Proof Positive (2006) (5 page)

So, who are they?

Rabbi Solomon Cohen and his wife, Valerie.

Not the rabbi who's always in the paper?

That's the one.

Do you think there would be anything wrong if I contacted them?

I'd clear it with your client first. You' re going to have enough trouble winning his trust. If you go behind his back and he finds out

Cochran shrugged.

You' re right. Doug stood up. I'll ask him for permission.

Do you think you can help him? Cochran asked.

Probably not. The state's case is a cinch to prove. I'm not even certain it would help if we did prove he's crazy. The law says that it's his responsibility to register and he didn' t.

That's too bad. Jacob is totally nuts but he also seemed pretty helpless. I really didn't buy Rowland's story and I felt bad for Jacob when he was convicted. I imagine prison must have been tough on him.

From some stuff he said, I think he had a very hard time.

Cochran shook his head. Poor bastard. Well, all you can do is try your best.

Yeah, Doug answered. Thanks for taking the time to see me.

Jerry Cochran walked Doug to the reception area and Doug walked over to the elevators. While he waited for the car to come, he thought about Jacob's parents. Doug wasn't Jewish but he'd heard of Rabbi Cohen. The rabbi had been active in community affairs for a long time, and his name was frequently mentioned in the newspaper in connection with civil-rights issues, antiwar protests, and other political topics. He was certain that the rabbi could help Jacob's case, but Jerry Cochran was right. If Jacob forbade him to contact his parents, Doug would have to honor his client's wishes. He decided to go to the jail and see if he could persuade Jacob to change his mind.

Jacob had been adamant that Solomon and Valerie Cohen were not his parents. When Doug suggested that there shouldn't be a problem with him talking to the Cohens, since Jacob was not related to them, Jacob had gone ballistic, spouting Bible verses about Judas Iscariot and other famous traitors until Doug promised that he wouldn't speak to the rabbi, just to get his client to shut up. When Doug left the jail, he had a splitting headache.

It wasn't lunchtime yet, so Doug decided to go to the DA's office and touch base with the prosecutor who was handling Jacob's case. If he was lucky, the prosecutor would be reasonable and he could negotiate a deal that would keep Jacob out of prison.

When Doug asked the receptionist for the name of the deputy handling Jacob's case, she called the trial assistant in the sex crimes unit.

Hannah Graves is handling that matter, the receptionist said. I'll see if she's available.

Doug's hopes dimmed. He had never tried a case against Graves, but she had a horrible reputation in the defense bar. Ten minutes later, Graves marched down the hall, a self-satisfied smile plastered on her face.

Hi, Doug, Graves said cheerfully, holding out her hand. I don't remember having a case against you.

This is the first time.

I did sit in on a little of the Raymond Hayes case, Graves said.

Doug's stomach rolled. He wondered if Graves had mentioned Ray's case to unsettle him or if she was just insensitive.

Tough break, Graves added without an iota of sincerity. The prosecutor held open the low gate that barred entry to the rest of the DA's office. Come on back.

Doug followed Graves down a narrow hall that ended in a large open area. The offices of the deputies with seniority lined the walls. Filling the center of the room were cubicles for the newer deputies and support personnel, a conference room, and other workstations.

Hannah had an office along an interior wall. It was narrow and cluttered with case files. A bookshelf with a copy of the criminal code sections of the Oregon Revised Statutes, criminal law texts, and the advance sheets of the Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals took up most of one wall. The only decorations were Graves's college and law school diplomas. There were no family photos, framed prints, or personal items in evidence.

So, you' re representing Jacob Cohen, she said when they were seated. I'm not surprised your boy is back in trouble. In fact, I was certain we'd meet again.

Were you the DA in the attempted rape case?

Yup.

Well, this is just a failure-to-register situation and Jacob has a good explanation.

I'm sure he does, but I want you to know up front that I'm not going to cut a deal with you.

Why not? Doug asked, surprised by Hannah's hard line.

Graves leaned back in her chair and played with a pencil she had picked up from her blotter.

Jacob Cohen is a violent, unpredictable maniac who hates women. There are no women in the Oregon State Penitentiary. When Cohen is locked up the women of this state are safer. So I'm going to do my best to send him back to prison.

But he may not be guilty.

I' ve seen the registration form that was sent to your client. It's blank. That means he didn't register. If he didn't register he's guilty.

Jacob was living in a vacant lot, Doug said patiently. He didn't have a mailing address so he had his mail sent to the building that houses the Office of Parole and Probation. Jacob never got the letter with his form. Someone at the office must have returned it.

Who? Graves challenged.

I don't know yet.

So Cohen's story is uncorroborated. Graves twirled the pencil around her fingers as she leaned back. And even if he didn't get the letter, so what? The statute says that he has a duty to register. It's his problem, not the responsibility of the U.S. mail or the parole office.

Graves smirked. Of course, your client makes an excellent witness. Maybe the jurors will feel sorry for him. Perhaps he can convince them that he's the victim of a vast feminist conspiracy. He tried at his rape trial, but he'll probably get better with practice.

Doug saw that he wasn't getting anywhere, so he stood up.

Thanks for seeing me. I guess we'll have to settle this in court.

Hannah didn't get up. She smiled smugly. Most definitely. I'll be looking forward to it.

*

THE PHONE ON BERNARD CASHMAN's NIGHT TABLE RANG AT 2:39 a.m. Seconds after he answered the call, he was striding into his bathroom, fully alert. There was no regret at missing sleep. The forensic scientist loved getting a call in the middle of the night. It signaled that a new crime scene waited, providing him with an opportunity to seek justice for another victim.

Cashman turned on the coffeemaker he kept by the bathroom sink. A fresh pot of an exotic blend made especially for him by a gourmet food store in Hillsdale would be brewed by the time he was ready to leave. After a brisk shower, he dressed in a T-shirt, fatigue pants with lots of pockets, and hiking boots. When he'd filled his thermos, he ran downstairs, where he slipped into a windbreaker and tucked his ash-blond locks under a Seattle Mariners baseball cap, to prevent his hair from contaminating the crime scene. Contamination by police, emergency personnel, civilians, and even experts from the crime lab was always a major concern.

The crime lab provided Cashman with a three-quarter-ton Ford pickup. His shovels, axes, metal detector, vacuum cleaner, and other equipment rested on a metal platform on rollers in the back of the truck called a joy bed. The joy bed slid back and forth to make it easy to get out the equipment, and a canopy covered the flatbed and kept everything dry. When Cashman drove off, he was in a terrific mood. He did not think of forensics as a job; it was a calling, a means of righting the injustices of a decadent world. It had been a long time since the dead had repulsed him. For Cashman, the blood, the gore, and the odors were clues that helped him solve the puzzle that each crime presented.

A little before three-thirty a.m., Cashman parked away from the hustle and bustle in the parking lot of the Continental Motel. It only took him a moment to spot Mary Clark, the other forensic expert who had been dispatched to the crime scene. Mary was a plain, slightly overweight woman with a pleasant smile and bright blue eyes. She tended to be the optimist in any gathering. Her garb was similar to Cashman' s, and her strawberry-blond tresses were tucked under a Portland Trail Blazers cap.

Mary was talking to a homicide detective, Billie Brewster, a slender African-American woman with close-cropped hair, wearing a blazer over a black T-shirt and jeans. The criminalist and the detective were standing in the middle of the lot, surrounded by uniformed officers who swarmed around them, manning crowd-control barriers, directing traffic, clearing a path for the investigators, and establishing limits beyond which the media could not go. Yellow crime-scene tape had been strung from the wall and wrapped around the beams on the walkway that supported the second-floor landing. On the edge of the lot, an ambulance was preparing to leave now that the EMTs had confirmed that the corpse in room 109 was beyond help. Behind Brewster was an open door. Inside, an occasional flash proved that a technician was documenting the crime scene.

Cashman found the officer in charge of the security log, which contained the names of everyone at the scene and the time everyone had signed in and out. He added his name to the list and joined Brewster and his colleague.

Hi, Bernie, the detective said as soon as Cashman joined the women.

Cashman nodded. What have we got?

A white male, name of Vincent Ballard. Driver's license puts his age at thirty-five but he looks about one hundred and two. He's got enough tracks on his arms to run an Amtrak train.

An OD? Cashman asked.

If it was that simple I'd be home in bed. No, our boy got popped in the back of the head, twice. By the way, when I did my initial walk-through I spotted a cartridge case under the edge of the bed on the window side.

Did you touch it? Cashman asked.

Brewster cocked her head to one side and gave the criminalist the evil eye.

Cashman laughed. Don't get mad at me, Billie. I had to ask. What about the people who found the victim or the first cops on the scene? Did they touch or move anything?

Carl Maggert, Ballard's neighbor, found the body. The victim's radio was blasting hip-hop. I'm guessing whoever greased him turned up the volume to cover the sound of the shots. Anyway, Maggert put up with the noise for half an hour before pounding on Ballard's door to get him to turn down the volume so he could sleep. When Ballard didn't answer, Maggert opened the door. It was unlocked. He said that the light was off but there was enough light outside to let him see that Ballard was lying on the floor. That's when he went to the office and told the clerk.

He didn't go inside?

Brewster consulted her notebook. Maybe a step or two. He's not sure. The clerk went into the room and turned on the light. When he saw the blood he went back to the office and called 911. I' ve had Maggert and the clerk printed and we' ve taken some hairs and a saliva swab for elimination purposes.

Mitchell and Chang were the first responders. Chang checked for a pulse, then got out. Mitchell stayed outside to keep away the rubberneckers. I' ve got them canvassing for witnesses but no luck so far. This isn't the type of place where anyone is going to come forward anyway. I'll bet most of the tenants have records or don't have green cards.

Any idea whodunit? Clark asked.

We found a kit for shooting up in a dresser drawer but we haven't found any drugs so far. Robbery may have been the motive. But there could be something more sinister at work here. My first reaction when I saw the body was that it was an execution. Word on the street is that a Colombian cartel is trying to move in on Martin Breach's territory. Their front man is Felix Dorado. In the past week, we' ve had two dealers turn up dead. If this guy was working for Breach, then Dorado is a good person to look at. If he was selling for Dorado, Art Prochaska or someone who works for him may be our man. Prochaska does Breach's heavy lifting.

Has the ME been here yet? Cashman asked.

She's on the way.

The technician who had been photographing the motel room told Brewster that he was finished. Cashman and Clark put on latex gloves and dust-filter masks to prevent their prints and saliva from contaminating the crime scene, then slipped Tyvex paper booties over their hiking boots.

We better get to work, Bernie said. Tell us what to expect in there, Billie.

The place is really small. There's a bathroom and the motel room. That's it. It's a real pigsty, too, so watch where you step.

As soon as he and Clark entered the room, Cashman saw Vincent Ballard sprawled facedown on the floor, disposed of as unceremoniously as the unwashed laundry the victim had dumped on the floor beside his bed. Even through the mask Cashman could detect the fetid smell of the dead man's evacuated bowels mixed with the odor of rotting food. He let his eyes roam the room. There were several slabs of greasy pizza in an open box on the dresser next to a TV, a small writing desk in one corner of the room, and a laptop computer resting on the blotter next to the phone. It struck Cashman as odd that a junkie would still own a laptop, something he assumed would be sold for drugs by a person in circumstances desperate enough to force him to live in a motel like the Continental. It also occurred to him that someone who would kill Ballard for his drugs would probably take his laptop. Cashman photographed the top of the dresser. He would bag the pizza on the off chance that Ballard's killer had been hungry enough to leave his DNA on a slice. He'd also cart off the computer and have one of the experts at the lab go over the hard drive for clues.

Cashman turned his attention to the bed. An open can of beer stood on the night table. The bed was unmade. The blankets were crumpled and had been pulled aside, exposing rumpled, stained sheets. Cashman remembered that Maggert, the neighbor, had said that the light was off when he opened the door. Maybe Ballard's killer or killers had broken into the room while Ballard was sleeping. Cashman squatted down so he was even with the lock on the door. It didn't look as though the lock had been forced, but he photographed it anyway and checked for tool marks. Cashman bet that no one staying in this motel left the room door unlocked at night. If Ballard's door wasn't forced, the killer had probably talked his way in. Ballard would have tossed the blanket aside when he got up to go to the door.

Mary Clark was on her knees on the other side of the bed, taking a picture of the location of the cartridge case that Detective Brewster had spotted. Cashman photographed the top of the night table, then placed the beer can in a plastic evidence bag. He would print it later. While Clark was putting the shell casing in another bag, he squatted next to the body. It looked as if Ballard had been forced to kneel. There was gunpowder residue sprinkled across a wound behind his ear, and more residue surrounded another wound in the back of his head. The vic had probably pitched forward after the first shot, and the killer bent forward to deliver the coup de grGce. An execution, just as Brewster had guessed. Cashman would bet on it.

The right side of Ballard's face was exposed. Cashman studied it. The killer had sealed Ballard's mouth with gray duct tape so no one would hear his screams. His eyes were swollen shut, and dried blood had crusted on pale skin that was even paler in death. The medical examiner would make it official, but it was obvious that Ballard had been beaten before he'd been shot. A brutal man had done this, a violent man like Art Prochaska.

Almost six years ago, Prochaska's testimony had been used to destroy the reputation of a Portland police detective. The result was the suppression of evidence against an accused serial killer. Cashman had overheard several officers and detectives curse Prochaska, and he'd learned a lot about Martin Breach's lieutenant. He was a vicious killer who inflicted pain without mercy; a vile creature who committed many terrible crimes. If Prochaska was responsible for this murder, Cashman would see that he paid for it.

Chapter
6.

JUDGE IVAN ROBARD PRESIDED OVER ONE OF THE MOST ELEGANT courtrooms in the Multnomah County Courthouse, and felt that this was just. Marble columns supported the high ceilings, and oil paintings of the stern-faced judges who had preceded him frowned down on the supplicants who stood beneath his carved-wood dais. It was from this pulpit that Judge Robard nodded majestically, like a sultan of the Ottoman Empire, toward the prosecution table, indicating to Hannah Graves that she had his permission to give her closing argument.

Amanda Jaffe got along with most of the assistant district attorneys in Multnomah County, but she really disliked Hannah Graves. The DA was as thin as an anorexic, but Amanda suspected that meanness, not dieting or exercise, kept the weight away. What self-respecting calorie would want to bond with someone as nasty as Hannah Graves?

There was a smirk on the prosecutor's face when she strolled to the jury box for her closing argument in State of Oregon v. Bobby Lee Hartfield. Bobby Lee didn't see it, because he was staring at the top of the counsel table, embarrassed to be back in court and more embarrassed by the circumstances that had brought him there. Amanda had laid those circumstances out for Graves at a pretrial conference, during which she had offered to plead her lumbering, slow-witted client to the misdemeanor crime of trespass. Graves had laughed at the suggestion and demanded a plea to burglary, a felony that would send Bobby Lee to the penitentiary. When Amanda explained patiently why the facts of the case would not support the charge, Graves had flashed a patronizing smile and told Amanda that she could try selling her story to a jury.

During the trial, one thing had surprised Amanda and made her rethink her negative view of the prosecutor. Amanda had been forced to put Bobby Lee on the stand so he could tell his story. Normally, a DA cannot introduce evidence of a defendant's prior convictions, but when a defendant testifies, a prosecutor can introduce the judgment rolls on the theory that they are evidence a juror can use to determine the witness's credibility.

The year after he graduated from high school, Amanda's twenty-five-year-old client had been fired from a hardware store for coming to work drunk. A week after he was canned, an intoxicated Bobby Lee had used a key he had forgotten to return to break into the store at night. Bobby hadn't taken much, but he had left the key with his fingerprints in the backdoor lock. Bobby had pleaded guilty to a burglary charge and had successfully served a sentence of probation. Given that the charge against Bobby was burglary, Amanda had fully expected the vindictive DA to tell the jury about the hardware-store burglary, but Hannah had shocked Amanda by not introducing the record of Bobby Lee's prior conviction to impeach him during cross-examination.

Ladies and gentlemen, Graves said, I want to thank you for your patience. I'm guessing that it took a lot to sit through the defendant's self-serving sob story. And what a pathetic attempt he made to weasel out of the predicament he created for himself.

The evidence is so clear that I won't waste much more of your time. The defendant is charged with burglary. The judge will instruct you that a defendant commits that crime when he enters a house with the intention to commit a crime therein. Now there is no question that the defendant entered his father-in-law's home, although that's an understatement. He didn't just enter. He dove headfirst through the screen on Claude Smith's bedroom window.

And did he intend to commit a crime when he broke in? What do you think he would have done to his wife after wrestling her father to the ground and chasing her into the living room, if she didn't shoot him? Thank God, Cora Hartfield picked up her father's gun during his struggle with her drunk and enraged husband. If she had been unarmed, the charge against Bobby Lee Hartfield would probably be assault in the first degree or, and here she paused to stare venomously at Amanda's client, murder.