Black Mark, page 9
“Damn right I do.”
“I can’t pay you much.”
“I’m not doing it for the money.”
“All right,” Casey said, “we’ll give it a try.”
“Good. Maybe now we can talk about more important things, like Elliott’s case.”
“There’s not much to talk about right now. There won’t even be an arraignment until Elliott is well enough to participate.” Casey gestured at a stack of folders on her desk. “It’s a good thing, in a way. Gives me time to clear some of these other cases so I can focus on Elliott’s defense.”
“I assume you’re thinking SOD defense here?” SOD was a lawyer acronym for ‘some other dude,’ as in ‘some other dude did it.’
“Yeah. At least until we get discovery, which won’t be until after the arraignment.”
“From what the doctor said, that could be weeks away,” I said. “I’m not going to sit on my ass and do nothing while we wait. Besides, there’s an important question we need to answer.”
“What question?”
“Remember what you told Elliott? The cops didn’t have probable cause to arrest him because there was no evidence linking him to the actual killing. Well, they’ve got something now. What is it?”
“I have no idea,” Casey said.
“Me neither,” I replied. “But I’m going to find out.”
FOURTEEN
ALL IN THE FAMILY
The sun blasted my eyes, as I turned off the Ross Island Bridge, south onto Highway 43. I winced, pulled the visor down and pushed my sunglasses up tight against my face. It was a hot, sunny Tuesday morning, a week after Elliott’s shooting, and I was on my way to Lake Oswego to talk to Malik Betts’s father.
I’d spent the past week researching Betts’s business dealings without learning anything interesting, so I figured it was time to go knock on doors and ask some questions. Betts’s family was a good place to start. There wasn’t much information available publicly, so I called Tony for help, and he sent me an email with some names and addresses.
I drove along the river, the sun glaring off the Willamette’s muddy brown surface. The road swooped down and right, into downtown Lake Oswego, with its high-end boutiques and art galleries. Lake Oswego was one of Portland’s richest and most exclusive areas. For much of its history, you needed more than just money to buy a place here. A small group of real estate agents handled all the town’s property transactions, and they’d only sell to the right kind of people. Given that Lake Oswego used to be known as Lake No Negro, Betts senior must have had some serious juice to get in.
Dr. Marcus Betts lived with his wife in a Hamptons-style Dutch Colonial on Uplands Ridge, between the Lake Oswego Country Club and the lake itself. I parked in front and walked up the curving driveway to double front doors, painted pristine white and set between square columns. I hit the brass doorbell button.
A tall, thin African American man answered the door. He wore khaki slacks and a green cardigan over a white business shirt. There were patches of gray in his neatly trimmed hair. His face was drawn tight, as though his skin was being pulled back by a clip. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked somewhat dazed.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Doctor Betts?” I replied. He nodded. “My name is Mick Ward. I’m here about your son.”
Betts frowned at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Can I come in please? We need to talk.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Please, it’s important.” I stepped forward, keen to take my opportunity while Betts was off guard. Sure enough, he stepped back and let me in.
The door opened onto an immaculately furnished sitting room: a floral print sofa and chairs surrounded by polished wood tables, and a large wall unit containing photographs and commemorative plates. Most of the photos were of Dr. Betts with prominent Portland society figures: the mayor, Clyde Drexler, Paul Allen and a bunch of other guys in suits that I didn’t recognize. The opposite wall was dominated by a large crucifix. A woman I guessed was Dr. Betts’s wife stood by one of the armchairs, trembling and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“What’s going on here?” Dr. Betts asked.
“Doctor Betts, I’m very sorry about your son,” I began. “I know it’s no consolation to you, but I understand what you’re going through.”
I watched his face for some sign of emotion, but none came. I pressed on.
“I assume the police told you that they know who killed your son?”
“They did. That Russell guy, the one who’s running for City Council.” Doctor Betts spat out the words like they were rotten food.
“They’re wrong. Elliott Russell didn’t kill Malik.”
“I think the police know what they’re doing.”
“I wish that were true, but this is a setup. I’m going to find out who’s behind it, and I need your help to do it. Can I ask you some questions about your relationship with Malik?”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on here.”
“Please, bear with me. Were you and Malik close?”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming in here and asking me that,” he said. Behind him, his wife’s shoulders shook.
“I know this is a terrible time for you,” I said. “Don’t let the police make it worse by going after the wrong man.”
Now, Dr. Betts glared at me and pointed at the door. “Get out of my house.”
The look on his face told me not to push it.
“Okay, I’m leaving. Sorry to have disturbed you. Here’s my number if you change your mind.” I put a card on the table by the door and left.
Outside, I checked my phone for messages. There was something from Tony about the construction defects case, which I figured could wait until later. I was about to get in my car when I heard a voice behind me.
“Mr. Ward, wait.”
I turned around. Betts closed his front door and walked over to me.
“I’m sorry I was abrupt back there,” he said, “but there are things I don’t want Cora to know about. You see, when Malik came back to town, he told me he wanted to be a real estate agent. I helped him get set up, get licensed, and I introduced him to a few people. At first, it seemed to be working. He made some sales, did all right. But then one day he showed up here in a Bentley. I’m not stupid. You don’t make Bentley money selling a couple of condos a month.”
“No, sir, you don’t. Do you know where the money was coming from?”
“Not with any certainty. I just assumed he was up to his old tricks.” He sighed. “Did you mean what you said about this being a setup?”
“Yes, sir. I’m convinced of it.”
He nodded at me, his eyes wide and full of pain. “Then, you find out who’s behind it.”
He walked back inside, his shoulders stooped as though carrying a great weight. I got in my car and headed north on Highway 43. About a mile or two north of Lake Oswego, I pulled into a parking lot overlooking the river, to give myself time to think. Betts Senior saying that Malik had been ‘up to his old tricks’ had to mean he thought he was dealing drugs again. But even then, street dealing doesn’t buy you a Bentley. So, Malik must have been a major player. I’d suspected a gang motive for his murder from the start, and Dr. Betts had seemingly confirmed it. But I needed to be sure, and that meant talking to some gangbangers.
FIFTEEN
JUST ANOTHER SUNDAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD
Back when I was still a lawyer, Elliott had referred me to a couple of his fellow Oakhurst Street Crips after my work on his possession case. Unfortunately, that meant I didn’t know any Bloods—once you represent a member of one gang, no rival gang member will hire you. I didn’t even know which chapter Betts had been in. But I figured I could call Billy Hinds and get him to ask around. The NNC did a lot of work with ex-gang members on both sides, and some of them were less ex than others. Meanwhile, I looked up the ‘Crip’ section in my mental Rolodex and came up with a couple of names who might be able to help.
I figured my best bet was DeAngelo Kennedy. DeAngelo was a smart guy who could have succeeded in any field, and his chosen field was selling drugs. Over the years, I represented him on a string of dealing and possession charges, mostly with good results. Each time, I did all I could to get DeAngelo back on the straight path. But from the day I met him it was obvious that darkness rode him like a racehorse. Eventually, the futility got to me and I stopped trying. Shortly after I’d won him an acquittal in our last case together, someone beat a young crack addict to death in an alley near DeAngelo’s house. The killer was never caught, but word on the street was DeAngelo did it because the guy owed him fifty bucks.
I didn’t like the idea of getting in touch with him again. I used to rationalize defending guys like DeAngelo as the price I had to pay to fight for all the good people our justice system loves to fuck with. Sometimes I even believed it. But it’s hard to convince yourself you’re doing the Lord’s work when you set a guy free and he kills somebody.
But if anyone could get me information to help Elliott, it was DeAngelo. It took me a few days to track him down, but by Sunday I’d established he was still in town, running a crew up in North Portland, in the Vernon neighborhood.
I drove up MLK for a while. In most cities, if you find yourself on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, you’re in the wrong part of town. That used to be true in Portland, but now MLK was all artisanal coffee shops and Whole Foods. I took a right on Ainsworth. A couple more turns got me to some back streets the hipsters hadn’t discovered yet. It didn’t take me long to find the corner I was looking for.
Two African American guys sat on a wall, checking their cell phones and casting surly glares at the rest of the world. They both wore gold chains and big watches encrusted with fake diamonds. Jackpot. I parked my car and walked over.
“I think you’re in the wrong neighborhood,” the taller one said. He pushed himself up from the wall and stood in front of me, hands on hips.
“I know where I am,” I said. “I’m looking for DeAngelo Kennedy. He still live around here?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I told you, genius. I’m looking for him.”
“I don’t like your attitude.”
“I don’t care. Is he here or not?”
“You better get your ass out of here, white boy,” he said. Over his shoulder, I saw his partner stand up and move to my right.
“Look, guys,” I said. “I want to talk to DeAngelo. Just get him for me, okay?”
“You ain’t getting shit.”
His eyes moved right and I caught the signal just in time. His partner swung a punch at me. I ducked under it and slammed my fist into his stomach. As he doubled over, I grabbed the back of his head and rammed my knee into his face. He buckled, and I let him drop. Meanwhile, the tall guy aimed a kick at me. I caught it in the ribs, rolling with it to ease the impact, but it still knocked the wind out of me. I went down, pulling his leg with me. He came down on top of me and caught me with an elbow to the eye. We wrestled, but I had a size and weight advantage. I pushed him away and got to my knees. As he tried to stand, I hammered a punch into the side of his head. He stumbled and managed to regain his balance, but it gave me time to get up. When he charged again, I grabbed him in a bear hug. I squeezed his chest with all my might as he banged his fists ineffectually against my back. I could sense the fight leaving him, but then something cold, round and hard pressed into the back of my neck. I knew that feeling—the barrel of a gun.
“Let him go,” said a voice behind me.
I did as I was told, putting my hands in the air. My assailant made to come at me again.
“Stop,” the voice commanded. “Just get his gun.”
My assailant glared at me, then patted me down.
“I don’t have one,” I told him.
“Check him for a knife.”
“I don’t have a knife either.”
“Man, you are one crazy motherfucker, raising hell on our turf when you ain’t got no weapon.”
I felt the pressure on my neck ease. I lowered my arms and turned around slowly.
“Hey, DeAngelo,” I said, “it’s been a while.”
DeAngelo Kennedy was a giant of a man. I’m six-three and two forty, with most of my weight in my upper body. DeAngelo made me look like a little boy. He must have been four inches taller than me and sixty pounds heavier. He looked soft, but there was a mountain of muscle under the surface. He was wearing expensive jeans and a flowing shirt big enough to be a kaftan. He had a large diamond stud in each ear, and his were genuine. Unlike his boys, he wasn’t wearing a watch or neck chain.
He shook his head, tucked his gun in his waistband and ran a hand through his Afro.
“Shit, Mick Ward,” he said. “What you doin’ up here?”
“Looking for you.” I dusted off my jeans and nodded at the first guy who came at me. He was on his knees, hands over his face, with blood dripping out between his fingers. “Sorry about your boy.”
DeAngelo rested his hand on the handle of his gun. “Yeah, don’t be making a habit of that.” He looked me in the eye. “Why you lookin’ for me?”
“I need information,” I said.
“What do you think I am, a motherfuckin’ library?”
“Cut the crap, DeAngelo. I just want to ask you a couple of questions. You know Malik Betts?”
“He a Blood. Piece of shit.” DeAngelo spat in the dirt.
“You seen him around lately?”
DeAngelo smiled. “I heard the news. Ain’t nobody seen him around lately.”
So DeAngelo knew Betts was dead. What did that mean? Did he kill Betts? Did he know who did? I tried my silence trick, trying to draw out a reaction, but he just kept looking at me.
“I heard he was still in the game,” I said eventually.
“Oh, he was in the game all right. Big time. Motherfucker was making bank. I was thinkin’ it might be time to put his ass in the ground, but someone beat me to it.”
“I’m guessing you heard his body was found in Elliott Russell’s yard?” I said. “You know anything about a beef between him and Betts?”
DeAngelo scowled at me. “Now you tryin’ my patience, saying that name.”
“Look, you know Elliott, and you know there’s no way he could have killed Betts. He could use your help.”
“Why would I want to help that bitch? Ever since he got out of jail, Mr. Goody Two Shoes been tryin’ to put me out of business. Don’t bother me none if some cop put a cap in his ass.”
“Seriously? You’re just going to stand by and let him go down?”
DeAngelo’s mouth tightened into a sneer. “I’m gonna say this nice because you did a good job for me.” He took out his gun and tapped the barrel against his temple. “Elliott Russell was a Crip. Then he turned on the Crips. Elliott Russell is not welcome around here. You understand me?”
“You know what?” I said. “Ten years ago, when Elliott was arrested, the cops offered him a get out of jail free card if he ratted on you guys. He didn’t say a word.”
DeAngelo looked at me thoughtfully, then stuffed his gun back in his pants. “All right, I’ll tell you one thing. Betts wasn’t dealing in the hood here. Word is he was in the meth game. I heard he cornered the market on selling ice to a bunch of crackers out in Clackistan.”
Clackistan was Clackamas, a rundown suburban community southeast of Portland that thoroughly deserved its nickname. Look up ‘white trash’ in the dictionary and you’ll see a picture of Clackistan.
“Interesting. Thanks, DeAngelo.”
De Angelo nodded once. “We good now. You should leave.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I got in my car and pulled away.
I drove back to MLK and pulled into a Popeye’s Chicken. I parked away from the other cars in a space at the back and switched the engine off. Today was hot again, so I opened the car window to let some air in. I looked at my face in the rearview mirror. My right eye was red and swollen where I’d caught that elbow, and I felt a throbbing pain behind it. It would be a spectacular shiner tomorrow. And I still felt the panic that gripped me when DeAngelo put his gun to my head. Maybe getting back into the defense world wasn’t such a great idea after all.
I tried to think about what to do next. DeAngelo hadn’t given me much, but maybe it was more than he thought. He clearly hated Elliott, and as a prominent Crip he had plenty of motive to kill someone high up in the Bloods food chain. He claimed someone else did it, but could DeAngelo have killed Betts? It was possible, but to me it didn’t make sense. If Betts was dealing meth out east, he was no threat to DeAngelo’s turf. And killing a high-ranking rival invited the kind of retribution that DeAngelo could do without. Plus, why go to the trouble and risk of burying the body in Elliott’s yard? I wanted to ask more questions, but I’d already overstayed my welcome in this part of town.
I called Tony instead and told him I needed to talk. He was home, so I drove over to his place, with a quick stop on the way to pick up some beer to help us beat the heat.
Tony lived in a small pink 1920s bungalow in Southeast Portland, just off Division. The previous owner had renovated and flipped it, and Tony kept it in great shape. When I pulled up outside, he was weeding his herb garden. He waved at me.
“Mick, good to see you. Let’s go inside.”
I followed Tony into his kitchen. He washed his hands, dried them on a tea towel, neatly folded it, and hung it on the oven door. As usual, the countertops were spotless.
I opened two beers and handed him one, then we sat at his kitchen table.
“Something smells delicious,” I said, waving my beer bottle at the oven.
“I’m slow-roasting a leg of lamb. My nephews are coming over for dinner. You want to join us?”
I’d met Tony’s nephews. They were both big, heavily tattooed and fond of chunky gold jewelry. Their forced machismo made me uncomfortable and I knew from experience it embarrassed the hell out of Tony. The lamb smelled great, but I had no desire to hang out with those guys.
