A Reasonable Doubt Page 3

  * * *

  In addition to her mansion on the coast and homes in Aspen, London, and the Caribbean, Lily Dowd owned a five-thousand-square-foot penthouse in Portland. Chesterfield drove to the condo in a rage, barely avoiding two accidents. All his life, people like Crawford and Moser had treated him like something you find on the bottom of your shoe. He had not put up with it before and he didn’t intend to start now.

  “What’s wrong?” Lily asked when her husband stormed in.

  “We’re resigning from the Westmont,” Chesterfield said, his face flushed with anger.

  “I … I can’t leave the Westmont. All my friends are there.”

  “It’s those prissy bastards who pretend to be your friends who’ve defamed me.” Chesterfield gripped Lily’s shoulders. “They don’t care for you, Lily. They only care about the prestige you bring to the club, and your fortune.”

  “What happened, Bobby?”

  “I’ve been accused of cheating at cards, of making sexual advances to secretaries. It’s disgusting and it’s a lie, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “They said you made sexual advances?”

  Chesterfield looked into Lily’s eyes for a moment, then pulled her into his embrace. “There’s only one woman in my life and that woman is you.”

  “But the Westmont … I can’t, Bobby. Please don’t ask me.”

  Chesterfield pushed Lily to arm’s length. “I will never ask you to do something that you do not want to do. But I will not set foot in that den of liars again.”

  “Oh no. Please don’t resign.”

  “They’ve made it impossible for me to stay. How can I show my face at the club, knowing that everyone will be whispering falsehoods behind my back?”

  “But, Bobby, it has to be a mistake. I’m sure if we talk to Landon—”

  “I talked to him after Samuel Moser insulted me. He backed that offensive toad.”

  Lily looked lost. “The Westmont. Frank and I were married there. I just can’t quit.”

  “You must do what you think is best, Lily. I would never force you to leave a place that means so much to you. But I can’t stay a member and maintain my dignity.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Beauty can be a curse. When Regina Barrister was in her twenties, she was tall and slim with ivory skin, sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and a dazzling smile. She also had an IQ that put her in the top one percent of the top one percent, but men could not see an IQ. Even though she had finished first in her high school and college classes, her nickname had been “The Cheerleader” when she arrived at Harvard Law in the mid-eighties. She hadn’t been taken seriously until she finished—once again—at the top of her class at the end of her first year.

  Regina had encountered some of the same problems when she returned to Oregon to practice law. Male judges and attorneys made passes and treated her with disdain until she started winning case after case. Within a few years of opening her practice she had a new nickname, “The Sorceress,” because of her uncanny ability to win unwinnable cases. At thirty-seven, Regina’s looks still made men pause in midsentence and women commit the sin of envy, but now that Regina was one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the state the sexist attitudes that had dogged her early years were a thing of the past, unless she was trying a case against an insecure, narcistic chauvinist like Peter Ragland.

  Peter Ragland was the son of Jasper Ragland, the legendary United States Attorney for Oregon. No detective who had worked on a case with Peter had anything nice to say about him. He was a mental midget who thought he knew everything and would not listen to advice. The general consensus was that Ragland was trying to prove that he was just as good as his brilliant father. If that was his goal, he was failing miserably. Ragland lost cases he should have won and had victories reversed on appeal by committing stupid errors of law.

  Regina loved going up against Ragland. He was obnoxious, but he was also incompetent and so ego centered that he made terrible errors of judgment, like the one he had made when he had treated Regina with disdain a month earlier when she had come to his office in an attempt to get him to drop a DUI case against the majority leader in the state senate.

  “What can I do for you, Regina?” asked Peter, who had begged for the case because of the publicity it was going to get.

  “I’m representing Bridget O’Leary.”

  “She must really be desperate if she’s willing to pay your fees.”

  “She’s also innocent.”

  Ragland had laughed. “Everybody I charge is innocent. Unfortunately for Senator O’Leary, my case is open and shut. Good stop, alcohol on the senator’s breath, a point-eight breathalyzer, and a cop who is a great witness.”

  Regina had placed a sealed manila envelope on Ragland’s desk. “You might want to read my expert’s report before you make a firm decision.”

  Ragland had made no move toward the envelope.

  “You can’t win this case, Peter, and I want to save you the embarrassment you will experience if Bridget is acquitted.”

  “Which she won’t be.” Peter smirked. “I know all about your nickname. You may be a Sorceress, but even your magic wand won’t make the evidence go away.”

  “Aren’t you even going to look at the report?”

  “Maybe later. Thanks for dropping by.”

  For a moment, Regina had thought about trying to reason with Ragland, but she knew her efforts would be wasted. Regina had hoped to save her client the stress and expense of a trial, but, barring a miracle, they were headed to court, where she looked forward to humiliating Peter Ragland.

  * * *

  Judge Richard Ogilvie’s courtroom was packed because of the news coverage it had received. As soon as the case was called, Regina waived a jury and elected to try it to the judge. Ragland didn’t expect this and he protested, but a defendant could waive his constitutional right to a jury trial and there was nothing Ragland could do about that, except wonder what Regina was up to.

  Ragland’s only witness was Harriet Moreland, the arresting officer, who testified that she had stopped Senator O’Leary because one of her taillights was broken. When the senator lowered her window, the officer smelled alcohol on her breath. Moreland had asked the senator if she had been drinking. O’Leary said that she’d had one beer at a dinner meeting that had finished shortly before the stop.

  “Did you have the defendant take a breathalyzer test?” Ragland asked.

  “I did.”

  “What was the result?”

  “Mrs. O’Leary blew a point-eight.”

  “Was that significant?”

  “According to our statutes. A person with point-eight blood alcohol is under the influence.”

  “When you got that reading, what did you do?”

  “I arrested the defendant for Driving Under the Influence.”

  “No further questions.”

  “Miss Barrister?” Judge Ogilvie asked.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Regina’s investigator had interviewed Officer Moreland, so Regina knew that Ragland had left some important pieces out of her narrative.

  “Officer Moreland, you didn’t stop Mrs. O’Leary because she was driving erratically, did you?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, you noticed nothing improper with the way she drove.”

  “I did not.”

  “Isn’t it true that the odor of alcohol alone is not proof that a driver is under the influence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask Mrs. O’Leary to perform a series of field sobriety tests in order to see if she was affected by alcohol?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she agree to take the tests?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did these tests include walking a straight line, repeating the words Methodist and Episcopal, and touching her nose with her head back and her eyes closed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mrs. O’Leary pass the field sobriety tests?”

/>   “Yes.”

  “Am I correct in saying that Mrs. O’Leary was not driving erratically, she performed the field sobriety tests perfectly, and the point-eight breathalyzer reading was the sole basis for the arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  Regina was certain that Ragland was oblivious to the way the case was going and her suspicions were confirmed by the smug look on the prosecutor’s face when he rested.

  “Do you have any witnesses, Miss Barrister?”

  “Just one, Your Honor. Mrs. O’Leary calls Oscar Benitez.”

  A slender man with a coffee-colored complexion and a leading man’s good looks walked to the stand, dressed impeccably in a dark suit, a yellow and navy-blue striped tie, and a white silk shirt.

  “How are you employed, Mr. Benitez?”

  “I am the owner of Pacific Northwest Forensic Services.”

  “What does your company do?”

  “We provide help to attorneys and others who have questions about forensic evidence.”

  “Before opening your own business, where were you employed?”

  “I worked at the Oregon State Crime Lab for fifteen years.”

  “Do you have any experience with the breathalyzer machines that are used to determine the amount of alcohol in a person’s blood?”

  “My experience with breathalyzers is extensive. I’ve used breathalyzers hundreds of times; I’ve tested them to make sure they are accurate, and I’ve read countless pieces of literature that discusses them.”

  “Mr. Benitez,” Regina asked, “Is there an error factor in these machines?”

  “Yes.”

  “My client took a breath test and the result was a reading of point-eight. Can you please tell Judge Ogilvie what that means?”

  Benitez turned to the judge. “The reading the machine prints out is never exact and a point-eight, maybe a point-nine, and a one.”

  “Those would both be proof that a person is driving under the influence, wouldn’t it?” Regina asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there another percentage that a point-eight could be?”

  “Yes. A point-eight reading could be a point-seven.”

  “And that would mean a person was not breaking the law, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The State has to convince Judge Ogilvie beyond a reasonable doubt that Mrs. O’Leary was driving under the influence. If the only evidence against her was the point-eight reading on the breathalyzer, would the reading constitute proof beyond a reasonable doubt of intoxication?”

  “No, because of the error factor.”

  “No further questions.”

  Peter Ragland flailed around during his cross-examination and accomplished nothing. While he gave his closing argument, Regina glanced at his table. Among the papers spread across the prosecutor’s table was the unopened manila envelope Regina had given him with Oscar Benitez’s report. When Ragland’s witness list did not contain the name of an expert witness, Regina guessed that Ragland had not bothered to read it or couldn’t find an expert to refute it.

  Regina stood to argue for acquittal, but Judge Ogilvie waved her down.

  “I don’t have to hear any argument from the defense, Miss Barrister. Mrs. O’Leary was not driving erratically; she passed the field sobriety tests and the odor of alcohol alone is not proof of intoxication. The only evidence that the State produced that would tend to prove that Mrs. O’Leary was driving while intoxicated is the breath test and your expert’s uncontested testimony is that we can’t say beyond a reasonable doubt that the real percentage wasn’t point-seven, which is below the blood level you have to prove to convict. So, I have to find Mrs. O’Leary ‘Not Guilty’.”

  Regina hoped that Peter Ragland would leave the courtroom so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, but he came up to her on his way out.

  “You got lucky you had Ogilvie for your judge. No one else would have bought your argument.”

  Regina was mad at Ragland for wasting everyone’s time, but she reined in her anger.

  “I tried to tell you that you had no case. You should have listened to me. It would have saved us both a lot of time.”

  Ragland turned red with anger. “We both know the senator is a drunk. She may have beat the rap this time, but the voters will remember that the senator was charged with drunk driving, and a lot of them won’t remember the verdict when it comes time to vote.”

  Ragland stomped off and Regina stared after him. He was a vindictive prick, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The parties and special dinners at the Westmont always made the holiday season hectic, but Sam Moser’s obsessive preparation helped him get through the days between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve. Moser envisioned the holiday season as a battle between chaos and order. There would always be screwups, but you could deal with them if you worked out all possible scenarios in advance.

  With Thanksgiving and Christmas in the rearview mirror, only the New Year’s Eve festivities remained, and Moser believed that he had all things New Year well in hand. That enabled him to take a deep breath and relax even though it was two days before the last major party of 1997.

  Moser was in a particularly jolly mood when his secretary brought him his mail, which included a package gift-wrapped with paper displaying Santa and his reindeer and bound by a bright red bow. Moser looked for the name of the person who had sent the gift, but there was none. He tore off the wrapping paper and smiled when he saw that his gift was a box of chocolates. He opened the box and saw a dozen delicious-looking pieces. A legend on the inside of the lid described the treats. One was filled with caramel, and Moser’s fingers were halfway to the tempting square when he remembered that he was supposed to be on a diet in which cakes, candies, and all things fattening were strictly forbidden. The diet had been imposed by his doctor after his last physical. He had promised to keep to it, but he had failed in his resolve. Soon after, there had been a minor cardiac incident that scared the hell out of Sam, his wife, and their children. As soon as he left the hospital, Moser vowed to stay on the straight and narrow path to health and a long life.

  Moser closed the box with great reluctance and retied the bow. Then he carried the box to the anteroom. Unlike her boss, Sophie Randall did not have to watch her weight. Even though she was married with a three-year-old daughter, the attractive redhead had a teenager’s figure.

  “A gift?” Sophie asked with a smile of delight when Moser set the box down on the edge of her desk.

  “You, my dear, are the beneficiary of my horrible but mandatory diet. Enjoy.”

  Sophie grinned. “Thanks, boss.”

  Moser returned the smile and went back into his office.

  Ten minutes later, his door opened and Sophie staggered in. She was starting to say something when she grasped her stomach with both hands and vomited on Moser’s rug. Moser leaped to his feet, but Sophie went into convulsions before he could reach her and was dead within minutes.

  * * *

  The Westmont Country Club was walled off from the hoi polloi by a ten-foot-high, ivy-covered wall. While the guard at the front gate examined Morris Quinlan’s shield, Roger Dillon looked through the car window at the beautifully manicured grounds.

  Homicide Detectives Dillon and Quinlan were separated by almost twenty years of age, oceans of experience, and appeared to have nothing in common. Quinlan’s clothes were mismatched and off-the-rack, and there was a faint coffee stain over the left breast of his wrinkled white shirt. The detective’s gut flopped over his belt; his jowls, which were covered by a gray-black stubble, were fleshy; his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to his scalp; and a badly reset broken nose decorated a face with the reddish hue of the recovering alcoholic.

  Where Quinlan was overweight, sloppy, and self-indulgent, Roger Dillon, who ran distances and pumped iron, was trim, self-disciplined, and dressed to look like a businessman or an attorney.

  Where Dillon
and Quinlan were similar was in their IQ scores. Dillon’s high school grades and SATs were good enough to get him into a top college, but he was the sole support of his disabled single mother and three siblings, so he’d ended up working a full-time job and going to night school. In later years, Dillon would get the nickname OED because his breadth of knowledge reminded people of the Oxford English Dictionary.

  People usually assumed Quinlan was a Neanderthal, but the older man was an excellent detective with a gift for logical thinking, who was capable of making brilliant intuitive leaps.

  “Have you ever been in a place like this?” Roger asked as they drove down the winding, tree-lined lane to the clubhouse.

  “Do I look like I hang out at country clubs?”

  When his partner didn’t answer, Quinlan glanced at him and saw that he was nervous. Places like the Westmont were as alien to Dillon as a raja’s palace or the wilds of Borneo. He had grown up in Portland’s poorest neighborhood and graduated from its worst high school. Portland State, where he went to night school before the police academy, was not known as a destination for the rich and famous.

  “Look, Roger, I’ve dealt with these country-club types before. They may dress better than we do and drive fancy cars, but they take a shit just like you and me. So anytime they start talking down to you, imagine them sitting on the crapper.”

  Dillon smiled, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that people who belonged to places like the Westmont didn’t have their servants go to the bathroom for them.

  And it wasn’t just the setting that was making Roger nervous. He had made detective a year ago and had just been promoted to Homicide, a rapid rise from newbie to the most sought-after assignment in the Portland Police Bureau. There were whispers that the promotion had been made so that Homicide could have a token African American, but no one who wasn’t jealous would seriously assume that was the reason for Dillon’s promotion.