The Death Factory (7 page)

While Jack stares at me, waiting, I let my eyes track a quarter-mile-long string of barges moving downstream far below us. The burnt-orange containers are riding low in the water, and the rumble of the massive engines of the tugboat pushing them is but a hum from this height. Yet that steady hum enters into me like a tranquilizer, and I feel my mind coming unmoored from the present again.

“Penn . . . ?” Jack prompts.

“Sorry. I was going crazy just waiting, so I took that chance to call Joe Cantor. I’ll give Joe credit: he didn’t try to avoid me. We met in a quiet restaurant near my house, one we used to use during murder trials. The owner gave us a private table in the back. Joe told me it was good to see me, and he meant it. We’d tried some major cases together and put some very bad guys behind bars. It was sort of like two old soldiers meeting years after a war. He asked about Sarah, and I soft-pedaled that. I didn’t want to get into it.”

“What kind of guy is Cantor?”

“Unique. He’s half Jewish, but nonpracticing and fully assimilated. About the only thing Jewish about Joe Cantor is his Old Testament sense of justice. He’s not a big guy, but he’s a Texan down to his boots and bones. He looks like Rod Serling. Black hair, iron jaw, and as steely a pair of eyes as you ever saw. He never had much accent, either, which was surprising. His paternal grandfather was a Texas Ranger, and the other was a lawyer who became a judge up in Abilene. Joe himself served two tours in Vietnam before going to Rice and majoring in history. He was decorated for bravery.”

“I guess he came by his legal philosophy honestly.”

“He doesn’t mince words about it, either. He’ll tell you he doesn’t know whether the death penalty’s a deterrent or not, and he doesn’t care. He sees capital punishment as legal retribution by society.”

“Got it. So how’d he take your bad news?”

The memory of that meeting is burned into my cerebral cortex—not merely the words, but the unsettling feeling of seeing the face of one of my heroes revealed to be a mask of sorts. “Not well.”

I remember sliding into the chair in the little private room, watching those eyes I had always seen as the personification of tough-but-fair. Joe started with small talk, some office gossip, and I sat listening to that voice the reporters loved, the one that never dodged a question, that fired off million-dollar quotes faster than you could scribble them down. The voice that even defense lawyers trusted. I was listening the way I listened to witnesses, alert to the slightest emotional dissonance, the faintest tell.

“What put a burr under your saddle over this Avila business?” he asked suddenly.

“I know the family,” I said. “That Conley kid raped Mirabel Avila, and Gaines pled it down because it didn’t look like a slam dunk.” Cantor didn’t look surprised, so I gave it to him straight: “You’ve got problems at the crime lab, Joe. Real problems. Daman Kirmani’s an asshole. I don’t think he’s even qualified to be doing the science he’s doing.”

“Are you qualified to make that judgment?” Joe asked gently. “Dr. K has a Ph.D., for God’s sake.”

“Not in chemistry. And he had no forensic experience when he was hired for that job. If I’d known that when I worked in the office, I’d have been screaming about it back then. When was the last time you went over there?”

“The HPD crime lab? Hell . . . it’s been a good while. Years.”

“Take my advice: pay them a visit. An unannounced visit.”

Joe looked wary. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I went up there last night, and it’s a mess. Rainwater is leaking through the roof, contaminating samples. I saw blood on the floor. Open samples, overheating, you name it. Flagrant violation of standard procedures for preserving the integrity of evidence.”

Cantor was clearly perturbed, but he held himself in check. “You went to the crime lab last night? How the hell did you do that?”

“Is that really the issue here, Joe?”

“It might be. Penn, you resigned from my office. You’re no longer part of my staff, and you have no right to be in that crime lab.”

I felt my face getting hot. “Who gives a shit? Wes Conley’s semen is on that carpet. Dr. Kirmani fucked up. That’s a scientific fact, like it or not.”

“What makes you say that? The kid has a solid alibi, and the cops never found any trace of the perp’s Sony camera or the photo he shot. If Conley had taken that picture, he’d keep it close, so he could use it to whack off.”

I thought about Felix Vargas, who was probably swallowing Valium by the handful in the crime lab restroom. “My word isn’t enough anymore, Joe? I tell you what I just did about your crime lab, and this is your response?”

“It’s not my crime lab. That’s HPD, and you know they’re always stretched for resources over there. If they have problems, they’ll be fixed in due course.”

“No, they won’t. Kirmani has set up a fiefdom that operates on the Peter Principle. Everybody rises to his or her level of incompetence. Obvious problems are being ignored, and cases are being tried on their findings. The Avila plea is a perfect example of that negligence!”

“Negligence is a pretty strong word, Penn. I need more than unsupported accusations.”

I told him about Dr. Kirmani failing to chemically test the carpet. Then I continued, being careful with my pronouns. “A tech in that lab saw Kirmani’s mistake and couldn’t live with it. They confronted Kirmani and got threatened with termination. This person knew that would be the likely response, but they did it anyway. The case meant that much. When that failed, and Mitch refused to do anything, the tech came to me.”

Joe smiled, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of goodwill and regret. “To Penn Cage, the white knight.”

“Hey, you’re the one who let everybody call me Marshal Earp.”

A waitress came into our private room, but Joe brusquely waved her away.

“How do you know this whistle-blower is trustworthy?” he asked.

“Gut feeling. And you always trusted my gut, boss.”

“Did you gut-test his alcohol level?”

As I looked back into Joe’s eyes, my head began to spin. “You already know about this. All of it.”

Cantor shrugged noncommittally. “I found out this morning. Mitch Gaines is shitting M-80s, he’s so pissed off. He wants to charge you with breaking-and-entering and obstruction of justice, and that’s just to start.”

“I know you cut that idea off at the knees.”

Cantor waved his hand. “You don’t have to worry about Mitch. But this plea deal is signed, Penn. The Conley kid’s already gone before the judge. The film’s in the can. It can’t be edited anymore.”

“You’ve got to find a way, Joe. Get the plea vacated.”

Cantor’s mouth fell open. “You know I can’t do that! That’s like unbreaking an egg. Look, it’s a raw deal for the girl, but sometimes cases slip through the cracks.”

“Not often in your office, I was always proud to say. I saw you prosecute crooked bankers like they were crack dealers, and crack whores like they were human beings.”

I could see that my open respect for him was moving him, yet still he resisted me. He was hoping I’d give up, but I wasn’t about to. “Joe, listen. If that kid gets off this time, he’s going to do the same thing to some other girl.”

Cantor stared back at me without speaking, silently taking the measure of something within me. For a few seconds I saw what I thought he must have looked like as a soldier in Vietnam, peering into the shadowy depths beneath some jungle canopy. He was making a threat assessment.

“What’s really going on here?” I asked softly. “Conley’s old man has money, but I know that doesn’t mean shit to you. Mitch said you’ve got a big case coming down the pipeline, and suggested you don’t want the integrity of the DNA lab questioned just now. Is he right?”

Joe took a sip of lukewarm coffee. Then he laid his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “I’ve wanted Victor Luna’s ass for a long time, you know that. And you know why. He’s a goddamn killer and worse. You couldn’t tally up the lives that drug-smuggling bastard has ruined.” Cantor’s eyes flashed cold fire. “Now I’ve got him by the short hairs, and I’m not about to let go. Yes, I need DNA evidence to convict him, but I believe the DNA lab is solid. Hell, you tried cases yourself based on their findings.”

“Yes, but I always brought in an outside geneticist to review them on capital cases, and to testify.”

Joe raised his forefinger. “Usually. Not always.”

I bristled at this implied threat. “I’ll stand by every case I ever tried. I doubt Mitch Gaines would be excited about doing the same.”

Cantor closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. “You’ve got to let this go, Penn. For the greater good.”

“I can’t do that.”

When his eyes opened, they were full of sincerity. “I‘ll check out the HPD lab, I promise you that. And if that Conley punk is guilty, he’ll get nailed down the road. They always do.”

This stunned me. “After how many more girls have been hurt? Maybe killed?” I shook my head. “This family’s suffering. Maribel Avila may never be able to have kids.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

At last,
I thought,
I’ve reached him
. “Now you do.”

“What do you want, Penn?” he asked in a weary voice. “Seriously. I can’t try to vacate that plea agreement without setting off a firestorm in the defense bar. It’ll raise too many questions.”

In that moment, with those words, our relationship changed forever.

“Joe, you’re a good man. Probably a great one. Don’t let your legacy be tainted by something like this. It’s not worth it, not even to nail Victor Luna.”

His eyes hardened. “That’s not your decision to make, is it?”

“No, it’s yours.” I let some of my anger and disillusionment enter my own voice. “But I’m going to be straight with you. If I don’t hear within twenty-four hours that you’re moving to get that plea vacated, I’m going to call a press conference. We both know the media loves you, they always have. And not too many people seem to care what happens down in Gulfton these days. But Mirabel Avila is a very telegenic young lady—especially with the stitches in her face. And I’m not without a certain level of celebrity. If I take Mirabel in front of the cameras and talk about the crime lab, the Hispanic leaders in southeast Houston are going to pick up her cause, and that you don’t want.”

Cantor’s face went white, then red. It had been a long time since anybody challenged him. A DA in Harris County has a lot of power. He answers to almost no one. I gave him time to process what I’d said. He didn’t yell and scream. He thought about all I’d told him, long and hard. When he finally spoke, he said, “You don’t seem to care that a lot of your stellar cases were tried based on evidence that came out of that crime lab. But if you throw hundreds of convictions into doubt, you’ll create chaos for the office. You could clog up the appeals courts for years.”

When this didn’t move me, he tried to make it personal again.

“Now that you’ve got another career, I guess you’re not worried about having your most famous cases reversed. But think about the two hundred good lawyers you left behind in my office. The people in the trenches.”

“I have, Joe. And I’d like to believe that none of them wanted to put anybody innocent in prison, or to let anybody guilty go free. You don’t want that, either. And look, maybe the lab isn’t that bad. But you need to find out, one way or the other.”

He just stared back at me like a disappointed older brother.

“By the way,” I added, “your office isn’t the trenches. Gulfton is.”

He knew I was telling the truth, but it didn’t matter. “Penn,” he said, “let the Avila case be the trigger that started us fixing whatever problems HPD has over there. That’s how we get blood from the stone on this one. But for God’s sake, be content with that. Don’t blow up years of casework that we both know is solid.”

“If the work was solid, the verdicts will stand.”

“But at what cost in time and money?”

“That’s not my problem,” I said. “It’s yours. If you don’t want to be buried in requests for retrials, then find a loophole in the plea-bargaining system. Use your influence. A hell of a lot of judges and lawyers owe you favors, and you can be pretty damned intimidating when you want to be. I don’t care how you do it, but find a way to balance the scales for the Avila girl. As for the crime lab, that’s on your head.”

I took out my wallet and left money on the table for our check. “Twenty-four hours, Joe. I’ve got to go. I’ve left Sarah alone too long.”

He started to get up and come after me, but in the end, he didn’t. There was nothing he could say, and he knew it.

“Penn?” Jack says. “Penn! Are you with me?”

“I’m here,” I mutter, not quite sure myself. Down on the river, the long barge has passed far downstream and is rounding the bend that leads to Baton Rouge and New Orleans. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve been losing it a little over the past few hours. Last week was pretty rough, and Dad’s coronary on top of it . . .”

“I know.” He squeezes my shoulder and gives me an empathetic smile. “You want to give the story a rest? Go back and see him?”

“In a minute. I need to get this out. Are you okay?”

“Hell, yeah. I want to know what happened. I’m betting Detective Washington found the picture of the girl. That’s how they nailed Conley, right?”

“Nope.” I wish I had a bottle of water to wet my throat. “When I got home from meeting Joe, Sarah was still out. After being out in the real world—even for just that one hour—I could see how exhausted everyone was, even Annie. Everyone sensed we were on our last lap. If we weren’t, some of us wouldn’t reach the finish line. Mom and Mrs. Spencer no longer looked like nurses tending a patient. They looked like old angels hovering by the bed, waiting to collect a soul.