Black Mark, page 15
Casey gestured at the pile of discovery papers. “What do you think?”
“To use a technical term, I think we’re deeply fucked,” I said.
“Yeah, pretty much.” Casey sighed. “That gun store owner’s testimony hurts us. If the jury hears that Elliott bought a gun two days before the shooting, it’s all over. Any thoughts on what we can do about it?”
“Not at first glance. I can’t see any grounds to exclude it. Which means our only option is to find a way to wreck his credibility on the witness stand.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Yeah. Let me see what I can get when I visit him tomorrow. And we can have Tony poke into his background, see if that turns anything up.”
“Okay.” Casey went to stand, then stopped. “There’s one more thing. Buchanan called me this morning. They’re transferring Elliott to Inverness on Monday.”
“Could this day get any better?” I said, shaking my head ruefully. “All right. Let’s go break the bad news to Elliott.”
TWENTY-FIVE
BAD NEWS COMES IN THREES
Casey had parked at the building, so we took her car to the hospital. It was a Subaru Forester, which wasn’t a surprise. You can’t throw a stone without hitting a Subaru in Portland. Casey’s was about fifteen years old, with a snowboard rack on the roof and the clear coat faded off much of its green paint. Given the state of Casey’s office, I expected the interior to be covered in paperwork and fast-food wrappers, but when I got in it was showroom clean and tidy. I raised my eyebrows.
“What?” Casey said, as she put her seat belt on.
“Nice ride, Counselor.”
“I’m not a complete slob, you know.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
Casey smiled, started the car and drove off.
Elliott was propped up in bed when we got to the hospital. He still wore the stormtrooper body brace, but the morphine drip was gone and he looked much stronger than the last time I’d seen him. There was a wheelchair parked by his bed.
“Is that for you?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m allowed to spend two hours a day out of bed.”
I was about to say something positive, but that meant he was closer to being moved to jail, so I just nodded.
Casey sat in the visitor’s chair. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Elliott replied. “Stronger.”
“Good.” Casey opened her briefcase. “We got discovery materials from the prosecution today and there are a few things we need to discuss. First, we got the pathologist’s report. It puts Malik’s time of death as between noon and midnight on Friday, June 14. That’s the day of the awards dinner, so we know you were with Mick from about seven to eleven. Where were you the rest of the time?”
Elliott put his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Let me see. I worked until about two or so, then I had a meeting with a couple of donors and a campaign planning session later that afternoon. I’d have to check my calendar for exact times, but I think I was home at around four. Then I hung out and worked on my speech until Mick picked me up.”
“Three hours,” I said. “Plenty of time to find Malik Betts, shoot him and bury his body.”
Elliott glared at me.
“Sorry, buddy, but that’s what the prosecutor will tell the jury.”
“Mick’s right,” Casey said. “You didn’t have any visitors? Make any calls?”
“No, not that I remember. But that’s a good point. Wouldn’t my cell phone show I was at home the whole time?”
“It’ll show your cell phone was at home the whole time. Which is why you left it at home when you went to kill Betts.” I held my hands up. “Again, that’s just what the prosecutor will say.”
“We’ll pull your phone records, just in case,” Casey said. “Maybe you sent a text, or did something else that puts you in the same place as your phone.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Elliott replied, without much conviction.
“We’ll interview your neighbors too. See if anyone saw you coming and going, or saw your car parked out front.”
“Okay. What’s next?”
“There are a couple of witness statements I want to ask you about,” Casey said. “The first one is from a woman who saw your fight with Betts at the NNC meeting. She said you threatened to kill him. Did you?”
Elliott tried to shrug, then winced in pain as his body brace hitched up. “I don’t know. Maybe. It was a fight.”
“Okay, let’s leave that for now. The other one is more important. A gun store owner claims you bought a 9mm handgun from him two days before Betts was killed. I’m guessing that’s not true?”
“No way!” Elliott snapped. “That’s bullshit. I never bought no gun.”
“I thought not,” Casey replied. “We’re working on how to deal with that.”
“Phone records,” I said. “While we’re checking them to see if Elliott was at home at the time of the murder, we can check whether he was anywhere near the gun store on that day. Like I said before, it’s not perfect, but it could help.”
Casey nodded. “Good idea. Now, Elliott, there’s one more thing. Detective Buchanan called this morning, to inform me that you’re being transferred to Inverness jail on Monday.”
“It just ain’t my day, is it?”
“I know it’s small consolation, but there are worse jails than Inverness,” Casey said. “It’s mostly nonviolent offenders. And we’re still working on our investigation. Something will come up.”
“Easy for you to say, Counselor. You ain’t the one going to jail on Monday.”
Casey found something to busy herself with in her briefcase. I reached out and put my hand on Elliott’s arm.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” I said.
Elliott looked at me sheepishly. “Yeah, there is. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“You want me to help you into the wheelchair?”
“It’s more than that,” he said. He rapped his knuckles on his body brace. “I can’t reach below my waist.” He looked up at me, eyebrows raised.
I shook my head and smiled. “Oh man, if I’d known this was in the job description I’d have run a mile.”
I helped Elliott into the wheelchair and pushed him down the hall to the bathroom. He was able to lift himself onto the toilet using the wall bars. We managed the rest of the process without making a mess or looking each other in the eye, then washed up and went back to his room.
“Thanks, Mick,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“Any time, buddy. You know that.” I smiled, trying to look calm. But all I could think about was Elliott in a body cast and wheelchair at Inverness jail. I thought about our bathroom visit. Good luck getting a prison guard to help. How else would he manage? No doubt about it, life for my friend was going to get a whole lot worse.
We said our goodbyes and left. Casey and I didn’t speak on the way to the car, both lost in our thoughts about Elliott’s predicament.
We left the parking lot and headed back to the office.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Casey said, “but Elliott will be fine.”
“No, he won’t. Being in jail in his condition is going to be dreadful. But I’m more worried about keeping him safe. Think about it. Someone’s trying to frame him for murder. A cop shot him for no good reason. Whoever is behind all this wants Elliott out of the way real bad. What’s to stop them paying some Aryan Nation goon to shank him in the shower?”
“I know. I’ll talk to Buchanan and make sure Elliott has vulnerable population status. In fact, I’ll petition Judge Obrecht for it tomorrow. Make it official.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t convinced it would help, but I didn’t know what else we could do. Elliott was going to jail and once inside, he’d be beyond our reach. I stared out the window and said a silent prayer for my friend.
TWENTY-SIX
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
The next morning, I got up early. Shooter’s Armory didn’t open until 11, so I dived into online research on Donald Martin and his store. It was on Northeast Sandy Boulevard, out past 82nd Avenue in the Roseway neighborhood. Roseway was a rundown part of town where trailer parks sat side by side with used car lots and pawn shops. The store’s website had an American flag and a “Thin Blue Line” banner at the top, but I didn’t read too much into that. After all, it was no surprise to see a gun store owner on the right of the political spectrum, especially when that same owner had come forward to testify against the local Black Lives Matter organizer. According to its website, the store sold a wide range of guns and ammunition, and had an indoor shooting range at the back. They offered discounts to serving and former members of law enforcement and the military.
Donald Martin the individual wasn’t exactly a surprise either. He was active on social media and had recently posted pictures of himself at Proud Boys rallies and other white supremacist events. He didn’t have a criminal record. The store’s information page mentioned he was ex-military, but that was all I could find. Everything was consistent with him wanting to testify against Elliott, but it wasn’t enough to provoke him into fabricating a gun sale to do so. Especially when his witness statement identified exactly the type of gun that had been planted at Elliott’s house. There had to be some connection between Donald Martin and whoever was framing Elliott. I called Tony and asked him to see whether he could find anything.
I’d unearthed all that I could by poking around on the internet, so I decided to hit the road. I figured Donald Martin might not respond well to lawyer attire, so I changed into jeans, work boots and a flannel shirt, then drove out to Shooter’s Armory.
The gun store occupied a squat brick building, with a pothole-filled parking lot out front. Its tan paint was faded and stained, and heavy iron bars had been fitted over the windows and door. A brass bell jingled as I entered.
The man behind the counter matched the photos of Donald Martin I’d seen online. “Hi there. Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah, I hope so,” I said, trying to sound nervous. I looked around the store. There were racks of gun bags and accessories in the middle, and boxes of bullets filled a couple of shelves on the right wall, under a sign saying ‘Please don’t open the ammo.’ A couple of AR-15 assault rifles hung on the wall behind the counter, and the glass display case was full of handguns. Between them stood the man who had greeted me. He looked about fifty, shorter than average, with a salt and pepper goatee and a paunch that stretched the buttons on his red plaid shirt.
I walked over to the counter, which had several “Thin Blue Line” stickers on the glass.
“I, uh, I think I need to buy a gun.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” he said. “My name’s Don. What kind of gun are you looking for?”
“Hey, Don, I’m Gary,” I replied. “Um, I’m not sure what I need. Some kind of handgun, I guess. I want to be able to protect myself and my family, you know? I mean these riots, it’s terrifying. This shit’s been going on too long.”
“Yeah. Drives me crazy to see those punks tearing up our town. I got a lot of cops as customers. I can’t believe they have to deal with that crap.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s getting so this town isn’t safe for regular folks anymore. Hell, the whole country is going that way. I wish we could do something about it.”
Martin lifted his chin. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna do what I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know that punk Elliott Russell? The BLM guy who killed that gangbanger? Well, he bought the gun he used from me. And the cops want me to testify at his trial.”
“No way! Are you gonna do it?”
“Damn right I am. Like you say, we all have to do something to make that shit stop.”
“Wow, that’s crazy. When did he come in here?”
“Two days before he shot that guy.”
I continued playing dumb. “No way! How did you know it was him?”
“I saw his picture on the news.” He nodded slowly. “I reported it right away. Anyway, tell me again what kind of gun you’re looking for?”
“Uh, something for protection. I don’t know much about guns, but my buddy has a SIG Sauer and he says it’s awesome. You carry those?”
“Sure.” He opened the back of the display case, took a couple of handguns out, and laid them on the counter. “Either of these should be good for what you need.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
Martin launched into a sales pitch about the two SIG Sauer models he’d chosen. I tried to look interested while at the same time fighting the urge to climb over the counter and choke him out.
“I can do the P938 as a package with a bag and two boxes of ammo for six fifty. The P365X will run you a hundred bucks more, but the magazine holds more shells and honestly, it’s a simpler weapon for a beginner like you. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “Let me think about it. What time do you close today? I can come back later this afternoon.”
“No problem, take your time. We close at five every day.”
“Great, thanks.” I turned to leave.
I got in my car and called Billy Hinds to check a couple of things, then called Casey.
“Hey, Mick, what’s up?”
“Not much,” I said, eyeing the door to Shooter’s Armory to make sure Donald Martin didn’t emerge. “I just got done with our friendly neighborhood gun store owner.”
“What’s your take on Mr. Martin?”
“He’s pretty much what we expected. Middle-aged white bread guy, lots of cops for customers, big time Thin Blue Line supporter. He’ll come across well when he first gets on the stand, but you can go after him on cross. I found a bunch of hardcore right-wing stuff on his social media. And Oregon requires background checks for a handgun purchase. There’s no way he ran one on Elliott, because it would have flagged his felony conviction.”
“He’ll probably just say Elliott used someone else’s ID.”
“So, you ask him how he recognized Elliott from TV, but didn’t recognize that the ID Elliott used wasn’t his. Better still, let’s subpoena all the background checks he ran on June 12th. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t a single African American customer among them.”
“Good thinking,” Casey said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I called Billy Hinds and had him check Elliott’s calendar for June 12th. He had a couple of meetings, but there are gaps in there big enough for him to be able to drive out to Shooter’s and back. Billy says he’ll get witnesses who can testify Elliott was at work all day, though.”
“Okay. It would help if they were telling the truth. Much harder for the DA to make them look stupid on the witness stand that way.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“Good. Maybe this guy won’t be so bad for us after all.” Casey sighed. “Are you coming to the office?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way.”
Casey and I spent the rest of the day doing legal research and drafting our motion in response to the discovery. We wanted the judge to force the prosecution to turn over material related to Elliott’s arrest and Sam Kavanagh’s disciplinary record, and to prevent them from bringing up Elliott’s criminal record at trial. The hearing would be a good opportunity to get a read on Judge Obrecht and how he viewed the case. We felt good about the first point—as far as we could tell, the DA had no good argument for not turning over material on Elliott’s arrest and shooting. But the other two points would be interesting. The DA said Kavanagh’s file didn’t exist, and excluding Elliott’s record would be tough. Where the judge came down on those questions would tell us a lot about likely future rulings and help us plan our strategy accordingly. We wrapped up about eight. Casey told me to go home and get some sleep. I said I would, but I knew I wouldn’t catch a wink.
TWENTY-SEVEN
STRANGER DANGER
Monday afternoon, we drove out to Inverness jail to see Elliott. We’d spent the morning finalizing and filing our motions to force the DA to turn over the material on Elliott’s shooting and Kavanagh’s disciplinary file, and to exclude Elliott’s criminal record. Around the time we finished, Buchanan called to tell us Elliott had been transferred and was now in protective custody. Rather than trust him, we decided to make sure the protection was adequate ourselves.
Inverness jail was a Multnomah County facility, just off of Interstate 205 up by the Columbia River. It mostly housed first-time offenders and people awaiting trial on a variety of charges. It was relatively modern, and not as overcrowded and cramped as many other jails. But it still had its share of violence, so we needed to know Elliott would be safe.
Casey turned off the Interstate at Airport Way. A couple of quick right turns had us in the Inverness parking lot, where she pulled into a visitor’s space. The jail looked like a pile of giant concrete boxes stacked on top of each other. The gray walls were almost entirely blank, broken up only by a few narrow windows. We went inside, signed in and took a seat in the waiting area.
I’d spent a lot of time in this room, waiting for meetings with clients. It usually took about an hour and today was no exception. I killed time flicking through an old copy of Sports Illustrated. Casey worked her phone, her heel tapping idly on the floor.
Eventually we were called for our turn. A corrections officer led us through to the visiting area. Unlike many state and federal prisons, Inverness hadn’t switched to video- or phone-only meetings with inmates. It still had a series of four Perspex-walled rooms, each with a table bolted to the floor and a couple of blue plastic chairs.
The officer led us to the end room, let us in, then closed the door behind us. Elliott was already inside, sitting at the table in his wheelchair. He had on orange jail overalls, and his full-body harness had been replaced by a contraption with a T-shaped brace across his shoulders and a rigid metal rod down the back. Three sets of black elastic straps held it in place, pulled tight across his shoulders, chest and waist. It looked even less comfortable than the stormtrooper outfit had been.
