Black Mark, page 25
Casey listened some more, then hung up and stared at me.
“What is it?” I said.
“That was Nicole Astert. Officer Sam Kavanagh was attacked and stabbed by another inmate early this morning. He’s dead.”
I stared back at her. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
I felt like someone had kicked my legs out from under me. With Kavanagh dead and the video excluded, we had no case. The look on Casey’s face told me she was thinking the same thing.
“That was no accident,” I said, eventually.
“Of course it wasn’t. Not that it matters. We’re fucked either way.”
“Maybe not. Let’s see if we can dig something out of what happened to Kavanagh. And we can still use Elliott’s shooting to show the jury something weird is going on.”
“We can’t put a dead man on the stand, Mick.”
“So, what do we do, then? We can’t just give up.”
“There’s something else. The prosecution has offered a plea deal. They’ll take the death penalty off the table if Elliott pleads guilty and does twenty-five years without parole.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I know. We have to come up with something in whatever time we have left.”
Casey tried to look defiant, but her shoulders were slumped. I felt it too. Ever since he’d been arrested, Elliott’s case had been hanging from a cliff by a frayed rope, and now the last thread had just snapped.
“Look, there’s no point sitting around moping,” Casey said. “Let’s go see Elliott, talk to him about the plea offer.”
“Okay.” I stood up, still feeling numb. Clearly, Kavanagh had been killed to silence him. Sinclair had to be behind it. But what could we do about it? The police weren’t likely to dig too deep into what happened. Cops don’t do well in jail. No doubt whoever killed Kavanagh would use that as an excuse. Probably some guy already doing life without parole, more than happy to shank a cop in return for a few bucks for them or a family member.
We drove out to Inverness to see Elliott, neither of us saying much. Kavanagh’s murder had left me feeling like my insides had been ripped out. I had nothing to say, nothing to do, nothing left.
We parked, went inside, passed through the metal detectors and reported to the duty guard. He logged our entry and another guard led us through to the waiting room. After half an hour, the guard came back and told us that Elliott was ready.
Casey sat opposite Elliott. Normally I liked to stand, but today I sat beside her, not sure my legs would hold me through what was coming.
“What is it?” Elliott said.
“I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news,” Casey said.
“What do you mean?”
Casey looked at me, a plea in her eyes.
“Bad news, buddy,” I said. “Sam Kavanagh got shanked this morning. He’s dead.”
Elliott threw his arms up. “Oh, that’s just fucking perfect. First the video gets excluded, now this. Unbelievable. So, what happens now?”
“Trial starts in three weeks. Which means we’ve got that long to come up with something.”
“Come up with what? We still don’t have the video or a witness.”
I shrugged. “Right now, I don’t know. But we’ll find something.” I tried to sound convincing, but the look on Elliott’s face told me it wasn’t working.
“There’s something else,” Casey said. “The State has offered you a plea deal. They’ll agree not to seek the death penalty if you plead guilty and accept a twenty-five-year minimum sentence.”
“Fuck that,” Elliott snapped. “I ain’t taking no plea deal.”
Casey held up a hand. “I agree you shouldn’t take that deal. But what if I could get the sentence reduced further, like to fifteen years? I can’t promise anything, but I might be able to make that happen. You’d be out before you’re fifty.”
“I don’t think you heard me, Counselor,” Elliott said, his voice low and hard. “I am not taking a plea deal. I don’t care if I rot in this shithole for the rest of my life. I ain’t never saying I killed Malik Betts when I know damn well I didn’t.”
“Please, take some time to think about it. With Kavanagh dead, your chances at trial aren’t good. A plea might be your best option.”
“Think about it? Ain’t nothing else to do in here but think about it. Twenty-five fucking years,” Elliott muttered. “Locked up in this shithole for being a Black man with an attitude. Same old shit. They think that’s going to shut me up. No, fuck them. No deals, Counselor. Not now, not ever.”
“Please, Elliott, think about it,” Casey said, her voice breaking. “It’s better than the death penalty.”
“Maybe for you,” he said. “Not for me.”
“Okay. I understand.” Casey wiped her eyes and stood up. “I need to go.”
She banged on the door and the guard let her out.
Elliott looked at me. “Be real with me, Mick. What chance have I got?”
“I think you know,” I said. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Yeah, one more uppity nigger shot down. I ain’t surprised. I always wondered how they’d do it.
“People been telling me for years to keep my head down. Warning me that the high and mighty don’t like a Black man getting in their way. When the first round of riots started I knew they’d come for me; I just didn’t know how or when. Now I guess I do.” He pushed himself away from the table and nodded at the door. “You better go see how she’s doing.”
Casey was already in the car when I got there, staring straight ahead with her hands on the steering wheel.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“I will be.” She took a deep breath. “How does he do it? How does he stay so calm?”
“Beats me. But he’s one strong dude, I can tell you that.”
“Yeah, he is. I don’t know about you, but I can’t go back to the office right now. Do you want to get a drink?”
FORTY-FIVE
LAST CHANCE SALOON
We ended up at Paddy’s. It was Casey’s suggestion. As one of Portland’s more expensive and classy bars, it wouldn’t have been my choice, but I didn’t object. Besides, given how today had gone, I didn’t care.
I grabbed a Scotch on the rocks for me and a glass of Chardonnay for Casey while she settled in to one of the back booths. When I put the drinks down, she grabbed hers and downed two thirds of it in a single go.
I took a drink and rattled the ice in my glass. “So we’ve got less than a month to perform miracles.”
“Pretty much.” Casey sighed. “What do you think happened with Kavanagh?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Whoever’s behind this whole thing didn’t want him spilling his guts on the witness stand.”
“But why kill him? If you’ve been trusting him to do your dirty work for this long, why not just pay him off?”
“My guess is they’re worried about his attempted murder charge for shooting Elliott. They don’t want him giving them up in return for a good plea deal. Better not to take that chance.”
“You’re probably right,” Casey said. She drained her wine and gestured at me with the empty glass. “Want another?”
“Sure.”
I sat back and looked around while Casey went to get the drinks. The after work crowd was already trickling in. More suits and ties than your average drinking crowd. Unlike most bars in Portland, a beard and a plaid shirt put you in the minority at Paddy’s. The place liked to present an image, with its carefully maintained Victorian interior and expansive array of liquor bottles lining the mirrored wall behind the bar. There was even a rolling library ladder for staff to reach the upper shelves. But behind the façade, it was just like the dive bars I usually frequented. A place where people came when they needed to push life away for a while.
I watched the crowd. Sam Kavanagh was probably already lying on a cold mortuary slab. Did he tell someone about our call? Did I put him there? Maybe, maybe not. It didn’t matter now.
Casey put our drinks on the table and sat down with a heavy sigh.
“I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach,” she said.
“I’m not surprised.”
“Is this what it felt like for you? At the end?”
I knew what she meant. “Every time I lost a case, I felt like this. Now I’m not even a lawyer and it still feels like shit.”
“I get that.” Casey took a drink. “You know, part of me is glad Elliott won’t take a deal. Even though it means we have to fight for a lost cause in court. That’s your specialty, right?” She forced a smile.
“Yeah, there’s a reason they used to call me that.”
“Speaking of which, you should get a lawyer too. Buchanan’s been threatening you with accessory liability all along. With Elliott likely to be convicted, he’s going to come back at you.”
“Let him try. I’ve got a good story. We found a body and called the cops. They should be thanking me, not arresting me.”
“But what about the gun you tossed in the river?”
I laughed. “He won’t go there. He’d have to admit he knew about the gun. And since it was planted by whoever framed Elliott, I’d love to hear him explain that.”
“I hope you’re right.” Casey took another drink. “You know, this isn’t even my first murder case. But it is the first one where my client is innocent. It sucks.”
“Are you okay?” I said.
“I keep thinking about Elliott spending the rest of his life locked up because I lost his case.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just so unfair.”
Casey put her head in her hands and sobbed, her chest heaving with each breath. A few heads turned our way. I moved around to her side of the table, then put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She buried her face in my chest and wept. I held her, making quiet soothing noises to the back of her head.
Eventually, she recovered enough to lift her head. I handed her a napkin and she blew her nose.
“Thanks, Mick. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, my arm still around her.
Casey looked me in the eye, then rested her head on my shoulder, her breath still coming in jerky half-sobs. I stroked her hair and we sat there for a while. Gradually, her breathing became more normal. She sat up slowly, a half-smile on her face.
“Thanks. That was nice.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I moved back to my seat and took a drink. Casey must have sensed my discomfort, because she stood up and straightened her hair.
“I should go home,” she said. “See you in the office tomorrow?”
“Of course. Bright and early.”
Casey left, her unfinished glass of wine still on the table.
I sat back and sipped my Scotch. I could still smell Casey, and the feeling of her body pressed against mine had stirred something I’d buried for too long. What kind of fucked up day was this? I forced myself to remember Elliott, locked up at Inverness, dealing with the fact that his last hope had gone. I had to keep working for him. Nothing else mattered.
One question kept running through my head: now what? We had three weeks to prepare a defense for Elliott, but we had nothing to work with. We couldn’t use the video of the cops shooting Elliott. Our star witness was dead. All we held was a busted flush.
No matter how I tried to twist it, I kept coming to the same conclusion. Working this case through the legal system could only end one way—with Elliott convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. If I was going to prevent that from happening, I had to find a different way to do it. And I’d had enough of wallowing in my past and feeling sorry for myself. My buddy’s life was on the line. It was time to step up.
I was convinced Kavanagh killed Betts, and pretty damn sure Sinclair paid him to do it. But why? Why kill the goose that laid the golden egg? In my experience, there was only one motive stronger than money. Fear.
What was Sinclair afraid of? Find that, and maybe, just maybe, I could crack the case. And I had an idea of where to look.
I finished my drink and called Tony. He answered immediately.
“Hey, Tony, you busy?”
“No. What’s up?”
“It’s a long story.” I told him about Kavanagh being killed, what it meant for our case, and what I wanted to do about it.
“It’s worth a try,” he said. “When do you want to hit it?”
“No time like the present. Meet me at my place?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up.
Tony was waiting outside my apartment when I got home, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. I unlocked the door and led us both inside.
“Tell me more about what happened to Kavanagh,” he said, as he sat at my kitchen table and took out his computer.
I grabbed my laptop and a couple of beers, then sat down opposite him. “You know as much as I do. He got shanked in jail this morning.”
“Shit, man. And you think Sinclair had it done to shut him up?”
“I’m sure of it. Not that it matters.”
“Yeah, ‘jailed cop killed by convict’ is an easy story to sell. So now what?”
I opened the beers and handed him one. “Like I told you on the phone, there’s only one way to save Elliott now. We have to find out why Sinclair had Betts killed. You said it yourself—the answer is probably in the information your hacker dude pulled for us. He told us those layers of shell companies meant there’s some kind of financial bad action in play. So, we’re going to sit here and go through the data until we figure out what it was.”
“How do you want to split it up?”
“You take the property sales. I’ve been over those a bunch of times already and didn’t see much beyond Betts paying over market value for condos and selling them at a loss. Maybe another pair of eyes will catch something I missed. I’ll work on the construction supply business.”
We put our heads down and got to work. I opened the file of transactions for Starlight Supply, the construction supply company Betts had owned—or the company that was owned by a shell company, which was owned by another shell company, which was owned by Betts. Unfortunately, there were thousands of rows. I took a deep breath and started at the top.
The transactions didn’t look strange, at first glance. They were mostly bulk orders for various construction materials: drywall, lumber, cement, rebar and so on. Sinclair’s company CDS Construction was by far the biggest customer, accounting for over ninety percent of the transactions. I tried different sort and filter combinations to change the way I was viewing the data, but still nothing stood out.
After an hour of finding nothing, I stood up and stretched.
“Found anything?” Tony said.
“No. You?”
“No. Betts was definitely selling the condos for below market value, but not by a lot. Just enough to make sure his units sold faster than the rest.”
I had a thought. “Did he buy the condos for cash or finance the purchases?”
Tony poked away at his computer. “Looks like mostly cash purchases. Money’s coming from an account at a bank in the Cayman Islands.”
“That’s unusual.” Something else occurred to me. I leaned over and looked at my screen again. Maybe there was something strange in the numbers after all.
“Hold on a second.” I went into my bedroom and came out with two bankers boxes.
“What have you got there?” Tony asked.
“It’s the discovery materials for that construction defect civil case we worked on for Kristen Campione. There’s a pile of supply orders in here too. I want to check something.”
I rummaged through the first box, but it wasn’t the one I was looking for. I opened the second and dug through the papers until I found what I needed. There were sheafs of supply orders for building materials. That case had been about strip malls and business premises, but the properties were similar in size to some of CDS’s condo developments. I took a few of the paper orders and compared them to the Starlight transactions. The difference was obvious. I checked some more and the same pattern came up each time.
“Okay, I need to check one more thing.” I pulled up the County Recorder’s property transfer records. “Help me out here, Tony. In the 21 North development, how many condos did Betts buy from Sinclair?”
Tony ran his finger down his screen. “Looks like eleven.”
“Interesting. How about in Tabor Commons?”
Another pause while Tony checked the numbers. “I count twelve in that one.”
I shook my head. “Fuck me, you were right. The answer was right in front of my face.”
“You found something?”
“More than that,” I said. “I know what Betts and Sinclair were up to, and I know why Sinclair had Betts killed.”
FORTY-SIX
BOLD STRATEGY
I showed Tony what I’d found, then explained what it meant in terms of Sinclair’s business and his relationship with Betts. We spent ten minutes going back and forth between different documents and transactions, comparing figures and dates, creating a trail that tied the whole thing together. When we were done, Tony shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.
“Damn, that’s crazy,” he said. “What now? We have to take this to the cops, right?”
“No. Sinclair is untouchable in this city. He’s tight with the mayor and Buchanan just about lost his job the last time he tried to investigate him.”
“But we’ve got the proof! It’s right here in black and white.”
“Doesn’t matter. I guarantee they’d fake up some business records to explain it all away.”
Tony frowned at me. “What, then?”
“Good question. I have no idea.” I paused, then checked the time. Just after 5 pm. “Wait a minute. Maybe there is something we can do.”
I looked up Gerald Whitehead, Sinclair’s lawyer from his deposition, and called his office. A female voice answered.
