“Were you drunk when you followed Blaine to the bedroom?”
“I was tipsy, but I knew what I was doing.”
“What about drugs?”
“No. The cops asked me the same thing at the hospital. They took some blood. The DA said the tests showed the booze but I was clean, no drugs.”
“You went to the hospital after the incident?”
“Right away.” Randi became animated again. “And they did a rape kit. The stupid fuck didn’t use a condom, so they have some of his DNA—and the DA says it’s what they need to put that prick away.”
“In many of these cases, the man will say he had sex but it was consensual.”
“Well, this wasn’t. My guard was down because of the booze, and I did let Blaine make out. But I told him to stop when he started feeling between my legs.”
“How clear were you?”
“Pretty fucking clear. First, I said no, but he kept jabbing his finger between my legs and telling me how much he liked me. I told him I wanted to stop and I tried to sit up, but he pushed me down.”
“Did you fight him?”
Randi barked out a humorless laugh. “Miss Lockwood, Blaine is a linebacker at the U of O. He’s a solid muscle. Look at me. He could bench-press me with one hand.”
“So, you didn’t resist?”
“I did. I tried to push him off. That’s when he slapped me and told me to be a good girl if I didn’t want to get hurt.”
“What did you do?”
“I shut up and shut my eyes and he pulled up my skirt and ripped off my panties.”
“Do you have the ripped panties?”
“I gave them to the cops.”
“Okay, that’s good. Now I need to know, did he enter you? Was there penetration? That’s important in a rape case.”
Randi choked up. “It hurt. I was dry, and he…”
“Do you want to stop? Do you want some water?”
Randi shook her head.
“Who did you tell about what happened, and when did you tell them?”
“I didn’t have to tell. Annie came in right after he finished. I was crying and saying, ‘Get off me.’ She’d seen me go to the bedroom with Blaine, and she knew his reputation.”
“What is Blaine’s reputation?”
“I’ve heard I’m not his first victim.”
“He’s raped other women?”
Randi hesitated. “That I can’t say for sure. I mean, no one ever told me that specifically. But I’ve heard that he doesn’t always take no for an answer.”
“Okay. What did Annie do when she saw you go into the bedroom with Blaine?”
“She followed me down the hall, and she opened the door when she heard me yell.”
“What did Blaine do?”
“When the door opened, he told Annie to get out, but she’s got guts. She told Blaine to get off me or she’d call the cops. Blaine started for her and she threatened to scream. That’s when he looked worried for the first time. Then he zipped up his pants and stormed out. Annie and me waited until we thought it was safe. Then she drove me to the hospital. I said I didn’t want to go; I just wanted to forget the whole thing. But she convinced me I shouldn’t let him get away with it.”
“She was right.”
“When are you going to sue Blaine?” Randi asked.
“We have plenty of time to file a complaint, so I’m going to wait until we see how the trial comes out. I’ll sit through it. If he’s convicted, we should be in good shape.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Robin showed the Starks out. Then she walked into Jeff Hodges’s office. Robin’s investigator was six-two with shaggy, reddish-blond hair that almost touched his broad shoulders. He had green eyes, pale, freckled skin, walked with a limp, and had a faint tracery of scars on his face. The scars and the limp were the result of injuries suffered in an explosion in a meth lab Jeff had raided when he was a police officer.
Robin had been attracted to Jeff since she joined Regina’s firm. There was a moment during a recent case when she’d asked him to go to bed with her. It was in Atlanta, right after someone had tried to kill her. Jeff was enough of a gentleman to avoid taking advantage of the situation. Wary of an office romance, neither had ever mentioned what had happened. That didn’t stop Robin from finding Jeff attractive, and she was certain that he felt the same way but was as gun-shy as she was.
“We just got an interesting new case,” Robin said as she took a seat across the desk from Jeff.
“What do you want me to do?” Jeff asked when Robin finished filling him in.
“Find out who’s prosecuting and see if they’ll share, but it wouldn’t hurt to get some background on Blaine Hastings. See if you can find any other women who say that he molested them. And interview Annie Roche if you can do it quietly. We don’t want to give Hastings’s lawyer ammunition to argue that Randi is setting him up to make money with a lawsuit.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
Robin liked spending time with Jeff, and she was tempted to ask if he wanted to go to lunch, but Jeff’s intercom buzzed and Linda asked if Robin was with him.
“I’m here,” Robin said.
“Judge Wright phoned while you were in with your clients. He wants you to call him.”
“I’ll go back to my office. Get him on the line for me, will you?”
Robin liked Harold Wright and considered him to be one of the sharpest jurists on the Multnomah County Circuit Court, but she didn’t have any cases in the judge’s court right now. She wondered what he wanted to talk about. Moments after she was back in her office, she found out.
“Robin, I have a favor to ask,” the judge said when they were connected.
“Shoot.”
“A police officer was killed last night, and the DA has charged a man named Everett Henderson with aggravated murder. It’s going to be a controversial case. You’re next up on the capital murder court-appointment list. Do you have the time to handle it?”
“Yeah. My caseload isn’t too demanding right now.”
“Okay. Thanks, Robin.”
“Who’s the DA?”
“Rex Kellerman.”
Robin stifled the urge to swear. Rex Kellerman was a handsome runner of marathons, who dyed the gray strands mixed into his wavy black hair. He sported a well-groomed mustache, a year-round tan, and looked great smiling at juries with pearly white teeth and laughing blue eyes. Anyone who didn’t know him would take him for a gentleman. Within the bar, Kellerman had a reputation as a dishonest little shit who could never be trusted.
“I assume you waited until I agreed to take the case to tell me that Rex was prosecuting.”
Wright chuckled. “No backsies.”
“Yeah, well, you just lost my vote when you run for reelection.”
The judge laughed; then he said, “See you in court, Counselor.”
CHAPTER TWO
English majors were expected to read highbrow literature, and law school students were supposed to spend all their time slogging through legal minutiae, but Douglas Armstrong had a dirty little secret. As an undergraduate and a law student, he had spent an inordinate amount of time reading mystery novels. Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot was his favorite detective. That’s why the lawyer had fallen into the habit of using his “little grey cells” to deduce facts about potential clients as soon as they were ushered into his law office.
Blaine Hastings Sr. pushed his way past Armstrong’s secretary, and Armstrong decided Hastings was a take-charge type who was used to having his way. Hastings’s thinning blond hair was combed across his scalp to hide his bald spot, which the lawyer took for a sign of vanity. The broken corpuscles that crisscrossed his puffy nose, and the beefy man’s beet-red complexion, screamed alcoholic. His six-foot-plus size, thick chest and shoulders, and the paunch that strained the fabric of his buttoned suit coat were the physique of an athlete gone to seed. And he kept sucking his gut in, another indication that the man was vain. Armstr
ong also noted that Blaine’s suit was expensive—possibly hand-tailored—so the Hastingses had money.
These deductions were strengthened by a quick scan of Hastings’s wife. Gloria followed her husband into Armstrong’s office, her hands gripping her purse tightly and her shoulders bowed from tension. The expensively dressed bottle blonde looked like an aging cheerleader who had suffered through too many plastic surgeries and undergone way too many tanning studio appointments in a losing battle with Father Time. Cheerleaders dated football players, and people with money could afford plastic surgery and spa treatments.
Armstrong indicated the client chairs on the other side of his granite-topped desk and said, “Please, have a seat.”
Blaine accepted the offer grudgingly, which told the attorney that he was not in the habit of following orders even when they were benign. Gloria sat stiffly. Her stress radiated toward Armstrong like a laser.
“How can I help you?” Armstrong asked.
“It’s our son,” Gloria answered. “He was arrested this morning.”
“What is he charged with?”
“He said he was arrested for rape,” Gloria answered. She sounded bewildered.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Blaine Hastings Jr.,” Senior answered proudly.
“And how old is he?”
“He’s just turned twenty-one,” Gloria said.
“Do you know where he’s being held?”
“He’s in the jail across the park from the courthouse,” Mrs. Hastings answered.
“And they won’t let us see him,” Blaine added indignantly.
“Yes, well, there are visiting hours,” Armstrong explained. “But a lawyer can talk to him anytime. Can you tell me a little about your son?”
“Blaine is unique, a shooting star,” his father said forcefully. “He’s a senior at Oregon, an honor student, and a preseason All-American linebacker. The pros are looking at him.”
“Did you play football, Mr. Hastings?” the lawyer asked in an attempt to stroke Hastings’s ego.
Blaine pushed out his chest. “Offensive line. I was a second-team All-American at Oregon, and I was drafted by the Steelers.” Hastings frowned and tapped his left knee. “Blew this sucker out during training camp, and that was that.” Then he brightened. “I always wondered how I would have done in the pros, but the bum knee turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I went into insurance and made more money than I ever would have playing football.”
“So you were your son’s inspiration?”
“Blaine inspires us,” Gloria said. “He’s an angel. He could never have done what they’re saying.”
“Has he ever been in trouble before?” the attorney asked.
“Of course not,” Senior answered indignantly. “Not real trouble.” Senior laughed nervously. “Boys will be boys. That type of thing.”
“Were there ever problems with his relationship with a girl?” Armstrong asked diplomatically.
“Blaine can get any girl he wants,” Senior answered, sidestepping the question. “They fall all over themselves when he’s in a room. He would never have to resort to rape to get laid!”
Gloria reached out and covered her husband’s balled fists. “Please, there’s no need to talk like that.”
Blaine’s head snapped around, and he glared at his wife. “You’re worried about my language when our son is caged up like an animal?”
For the time being, Armstrong decided not to pursue the possibility that Blaine Junior was not always an angel.
“Do you have any information about what’s behind the charges?”
“No. Blaine just called us from the jail,” Gloria said. “He was arrested in his apartment in Eugene by detectives from Portland. We didn’t have a chance to find out any facts.”
Senior leaned forward and jutted his jaw toward Armstrong. “We want our son out of jail and his name cleared. Can you assure us you can do that?”
Armstrong had dealt with A types like Hastings, and he knew Senior wouldn’t be satisfied if he said he could guarantee only that he would do his best.
“I’ve handled several cases where an innocent person has been accused of a crime, Mr. Hastings, and my track record speaks for itself. But I won’t be able to tell you much until I’ve talked to Blaine, read the police reports, and finished my own investigation. I can tell you that seeing Blaine as quickly as possible is my first priority. The longer I wait, the higher the possibility that he’ll say something to the detectives or a cellmate that could doom him at trial. So, I suggest that we get the business aspects of my representation out of the way so I can go over to the jail.”
“What do you charge?” Blaine asked bluntly.
Armstrong quoted his hourly fee and the retainer he would require.
When Hastings hesitated, Gloria touched him on the arm. “Please, don’t haggle,” she said, taking the initiative for the first time—a lioness protecting her cub.
Senior wrote a check for the amount Armstrong requested. The lawyer took down the Hastingses’ contact information, then saw them out. Thirty minutes later, after making a few calls, Armstrong headed across town to the Multnomah County jail.
* * *
The Justice Center is a eighteen-story, concrete-and-glass edifice in downtown Portland that is separated from the Multnomah County Courthouse by a park. The building is home to the Central Precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office, several courtrooms, state parole and probation, and the Multnomah County jail.
The jail occupies the fourth through tenth floors, but the reception area is on the second floor. To reach it, Doug Armstrong walked through the center’s vaulted lobby, past the curving stairs that led up to the courtrooms, and through a pair of glass doors. Armstrong showed his ID to the duty officer and went through a metal detector before taking an elevator to the floor where attorneys met their clients.
A few seconds later, Doug stepped out of the elevator into a narrow, concrete hall with walls painted pastel yellow. There was a thick metal door at one end. Armstrong pressed the button on the intercom that was affixed to the wall next to the door and announced his presence. Moments later, electronic locks snapped. A guard opened the door and ushered the lawyer into another narrow hallway, which ran in front of three contact visiting rooms. Armstrong could see into the rooms through large windows outfitted with shatterproof glass. The guard stopped in front of the solid steel door that opened into the second visiting room. Two molded plastic chairs stood on either side of a table secured to the floor by metal bolts. Moments after Armstrong sat down, a second door on the room’s other wall opened and a guard escorted Armstrong’s newest client into the visiting room.
Blaine Hastings Jr.’s mere presence made Doug Armstrong feel inadequate. The fifty-two-year-old lawyer was five feet six inches, balding and pudgy, and always had his nose in a book. He had tried jogging for a while but gave up on his physical fitness regime as soon as Portland’s rainy season began. Other than his failed attempt at jogging, an occasional game of golf was the closest he came to physical exertion.
Blaine Hastings Jr. radiated physical perfection. Even clad in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, unshaven, his wavy blond hair uncombed, and his steel blue eyes bloodshot, he looked like a Greek god.
Doug estimated his client’s height at six-three and his weight at 220 pounds. The jumpsuit had short sleeves, and every muscle in Hastings’s cannonball biceps and corded forearms was clearly defined. Doug thought that Senior might have been right when he swore that Blaine Junior would never have to resort to force to get a woman in his bed.
“I’m Doug Armstrong,” the attorney said as soon as the guard left. “Your folks hired me to represent you.”
Hastings looked anxious. “Can you get me out of here?” he blurted out.
“I’m having an associate work on bail as we speak. Your folks will be posting it later today, and you should be out sometime today or tomorr
ow at the latest.”
“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong. This is a nightmare, being accused of something so serious when you know you’re completely innocent.”
“Blaine … Can I call you Blaine?”
Hastings nodded.
“Before we go into details about your case, I need to tell you a few things about the relationship a client has with his attorney.”
Hastings leaned forward and listened attentively.
“First, it’s important that a client trust his attorney and be completely open and honest. To ensure that you can speak freely, lawyers and clients have a special privilege that ensures that anything you say to me is confidential. That means I can’t disclose anything you say to me to anyone without your permission—not to the DA, my wife, your parents, anyone.”
“I get that,” Hastings said with a quick nod.
“Good. Now, I made a few calls before I came over. Rex Kellerman is the DA assigned to your case. He told me that a woman named Randi Stark told the police that she met you at a party and you had intercourse with her against her will.”
Hastings’s features morphed into a terrifying mask. He lurched forward and his jaw jutted out. Doug had to fight to keep from recoiling. He imagined he was feeling something similar to what a running back would feel if he saw Hastings barreling toward him.
“Stark is a lying bitch,” Hastings spat out. “I did meet her at a party and we did make out in one of the bedrooms, but I never screwed her. That’s just not true.”
“Why would she lie? That’s what a jury will want to know.”
“Two reasons. Revenge is one. When we were in high school, Randi’s boyfriend attacked me. I beat the shit out of him. When I told the cops what happened, they arrested the little prick and he served some time in juvie. So, this could be payback.”
“Why did he attack you?”
The question caught Hastings off guard. “What do you mean?” he asked. Doug thought he was stalling for time.
“People don’t usually attack other people for no reason.”
Hastings shrugged. “I insulted Stark, and he came to her rescue.”
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