No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  “At that point I think I was in shock. The only thing I could think of was to make it look like a robbery, so I messed up the bedroom and study, then put everything in a grocery bag and hid it in my apartment at the Tioga. The sheriff never searched my apartment.”

  “Where are the jewels and ring now?”

  “I kept them hidden in a bus locker downtown, and when I bought Seven Devils, I had a wall safe installed. Everything’s in the safe but the cash.”

  I suppressed a smile, thinking how Claire nailed the hiding place. “You came back into the Tioga through the back entrance, right?”

  “Of course. Now I was a guilty murderer who didn’t want to get caught. In those days, there was a handy little wedge of wood one of the residents had left to keep the door from completely closing. I used it when I left the first time, and it was still there when I returned. I took the wedge, and nobody saw me come back in.” Her look turned incredulous. “I never dreamed I’d get away with it, Cal.”

  “Did the detectives ever ask you about the back exit?”

  “Yes. I told them I never used it, that it was a self-locking door. They never brought it up again. They thought they had their killer, Cal.”

  “Okay, you’re back in your apartment. What next?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes, squeezing out more tears. “I took a shower, cleaned my shoes off, and put on the same clothes I was wearing before. That way I could leave through the front and become the wife who’s shocked to discover her husband’s body. Before I left, I put some paint on my blouse in the hopes they wouldn’t ask me if I wore anything to paint in. It worked. The subject of my coveralls never came up.” The wan smile again. “Well, it worked until you figured it out.”

  The room went silent except for the seconds clicking off on a big circular clock on the wall and the low moaning of a patient next door. Finally, I said, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Twila?”

  “No.” She sighed long and deep. “I just used my guilt about Sonny and what I was doing to Kenny to carry me along. I didn’t have to act. It was a blackness that looked a lot like grief, you know?”

  “Yeah, I can see that now. Look, Twila, if you really want to help Kenny, I’ll need you to repeat this story to the District Attorney. Would you be willing to do that?”

  She looked at me straight on. Her dark eyes had a light behind them I hadn’t seen before. “Yes. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that boy out of prison. I’m done with this.”

  I thanked her and walked out of that hospital room feeling so light I thought I’d float off the tile floor. When I came through the swinging doors into the waiting room, I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. My daughter looked at me, and a smile—the one that always reminded me of her mother—bloomed on her face.

  “Oh, Dad. We did it, didn’t we?”

  My eyes were wet with tears, and I had a golf ball in my throat. I smiled. “I’m going to need a vacation from this vacation.”

  * * *

  Things moved at warp speed after Twila confessed to me at the hospital. I called Rice that night. “Chet, you’re going to be declared a hero for solving a murder, a violent house invasion, an attempted murder by logging truck, and busting up a fentanyl distribution ring, damn near all at once. You want to know how you can repay me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Bring District Attorney Gillespie to the Bay Area Hospital tomorrow, first thing. If you can get Sheriff Stoddard, bring him, too. Do whatever you have to do to make this happen, Chet. Twila Jenson’s ready to make a full confession for the murder of her husband. Kenny Sanders is completely innocent.”

  A long pause. “You sure? She’s not having a breakdown or some damn thing?”

  “I’m sure. Have I misled you on anything?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “She told me the entire story just now, damn it. It’s rock solid, Chet, and I’ve got evidence to back it up. I need Gillespie to hear this. There’s an innocent kid in prison who needs to get out now.”

  * * *

  Rice came through. The next morning, I ushered him, District Attorney Gillespie, Sheriff Stoddard, and a stenographer into Twila Jenson’s hospital room. I was on pins and needles, but she held up well, answering detailed question after detailed question. When they exited an hour and a half later, Gillespie was stone-faced and tight-lipped, and Stoddard’s face was the color of wet cement. We drove from there to Seven Devils, because Twila gave them the combination to her wall safe and permission to remove its contents. The jewels and Sonny’s ring were recovered, and a week later, divers using a magnetometer found the garbage bag containing the hammer and what was left of the coveralls in the South Slough. They were right where she said they would be.

  There was no question regarding the veracity of Twila Jenson’s confession.

  Gillespie moved fast, securing a date with the trial court to request that Kenny’s verdict be vacated. Gillespie and I stood shoulder to shoulder arguing the case. The judge agreed, and three weeks later Kenny Sanders was released from the Oregon State Prison.

  Epilogue

  Bastendorff Beach, Oregon

  Ten Weeks Later

  The big swells angled in from the north, moving in lockstep on a surface rippled by a brisk, offshore breeze. As the waves encountered the shallowing water a hundred meters out, they humped up before breaking in a muffled rumble, white water feathering off their tops in a veil-like mist. A small group of us had gathered at Bastendorff Beach to celebrate Kenny Sanders’ first day of surfing. His doctor had finally, although somewhat reluctantly, given him the go-ahead.

  Of course, there had been many celebrations of Kenny’s freedom, including one organized by his grandmother that filled the high school gymnasium. But on this day the group consisted of Rori, Anthony the barista, Kathy Harper and her family, and Kenny’s four closest surfing buddies, including Stu Foster. Nando and I drove down from Portland the night before. His left arm was in a sling, so I drove his Lexus, although he made it clear he barely trusted me with his beloved car. We carried two passengers in the back seat—my daughter, Claire, and Gabriel Silva. I’d mentioned the gathering to Claire, and they surprised me by showing up at PDX the previous morning. “It was Gabriel’s idea,” Claire explained, who was mum on how and why they had gotten back together. Nando and I both liked Gabriel and admired his grit for taking on my daughter.

  Speaking of Nando, his arm was mending slowly, although there was still a question of whether he would regain the full use of it. He was undaunted, of course. “The physical therapy is torture,” he complained to me before showing that sly smile of his. “But my therapist is not only beautiful but an excellent salsa dancer. She is giving me much incentive.”

  Things had returned to normal for me, well, as normal as they ever get. I’d been moderately successful in repairing the damage my sojourn to Coos Bay did to my private practice in Dundee. My pro bono work in Portland was hit harder, so I was trying to spend two days a week in the city to get things back on track. I was deeply gratified at how things had worked out with Kenny, but at the same time I had a renewed sense of humility. The subversion of justice by people driven by greed, ambition, and private agendas was no surprise to an ex-prosecutor like me. But did my zeal to free Kenny cloud my judgment? After all, I’d nearly convinced myself that Max Sloat killed Sonny Jenson and that Twila Jenson was nothing more than a grieving widow. When I shared my self-doubts with Claire, she said, “Learn from it, Dad.” That daughter of mine.

  I’d put Rori Dennison on a payment plan to ease the burden on her. Walter Sanders wasn’t likely to offer any financial help. He’d just been served with a civil lawsuit for five million dollars by Kathy Harper’s lawyer. Rori told me the suit came as quite a shock to Walter, and she quipped that it would be the height of irony if he had to sell his sex shops to pay the bill. Walter had a penchant
for sexting to Kathy during their relationship, it turned out, and that didn’t bode well for his chances in civil court and begged the question of criminal charges down the road.

  Meanwhile, Rori continued to lead the opposition against the proposed LNG facility on Coos Bay, with long distance support from Claire. Rori’s group had just received encouraging news—the commissioners in Jackson County had formally requested that the state block the pipeline through southern Oregon, citing significant impacts to water, soil, and people. “No pipeline, no natural gas to process,” Rori declared jubilantly. But given the posture of the current federal administration, we both knew pitched battles lay ahead.

  Twila Jenson had been charged with the murder of her husband. She secured a lawyer, one of the best in Portland, and was free on a bail bond of half a million dollars while awaiting sentencing. A virtual recluse at Seven Devils, I imagined her listening to opera and painting and hoped her work had gained some light. Rori told me Twila called her out of the blue, and they wound up crying together. “I guess I’m less of a substandard Christian than I thought,” she told me.

  Robert Barton was apprehended a month ago after taking part in a drunken brawl outside a bar in Seaside. By that time, Chet Rice and his colleagues had the younger brother dead to rights on Howard Coleman’s murder, felony assault on Nando, home invasion, and drug trafficking. According to Rice, Robert claimed the murder was solely Darnell’s idea, brought about because Coleman was skimming money from the drug operation. Had Max taken kickbacks? Robert claimed he didn’t know, and Rice said he’d uncovered no evidence to suggest she had.

  Two weeks after Twila Jenson confessed, Max was brought out of the induced coma and was on her way to a full recovery. There might’ve been lingering doubts about her involvement in the drug operation, but after seeing the urgency in her eyes as she lay bleeding in her office that day, there was no longer any doubt in my mind that she told me the truth—she hadn’t ordered the hit on Coleman and the attempt on Claire, Archie, and me. As for the death of her father…well, like the song advises, let it be.

  Sissy Anderson was not allowed to plea down by District Attorney Gillespie, so Mimi Yoshida was preparing to take the case to trial. This meant a return visit to Coos Bay was in my future. When I asked Mimi how she felt about Sissy’s chances, she smiled and said, “We’re going to kick Gillespie’s butt.” Sissy was remorseful up to a point, but unlike me, she remained skeptical of Max’s innocence in Howard Coleman’s murder. The truth, it turns out, can be elusive.

  * * *

  A cheer went up from the gathered group on the beach when Kenny finally arrived. He wore a wet suit top and carried his old surfboard, which Rori had kept in storage for just such a day. He was clean-shaven, and his long, blond hair billowed in the breeze. We all watched as he put the board down, scrubbed it with wax, then scored a cross hatch of groves using a wax comb. I was standing next to Rori, who took my hand and squeezed it when Kenny hit the water and started paddling. She looked up at me, her slate-blue eyes blurred with tears. No words were needed from either one of us.

  The surf was big that day and Kenny’s paddle out was difficult. But he made it outside, and after missing his first three attempts, dropped into a nice green wall and began slashing back and forth like he’d never lost a day of surfing. Whoops and cheers went up from his assembled audience. The wave peaked and shuddered, threatening to close out. Instead of kicking out, Kenny turned hard and crouched as the lip curled over him. He disappeared into the barrel for what seemed an eternity, and we all held a collective breath.

  When he emerged at the other end, he stood erect and pumped both arms in triumph, a free man at last.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is a process that is, at least for me, rather inexplicable. However, there is one very plain fact about my effort—I couldn’t write this series without the help and support of others. For first readership and “in-house” editing, thanks to Marge Easley. A shout-out to my critique group—LeeAnn McLennan, Janice Maxon, Alison Jakel, Debby Dodds, Lisa Alber, a merry band of gifted Portland writers who never fail to keep me on the straight and narrow. As usual, the talented, responsive crew at Poisoned Pen Press was invaluable, particularly the editing advice and insights provided by Barbara Peters. Cal was saved from making legal blunders thanks to tips from barristers Jay Enloe and former Navy fighter pilot John.

  Finally, I would like to acknowledge editors Dave Eggers and Lola Vollen. Their fine book—Surviving Justice: America’s Wrongfully Convicted and Exonerated—provided inspiration for this work of fiction and insight into the failings of our criminal justice system.

  About the Author

  Photo by Corrie Coston Photography

  Formerly a research scientist and international business executive, Warren C. Easley lives in Oregon where he writes fiction, tutors GED students, fly-fishes, and skis. Easley is the author of the Cal Claxton Oregon Mysteries. He received a Kay Snow National Award for fiction in 2012 and was named the Northwest’s Up and Coming Author in 2017, both honors bestowed by Willamette Writers.

  For more, visit facebook.com/WarrenCEasley or warreneasley.com