Black Mark, page 6
“Hey, Mick,” he said. “You look like shit.”
I sat down and put my notes in front of me. “You’re not exactly Miss Universe, yourself.”
Tony was about to say something else when the receptionist appeared with coffee. I took a sip, then sat back and sighed.
“Long night, huh?” Tony said.
Before I could answer, Kristen Campione walked in. She was short, dark-haired, pushing fifty, and so full of pent-up energy she was like a firecracker about to go off.
“Tony, Mick,” she said, nodding at us. She pulled out a chair, slapped a stack of documents down on the table, and sat. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Without waiting for an answer, she fanned her documents out, put on reading glasses and pursed her lips. “We have the summary judgment response due in a week and the hearing on it in two. If we lose, we’re dead. What have we got?”
Kristen pushed her reading glasses up on top of her head and looked at us expectantly.
Tony looked at me. “Mick?”
I made a mental note to kick his ass later. “Okay, I took a pass at the documents you gave me. Good news and bad news. The bad news is that there are no smoking guns. No email saying ‘let’s cheat the customers’, or anything like that. The good news is that the documents do raise some questions.”
I spread my notes out in front of me, trying to decipher my late-night scrawl. Kristen raised her eyebrows, but not in a bad way. She was old-school enough to like seeing someone work longhand.
“If you look at this timeline,” I said, sliding a sheet over for her to look at, “you’ll see that the inspection dates and construction sign offs don’t quite align. There’s normally a minimum of a week between sign off and inspection, but on these buildings it’s much less. The same day, in one case. It could be just a scheduling thing, but to me it smacks of collusion. It’s worth digging deeper.”
Kristen spun the sheet around to read it, then frowned and handed it back.
“Okay, good. We’ll file supplemental discovery on that. Before we do, Tony, go talk to those inspectors. See if you can get anything out of them before they lawyer up. Mick, what else?”
“There are some blueprints in the documents they handed over. It wouldn’t hurt to have a construction expert look at them, to see if they’re up to code. And if they are, maybe have the expert check out the mall itself and see whether the build matches the blueprints. Could be they cut some corners.”
Kristen nodded. “We’ve had an expert look at the buildings already, but I agree it would be worth having them review the blueprints too.”
“That’s all I’ve got right now,” I said. “I want to take another pass at the documents, but I doubt there will be much more. The answers aren’t buried in that pile of paper.”
“They never are,” she said, “but you’ve made a good start. Okay, next on the agenda. Background on our plaintiffs. Tony, any skeletons we need to worry about in their closets?”
I didn’t listen to Tony’s answer. My mind kept racing back to Elliott’s situation and the trouble I could be in too. Wading through paperwork last night, had got me thinking. Maybe I could spend some time digging into Betts’s business dealings, to see if anything unusual came up. Maybe help Elliott out and help myself at the same time.
The meeting wrapped up without me needing to be involved again. Tony was late for another appointment, so he left in a hurry. I got up to leave.
Kristen gathered up her stack of documents. “Having fun, Mick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Being back in the saddle. It’s been a while since you’ve done legal work.”
“It has.”
“Well? Are you enjoying it?”
What a question. I loved it for giving me the old thrill of the hunt. I hated it for reminding me of what I’d thrown away. I wanted to go back to the way things used to be. And I didn’t like being reminded of how it made me feel.
I shrugged. “Pays the bills.”
Kristen raised her eyebrows. “Right. Good catch on the inspection dates,” she said. “Let me know if you find anything else.”
“Will do,” I said, surprised by how much Kristen’s compliment meant to me.
“Oh, and Mick? I meant it when I said good work. I’ve got a couple of other cases coming up where I could use some help. Are you interested?”
“Sure. Call me if you need me.” I managed to keep my voice calm, but civil cases were indoor work with no heavy lifting and paid three times what I was getting for the various gigs I’d been subsisting on lately. Hell yeah, I was interested.
I pictured being able to pay my rent on time. It was a strange but pleasant feeling. I’d never made much money, even when I was a defense lawyer. Most of my clients weren’t exactly rich. That had always been a bone of contention between Sarah and me. She wanted me to switch to some other area of law, like real estate or mergers and acquisitions, where my clients could afford to pay their bills. But I wasn’t interested in helping wealthy people move piles of money around. When we divorced, Sarah cited irreconcilable differences; the biggest difference being between what I earned and what she wanted to spend.
It was hot out again, so I didn’t feel like going home. Since I was downtown, I hit up an old haunt. The Lotus Tavern was a Portland institution about a five-minute walk away. I hadn’t been there since I’d been disbarred, and I felt like catching up. As the closest bar to both the county and federal courts, the Lotus did strong traffic in drinking lawyers. It was one of the few bars west of the river that could make a Top Ten Portland Dive Bars list, and to be honest, I missed the place.
It looked the same: Faded Oregon Trail mural above the mirrored bar, walls stained yellow by decades of smoke, the smell of stale fryer grease hanging heavy in the air. It felt like home. I didn’t recognize the bartender, but that wasn’t a surprise. Lawyers are hard to deal with when they’re alone and sober. When they’re drinking in large groups, they’re a nightmare. Staff turnover was high at the Lotus.
Most lawyers weren’t done with work yet, so the place wasn’t too busy. I parked myself at the bar and ordered a beer. It felt good just being there. I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. My short brown hair was losing the battle against invading gray and my stubble was even worse. I had just turned forty, but the face staring back looked ten years further down the road.
I shrugged at myself and sipped my pint, remembering the times I’d been in the same place. Celebrating victories, drinking away defeats. And the day my career ended. After Judge King called security, to have me removed from the courtroom, I’d come here and bought drinks for everybody in the bar. At first, everyone loved me, but the crowd thinned out as word filtered through about what I’d done. I used to think I lost a lot of friends that day, but later I realized I’d learned who my friends were.
I pulled out my laptop and spent the next couple of hours trawling through online real estate records, pausing only to grab a stale ham sandwich for lunch. I took notes as I went, trying to build a picture of Malik Betts the real estate agent. His business Phoenix Realty had been operating for six years. He worked mostly seller side, and of late his numbers had increased dramatically. So much so, that he was on last year’s list of Portland’s top fifty agents based on volume. He didn’t make the list based on dollars, but that was probably down to him mostly working in poorer neighborhoods like where he and Elliott grew up. In the last couple of years, he’d done mostly condo sales. He worked alone, but he was a member of all the usual trade groups. On the face of it, he was a moderately successful independent real estate agent.
I took down the names of a few recent clients, then checked my watch. It was after five. I stood up and stretched, my shoulders and back stiff from hours spent sitting in the same chair. My neck cracked as I rolled my head from side to side. Christ, I was getting old. I gathered up my notes and laptop. My phone rang as I was about to leave.
“Hello?”
“Mick, it’s Elliott. The news is out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been getting calls non-stop from reporters for the past hour. The first one asked me if I had any comment about the body of Malik Betts being found at my house. I hung up on him and ignored the rest.”
“Shit, that was quick. Did you call Casey?”
“Yeah. She said to play it cool. Easier said than done.”
“No doubt. Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah, there is. There’s a City Council meeting in an hour. The NNC’s proposed ordinance to limit new multi-unit developments is on the agenda, so I need to be there. I could use some help making sure the press keep their distance.”
“Are you sure you need to go?”
“Yeah, I thought about it, and I need to do it. We’ve had too many people working on the ordinance for too long to let it slip just because of me. Besides, Casey told me to carry on with my life.”
“Then count me in,” I said. Working security at nightclubs had taught me plenty about dealing with unruly crowds, and this one should be mostly sober. I could do it in my sleep.
“Thanks,” Elliott said, his voice softer now. “Can you pick me up at the Albina Community Center? I’m up there running an after-school computer education group.”
“No problem. I’m on my way.”
TEN
DOING THE LORD’S WORK
When I got to my car, I pulled out my phone and checked the KOIN news website. Sure enough, the lead headline was “Body Found in Council Candidate’s Yard.” I read the story. It named Betts as the victim, mentioned Elliott by name, and stated that the police had refused to comment on whether he was a suspect, which was tantamount to saying they were sure he did it.
I’d hoped the police would take longer to identify Betts and his connections to Elliott. But now they had and the press was all over it. At least Elliott hadn’t been arrested yet.
I drove up to the Albina Community Center. The NNC had set up a computer lab in a small room off to the side of the main hall. There were two rows of five desks, each occupied by an African American child working away at a computer. The kids looked to be about ten years old. Elliott leaned over one girl’s shoulder, pointing at the screen and offering her tips. Other than his voice, the only sound was the clacking of keys.
Elliott saw me. He finished talking to the girl, patted her on the shoulder, and came over.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“No worries. You holding up okay?”
His pocket buzzed before he could answer. Elliott took his phone out, looked at the screen, then killed the call.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “You heard anything?”
“Not yet.”
“I suppose I’ll be arrested soon?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they leaked the story to the press to try to shake something loose.”
Elliott didn’t look convinced. He checked his watch. “It’s almost six, and the meeting is at 6:45. We should hit the road.”
He turned back to the room. “Okay, gang, it’s time to wrap up. Sign off and shut down, please.”
Audible groans echoed around the room, but the kids did as they were told. They packed up their stuff and left, high-fiving Elliott on their way out. He watched them go, then went around the room to make sure the computers were shut down.
“I’m gonna miss this,” he said.
“You’ll be back here soon enough.”
Elliott didn’t speak as we drove downtown. When we got there, I took a pass by City Hall to see what was happening. From a distance I saw two TV broadcast vans parked outside, their antennae and satellite dishes raised. As we got closer, it became apparent there was a large crowd gathered outside the rotunda entrance. When Elliott saw how many reporters were there, he shook his head.
“That’s worse than I thought,” he said. “You think you can get me through that crowd?”
“Easy.”
We parked and walked back toward the four-story sandstone building.
“Okay, here’s how we play it,” I said. “I’m going in hard. Stay close to my back and hide your eyes with your hand so they can’t get a good face shot. Let’s go.”
The crowd recognized Elliott as soon as we got close. A couple of reporters peeled off toward us, holding microphones and shouting, “Mister Russell! Mister Russell!”
I spread my shoulders to make myself as wide as possible and made a beeline for the front door. The first two reporters stepped back quickly to avoid being run over. As we approached the main crowd, another reporter tried to block my path. I planted my hand on his chest and shoved him back. He stumbled and fell, knocking over a cameraman as he went down. Everyone else got out of our way.
There were two security guards by the oak doors. They swung the doors open, to let Elliott and me through, then held the press pack back.
“Thanks, Mick,” Elliott said. “Can you stay for the meeting? Those guys will still be here when we’re done.”
“Of course.”
We made our way to the council chambers. The meeting hadn’t begun, but Mayor Alioto and the four other council members were already in their seats at the front of the room, facing the public gallery. They were all flicking through papers and muttering to aides. Billy Hinds had a seat in the front row of the gallery, with a space next to him. Elliott went and joined him. The rest of the gallery was almost full, but I found a seat near the back.
I spent most of the meeting playing around on my phone and trying not to nod off. The NNC’s proposed ordinance was the last item on the agenda. When it was called, Elliott and Billy made their way to the speakers’ table in front of the council members.
Mayor Alioto picked up a sheet of paper. “Our final item today is initial reading and comment on a proposed amendment to Title 33, Chapter 270 of the City Code, Planned Unit Developments,” he said. “The amendment, brought forward by the Northeast Neighborhood Coalition, would limit the number of new multi-dwelling structures that can be erected within a given residential zone to one every two years. To begin, Mr. Russell, would you please explain why the NNC believes this amendment is necessary?”
Elliott stood, and a murmur went through the crowd. The news about Betts must have spread.
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Elliott said. “We believe this amendment is necessary, because in recent years, too many members of our community have had their homes taken in the name of profit. The city uses eminent domain to evict families who have been in their homes for generations, so developers can build cookie-cutter condo blocks and get rich by selling the units to people new to the city. In the past five years, twenty-three of these developments have been approved in North Portland and Northeast Portland alone. Over two hundred families have lost their homes and soaring housing costs mean they’ve been forced to leave the neighborhoods they lived in their entire lives. It is tearing our communities apart and it has to stop.”
Elliott sat down. Several people in the gallery tried to speak at once. Mayor Alioto held up his hands.
“Please,” he shouted, “we will take questions from the council first, then the public.” He looked at the people on either side of him. “Commissioner Salmon?”
“Thank you, Mayor,” said the man at the far right of the council seats. His nameplate identified him as Commissioner Rick Salmon. “Mr. Russell, I’m sure you are aware that Portland is facing a housing crisis. Your proposed amendment would make solving this crisis more difficult, by limiting high-density accommodation development. How do you propose to remedy that?”
“Commissioner, I don’t know how to solve a housing crisis,” Elliott said. “I do know that evicting people from their homes and pricing them out of their own neighborhoods isn’t the answer.”
The woman at the other end of the council bench pulled her microphone toward her. “Mr. Russell,” she said, “the city already has a comprehensive review process designed to prevent the kind of abuses you allege. Is there a need for your amendment?”
“I’m glad you brought that up, Commissioner Eugenie,” Elliott replied. “You say these developments are approved through an open process. But let me give you an example of how that process works. When the recent Sunshine Portland development on Northeast Rosa Parks was announced, the city requested comments from residents of the area. Forty-six different African American families submitted comments opposing it. The development was approved anyway, and not one of those families even received a response. Do you know why? Because Black folks have no voice in Portland. They are evicted from their homes and forced to leave neighborhoods their families have lived in for generations because they can’t afford to stay. That’s why we need the amendment.”
Eugenie sat back, frowning. Mayor Alioto looked along the bench, but neither of the other commissioners responded.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll take public comments now.” He looked around the room, then pointed at someone. “Mr. Charles Sinclair, we’ll hear from you first.”
A tall, sixtyish man with gray hair and a matching suit stood up. “Thank you, Mayor,” he said. “Mr. Russell, I understand your concern. But surely you agree that Portland is facing a housing crisis? We have a homeless problem, that’s getting worse by the day, and the only way to solve it is to build more affordable housing.”
“Mr. Sinclair, you claim to be an advocate of affordable housing,” Elliott said. “You’re President and CEO of CDS Construction, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Sinclair said, straightening his shoulders.
“And your company has built fifteen of those developments I mentioned, correct?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Can you tell us what percentage of the units in those developments are allocated to affordable housing?”
Sinclair frowned. “Not off the top of my head, but I assure you our company is committed to providing–”
