“Going forward, we need to keep this on a need-to-know basis, Rori.”
The guilty look lingered. “Agreed, but that ship’s probably already sailed, Cal. News travels fast in this town.”
She also gave me a cell phone number for Sonny Jenson’s wife, Twila. “What can you tell me about her?”
Rori’s eyes softened. “Twila was crazy about Sonny, took his death really hard.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“She sold their place on Crown Point and moved into town. Has an art gallery on Anderson near the museum and a beach house off Seven Devils Road, south of here. She’s an artist, still painting.”
Rori had no contact information for Kenny’s attorney, Arnold Pierce. “He’s still in Lincoln City, far as I know. Nobody’s missed him around here.” A quick Google search turned up nothing.
“What about the appeals attorney?” I asked next. The failed appeals were water under the bridge, but I did want to touch base at some point, time permitting.
“Her name’s Mimi Yoshida. She has an office in North Bend.” Rori scrolled through her phone contacts and read off the number.
It wasn’t until I jotted the name and number down that a bell rang. “Mimi Yoshida?”
She nodded, the surprise in my voice causing one of her eyebrows to tilt. “Well, her first name’s Mimori, but she uses Mimi. We lost those appeals, but I don’t blame her. Once you’re convicted, the system’s pretty much rigged against you. She’s a good attorney, Cal.”
I thought of the remnants of the name on the business card I’d taken off Howard Coleman’s body—“Mi i Yo da.” It fit perfectly. “Duly noted,” I replied, not wishing to explain the source of my reaction. I glanced at my watch. “Uh, I’ve got some time right now. Would you mind calling her to introduce me and see if I can drop by for a quick chat?”
She obliged, Mimi was available, and a meeting was arranged. Before I left I said, “One other thing. When you next talk to Kenny, you need to tell him I can’t help him unless he tells me everything.”
She looked surprised. “Was he holding back?”
“On a couple of points, maybe.” I held her gaze for a moment. “That goes for you, too, Rori. You should have told me Kenny was pushing drugs the night of the murder.”
She broke eye contact, and her look turned contrite. “Of course. I’m sorry, Cal. It won’t happen again. I just—”
I held my hand up. “I can’t help you unless I know everything.”
* * *
Google Maps and I found Mimi Yoshida’s law office—a converted Craftsman home—just off Virginia Avenue in North Bend, a couple of blocks from the Coos County Courthouse. She had a one-person operation like mine, relying on a buzzer to announce visitors. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right with you,” a voice called out from behind a partially closed door at the other end of the waiting room. She entered shortly after I took a seat. Petite, with luminous dark eyes set in an oval face of remarkable symmetry, she approached with an outstretched hand and an air of confidence.
After introductions and some small talk, I got right to the point. “Were you, by any chance, in contact with Howard Coleman, the man who was murdered on the Millicoma River?”
Her head retracted slightly. “Why yes. Why do you ask?”
“My daughter and I discovered his body. We were fly-fishing that day. I found a business card in his fishing vest with the remnants of your name and phone number on it.”
Her hand moved reflexively to her mouth. “Oh, my God. That must have been horrible. And now you’re representing Kenny Sanders.” She looked puzzled.
I explained how I happened to overhear Rori talking at the bookshop about Howard Coleman and how I felt drawn to Kenny’s case. When I finished, I smiled. “It was quite a coincidence, and now this.”
She smiled back. Mine was sheepish, hers knowing. “Jung called it synchronicity,” she said. “Buddhists believe there are no coincidences, that everything happens in relation to everything else. I think you’re wise to follow your instincts.”
I shrugged. “Time will tell, I suppose. Can you tell me about your business with Coleman?”
“I had none, actually. He called about ten days ago and set up an appointment.” She winced perceptibly. “We were supposed to meet today, as a matter of fact.”
“Did he indicate what he wanted?”
“All he said was he had a legal matter to discuss. When I asked what it was, he wouldn’t say.”
I paused for a moment, taking the comment in. “Do you think he came to you because of your connection to Kenny Sanders?”
“Perhaps. Arnold Pierce has left the state, so he may have turned to me, although I only handled the appeals, of course.” She showed the knowing smile again but leavened it with modesty. “After all, synchronicity seems to be at work here.”
“Do you know where Arnold Pierce is?”
Her face registered something just short of disgust. “He got disbarred last year. Gross incompetence, I heard. I don’t know where he is.” She looked at me. “Our appeal was strong, Cal. We provided the court with documentation of the length of the interview—eleven hours and forty-three minutes—proof that the Sheriff’s Office ordered no food or drinks for Kenny during that time, and we had a neurologist from OHSU testify regarding the teenage brain’s lack of full development. And, of course, Kenny completely recanted the confession the day after he was arrested.” She shook her head in disgust. “It wasn’t enough for the appellate court. They let the decision stand.”
She began describing the appeals, but I was much more interested in the crime itself. I listened politely and cut in at the first opportunity. “What’s your take on the original trial?”
“Circumstantial. There was one witness who put Kenny in the vicinity of the crime, and Kenny had a previous confrontation with the victim, but there was scant physical evidence connecting him to the actual murder scene. And the witness from the jail, of course”—Mimi rolled her eyes clear to the ceiling—“they added him because they knew their case was weak.”
“What about the fingerprint on the bloody glove?”
“It was a jump ball from an evidentiary standpoint. The prosecution argued Kenny used the cloth side of the glove to wipe the murder weapon clean of prints. Arnold Pierce countered that Kenny used the glove while gardening. The jury apparently believed the prosecutor’s theory. Pierce’s cross of the crime scene tech was a joke.”
“I understand Walter Sanders and Sonny Jenson were business partners. What can you tell me about that?”
“Not much. They were partners in a company called Condor Enterprises, kind of a mixed bag of businesses. A couple of years after Sonny’s death, they sold some key parcels of land to Bexar Energy, the Canadian company behind the LNG project. I think they made a killing, but I don’t know the details.”
“Did Walter have an alibi the night Sonny was killed?”
“I think so. You can check the discovery. I have all the files. I don’t think it came up at trial. Pierce argued it was a robbery gone bad.”
“What about Sonny’s wife, Twila? She have an alibi, too?”
“I believe so.”
I sat back in my chair. “Anything else you think I should know?”
She squinted, as if in thought, then furrowed the smooth skin of her forehead. “The sheriff. His name’s Hershel Stoddard. He was up for re-election a couple of months after the trial in a tight race. That arrest and conviction put him over the top. I think he engineered Howard Coleman’s testimony.” She paused, her eyes registering anger. “And the District Attorney, a guy named James Gillespie, never should have put Coleman on the stand. He suborned perjury, in my opinion.”
“Did you pursue that angle?”
A pained look spread across her face. “I would have, but we didn’t have the funds to hire an inves
tigator.” She shook her head. “Stoddard’s running again for sheriff as we speak, unopposed this time.”
A client of Yoshida’s arrived, but she had him wait while she helped me cart three boxes of files covering Kenny’s case to my car. As if on cue, Claire texted me that she was ready to be picked up. I gave Mimi a card, thanked her, and as I was leaving said, “I’m curious. Why are you practicing law here on the coast and not in Portland, where there’s a bigger demand for appellate attorneys?” I could have added, “and where you could triple your income.”
She smiled, but it failed to hide the displeasure the question caused her. “My grandparents had a truck farm northeast of here. They were interned at Tule Lake during the war and lost two hundred acres of prime land, their house, everything. My grandmother died in the camp.” The corners of her mouth lifted again. “I wanted to honor their memory and show my family belongs here in Coos County, too.”
I smiled at Mimori Yoshida. “That’s a fine reason, indeed.”
* * *
On the way back to the Fishmonger I thought about Mimi’s reference to synchronicity. As a practicing cynic, I believed there was plenty of chaos in the universe, that not all things happened for a reason, at least one a mere mortal could discern. However, I had to admit that in this case events conspired to draw me in, and now it seemed crystal clear why—to free an innocent kid facing a lifetime of incarceration.
Maybe the Buddha was on to something, I conceded.
Chapter Nine
Claire was standing outside the Fishmonger when I pulled into the parking lot, and I knew from the look on her face that she had gotten Sissy Anderson to talk. It was the same self-satisfied look I got when she beat me at Scrabble, which was hardly justified since nearly everyone beat me at Scrabble. “How did it go?” I said as she hopped in the car, and we began threading our way through North Bend toward the beach house.
She laughed. “It didn’t, at least at first. I waited for an hour while she and another waitress got the place ready for the dinner service. I think the fact that I waited that long convinced her I really wanted to talk. Finally, she brought two cups of coffee over and sat down. I told her about you, Dad, how you’re willing to step up for the little guy, that both of us felt Kenny Sanders was innocent, that we wondered if Coleman’s murder was somehow connected to Kenny’s case. She listened, but I didn’t think I was getting through till I mentioned finding his body.” Claire snapped her fingers. “She started to cry, and I held her for a while. She dropped her defenses after that.”
My gut clenched a little. “It’s as if Coleman wanted her to talk.”
“Yeah, something like that—anyway, that’s when she told me Coleman felt bad about Kenny.”
I braked hard as the huge cab of a logging truck changed lanes in front of me like a sports car. “Because he lied at the trial?”
She nodded emphatically. “She said he lied so he wouldn’t have to serve so much time, but he never believed his testimony would convict a young kid like that.”
I puffed a breath. “The lies we tell ourselves. Then maybe that’s the reason he contacted Yoshida. He was going to fess up, get it off his chest after all this time.”
Claire looked confused. “Who’s Yoshida?” I told her about my meeting with Kenny’s appellate attorney and the appointment Coleman had scheduled for this very day. Her eyes got big, reminding me of when she was a little girl. “You think he was murdered to silence him?”
I shrugged. “What else did Sissy tell you?”
“Well, she said he was finally making some good money, and they were talking about buying a house and getting married.” Claire swallowed a lump of emotion. “She loved the guy a lot, Dad.”
“Did she say anything about his work?”
“I pressed her on that. All she would say was that he was driving a truck.”
“For Sloat, right?”
“Yep.” Claire gave me a look. “That company keeps popping up.”
We were nearly to the bridge at the South Slough. A brisk westerly breeze kicked up, flecking the bay with white caps and flooding the car with a delicious ocean scent. “It does, indeed. What else did you learn?”
“When I asked her who she thought killed Coleman, she began to shut down again. I pressed her, and she finally said, ‘Claire, if I told you who I suspected, it would put you in danger, too. And I like you.’ I said, ‘Why don’t you go back to the sheriff if you know stuff?’ She laughed at that, Dad. She said, ‘Because I know what’s good for me, that’s why.’”
“What did you say to that?”
“I told her she didn’t have to face this alone, that we could help. That was basically it. She knows a lot more. I’m sure of it.”
“How did you leave it with her?”
“We exchanged cell numbers, and I told her I’d check back to see how she’s doing. She didn’t say no.” Claire smiled a little self-consciously. “I like her, too, her grit.”
“Excellent, Claire. That was damn fine investigative work.” I was proud of my daughter, but the mention of her being in danger chilled the pit of my stomach. That was definitely not what I had in mind when I accepted this job.
* * *
As the sun descended that evening the wind died, and the ocean glassed off to a pane of deepest blue. The fog bank that loitered offshore for the past couple of nights had finally burned off, and we were treated to a sunset whose colors morphed from shimmering gold, to rose, to violet, before dying in a shroud of deep purple. I was busy in the kitchen cleaning and shelling a batch of razor clams we’d picked up in Charleston. Claire—who was on the phone with her boyfriend—called me into the living room to witness every color change.
The stress of that day was sloughing off nicely.
I had linguini at the boil and was sautéing the clams in olive oil, butter, garlic, and white wine when she came into the kitchen. “We need a salad and garlic bread,” I said before asking, “How’s Gabriel?”
“Oh, he’s fine.” She smiled shyly. “Says he misses me.” She began extracting ingredients from the fridge.
“Do you miss him?”
The smile again. “Yeah, I do. But I, ah, told him I might stay here even longer now that I’m assisting you. We’re crunching data right now, and I can do that anywhere. I don’t have to go back to the Gulf until June.”
I looked up from the skillet. “You’ve really helped, Claire, but now that I’ve accepted Kenny as a client, you shouldn’t feel obligated to stay past our planned two weeks.”
She wrinkled her brow. “I can’t just trot off knowing Kenny Sanders is sitting in that prison, Dad. It’s obscene.”
“I know you feel strongly, Claire, but—”
She held up a half-peeled cucumber as if to throw it at me. “If you stay, I’m staying, Dad. You need help. Sissy Anderson might be the key to this, and I know I can get her to talk.”
“What about Gabriel?”
She smiled again. It had a hint of slyness around the edges. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?”
By the time the linguini with razor clam sauce was ready, Claire had built a killer salad and had taken the sourdough baguette, slathered in garlic butter, from the oven. The question of her possibly staying longer was settled, so we moved on to other, safer topics as we enjoyed the meal.
My feelings were mixed. She was the best damn assistant I’d ever had, but there was a troubling aura of violence surrounding this case. We’ll see how it goes, I told myself.
* * *
My cell riffed a digital blues number shortly after dinner. “Mr. Claxton?” a gravelly voice said. “This is Walter Sanders. I’m Kenny Sanders’ stepdad. Do you have a moment?”
Ex-stepdad, I thought but didn’t say. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Aurora told me you’ve taken up Kenny’s cause. I think that’s commendable.
I’d like to meet with you to discuss how I can help.”
I told him I had a flexible schedule, and we agreed to meet in two days, when he returned from a business trip. When I tapped off, Claire said, “Who was that, Dad?”
“Kenny’s ex-stepdad. He wants to get involved in the investigation.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “The guy who left Kenny’s mom wants to help now?”
“That’s what the man said.”
She smiled conspiratorially. “Well, that’s interesting.”
* * *
Around two the next morning, Archie awakened me with a salvo of furious barking. I got up, followed my dog down the stairs, and went out on the front porch, holding him by his collar. My car looked undisturbed, but I tensed up when something moved in the shadows beyond it. It took me a few moments to realize it was the breeze stirring some of the gnarled cedars on the lot. Archie finally stopped barking and pulling at his collar. “What was it, Big Boy?”
He looked up at me and whimpered his equivalent of “I don’t know.”
As I returned to my bedroom, it occurred to me just how isolated this property was.
Chapter Ten
“He is dead.”
“Who’s dead?” I said to Nando, ignoring his annoying habit of beginning a phone call as if no time had elapsed from the last one. It was nine the next morning, and Claire and I were out walking on the beach with Archie.
“Jerome Crawford. He died of a fentanyl overdose about six months ago. You were right. He was living in Seattle, near the university. The police report said it was accidental. A friend of mine at Seattle PD confirmed it was a typical overdose, nothing suspicious. Is this a problem, Calvin?”
“No, I don’t think so. It was a shot in the dark to begin with.”
“What else can I do for you, my friend?”
I thought for a moment. “Nothing at this point, but I’m starting to turn some rocks over, so stay tuned.”
“Very well. How is my favorite environmental warrior?”
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