The Perfect Alibi

by Phillip Margolin

  * * *

  Vanessa waited to talk about Rex Kellerman until Sheila told them that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes.

  “Thanks for the crash course,” she said.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Can I ask you about something that happened in the office recently?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did Rex quit?”

  Getty stopped smiling. “That’s not something I want to discuss.”

  “Did he do something unethical in Doug Armstrong’s case?”

  Getty looked conflicted. Then he nodded.

  “I’m DA now, Paul. If he did something that reflects badly on my office, I should know about it.”

  Getty sighed. “You guessed right. It was Armstrong.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Before I tell you, you’ve got to promise me you’ll let the matter stand the way it is now.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that without knowing what happened.”

  Getty’s lips formed a grim line. “Rex had an affair with Doug Armstrong’s wife, and she broke it off.”

  Vanessa’s jaw dropped. “He prosecuted an innocent man for revenge?”

  “I think he’s convinced that Armstrong is guilty.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  Getty told Vanessa about the blood under Frank Nylander’s fingernail and what happened with the DNA tests.

  “That’s horrible, Paul. What if Armstrong had been executed? What if Robin hadn’t figured out what Rex was doing?”

  “Well, she did, and Doug is a free man.”

  “I have to think about this, Paul.”

  “Doug doesn’t know that Marsha cheated on him. Think of the damage you’ll do to their relationship if he learns what happened between her and Rex.”

  “Think of the damage Rex could have done. He’s a criminal, Paul, and I don’t know if I can sweep what he’s done under the rug.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Vanessa was the first person to arrive at the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office. There were two reasons for her early appearance. First, she wanted to know if there was a history of prosecuting district attorneys who intentionally withheld exculpatory evidence or offered evidence they knew to be false or questionable to a grand jury or trial jury. Second, she just couldn’t sleep, knowing that Rex Kellerman had tried to put Doug Armstrong on death row to avenge being jilted by Doug’s wife.

  Vanessa found only a few cases where a prosecutor had been disbarred or jailed for withholding exculpatory evidence. In one case, a Texas prosecutor had intentionally withheld evidence in a murder case that could have cleared the defendant. The defendant was convicted and spent twenty-four years in prison before being exonerated. The ex-DA, who was a judge when his crime was discovered, was prosecuted and pled no contest. He left the bench and was disbarred, but he spent only ten days in jail.

  Vanessa was furious when she finished reading about that case. In Brady v. Maryland, the United States Supreme Court had made it crystal clear that prosecutors had an absolute duty to turn over exculpatory evidence to the defense. Every district attorney knew that. The Texas DA’s dereliction of duty had robbed a man of twenty-four years of his life and forced him to spend those years in the company of hardened criminals. Ten days in jail was a woefully inadequate punishment for such a hideous crime. To Vanessa’s mind, the DA was guilty of kidnapping, and Rex Kellerman was guilty of attempted murder.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Blaine Hastings was still on the run, but Robin figured that he’d be behind bars soon. Fugitives were usually caught. Someone would recognize him and phone the police or he’d get desperate and use a credit card or he’d just get tired of being hunted and turn himself in. So, she began preparing Randi Stark’s lawsuit. During a brainstorming session, Robin and Jeff drafted a witness list. Many of the witnesses in the civil suit would be the same witnesses who testified at Hastings’s criminal trial, but there were some loose ends that Robin wanted tied up.

  Jeff found the names of Hastings’s high school teammates in Hastings’s high school yearbook. Then he cross-checked the names with the Portland State roster. There were three boys at PSU who had played football in high school with Blaine.

  Two days after his meeting with Robin, Jeff parked in front of Alpha Phi Sigma’s fraternity house, a converted Victorian near the Portland State University campus. When Jeff started up the steps to the frat house, he spotted a young man with a blond crew cut, a thick neck, massive thighs, and ripped biceps sitting on a dilapidated sofa on the front porch. The young man stood up when he saw Jeff and walked toward him.

  “Dino Portis?” Jeff asked.

  “That’s me,” Portis said with a smile. “And you must be the PI.”

  “I am.” The investigator handed Portis his card.

  Portis pretended to look Jeff over. “Where’s your trench coat?”

  “I left it at home with my magnifying glass.”

  “That’s cool,” Portis answered with a laugh.

  “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Yeah, well, Randi and I lived in the projects and went to school together. So why do you want to talk to me?”

  “I was hoping to get some background on Blaine and Randi from someone who knew them. Can you tell me a little about Blaine? Have you had much contact with him since high school?”

  “No. I didn’t have much contact with him in high school either, except during football practice, and even then, not so much.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We were on opposite sides of the ball. I was a running back and he was a linebacker, so there wasn’t much interaction during practice. And I told you I lived in the projects. Blaine was partial to rich kids who were members of the Westmont Country Club.”

  “How did Randi and Blaine Hastings get along in high school?”

  “Blaine never paid much attention to her, but he wasn’t nice to her the few times I saw them together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If we were in a group, he’d insult her or talk down to her, if he paid any attention to her at all. Then there was that thing with Ryan.”

  “Ryan Tucker, her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. That was fucking awful.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “They had a fight after school. I came out of the locker room after it started. But, from what I heard, Ryan accused Blaine of forcing himself on Randi.”

  “Forcing himself how?”

  “I’m not sure. Like I said, I wasn’t there at the start.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “Someone told me that Blaine called Randi a slut and Ryan took a swing at him. Blaine is a bully, but he can back it up. I’d never want to tangle with him. Ryan could fight but he wasn’t in Blaine’s league, and Blaine beat the shit out of him. It would have gotten really bad if me and a few of the guys on the team hadn’t jumped in to stop it.

  “What was worse than the beating was what Blaine did afterward. He had Ryan arrested. I mean, you don’t do that. A fight is between you and the other guy. When it’s over, that’s that. But Blaine got the cops involved. Then he got his buddies to lie about what happened, and Ryan went to juvie.”

  “That’s pretty low.”

  Portis nodded. “And it got worse, because Ryan committed suicide after he got out.”

  “I heard that.”

  “I doubt Blaine gave a shit. I had an abnormal psych class last semester. Blaine would have fit right in to our discussion of sociopaths.”

  “Tell me about Randi when she was in high school.”

  “She was always a little wild, always rebelling against something. She hung with the Goth crowd, smoked weed. I don’t think she was into any other drugs. If she was, it didn’t show. One thing you should know. She isn’t dumb. She never did well in school, but that’s because she never tried. But she was in a few of my classes, and I could tell she has it between the ears, even if
she didn’t use what she had up there.”

  “She’s in community college studying to be a nurse, so maybe she’s a late bloomer.”

  “Yeah, she told me about that at the game.”

  “The PSU–Oregon game?”

  Dino nodded.

  “Tell me about that.”

  “There’s not much to tell. We got our butts kicked. But guys on our team knew a lot of the Ducks, so we were milling around on the field after the whistle blew. Randi and Annie Roche came up and we were talking, and Jerry Reyes told Randi about the party.”

  “Did he mention that Blaine was going to be there?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “So, Randi and Annie knew that?”

  “Yeah, probably. Annie was there, but she was talking to Nick Dominico. She had a thing for him in high school, and it looked like she was trying to rekindle the relationship.” Portis laughed. “Nick told me later that he was afraid she was going to attack him.”

  “She might not have known?”

  “It’s possible, but we were all just inches from each other.”

  “Did you see Randi or Blaine or Annie at the party?”

  “I saw them when they came in.”

  “Randi says that Blaine came over to her and started talking. Then they danced. Then he asked her to go to a bedroom to make out. Does that sound right?”

  Portis thought for a bit. Then he frowned. “Okay. I remember Blaine talking to someone. There was a group of people from our class. Randi and Annie came over.” Portis paused, and his brow wrinkled as he tried to remember what happened at the party. “You know, I do remember Randi and Annie looking at Blaine before they came over to our group.”

  “Looking how?”

  “Just looking. And they were whispering. Then they’d look over again.”

  “And this was before they came over to your group?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know how Blaine and Randi got together?”

  “Yeah. Blaine was talking to someone. I don’t remember who. And Randi started talking to him, which I thought was odd given the way I knew she felt about him. Then they started dancing.”

  “Did you see the two of them go to the bedroom?”

  “I wasn’t paying that much attention, because I was talking about the game with some friends of mine. They go to Oregon and they were razzing me.” Portis smiled. “That game will not be on my highlight reel.”

  “Okay. Is there anything else you can think of that might help?”

  “No, I…” Portis paused again. “There was one other thing. While Randi and Blaine were talking and dancing, Annie was watching them. This is just an impression, and it was dark and I wasn’t paying her that much attention, but I thought she looked nervous, but she also had this little grin on her face.”

  “What did Annie do after that?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I wasn’t paying that much attention. I did see Blaine leave right before the girls did.”

  “How did Blaine look?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “And Randi and Annie?”

  “You know, now that I think about it, Randi was bent over and Annie looked like she was supporting her.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of that bears on the rape?”

  Portis thought for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Okay, well, thanks,” Jeff said as he stood up. “You’ve got my card. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Rex Kellerman’s second wife let him keep the house when she divorced him. Her dentist boyfriend had a much bigger house. Besides, the house wasn’t anything to brag about. It was just a serviceable ranch in a decent middle-class neighborhood. The nicest feature was a back patio that had a view of the mountains. The rain had let up for a few days, and the weather had been unseasonably mild. When the detectives came to arrest him, Rex was on his patio nursing a glass of Scotch.

  Even those who detested Kellerman agreed that he always looked as if he had just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. Not today. The man Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon found on the patio sported a ragged three-day growth, unwashed hair, and was dressed in a sweatshirt, a worn T-shirt, and soiled jeans.

  Kellerman had stopped shaving and showering when the fifth firm he’d interviewed with told him that they thought he was a hell of an attorney, but they just weren’t hiring. That’s when the light went on. He was persona non grata. Someone had talked. How else could you explain the lack of interest in a lawyer who, Kellerman firmly believed, was one of the best litigators in the state?

  The disgraced assistant district attorney was so deep in his sea of misery that he didn’t hear the detectives approach.

  “Afternoon, Rex,” Dillon said.

  Kellerman wrenched sideways, startled, almost spilling his drink. When the identity of his visitors registered in his soggy consciousness, he smiled. “Hey, Rog, Carrie. Pull up a chair. Wanna drink?”

  “Not right now, Rex,” Carrie answered.

  “Come on.” Kellerman extended his arm and pointed toward the perpetually snowy summit of Mt. Hood. “What’s the sense of having this view if you don’t take advantage of it? Pull up a chair, let me get you a drink, and let’s enjoy the day.”

  “I’d love to, Rex,” Dillon said, “but we’re here on serious business.”

  “Oh? What’s up?”

  Dillon held out an official document and Rex read it. Then he laughed.

  “Is this a joke, Rog? Did you and Carrie cook this up?”

  “It’s no joke. We’re here to arrest you for the attempted murder of Doug Armstrong.”

  Kellerman stared at the detective. Then he broke out laughing again. “Okay, who put you up to this?”

  Carrie stepped in front of Kellerman and showed him her handcuffs. “It’s time for you to get serious, Rex.”

  It suddenly registered that the detectives weren’t the only law enforcement personnel on his patio. Two burly cops had moved behind him.

  Kellerman stood on shaky legs. “You are serious?”

  “Please turn around and put your hands behind your back so I can cuff them. Roger, read Mr. Kellerman his rights.”

  “It’s that bitch Cole, right.”

  “I don’t want to use force. Please don’t resist,” Carrie said.

  “All right, all right, but I am going to sue her ass. I was promised. Paul promised.”

  * * *

  Roger Dillon had read Rex his Miranda rights, but the detectives had not tried to question him, because they knew he wasn’t sober enough to waive them. Rex had sobered up a little as soon as it dawned on him that he was in handcuffs, in the back of a police car, charged with a crime serious enough to land him in prison.

  Kellerman’s first instinct was to try to make the detectives understand how ridiculous the charges were, but he had been on the other side in enough interrogation rooms to know that talking to the police was the quickest way to kill any chance of being cleared. There was, however, one word he knew he had to say, and he said “Lawyer!” loud and clear. The detectives allowed him his call as soon as he was booked in.

  * * *

  Carrie made sure that Rex was put in isolation. She was afraid of what would happen to him if the inmates discovered a DA in their midst. Rex lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, too scared to sleep, even though he was certain that he would be released on bail when he was arraigned in the morning. Hell, the charges might even be dismissed. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Charging a district attorney with attempted murder for trying to bring a killer to justice? Vanessa was insane. She should be behind bars for even thinking of throwing him in jail for pursuing Armstrong. He would definitely sue her when this was over. He would get her disbarred. Thinking about bringing down the haughty bitch made Rex feel a little better, but his good mood soon faded when an inmate began screaming, prompting other inmates to howl like banshees.

  When the guards
restored order, Rex made a serious attempt at sleeping, but imagining everything that could go wrong kept him awake. What if he ended up in prison? No, that couldn’t happen. He’d hired Les Kreuger, and Les Kreuger was brilliant. The charge was as flimsy as a spider’s web, and Les would rip right through it. Rex took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. He was going to be okay. But what if…?

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Blaine Hastings had been hiding in the bushes at the edge of the bar’s parking lot for an hour before the back door opened and a man staggered out. Several men and women had gone to their cars while he waited, but they had been in groups. He needed a lone drunk, and he got one just after one in the morning.

  The man leaned over the driver’s door and made two unsuccessful attempts to insert his key into the door of an old Ford pickup. He was making his third attempt when Hastings hit him with a metal bar. As soon as the man collapsed on the asphalt, Hastings grabbed his wallet and ran. When he was far enough away from the bar to feel comfortable, he went through the wallet. There were thirty-four dollars and some credit cards. He took the cash and tossed the wallet with the cards into a Dumpster.

  Hastings was very hungry. He’d been reduced to rolling drunks for cash because he didn’t dare use a credit card. He’d been sleeping on the street in Seattle and Tacoma. He couldn’t risk going to a shelter or a soup kitchen for fear of being identified.

  This was his first evening back in Portland. He had gone to Mexico briefly and sent a letter to his parents, hoping it would be intercepted so the police would think he’d left the country, but he had planned to make his way back to Portland to kill Randi Stark, the lying bitch who was responsible for destroying his life.

  After getting a burger, fries, and shake at a McDonald’s, Hastings made his way to the Starks’ house. He had spent a long time deciding what he would do when he got there. He was wearing a hairnet under a hoodie, and he’d shaved off his body hair in a gas station bathroom. He also had gloves and long sleeves to cut down on the possibility of leaving trace evidence for the cops to find.