A Matter of Life and Death Page 11

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ian Hennessey was almost drunk. He figured one more scotch would bring him to a safe, warm place where the thoughts that were haunting him could not intrude. The day after he’d passed the bar, his parents had visited him at his condo, and his father had told him that he would be hired by the Multnomah district attorney’s office if he applied. His father hadn’t told him how he knew this, but Ian knew how much influence his family’s money bought, so he didn’t have to ask. Ian also had not asked why his father hadn’t gotten him a job at one of Portland’s prestigious law firms. It was clear that his mother and father didn’t think he was smart enough to handle the complex legal issues he would be tasked with at one of them.

  Ian had been ashamed that his parents didn’t think enough of him to believe he could land a good job on his own. Then he faced reality. Without the Hennesseys’ pull, he would never have been able to land any job, and he would be reduced to hanging out a shingle. So, he had started at the DA’s office with a chip on his shoulder, surrounded by young attorneys who had earned their positions by hard work and their own achievements and resented him because he had not.

  At first, Ian had been unenthusiastic about prosecuting dull cases against nobodies, and his results showed his lack of preparation. After he was called on the carpet by his supervisor, Ian had won two cases. He felt an electric charge each time the jury rewarded his efforts with a guilty verdict, and he started looking forward to going to work. Then Anthony Carasco and Stacey Hayes had come into his life, threatening to take away the only thing he’d felt he could do well and turning his life into a nightmare.

  Moments before Hennessey finished his drink, someone sat on the stool next to him and signaled the bartender.

  “Another for my friend, and the same for me,” a man said.

  Hennessey turned his bleary eyes toward the voice. It had come from a solidly built man dressed in khaki slacks, a sky-blue work shirt, and a black rain jacket. A well-groomed mustache decorated the man’s upper lip and was complemented by light brown eyes and a coffee-colored complexion.

  “Do I know you?” Hennessey asked, his words slightly slurred.

  The man extended his hand. “Brent Macklin, Mr. Hennessey. And no, we’ve never met.”

  Hennessey frowned. “You bought me a drink.”

  Macklin smiled. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s something you do when you want to get to know someone.”

  Hennessey pulled back. “Hey, I’m not … If this is a pickup…”

  Macklin laughed. “No, no. I’m as straight as straight can be. I’m also a reporter, and I think you can help me with a story I’m writing.”

  “What kind of story?” asked Hennessey warily.

  “You were with Judge Carasco when he discovered his wife’s body, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “A man named Joe Lattimore was arrested for the crime.”

  “I can’t talk about that. I’m a witness.”

  “I know that, and I’m not interested in Lattimore’s connection to Mrs. Carasco’s murder.”

  “Then why do you want to talk to me?”

  “Lattimore killed a man during an unsanctioned, no-holds-barred fight. I freelance stories about boxing, mixed martial arts events, and tough-guy competitions. I saw the YouTube video of Lattimore’s fight with Carlos Ortega, and it gave me the idea for a story about unsanctioned fights. They’re held all over the country, but no one writes about them.”

  “Why talk to me? I don’t know anything about that case.”

  “But you’re in the Multnomah County DA’s office. I thought you could give me a lead.”

  “Vanessa Cole is prosecuting Lattimore. Talk to her.”

  “I tried, but she wouldn’t discuss the case. How about someone in the police department? Do you know the detectives who are working the fight case?”

  “Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon were the lead detectives on Mrs. Carasco’s case. They’re probably working the manslaughter case too.”

  Macklin held out a business card to Hennessey. “Thanks for the names. If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.”

  Macklin left and Hennessey noticed that he hadn’t touched his drink. Hennessey hesitated. Then he pulled Macklin’s glass next to his and finished them both. The double shot had the desired effect, and Hennessey’s brain began to fog. But just before he passed into a happy state of drunkenness, a tiny idea began to form.

  PART FOUR

  THE FARM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Honorable Harold Wright looked like he’d been put together by a blind man. He had the barrel chest of a weight lifter, spindly legs, the styled, snowy-white hair of a movie actor, a bird-beak nose that overshadowed a bushy mustache, and wire-rimmed glasses that covered piercing blue eyes, which routinely saw through the flimsy arguments of unprepared barristers.

  Robin and Vanessa Cole had filed a number of pretrial motions in Joseph Lattimore’s case, and it was almost five o’clock when Robin finished arguing several objections to Oregon’s death penalty.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lockwood,” the judge said when Robin sat down. “You’ve made your record if you decide to raise your arguments in a federal court, but our supreme court has already ruled against you on these issues, so I’m going to deny this set of motions.”

  Judge Wright moved a thick stack of papers to one side and picked up Robin’s last motion.

  “Mrs. Cole, you’ve charged Mr. Lattimore in a separate indictment with manslaughter. Am I correct that you are alleging that Mr. Lattimore killed an opponent during an unsanctioned fight, and you want to introduce evidence of the incident in Mr. Lattimore’s trial for the murder of Elizabeth Carasco?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. In the video of the fight, Mr. Lattimore is wearing hand wraps. Hand wraps found at the Carasco crime scene had the defendant’s blood on them as well as Mrs. Carasco’s. They also had the blood of Carlos Ortega, Mr. Lattimore’s victim from the fight, on them. We believe that the blood-soaked hand wraps connect the two incidents, and we need to tell the jury about the fight to explain the significance of the hand wraps.”

  The judge turned to Robin. “You believe that the fight is a completely separate incident that has no relevance to proving the murder case against Mr. Lattimore.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Robin said.

  “You also take the position that if there is some tenuous relevance, it is outweighed by the prejudicial effect evidence that Mr. Lattimore killed a man in an illegal fight would have on the jury.”

  “That’s correct. I’ve set out all of the exceptions to the rule of evidence that prohibits the state from introducing evidence of crimes not charged in an indictment in a trial of the charged crime,” Robin said. “The evidence about the fight doesn’t fit into any of the exceptions.”

  “What about the hand wraps?” the judge asked.

  “Mrs. Cole doesn’t need to talk about the fight to get the evidence in or to use it against Mr. Lattimore. The hand wraps were found in a garbage can on the Carasco property. She can have someone explain that Mr. Lattimore boxes professionally and that professional fighters use hand wraps to protect their knuckles. Someone from the crime lab can tell the jury that my client’s blood and Mrs. Carasco’s blood were on the hand wraps. It’s not relevant to this case that Mr. Ortega’s blood was also on the wraps.”

  Vanessa started to respond, but the judge held up his hand.

  “Mrs. Cole, I’m not convinced that you should be allowed to introduce evidence of the fight in Mr. Lattimore’s murder trial. I’m going to bar the evidence at this time, but I’ll let you raise the issue again if you can show a stronger connection between the two incidents.”

  The judge looked at his watch. “It’s almost time to recess. Do you have anything more we need to discuss?”

  “No, Your Honor,” both women said.

  “Then court is adjourned.”

  Robin talked to J
oe about the judge’s rulings. When they were through, the guards escorted Joe from the courtroom. As soon as Robin was free, Vanessa walked over to her.

  “Has Mr. Lattimore given any thought to my plea offer?” she asked.

  “I have serious doubts about Joe’s guilt, Vanessa. He swears he didn’t murder Mrs. Carasco.”

  “I know you’re not a bleeding heart, but you should consider the possibility that Mr. Lattimore is an exceptionally good liar. Our evidence of guilt is overwhelming. Think about the impact evidence that he killed Carlos Ortega will have after he’s convicted and the jury has to decide if he lives or dies. In the sentencing phase, the jurors have to decide if Mr. Lattimore will be dangerous in the future. Evidence that he beat a man to death would be relevant to that decision. There is no way you can keep the evidence away from the jury in a sentencing phase.”

  “I hear you, Vanessa, but I can’t advise an innocent man to plead guilty to something he didn’t do.”

  Vanessa sighed. “I respect that, and I’ll keep the offer open a little longer. But it will disappear a week before trial.”

  The courtroom had been packed because of the notoriety the case had received, and Robin had not noticed Brent Macklin, who had been sitting in the rear of the spectators’ section. She was organizing her files before heading back to her office when Macklin came up to the bar of the court.

  “Ms. Lockwood?”

  Robin turned around.

  “Do you have a few moments to talk?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. I have a meeting at my office.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  “I don’t discuss my cases with reporters.”

  “And I don’t want to talk about Mr. Lattimore. I write articles about mixed martial arts and boxing. I wrote a few about you when you were competing.”

  “That’s nice, but my pro career has been over for a while, and right now, I’m too busy to reminisce.”

  “I’m not making myself clear. I’m gathering material for an article about illegal, no-holds-barred fights, and I saw your client’s YouTube video. I’d like to talk to him, off the record, for background; how he got involved, who’s running these fights, who participates, stuff like that. I won’t ask any questions about this case.”

  “Look, Mr.…”

  “Macklin, Brent Macklin,” he said as he handed Robin his card. “You can be present while we talk.”

  “I am the only person my client is going to talk to until his case is over. I wish you luck with your project, but Joe is off-limits.”

  “Are you willing to tell me what you’ve found out, when you have the time?”

  “I’m way too busy. You should try the police or prosecutors. They’re investigating the fight. Maybe they can help you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run.”

  * * *

  Robin had scheduled a war council in her office for five thirty. She had just finished telling Amanda Jaffe and Jeff Hodges the result of the pretrial hearing when Loretta Washington walked in. Loretta tried not to show it, but she was very excited about working on her first murder case, which was also a death penalty case.

  “We have a job for you,” Robin told her associate. “In most cases, potential jurors are sent to the courtroom where the trial is going to be held on the day of the trial. Then the prosecution and the defense question them in the presence of the other jurors to see who they want to put on and keep off the jury.

  “Jury selection in capital cases is different. I’ve made a motion for individual, sequestered voir dire. If it’s granted, the DA and I will question each potential juror out of the presence of the other jurors. That way, we avoid the risk of one juror’s answer poisoning the entire pool.

  “Another difference between a regular criminal trial and a death case is that the potential jurors in a capital case are summoned to a courtroom several days before jury selection and are given a questionnaire. After each juror fills out the questionnaire, the judge gives it to us and the prosecutors before we pick a jury. The questionnaire asks the jurors questions about their education, military and work history, the magazines they read, their views of the death penalty, and a lot of other subjects.”

  Robin handed Loretta a stack of papers. “These are questionnaires Amanda and I have used in other cases and a memo listing the key issues we want the jurors’ views on. For example, Joe is African American. We need to know if a juror is prejudiced against African Americans. We want you to put together the questionnaire for Joe’s case. When you’re done, we’ll review it and edit it, if necessary. Any questions?”

  “No. I’ve been reading death penalty trial manuals and articles on trial mechanics. I think I know what you want.”

  Robin smiled as she handed the sample questionnaires to her associate. She wasn’t surprised that Loretta was two steps ahead of her.

  “You can take off. Check with me if you have any questions.”

  “Will do,” Loretta said.

  Robin suspected that Loretta would be burning the midnight oil tonight.

  “Jeff, bring us up to date on what you’ve got for the sentencing phase,” she said.

  For the next twenty minutes, Jeff gave a summary of the testimony they could expect from the relatives, friends, and acquaintances he had interviewed.

  “I want to talk about the illegal fight, which I see as the key to winning this case,” Robin said when Jeff was through. “Any ideas on how we can find out who was behind it or the people who ran it?”

  “I’ve got a lead on the giant Joe described. I think he’s Andre Rostov. He’s been arrested twice for assault, but there are no convictions. Witnesses failed to show or simply disappeared. I’m trying to find him.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Amanda, any ideas?”

  “Actually, I do have one.”

  “What is it?” Robin asked.

  “I have this, uh, acquaintance who might be able to help.”

  Robin frowned. “Who is it?”

  “I’d rather not say until I’ve talked to him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In one of those weird coincidences that happen every once in a while, Tony Carasco was fantasizing about Stacey Hayes when she called him.

  “I want to see you, Tony.”

  “We have to wait, baby. Betsy’s mother knows about us. She’s going to go to court to try to keep me from inheriting, and she’ll try to use our relationship against me, so we have to wait a while before we can see each other.”

  “I miss playing with you,” Stacey said, pitching her voice to sound like a little girl’s.

  Carasco felt himself stiffen. “I miss you too.”

  “I need you tonight,” Stacey pouted.

  “Once the dust settles, we can be together all the time. You have to be patient.”

  “I’m too horny to be patient. I’m wet now just talking to you.”

  “Be reasonable.”

  “If you don’t come here, I’ll have to come to your house, and reporters might see me. You can get away after dark. Please.”

  Carasco imagined Stacey naked, and his mouth went dry. “Okay. I’ll come over around ten.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  * * *

  Carasco hadn’t made love to Stacey in a while, and he could barely think by the time he parked near her apartment. Stacey opened the door as soon as he rang her bell. Carasco had imagined that she would be naked or wearing sexy lingerie, but she was dressed in jeans and a man-tailored shirt.

  “Come in, Tony. I have someone I want you to meet.”

  Carasco was confused. “We’re not alone?”

  Stacey walked into the living room without answering. Carasco followed her and saw a man sitting in an armchair in a corner of the room. He was wearing a tight black turtleneck that stretched over a bodybuilder’s physique. The man smiled.

  “Pleased to meet you, Judge. Stacey has told me so much about you, I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.”

  “Who is th
is?” Carasco asked Stacey.

  The man stood up and halted inches from the judge. He was only slightly taller than Carasco but twice as wide. Thick black hairs covered his large, apelike hands, and his forearms strained the fabric that covered them.

  “I’m Stacey’s manager, and I have a bone to pick with you. Stacey is a valuable property, and you’ve stolen her from me without compensation.”

  “Stacey isn’t property,” Carasco stammered.

  Carasco never saw the punch coming, but he felt the impact. One minute, he could breathe. The next moment, all the air left his body and he was flopping on the carpet like a fish that had been slapped on the deck of a boat.

  Carasco looked at Stacey while he gulped in air. She was observing him without emotion, which hurt more than the punch.

  “You’re a lawyer,” the man said while Carasco fought for air. “Lawyers love to argue. Me, I never learned the fine points of debate. I believe in a more direct approach.”

  “What do you want?” the judge managed when he could breathe again.

  “Compensation.”

  Carasco got on his hands and knees, then struggled to his feet.

  “What kind of compensation?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t…” Carasco started to protest. The man kicked him in the shin. Carasco doubled over from the pain and collapsed on the floor again.

  “You seem to forget that I don’t debate. You also forget that Stacey knows how much money you can get your hands on. That’s one of the dangers of pillow talk, Tony. Oh yeah, you’re also forgetting that Stacey can tell the district attorney that you took care of her warrants, which is illegal, and tricked poor Ian into being your alibi when your wife was killed. And in case you’re thinking that it would be her word against yours, I’m pretty handy with surveillance equipment, and you are the star of several videos and audiotapes. Now, stand up and look at me.”