Matters of Doubt (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

A TriMet bus had just dropped off a group of passengers in front of the Columbia River Correctional Institution as I was parking on Sunderland Avenue. It was around 6:30 that evening, and I was on my way to meet with Picasso and his friend Joey at Dignity Village, which was next door to the prison. A man and woman in crisp blue uniforms peeled off from the group and headed for the prison. The rest made for the entrance to the village, located on a flat, treeless chunk of unused city property. I clipped Archie on his leash and fell in behind them.

A woman missing her leg below the knee swung adroitly on a pair of crutches. A short man with tangled, shoulder-length hair held hands with a tall, angular woman carrying a black puppy. Another man in a stained sweatshirt carried a sign on which was scrawled “I'm homeless and need work.” They ignored the distant thunder of a 747 taking off at PDX across a wide, empty field from the village. The jet lifting off seemed to accentuate the isolation of the place, and I wondered if the people walking in front of me yearned to be on that plane. People who fly, after all, have jobs, homes, and important destinations.

Picasso and Joey were sitting in front of Picasso's place on a pair of rickety folding chairs. Joey had a plastic bottle of water in his hand and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His full beard looked matted and unkempt, his forearms even bigger than I remembered them. I thought of Popeye. As I approached, Picasso flashed a rare smile, turned to Joey and said, “See? I told you he'd show.”

Joey flicked me a half salute, and they both stood up. Archie went up to Picasso for a head pat, then turned to Joey. He dropped to one knee, said, “Hey, buddy,” and gave Arch a bear hug.

I laughed. “He doesn't let just anybody hug him like that. You just made a friend.”

Joey said, “He reminds me of a Bernese I had once. Best dog I ever had.”

I turned to Picasso. “Lots of construction going on around here.”

“Yeah,” Picasso responded, “Part of the deal with the city is that all these structures in here have to be brought up to code.” He put quotes around the word “code” with his fingers. “It's a giant pain in the ass.”

“The Man will have his way,” Joey chimed in.

“Are you two within code?”

Picasso tugged on his eyebrow ring a couple of times. It was back in place. “I'm okay, I think. My roof leaks, but that's allowed.”

Joey laughed. “My place leaks, too, man. I just ran out of duct tape.”

I chuckled and set my briefcase down. “Do you have another chair? We can work out here until it gets dark.”

I knew Joey had fought in the battle of Fallujah, the bloodiest single battle of the Iraq war. It was intense, often hand to hand combat in the narrow streets of an ancient city. I had him take me back through his experiences while I asked questions and took notes. When he finished, I said, “What you've told me so far is good background, but I could have read about it online. I'm more interested in what happened to you
personally
, Joey. What caused your PTSD? The VA terms it the “stressor,” the event that triggered your symptoms. You must have gone through a lot. Is there any one event that stands out?”

Joey combed at his beard with his fingers and shifted in his seat. His eyes were recessed below the thick bone of his forehead like lights in a cave. “It all sucked, man. They told us the civilians had fled, but that wasn't the case. People were caught in the crossfire. Shit, we didn't know the insurgents from the civilians. It was a cluster fuck.”

I shook my head. “It must have been brutal.”

He smiled ruefully, took a deep drag on his cigarette and didn't respond.

“What stood out, Joey?”

He exhaled the smoke slowly through his nose as he twisted a lock of his beard between his thumb and forefinger. “We were in the Julan district, trying to take this big, honking mosque the insurgents were holed up in. They loved the mosques, man. They were built like brick shithouses. Anyway, I see this woman in a doorway. She's waving her hand. Then I see this kid across the street. Couldn't have been more than twelve. He makes a run for his mother. I think he's gonna make it, but somebody pops him half way across.”

Picasso and I gasped in unison. Picasso said, “He got shot?”

“Yeah. Some trigger-happy marine. The dumb fuck.”

Joey tapped the long ash from his cigarette, took another drag and exhaled. “The kid was flailing around out there and crying. I put my weapon down and ran out in the street and scooped him up. By the time I got him back to our position, he'd lost a lot of blood and gone limp. I went ape shit, man, screaming at the medic to save the kid.” He flicked the cigarette, and it landed with a shower of sparks in the gathering twilight. In a barely audible voice, he added, “He didn't make it.”

The three of us sat there for a long time without speaking. I broke the silence after jotting down a few lines. “What happened next?”

Joey put his head in his big hands and without looking up, said, “That's the thing, man. After we took that block, the mother came looking for her son. She finds him under a bloody tarp. I go over to her to try to say something, you know, to console her. She turns around and screams something in Arabic, then she slaps me hard, and starts going for my eyes with her fingernails. By the time I got her off me, we're both crying.”

Another long silence. Finally, I asked, “How did you feel after that?”

“Okay for a while, then I started dreaming about the kid. I—”

Joey stopped speaking at the sound of several people approaching on the path from the main gate of the village. Archie, who was lying between Picasso and Joey, stood up and made a low, guttural sound. The three of us looked around. Lieutenant Scott and Detective Jones came striding into view out of the low light. Four uniformed officers followed them. I stood up, and Joey and Picasso followed. I said, “Evening, gentlemen,” but got no response.

Scott's face was tight, his mouth a thin line. Jones had an I-told-you-so look on his face. I felt an urge to slap him. They stopped in front of Picasso. Scott said, “Daniel Baxter, you're under arrest for the murder of Mitchell Conyers,” then proceeded to read him his rights.

Picasso managed a defiant smile, but even in the low light I could see the fear in his eyes. Jones cuffed his hands behind his back and they started to lead him away. Suddenly Joey appeared in the path. I hadn't noticed he'd slipped away in all the commotion. His bear-like bulk blocked the path completely, and he was holding a large, chrome plated revolver in his right hand. It was pointing toward the ground. Speaking in a level, almost casual voice, he said, “Let my friend go. He didn't kill anybody.”

All six cops drew their service weapons in unison. Scott said, “Drop the gun right now, son, and step back.”

There was a long pause. I could hear the crickets in the field behind us and the soft murmur of voices in the village. Joey's hand started to move up and Picasso broke from the group and ran toward him screaming, “NO, JOEY, NO!”

I lunged at Picasso, missed him and yelled to everyone with a gun, “NO! DON'T SHOO—”

The shots shredded the stillness of the evening in a staccato pattern that's still etched on my brain—
Bam bam, bam bam bam, bam bam, bam.
I got to them first. Picasso was sprawled on top of Joey, who was face down in the path. I kicked Joey's revolver away from his outstretched hand and rolled Picasso off of him. Picasso's face had gone white, and it was contorted with pain. Blood was spurting from a wound just above his elbow at a frightening rate. “He's bleeding to death,” I yelled.

Scott was right behind me. “Pressure point's just below his armpit. Get on it,” he hissed to me as he rolled Joey over to assess his condition. A moment later I heard him say under his breath, “Oh, mother of Christ.”

I couldn't get a decent grip on Picasso's arm because it was pulled tight against his body by the handcuffs. Scott was still working on Joey. I turned to Jones, who was standing there, gun in hand, eyes wide with disbelief. “Get the damn cuffs off him,” I barked. “I can't get to the pressure point.” Picasso moaned, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped backward in my arms. Jones slid on one knee and unlocked the handcuffs. I fumbled around frantically for what seemed an eternity before the blood loss slowed. I kept Picasso's artery clamped against his arm bone until a paramedics team arrived from Emanuel Legacy.

I wanted to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but I was a material witness to a double shooting and knew I wasn't going anywhere. The last image I remember of Picasso that night was his head lolling from side to side as they slid him into the ambulance, a uniformed policeman scrambling in behind him. Joey's bullet-riddled, lifeless body remained at the scene—exhibit A.

The rest of that night at the village was a blur of questions and confusion. It wasn't long after they'd taken Picasso away that I realized Archie was missing. I became frantic with worry—thunder and fireworks make him crazy—but they weren't about to cut me loose so I could look for him. I told myself he'd settle down and find his way back to me. I must have told my version of the shootings at least three times. After giving their statements, Scott, Jones, and the four uniforms were whisked from the scene. As Scott was leaving, I managed to corner him for a few moments. “What the hell triggered the arrest?”

He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and kept them averted. In the glare of the klieg lights he looked haggard, older. “We found the murder weapon. It was a big honking screwdriver, and it had your boy's bloody prints all over it. He did the deed, Claxton.” Then he added, “I'm sorry about tonight. We did what we had to do.”

I didn't speak. He was asking for my understanding, but I couldn't give it to him. I knew he was right, but every fiber in my body was repulsed by the brutality of what I'd just witnessed. Next to the singular horror of that act, the question of justification seemed silly, irrelevant.

When they finally released me that night, I combed the village for Archie. I was really beginning to worry when I heard someone say from behind me, “Hey, mister, this your dog?” I turned around and there he was, standing next to the woman I'd seen on crutches, wagging his stump of a tail. She said, “All those gun shots scared him, I could tell. He's been hanging out with us. He's mellow now.”

Archie's ears were down, and he whimpered softly as I kneeled and pulled him in for a hug. I thanked her, clipped his leash on, and headed for the car. Arch jumped into the back seat, lay down, and put his nose between his paws. I got in, and that's when the emotional shock hit me. I sat there in the darkened car. My ears still rang from the gunshots, and the acrid smell of gunpowder lingered in my nostrils. Picasso's blood stained my clothing, my shoes, and my skin. I was all business and efficiency back there, but now I started to shake, the tremors starting in my gut and rippling up through my chest. They seemed to carry the energy from my body, and when I stopped shaking I felt exhausted. Then my eyes filled, and I wept silently. I wept for Joey and for Picasso. I wept for all the desperate, cornered people in this city. And to my surprise, I wept for cops like Scott and Jones, the people we call on when our frayed safety net unravels.

Chapter Twenty-six

“How is he?” Anna asked, rushing into the waiting room at Emanuel Legacy. I'd called her just before leaving Dignity Village for the hospital and told her to meet me there. The waiting room was brightly lit, too bright, and deserted except for a young couple huddled in a corner, speaking Spanish in hushed tones.

“I don't know,” I answered. “They won't tell me a damn thing.”

“Hold on. I know an ER doc here. I'll see if he's working tonight.” She headed for the entry to the emergency room suite.

I sat back down, then got back up. My mind ricocheted between fear about Picasso's wound and the apparent discovery of the weapon used to kill Mitchell Conyers. I got a drink at the water fountain, picked out a six-month-old
Sports Illustrated
from a stack of magazines, and sat back down again. I tossed the magazine aside before even opening it and scratched my head with both hands. The shooting kept playing over and over again in my mind—Joey crumpling face-first in front of me, Picasso falling on top of him. That smug look on Jones' face before the arrest kept coming back, too. I wanted to prove him wrong in the worst way, but like a trickle of oil into a clear pool, doubt had begun to cloud my thoughts. No judgments, I told myself. Wait till you speak to Picasso.

Anna returned ten minutes later looking grim-faced. “The bullet shattered his right humerus and cut his brachial artery,” she said. “He's in emergency surgery. They're trying to save his arm.”

I sucked a breath involuntarily at the last words. “What are his chances?”

“Fifty-fifty. It's a hideous wound. All bullet wounds are.” She eyed my bloodstained clothes. “Who got to his pressure point?”

I dropped my eyes because I couldn't shake a feeling of guilt for reasons I couldn't fathom. “I did, but it took me a long time to find it.”

“That saved his life.”

“What do we do now?”

“Wait. My friend said he'd update me when Picasso's out of surgery.”

We sat down on a couch, and the next thing I knew a cell phone was buzzing some classical music riff. I opened my eyes and realized my head was leaning on Anna's shoulder. I sat up and glanced at my watch as she answered her phone. I'd been out for over an hour. It turned out to be one of Anna's nurses, who called to say she was going to be late in the morning. We wandered over to the cafeteria and got coffee. She asked me a lot of questions about Picasso's new legal reality, and I had very few answers. Truth was, his legal prospects were terrible, but I wasn't about to tell Anna that, nor did I admit to the seed of doubt that had sprouted in my mind.

A second call came in at a little past 1:00 a.m. After several “uh huhs” and “I sees,” Anna said, “Thank you, Shawn,” snapped the lid of her phone shut and turned to me. “He's out of surgery. He's got a steel bar and eight screws holding his arm together now. It went okay, but he's not out of the woods. He'll probably need more surgery before this is over.”

“Can we see him?”

“No. He's in recovery now, under armed guard. We might as well go home, Cal.”

I walked Anna to her car and watched her drive away. When I got back to Caffeine Central, I was surprised to see her Volvo parked in front. She rolled down her window as I approached and gave me a sheepish smile. “I was thinking maybe you could use some company tonight.”

I said, “I only have one bed.”

“That won't be a problem.”

We made love that night with an urgency that surprised us both, I think. Afterwards, Anna sat up, pulled a sheet over her breasts, expelled a long breath and said, “God, that was good. Where have you been all my life?”

I sat up next to her and chuckled. “Likewise, I'm sure.”

She took my hand in both of hers, pulled it to her mouth and kissed it. Then she sighed deeply. “God, I feel guilty now. The world's so damn conflicted, you know? People suffering at the same time that people are immeasurably happy. I don't get it. Never have.”

I turned, kissed her eyes, and placed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Don't spoil it, Anna. Happiness is rare. Take it when it comes.”

She was gone the next morning before I got out of bed. I called the hospital and was told Picasso was in guarded condition and that visitors were not allowed. I wanted to do something about Joey—like call his family—but I didn't have any information. I decided to wait on that until I talked to Picasso. I leashed up Archie, and we took a long run along the river while I tried to decide what to do next. It was cold that morning with angry gray clouds clumping to the north like wet cotton.

One thing was clear—now that Picasso was arrested, I could no longer represent him. I knew an attorney who might be willing to step in, but money would be an issue. Would he take the case for the publicity? After all, it was going to be a blockbuster when it came to trial. I didn't feel much urgency on this since Picasso wouldn't be arraigned until he was out of the hospital, and I knew Scott and Jones would be placed on administrative leave until the shooting was thoroughly investigated. Portland had had several controversial police shootings in the last couple of years, and I was sure City Hall would be anxious to prove that Joey's was a righteous kill.

Despite the grungy weather, the river walk was jammed with energetic Portlanders. Arch and I threaded our way through long boarders, spandex-clad bikers, and other joggers. What the hell should I do now, I asked myself? I felt stretched between two murders eight years apart with no solid connection between the two. Hired to find Nicole Baxter's murderer, I liked Hugo Weiman for the crime. But without Maria Escobar's cooperation, my case was as leaky as a fishnet.

I'd been sucked into the vortex of Mitch Conyers' killing. Thanks to Bambi, I knew Conyers was blackmailing someone. Who, and for what? My best guess was it had to do with Nicole Baxter's exposé. It was a potential connection between the two crimes, and it had vanished along with her eight years ago.

There was the shock jock, Larry Vincent. Was he Baxter's target? Had Cynthia Duncan dug up anything on that creep yet, I wondered? There was also the fight between Conyers and his stepbrother, Seth Foster, that Bambi told me about. Jessica Armandy had to know about this and probably other things, as well. But she wasn't about to talk to me.

By the time Arch and I turned around at John's Landing, my head felt ready to explode. There was another option, of course—one that had worked its way out of a dark corner in the back of my mind. Simply go home. Cut my losses. After all, I was no longer Picasso's attorney, and this so-called case was costing me money I didn't have. The thought had a certain appeal, but I set it aside, at least for the time being.

I called Central Precinct when I got back to the apartment. Neither Scott nor Jones was available. No surprise there. I wound up with the precinct chief who grudgingly agreed I could see Picasso the next day at ten, provided the hospital cleared it. My voice mail was jammed with calls from reporters asking for statements and interviews. I listened to a few of the messages, then deleted the whole lot. At 9:00, I switched on Larry Vincent, that gun-toting, God-fearing defender of the common man.

He got right to it. “Good morning Portland. I have an exclusive for you today. Last night, Portland's finest stood tall. Six police officers were dispatched to that great bastion of the unwashed, Dignity Village, to arrest Daniel Baxter, better known as Snake Boy. Snake Boy, you will recall, is the prime suspect in the murder of Mitchell Conyers. During the arrest, Snake Boy along with his dirtbag buddy, also a resident of the village, started a gunfight. I'm happy to report they were both cut down in a hail of gunfire. The accomplice is dead, and Baxter's in the hospital. We thank God that none of the officers was injur—” I switched the radio off. Compared to Vincent's voice, fingernails on a blackboard would sound like Mozart.

I called the attorney I had in mind for Picasso and left a message for him to call me, then spent the next two hours trying to do some work—the kind that actually brings money in.

At eleven thirty, I walked over to the
Zenith
headquarters on Ash Street. I blew by the receptionist like I knew what I was doing and found my way back to Cynthia Duncan's office. She looked up from her laptop. “My God, Cal. I just heard about Daniel. Is he alright?” Her eyes dominated her face—big, luminous saucers full of worry and concern.

“He's alive, but his right arm's severely injured. It was touch and go last night, but it looks like he'll be okay.”

“Thank God.” She noticed the bandage on my ear. “Were you injured, too?”

“No. I banged my ear up, is all. Come on, I'll tell you about what happened last night over lunch. I'm buying.” This girl needed some nourishment.

She took me to a little joint on Third called the Bijou
,
the kind of place you know is good from the friendly buzz of the crowd and the delicious food smells. I ordered the roast beef hash, and Cynthia asked for a side salad. Out of frustration, I said, “Don't you ever eat?” Which, of course, was a big mistake even though I said it with a smile.

She shot me a withering look. “The salads here are
very
filling. You know, Americans eat way too much. It's a national epidemic.”

I nodded agreement and began describing last night's events. When I got to the bloody screwdriver with Picasso's prints on it, Cynthia shrugged and said, “I figured Daniel might have done it. That son of a bitch Conyers had it coming, believe me. You're going to get Daniel off, right?” For her, it seemed, the question of guilt or innocence was irrelevant. If Picasso had done it, then he had done society a big favor.

Her comments did nothing to assuage the doubt that had sprung up in my mind, but I kept my mouth shut. I asked her about Larry Vincent. She took a small bite, dabbed her mouth with a napkin and pushed her half-eaten salad away. “Oh, you mean the guy who's given a whole new meaning to the term scumbag?

I smiled and nodded. “I guess so.”

“Well, I'm glad you didn't bring this up until I'd finished eating. I was stymied until a source of mine in the legal community tipped me off about a disgruntled paralegal. Turns out she was fired by the attorney who handled the thing for Vincent.”

“Who's the attorney?”

“Alan Prescott, you know, of Prescott, Brady, and Brown.”

I nodded. I knew Prescott by reputation. A “go-along to get-along” type who handled a lot of old-money clients in and around Portland.

“Anyway, she gave me a sense of what happened. Even she didn't know that much. The Vincent family used a thirteen-year old to babysit the kids occasionally. The girl was brilliant, beautiful, and physically mature beyond her years. Larry Vincent becomes a kind of mentor for the girl, whose family life is in disarray, and you guessed it, he begins to have sex with her. This lasts four or five
years
until the girl's mother finds out. Enter Prescott. A deal is struck, which pays off the mother, pays the girl a monthly sum, and covers her college expenses. In exchange, mother and daughter agree not to press charges and to maintain strict confidentiality.”

“Mom agrees so her daughter won't get dragged through the courts.”

“That's a charitable view. If it had been my daughter I would have cut off Vincent's balls with a razor.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a shotgun.” We had a head-shaking laugh before I added, “Your source didn't give you a name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“How do you know she's telling the truth?”

“She told me she did some of the legal research for the case and typed up parts of the agreement. I believe her.”

I laid my fork across my plate and leaned back. “Losing your reputation, public humiliation and condemnation, loss of your livelihood—pretty good motives for murder, I'd say.”

Cynthia eyes grew wet, and her jaws flexed as if she were grinding her teeth. She'd have used that razor, for sure. “So, you're saying Vincent killed Nicky to silence her, then maybe he killed Conyers, too, because Conyers was blackmailing him all these years?”

“If Nicole really had him in her crosshairs, I'd say you could be right. Trouble is, I don't have a damn thing to connect him to either one of them except an entry in Nicole's planner for a meeting the week after she disappeared.”

Cynthia dabbed at her eyes, looked down at the mascara on her napkin and swore, reminding me of Bambi. Then she looked up at me and nodded. “So what else can I do, Cal?”

“You've already done a lot. It would be nice to know the name of the girl Vincent molested.”

“Don't worry. I'm on it. I'm going to expose that bastard. If you nail him on a murder charge, that's frosting on the cake.”

“Look, Cynthia, I don't need to tell you this could get dangerous. Who knows what you're up to besides your source?”

“Just my boss.”

“Good. Be careful who you talk to, and keep me in the loop. I'll do the same.”

I walked Cynthia back to her building, then headed for Caffeine Central. I should have felt good about the meeting, but versus the overwhelming case against Picasso, trying to implicate Vincent for either killing looked like a steep climb—Everest, maybe. Would the view be worth the climb? I wasn't sure.