Witness for the Defense (4 page)

Chapter 3

It had to be one of the longest days of my life. Not only was I almost tossed in jail, but I’d received a death threat to boot. When I informed Martinez that I wouldn’t use Bobby Miles’s perjured testimony, he went after me like a mad dog. I was thankful for the wall of glass between us.

There was only one cure for the way I felt. The Gavel, for a quick platter of hot wings before I put me and my tired body to bed. Stopping at The Gavel on the way home had been part of my daily routine during my law school days. Back then money had been, to say the least, a little sparse. Every evening after class, I would hit The Gavel for happy hour and buy just one beer. That beer, which I’d sip slowly, entitled me to all the free hot wings and mini carved beef sandwiches I could eat.

For years a large man named Jake Horgan ran the place. His face was like the map of Ireland and his liquor-laced veins added a substantial road-network to the chart. Jake would treat everyone to tales of the days when the two premier defense attorneys named Jake Ehrlich and Vincent Hamilton had the criminal justice system by the throat. Those were the stories that stuck with me through the years, and were as much a part of the place as the familiar dingy wood floor and the peeling vinyl on the red booths.

I had promised myself I would stick to wings and a club soda, then be on my way. However, the confrontation with Kellogg, and later with Martinez, must have bothered me more than I’d thought. Or at least, that’s what I rationalized as I contemplated whether or not I should order something stronger to calm my nerves. But if a childhood with a drunken father taught me anything it was that “just one” would usually lead to others. And the last thing I needed was to begin jury selection with a hangover.

Across the horseshoe-shaped bar Sarah Harris was engaged in conversation with one of the newer D.A. recruits. After several minutes, she gave the attorney a platonic-looking hug, then turned in my direction. I lowered my eyes and played with the beads of sweat forming on my glass.

“Hunter.” A second later. “Hunter Dobbs.”

“Hi,” I said, looking up, feigning surprise.

“Don’t you remember me?”

She had me cornered, so for the first time that day, I took the easy way out. I played dumb.

“Weren’t you in Kellogg’s court?” I asked.

“No. I mean, yes,” she said, “but that’s not what I meant. You really don’t remember me, do you?”

“Did you go to Hastings?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I’m afraid it would have been quite a while after you did.”

“I’m sure of that,” I said. I had a good eight or nine years on her—at least.

“I’m Sarah Harris. You know, Judge Harris’s daughter.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

“By the way you looked at me in court, I was afraid I’d done something wrong.”

It was the perfect time to tell her how I felt about her father. But I decided changing the subject would be best.

“So how is the judge?”

“We both live in Ukiah, now,” she said cheerfully.

“Really.”

“He got a great deal on a big piece of land right off the Russian River. He’s fat and happy, growing Christmas trees.”

“Christmas trees? No kidding. I never thought he’d be able to stay away from the law for a minute.”

“Oh, he still manages to take a case here and there. Mostly wills, trusts, stuff like that.”

“I’m happy for him,” I lied, and gulped the rest of my drink. I shook the cubes in the glass and placed it on the bar, wondering how I was going to leave without being rude.

“You’re still with the public defender’s office, I see.”

“Probably die there,” I said in mock resignation.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“I’m not having one of my better days.”

“You’re not letting that tussle with Kellogg get you down?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Not one of my prouder moments,” I conceded. “I’m afraid I’ve been appearing in front of that old drunk just a little too long.”

She leaned into me as if she were afraid someone would hear. “You shouldn’t say that so loud.”

The scent of her perfume flooded my senses.

“Don’t worry. I’m not saying anything I didn’t say to his face.”

“You didn’t—” she said, when suddenly someone grabbed my arm. I spun around and saw my boss, Steve Ogden, standing next to me.

In his early fifties, Ogden was short and stocky like a tree trunk.

“We have to talk,” he said.

“Can it wait? It’s late and I’ve got a trial starting in the morning.”

He leaned forward and looked past me at Sarah. “Steve Ogden,” he said, extending his hand.

“Sarah Harris.”

“You’re not Judge Harris’s daughter?” he said, holding on to her hand.

“Ever since I can remember.”

They both laughed, and I started to stand, but Ogden pushed me back down onto my stool.

“We just need a few minutes,” he said to Sarah. “Can I get you something?”

She smiled and turned to the bartender, who was waiting to take Ogden’s order. “A Coke would be fine.”

When Ogden ordered himself a martini, I realized how upset he was. I’d never known him to drink anything stronger than a glass of wine—and then only when someone was being toasted.

“So what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Your attitude,” he began. Like me, Ogden didn’t believe in pulling punches.

“If you’re referring to what happened in Kellogg’s courtroom—”

“That will do for a start.”

“It wasn’t any big deal,” I said. “And you know Kellogg. He was so ripped he’ll forget what happened by morning.”

Ogden’s face turned grim. “You shouldn’t be blackmailing judges to get them to rule in your favor.”

Although some hedging was definitely in order, I went on the attack. “I didn’t do anything of the kind. Kellogg was intoxicated. All I did was make sure it didn’t affect his decision.”

Ogden looked to Sarah for help, but she turned to me with a sympathetic smile instead. She surprised me. Knowing she was a judge’s daughter, I’d have thought she would have sided with Ogden.

“You know, Dobbs,” he continued, “you’re not the only attorney working for me. I have over a hundred others who have to appear in that court and you have made them all
persona non grata
.”

I felt myself getting riled up all over again. And Sarah Harris listening wasn’t helping my mood any. “How long do we have to let that drunk administer justice like he’s some kind of Bob Barker? Last time we talked about this, you promised me you would try and do something about him. Hell, you have enough pull. You’re the head deputy for the whole damn county.”

Ogden didn’t respond. He knew I was right.

I waved a hand. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have been a little more subtle, but he deserved it.”

“No, what a judge deserves is respect,” he said flatly.

“Not Kellogg.” Just as flatly.

He slowly stirred his drink with his olive-bearing toothpick. “There’s going to be an investigation.”

That threw me off track. “What do you mean an investigation?”

“The matter has been referred to the state bar and the D.A.’s office is nosing around, too.”

“Well, I feel sorry for Kellogg, but someone had to stand up to him.”

“You don’t understand,” Ogden said. “They’re investigating you.”

“Me! There is no way Kellogg has the balls to make such a big deal of it. He’s too afraid. He knows he takes the bench half in the bag every afternoon.”

“Kellogg’s not the problem,” Ogden said quietly. “You’re being accused of suborning perjury.”

“Suborning perjury!” By now half the bar was looking at us. “What are you talking about?”

“Your murder trial, the one that’s supposed to start tomorrow?”

“Yeah?”

“A young man in lockup says you asked him to lie on the stand for your client, Sal Martinez.”

I was too nonplused to be angry. “There’s no way would I ever do that, and you know it.”

Ogden shrugged uncomfortably. “Sorry. The D.A. interviewed him, and the state bar has been contacted.”

“This young man you’re talking about—is his name Bobby Miles?”

“The same one you tried to get out OR,” Ogden said. “Now, why in the hell would you have done something like that?”

I knew exactly what the D.A.’s office was thinking. That I tried to bribe Miles into testifying falsely for Martinez by promising him I would get him out on his own recognizance.

“He’s lying. He’s just some kid who’s scared to death,” I said. “Martinez is the one who asked me to interview him in the first place. He told me the kid saw someone else shoot the two victims. After I asked Miles a few questions, I knew he was lying. I told both of them that there was no way I would use perjured testimony.”

“Well…” Ogden said, hesitating, “that’s not what the young man is saying.”

I shook my head. “And you’re telling me the D.A. is going to believe a scared kid over me?” I slammed my open hand on the bar top. “Aren’t they going to even ask for my side?”

Ogden’s answer was subdued. “You’ll get your turn.”

“I want to talk to the D.A. now,” I said. “Which one is it?”

I felt Sarah rest her hand on mine. “I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind to talk to anyone, Hunter.”

“Ms. Harris is right,” Ogden said. “Let things cool off for a while. I’m sure they will want to talk to you before they complete their investigation.”

“And how long will that take?”

“If the state bar is involved, you can count on a minimum of two or three months,” Sarah interjected.

I pulled my hand away and shook my head again. “This is all so damn ridiculous.”

“I’m going to have to reassign your cases,” Ogden said meekly.

That hit me like a thunderbolt. “But why?”

Ogden stood up from his stool and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hunter. But until this matter is resolved, I have no choice but to place you on suspension.”

Chapter 4

It had been years since I’d been in rural Northern California. While driving, I considered my situation. As soon as Ogden left, I’d wanted to march into the D.A.’s office and explain what had really happened. Luckily, Sarah reminded me that ” spilling their guts” was exactly what most suspects did when they were accused of a crime. Having been a defense attorney for almost ten years, I knew she was right. The prisons were filled with people who thought they could talk their way out of an arrest. Half the time, if they had kept their mouths shut, the prosecution wouldn’t have had enough to file a case, let alone manage a conviction.

Also as Martinez’s attorney, I was over the proverbial barrel. Anything he said was privileged and couldn’t be divulged. I saw that aspect of my job in an entirely new light. It didn’t seem right that he could accuse me of a crime, and I wouldn’t be able to repeat what was said between us. How could I defend myself? The system had me by the throat.

Someone who knew the intricacies of this kind of problem had to be in my corner. Luckily, Sarah had been right there and offered immediately to help. That was why I was driving up to Ukiah. She had as much experience as anyone dealing with a state bar investigation. She had once been one of them, and I was sure she wouldn’t hesitate to use that to her advantage.

The only down side to Sarah was that she was Avery Harris’s daughter. For most of my career the mere sound of his name had nettled me. I could only hope I’d be able to keep my contact with him to a minimum.

Traffic was light on Highway 101 as I drove north from Healdsburg where the road undulated over the rolling hills of Sonoma County. As I neared Hop-land, truckloads of Mexican pickers were parked along the side of the highway getting ready for the grape harvest. Here and there a winery appeared on a hillside like a medieval monastic retreat.

Entering Ukiah, I found Sarah’s office in a two-story brick building across the street from the courthouse. Ten minutes late, I checked with the receptionist—an elderly lady with Coke-bottle glasses. With a warm smile, she informed me Sarah would be available in a moment.

The reception room was a mixture of aged brick walls and dark woods highlighted with a woman’s touch—colorful paintings, plants, and earth-tone furniture. Its small size amplified the electronic chatter of the telephones, business machines, and conversations of the employees busily working on the other side of the counter. A few minutes passed before Sarah walked into view. She handed a document to an assistant, then laid her hand on a typist’s shoulder, clicking off a list of to-do’s. She seemed in control of everything and everybody around her. The receptionist said something to her and Sarah disappeared. Seconds later the door opened.

“I hope you had a safe trip.” Sarah extended her hand. She was dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, and white silk blouse accented with a red chiffon scarf. I looked down at my own attire: worn Levi’s and a yellow pullover. I’d have to remember to wear snappier threads next time.

“All these people work for you?” I said, following her into the inner office.

Sarah chuckled. “Does that surprise you?”

“Of course not,” I said, even though I was dumbfounded that someone only three years out of law school could be so successful.

Sarah motioned for me to be seated in one of two client chairs in front of her desk. “I’ve been lucky.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I was watching and you give every appearance of being in total control.”

She seemed pleased, but remained businesslike. “Enough about me,” she said. “You have a problem and let’s see what I can do to help.”

It felt strange going through the lawyer routine from the other side of the desk. “Where would you like me to begin?”

She opened the side drawer of her desk and fished out a new yellow legal pad. “How about the conversation you had with…”

“Miles,” I volunteered. “Bobby Miles.”

“Thank you.” She wrote his name on the pad. “Now tell me what happened.”

For more than an hour we dissected everything said during my interview of Miles and another half hour about my conference in Kellogg’s chambers. I was tired and glad we were about finished when she asked, “Now, tell me about Sal Martinez.”