Maybe they were talking about Jackson's arrest.
Remembering Duncan's ultimatum, I held off on interrupting them and
decided to add Townsend's visit to the list of things I needed to
discuss with Susan Kerr.
By the time I made it down the hill, into the courthouse, and out of
the locker room shower, I had just enough time to tuck my damp hair
into a clip and walk across the Plaza Blocks to Jackson's
arraignment.
The Plaza Blocks' official designation as a park is a bit of an
overstatement. They're nothing more than two city blocks of grass with
a few trees and some benches. In the mid-1800s, the two blocks
epitomized a quaint vision of city life, providing a forum for citizen
oration and assembly. The south block, Lownsdale Square, was the
gentlemen's gathering place, while women congregated safely in the
north side Chapman Square.
These days, the one thing that distinguishes the Plaza Blocks from some
of the more remarkable downtown parks is their location beneath the
seventh floor of the Justice Center, otherwise known as the Multnomah
County Detention Center. Once word got out that MCDC inmates had a
view of the park, the plaza blocks became home to more than their fair
share of singing, sign holding, and breast flashing.
Although it was just after lunch, it was still pretty early in the day
for your average criminal's loved ones, but one young devotee was
already out. She was probably in her twenties but looked older.
Several years of chain smoking, combined with regular methamphetamine
use, is hell on the skin. She wore skin-tight dark-blue Wrangler
jeans, a thick brown belt with a heavy gold buckle, and patent-leather
stilettos. A spaghetti-strapped red lace camisole revealed a
multicolored tattoo of a large eagle in the cleavage of her impressive
bosom. She was yelling, 'I got this for you, Darryl! It stands for
freedom, baby! Can you see it?' The refined gentlemen of Lownsdale
Square would not have been pleased, but I decided I liked her.
I took the stairs to JC-2, the courtroom for the two o'clock
arraignments. There was a stir when Judge Levinson called for Melvin
Jackson. Given the continuous news coverage on the case, even the
courthouse regulars were curious. Jackson's orange jail uniform was
accompanied by handcuffs and leg shackles. Apparently he hadn't been
on good behavior since his booking.
It showed. His hair was matted, and his eyes were blearier than the
usual first-morning bloodshot. I suspected pepper spray.
Jackson qualified for court-appointed counsel. Because this was an
aggravated murder case, the attorney was sure to be good, a member of
Oregon's capital defense bar.
This afternoon's lucky winner? Graham Szlipkowsky, public defense
veteran and colorful courthouse regular. Graham is probably fifty and
tries cases in corduroys and tennis shoes. With salt-and-pepper hair
cut like a mop and a matching beard, he looks more like a Muppet than
one of the city's most experienced trial attorneys. He told me once
that his mother insisted on the waspy first name to even out his Polish
father's last name. As a result, neither of his names quite suits him,
and everyone calls him Slip instead.
Slip's a straight shooter, perfect for this case. He didn't need the
glory of a high-profile trial and would be smart enough to know the
situation was hopeless. After some unsuccessful motions to suppress
the critical evidence, he'd be looking for a plea to avoid a death
sentence.
The appearance should have been perfunctory. A quick waiver of speedy
trial rights from Jackson, a token request for bail from Slip, and
Judge Marty Levinson would order the defendant remanded until trial.
Any other result at an agg murder arraignment was largely
theoretical.
On the other hand, there's something about me and theoretical
possibilities that seems to click. After the usual brief conference
with his client, Slip asked Levinson for additional time in light of
'some unusual circumstances.' A rookie defense attorney would've been
torn a new one, but Slip had enough earned credibility that the judge
deferred.
Great. For my own satisfaction, I'd walked over for a routine hearing
that was technically the responsibility of the JC-2 DDA. Now that I
knew 'unusual circumstances' had arisen, I had to stay. You don't know
from waiting until you've spent time in a courthouse. Doctors?
Mechanics? The DMV? Forget about it. I settled into a seat at the
front of the galley while the assigned arraignment deputy moved through
more routine matters.
Seven arraignments and forty minutes later, Slip informed the clerk he
was ready to go back on the record in Jackson. I took my place again
at counsel table, called the case, and asked the judge to hold the
defendant without bail.
As expected, Slip contested the request.
'May it please the court, Graham Szlipkowsky for the defendant, Mr.
Jackson. Your honor, my client respectfully requests that the court
consider alternatives to remand without bail. We recognize that the
charge of aggravated murder triggers a presumption of no bail, but it
