A Matter of Life and Death Read online

  “If the fight was real, it makes Lattimore’s story more believable,” Mark said.

  Robin looked troubled. “A thought just occurred to me.”

  “And that is?” Jeff asked.

  “If Joe is telling the truth, he was set up to take the blame for Mrs. Carasco’s murder. Who is the first person the police look at when a wife is killed?”

  “Carasco has a cast-iron alibi,” Mark said. “He was in court all day and with Ian Hennessey when his wife was murdered. According to your friend at the PD’s office, Hennessey heard Carasco talking to his wife in Bocci’s shortly before she was killed.”

  “Correction,” Robin said. “Hennessey heard the judge’s half of the conversation. He can’t say who was on the other end of the phone. What if it was the person who murdered Mrs. Carasco telling the judge that the job was done?”

  “It does seem like a big coincidence that the judge drove up just when Lattimore ran out of his house,” Mark said.

  “Which could have been planned if the person who killed Mrs. Carasco was also the person who called the restaurant,” Robin added.

  Mark looked at Jeff. “It would be interesting to know how well Mr. and Mrs. Carasco got along. But that’s not something we’d be spending time learning about unless Joe Lattimore is our client.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Elizabeth Carasco’s funeral was held at St. Francis, the largest Catholic church in Portland, and there was a full house. Betsy was prominent in Portland society, politically active, a member of the best clubs, and a fixture at charity galas. Everyone liked her, and many of her friends felt sorry for her because of the man she’d married.

  Anthony Carasco’s reputation in Portland society was as bad as his reputation in the bar. Everyone knew about his affairs, his gambling, and his shadowy relations with the worst elements in society. No one could figure out why Betsy had married Carasco or why she stayed with him.

  Carasco didn’t care what Portland society thought about him. He had grown up poor and had clawed his way up. Carasco felt nothing but contempt for people who’d been born into luxury.

  The front rows on either side of the aisle were reserved for family. When Carasco entered the church, he glanced toward the row on the right side. Helen Raptis had commandeered the front pew for her family and had left no room on it for her daughter’s husband. When the judge walked down the aisle, Helen cast a malevolent look in his direction. She held it for a few seconds before bringing her eyes back to the coffin that sat on a riser at the front of the church. Carasco wasn’t surprised by her anger. He couldn’t stand the bitch, and he knew that the feeling was mutual.

  Elizabeth Carasco had been born a Raptis, one of Oregon’s wealthiest families. Carl Raptis had made his seed money in a general store in Portland in the 1860s when Oregon was the country’s newest state. One of the sons had started a prosperous farm in Eastern Oregon. Another got into logging and struck it rich when timber became the mainstay of the Oregon economy. By the end of the twentieth century, when the timber industry was dying, the family kept ahead of the curve by investing in technology and sportswear.

  Helen Raptis, the matriarch of the family, was in her sixties, but plastic surgeons, a personal trainer, and great hairdressers and makeup artists had conspired to make her look much younger. She was a shade over six feet with jet-black hair, blue eyes, and tight, tanned skin. A product of Georgetown and Wharton, she had made a seamless transition to the throne of Raptis Enterprises when her husband had died from a heart attack.

  Anthony found a seat at the front on the side of the aisle across from the Raptis clan. He had no family in Oregon, and the rest of the pew was taken up by his friends and acquaintances.

  The service went smoothly, and the fireworks didn’t start until it ended. Mourners blocked the aisles, and Carasco was stopped every few feet by people offering condolences. By the time he got outside, so had the Raptis clan. Carasco made a beeline toward the limousine that was going to take him to the cemetery, but Helen Raptis stepped in front of him halfway down the steps to the street. Standing behind her was Leo Boyce, an ex–Special Forces officer who was head of security for Helen and her enterprises. Boyce was tall and compact. He never said much, and his stony silence and hard, unwavering stare intimidated most people. But Boyce didn’t scare Carasco. He had people he could call who were just as tough and way more ruthless than Raptis’s bodyguard.

  Raptis stood so close that Carasco could smell her minty mouthwash, and she spoke so softly that only Carasco could hear her.

  “I know you killed my Betsy, you low-life piece of shit, and I’m going to see you pay.”

  “I can see that you’re suffering, Helen, so I’m not going to take offense. But you should check your facts before making wild accusations. I was at dinner with several witnesses when Betsy was murdered, and the police already have the killer in custody.”

  “That bullshit won’t fly with me,” Helen said, her anger barely contained. “You’re not man enough to murder my daughter yourself. You’re the type of coward who hires someone to do his killing.”

  “Why in the world would I kill Betsy?”

  Helen stared at Carasco for a second. Then she slapped him hard enough to snap his head sideways.

  “You lying sack of shit.”

  Carasco took a step back. His fists curled, but he reined himself in because Boyce was inches away.

  “That one is a freebie,” he said. “Do it again, and I’ll have you arrested for assault.”

  “Betsy told me she was going to divorce you, and I have pictures of you and your whore at that riverside apartment. I know you’re counting on inheriting Betsy’s money, but I will spend every cent I have to break her will. And I’m also going to see you sent to prison.”

  Raptis spun on her heel and walked away with her head held high and her back rigid. Carasco watched her get into the car that was taking her to her daughter’s grave. He seemed unruffled, but he was afraid. Helen Raptis was a very powerful woman with many resources.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Amanda Jaffe didn’t have the willowy figure of a runway model, but she still attracted male attention when she entered a room. She had long black hair, clear blue eyes, and an athletic physique, the product of years of competitive swimming that had brought her to the brink of a spot on an Olympic team.

  Amanda was a partner in Jaffe, Katz, Lehane, and Brindisi, a firm founded by her father, the noted criminal defense attorney Frank Jaffe. The firm’s offices took up the eighth floor of the Stockman Building, a fourteen-story edifice that had stood in the heart of downtown Portland since 1915 and featured an ornate stone façade decorated with happy cherubs and fierce gargoyles.

  When Amanda returned to the firm from an arraignment in a federal bank robbery case, she found Robin Lockwood waiting in the reception area. The women had bonded because of their athletic accomplishments while representing codefendants in a three-week federal drug conspiracy case. Amanda smiled and crossed the room.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she said.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Sure. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Amanda had a corner office with a view of the West Hills. The walls were decorated with diplomas, certificates attesting to her admission to state and federal bars, two abstract paintings she’d purchased from an art gallery near her condo in the Pearl District, and a photograph of downtown Portland in the years just before World War I.

  “So, what’s this favor?” Amanda asked when they were seated with the door closed.

  “You know Tony Carasco’s wife was murdered?”

  “Sure. It’s all over the news.”

  “I was just appointed to represent the guy they’ve arrested for it. The Standards of Practice require me to have cocounsel in a death case. Are you interested?”

  “Maybe, but I should tell you up front that even though none of my death cases have ended up with a cli
ent on death row, I would personally have executed some of them, if I’d been asked.”

  “You’re in favor of the death penalty?” Robin asked, surprised.

  “No, but not because I don’t think it’s appropriate in some cases. You’ve only been in Portland for a few years, so you probably don’t know that I almost died at the hands of a serial killer and a paid assassin.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Robin answered, shocked by the revelation.

  “Those people were animals who needed to be put down. I suffered PTSD because of one of the incidents. So, I don’t have any sympathy for killers, and the only reason I’m opposed to the death penalty is because death is an uncorrectable sentence, and there have been too many innocent people sent to death row.”

  “Then you’ll want to second-chair this case, because I think Joe Lattimore is innocent.”

  Robin told Amanda about the illegal fight, Lattimore’s assertion that he was blackmailed into burglarizing Carasco’s house, and the aftermath of finding the body.

  “That’s some story,” Amanda said. “And you believe it?”

  “I can be fooled, but he sounds like he’s telling the truth.”

  “You realize this case could be a bear?”

  “That’s why I need you on my side. Judge Carasco might end up being the prime suspect, and I need someone who won’t be scared to go after a powerful circuit court judge. So, are you interested?”

  “There might be a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know Mike Greene?”

  When they cocounseled the federal case, Amanda had been dating the best trial lawyer in the Multnomah County district attorney’s capital case unit.

  “Are you and Mike still an item?”

  Amanda laughed. “I guess you can say that. We’re living together, and we’re engaged. Joe Lattimore’s case is going to be front-page news, and that’s the type of capital case Mike usually prosecutes. Let me give him a call to see if I have a conflict.”

  Amanda hit speed dial on her cell phone. Robin waited while Amanda and her fiancé carried on a brief conversation. When Amanda disconnected, she wasn’t smiling.

  “I’m in. We don’t have to worry. Mike doesn’t have the case.”

  “Then who does?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Vanessa Cole was a slender black woman in her midfifties, with sharp features and fierce brown eyes. She had grown up in a wealthy family and had a law degree from Stanford. After joining the Multnomah County district attorney’s office, her high ethical standards and brilliant courtroom performances had earned her swift promotions. When Paul Getty, the Multnomah County district attorney, was forced to retire because of health problems, the governor followed Getty’s recommendation and appointed Vanessa to head the office, but the next election was approaching. Vanessa detested politics, but she loved being the Multnomah County district attorney. Getting her name in front of voters was imperative if she wanted to defeat her challengers, and prosecuting a high-profile, sure-winner death penalty case was one way to do that.

  Leading the prosecution team in the Lattimore case gave Vanessa a terrific chance to grab headlines, but she was conflicted about using this particular case to further her career. Vanessa knew that it was a mistake for a lawyer to take a case if she had a close relationship with the victim or someone close to the victim, because it interfered with her ability to make emotionally detached decisions. Vanessa knew Betsy and Tony Carasco, so she had given a lot of thought to handing the prosecution of Joseph Lattimore to another DA. In the end, she’d decided that her connection to the Carascos wasn’t close enough to affect her objectivity.

  Vanessa did not like Tony Carasco, who’d had a questionable reputation when he worked in the district attorney’s office. Rumors had made the rounds about his ties to motorcycle gangs and drug dealers, who occasionally benefited from evidence and witnesses that went missing when Carasco was involved in a case. Vanessa had her own suspicions based on a case they had worked together, but she was never able to support her suspicions with proof. After much thought, Vanessa decided that the fact that she didn’t like the victim’s husband would have no impact on her desire to put the person who murdered Betsy Carasco behind bars.

  Vanessa had met Carasco’s wife at office parties, charity galas, and political rallies, but she didn’t know Betsy well. She did know that being beaten to death was a horrible way to die, and she looked forward to avenging the victim of that kind of brutality.

  Vanessa had heard through the courthouse grapevine that Robin Lockwood had visited Joseph Lattimore in the jail, so she wasn’t surprised when her secretary told her that Robin was in reception and wanted to see her.

  “Is this about Betsy Carasco’s case?” Vanessa asked when Robin was seated.

  Robin smiled. “Word travels fast.”

  “Are you representing Lattimore?”

  “I am, and Amanda Jaffe is cocounseling.”

  “Smart. That means I can’t have Mike at my side.”

  “That’s not why I asked her to be second chair, but it is a collateral benefit.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “To touch base.”

  “And find out what we’ve got.”

  “That too.”

  “Robin, we’ve got a very strong case, so I’m going to tell you what we have. I’ll also make you a plea offer.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Judge Carasco and Ian Hennessey, one of my deputies, saw Lattimore run out of the judge’s house, but we don’t need them to place your client at the scene. Betsy Carasco’s body was found in the living room. Your client’s prints were on the light switch and wall in the living room. The wall and the light switch are very close to the body. What’s more, the tread on the bottom of your client’s running shoes matches muddy shoe prints we found inside Carasco’s house.

  “Dr. Grace will testify that Betsy was beaten to death. We did an internet search on Mr. Lattimore and discovered that your client is a professional boxer.

  “You know that we don’t have to prove motive,” Vanessa continued, “but your client is homeless, so breaking into the judge’s house to steal makes sense.”

  “Has Mr. Lattimore confessed?”

  “He hasn’t said much of anything since his arrest.”

  “What’s the offer?”

  “If Mr. Lattimore pleads to aggravated murder for killing Betsy Carasco, I won’t pursue the death penalty. He’ll have to accept life without the possibility of parole.”

  “I appreciate the candor,” Robin said.

  “You’ve always been a straight shooter,” Vanessa said. “And I do have a rock-solid case. Talk to your client. Then get back to me.”

  “I will. But I do have one question. Soon after Mrs. Carasco was killed, Mr. Lattimore was arrested at a motel where he was staying with his wife and baby. How did the police know he was there?”

  Vanessa hesitated. The way the police found out about the motel was the only thing about her case that made her uneasy.

  “It was an anonymous tip.”

  “How soon after Mr. Lattimore left the crime scene did the call come in?”

  “I don’t remember. But it’ll be in the police reports.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Robin left. Vanessa thought the meeting had gone well. Robin had to get her client’s permission to take the deal, so Vanessa hadn’t expected Robin to cave right away. A case this strong would probably be resolved by a plea. Robin would try to get a concession to life with the possibility of parole. Vanessa didn’t know if she’d make that concession, but she didn’t have to decide that now.

  The prosecutor turned to another file on her desk and forgot about Joseph Lattimore. Why think about a case she couldn’t lose any way it went? If Lattimore didn’t plead, she would go to trial with a case that was a slam dunk, and the win would net her a ton of good publicity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I’ve decided to take y
our case,” Robin told Joe Lattimore as soon as the guard left them alone in the contact visiting room. “I already accepted the appointment, and Amanda Jaffe is going to sit second chair. She’s one of the best defense attorneys in the state.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to. This is what I do. And I have some very good news for you. Maria and Conchita are okay. They’re together in a women’s shelter. I know the woman who runs it, and I’m keeping tabs on them. So, you don’t have to worry.”

  Joe choked up and could only nod.

  “But the news isn’t all good. Your case is going to be prosecuted by Vanessa Cole. She’s the Multnomah County DA, and she’s very good. I met with her, and she told me everything they have. They don’t do that unless they’re convinced that they can’t lose.”

  “How do you think the case will go?”

  “It’s too early for me to guess about the outcome. I haven’t seen the police reports, and we haven’t started to investigate. But before we talk about the evidence in your case, I want to tell you how a death penalty case is tried, because a death penalty case is very different from every other type of criminal case.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The big difference has to do with the way the sentence is determined. In every other criminal case, the judge determines the appropriate sentence, and there are several weeks between the conviction and the sentencing hearing, so I don’t think about the sentence unless my client is convicted.

  “In a death penalty case, the jury that decides that the defendant is guilty of aggravated murder has to decide if the defendant should be sentenced to death. To protect the jurors from outside influences, they are brought back immediately after they convict to hear evidence on the issue of the appropriate sentence at a hearing that can be longer than the trial. This has a huge impact on how an attorney prepares a case with a potential death sentence.