Proof Positive (2006) (6 page)

Although she had promised to be short, Hannah Graves ranted on for twenty more minutes, her voice rising as she became more and more self-righteous. Amanda let her rave, pleased to see that the eyes of the jurors, which had been riveted on the prosecutor when she started, were glazing over as Hannah went on and on and on.

Finally, Graves concluded, and Judge Robard told Amanda that she could present the defendant's argument. Amanda stood, and her long black hair fell across her broad, muscular shoulders. Years of competitive swimming had given Amanda an imposing figure that was too full to grace the covers of today's fashion magazines but always attracted male attention when she entered a room. She stopped a few steps from the rail of the jury box and looked at the jurors with her clear blue eyes. When Amanda smiled, two of the jurors smiled back, but most kept a poker face, unwilling to show how they were going to vote.

The prosecutor told you some of what happened on the night in June when Bobby Lee Hartfield almost lost his life, but she conveniently forgot the most important piece of evidence that was introduced in this case: the fact that Bobby Lee Hartfield is madly and passionately in love with his wife, Cora Hartfield.

On the warm summer evening of June fifth, after a meal at her parents' house, Cora refused to let Bobby Lee drive her home and told him that she was staying at her parents' house until he sobered up. Now, Cora was right to refuse to drive home with Bobby. He has a drinking problem and he shouldn't have been behind the wheel of a car that night, but Bobby wouldn't admit that she was right and he stormed out of his in-laws' house and drove home. Sitting in the dark, he continued to drink and grew more and more despondent. He called Cora several times to beg her to come home, but she was so mad that she told her father, who answered the phone, that she didn't want to talk to Bobby.

You heard the testimony of Claude Smith, Bobby's father-in-law, about those phone calls. Did Bobby tell Mr. Smith that he wanted to beat his wife or murder her? No, he did not. He told Mr. Smith, often while sobbing, that he loved Cora and missed her. Mr. Smith told Bobby that Cora loved him too and that he should sober up and drive over in the morning, when he was certain that the couple could patch things up.

You also heard the testimony of Bobby's old girlfriend Ronnie Bosco, who told you how Bobby called her at a little before two in the morning for advice on how to get his wife to come home. She said that he sounded highly intoxicated and cried through most of the conversation.

Shortly after he hung up on Ms. Bosco, Bobby drove back to the Smiths' . At the hospital, shortly before the doctors operated on him, a blood test showed that Bobby had an alcohol level of .27, way beyond .08, the level at which an Oregon citizen is deemed to be under the influence. In this highly intoxicated condition, Bobby pounded on the front door of the Smith home. Mr. Smith called to him through the screen over the open bedroom window and asked him not to wake the neighbors. Did Bobby threaten to kill Mr. Smith? He did not. He apologized for causing trouble and told Mr. Smith how lonely he was and how much he loved his daughter.

Mr. Smith urged Bobby to go home and sleep off his drunk, but Bobby said he loved Cora so much he could not stand to be separated from her. Then he said he was coming in and he dived through the screen and tumbled into the Smiths' bedroom.

Mrs. Smith and Cora huddled in the doorway. Mr. Smith stood in front of them. He was holding a pistol and he testified that his hand was shaking so badly that he was afraid it would go off. Bobby looked up at Mr. Smith, shocked to see the pistol. ' Are you going to shoot me, Dad?' he asked, and Mr. Smith said no. But he also told Bobby to leave. Bobby stood on shaking legs and said he would not leave without his wife. Then he spotted Cora and lunged toward her. Mr. Smith dropped the gun and got in Bobby's way. As they wrestled on the bedroom floor, Cora grabbed the pistol and ran into the living room.

Do you remember what happened next? It's the key to this case. Bobby threw off his father-in-law and staggered after Cora. He walked into the living room. Cora, terrified, was braced against the couch, the pistol stretched out toward the doorway. As soon as Bobby stepped into the room, she fired.

Now, you heard Cora Hartfield's tear-drenched testimony. What were Bobby Lee's last words, spoken just before he crumpled to the floor, thinking that he was going to die? Cora testified that Bobby Lee sank to his knees, looked into her eyes, and said, ' Honey, I love you.'

Amanda paused. Two of the jurors pulled out handkerchiefs and dabbed at their eyes.

Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecutor is correct. The judge is going to instruct you that you can convict Bobby Lee Hartfield of burglary only if you find that he entered the Smith home with the intent to commit a crime therein. We do not dispute that the state has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Bobby Lee entered the Smiths' home without their consent, but I have searched the law books and statutes of this state, I have looked high and low, and nowhere have I found any Oregon law that makes love a crime.

The jury was back in twenty-five minutes. Hannah Graves smirked at Amanda, and that smug look stayed plastered on her face for a few moments after the jury foreperson pronounced Bobby Ray Hartfield unanimously not guilty.

As soon as the judge dismissed the jury, Cora and her parents rushed up to tell Amanda what a great job she'd done. Amanda told them to hold on for a minute so she could catch the DA before she left the courtroom.

Hannah, Amanda said.

What? Graves asked angrily as she gathered up her law books and paperwork.

I wanted to thank you for trying a clean case.

Graves looked confused. What are you talking about?

Bobby's prior conviction for burglary. I wanted to thank you for not using it and letting the jury decide the case on the facts.

A horrified expression twisted Hannah's features. She shuffled through a stack of papers she was holding. When she found her certified copy of the judgment roll of Hartfield's burglary conviction, she stared at it for a second. Then she muttered, Shit, shit, shit, and stormed out of the courtroom.

It was almost six by the time Amanda finished up at the courthouse, and close to seven when she left her office in downtown Portland. She picked up an order of sushi to go from the Japanese restaurant on the corner and walked to the trolley stop on Tenth Avenue. The biting wind should have chilled her, but Amanda was too exhausted to notice.

The trolley rumbled across Burnside and into the Pearl District, where Amanda lived in a 1,200-square-foot loft in a converted redbrick warehouse. There were two art galleries on the ground floor, and any number of good restaurants and coffeehouses in the surrounding blocks. The condo had hardwood floors, high ceilings, and oversize windows that let in plenty of light and gave her a view of Mount Saint Helens and the Columbia River. The volcano was dome-building, and she could see smoke drifting up from the crater on clear days.

Amanda put water on for tea. The kettle was whistling by the time she changed into her sweats. She had been too busy to read the paper in the morning, so she went through it while she ate. When she turned to the TV listings, she noticed that Turner Classic Movies was showing a picture rated four stars that she hadn't seen before. She checked the kitchen clock. The film was going to start in half an hour.

It would have been nice to watch the movie with someone else, but she'd broken up with Toby Brooks two weeks ago, when it became clear that their relationship was going nowhere. Amanda felt sad about the breakup, but she wasn't devastated. That was good; still, she would have preferred dining tonight with someone who cared to eat takeout sushi at her kitchen table. Sometimes she wondered if she'd ever find someone with whom she could share her life.

It was at times like this that Amanda wished her mother were alive, so she could talk to her. But Samantha Jaffe had died giving birth, and Amanda's father, Frank Jaffe, had raised her. Her dad was very smart, but some problems needed a woman's point of view.

Frank was a great father. He was also one of the best criminal-defense lawyers in the country. Ever since Amanda had been old enough to understand what her father did for a living, she had been seduced by the mystery and adventure of criminal law. While other girls were mooning over teen idols, she mooned over Perry Mason and read every legal thriller she could get her hands on. After a stellar academic career in law school, Amanda had accepted an offer to clerk for a federal judge on the United States Court of Appeal for the Ninth Circuit in San Francisco. Many of the top San Francisco firms had courted her, and her judge believed that she had an excellent chance of clerking at the United States Supreme Court, but Amanda could no longer resist the pull of criminal practice, and there was really only one place that she wanted to work. As soon as her clerkship ended, Amanda became an associate at Jaffe, Katz, Lehane, and Brindisi. Four years after starting at the firm, Amanda had made a name for herself in the notorious Cardoni case. Last year, she had made headlines again, when she had almost lost her life while defending Jon Dupre in a case that involved some of the most powerful men in the state and a conspiracy that stretched all the way to Washington, D.C. Amanda had a national reputation and was a partner in the firm. The cases poured in and she was making more money than she thought possible, but her personal life wasn't going nearly as well.

The film started, and Amanda carried her tea to her lounger. After a while, she lost herself in the movie. It was a silly comedy; just what she needed. She forgot how restless and lonely she was feeling until she turned out the lights two hours later and crawled into bed.

Chapter
7.

DOUG WEAVER SAT UP IN BED. HE WAS SWEATING, AND HIS HEART was beating rapidly. For a moment, he was not certain if he was home or in the death chamber at the Oregon State Penitentiary, staring down at Raymond Hayes's corpse. Then he saw the blurry red numbers on the clock on his nightstand and he knew that he'd had the nightmare again.

Doug swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent over to catch his breath. His neck and chest were damp. He was exhausted, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for a while. He was never able to relax right after the dream. When a few minutes passed, Doug's breathing started to slow, and he stood unsteadily. Almost a year had passed since Raymond's execution, and he had not slept well. Many evenings, before he could drop off, he would think about the sentencing hearing and what he could have done differently. Marge Cross had assured him that he had done everything he could and she'd chastised him for punishing himself with hindsight, but in Weaver's nightmare, Ray said something else.

In the dream, only Ray and Doug were at the execution. Ray was strapped down on the gurney, and Doug was standing over him in the death chamber. Ray was as Doug had last seen him: his right eye closed and the left partly open, light reflecting off his dead, black pupil. What was different were Raymond's lips, which parted and mouthed words Weaver could not understand unless he bent close to his client's corpse.

Save me, Hayes whispered in the dream, and in the dream Doug snapped back, terrified.

Weaver always woke up after hearing the pathetic plea for help that he could never fulfill.

Doug wore contacts, but he kept eyeglasses on his nightstand for circumstances such as this. With his glasses on, he could see the clock clearly. It was 3:45. He had a court appearance at nine and he hadn't fallen asleep until after midnight. He would be a wreck in the morning his head would ache and his eyes would be raw and red. Most days were like that now.

Doug had let Karen stay in their house when she told him that she wanted to separate. He was renting a small Cape Cod in southeast Portland. It was all he could afford, since his practice wasn't going very well. It wasn't that he was a bad lawyer. If he were objective about his abilities, Douglas Weaver would conclude that he was better than most. He seldom screwed up, and there were occasional instances of brilliance. The problem was that Raymond's execution had taken the heart out of him.

Why did he go on, then? He had asked himself that question on several occasions, especially when he was depressed after a loss. The answer was always the same. Doug was a believer. He had wanted to be a lawyer all his life, and the origins of that desire were located in a youthful, exuberant belief in the law as a protector of the little person. Doug had always been a little person, the object of bullies, never a member of the in crowd, the poor, pathetic soul who hid his love for the most popular girls in high school because he knew it would never be returned. Armed with the might of the law, Doug believed that he could help those without the power to help themselves. Reality had been a cruel teacher, but deep down, he still held on to his belief that he could make a difference.

Doug's bedroom opened on a small living room. There was no wall between the living room and the kitchen. He turned on the kitchen light and poured himself a glass of cheap scotch from a bottle that was almost empty. Doug added ice to the glass and sat at the kitchen table. He took a strong taste, then held the glass to his forehead. The cold felt good, and the burn of the liquor distracted him for a moment. He put down the glass, rested his elbows on the table, and held his head in his hands. He was all messed up and he didn't know what to do. Each day he had to drag himself to his office. He called himself an attorney, but sometimes he felt like a fraud. What if Ray had really been innocent? Doug had talked Ray into pleading guilty, coerced him. Now he felt sick with doubt. Maybe he should quit his practice, but what else could he do? He was too old to start over in a new profession assuming that he could even think of something else he wanted to do. He came to the same conclusion whenever he had this argument with himself. He would muddle through and hope that he didn't hurt anyone else. He had to earn a living; he had to pay rent and feed himself. And there was one other thing that kept him going: the hope that someday he would redeem himself.