The Last Innocent Man (10 page)

“Any help?” Conklin asked as he shut off the engine.

“They don’t give me much more than I already know.
Say, before I forget, the bail hearing’s tomorrow and they’ll probably put Ortiz on. Can you make it?”

“No problem,” Terry said as they headed toward the motel office.

Merton Grimes was an old man, stooped and slow to move. The cold weather was still holding off, but Grimes had on a heavy plaid shirt, buttoned to the neck, and a pair of soiled gray slacks. He was standing over a pot of coffee when David entered, and David had to cough to get his attention. Grimes looked put out and took his time shuffling across the room. David could see a section of the back room through a half-open door. There was a small couch covered by an antimacassar. A lamp rested on a low end table casting a dim light on the green-and-white fabric. David could hear the muffled sound of a TV whose volume had been turned low, but he could not see the screen.

“Mr. Grimes?” David asked. The old man looked immediately suspicious. “My name is David Nash. This is Terry Conklin. I’d like to talk to you about the murder that occurred here a few months ago.”

“You reporters?” Grimes asked in a tone suggesting that he would not be upset if they were.

“No. I’m a lawyer. I represent the man who’s been charged with the crime.”

“Oh,” Grimes said, disappointed.

“I’d like to see the room if I could and talk about anything you might know.”

“I already told what I know to the police. Damn place was like a circus for a week,” he said, nodding at the memory. “Reporters and cops. Didn’t do business no harm, though.”

He laughed and it came out more of a snort. The old
man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and turned to a pegboard on the wall behind the desk counter. It took him a moment, but he found the key he was looking for. He started to reach for it, then stopped and turned back. He had a crafty look on his face, and David knew exactly what was coming next.

“You know, I ain’t sure I should be doin’ this. You representing a criminal and all. I don’t know if the cops would like it. I could get in trouble.”

“I can assure you this is perfectly legal….”

“All the same…”

“And, of course, we would pay you for your time.”

“Oh, say, that’s mighty nice of you,” Grimes said with a smirk. David wondered how much dough he’d pulled in from the press for exclusive tours. He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the countertop. Grimes looked at it for a moment, probably figuring if there was any way to get more; then his fingers made the fastest move David would see all evening, and the bill was gobbled up and stuffed into his trouser pocket.

“We can talk while we walk,” Grimes said, taking the key off the peg and shuffling toward the door. Conklin held it open, and he and David followed Grimes across the parking lot toward the motel rooms.

“She sure was a nice-lookin’ gal,” Grimes said as they started up the metal stairs to the second landing. “Didn’t look like no hooker to me. I got suspicious right off.”

“You get plenty of hookers here?” Terry asked with a straight face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Terry shrugged.

“You said she didn’t look like one. I just supposed…”

The old man weighed his answer for a second, then snickered.

“Yeah, we get our share. I don’t take no cut, you understand. But there’s a few that likes our accommodations. Cops don’t care, so why should I?”

“Did you ever see the fella who was with the dead girl before that night?”

“Like I told the cops, he was out in the car and I didn’t pay no attention to him. She come in and I was readin’. Then she took up most of my attention, if you know what I mean. Nice tits, as much of ’em as I could see. I just didn’t have no interest in the john.”

“So you didn’t get a good look at him at all?”

“I didn’t say that. I seen him, but he didn’t make no impression. And it was only a little look, when he come tearin’ out of here after he killed her.”

“What do you remember seeing?”

“Nothin’ much. A man in a car. I already been through this with the cops.”

“I know,” David said, “and I appreciate your taking the time to talk to us now.”

They were on the landing and Grimes was leading the way toward a room at the end. Terry looked around, filing the layout away in his mind for future use. Grimes stopped and inserted his key in the door of the next-to-last room. The door opened. A large globe light to the right of the door hung above David’s head and cast a pale-yellow glow over the door. Grimes put his key in the lock and pushed the door open.

“There she is. Course it’s cleaned up now. It was some mess then, I can tell you.”

Grimes stepped aside, and David entered the unlit room. He turned and saw the neon signs on the boulevard. A reminder of the life outside. Here, in the sterile, plastic room, there was no sign of life or death. Just a twentieth-century motel limbo devoid of feeling. The shadowy figures of Grimes and Conklin wavered in the doorway like spirits of the dead. Grimes reached around the wall and found the light switch.

“There isn’t much we can learn here,” Terry said when he had toured the bedroom and bathroom. “The DA will have pictures of the scene.”

David nodded.

“The papers say it was some young lawyer,” Grimes said.

“That’s right.”

“That fits with what I seen. Fancy car he was drivin’ and the long hair.”

“You saw his hair?” David asked.

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said he didn’t make an impression on you.”

“He didn’t. But I seen the hair. Brown hair.”

“You’re certain about that?” David said, casting a quick look at Conklin.

“I’m gettin’ along, but I ain’t senile. Say, you think they’ll put it in the papers when I testify?”

“No doubt, Mr. Grimes,” Terry said. Grimes smiled and nodded his head.

“I was in the papers once before. They had a robbery
here and they listed me as the victim. I got the clipping in my desk.”

“I think I’ve seen all I want to. How about you?” David asked Conklin. The investigator just nodded. He and David walked onto the landing, and Grimes switched off the light and locked the door.

“Thanks for the tour,” David said when they reached the office.

“Anytime.”

“See you in court,” Conklin said.

The old man chuckled and shook his head. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s right.”

He was shuffling toward the back room as they drove away.

T
he main entrance to the county courthouse was on Fourth Avenue. David entered through the back door on Fifth. The rear corridor was jammed with police officers waiting to testify in the three traffic courts located there. Lawyers in three-piece suits huddled with straggly-haired dopers and stylishly dressed young women about defenses to their traffic citations. Court clerks shuffled people back and forth between the courtrooms and the large room where the fines were paid. An old lawyer listened patiently to the complaints of a young member of the bar, and an even younger district attorney tried to understand the testimony of a police officer as he prepared to try his seventh straight speeding case.

David pushed through the crowd and into the narrow
alcove that housed the jail elevator. The courthouse jail was used to hold prisoners who had court appearances and for booking new arrestees.

The elevator stopped at seven, and David stepped up to a thick glass window and called through an intercom to a guard who was seated at a control panel.

“I’d like to see Larry Stafford. Do you have an empty booth?”

“Try two, Mr. Nash,” the guard said over his shoulder. David signed his name in the logbook. The guard pressed a button and a floor-to-ceiling steel gate swung open. David walked into the narrow holding area and waited for the gate to close. As soon as it clicked shut, the guard pressed another button. There was an electronic hum, and the solid-steel door at the other end of the holding area swung open. David walked to a door that opened into the conference area. Several identical booths were set up side by side. Each booth was divided by wire mesh that started halfway up from the floor. There was a chair on each side of the mesh and a ledge underneath it.

David took some papers out of his attaché case and read them while he waited for the guard to bring Larry Stafford. Stafford arrived a few minutes later, smiling and looking thinner than he had at the arraignment.

“It’s good to see you, Dave,” he said through the mesh. There was no tremor in his voice, as there had been the last time they were together.

“How are you getting along?” David asked.

Stafford shrugged.

“I guess you can get used to anything. In a way, it’s not all that bad. No clients yelling at me. No partners making
demands. Plenty of sleep. If the food was a little better, I’d recommend the place.”

David smiled. Stafford seemed to have developed a sense of humor, and that was essential if he was going to get through his ordeal.

“You do look a little thinner than when I saw you last.”

“Yeah, well they cut down on all those fancy sauces here. It definitely helps the waistline.”

David took the appointment book out of his attaché case and held it against the wire mesh.

“We have some time before the bail hearing, so I want to go over some stuff. Does this help you remember any more about the night of the murder?”

Stafford read over the entry for June 16.

“Right. I was going to talk to you about that. I talked to Jenny and she mentioned the book. Call Dietrich. He’ll tell you. We had a conference that night. Remember I told you about that securities case? Well, we were together until six, six-thirty. You can check the time sheets we keep at the firm for billing clients.”

“Okay,” David said, making a notation on his pad, “but that doesn’t help us too much. Hersch started her shift around ten-thirty, and she was killed about midnight.”

“Oh,” Stafford said, momentarily dejected. Then he brightened.

“It would still be good circumstantial evidence that I’m innocent. I mean, it doesn’t make sense, does it, for me to have a normal business day, confer on a securities case, then slice up a policewoman. I mean the two are pretty inconsistent, aren’t they?”

“Not necessarily. There are plenty of businessmen who use the services of prostitutes. Why should you be any different?”

“Okay,” Stafford answered eagerly, “I’ve been thinking about that angle. But it won’t work. Jenny will testify that we’re happily married. You’ve seen Jenny, haven’t you? What jury would believe that a guy married to someone as good-looking as that would waste his time with a whore? Right? It doesn’t fit in.”

Stafford sat back and smiled, satisfied that he had won his case. David looked up from his notes and waited a moment before speaking. He noticed that his palms were damp, and for the moment he felt certain that he was more unsure of himself than was his client.

“A man married to a good-looking woman might seek the services of a prostitute if he and his wife were having difficulties with their marriage.”

Stafford continued to smile. He nodded his head to acknowledge the point.

“If. But there’s no ’if about Jenny and me.”

“No difficulties at all? No arguments, no sexual difficulties or money problems? You’d better be straight with me on this, Larry, because putting you and Jenny on the stand will open the door for the district attorney, and if there’s dirt, you can bet she’ll find it.”

David thought about his evening with Jenny as he waited for Stafford to answer. A mental image of her, naked and in his bed, appeared, and he fought to erase it.

“We have spats. Who doesn’t?” Stafford paused. “Look, I’m going to level with you. Jenny and I have had our problems. What marriage doesn’t? And you know what they say about the first year being the toughest.”

David thought back to his first year of marriage. It had not been pleasant for either of them. Vicious words, said for the sole purpose of hurting. Slammed doors and backs turned in anger.

“Hell, it was both our faults. I’m not an easy guy to live with sometimes. I didn’t make partner last year and it really hurt me. Two other guys who were hired the same year I was made the grade, and I was pretty depressed for a long time. I don’t suppose that was easy for Jenny to take.”

“How are you two sexually?”

Stafford reddened slightly. The question seemed to make him uneasy.

“I don’t know. I’d say we do okay. I’m maybe more demanding than some guys. You might say I dig sex a little more than Jenny. She’s more conventional in her, uh, tastes. Nothing I’d call a, uh, problem though.”

Stafford hesitated. He looked upset.

“Will…will they be asking about that at the trial? Our sex life, I mean?”

“It could come up. Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just embarrassing, I guess. I don’t mind talking to you. You’re my lawyer and I trust you. It would be different in front of all those people.”

David glanced at his watch. The bail hearing was set for two and it was ten of.

“It’s almost time to go to court,” he said, “so I’m going to stop now. But I want to ask you one more question. You remember how surprised I was that the district attorney’s office opposed bail at the arraignment? Well, I talked with Monica Powers after court, and she acted very peculiar. She hinted that they had some kind of surprise evidence I
didn’t know about. Do you have any idea what that might be, Larry?”

“Surprise evidence,” Stafford repeated. “I can’t think of…” He stopped for a moment, and David got the distinct impression that something was troubling his client.

“Look, I didn’t do it, so what could they have? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You do some thinking on this, okay, Larry? I don’t like surprises, and it looks like Monica is planning one. Remember what I told you about being straight with me. If you’ve done something that can hurt us, I want to know right now.”

“Dave, I have been one hundred percent square with you. There’s nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Say, how do my chances look today?” Stafford asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. It depends on what kind of showing the State makes. One point for our side is that Jerry Miles is the presiding criminal judge this month.”

Stafford brightened. “He’s pretty liberal, isn’t he?”

“He’s good and he’s fair. Keep your fingers crossed. I hope you’ll be out of here by this evening.”

They shook hands and David buzzed the guard. Stafford was still waiting in front of the door when the guard let David out. On the elevator ride up to the courtroom, David tried to analyze his feelings about his client. He felt uncomfortable around Stafford. The man appeared to be open and honest, but David could not help feeling that Larry was using the same technique on him that David used on a jury. Or did he just want to feel that way? He had
to face one very unpleasant fact: he wanted Jenny, and Larry Stafford was his rival for Jenny’s affections.

David tried to stand back from his problem and be objective. Was Stafford lying to him? Was he really guilty? Were his uneasy feelings about Stafford generated by his emotional involvement with Jenny? He had given Larry a chance to lie today, and Stafford had not taken it. Although reticent at first to discuss his private life, Larry had eventually been candid about his marital problems, and he had told David about his failure to make partner. And then there was Jenny. She swore she was with Larry on the night of the murder. She would not lie to him.

By the time the elevator doors opened, David was starting to feel better about his case. Jenny would make a good witness, and there was Grimes’s testimony about the hair. The jury might not be totally convinced of the accuracy of the motel clerk’s observations, but his testimony, combined with other evidence, could create the reasonable doubt needed for an acquittal. Now all David had to do was find those other pieces of evidence. He hoped some of them would be provided by the testimony at the bail hearing.

P
RESIDING CRIMINAL COURT
was at the far end of the corridor from the bank of elevators David had used. He was halfway to the courtroom when he saw Thomas Gault grinning at him from a bench near the courtroom doorway.

“You’re just the man I wanted to see,” Gault said. David stopped and looked at his watch. Court would start in a moment, and he really did not want to talk to Gault anyway. Ever since Gault had shaken him with his false
confession, David had gone out of his way to avoid the writer.

“I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m due in court.”

“The Stafford bail hearing, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m covering the case for
Newsweek
.”

“The magazine?” David asked incredulously.

“The same. They gave a lot of coverage to my trial, so I convinced them that it would be a neat gimmick to have someone who was just acquitted of murder cover a murder case. Hell, I’m their murderer-in-residence now. Besides, I did those articles on Cambodia and the article on the mercenaries for them.

“So what do you say? Is Stafford guilty? Come on. I need a scoop to beat out the local yokels.”

David couldn’t help laughing. Gault was a leprechaun when he wanted to be, and his humor could be infectious.

“No scoops and no comment. How would you have liked it if I’d blabbed to reporters about your case?”

“But, Dave, I had nothing to hide. Can you say the same for Stafford? If I don’t get facts from you, I’ll have to make something up. I’ve got deadlines.”

“No comment,” David repeated. Gault shrugged.

“Suit yourself. I’m only trying to make you famous.”

“And I appreciate the effort, but I really do have to go.”

“At least say something memorable, old buddy. I’ve gotta have some snappy copy.”

David shook his head and laughed again. He opened the door and entered the courtroom. Gault followed him
and took a seat in the back of the room where he would not be noticed.

“T
HIS IS THE
time set for the bail hearing in State versus Lawrence Dean Stafford, case number C94-07-850. The State is represented by Monica Powers,” Monica said, “and the defendant is present with his attorney, David Nash.”

“Are you prepared to proceed, Mr. Nash?” Judge Autley asked.

“Ready, Your Honor,” David answered stiffly. Clement Autley was the worst judge they could have gotten. Almost seventy, Autley was so erratic that many attorneys filed affidavits of prejudice against him rather than risk his unpredictable rulings at trial and subject themselves and their clients to his very predictable temper tantrums. Autley was not supposed to be on the bench today. Jerome Miles was. But Miles had the flu, and Autley had been shipped upstairs for the week.

“You may proceed, Mr. Nash.”

“Your Honor, I believe the burden is on the district attorney.”

“You’re asking for bail, aren’t you? Your motion, your burden,” Autley snapped.

“If I might, Your Honor,” David said, careful to maintain his composure and to address the judge formally. He had once seen Autley, in a fit of anger, hold a young lawyer in contempt for not using the proper court etiquette. “Article one, section fourteen of the state constitution states that, and I quote, ‘Offenses, except murder and treason, shall be bailable by sufficient sureties. Murder or treason shall not be bailable when the proof is evident or the presumption strong.’

“In
State
ex rel.
August
v.
Chambers
, our supreme court held that if the State seeks to deny bail to a person charged with murder, it has the burden of proving that there is proof of, or a presumption of, the defendant’s guilt which is evident or strong. In light of the Chambers case, it appears that the State has the burden, not Mr. Stafford.”

Judge Autley glared at David for a moment, then turned rapidly toward Monica Powers.

“What do you say to that?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Your Honor,” Monica said nervously. It was widely known that the one thing Autley hated more than young defense lawyers was any kind of woman lawyer.

“Then why are you wasting the Court’s time? I have a busy schedule. You see all these people waiting here, don’t you? Why did you let him go on and on if you agreed with what he said?”

“I’m sorry…” Monica started, but Autley waved a hand toward her.

“What’s your evidence?”

Monica tendered to the judge a copy of the indictment charging murder. His bailiff, an elderly woman who had been with him for years, handed the document to him.