'That's a lie!' Harwood shouted, her face scarlet with rage. 'I never watched no movie.'
'Someone did, Marie, and someone ordered it by phone. Who do you think that was?'
The day after Marie Harwood's conviction, Abbie Griffen Was looking through a stack of police reports when Multnomah County district attorney Jack Stamm stepped into her office. The weather had unexpectedly turned from mild to torrid in twenty-four hours and the courthouse air conditioner was on the fritz.
Stamm had taken off the jacket of his tan tropical-weight suit, pulled down his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but he still looked damp and uncomfortable.
The district attorney was five feet eleven, rail thin and a bachelor, whose only passions were the law and distance running.
Stamm's wavy brown hair was starting to thin on the top, but his kind blue eyes and ready smile made him look younger than thirty-eight. '
'Congratulations on nailing Harwood,' Stamm said. 'That was good work.'
'Why, thank you,' Abbie answered with a big smile.
'I hear Knapp is making noises about reporting you to the Bar.'
'Oh?'
'He says you didn't tell him about the Pay-per-View bill before trial.'
Abbie grinned at her boss. 'I sent that arrogant creep a copy of the bill in discovery. He was just too stupid to understand its significance, assuming he even read it. I don't know what I enjoyed more, convicting Knapp's client or humiliating him in public.'
'Well, you did both and you deserve to enjoy your triumph.
That's why I'm sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings.'
'What's up?'
'I just got this.'
Stamm handed Abbie the Oregon Supreme Court's slip-sheet opinion in State of Oregon v. Charles Darren Deems. Almost two years ago, Abbie had convicted Deems, an especially violent psychopath, for the pipe-bomb murder of a witness and his nine year-old daughter. The Supreme Court had taken the case on automatic review because Deems had been sentenced to death.
The slip sheet was the copy of the opinion that was sent to the attorneys in the case as soon as the Supreme Court issued its ruling.
Later, the opinion would be published in the bound volumes of the official reporter that were sent to law libraries.
Abbie looked down the cover sheet past the caption of the case and the names of the attorneys until she found the line she was looking for. 'Oh no!'
'It's worse than that,' Stamm said. 'They threw out his statements to Rice.'
'That was my whole case,' Abbie said incredulously. 'I won't be able to retry him.'
'You got it,' Stamm agreed grimly.
'Which judge wrote this piece of shit?' Abbie asked, her rage barely contained as she scanned the cover sheet to find the name of the justice who had authored the opinion. Stamm could not meet her eye.
'That son of a bitch,' she said, so softly that Stamm barely heard her.
Abbie crumpled the opinion in her fist. 'I can't believe he would stoop this low. He did this to make me look bad.'
'I don't know, Abbie,' Stamm said halfheartedly. 'He had to convince three other judges to go along with him.'
Abbie stared at Stamm. Her rage, disappointment and frustration were so intense, he looked away. She dropped the opinion on the floor and walked out of her office. Stamm bent down to retrieve the document.
When he smoothed it out, the name of the opinion's author could be seen clearly. It was the Honorable Robert Hunter Griffen, justice of the Oregon Supreme Court and Abbie's estranged husband.
Chapter TWO
Bob Packard, attorney-at-law, was a large man going to seed. His belt cut into his waist, because he stubbornly insisted on keeping it a notch too tight. There were fat rolls on his neck and a puffiness in his cheeks. At the moment, Packard was not feeling well.
His trust and general account ledgers were open on his desk. He had checked them twice and the totals had not changed. Packard unconsciously ran a hand across his dry lips. He was certain there was more money in both accounts. His billings were up, clients were paying.
Where had the money gone? His office overhead had not changed and his household expenses had not increased.
Of course, there was the money he was spending for cocaine.
That seemed to be increasing recently.
Packard took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He rotated his neck and shrugged his shoulders to work out the tension. If the white lady was the problem, he would just have to stop. It was that simple.
Cocaine was not a necessity. He could take it or leave it and he would just have to leave it. Once his current supply ran out, there would be no more.
Packard felt better now that his problem was solved. He put away the ledgers and picked up a case he needed to read in order to prepare a pretrial motion that was due in two days. It was imperative that he win the motion. If his client went to trial he was doomed. This motion had to be an A number one, slam-bang winner.
Packard started to read the case, but it was hard to concentrate. He was still thinking about his money problems and still worried about that other problem. His supplier. The one who had been arrested two days ago, just before Packard was going to pick up a little something to augment his dwindling supply.
Of course, he was going to stop, so there was no problem. But what if, just for the sake of argument, he needed some coke and couldn't get any.
It made him jittery just thinking about it and he needed to keep calm and focused so he could write the motion.
Packard thought about the zip-lock bag in his bottom drawer.
If he took a hit, he could whiz through the research on the motion and get it written. And there would be that much less cocaine to worry about. After all, he was quitting, and getting rid of his stash was an important first step.
Packard was working on his final rationalization for doing a line when his receptionist buzzed him on the intercom. 'Mr. Packard, a Mr. Deems is here to see you.'
Packard suddenly felt an urgent need to go to the men's room.
'Mr. Packard?' the receptionist repeated.
'Uh, yes, Shannon. I'll be right there.'
Bob Packard had never felt comfortable in Charlie Deems's presence, even when the two men were separated by the bulletproof glass through which they had been forced to communicate while the former drug dealer was on death row. The facts underlying Deems's conviction were enough to unsettle anyone. A man named Harold Shoe was trying to cut into Deems's territory. Two boys found Shoe's mutilated body in a Dumpster.
According to the medical examiner, Shoe had died slowly over a long period of time. Packard had looked at the autopsy photos when he was reviewing the trial evidence and had not been able to eat for the rest of the day.
Larry Hollins, twenty-eight, married, a union man who worked the swing shift, just happened to be driving by the Dumpster when Deems was depositing his bloody package. Hollins thought he'd seen a body, then convinced himself he was imagining things, until he read about the discovery of Shoe's corpse.
Hollins could not make a positive ID from Deems's mug shot, but he was pretty sure he could identify the man he saw if he was in a lineup.
Someone leaked Hollins's identity to the press and Deems disappeared for a few days. On one of those days, Hollins decided to drive his nine-year-old daughter to school so he could talk to her teacher. A pipe bomb attached to the underside of the car killed both of them.
Packard looked longingly toward the bottom drawer, but decided it was better to face Deems with all his wits about him.
Besides, Charlie would be in a good mood. Packard had just won his appeal for him. He was probably in the
