a confession. We’ve got everything we need to convict you. And we’ll try you as an adult, so you’ll be looking at the death penalty.’ By this time, I’m barely listening, tired, confused as hell, and scared shitless. Drake says, ‘If you cooperate, things will go a lot better for you. Whataya say? Get it off your chest, and this’ll all be over.’” Kenny paused and closed his eyes.
“What did you say?”
“Nothin’. I felt defeated, like they had me, and it was my fault somehow, you know? Like I shouldn’t have been out dealing, I shouldn’t have lied about it, I shouldn’t have shoved Sonny in the pool… I was this bad kid, and I deserved this.” He exhaled a deep sigh. “And I would have done anything at that point just to get them off my back. Anything.” He shook his head with a look of utter bewilderment. “I can’t explain it, man. They brought a statement in, and I signed it. Didn’t even read the fucker.”
Claire gasped audibly at that point.
I went back over everything, filled in some more blanks, then wrapped it up, telling Kenny I’d be in touch. He looked at me, and a faint smile formed on his lips. “So I passed the test?”
I glanced over at Claire—whose expression made it clear she was in his camp. My gut was made up, but my head wasn’t all the way there. “Yes, I’ve heard enough that I want to move ahead. What happened to you is disgusting, but I won’t kid you, Kenny. The odds are against us. And I’ve got a lot of ground to cover before I’ll know what, if anything, can be done.”
He nodded, and I saw the same glimmer of hope I’d seen in Rori’s eyes. “Thank you. All I want is a shot, Mr. Claxton.”
The room fell silent while we waited for a guard. Finally, he said, “Grandma Rori told me you’re staying down by Yoakam Point. How’s the surf been?”
“It was big earlier in the week, maybe eight, ten feet, with a stiff offshore breeze blowing the tops off the waves,” I said.
His eyes softened with a deep longing I understood instinctively. I kicked myself for painting such an appealing picture.
“Was anybody out at Bastendorff?”
I hesitated, and Claire cut in, looking at me. “That’s a beach north of us, on the other side of the point.” She turned to Kenny. “You used to surf there?”
“Yeah, I did.” His gaze shifted past us to something far away, although there was nothing but a cement block wall behind Claire and me. “God, I’d love to be in the water again,” he said in a barely audible voice. The door rattled open at that point, and a guard unshackled him and took him away.
Chapter Seven
Archie saw Claire and me approaching the car from halfway across the prison parking lot and started in with a high-pitched whine and little yelps of sheer excitement. He was a good sport about waiting in the car, but it was clear we had exceeded his patience level. I called Rori and filled her in while Claire took Arch for a short walk. Rori thanked me, and I warned her to keep her hopes and expectations in check. “I know,” she said. “I’ve been down this road before, but this feels different, somehow.”
I had a feeling, too, although I didn’t share it with her. Mine centered mor
e on that sensation you get with the first step onto a slippery incline.
We stopped at a city park on the way out of Salem, and after retrieving a dirty, chewed-up tennis ball from the trunk and locating a grassy field devoid of other dogs, we set about playing a game Archie never tired of—fetch the slobber ball. As Claire and I took turns tossing the ball as high and as far as we could, we kicked around what we’d just heard from Kenny Sanders. At one point, Claire said, “What really struck me were the mistakes he made during the interrogation. I could just see a sixteen-year-old boy screwing up like that, and he was so ashamed of his mistakes. If he was trying to play us, he would’ve been making all kinds of excuses for his behavior, but he just laid it out there.” She scowled and shook her head. “And then they trapped him with his own guilt and told him a confession was his only way out. I was skeptical about coerced confessions going in but not anymore. That was pure manipulation.”
I chucked the ball, and Arch gave chase, catching it about four feet off the ground on the first bounce with the agility a wide receiver could only dream about. “I agree. Two experienced investigators played him like a fiddle. My take is that once Wilson and Drake suspected he lied about his whereabouts, they made up their minds they had their killer. It sounded like the sheriff had them turn up the heat, and their tactics after that were textbook for how to wring a confession out of a naive suspect.”
Claire nodded. “They rationalized their behavior by telling themselves he was guilty, so anything goes.”
“Exactly. And the heat was on, because Sonny was a high-profile citizen.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Dad, I know you’re not an appellate attorney, that it’s specialized work, but can’t someone bring the interrogation tactics up in an appeal? They acted like the Gestapo.”
“It was probably already adjudicated and apparently didn’t go anywhere. The appellate courts start with the presumption that the original verdict was arrived at fairly, that the interrogation tactics were not coercive. The appeals attorney has to come up with incontrovertible evidence that the tactics used were out of bounds, and that’s a very heavy lift, since there’s only Wilson’s notes for a transcript leading up to the signed confession. It’s Kenny’s word against two adult detectives and the sheriff.”
Always a good sharer, Arch brought the ball back, stood in front of Claire, and dropped it. She faked a forward throw and threw it behind her, which didn’t fool him for a moment. “What about Marion the Librarian?”
“That’s a problem, but eyewitness accounts are overrated. I need to know exactly how that lineup was conducted. But, again, if Wilson and Drake manipulated her somehow, it would be damn hard to prove.” I paused for a moment, recalling Kenny’s reaction. “To be honest, that was the only part of his account I wondered about.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I caught something around his eyes when the subject came up.”
“Oh, a tell. How cool. I didn’t pick it up. You think he lied to us?”
“In general? No. About the librarian? Maybe. I need to talk to her.”
Claire frowned. “And the only other witness is dead.”
“Which is where we came in.” Arch brought the ball back, a manic gleam in his eye. He didn’t drop it for me, though, making me tug on the slobbery thing before he released it. I threw it into a stand of trees and high grass off to our right to give him a challenge.
“So, what do we do now?” Claire asked.
I watched Arch root around in the grass for a while. “If Kenny didn’t kill Sonny Jenson, then someone else did. Maybe it was a violent robbery, but the odds are someone in his family or circle of friends and acquaintances did it. That’s where I intend to focus. And it can’t be just some alternate theory for the murder, either. It has to be new, rock-solid, exculpatory evidence to give us any chance at all.”
Claire fixed me with her sapphire blues. I knew that look. “I’m glad I came, Dad. This isn’t right. I want to help.”
Chapter Eight
“I thought you were on vacation, Calvin,” my good friend and private investigator of choice, Hernando Mendoza, said the next morning.
“I am, but I stumbled into a case that looks interesting. Probably won’t amount to much.”
His baritone laugh exploded through my cell phone. “I have heard that one before.”
I sketched in Kenny Sanders’s situation. “Look, Nando, all I need you to do is find an address and phone number for a guy named Jerome Crawford. He’s probably in his early- to mid-thirties. Used to live and work here in Coos Bay or North Bend and has since moved up to Seattle. I’d like to talk to him, if possible.”
“Very well. I will search for Mr. Crawford. How is Claire?” Nando, it turned out, was quite fond of my daughter, and Claire returned the affection, often referring to him as her Cuban uncle. “Surely she is not encouraging this activity during your time together.”
“She’s fine, and as a matter of fact she’s hell-bent on helping me.”
Nando laughed again. “A Ph.D. for an assistant. You have come up in the world, Calvin.”
* * *
Claire and I drove into North Bend for a late lunch at the Fishmonger that same day. Where to begin an investigation was always an issue, but I’ve had luck with the lovers of people I’m interested in. They always know things others don’t. “Is Sissy Anderson working today?” I asked the hostess as she gathered a couple of menus before seating us. “We’d like to be served by her, if possible.” The hostess nodded, seated us, and after saying something to a waitress across the room, sent her to our table.
Rail thin with spiky russet hair and sharp features, Sissy poured our waters and regarded us warily with pale blue eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Cal Claxton, and this is my assistant, Claire. First, let me say we’re very sorry for your loss.” That was a gamble, because I had no way of knowing whether she and Coleman were on or off at the time of his death. She nodded faintly, her eyes registering obvious pain. “We’d like to speak with you for a few minutes, perhaps when you get off this afternoon.”
She stood upright. “About what?”
“About Howard Coleman. We’re representing Kenny Sanders.”
Her eyes narrowed down. “I already talked to the sheriffs, and I got nothin’ else to say to you or anybody else. Now, what can I get you to eat?”
I folded, sensing it was futile to press her. We went ahead and ordered, and when Sissy sashayed off, Claire looked at me and shook her head. “Jeez, Dad, I’ve told you before that sometimes you need a lighter touch. Let me handle this.” Sissy served up our lunch in stony silence, and when we finished eating, Claire said, “I know you have things to do, so go ahead. I’ll order a coffee and wait around for her to get off. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
I wished her luck and drove over to Coffee and Subversion, which was doing a nice late afternoon business on both sides of the house. When Rori saw me, she pointed toward the back room. “Get a coffee, Cal. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I ordered a double cappuccino from Anthony, and when he served it up, he said, “This is on the house, Mr. Claxton. We’re so glad you’re taking on Kenny’s case. It means the world to Rori and all of us.”
I was a little taken aback that word of my involvement had leaked out, but I managed a cordial nod. A few minutes later I stood sipping my coffee and browsing the framed pictures on the wall of Rori’s office. Shots of Krysta and Kenny at various ages were interspersed with larger family groupings, several of them taken on and around a fishing boat called Skipjack, a stout-looking, oceangoing craft with an upswept bow.
“That’s my dad’s boat, at least it was.” Rori had come up behind me. “He was a third-generation Coos Bay fisherman.” She pointed at another shot of her standing in front of the boat, struggling to hold a silver salmon nearly as long as she was tall. A big man wearing a basebal
l cap and sporting a dark beard stood next to her. “That’s me with Dad when I was thirteen. I crewed for him summers. Fishing’s hard, dirty work, but I loved it.”
“Is he retired?”
A grim smile. “He was, but it was forced. The salmon runs became so depleted he had to sell Skipjack. Died of a stroke a year later.” She looked at me straight-on. “That’s why we’re so desperate for jobs around here. We didn’t take care of our fish or our trees.” She laid a hand on my arm. “But enough of this. Tell me what the next steps are while I write you a check.”
I filled her in on my plan, as unformed as it was, and at her insistence went back over everything I’d told her on the phone, including that her grandson was in reasonable spirits and looked good physically.
“That’s reassuring,” she said. “He stays fit to protect himself. He’s under constant pressure to join one of the white supremacist groups, and of course the black and Latino gangs hate anyone with blond hair and blue eyes.” She allowed the thinnest of smiles. “I told him sometimes you gotta go along to get along, but he’s determined to stay on his own. I worry about him constantly.”
“He seems mentally strong, Rori. That’s crucial.” It was as much comfort as I could offer. I knew how dangerous it was inside, how the weak were mercilessly exploited, how prisoners were forced to take sides for protection. Making it as a loner was tough, making it as a twenty-year-old loner, ws nearly impossible.
She forced a smile and twisted the fingers of one hand in the other. “I still worry.”
I had her give me the contact information she had for Kenny’s stepdad, Walter Sanders. She said, “By the way, Walter called last night and wanted your cell number. I gave it to him. I guess the word’s out that you’re going to bat for Kenny. Funny thing, he said he wanted to talk to me about Kenny. That’s a new attitude for him.”
“By the way, I was surprised that your barista, Anthony, knows about my involvement.”
Rori shot me a guilty look. “I told him. Guess I shouldn’t have.”
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