by Dick Lilly
Falconer slipped into the courtroom through the two sets of double doors that muffled conversations from the hall. He sat at the end of a row of teenagers, hoping to overhear bits of gossip that would add detail to his story, give it that edge of authenticity that never made it into newspapers but Falconer knew was essential in the blog.
The courtroom didn’t offer much space for spectators, just three rows of wooden benches stained almost black and as butt-numbing as church pews. Falconer figured they must have been salvaged from somewhere, part of the city’s reuse and recycling ethic. The black didn’t fit. Every other bit of wood, the trim and paneling throughout the new building, was stained in blonde or rusty shades, colors you’d see in Arizona and New Mexico. Probably some architect trying to bring a sunnier pallet to Seattle.
The TV reporters filed into the opposite set of pews, joining several print reporters already there. Greetings all round, a little shoptalk, probing to see if anyone had an angle the others didn’t. Closer to him, Falconer realized the two guys chatting up a clutch of teenage girls, there as moral support for their accused friends, were political bloggers of some repute. The bloggers, too, looked like they were still in high school.
Conversations stopped as the door to the left behind the judge’s bench opened and the bailiff led the defendants and members of their families to seats in the comfortable gray-upholstered office chairs in the jury box. The governor and Richard Collins led the way with Will between them, then came John Roberts and his daughter Lynne and finally Amanda Wallingford with her mother and a lawyer. Will might have been scared but he’d grown up in a political family and managed to keep his face expressionless, just shy of boredom. His parents wore stern expressions designed to show the judge they were ready to take charge of their wayward child, never mind that they were all here because Will and the two girls were adults in the eyes of the law. John Roberts was at home in his judicial face and a dark suit. Lynne had followed the family dress code with a black jacket and skirt, white blouse buttoned demurely to the neck. Peggy Wallingford, tan and athletic as usual, seemed unconcerned, smiling and waving at the kids on the benches, apparently schoolmates of Amanda’s. Amanda, when she raised her eyes from the floor, looked ready to weep and acknowledged no one.
Into the anticipation, the bailiff announced “Judge Noreen Tsu. All rise, please.”
As the courtroom settled, Judge Tsu leafed through files, looking up occasionally to locate the lawyers or the defendants and nod to herself, checking them present on her mental list. After several minutes of silence, she turned her attention to the motley array filling her courtroom.
“Before we begin, I want to answer a question that may have arisen for you, particularly those among you who represent the media. That is this, and I want it to be perfectly clear. In this case, because of the prominence of the defendants’ families and the – I will say undue – media attention that has already occurred, the court allowed the defendants and their families to enter this building in a manner that would not attract attention. If you will, so they would not be waylaid and possibly harassed by some of you sitting here or with your cameras out in the hall. After they had been guided to this floor by the bailiff’s staff, they were allowed to wait in the law library. And this is the point I want to be absolutely clear about: even though they passed through parts of the building reserved for staff and judges, at no time was there any contact between me or any other Municipal Court judge and any of the defendants or their families. Nor has there been any ex parte contact between any official of this court and any of these defendants or their families since well before the events that bring them here. And, importantly, I do not know and never have known personally any of the defendants or their family members, including relatives not present today. Otherwise, I would properly have recused myself.”
Well and good, thought Falconer. But just being in municipal court and not a block down the hill in King County Superior Court almost certainly meant that the high-priced lawyers had won the first round. Here in municipal court, the kids could not be charged with a felony, “possession with intent to sell,” a possibility which had stirred rumors in the days since the news broke. What would the county prosecutor do? In the end, leave it for municipal court, a smart decision since interviews with the party goers turned up consistent accounts supporting what Danny Armster had learned and Falconer had heard from the defense lawyers. The party crashers who disappeared brought everything except for the beer and marijuana and even some of that.
Tsu turned her gaze from the back of the room where the reporters clustered and spoke to the clerk stationed at a desk beside the bench. “Please read the charges and we will ask for pleas.”
In five more minutes it was all over. Standing beside their lawyers in front of the judge, the three high school seniors, Amanda Wallingford weeping and barely audible, Will Collins and Lynne Roberts firm and clear like the debate team members they were, pleaded not guilty to multiple counts of possession of alcohol and marijuana, the worst they could face in municipal court. Having uttered their four words, “Not guilty, your honor,” and with trial dates set, the three rejoined their parents and the whole party retreated single file out the door they’d entered. Falconer looked at his watch: 15 minutes grand total.
True to her advertised principle, “transparency in government is the people’s right,” and because not showing up would turn loose the hounds of speculation, a few minutes later Maureen Collins marched into the hall to do her shtick.
The cameras quickly surrounded her, penning the governor against the ochre paneling outside the courtroom door, not the best backdrop for her red hair, but a striking background for the deep green pantsuit she wore. Ignoring the cackle of competing questions, Maureen Collins launched into her own speech, likely something she’d spent time preparing.
“It’s important for all of you – the media, the pubic and my political opponents – to respect the law and the process here. This is a time for understanding and patience. These young people, including my son Will, may have used very poor judgment and their behavior is nothing we should condone. Richard and I have had some very serious conversations with Will and I expect we’re far from done with that. But regarding the misdemeanors they are alleged to have committed, I urge you all to take the course the law sets out, give them the benefit of the doubt, consider them innocent until proven guilty – if that should happen at their trials next month. But do not, please do not, try them on tonight’s news, in your blogs or tomorrow’s newspapers.”
Noble sentiments, Falconer thought, but about as effective as whistling into a hurricane. The governor’s closing thank you was drowned out by the obvious question, a cacophony delivered by the chorus, “What’s this mean for your campaign?”
“I think Washington’s voters are very smart and understanding. They know raising kids isn’t always a smooth process and they’ll understand what Richard and I are going through and what we have to do. This won’t affect the campaign.”
To Falconer’s ears, that was way more hoped-for-sentiment than fact but it was what she had to say. As Collins finished, her press secretary, a brash young guy named Johnny Watson who was reputed to be the far right’s mole in the moderate governor’s office, stepped in front of the cameras. “That’s it, everyone, thank you.” On the same cue, Maureen Collins squeezed between two tripods holding video cameras and headed for the elevators, followed by the print reporters and bloggers hollering questions. An old pro, Falconer was in the lead, next to Collins with her state patrol bodyguard on the other side of her, Watson just behind, his body blocking off the others.
“Governor, I’ve got a theory on this . . .”
“When don’t you, Falconer?” Almost a hiss.
“I think Will was set up, Mo.” Falconer spoke low enough so the other reporters, still noisily following couldn’t sort out his words. “There are other things like this that may come down. Give me a couple minutes.”
“OK, Falco
ner. But this better not be a con. Get in the elevator with us.” They slipped into the elevator followed by Watson and the trooper who blocked the crush of reporters and allowed the polished steel doors to close. Collins pushed the buttons for the ninth floor, one down, and the basement garage. “Johnny you go on down and get Richard and Will to wait at the car. I’ll join you in about 15 minutes.” The press secretary looked pained if not actually angry at the order but he obeyed. The governor and Falconer and the trooper got out and the elevator continued down.
“You are two things, Falconer, both of which on a bad day are crap in my book, a detective and a journalist. This is a bad day so what you have to say better be good.” The next elevator took them to 12, and they walked out onto the roof deck, met by the warm sun of the late June morning. The trooper, one of the typically big guys always assigned to “executive protection,” probably something over 6’-6” in his blue Smokey-the-Bear hat, stood back discretely.
Falconer told Collins about the redhead who accosted him at Vera’s. “The woman claimed you have a ten-year-old grandson you’ve never met. That’s quite a story, Mo.”
“Would be if it were true.” Collins tone was empty of emotion, something Falconer, who’d known her since she started up the political ladder as a young lawyer in the Seattle mayor’s office in the 70’s, had never experienced.
“Has the ring…”
“Bullshit, Falconer. I don’t need this. What happened with Will has already cost me three points in the tracking poll we’re running. I can recover, but I think you’re right somebody’s targeted me with dirty tricks and I don’t need another hit.
“And here’s a bone for you and your blog. You know that hostage-taking in the prison at Walla Walla ten days ago? Guess what? The hostage taker, the one still alive, says the three of them were paid by someone outside, and people on the outside – this guy says his woman – got $10,000 he never saw and now will never see. We haven’t proved it yet. She’s disappeared. One of the two dead guy’s sons, a kid in his twenties, is gone, too. The incident is another black eye for me, apparently paid for by some mystery man or criminal enterprise outside the prison. So, yeah, I think someone’s out to get me.” Collins leaned on the parapet, looking at the bay, blown into a dark blue chop by the northerly, the Olympics in the distance. “It’d be simpler just to be a court clerk up here with a sack lunch, loving the breeze, reading Jane Austin or something like that, wouldn’t it, Eric?”
“Yes, but it isn’t that way, is it, Mo?” Falconer remembered the much softer woman she was just out of law school when he was a summer intern at the Times. Naively, despite the age difference, he’d thought there was a spark between them but soon realized she had already decided on Richard, East Coast family and all. He was a Seattle kid from working class Ballard with a journalism degree from Western Washington University. It was the kind of background Maureen Collins, reared in rural Enterprise, Oregon, had escaped years before with an East Coast college scholarship and a law degree from Harvard.
“No, and it won’t be for a while. I’ve got to get through this election, so let’s play a little game here, OK? You look into the baby story all you want and when you’ve got some facts, any facts, whichever way they cut, you call and I’ll confirm them for you – or maybe not. It’s worth a try, though, isn’t it, since you’re thinking all this must mean something? That there may be something to the dirty tricks, that it might all add up. Well, Eric, except for the baby part, I think it does. There’s some asshole or group out there that badly wants me out of the governor’s mansion, maybe out of this race even before the primary to make way for – I don’t know who, likely one of those R’s running against me in the primary for no reason I can figure – somebody more acceptably conservative. So like I said, call me. I’ll leave instructions so you’ll be put through.”
The trooper held the door for her as she walked back into the building, red hair dancing in the breeze as she moved. Falconer stayed at the parapet and stared down into the street where the early lunch crowd hustled from building to building and a few gulls patrolled above.
Chapter 17, Assaggio
Friday, June 13, 1 p.m.
Falconer pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Carl Barclay who was eating lunch by himself. “Mind if I join you? I thought we could talk about a few things. You maybe could help me out.”
Barclay looked up from his paper. “Yes, I do. I mind. So fuck off, Falconer. I’m tired of talking to journalists. I came here to read. By myself.” He patted the New York Times open to the op-ed page beside his plate.
Falconer ignored him. “What I wanted to ask . . . I figured if anybody could, you could tell me, give me some kind of assessment . . .” Falconer performing in aw-shucks mode.
Barclay, feigning indifference, took a bite of pasta, penne dripping with cream and gorgonzola. Assaggio Ristorante, a high-end Italian place on Fourth, white tablecloths, bud vases with real flowers and an easy ten-minute walk from Barclay’s office, was one of the consultant’s favorite lunch spots. Falconer had learned that with only a couple calls.
“What I was wondering about is who might want to weaken the governor, you know, take her down a notch or two politically, maybe create a little doubt among the big donors she needs to write checks before the primary?”
Barclay paused, napkin to his lips, thoughtful, then he took the bait. “Lots of people.” This was politics, his game, not Victor’s. Safe ground, not the questions about the boat he had braced for.
“Maybe even you.” Falconer grinned. Barclay chuckled. Falconer knew Barclay’s interest had been with Andy Powell, the Democratic state senator Collins had defeated four years ago in the bitterest statewide race anyone had seen for years. This year it was the consultant’s good-old-boy connection with Sonny McCracken, though Barclay wasn’t officially part of the campaign. There had to be some humiliation, maybe some resentment, despite Barclay’s public equanimity and professed ability to work both sides when it came to the big issues.
“Maybe even me.”
“But supposing there’s someone who really wants to do it. Who tops the list?”
“You’re kind of far afield here, aren’t you, Falconer? You’re a true crime guy. My wife reads you all the time.”
“Apparently a lot of them do.”
“Who?”
“Wives. Lots of them.”
Barclay chuckled again. “No politics on your blog that I know of, so why do you want to know?”
“There are crimes in politics. Hell, Barclay, maybe politics is a crime.” Falconer laughed at himself. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. Barclay’s hostility was gone, or at least set aside. “What do you make of her son’s arrest, drug charges, that bit?”
“I heard about it. Don’t know any details. What do you hear, Falconer, you’re the snoop?”
Falconer rattled off the summary: “Not that I imagine these Roosevelt and Lakeside kids are all that innocent but I think it was just a beer bash with the usual bit of weed and the hope of getting laid. The drugs arrived with three strangers none of the kids knew. I think they’re telling the truth about that. The party crashers set out a smorgasbord of junk on the coffee table – the usual fare for kids, weed, Ecstasy, but surprisingly even some meth. Apparently most of it was still there when the cops arrived. Neighbor called them – you know Victor Wallingford, don’t you? Lives on the water a couple houses closer to Webster Point.” Barclay paled, looked down at his pasta, hiding from Falconer the fear in his eyes. He felt sick. Fucking Victor.
“Yeah, I know Wallingford.” Spoken through a mouthful of pasta.
“Client?”
“I’ve done work for a couple of his companies. Him? I’m not close to him.” Barclay paused. Falconer heard the stress in his voice, wondered about it. “See him mostly at fundraisers. For the right cause, he’ll write a big check. Guy like that you want to have in your Rolodex.” Barclay had recovered his composure. “Or maybe these days have him as a Facebook
friend.” He laughed. Falconer heard a bitterness.
“There’s some irony here since his own kid was arrested but it was Wallingford who called the cops, fire department, really, when he saw a fire down on the beach. Told the dispatcher he thought the Roberts’ boathouse was on fire. Cops came along, kids let them in and, lo and behold, the drugs. Off to jail for the three 18-year-olds including his daughter and poor, probably more or less innocent Will Collins. The dealers, pushers, party crashers, whatever you want to call them were long gone, of course. Not a trace. Kids said they probably set the fire, too. You all right?”
“Yeah, fine, thanks. Food’s too rich for me sometimes and I shouldn’t skip breakfast. ‘Eat regularly, small amounts.’ That’s what my doctor says. But you can’t beat this place, can you?” He took a deep draught of his wine, a Chianti Classico, bottle at hand next to the bud vase which held a pink rose. Barclay liked the richness of it, not a sissy wine. Robust he’d call it, if forced to use a wine-snob word. Victor would find overtones of chestnuts and truffles, or some shit like that. “What do you think?” he said, trying to deflect the conversation away from himself.
“About the Collins kid?”
“Yeah, bad luck or what?”
“Maybe a good old-fashioned frame up.” Falconer figured there was nothing to lose and maybe something to gain sharing suspicions with Barclay. And he didn’t want to rush getting to the real reason he was here, the reason Barclay assumed in the first place. This stuff about the Collins case – he was thinking of it that way now – however useful, was just the overture. “This frame up, if it is a frame up, could be aimed at any of the three 18-year-olds. Patricia Roberts, daughter of a federal judge. Judges have enemies coming out of the woodwork; Victor Wallingford, scion of an old Seattle timber family, nowadays a venture capitalist, highly visible, important guy in the community. Under the surface, though, always rumors about the people he’s screwed over, probably a few who’d want to give him grief over his beloved Amanda. Profile in Seattle Monthly last year said she’s the apple of his eye – wherever that old phrase comes from. And the governor’s son. So any one of the three.”