A Matter of Life and Death

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  DEDICATION

  During the quarter century when I was practicing criminal defense, I represented clients in a dozen death penalty cases, so I know firsthand the pressure an attorney is under when a client’s life is literally on the line. In two separate murder cases, I learned that horrible mistakes can be made in the most serious cases when I represented innocent clients who had been sentenced to life in prison. I was able to clear the names of both men, but I wouldn’t wish on anyone the pressure I was under.

  There is no more important job in the legal profession than making sure that people facing the death penalty get a fair trial. People do not get rich doing it, and it takes a toll. That’s why I am dedicating this book to organizations like the Innocence Project, the Equal Justice Initiative, the Legal Defense and Educational Fund of the NAACP, and all of the attorneys who take on capital cases.

  PROLOGUE

  The rain pounded on Ian Hennessey’s windshield with the fury of a drum solo, making it almost impossible to see the road. It seemed like Ian’s bad day was never going to end.

  The day hadn’t started badly. It had actually started as one of Ian’s best days. Shortly after court began, the young deputy district attorney had won a difficult motion to suppress. That victory had prompted the defendant to plead guilty in a case Ian was worried he might lose. His next case had resulted in another plea, ending his morning docket with two victories.

  Ian left the courtroom with a big smile on his face. He was on his way to his office to boast about his victories when he received a phone call. An hour later, he was basking in the afterglow of the best sex he’d ever experienced. Then Ian’s wonderful day took a 180-degree turn, and the woman he loved threatened to destroy his life.

  People sometimes said that they were in hell. Ian really felt that he was as close as you could come to the real thing. He knew that he wasn’t the best person. He’d listened to the podcasts and read the online articles about his generation. How they felt entitled and wanted it all right away without working for their goals like past generations. Ian fit the stereotype. His wealthy parents had indulged their only child and used their influence to get him places he didn’t deserve to be. And he had taken what they’d given without an ounce of gratitude. Then he’d been given a job he didn’t deserve and had taken for granted at first but had come to love; a job that could be ripped away from him at any moment, through no fault of his own.

  “Turn here,” said Anthony Carasco.

  Ian turned onto Carasco’s street, where multimillion-dollar mansions stood on large, manicured lots. Ian was surprised at how poor the street lighting was, considering the wealth of the people who lived here. Even with his brights on, the downpour was so powerful that he was having a hard time seeing the road. That’s why Ian was shocked when his high beams fell on a man who was standing in the middle of the street. Ian hit the brakes. The man froze in the glare, then threw an arm across his face.

  “Who was that?” Carasco shouted as the apparition shot across the street and into the woods.

  “I have no idea,” was Ian’s bewildered reply.

  “It looked like he was coming from my house,” Carasco said.

  Ian pulled into the driveway, and his passenger jumped out. Ian followed him inside, and his bad day got a lot worse.

  PART ONE

  THE OLDEST PROFESSION

  TWO MONTHS AGO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anthony Carasco was five seven with a slight build, dull brown hair, and bland features that made him hard to call to mind a day after you met him. When he was sober, Carasco was objective enough to know that it wasn’t his looks that made him attractive to women. But Carasco had a buzz on, and that’s why no warning bells went off when a stunning blonde with ivory skin, pouty red lips, sky-blue eyes, and a killer figure sat on the stool next to him in the bar in the San Francisco hotel and began making conversation.

  “It’s really dead in here,” the blonde said.

  “That’s because everyone is at the bar at the Fairmont,” Carasco answered.

  “Why is that?”

  “The American Bar Association convention is over there.”

  “Are you a lawyer?” the blonde asked.

  “I am. How about you?”

  “I thought about it once, but it’s not for me. So, why are you here when your fellow lawyers are over there?”

  “Too noisy,” Carasco said as he flashed a drunken smile. Then he held out his hand. “Tony Carasco.”

  “Stacey Hayes,” the blonde said, returning the smile and holding Carasco’s hand a moment more than most women would. “Noise isn’t the only reason a man drinks alone,” she said when she released Carasco’s hand. “What’s the real reason?”

  Carasco hesitated. Normally, he was very private, but he was a bit tipsy, and he was certain that he would never see Stacey Hayes again.

  “It’s my wife. She called right before I was going down to the bar at the Fairmont, and we had another argument.” He shrugged. “After she hung up on me, I wasn’t in the mood to socialize.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It’s too bad we’re married, but divorce is out of the question.”

  “With a name like Carasco, I’m guessing you’re Catholic. Is this a religious thing?”

  Carasco laughed. “No, it’s a money thing. Betsy is loaded.”

  “Aah!”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Carasco asked.

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “You’re very nice.”

  Hayes raised an eyebrow. “How can you tell? We’ve just met.”

  “Well, first thing, you’re a sympathetic listener who’s kind enough to pay attention to the woes of a man twice your age.”

  “I doubt you’re twice my age.”

  “See, that proves my point. I’m down in the dumps, and you’re trying to cheer me up, even if it requires a little white lie.”

  Hayes smiled. “Maybe I used to be a Girl Scout, and this is my good deed for the day.”

  “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  Hayes laughed. “Far from it.”

  Carasco grinned. “Were you a wild child?”

  Hayes looked him in the eye. “I was.”

  “Are you still?”

  “Maybe. Why do you ask?”

  “I just had a crazy idea—and I don’t want to offend you—but would you like to have that drink in my room at the Fairmont? It’s a suite with a great view of the city.”

  “That idea isn’t so crazy, and you make a very nice first impression…”

  “But?”

  “But I have to be straight with you, Tony. I’m a working girl.”

  Carasco looked confused.

  “I’m a professional escort.”

  Carasco brightened. “Oh, I get it. I’m just a little slow, what with the booze and all. But, hey, that’s not a turn-off. In fact,
it’s a turn-on.”

  He stood up. “Shall we go?”

  * * *

  Carasco didn’t know if it was the coke he’d snorted before they got to it or Stacey’s athletic and enthusiastic approach to her job, but he did know that he hadn’t experienced anything like sex with Ms. Hayes in years. By the time they finished, he was drained and dizzy and feeling better than he’d felt in a long time.

  Carasco rolled to one side of the king-size bed and took deep breaths.

  “That was amazing,” he said when he’d recovered enough to talk.

  “Glad you approved,” Hayes said, rolling toward Carasco so one perfect breast nudged his arm.

  “Jesus! I may need an EMT with a defibrillator.”

  “I can always do mouth to mouth,” Hayes answered with a lazy smile.

  “Maybe in a bit. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “You certainly don’t act like a man who claimed to be twice my age.”

  Carasco laughed. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “It was well earned.”

  Carasco assumed that Hayes’s praise for his performance was part of the service, but he did feel like he’d held his own.

  “How long have you been living in San Francisco?” Carasco asked.

  “A little over a year.”

  “So, this isn’t home?”

  “No.”

  Carasco noticed that Hayes’s answer wasn’t as playful as some of her other responses. “Ever think of moving?”

  “Why?”

  “I live in Oregon—Portland. I own some real estate, and I have a very nice apartment that’s currently vacant. It’s on the river with a killer view of the mountains.”

  Hayes smiled. “I appreciate the offer. Normally, I’d give it serious consideration if the price was right, but I’m afraid Oregon is off-limits for me.”

  “Oh, why is that?”

  “I was busted a few times in Portland when I was new at this, and I took off. There are outstanding warrants in your hometown, and I don’t need the hassle.”

  Carasco smiled. “If it’s the warrants you’re worried about, you’re in luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can get rid of those pesky things as easy as one, two, three.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “I’m a Multnomah County Circuit Court judge, Stacey, and judges have magical powers when it comes to dealing with warrants.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Robin Lockwood was a lean and muscular five eight with short blond hair, blue eyes, and a face that was unmarked, despite having been a high school wrestler and a UFC cage fighter. Robin had abandoned her career in mixed martial arts after suffering a brutal knockout on a pay-per-view event in Las Vegas during her first year at Yale Law School, but she still kept in top shape by working out every weekday morning before going to her law office. This morning, Robin had skipped her workout at McGill’s gym. A lengthy federal trial had forced her to get an extension on a brief, and she was running up against the new deadline.

  Barrister, Berman, and Lockwood was located in a modern glass-and-steel office building in the heart of downtown Portland. Robin asked her receptionist if there were any urgent messages before walking down a hall decorated with a series of artistic cityscapes, past the offices of her partner Mark Berman, her investigator/boyfriend Jeff Hodges, and their newest associate, Loretta Washington.

  Robin’s spacious corner office had a stunning view of the Willamette River, the verdant foothills of the Cascade Range, and the snowcapped peaks of Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens. This morning, she was oblivious to nature’s masterpiece because the deadline hung over her like the sword of Damocles.

  Robin had just started working on the brief when Mark Berman walked into her office. Robin’s law partner was six two, in his early thirties, and had long brown hair and bright blue eyes. Mark was married with a young daughter and had a sunny disposition that he maintained, no matter how stressful the case he was handling. While Robin was working out at her gym in the morning, Mark was rowing on the Willamette River to maintain the shape he’d been in when he was a member of the University of Washington’s nationally ranked crew.

  “Got a minute?” Mark asked.

  Robin didn’t, but she waved Mark toward a seat anyway. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Erika Stassen is a CPA at Kimbro and Fong, the firm that prepares my taxes. She has a serious problem. Can you see her?”

  “I’m snowed under because of the Lowenstein trial. I’ve got a brief due and piles of work to catch up with. Can’t you handle it?”

  “I would if I could, but it’s a criminal matter.”

  “Can she make an appointment?”

  “She’s in my office, and she’s really upset. You’d be doing me a big favor if you’d talk to her.”

  Robin sighed and pushed the case she was reading to one side. Moments later, Mark ushered in a tall, well-dressed woman with glossy black shoulder-length hair, a smooth complexion, and pleasant, feminine features. After introducing Erika to Robin, Mark left and Robin offered Stassen a seat.

  “Mark says you have a problem, Ms., Mrs.…?”

  “Ms. will do. I’m not married. I was for a few years, but I’m not now.”

  “Why do you need to see me?”

  Stassen looked down. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands were clasped in her lap. “This is very embarrassing.”

  “What you tell me is just between the two of us, and I don’t judge my clients,” Robin said with a gentle smile. “What’s your problem?”

  “Mark probably told you that I work at an accounting firm. The people there, well, they’re very understanding, very supportive. But if this comes out, I don’t know what they’ll do. I … I could lose my job.”

  A tear trickled down Erika’s cheek, and she stifled a sob.

  “Do you want some water?” Robin asked as she handed Erika a Kleenex.

  “I’m sorry. This has been very difficult for me.”

  “No need to apologize. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here so I can see if I can help you.”

  Erika took a deep breath. “It’s prostitution. That’s what they say I did.”

  Robin frowned. She’d represented prominent men who had been arrested for soliciting a prostitute and women who had been charged with being a prostitute, but a female CPA didn’t seem to fit into either category.

  “Why don’t you tell me what the police say you did.”

  “Okay, but before I do that, there’s something you need to know. My name on my birth certificate is Eric Stassen. Legally, I’m a man, but that’s going to change in two months.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ian Hennessey spent more time than usual selecting the clothes he would wear to work, because he wanted to look like a consummate professional when he met with Robin Lockwood. Hennessey, a stocky, broad-shouldered twenty-five-year-old with bright red hair and pale, freckled skin, had been a Multnomah County deputy district attorney for less than a year. His opponents in most of the misdemeanor cases he’d tried had been public defenders, who were also inexperienced, recent law school grads. This was the first time Ian would go up against an A-lister. Kicking Robin Lockwood’s ass would give him a ton of street cred, and to be honest, Ian really needed a big win.

  Ian had finished near the bottom of his law school class and had flunked the Oregon bar twice. His early track record reinforced the views of the other deputies that he would never have been hired if his father hadn’t used his influence.

  When he started his job at the DA’s office, Ian resented the fact that his parents had “bought” it for him, and he had put very little effort into his cases. The deputy in charge of his unit had called him on the carpet after he lost three winnable cases in a row. Ian had several feeble explanations for his failures. He couldn’t help it if the security guard in the shoplifting case was an idiot, the defense attorney in the DUII had surprised him by producing a smartphone video that
contradicted his cop’s testimony, and the jury in his other case was stocked with bleeding-heart liberals.

  Ian’s supervisor had accused him of failing to prep the security guard, not reading the list of evidence the defense attorney in the DUII had sent over in discovery, and doing a lousy job during jury selection. Ian had told the supervisor that he had too many cases and too little time to prepare, but his excuses fell on deaf ears. Ian had been faced with an unspoken threat that his days as a deputy DA were numbered if he didn’t improve.

  Terrified of losing his job, Ian had applied himself, and two guilty verdicts had followed. Success as a result of his own efforts was new to Ian, and he started believing that he could be a good lawyer. The Stassen case was a sure winner, and beating Lockwood would go a long way toward salvaging his reputation.

  Hennessey checked his watch every couple of minutes as the time for the scheduled conference approached. Just as he was about to look again, the receptionist buzzed. Hennessey straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and checked himself in the mirror that hung in the cubicle he shared with another new DA. Then he took a deep breath and walked down the hall to the reception area.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet ‘Rockin’ Robin,’” Hennessey said. “I’m a big UFC fan.”

  When Robin walked down the aisle to the Octagon, her fans used to sing “Rockin’ Robin,” an old rock-and-roll song.

  Hennessey puffed out his chest as he led Robin to a conference room.

  “I wrestled in college. I even thought about trying my hand at MMA, but I got into law school and shelved the idea.”

  “You made the smart choice,” Robin said. “Duking it out with defense attorneys is a lot less painful than getting your bell rung.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said as he opened the conference room door and ushered Robin in, “but sometimes I wonder how I would have made out.”