Obstruction of Justice Page 23

  "The advantage we have is that the burden is on the prosecution. True, it isn’t a heavy burden they carry at this stage. All they have to do is show probable cause that there was a murder, and that Jason was the perpetrator. But they have to build their edifice, and all we have to do is—"

  "Lay one pipe bomb at a weak point," Wish said, his eyes gleaming.

  "Well, I don’t know if I’d put it that way. We can only find the weak points by testing every fact they’re relying on. It’s a matter of hard work. Paul, you’re awfully quiet today. I hope you’re not sulking." This last just slipped out of Nina’s mouth. She had been aware from the moment he slouched into the office of the tension between them. She was still smarting from his crack on the phone, and he was evidently still mad at her.

  Paul said from his corner, "Oh, I’m happy as a clam." Ginger looked back and forth at the two of them, and Nina felt slightly embarrassed.

  "Ginger, now that you’ve looked over the paperwork we had as of Friday, what are your thoughts?" she said quickly.

  "The autopsy report is so half-assed I don’t see how you can cross-examine from it," Ginger said. "What you’d expect from a cow town like this. Good old Doc Clauson. I know him. He has good hands, but he can’t write for shit."

  "Why don’t you explain for all of us Doc Clauson’s conclusion as to the cause of death of Quentin de Beers, and anything else you think is significant about the report," Nina said.

  "Sure. It’s an episode right out of I Love Lucy. Quentin de Beers was the man who wouldn’t die. According to the report, first he was struck with a shovel. This blow didn’t fracture his skull.

  "But—and this was supposedly the second event— Quentin had a problem, a six-millimeter aneurysm located deep in the brain. The conclusion is that the trauma of the blow ruptured the aneurysm. Massive subarachnoid hemorrhaging followed. He died within about twenty minutes.

  "According to Clauson, he could have died en route to Wri ght’s Lake or at the cabin. But there’s a third event—he also was burned in the fire at the cabin. Clauson concludes that the fire didn’t contribute to or cause the death, and I do agree with that.

  "But cause of death is still a weak point in the report. I can’t follow what Clauson’s saying. I want to do some quick research on the aneurysm business. Clauson almost missed the aneurysm altogether due to the massive blood clots he found when he opened up the skull. I’m not satisfied that he has the sequence of events right."

  "What’s an aneurysm?" Wish asked.

  "A dilated blood vessel, often found in the brain," Ginger said. "A little part of the wall of a blood vessel has ballooned out for whatever reason, and the wall stretches and gets thinner and thinner. And one day the wall breaks and blood goes pouring out into the rest of the brain. A burst aneurysm is often fatal."

  "How do you get one in the first place, though?" Wish persisted.

  "Some people are born with a predisposition to developing an aneurysm. About one out of twenty people walk around with an aneurysm their whole life, die of old age, and it’s only found on autopsy. Or a blood vessel may become blocked with atherosclerotic deposits and balloon into an aneurysm. Quentin had advanced atherosclerosis. His heart could have used a triple bypass. From what I gather in this shit report."

  "Okay," Nina said. "So: Issue One. Can we dismantle the autopsy report, show that the death couldn’t have happened the way Doc Clauson says it did? Ginger and I have that one."

  Ginger said, "The other big problem I see in the forensics area is the fingerprints. Let’s call that Issue Two. Clauson has the shovel with prints from our guy on it. Sandy, where’s the lab reports? Blood, blood, hmm. Here we go. Blood on the head of the shovel was Quentin’s blood type. The perp didn’t get hurt, looks like. They’ll have to run a PCR on the blood to definitely link it to the body.

  "The point is, there’s no blood evidence linking Jason. The key is going to be the fingerprint evidence. They have two good prints of what they say is Jason’s right thumb and forefinger on the handle of the shovel. Along with bunches of partials they haven’t identified. I’ll work with my fingerprint consultant in Sacramento on that problem."

  "That doesn’t sound good," Wish said. "The fingerprints on the shovel."

  "It never sounds good at first, Wish," Ginger said. "If it sounded good, the client wouldn’t have been arrested. Get it? Our job is much simpler than theirs. They have to build the case. As to our role, if I may quote Nechaev, the immortal nihilist: ’Our task is terrible, total, universal and pitiless destruction.’ It’s so much easier to destroy than to build, and so much more fun." She turned to Nina. "That’s all I’ve got at the moment."

  "Thanks, Ginger. Paul, you’re in charge of the investigation. What are your thoughts?" Nina said, turning a neutral face to him. Gratefully, she saw that Paul had shaken himself out of his funk. While he talked, she watched the sharp hazel eyes that never missed a thing. It seemed as though she hadn’t really looked at him for a long time. He had a new stubble on his face, which she associated with the new girlfriend. He had taken off his windbreaker and his muscular body looked as if it had been receiving regular workouts.

  Paul said, "I’ve been reading through some of the statements taken by police the next morning. The mother—Sarah de Beers—says Jason didn’t spend the night at home. He was supposedly living in town with a kid named Kenny Munger. Kenny says he spent the night elsewhere and can’t alibi Jason. Wish and I will talk to the mother, the sister, the business associate, Leo whatshisname, and Kenny to start with." A smidgen of enthusiasm had crept into his voice. He seemed to be perking up a little.

  They were all sitting up. Ginger’s nonchalant confidence had a positive impact on them. It seemed inconceivable that she could ever lose a case. And Paul gave them a method to tame the disorder and make it less overwhelming.

  Paul went on: "Which means Issue Three is alibis. Jason’s lack of one, and everybody else’s alibi. Now, I know we’re not supposed to ask the client if he’s guilty. And if he says anything, we pay him no mind. That’s the good old American way. Don’t ask, don’t tell. However, I need to know if I’m supposed to be concentrating on getting this kid off. If you’re planning to plead him out, Nina, get him a manslaughter conviction or something, I need to know that so I can ask the right questions."

  Nina said, "I’m going to tell you what he told me. This is to be kept one hundred percent confidential. Jason denies that he killed his grandfather. I believe him."

  "All right! It’s so much more enjoyable to try to win a case, not just finesse it," Ginger said.

  "But there’s a problem. He won’t tell me anything about his activities from Friday night to Sunday morning."

  "And you still took the case?" Paul said incredulously. "That leaves us nothing to work with!"

  "It leaves us the issues we’ve just gone over. I’ve agreed to take Jason as far as the prelim. After that, if he still won’t talk to me, I’m going to have to get out."

  Nobody spoke for a minute. Then Wish said excitedly, "This is so totally weird."

  "Has he made any statements to the police? His mother? Anybody else?" Paul said.

  Nina said, "Not a word. He handled himself well, Paul. He’s only nineteen, Wish’s age, but he’s quite sophisticated, I think."

  "The police are tearing the countryside apart looking for Quentin’s car," Paul said. "However Jason, I mean the perp, got to the cemetery, he must have driven Quentin’s car up to the cabin, because Quentin’s car is gone. There will be evidence in that car. There will be something to identify the perp."

  "Paul is right. Bodily fluids may have leaked through the blanket into the trunk," Ginger said. "There will be soil from the grave site. In the driver’s seat, on the steering wheel, in the trunk, there will be fibers, hair, fingerprints, something that may identify the driver."

  Nina said, "Why do you think I insisted on having the hearing within ten days? The idea is to rush the police so much, they don’t have time to fin
d the car. Just in case."

  "That’s a cheap tactic," Paul said.

  "If we’re too cheap for you, the door’s right there."

  Sandy had been scribbling notes in her obscure shorthand. She raised her arm and put her hand in a stop sign, saying "Knock it off, you two." She looked back and forth from Paul to Nina. "Well?" she said. "Can I say something now?"

  Nina stopped glaring at Paul, and said, "Please. Go ahead," with elaborate courtesy.

  "Who made the 911 call?" Sandy said.

  A huge, pregnant silence.

  "Out of the mouths of babes ..." Paul said, grinning, his eyebrows going up and down like Groucho Marx’s. The corner of Sandy’s mouth went up very slightly. She kicked his chair, almost knocking him off it.

  "Anytime, big boy," she said. "I’ll be your babe."

  "You know, Sandy, that 911 call had not even crossed my mind. It just goes to show how easy it is to get lost in details," Paul said. "The perp was a woman. It all makes sense. Jason’s protecting someone. His mother or his sister. I’m going to get on that."

  "That’s it, Mom," Wish said. "You solved the case! And Jason’s not guilty!"

  "So what’s the defense?" Paul persisted. "Cherchez la femme?"

  They all looked at Nina. She hoped they weren’t looking through her. "Let’s just do our work," she said. "We don’t have to decide that yet. Let’s just keep in mind that there is a lot we don’t know. He says he didn’t do it. I’m taking those words at face value for now. Remember who we are. We’ve taken on the heavy burden of saving his liberty, maybe his life. We are the only part of the justice system that believes in him. Powerful forces are arrayed against him. We’re all he has."

  "Don’t worry, Nina. We’ll save him," Wish said. Nina saw that he had been moved by her words.

  But Paul, tough ex-cop that he was, just looked out the window, his face carefully blank.

  "Er, Paul," Nina said after the rest of them had left the office, "I need to talk to you so you won’t go off looking in the wrong direction. About the 911 call."

  Paul gave her a quizzical look, and said, "Shoot."

  So she told him everything, because she had to. Everything except the sunglasses.

  20

  TACKED CROOKEDLY TO KENNY MUNGER’S APARTMENT door, a note read Catch you later.

  Wish ignored it, pounding loudly and futilely. "What do we do now?" he asked Paul. Paul’s answer was to sit down on the floor against the door in the only sliver of sunlight piercing the squalid hallway. Wish joined him.

  An hour or so passed. Paul meditated upon many things: the price of gas at Tahoe (high), the glance Nina had shot him that morning (covert), Ginger Hirabayashi’s hair (a dyke ’do if he’d ever seen one), Kim (more four-poster-bed fantasies). Settling restively into the last, he closed his eyes and sank into a light doze.

  Now and then another resident of the building squeezed by them, pushing a stroller or a walker. The rug in the hall was brown; the walls were blue. Kim was squirming.

  "Uh, Paul."

  He tried to ignore the voice. Nina was squirming, and her clothing was awry, revealing—

  "Paul?"

  "What!"

  "You want to play hearts or something?" Wish displayed a pack of cards with a hole punched through the middle, a casino castoff.

  "No!"

  Another epoch went by. Paul’s left foot fell asleep. He opened one eye, warily. Wish, sitting on the opposite side of the hall, was staring unblinkingly at him.

  "What do you think you’re doing?" Paul barked.

  "I’ve been here before," Wish said. "That’s not a problem, right? So please don’t fire me." This brought both of Paul’s eyes into focus.

  "Fire you? What are you talking about?"

  "Well, see, I know Kenny. I know Molly and Jason too. One time I came to Kenny’s apartment. Last year, when we were seniors. But it was just a party. So, you know, I can keep a clear head. Don’t worry about me.

  Paul straightened himself up, pushing the small of his back against the door, saying, "What’re you talking about?"

  "We all went to Kit Carson High together," Wish said. "I didn’t want to say anything, because you might think I’m prejudiced and can’t do my investigative duties."

  "Don’t be an idiot," Paul said. "Why would that matter? If you know these kids, it’s a plus." He studied Wish, whose spidery legs in the pegged pants stretched across the hallway, wondering what in the world Wish had in common with people like Molly and Jason de Beers. "You’re nineteen, too, aren’t you? So you were in the same graduating class at school."

  "So it’s okay?"

  "I just said so, didn’t I?"

  "Yeah, but you sounded mad."

  "I’m not mad!"

  "Then how come you’re yelling?" Wish used the same phlegmatic gaze on Paul that his mother often used on Nina. Was this a special Washoe thing, this you-bug-on-a-pin, me-scientist-cataloging-outlandishcritter attitude? If so, it was no wonder the settlers had tried to wipe them out.

  "Let’s start over."

  "Okay."

  "You know the client?"

  "Jason, Molly, and Kenny. Jason and Molly were in my class in high school all four years."

  "Then I’d like to interview you."

  Without changing his expression, Wish communicated his liking for this idea by saluting and saying, "Fire away, sir."

  "Why didn’t you tell me this before?"

  "Because you might think I was prejudiced."

  "Prejudiced for or against Jason?"

  "Oh, for. Jason is totally a great person."

  "Is he, now? Tell me about your school, Wish."

  While Wish talked, Paul remembered his own high school years, his father dead and his mother trying to hold his family together on the dark side of San Francisco. He had been a poor kid like Wish; and high school seemed still to be the same rude awakening as to what really counts in American society: money to buy the right clothes. Money to take your friends home to a house that will impress them. Money to take girls places. Money for a car.

  Wish, without money, had gotten along by becoming one of those shambling, good-natured guys who hang around the fringes and don’t have any opinions, tolerated because they cultivate the persona of the completely harmless. He’d gone to work at fourteen, opening up a convenience store in town for the owner at six-thirty A.M., and he had never tried for the unreachable rings of popularity and respect. He hung around, always forbearing when the jocks and the social types made the same old stupid jokes about Indians.

  Jason and Molly had been in the same class but as distant from him as the stars. "They always had a crowd around them, their group," he told Paul. "Jason played football. He was a quarterback. He set a state record for passing yardage in his senior year. Everybody thought he would take off for some East Coast college. Molly was always the girl lead in the school play, the head cheerleader, whatever. They both got good grades without even trying. I had to work so hard."

  "Smart people study, Wish. Some just don’t admit it." Paul had known people like Jason. His old friend and climbing buddy Jack, Nina’s ex, used to be a little like that, coming from privilege, making everything look easy. He knew things weren’t always as easy as they looked from the outside. "People must have envied them," Paul said.

  "Some people you might envy," Wish said, "but everybody liked Jason and Molly. They didn’t sink to a level you could envy. They were above it all."

  "Hmm," Paul said again. "And Kenny? How does he fit in?"

  "Nobody talked to Kenny when he started out. He was a junior when he came, I think. He was even lower on the totem pole than me. He played his reggae music and hung out with the losers. Then word got around that Kenny was some kind of genius. He was supposed to have an IQ so high, the school didn’t believe it."

  "And after that? He became more popular?"

  "Oh, no. Being a brain is the kiss of death," Wish said. "That just made him more of an outcast. That was when he started
pretending he was a comedian. Then Jason and Molly both, you know, talked to him, so other people did too. But he’s not funny—that’s the problem. Really, he’s ..."

  "He’s what?"

  "One of those guys who acts stupid but power-trips in the background. He invents stuff; he hacks. He got admitted to Cal Tech, but he didn’t go."

  "Why not?"

  Wish rubbed his fingers together, gave Paul a significant look.

  "No money? He couldn’t get a scholarship?"

  "He got his tuition paid, but what good is that if you can’t afford the dorm fees? His mom doesn’t have any extra money but looks okay on paper. And he can’t work; the program’s too hard, and besides, he’d have trouble being a waiter or something."

  "Why is that?"

  "You’ll see when you meet him."

  "So you went to a party in this apartment last year?"

  "Yeah. Last time I saw Jason and Molly. Right before graduation. Lots of weed and beer. Kenny’d been living on his own most of the year. Since the rest of us still lived with our parents, his place became a party pad, a good place to be bad. Half the senior class came. Kenny had a bunch of dry ice from somewhere, and he kept the drinks smoking in the bedroom. This band played really loud while he shot off some homemade fireworks in the parking lot. That night, Kenny was drunk. He didn’t usually drink, so it hit him hard. He and Molly were hanging with each other."

  "She was his girlfriend?"

  "Oh, no. Not Molly. She’s nobody’s girlfriend. She dated but never stuck with anyone, kind of like Jason. And Kenny’s a loser. You’ll see. But she liked Kenny, I don’t know why. Jason and Molly put up with him— Uh-oh. Speak of the devil."

  Along the hallway limped a little guy built like a barrel on two peg legs, carrying a deli bag. Wish jumped up and went down the hall to meet him, while Paul massaged his foot, which had reached the hideous painful-tickle stage. They came up together, Wish now toting Kenny’s bag. "This is Kenny," he said to Paul.

  "Hi." Paul got up to lean nonchalantly against the door, wishing he could hop around and scream a little.

  "Yo, massa," Kenny Munger said. Short and burly and blond, he wore a sleeveless Santa Cruz T-shirt that hung almost to his knees. Big round shoulders and long arms made a strange contrast to his gnarled legs. He wore a brace on his bad foot. An embroidered Jamaican cap striped with red, yellow, and green covered the top of his head. The heavy head with its big nose looked up at Paul; the eyes, where the dreads didn’t cover them, were bright and sardonic.