reverse a discretionary decision of a judge unless there’s a gross abuse.”
“Well, isn’t this…?” Jennifer started.
David shook his head. “No. He just gave a lot of credence to Ortiz’s testimony. Another judge might not have. That son of a bitch. Maybe I should have…”
David stopped himself.
“Look, Jenny, I’m going to meet with my investigator. I know we lost this time, but I developed several important points during my examination of Ortiz. Points that could win us the trial. And that’s the important thing.”
“Won’t it be the same at trial? They’ll take his word because he’s a policeman. They won’t believe…”
David put his hand on her shoulder before he realized what he was doing. Jennifer looked startled, and he recalled the first time they had touched; saw her standing with her forehead pressed against the cold glass of his windowpane. He released his hand slowly. She looked away.
“At trial we’ll have a jury and it will be different,” he said, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “Juries are very fair. They do make the State prove its case, and I think the State is going to have a harder time than it thinks, if I’m right about a few things. Now, let me get to work, okay?”
“Yes. Of course. I…Thank you, David.”
“Don’t thank me. So far all I’ve done is lose.”
“You’ll win in the end. I know.”
They both stood in the hall, unwilling to break away. When David finally turned and walked over to Terry Conklin, he felt very depressed.
It took only a few minutes with Conklin to restore his spirits. They walked from the courthouse to the Shingle Tavern, discussing the case as they went. Conklin had spotted the same thing David had, and the fact that his investigator had been thinking along the same line sent his adrenaline pumping. If they were right, David would have an excellent shot at an acquittal.
“When can you get on it?” David asked excitedly.
“I’ll do it this evening, if I can find the man I need.”
David sipped his beer, then bit into his ham sandwich.
“I want Ortiz’s medical records. Do you know anyone at Good Sam?”
Conklin thought for a moment. “It might cost a few bucks, but I think I can swing it.”
“Don’t worry about the money. There are a few other things. See if I’m right on the Mercedes and check the shirt.”
“I’ll do that this week.”
“Good. You know, Terry, I’m starting to feel very good about this case. Very good.”
Ron Crosby worked the long, sauce-covered noodles around his chopsticks until he had them where he wanted them. Then, with a swift, stabbing movement, he jabbed the rolled noodles into his mouth.
“This place makes the best Chinese food in town,” he said. A piece of chewed noodle slipped out of the side of his mouth, and he nudged it back with his chopstick.
“How does it look, Ron?” Ortiz asked. He was toying with his food and had eaten little of it.
“Nash is smooth. That’s why he does so well. He scored a few points, but Stafford’s still in jail, isn’t he?”
“Only because Autley was on the bench. He wouldn’t let the pope out on bail. I’m not fooling myself. I made a lousy witness, and Nash didn’t take the gloves off like he will at trial.”
Crosby put down his chopsticks. “What’s bothering you, Bert?”
“Nothing. It’s just…Well, I feel responsible for…If I’d acted sooner, Darlene might still be alive. And now…I want that bastard, Ron, and I’m afraid I’ll screw up again and Nash will get him off.”
“You didn’t screw up the first time. Nobody thinks you did. Hersch was green and she was trying to prove how tough she was. She’s dead because she broke the rules. And Nash isn’t going to get Stafford off, anyway.”
Something in Crosby’s tone made Ortiz look up.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Eat your noodles and I’ll tell you,” Crosby answered, pulling a folded police report from his inside pocket. “Do you know a pimp named Cyrus Johnson?”
“T.V.? There isn’t a vice cop in town who doesn’t know that asshole.”
“Check out this report,” Crosby said, handing it to Ortiz, “then have a talk with T.V. It might prove interesting.”
Cyrus(T.V.) Johnson was probably the easiest person to find in the city of Portland. Every evening he parked his pink Cadillac outside the Jomo Kenyatta Pool Establishment so junkies would know where to make their connections, and his whores would know where to bring their take. T.V. was not the biggest pimp or pusher in Portland, but he was the most notorious. He had once had the temerity to be interviewed as part of a locally produced television special entitledDrugs in Our Schools, and thus the sobriquet.
Ortiz parked his car in front of the Cadillac and tried to make out T.V. through the haze of smoke that obscured the activity going on behind the storefront window. He could not see Johnson, but that didn’t matter: he knew exactly where he was. T.V. always held court from an expensively upholstered armchair he had had the owner install in the rear of the pool hall. The armchair, surrounded as it was by the room’s shabby furnishings, was a symbol of T.V.’s affluence, and it was understood that heavy penalties attached if anyone else used it.
Ortiz snaked his way around the players and their extended cues, aware that the noise level dropped as soon as he neared a table. A few players turned to watch him, but none moved out of his way. It was a game that Ortiz was used to playing. You trained yourself to suppress the anger that the defiance kindled inside you. A white face in a place like the Kenyatta usually meant cop, and the men who played their pool here had no use for him.
T.V., as usual, was dressed in one of his flamboyant outfits. He hadn’t always dressed like the stereotype pimp before his television appearance, and it was only by coincidence that he had been wearing an anklelength fur coat and garish gold jewelry when the television cameras had happened along. But the word was that T.V.’s television performance had been the high point of his life, and since that day he had dressed to fit the part in case the cameras should call again.
T.V.’s nostrils flared as Ortiz approached, and he sniffed the air.
“We havin’ bar-be-cue tonight, Kermit?” he asked the large man standing to his left, in an exaggerated Negro accent. “’Cause I believe I smell pig.”
The large man fixed Ortiz with a cold, challenging stare. Ortiz recognized Kermit Monroe, a bodyguard who had played pro ball for Detroit before injuring a knee.
“You seem to be in good spirits, T.V.,” Ortiz said calmly.
“Why, sho’ nuff, massah. We colored folks is always happy.”
“Do you think you can cut your routine long enough for us to have a little talk?”
The grin faded and T.V. eyed him suspiciously. Ortiz was no stranger. He had busted T.V. twice, but neither rap had stuck. The last time Ortiz had split T.V.’s lip. T.V. was vain about his looks and had not shown up at the pool hall for a week. He had also taken out his anger on one of his girls and sent her to the hospital. T.V. held Ortiz responsible for the girl’s lost earnings, as well as his humiliation.
“Whatcho want to talk about?”
“In private,” Ortiz said, gesturing toward Monroe.
“Uh-uh. I got nothin’ to say to you I can’t say in front of my friends.”
“Why don’t you piss off, Ortiz?” Monroe said. His voice was deep and smooth. Ortiz didn’t show it, but he was afraid. He knew Monroe would not hesitate to kill a policeman. He might even enjoy it.
“I want some information about a white man who had some dealings with you and one of your girls a few years back,” Ortiz said, ignoring Monroe and pulling a mug shot of Larry Stafford out of his pocket. He noticed Monroe’s hand move inside his leather jacket when his own hand moved.
“Girls? What girls he talkin’ about, Kermit?” T.V. asked Monroe over his shoulder.
“I heard Ortiz don’t like girls. I hear he likes little boys,” the bodyguard said with a sneer.
