A Matter of Life and Death Read online

  Robin, Mark, and Erika had gone for coffee in a shop near the courthouse to wait for the verdict. Robin had a good feeling about the case, but her nerves began to fray when an hour passed without a verdict. Then, fifteen minutes later, the bailiff called to let her know that the jury was back.

  Robin looked calm, but her stomach was in a knot when the bailiff brought in the stone-faced jurors.

  “Have you reached a verdict?” Anthony Carasco asked the foreperson when the jurors were seated.

  “We have,” answered a forty-two-year-old housewife and mother of two, whose husband was a pastor at a Lutheran church. Hennessey brightened. He was certain that she would be put off by a transgender woman, and he’d slotted her in as a vote for conviction.

  “How do you find the defendant on the charge of prostitution?”

  “We find the defendant not guilty.”

  Hennessey’s mouth opened involuntarily, and his face flushed bright red. Erika looked stunned, and Robin squeezed her hand under the table.

  “Would you like the jury polled?” the judge asked.

  “We’re satisfied, Your Honor,” Robin said.

  “Yes. I would,” Hennessey said. He was certain that there was a mistake; that the foreperson had misread the verdict. But the verdict was unanimous, and several jurors nodded or smiled at Erika, who was unable to keep tears from running down her cheeks.

  * * *

  Robin and her client left the courtroom quickly, but Hennessey lingered. When everyone but Al Moody, the bailiff, was gone, Hennessey told Moody that he would like to talk to the judge. Moments later, the bailiff came out of Carasco’s chambers and told the deputy district attorney that the judge would see him in a few minutes.

  While he waited, Hennessey rehashed the case. He couldn’t believe he’d lost. The case was open and shut. People who changed their sex were freaks, so he figured Stassen wouldn’t get an ounce of sympathy. Hennessey tried to figure out the specific point in time his case had gone south. Lockwood wasn’t that good. His closing argument had been much better. She’d argued that Stassen was never interested in trading sex for money, but Stassen had said they should go in the alley as soon as Balske mentioned the fifty bucks. How could the jury ignore that?

  “The judge will see you now,” the bailiff said.

  Hennessey hurried into Carasco’s chambers. Carasco was talking to his secretary.

  “You can take off,” Carasco said.

  “See you tomorrow, Judge.”

  “And tell Al he can go too.”

  “Will do.”

  Carasco turned his attention to Hennessey, who was visibly upset.

  “Have a seat,” Carasco said. “That was a tough loss.”

  “Can you tell me what I did wrong? I mean, Stassen was guilty as hell.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Lockwood raised a reasonable doubt about the key issue, which was whether her client expected to be paid for giving your cop a blow job. And she brought in a very convincing expert. Did you know the doctor was going to testify?”

  “Yeah. I got the witness list.”

  “Did you try to interview her?”

  Hennessey reddened. “I didn’t have the time. You know how many case files a new DA gets. I gave the case a fast look-see and figured Stassen would plead or I’d have an easy win.”

  “There you are. First thing you need to know, if Robin Lockwood is trying the case, it’s never easy. Second thing, when you see that the other side has an expert, you’d better bone up on the subject area and find an expert you can bring in.”

  “Yeah, I see that now.”

  Someone knocked on the door to the judge’s chambers.

  “It’s not locked,” Carasco said. “Come on in.”

  The door opened, and Hennessey forgot all about his case.

  “Ah, Stacey. I was in trial all day, and I didn’t get a chance to call. I’m afraid I can’t have dinner tonight. I have a ton of work to catch up on and the trial ran late, so I have to burn the midnight oil.”

  Stacey’s smile disappeared. She was so beautiful and she looked so disappointed that Hennessey wanted to comfort her.

  Carasco turned to the deputy DA. “Ian, this is Stacey Hayes, the daughter of a friend. She’s in town job hunting. Stacey, this is Ian Hennessey, one of our brighter DAs.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ian said, feeling instantly stupid for saying something so trite.

  Stacey smiled. “Were you involved in Tony’s case?”

  “I was,” Hennessey answered, hoping desperately that this stunning woman wouldn’t ask about the outcome and think he was a loser. The judge came to the rescue.

  “Say, I just had an idea,” Carasco said. “Ian, do you have dinner plans?”

  “Uh, no,” said Hennessey, who had been resigned to a takeout dinner from one of the local food carts.

  “I have a reservation for two at Bocci’s, one of my favorite Italian restaurants,” Carasco said. “It would be a shame to waste it. Why don’t you take Stacey? She’s new in town. You can give her the rundown on what to do in Portland.”

  Hennessey couldn’t believe his luck. “Sure, if Miss Hayes…”

  “It’s Stacey if we’re going to talk all evening. And I’d love to get your take on what’s good in Portland.”

  “Then that’s settled,” Carasco said. “You two scram so I can get some work done.”

  Hennessey and Stacey left, and Carasco smiled. Everything was going as planned.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Erika thanked Robin over and over until they said goodbye outside the courthouse.

  “You were terrific,” Mark Berman said as the law partners headed back to their office.

  “I was lucky the State’s key witness was honest, because I don’t know what I would have done if we’d lost and Carasco put Erika in jail.”

  When Robin returned to her office, she met with Loretta Washington, a five-foot-one African American dynamo, whom Robin had nicknamed “The Flash,” because she was always in motion. The firm had been bringing in too much business for Mark and Robin to handle alone, so they had hired two associates. Loretta, like Robin, was the first person in her family to graduate from college. She’d grown up in the Bronx, graduated from Queens College in New York, and traveled to Portland when she’d received a full ride from Lewis & Clark Law School. Loretta had finished fifth in her class, had clerked on the Oregon Supreme Court, and was not only a brilliant appellate attorney but was showing promise as a trial lawyer. She was also fun to be around.

  Loretta had researched an evidence issue Robin wanted to raise in a brief and had advised against it for very sound reasons. Robin accepted Loretta’s analysis reluctantly before sending her on her way. By the time she finished the conference, the sun was down, and Robin was wiped out from the trial and starving. She grabbed some sushi to go and took the bus to her apartment.

  Jeff was in Central Oregon investigating a personal injury case for Mark. When she flipped on the light in their apartment, she saw that the dishwasher was open and the sink was full of her dirty dishes. A note on the dishwasher in Jeff’s handwriting asked her to run it.

  Living with Jeff had, for the most part, been great. Robin loved Jeff and he loved her, but that didn’t mean that everything was always rosy. Robin was fiercely independent and had an aversion to being ordered around her whole life. She had sued the school board and won when they refused to let a girl wrestle on the boys’ high school team. She had rebelled against going to a state law school and instead had excelled at a top law school on the East Coast, a part of the country that the people in her small farming community talked about in whispers. Her mother’s fondest wish was for Robin to come home, marry a nice, local boy, and have children, but Robin had moved to Oregon. Her independent streak extended to her career as a lawyer, during which, to Jeff’s dismay, she had risked her life for a client or friend on more than one occasion.

  That wasn’t the only trait of Robin’s that upset Jeff. He was a neat freak, an
d Robin was not. She left newspapers scattered around after she read them, she didn’t make the bed, and she, as Jeff had duly noted, tossed dirty dishes in the sink without rinsing them off or taking the time to put them in the dishwasher.

  Jeff had tried to impose his sense of order on Robin soon after they’d started living together. Robin resented any effort to control her, no matter how small, and this had been a source of tension in an otherwise happy relationship. Robin ignored the note. She would run the dishwasher when she was good and ready.

  Thinking about her mother made Robin feel guilty. Her father had always supported her. He was the one who hired the lawyer to fight the school board when it had ruled that she couldn’t wrestle on the boys’ team, and he encouraged her to go to law school at Yale, but her dad had passed away, and Robin felt bad about living so far from her mother. Her three brothers still lived in town. They were married, had kids, and visited often. Sometimes, Robin felt like the black sheep in the family because she wasn’t there for her mom, even though she was the most successful child.

  Robin thought about calling home, but she was too exhausted to put up with her mother’s questions about when she was going to visit and whether she still enjoyed her job, and her lengthy play-by-play of the incredible accomplishments of her grandchildren.

  Robin took her sushi and a cup of green tea to the sofa and turned on the television. The Blazers were playing the Knicks. Robin pecked at her food while the ball bounced back and forth across the hardwood. Somewhere in the third quarter, she fell asleep.

  PART TWO

  NO HOLDS BARRED

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Portland had a notorious homeless problem, and over the years, tent cities had sprung up. Some were permanent, but others existed only until they were shut down by the authorities. Some of the homeless were mentally ill or addicted. Others had lost their residences when they had their rent increased, or they lost their jobs and could not find another. Joe Lattimore had been unfortunate on both counts.

  Joe’s skin was the color of anthracite coal, his right cheek was decorated with a reminder of a teenage knife fight, and he was five feet eleven inches of sculpted muscle. Joe had fought professionally, and he’d fought for survival in the housing project where he grew up. As far back as he could remember, his life had been one long struggle.

  Joe had a wife he loved, a baby girl he adored, and temporary housing in one of the tent cities. Living in the homeless enclave was safer than the streets, but there were crazy people and junkies living nearby, so Joe worried constantly about Maria, the baby, and earning the money he needed to move his family somewhere safe.

  There were two things Joe did well—cook and fight. He was a decent fighter, but his manager had trouble getting him fights, and the purses, minus expenses, never amounted to much. Joe had stopped fighting when Maria told him she was pregnant, and he decided that he needed steady work to support the baby.

  Joe had learned how to cook in the army and he found a good job that paid a decent wage at the Imperial Diner. Unfortunately, Joe could not control his temper. At the Imperial, he was often the butt of jokes. That led to more fights and the loss of his job.

  Joe’s reputation as a troublemaker followed him, and he couldn’t find work. Out of desperation, Joe had called his manager to see if he could get him a fight. His manager was sympathetic, but Joe hadn’t fought in a while and he’d never been a big name. The manager said he would try, but he told Joe not to hold out much hope. Joe knew a payday from fighting was a long shot, but he would have to be in shape if something came through, so he’d started working out again.

  This morning, Joe kissed Maria goodbye and started running at a steady pace. Joe’s route took him onto a bike path that ran along the river for five miles before he ran back to the homeless enclave along city streets. He was four miles from the tent city when the black car passed him. A half a mile later, he saw it again, this time parked at the curb. A rail-thin white man was standing beside it, smoking. He wore his greasy black hair in a ducktail that had been popular with juvenile delinquents in the 1950s, and his black leather jacket and tight jeans made him look like an extra in a teen movie from that time.

  When Joe got closer, the man dropped the cigarette into the street and held up his hand. Joe slowed down. The man walked toward him. Joe stood sideways, ready to fight. The man smiled.

  “It’s Joe, right? Lattimore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Sal. I saw you fight Reilly a few years back. Good fight. I thought you got robbed,” Sal said.

  “What’s this about?” Joe asked.

  Sal grinned. “No need to get defensive. I know you’re down on your luck, and I’m here to give you an opportunity to make some money doing what you do best.”

  The mention of money got Joe’s attention. “I’m listening.”

  “I have a friend. He puts on fights. The fights are no-holds-barred, winner takes all.”

  “Is that legal?”

  Sal laughed. “You know the answer to that one. The important thing is you get three hundred dollars for a few minutes’ work, the first time you fight. If you look good, you get asked back, and the next time you get a bigger payday. You interested?”

  Joe was desperate to move Maria and the baby someplace safe. Three hundred dollars would get them a few days at a motel while he hunted for work.

  “When would this happen?” he asked.

  “End of the week. You in?”

  Joe hesitated. Then he nodded.

  “There’s a vacant lot near the on-ramp to the interstate a few blocks from your camp. Be there at eight on Sunday. A van will drive up. That’s your ride. Got that?”

  “Yeah. Eight, Sunday.”

  “Good luck, Joe,” Sal said. Then he got in his car without looking back and drove away.

  Joe watched the car until it disappeared. His gut was in a knot. The type of fight the man had described was usually run by gangsters, and he couldn’t afford to get arrested. His brain told him that he shouldn’t get involved, but he needed the money. Going up against untrained fighters seemed like an easy way to make some.

  Joe started back toward Maria and the baby. He had a few days to make up his mind. Three hundred dollars was a lot of money for someone who was depending on food kitchens to feed his family, but getting involved with criminals …

  Running usually relaxed Joe, but he was uneasy all the way back to the camp.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sun had set by the time Joe found the trash-filled lot near the on-ramp to the freeway where he’d been told to wait for the van. When the van stopped next to the lot, a bald, three-hundred-pound giant with gang tattoos and a cauliflower ear got out and slid open the rear door. Joe hesitated.

  “Get the fuck in or don’t,” the driver said. “I ain’t waiting.”

  Joe overcame his fear and climbed in. There was a bench on either side of the van’s interior, but no windows. When the door slammed shut, the interior was almost completely dark and Joe had a hard time making out the other riders. He took a seat next to a grossly overweight woman with narrow-set eyes and an odor that made it hard to breathe. Across from Joe was a lanky six-footer whose foot tapped incessantly and whose knee jerked from nerves. He glanced at Joe, then looked away quickly. Seated beside the nervous passenger was a muscular African American who weighed a tight two hundred pounds.

  Joe smiled at him and asked, “Any idea where we’re headed, bro?”

  “I ain’t your brother, motherfucker.”

  Joe knew you never showed fear, so he glared at the man to show that he wasn’t intimidated, but there was a knot in his stomach, and he hoped that this wasn’t the person he would have to fight.

  The trip started on pavement. After three-quarters of an hour, the van began bouncing, and Joe guessed that they were somewhere in the country on an unpaved road. After twenty-five more minutes, the van stopped, and the giant opened the door. Joe hopped out and found that he was staring at the s
ide of a barn. He looked around and saw cars parked in a field and a gravel lot. Suddenly, a roar went up inside the barn.

  The giant opened the barn door, and Joe stepped into an open area surrounded on two sides by stalls and hay bales. Screaming men and women were crowding around a cleared space where a blond woman and an Asian woman were fighting. The Asian had her hands up to fend off a furious assault. One eye was swollen shut, and she was bleeding from her nose and mouth. The other woman landed a ferocious kick to the stomach, and her opponent collapsed on the dirt floor. As soon as the bleeding woman hit the ground, the blonde dropped on her, pinned her shoulders to the ground, and began raining punches on her unprotected head as the crowd cheered.

  Joe recognized the referee as Sal, the man with the fifties retro look who had recruited him. He thought that the fight should have been stopped, but Sal let the carnage continue for a while before stepping in and pulling the blonde off her unconscious opponent. Two men with bouncers’ builds dragged the defeated woman away and dumped her at the side of the barn. Joe felt sick. He’d bled and watched opponents bleed in fights, but the referees and the fighters’ corners stepped in whenever a fighter was in real danger. Sal had let the fight continue well past the point of serious injury.

  A well-dressed man in tan slacks, a white silk shirt, and a navy blazer walked over to the new recruits. He was Joe’s size, and bulging muscles strained the seams of his jacket and pushed out his shirt front. The man smiled, revealing pearly-white teeth.

  “Welcome to fight night, boys and girls. As you’ve just witnessed, we don’t expect mercy and our attendees love to see blood, so do your best. There are no rules here. Gouging, kicks to the nuts, and every other form of mayhem is allowed. Winners get money, losers go home broke. And that’s all you need to know.”

  The man handed out a clipboard and told the new arrivals to print their first names.

  “I’ll be pairing you up soon, so do whatever you need to do to get ready. Best of luck.”