Last Ditch
G.M. FORD
A Leo Waterman
Mystery
Contents
Chapter
1
The
prosecutor
looked like Hoss Cartwright.
"Mr.
Waterman . . ." she continued. "... in your capacity as a licensed
private investigator, did you have occasion to be employed by anyone
present in
this courtroom today?"
"Yes,
I
did."
The
assistant
DA's name was Paula Stillman. Before this morning, I'd never heard of
her. For
the past ten days, the papers had been quoting reliable sources, all of
whom
whispered that Mel Turpin, the DA himself, was going to step in and
take the
reins. On the surface, it made sense. After all, what could be better?
A state
supreme court justice on trial for murder. Not only that but the case
was a
slam dunk. Big-time moral high ground. Mass photo ops. It was money,
baby.
Money.
Mel
Turpin knew
better, and so did I. It didn't matter that the case against the judge
was a
grounder. What mattered were the pictures. And the pictures were going
to get
real ugly. The evening news anchors were going to put on their Mr.
Serious
faces and warn their viewers about the graphic nature of the
photographs they
were about to see and suggest that children and the faint of heart
might want
to leave the room.
What
politicians like Turpin and my old man understood was that the average
citizen
had a short and very selective memory. Two weeks after the trial was
over, all
the voting public would remember were the pictures they'd seen on the
tube.
Exactly who had done what to whom and why would get downright fuzzy for
most of
them. Mel Turpin was smart enough to make damn sure that his cherubic
countenance was not among those ill-recalled images. That's precisely
what
assistant DAs like Paula Stillman were for. Photo fodder.
"Could
you
please point out that person," Stillman said.
The
defense
attorney jumped to his feet. "Your Honor," he said in a world-weary
voice, "the defense is prepared to stipulate that the defendant ..."
Dan
Hennessey
was the best legal help money could buy. On those few occasions when
I'd seen
him in action, he was all controlled confidence and meticulous motions.
He always
seemed to have a little something extra in his sock that the opposition
wasn't
expecting. It wasn't surprising. He had the best help money could buy.
The way
I heard it, even a junior partnership in Hennessey, Howell and Kidd was
worth a
cool million a year. If you were ambitious enough and good enough,
clerking for
Dan Hennessey was the next logical step after Stanford Law Review. I'd
never
before seen him desperate.
"Excuse
me. Excuse me, Your Honor," Stillman interrupted. "Once again, Your
Honor, if Mr. Hennessey doesn't mind, I'd like to try my own case here."
Judge
Bobbie
Downs had a reputation for quick and dirty jurisprudence and for making
a fair
number of procedural mistakes. I figured Hennessey had danced in his
office
when he heard she'd been assigned. That was before the defendant
decided to
lend a hand on his own case. Downs waved the
gavel at the defense table, indicating that Hennessey should slide his
charcoal-gray Armani back into his seat and then turned to me. "Mr.
Waterman."
I
pointed at
Judge Douglas J. Brennan, who was seated next to Hennessey at the
defense
table. "He's right there next to defense counsel," I said.
Stillman
spoke
directly to the judge. "Your Honor, please let the record show that Mr.
Waterman identified the defendant Douglas J. Brennan."
"So
noted," she said.
Brennan
sat
there like a bird of prey. His fierce eyes hooded, looking downward
toward his
piously folded fingers, allowing the mane of white hair and the square
chin to
command the room on their own. I felt like Adam in that painting from
the
Sistine Chapel. Except, in this picture, God wasn't pointing back my
way.
"And
what
was it that Mr. Brennan wanted you to do?"
Hennessey
started to rise, but Judge Downs waved him back down.
"He
wanted
me to find his housekeeper. A woman named Felicia Mendoza."
"Did
he
tell you why he wanted Miss Mendoza found?"
"He
said
she'd stolen a number of things from his house. Jewelry. Mementos.
Things with
sentimental value was how he put it."
"And
did
Judge Brennan give you any indication as to why he wished to employ a
private
detective in this matter, rather than . . . say taking the more
traditional
path of simply calling the police?"
"Your
Honor, Ms. Stillman is leading the witness," Hennessey complained.
"If she wants to—"
All
it got him
was a frown and another gavel wave.
"He
said
he didn't want to make a big deal of it. He said the stuff wasn't of
great
monetary value, and he didn't want to make trouble for the woman. He
said she
didn't speak much English, and he didn't want to scare her. The judge
said he
thought he could convince her to return his belongings, so he just
wanted me to
find her for him."
"And
did
you do so?"
"I
found
her," I said.
Hennessey
was
on his feet again. "May we approach the bench, Your Honor?" You had to
admire a guy who thought of himself as plural. She waved him forward.
Stillman
followed along. They formed a tight muttering knot around the judge. My
name
and the word "prejudicial" were being bandied about. Damn right I was
prejudicial. Prejudicial as hell.
I
FOUND HER
sleeping on the floor in a Catholic women's shelter down in Tacoma.
They didn't want to let me in, but
since I'd tracked her that far, and had made it plain that I wasn't
going away,
they figured they didn't have much to Ipse by letting us chat. Two very
large
women stood by her side and glared at me while we talked. She was maybe
five
foot two, with a big pair of liquid brown eyes taking up most of her
round
face. Her English was just fine, which was more than could be said
about the rest
of her. The right side of her face was blistered and the color of an
eggplant.
The insides of both her arms were pitted with burn marks, old and new,
and from
what she showed me of her shoulders and the backs of her legs, it was
obvious
that she'd been systematically beaten for years. Seems the judge, while
on a
judicial junket to Central America about six
years before, had more or less bought her from a Guatemalan orphanage.
Four
hundred bucks and the promise of American citizenship. She was twelve
at the
time. Being twelve and not speaking a word of English, she had to watch
a lot
of daytime television before she picked up enough of the language to
become
absolutely certain that the judge's little sexual idiosyncrasies were
neither a
standard part of the American courting ritual nor a painful
prerequisite to U.S.
citizenship. She'd run away for the first time three weeks ago. The
judge had
tracked her down at the bus station and used a steam iron on the side
of her
face. She'd hired an attorney. Said she learned about lawyers watching
"Anoder World."
I
gave her my
card and the hundred and seventy bucks I had in my pocket. I spent the
thirty-minute drive back to Seattle
analyzing my options and trying to keep my lunch down. In retrospect, I
did a
hell of a lot better job with the lunch than I did with the options.
STILLMAN
WENT
ON. "So then, Mr. Waterman ..." She gazed back over her shoulder at
the defense table. "... before we were interrupted, you indicated that
you
were successful in your search for Miss Mendoza, is that correct?"
"Yes,"
I said.
"In
what
condition did you find Miss Mendoza?"
I
told her.
Hennessey objected three times during my recitation. Once complaining
that my
entire conversation with Felicia Mendoza was hearsay, once to decry my
lack of
medical credentials and a third time to object to the jury being
allowed to see
the postmortem photos of Felicia Mendoza's horribly crosshatched back,
buttocks
and upper thighs. He went O for three. Trolling for grounds for appeal,
I
figured. Make the judge rule on as many matters as possible. Hope
she'll screw
up something important. When your client, two weeks before he goes on
trial for
murder, gets caught trying to off one of the key prosecution witnesses,
you are
then forced to cast upon the waters the very straws at which you may
later be
forced to grasp.
"What
did
you do next, Mr. Waterman?"
I
SLID THE
check, face-down, across the table.
"I'm
returning your retainer and your advance for expenses," I said.
"Twenty-four hundred dollars."
The
judge pulled
the crisp white napkin from his lap and dabbed at the corners of his
mouth. He
looked down at the check as if I'd pushed a turd over next to his elbow.
"It
can't
be that hard to find one little wetback," he said.
If
he'd said
something else, I most likely would have let it go. I'd have said
something
noncommittal, made my excuses and headed up the road. Yeah, sure. And
if Mama
Cass had shared that ham sandwich with Karen Carpenter, they'd both be
alive
today.
I
leaned over
the table, putting my face close to his.
"Maybe
it
escaped your notice, Judge, but slavery, sexual and otherwise, went out
of
fashion quite a while back."
He
never batted
an eye.
"Oh,
dear," he teased. "Moral indignation? How quaint."
I
held his
gaze. "Listen to me, Judge. I've never rolled over on a client in my
life.
I've gone to jail for refusing to divulge." I held up a finger. "But
you know, in your case, just this once, I might be willing to make an
exception."
He
made a
dismissive noise with his lips. "I was like a father to that girl,"
he mocked.
I
ignored him.
"The only reason I'm not going to the authorities is because Miss
Mendoza
is going to do it for me."
"I
am the
authorities, you moron."
I
stood up and
pitched my napkin into my plate.
"God
help
us all, then."
"Your
father would be terribly disappointed in you," he said.
"I
don't
think so."
He
used his
napkin to polish the rim of his water glass.
"And
to
think I came to you because—"
I
cut him off.
"You came to me because you thought you could trade on your
relationship
with my old man. That's why you came to me. That and because you
couldn't take
a chance on a big agency. They'd drop a dime on you in a New York
minute. You
figured you'd find somebody who needed the money."
"Exactly,"
he said. "And that is precisely why no set of spurious allegations from
an
illiterate—and, I might add, illegal—alien and a low-rent private dick
can
possibly cause me even the slightest bit of concern."
My
fist itched
to wipe the smug look off his face.
"You
know,
Judge," I said instead, "my old man was a great believer in the
notion that timing was everything. And you know what? I think your
timing on
this thing is lousy. As a matter of fact, I don't think it could be
worse if
you tried. Domestic violence is the crime of the month. Right now a guy
will do
more time for belting his old lady than he would for holding up a
Seven-Eleven."
He
seemed to be
paying attention, so I pressed on. "You read the papers. You know what
I'm
talking about. Presidential advisors. City councilmen. Actors.
Athletes. You
want to screw up your life forever, you just kick in your ex's front
door." I shook my head. "We're awash in post-O.J. rage here,
Judge." I gave him my best smile. "Hold onto your shorts, Your Honor,
because unless I'm mistaken, the illiterate—and, I might add,
illegal—Miss
Mendoza is about to rock your little world." He didn't exactly faint,
but
the shit-eating smirk was sure gone. If he said anything to my back, I
didn't
hear it.
"AND
DURING THIS meeting with Mr. Brennan, am I to understand that you did
not
divulge Miss Mendoza's whereabouts."