Raising Cain (29 page)

King shrugged. “Maybe and maybe not. I really don’t care. None of that information is relevant to the case. We’re going to
try a live defendant, not a dead one. Brown is on trial, not Ruth. What possible relevance does his background have? We know
he was alive, and we know that he’s dead. End of discussion.”

“Under normal circumstances that might be true,” Gardner replied, “but we’re raising a defense that makes it relevant.”

“What defense?” Rollie asked.

Gardner stared at King. “Suicide. Ruth’s records become relevant under that defense. They can be used to establish his state
of mind.”

King looked to Lin Song for help. “We do not have any such records,” she said.

“But if you
did
,” Rollie interjected, “you understand that you might have to turn them over to the defense.”

“The law says that it’s their obligation to release what they have and to
obtain
what they lack,” Gardner declared, “because they have exclusive access to the victim’s personal files.”

“What about that?” Rollie asked. “Are you going to secure Ruth’s records for Mr. Lawson or not?”

King glanced up. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

“You have three days to reply,” Rollie said firmly.

“I understand.” King stood. “Three days to help Lawson with his defense. Can’t do it himself, so
we
have to do it for him. Pathetic.”

Gardner smiled. “I’m going to beat you, Kent.”

King started to answer but bit his lip. A few days ago he was certain they had Brown in the bag. But now he wasn’t so sure.
Being a prosecutor was a lot tougher than he’d imagined.

Jennifer placed her name on the sign-in sheet of the courthouse vault and told the clerk she was there to review some exhibits
from a post-conviction proceeding. But she was acting under false pretenses. The vault contained evidence from criminal cases,
stacked in folders, awaiting appellate action. And it also stored evidence from current cases assigned to special prosecutors.

The attendant released the bolts, drew back the metal door, and switched on the light. Jennifer entered the elongated chamber
and walked to the shelves at the far end. Soon the attendant left, and there was no one else in the iron room.

Jennifer scanned the top shelf and found two new cardboard boxes labeled: “BROWN.” She checked the door and took a box down.
The top was covered with masking tape. Jennifer peeled it back and opened the flap.

There was a plastic bag inside the box, and inside that, a pair of men’s shoes. The tag read: “THOMAS RUTH.” Jennifer examined
them through the transparent covering. Traces of black fingerprinting powder clung to the plastic. She put the shoes down.

Jennifer lifted another bag from the cardboard box. It was a set of police files, marked “SUSPICIOUS DEATH INVESTIGATION—JOSEPH
BROWN, SENIOR.” She flattened the plastic and read the name “Davis” at the bottom of a report. The report itself was a surveillance
log of Ruth sightings. “Daily adherence to schedule,” the officer had noted.

Jennifer moved on to the next exhibit, the autopsy file of “Joseph Brown, Sr.” She caught a glimpse of a photo of Joseph on
the slab, and covered it with her hand. Below that was a supplemental report by Davis. She speed-read to the bottom line:
“After thorough investigation it has been concluded that there is insufficient evidence of foul play to warrant further action.
Pursuant to the medical examiner’s finding and the lack of forensic proof to the contrary, the death of Joseph Brown, Sr.,
is hereby ruled to be: by natural cause.” There was a notation stamped below the conclusion: “Case closed.” And under that,
Brownie had written in red ink: “Bullshit.”

Jennifer shut the file and removed another plastic bag from the box. It was inscribed: “PERSONAL PAPERS AND PHOTOGRAPHS.”
She peeled off the tape and dumped out the contents: letters, notes, lists, and old photos.

Jennifer picked up one of the notes. “TO DO LIST” was written at the top. Typical Brownie, so organized, Jennifer mused. She
then dropped her eyes to the single entry below. “Execute,” was all it said. Jennifer shuddered, and let the note slip from
her fingers.

She moved on to the photos. They were high school shots of a younger and thinner Brownie. At the bottom of the pile was a
picture of a teen-age Brownie and a lookalike, arm-in-arm. She turned to the back of the picture. “P. & J.” was inscribed
at the top.

Jennifer returned to the box and lifted the single remaining plastic bag. It contained a rap sheet: a certified criminal record.
The requesting authority was: “Brown, Sgt.Joe,” and the record was listed as: “BROWN, PAUL.”

Jennifer began to remove the rap sheet from the plastic when the sound of voices entered the vault. She slipped the bag into
the box and piled the other exhibits on top of it. In a second, everything was back in its proper position. Jennifer moved
away from the shelf. The security man poked his head into the door. “Find what you were looking for?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jennifer replied on the way out.

She ran down the corridor and out into the squall. The wind was driving the chilly rain against the granite building. Raising
her collar, she sprinted for the car.

Brownie’s insistence on suicide had been a tip-off. He was refusing to call it murder anymore, and he was even willing to
be convicted. For Brownie, that had to mean one thing: he was covering for someone. Jennifer leaped into her car and shut
the door.

Brownie knew who killed Thomas Ruth and was protecting him. And now Jennifer had a clue as to who it was.

Jennifer looked at the clock. It was eight P.M., and Gardner had not returned to the town house. The autumn squall had settled
in the valley, and the wind was rattling the windows and whining in the vestibule. Tightening the cord on her bathrobe, she
adjusted the thermostat and then sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

An hour later Gardner dragged himself through the back door. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes as red as his wind-burned
cheeks.

“Gard,” Jennifer exclaimed. “I was worried.”

He dropped an armful of files on the table. “Sorry, Jen. I tried to call, but the storm must have knocked down a line.”

Jennifer checked the wall phone. There was no dial tone. “It’s out,” she said, putting her arms around him.

He tried to give her the customary peck, but she clutched him tightly and prolonged the kiss. Gardner relaxed against her.
Finally he broke the kiss off and leaned back so he could focus on her face. “What was
that
all about?”

She held him around the waist. “Told you I was worried.”

Gardner smiled. “I’m okay.” He removed his overcoat and hung it on the peg.

“So how did the meeting go?”

Gardner sat down. “I dropped the bomb.”

Jennifer sat next to him. “What was King’s reaction?”

“He played it cool, but I could tell it stung him.”

“What did you do later?”

“Research and phone calls, trying to line up an expert witness to help out with the defense.”

“Any luck?”

“I got some leads on a guy we might want to use. His name is Dr. Julius Sand.”

“So you’re firm on the suicide defense?”

“Yes.”

“
I
think it’s a mistake.”

Gardner shivered. “I got that impression this morning.”

Jennifer retrieved a quilt from the hall couch and put it across his shoulders. “We
know
it wasn’t suicide. How can we present a defense we don’t believe in?”

“I don’t think we have a choice. You said it yourself. We either accept it or get out of the case. There’s no wiggle room.”

“We have to get a complete profile on Ruth to make it work,” Jennifer said. “What did King say about the files?”

“Claims he doesn’t have them.”

“Then we have to make a good-faith effort to obtain them on our own, before the court will order him to comply.”

“That’s going to be the hard part.”

“What do you mean?”

“
Nobody
at CAIN wants to talk. I called the new honcho, Fairborne, several times this afternoon. He won’t take my calls, and he won’t
call me back. We need his cooperation.”

They lapsed into silence. Jennifer wanted to tell Gardner what she’d learned in the vault, but held back. It was only supposition,
and she needed more proof before she broke the news. “How firm is the suicide defense?” she finally asked. “Do we have a backup
position to go to?”

“At the present, no. Brownie has made
that
impossible.”

Jennifer touched his arm. “So what would happen if a new defense presented itself? Would you be amenable?”

“What are you up to, Jen?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t BS me. You’re scheming. What are you working on?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“This is dangerous territory, Jen. We can’t play both sides. We made a commitment to go with suicide and we have to stick
with it. We can’t jump and switch every five minutes. That’s what being a defense attorney is all about.”

“How would
you
know?”

Gardner adjusted the quilt around his neck. “I’m
learning
. As prosecutors we were trained to always seek the truth. But we don’t have to do that anymore. We have to please our client.
And he wants us to go the other way.”

“
Away
from the truth. Do you think you can do it? Ignore the truth?”

Gardner closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “I’m going to
try
, and so are
you
.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

Jennifer stood up, moved behind him, and kissed the top of Gardner’s head. “Do you think it might be possible for a couple
of defense lawyers to make love?”

“That might be arranged.”

“Sure you’re not too tired?”

Gardner rose, and holding each other in a loose embrace, they climbed the stairs together.

Kent King and Lin Song were barricaded in King’s law office library, a legal fortress lined with books and computer terminals.
“I warned you about this,” Lin said. “It makes sense. They blast holes in our case and drive the suicide theory through.”

King turned from his monitor. “There are no
holes
in our case, Lin. Get that through your head. The evidence is overwhelming. No jury would ever buy the self-electrocution
theory. This is a disclosure problem. Lawson is on a fishing expedition, hoping to find a smoking gun. It’s up to us to see
that he doesn’t. It’s that simple. What have you come up with on the medical records issue?”

Lin pushed a book aside and laid out her pad. “Rollie was right. If we have such records in our possession and the suicide
defense is raised, we are obligated to turn them over.”

“What if we have them and
don’t
comply?”

Lin checked her citations. “That would be a violation of the discovery rules.”

“For which there are
no
sanctions.”

Lin pulled a photocopy out of her file. “Most of the time, no. But in this situation, there could be a problem.
Fanner
here says that dismissal of the case would be appropriate if the state knowingly refuses to turn over relevant psychological
evidence.”

King grabbed the copy. “Was that a suicide defense?”

“No. It was an insanity plea on a felony, but the principle is the same.”

King tossed the paper back. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have the records anyway.”

“That brings us to the next point. What is the state’s obligation to obtain information not in their possession?”

“I say
none
,” King replied.

“Again, you’re right… up to a point.”

“None is none. That’s
it
.”

“The question turns on access,” Lin continued. “Lawson claims that only we have access to the records in question, that he
is not in a position to obtain them himself.”

“So?”

“So the law says that if access is denied to one party and the information sought is necessary and relevant to the defense,
there may be an obligation to produce it.”

“
May
,” King said. “That’s our escape valve.”

“The defense has to make a good-faith effort to obtain the information themselves, and then, if they fail, they can apply
to the court for an order requiring the state to get it for them.”

King smiled. “So we don’t have to do anything out of the gate.”

“Not now, no. We can submit a memorandum to Rollie spelling it out, but by doing so we acknowledge that it’s our responsibility.
We can’t say no if Lawson comes back empty-handed. Then we have to make an attempt to get them.”

King frowned. He hated to concede anything to Lawson. “Any other options?” he asked.

Lin shook her head. “No.”

“So the bottom line is that
we
determine whether or not the records exist. If we find that they
do
, we have to turn them over, but if we find that they
don’t
, then the issue is moot. Lawson is out of luck, and we’re back on track.” King picked up his telephone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Frank Davis. He’s the CAIN expert. He should know if Ruth had a medical file.”

“And if Ruth did?”

King cupped the phone. “Frank will just have to lose it.”

“Please,” Gardner asked. “Let me talk to someone.” He was at the gate to the quarry where a new sign and a reinforced fence
had been erected. KEEP OUT, the painted letters warned as an armed guard patrolled to be sure that visitors understood.

“Sorry,” the guard said through the wire. “Mr. Fairborne does not wish to talk with you.”

Gardner looked past the guard toward the buildings that lay at the far end of the road. There was smoke drifting skyward from
a chimney, and a couple of vehicles. “I don’t have to speak to Fairborne. Anyone else who saw Thomas Ruth the day he died
would be fine.”

The guard was in his early twenties, short-haired and blue-eyed. “Can’t do it. No one can discuss the case unless they get
summoned to court.”

“Says who?”