Lying in Judgment, page 17
“He said that?” Gregg arched an eyebrow and coughed. The smell of tobacco permeated the room. “Of course we wouldn’t do that. We interviewed him on Monday, when the whole thing happened. We heard from him quite a bit. Unless he wants to change his story?”
“Which was?”
Gregg signaled him to close the office door. “We found Frankie and Donna, um, in flagrante delicto in the loading area—in the back of a loading truck, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Frankie admitted coming on to her, and that they had dated some.”
“And her story?” Peter asked.
“The same, except she also said he more or less threatened to get her fired if she didn’t sleep with him. But if she did, he’d get her promoted, using his ‘in’ with you and me.”
Peter sank into a chair. “Come on. Sure, he talks big and makes promises he can’t keep, but threatening her? That doesn’t square with the Frankie I know.”
“Their stories line up otherwise. What am I supposed to think?”
“He’s protecting her,” Peter said. “They cooked this line up together, and when it came Donna’s turn to talk, she panicked and added the harassment charge. Isn’t it suspicious how well their stories agree? When people tell the truth, they each miss a few details that the other doesn’t remember. When they lie, their stories match exactly. That’s what’s happening here.”
“To me it sounds like Frankie wants to change his story to save his skin.” Gregg pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
Peter frowned, his fingers intertwined on Gregg’s desk. “I don’t want to put words in his mouth. Let’s bring Frankie back in and let him speak for himself, before any decisions are made.”
“We can’t let this thing turn into a circus!” Gregg fiddled with a cigarette and put his pack away. “He can’t come in here and change his story over and over until he gets the result he wants. Besides, it probably doesn’t even matter. Whether he tricked her or forced her or they were both willing, it all comes down to this: he had sex with her, at work, on the clock. That right there’s a firing offense.”
“I’m sure it matters to him.” Peter sat back in his chair. “Being fired for harassment’s a lot different than being fired for fooling around on the job.”
“He won’t get fired for harassment,” Gregg said. “That’s the deal we want to offer. Donna doesn’t sue us or press charges against Frankie. She keeps her job, no questions asked.”
“And Frankie?”
Gregg looked away. “We’ll give him the option to resign in good standing.”
Peter scowled. “And if he refuses?”
Gregg put the cigarette in his mouth. “It’ll be ugly. He doesn’t want to go there.”
“No, I’m sure he doesn’t.” Peter massaged his temples. Somehow he had to salvage a better outcome for his friend.
They discussed the details of the deal for the next hour. He suggested other options for Frankie: counseling, demotion, or suspension—to no avail. In the end, they agreed Peter should be there when Stark’s offered the deal. “The lawyers are working on it and should have it done by the weekend,” Gregg said. “How much longer is this court case going to run?”
“At least into next week,” he said. “It depends on how gridlocked the jury gets.”
“Don’t you dare be the lone holdout,” Gregg said. “If you’re the only one –”
“I’m going to consider the evidence and vote my conscience.” But he couldn’t look his boss in the eye.
Gregg fidgeted in his chair and played with his cigarette some more. Tobacco leaked out of a rip in the paper by the filter. “I know you will, Peter. You’re nothing if not fair. It’s just that we really need you back here. Bad. Now, I’m dying for a smoke.” He tossed the broken cigarette in the trash and pulled a fresh one out of the pack. “Are we done, then?”
Greg’s admonition haunted his drive home. He’d vote his conscience, all right. The question was whether the case presented by Brenda Connelly would support that vote—and how much he’d have to supplement those facts with knowledge that only he possessed.
He had just opened the front door to his house when his cell phone rang again. Gypsy barked like a pack of endangered seals and ran along the chain-link fence that separated his yard from the neighbor’s. Every so often she collided with it and made even more noise.
“Frankie, wait a minute!” He managed to get the big wooden door shut without dropping the phone, finally muffling the noise.
Frankie didn’t wait. “Peter!” he shouted. “Gregg just called me! I’m screwed!”
He held the phone to his ear. “Calm down. They’re trying to minimize the damage here. You–”
“To themselves, you mean!” Frankie yelled. “Man, I thought you were in there to stick up for me. I thought I’d get to tell my side of the story.”
“You will.” He plopped down onto the couch. “You definitely will. What they want to–”
“They’ve already made up their minds. I’m dead meat.”
He sighed. True enough. “Well, buddy. In all fairness, you said it yourself—they did catch you in the act, on the job for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, you, too, now?” Frankie wailed. “You son of a bitch. You sold me out, didn’t you? You weren’t in there fighting for me. I shoulda known better. You’re just going along, saving your own ass. Weren’t you, buddy?” ‘Buddy’ sounded like a curse.
That stung. “No, Frankie, I –”
“I thought I could count on you. You of all people, selling me down the river. God damn you to hell!” The line went dead. Gypsy’s frenetic barking resumed.
Peter’s return call went straight to voice-mail. He left a long and rambling apology and tried to explain what he knew. In the end, he probably added more confusion than enlightenment. He hung up with a heavy heart. On top of everything else, now his closest friendship was on the rocks. But he had to agree with Frankie. He should have done more.
He tried to break his mood by catching up on the week’s mail, stacked up on the dining room table, but that only made things worse. A dunning notice from his dentist’s office for a January filling topped a stack of other late bills: the water and sewer bill, his Visa card, the telephone. He tossed the empty envelopes into the recycling bin. Once upon a time he paid all of his bills on time. Lately he couldn’t keep up with anything.
His phone rang again. He checked Caller ID and answered on the fourth ring.
“Peter, this is Elizabeth again. I wanted to let you know about our plans for the weekend.” His sister’s voice sounded warm and friendly today—the Good Elizabeth voice. “You’re okay with us visiting and helping you with Momma, right?”
“Libby, I don’t know. I have a lot going on right now.”
“Well, then. It sounds like you could use the help.”
He thought a moment. “You’ve got a point there. Mom comes home from the hospital tomorrow and I’m sure she’d love the company. She’ll be happy to see you.”
“All righty then,” she said. “Can you meet us at the airport? Our flight comes in at two fifteen. United West. Flight number –”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t meet you mid-day.” He tried to sound wistful rather than relieved. “I’m on jury duty all day tomorrow.”
“I guess we’ll take a cab then. Can you leave a key for us?”
“A key? You want to stay with me?” He’d forgotten about that.
“Is that okay?” She whimpered a little. “It would make it a lot easier on Wilfred and I, and we’d get to see you a lot more.”
“Okay, sure.”
He walked into the guest room. The mattress lay bare, as it had for months. Marcia had stripped it when she moved her stuff out, saying, “I need a nice queen bed set in my new place.” One more thing he hadn’t dealt with since that goddamned night.
“I’ll get the guest room ready for you,” he said. “The house isn’t in great shape, but I suppose it’ll do.”
“Don’t worry about cleaning for us. Wilfred and I aren’t exactly neat freaks. Besides, we’ll spend most of our time getting Momma situated.”
“We should talk about that,” he said. “She’s going to need a higher level of care now at Sunset. That’s going to cost a bit more.”
She paused. “Perhaps this is a good time to consider an alternative.”
“Alternative? Libby, Sunset is the best. They have medical staff on duty specifically trained to handle stroke patients and they’re close to OHSU. It’s perfect for Mom.”
“We’d like to investigate some options. You don’t have to worry. Wilfred and I will take care of it.”
His hackles rose. “Meaning, religious alternatives?”
Another pause. “We’d like to see if there’s a suitable faith-based option, yes.”
“I’m not giving money to a bunch of faith-healers. It’s not an option.”
“Jimmy and I feel it’s the very best option, actually.”
“No way.”
“It’s not entirely up to you, you know. Anyways, there’s no harm in looking.”
“Look, but don’t touch,” he said. “I mean it.”
“You worry too much.” She laughed. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He did worry a lot. But somehow it felt justified.
Chapter 37
“The state calls Ms. Anita Calzano.”
A petite brunette entered the room with elegant grace and glided up the aisle to the witness stand. She drew the notice of the men in the room with her elegant walk, slender figure, and Audrey Hepburn-like dainty face. She sat stiff-backed in the witness chair, her body angled toward the judge, her head tilted toward the jury. Her cream-colored blouse and black pantsuit, creased and tapered to form, added a crisp air to her confident composure.
Malcolm Baldwin stood about six feet from her, about a yard from the rail in front of the jury box. His balding head blocked the dim morning sun rising through the windows behind him. “Ms. Calzano, please state your occupation.”
“I am a private investigator.” She enunciated every syllable in a voice surprisingly strong for such a tiny woman.
Baldwin tugged at his tie, which fell several inches too short of his slacks’ saggy waistline. “Was Alvin Dark a client of yours?”
“Yes, for about the last two months of his life. He was also a...” Her voice cracked. “...close personal friend.”
Peter sat forward in his chair. Whoa. A private eye. If she’d followed Raul that night, perhaps she’d followed him, too. Raul, though, seemed unconcerned with her testimony.
“Why did Mr. Dark hire you?” Still at attention.
Calzano’s eyes flickered to the defendant. “He wanted me to investigate Raul Vasquez.”
Raul’s eyes flashed, and his body pivoted to focus on her. Tension lined his face. His neck muscles drew taut.
“Why?” Baldwin asked.
Her expression darkened. “To find something that could get him deported.”
Peter’s sympathy for Vasquez grew. Alvin sure played hardball.
“Why did he want Mr. Vasquez deported?” Baldwin asked.
“They were part of a love triangle.” Calzano folded her hands in her lap and appeared close to tears. “Alvin was in love with Martina Aguilar. Apparently, so was Raul Vasquez.”
“Mr. Dark wanted Raul Vasquez out of the way so he could have her to himself?”
“Yes.” She regained her composure. “He was concerned that their friendship could... blossom. In fact, he was convinced Raul wanted much more than friendship with her.”
Peter clamped his jaws together. Alvin suspected Martina would cheat on him. There seemed to be no end to the cheating and deception in this case.
“What did you observe about Mr. Vasquez’s behavior toward Ms. Aguilar?” Baldwin asked.
“He was obsessed with her,” Calzano said. “He called her several times a day and drove past her place daily. Sometimes he stopped and watched the house. He sent her flowers, gifts, cards, letters, you name it. Once he bought her gold earrings.”
Peter hid a smile. Raul had just earned some serious brownie points with the women on this jury—except Christine, whose scowl deepened at the description of Raul’s stalking of Martina Aguilar.
Baldwin shifted his lanky frame. “How did Ms. Aguilar behave toward Mr. Vasquez?”
“She liked him, clearly,” Calzano said. “She spent some time with him outside of work, accepted the occasional ride to and from work on nights Alvin wasn’t there, and sometimes greeted him with a hug. Most of the time it was pretty platonic.”
Baldwin cocked his head. “Most of the time?”
She narrowed her eyes. “About two weeks before Alvin was killed, he drove her home from work, and she let him inside. He used the restroom and when he came out into the living room, he gave her his usual brotherly goodbye hug. But then he held her a little longer, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered in her ear. I was parked across the street and my camera had a pretty powerful zoom lens, but I couldn’t tell what he said.”
Excitement crept into Baldwin’s voice. “Then what happened?”
“She put her hands on his chest, as if to push him away. He kissed her on the cheek. She rested her hand on his shoulder, but she did not resist him. Then, he kissed her on the lips. It lasted a few seconds—maybe four or five. Then she pushed him away. He tried to kiss her again, but she said no, no. Something like that—I couldn’t tell exactly. I’ve never been very good at reading lips.”
Peter frowned. The important lip-reading had already taken place.
“Go on,” Baldwin said.
“He left. He walked within six feet of me but never noticed me. He was a happy man.”
Not anymore. Vasquez folded his hands in front of him and stared at the floor, with a long, sad expression on his face. Poor guy. Betrayed by the woman he loved, Raul had to sit quietly and hear it all again. The whole world bore witness to Raul’s humiliation. He could not act on his hurt, nor express his rage. He had to stay calm, although wrongly accused, while others sat in judgment—including Peter, the one whose own moment of rage created Raul’s predicament and the illusion of his guilt.
“Did you tell Alvin Dark about this?” Baldwin asked.
“Yes. I also sent him pictures. I reported in to him daily through a voice mail box he’d set up for that purpose.”
“How did he react?”
“He was upset. He asked me to step up my investigation, particularly on the immigration front. But a few days before the murder, I had to fly to Los Angeles. I was there when he was murdered. In fact, because of our arrangement, I didn’t know he was dead until two days later.”
Peter sat back in his chair. So she wasn’t following them. Whew.
“What did your investigation into Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status reveal?” Baldwin asked a short while later.
Calzano’s enigmatic smile returned. “I found some anomalies in Mr. Vasquez’s immigration papers. Immigration rules require employment information to be updated whenever there is a change of status. Mr. Vasquez frequently failed to do this.”
Baldwin strolled toward the jury. “Would this put Mr. Vasquez’s immigration status in jeopardy?”
“In today’s political climate, anything can put his status in jeopardy. At least, if someone had this information, they could scare him into believing it.”
Peter tore a fingernail between his teeth. Damn, damn, damn. Blackmail would be pretty strong motive.
“Did you uncover other information for Mr. Dark?”
Calzano shifted in her seat. “I did. Something Martina Aguilar clearly did not know.” She sat up straighter, chin high. “Raul Vasquez is married.”
Chapter 38
The gallery burst into an excited buzz. Vasquez sat rigid in his chair, fists clenched, jaw clamped shut, his dark eyes aflame. Peter sank lower in his seat. Raul was just another damned cheater. Maybe he deserved to be convicted after all.
“Order in the court!” Judge Green’s sharp voice cut through the din like a machete. The noise subsided. She glared around the courtroom, gavel handle pointing outwards from her fist. She’d have intimidated a Marine drill sergeant at that moment. “There will be no further outbursts of any kind from the spectators, or I will clear this courtroom. Proceed, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Please elaborate, Ms. Calzano, on the details of Mr. Vasquez’s marital status,” Baldwin said, his voice jubilant.
“It appears to have been a ‘green card marriage’,” Calzano said. “That is when a U.S. citizen marries a foreign national to help them establish permanent residency, and eventually, U.S. citizenship. Mr. Vasquez married Ms. Gabriela Ricardo of Long Beach, California. The Ricardo family originated from the same village in Mexico as Vasquez and the families are well-acquainted. They helped Mr. Vasquez immigrate, and he stayed with them for a few months after he first arrived. That’s when the wedding took place. Soon thereafter, Mr. Vasquez moved northward, finding work in the orchards of northern California and Oregon. When the harvest ended, rather than returning to Mexico or to his wife in L.A., Mr. Vasquez found other jobs in Portland, eventually ending up at Florentino’s.”
More damned deception. Acquitting Raul just got much harder.
Baldwin stood at an angle, half-turned toward Calzano, half to the jury. “Were you able to share this information with Mr. Dark?”
“I left him a long, detailed voice-mail to this effect on November sixteenth, the day before he was murdered,” Calzano said. “He acknowledged receiving it the same day. I remember his message back to me very well, for two reasons. One is that there simply weren’t many of them. The second reason is because of what he said in his message.”
“Which was?”
“He said, ‘And that bastard got me fired? His ass is grass.’ That’s verbatim.”
Baldwin nodded. “Ms. Calzano, what were Mr. Dark’s instructions for you?”
“He asked me to send the information to the INS,” Calzano said. “Which was silly, because that’s where I got much of this information. He also wanted photos of Gabriela Ricardo. He said, ‘I want to see the expression on his face when I show him those.’”
