“The Stafford bail hearing, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m covering the case forNewsweek.”
“The magazine?” David asked incredulously.
“The same. They gave a lot of coverage to my trial, so I convinced them that it would be a neat gimmick to have someone who was just acquitted of murder cover a murder case. Hell, I’m their murderer-in-residence now. Besides, I did those articles on Cambodia and the article on the mercenaries for them.
“So what do you say? Is Stafford guilty? Come on. I need a scoop to beat out the local yokels.”
David couldn’t help laughing. Gault was a leprechaun when he wanted to be, and his humor could be infectious.
“No scoops and no comment. How would you have liked it if I’d blabbed to reporters about your case?”
“But, Dave, I had nothing to hide. Can you say the same for Stafford? If I don’t get facts from you, I’ll have to make something up. I’ve got deadlines.”
“No comment,” David repeated. Gault shrugged.
“Suit yourself. I’m only trying to make you famous.”
“And I appreciate the effort, but I really do have to go.”
“At least say something memorable, old buddy. I’ve gotta have some snappy copy.”
David shook his head and laughed again. He opened the door and entered the courtroom. Gault followed him and took a seat in the back of the room where he would not be noticed.
“This is the time set for the bail hearing in State versus Lawrence Dean Stafford, case number C94-07-850. The State is represented by Monica Powers,” Monica said, “and the defendant is present with his attorney, David Nash.”
“Are you prepared to proceed, Mr. Nash?” Judge Autley asked.
“Ready, Your Honor,” David answered stiffly. Clement Autley was the worst judge they could have gotten. Almost seventy, Autley was so erratic that many attorneys filed affidavits of prejudice against him rather than risk his unpredictable rulings at trial and subject themselves and their clients to his very predictable temper tantrums. Autley was not supposed to be on the bench today. Jerome Miles was. But Miles had the flu, and Autley had been shipped upstairs for the week.
“You may proceed, Mr. Nash.”
“Your Honor, I believe the burden is on the district attorney.”
“You’re asking for bail, aren’t you? Your motion, your burden,” Autley snapped.
“If I might, Your Honor,” David said, careful to maintain his composure and to address the judge formally. He had once seen Autley, in a fit of anger, hold a young lawyer in contempt for not using the proper court etiquette. “Article one, section fourteen of the state constitution states that, and I quote, ‘Offenses, except murder and treason, shall be bailable by sufficient sureties. Murder or treason shall not be bailable when the proof is evident or the presumption strong.’
“InState ex rel. August v. Chambers, our supreme court held that if the State seeks to deny bail to a person charged with murder, it has the burden of proving that there is proof of, or a presumption of, the defendant’s guilt which is evident or strong. In light of the Chambers case, it appears that the State has the burden, not Mr. Stafford.”
Judge Autley glared at David for a moment, then turned rapidly toward Monica Powers.
“What do you say to that?”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Your Honor,” Monica said nervously. It was widely known that the one thing Autley hated more than young defense lawyers was any kind of woman lawyer.
“Then why are you wasting the Court’s time? I have a busy schedule. You see all these people waiting here, don’t you? Why did you let him go on and on if you agreed with what he said?”
“I’m sorry…” Monica started, but Autley waved a hand toward her.
“What’s your evidence?”
Monica tendered to the judge a copy of the indictment charging murder. His bailiff, an elderly woman who had been with him for years, handed the document to him.
“I believe the indictment in this case should be sufficient. It establishes that the grand jury, after hearing testimony, decided that there was sufficient proof to indict for murder.”
Judge Autley scanned the document for a moment; then he handed it back to the bailiff.
“Bail denied,” he said without looking up. “Next case.”
David was on his feet, waving a law book toward the judge.
“Your Honor.”
“I’ve ruled, Mr. Nash. Next case.”
“Your Honor, last month in the Archer case the Oregon Supreme Court ruled on this specific question and held that an indictment is not sufficient evidence to support a denial of bail in a murder case. I have the case here, if the Court would read it.”
“What case?” Autley asked, annoyed that the matter was not over.
“Archer, if you’d take a look.”
“Give it to me. But if this case isn’t on point…” He let his voice trail off, leaving the threat dangling over David’s head.
David handed the law book to the bailiff. Stafford leaned forward to say something, but David touched his leg and he sat back. Autley read the page twice, then turned his anger on Monica Powers.
“Don’t they teach you the law anymore? Didn’t you know about this case?”
“Your Honor, I-”
“You’d better have more than this, young lady,” Autley said, waving the indictment toward Monica, “and you’d better produce it fast.”
“We do have further evidence, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz is prepared to testify.”
“Then call him.”
Monica gestured toward the first row of spectator seats, and Bert Ortiz rose from his seat next to Detective Crosby. He pushed through the gate that separated the spectators from the bar of the court and stopped in front of the bailiff.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the bailiff asked.
“I do,” Ortiz replied.
“Then state your name and spell your last name.”
Ortiz sat down in the witness box and spelled his last name for the court reporter. His throat felt dry as he did so, and there was none of the air of self-assurance about him that he usually had when he testified. He felt uncomfortable reliving the events of the murder.
“Officer Ortiz,” Monica asked, “how are you employed?”
“I’m a police officer with the Portland Police Bureau.”
“How long have you been so employed?”
“It will be seven years this coming February.”
“Were you so employed on the evening of June sixteenth of this year?”
“I was.”
“And what was your assignment at that time?”
“I was working in a special vice unit. We were using policewomen disguised as prostitutes to arrest males who were soliciting prostitution.”
“Could you be more specific for the Court?”
Judge Autley leaned toward Monica and waved an impatient hand.
“I know what he means. Don’t insult the Court’s intelligence. Now, get on with this.”
“Very well, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz, who was your partner that evening?”
“Darlene Hersch, a policewoman.”
“When did you begin work?”
“The shift started at ten-thirty, but we weren’t out on the street until about eleven-thirty. We had a meeting
