some people who held this job in the past were lazy fucks who'd rather
play golf than practice law, I want to make sure we do things right
around here, even if we all have to work our asses off. Including me.
So keep your MCT phone calls, and we'll talk later about how to split
the work if the need should arise. I never said who'd be first chair,
now, did I?'
I said 'fine' but couldn't resist being a little pouty about it.
As I was leaving his office, Frist dropped a closing comment to my
back. 'Besides, Kincaid, from what I hear, MCT's got an inside line to
you in the middle of the night.'
'Yeah, my pager number,' I said, pretending not to recognize his
not-so-subtle allusion to Detective Chuck Forbes. Despite my every
attempt to be discreet, the whole world seemed to know we had something
going on.
'Sorry. That was probably what human resources would call
'inappropriate.' Color me repentant.' He placed his hand dramatically
over his heart. 'Seriously, when you're ready, we'll need to talk
about how you want to handle that. We can keep you off his cases or
not, whatever you think is ... appropriate.'
I knew he was being fair, but inside I cringed. I pride myself on not
letting my personal life interfere with my job. In the two years since
my divorce, I had complied with my self-imposed prohibition against
dating cops and DAs. It's hard enough for a woman barely out of her
twenties to be taken seriously as a prosecutor. If cops and colleagues
start to look at you as dating prey, you're toast.
I headed straight to Alice Gerstein's desk to pick up some of the
weekend custodies. As the senior paralegal in the unit and possibly
the most competent member of the DA's office, Alice had already entered
today's new cases into our internal data system. We only had until two
o'clock this afternoon to present probable cause affidavits to the
court on anyone arrested over the weekend without a warrant, so issuing
custodies was always the first priority of the day.
Alice welcomed me with a fat Redweld file marked mcu screening. I
struggled to hold it in one hand, my coffee in the other. Judging by
its weight, the file held close to thirty cases. 'Could you give me a
few of the regular unit custodies too? You know, so I can use them to
break up the monotony a little?'
Alice was no pushover. 'Sorry. Frist has got me under strict orders.
The newbie doesn't get any real cases until the screens are finished. I
know for sure that at least Luke is absolutely delighted by your
addition to the unit. All last week, he was counting down the days.'
I usually resent it when the all-female staff tries to enforce the
office's rules against me, because it's common knowledge that most of
them let the rules slide with their favorite male attorneys. But Alice
is a soldier in what she sees as the daily war of keeping this place
running, so I sucked it up and headed back to my office with the dregs.
If Luke Grossman had stuck it out, so would I. About an hour later, I
was reading my nineteenth police report, the closest one yet to a major
crime. Alas, it turned out to be another no complaint to be shipped
off to the Domestic Violence Unit. The victim called 911 to report
that he was walking down the street, minding his own business, when a
woman shot an arrow at him from a balcony overhead. That's right, an
arrow. What we call in this business a weapon, triggering major crime
jurisdiction.
Bad news for me, the 911 call turned out to be woefully incomplete. For
example, he left out the fact that the archer was his ex-girlfriend
who, by the way, was on Portland State's archery team and had a
restraining order against her ex. He also forgot to mention that the
weapon to wit, one arrow had a pink rubber Power Puff Girl eraser
popped onto the tip. No wonder the patrol officer's only arrest was of
Newman himself, for violating the restraining order. At the arrestee's
insistence, his complaint was written up, even as he was transported to
and booked at the county detention center.
I scrawled my initials next to a big fat red mcu declined stamp in the
file's log notes and then went ahead and no complain ted the potential
misdemeanor charges as well. No use making someone in DV waste their
time with Newman's whining.
My phone rang just as I was tossing the file into my out box.
'Kincaid.' The butch phone answer is one of the small but very cool
perks of being a prosecutor.
'How you doing there, Kincaid? I was afraid your extension might not
have moved with you.'
I recognized Ray Johnson's voice. How could he be so chipper when he'd
undoubtedly been at the Easterbrook house most of the night?
'Pretty amazing. The county somehow manages to keep all the phones
straight, but I still have to share a copy of the evidence code with
the entire unit. What's up? Don't tell me. Judge Easterbrook turned
up alive and well, rambling about a probe from little green men?'
'Nope. My instinct tells me that's not going to happen, not even that
first part. One good sign, though, is that the husband's schedule
checks out at OHSU. Three back-to-back surgeries. He's accounted for
from seven a.m. to six p.m. No strange behavior.'
'You mean it's a good sign for him.'
'And a good sign for our vie. If the husband didn't do her, she's less
likely to be dead.' The bizarre mathematics of murder in a world where
most violence against women is inflicted by husbands and lovers.
But Johnson wasn't ready to clear Townsend Easterbrook. 'On the other
hand, maybe it happened in the morning, and the guy goes off to work
like it's nothing. Wouldn't be the first time. And, of course, the
alibi's meaningless if he hired someone.
'I also got some preliminary info from the crime lab. They picked up
some unidentified latents around the house, but the one match they got
in AFIS was with the one Walker left on the door knocker. Other than
that, the only thing they've got is on our boy, Griffey. Remember that
gnarly-looking scum the sister found on the dog?'
'Sure, clay or something.' My hopes were up. Cases had been solved
before by the unique composition of dirt left behind at a scene. Or,
in this instance, on a dog.
'Nope, not clay. Paint.'
