Ian had been ashamed that his parents didn’t think enough of him to believe he could land a good job on his own. Then he faced reality. Without the Hennesseys’ pull, he would never have been able to land any job, and he would be reduced to hanging out a shingle. So, he had started at the DA’s office with a chip on his shoulder, surrounded by young attorneys who had earned their positions by hard work and their own achievements and resented him because he had not.
At first, Ian had been unenthusiastic about prosecuting dull cases against nobodies, and his results showed his lack of preparation. After he was called on the carpet by his supervisor, Ian had won two cases. He felt an electric charge each time the jury rewarded his efforts with a guilty verdict, and he started looking forward to going to work. Then Anthony Carasco and Stacey Hayes had come into his life, threatening to take away the only thing he’d felt he could do well and turning his life into a nightmare.
Moments before Hennessey finished his drink, someone sat on the stool next to him and signaled the bartender.
“Another for my friend, and the same for me,” a man said.
Hennessey turned his bleary eyes toward the voice. It had come from a solidly built man dressed in khaki slacks, a sky-blue work shirt, and a black rain jacket. A well-groomed mustache decorated the man’s upper lip and was complemented by light brown eyes and a coffee-colored complexion.
“Do I know you?” Hennessey asked, his words slightly slurred.
The man extended his hand. “Brent Macklin, Mr. Hennessey. And no, we’ve never met.”
Hennessey frowned. “You bought me a drink.”
Macklin smiled. “I did.”
“Why?”
“It’s something you do when you want to get to know someone.”
Hennessey pulled back. “Hey, I’m not … If this is a pickup…”
Macklin laughed. “No, no. I’m as straight as straight can be. I’m also a reporter, and I think you can help me with a story I’m writing.”
“What kind of story?” asked Hennessey warily.
“You were with Judge Carasco when he discovered his wife’s body, right?”
“Yes.”
“A man named Joe Lattimore was arrested for the crime.”
“I can’t talk about that. I’m a witness.”
“I know that, and I’m not interested in Lattimore’s connection to Mrs. Carasco’s murder.”
“Then why do you want to talk to me?”
“Lattimore killed a man during an unsanctioned, no-holds-barred fight. I freelance stories about boxing, mixed martial arts events, and tough-guy competitions. I saw the YouTube video of Lattimore’s fight with Carlos Ortega, and it gave me the idea for a story about unsanctioned fights. They’re held all over the country, but no one writes about them.”
“Why talk to me? I don’t know anything about that case.”
“But you’re in the Multnomah County DA’s office. I thought you could give me a lead.”
“Vanessa Cole is prosecuting Lattimore. Talk to her.”
“I tried, but she wouldn’t discuss the case. How about someone in the police department? Do you know the detectives who are working the fight case?”
“Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon were the lead detectives on Mrs. Carasco’s case. They’re probably working the manslaughter case too.”
Macklin held out a business card to Hennessey. “Thanks for the names. If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.”
Macklin left and Hennessey noticed that he hadn’t touched his drink. Hennessey hesitated. Then he pulled Macklin’s glass next to his and finished them both. The double shot had the desired effect, and Hennessey’s brain began to fog. But just before he passed into a happy state of drunkenness, a tiny idea began to form.
PART FOURTHE FARM
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Honorable Harold Wright looked like he’d been put together by a blind man. He had the barrel chest of a weight lifter, spindly legs, the styled, snowy-white hair of a movie actor, a bird-beak nose that overshadowed a bushy mustache, and wire-rimmed glasses that covered piercing blue eyes, which routinely saw through the flimsy arguments of unprepared barristers.
Robin and Vanessa Cole had filed a number of pretrial motions in Joseph Lattimore’s case, and it was almost five o’clock when Robin finished arguing several objections to Oregon’s death penalty.
“Thank you, Ms. Lockwood,” the judge said when Robin sat down. “You’ve made your record if you decide to raise your arguments in a federal court, but our supreme court has already ruled against you on these issues, so I’m going to deny this set of motions.”
Judge Wright moved a thick stack of papers to one side and picked up Robin’s last motion.
“Mrs. Cole, you’ve charged Mr. Lattimore in a separate indictment with manslaughter. Am I correct that you are alleging that Mr. Lattimore killed an opponent during an unsanctioned fight, and you want to introduce evidence of the incident in Mr. Lattimore’s trial for the murder of Elizabeth Carasco?”
“Yes, Your Honor. In the video of the fight, Mr. Lattimore is wearing hand wraps. Hand wraps found at the Carasco crime scene had the defendant’s blood on them as well as Mrs. Carasco’s. They also had the blood of Carlos Ortega, Mr. Lattimore’s victim from the fight, on them. We believe that the blood-soaked hand wraps connect the two incidents, and we need to tell the jury about the fight to explain the significance of the hand wraps.”
The judge turned to Robin. “You believe that the fight is a completely separate incident that has no relevance to proving the murder case against Mr. Lattimore.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Robin said.
“You also take the position that if there is
