An Insignificant Case, page 2
“What happened during the inventory search?”
“Officer Townes discovered cocaine in the headrest on the driver’s side of the car.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Fournier said.
“Mr. Webb,” Judge Carter said.
“Didn’t Officer Townes find the cocaine in a secret compartment in the Toyota’s headrest?”
“Yes.”
“Did Sergeant Broadstreet ask officers Townes and Newsome to search for drugs?”
“No.”
“Searching the car for drugs would have been illegal, wouldn’t it, because you did not have a warrant or probable cause to believe that drugs were in the car?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, the discovery of the cocaine was fortuitous?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
“The State calls Sergeant Broadstreet.”
Malcom Broadstreet’s short black hair was streaked with gray, but the rest of his stocky body looked like it was defeating the aging process. He had the broad chest and thick arms of someone who pumped iron and the confident stride of someone who was used to being in charge.
“Sergeant Broadstreet, how long have you been a Portland police officer?” the deputy district attorney asked.
“Twenty years come October.”
“On the evening of December tenth, did you come in contact with the defendant?”
“I did.”
“Tell the judge what happened.”
Broadstreet smiled at the judge. “Good morning, Your Honor,” Broadstreet said in a way that let Charlie know that this was not the first time he’d been in Judge Carter’s court. “On the evening of December tenth, I was training Tony Townes, a new recruit, when I heard Officer Strom on my radio say that he was having a problem with Peter Easley. I drove over to help out and found Easley yelling at Officer Strom and acting in a very aggressive way. I intervened and eventually arrested the defendant. After I placed him in the back of my vehicle, I told Townes and Dennis Newsome, who was also new to the force, to make an inventory search of Mr. Easley’s car before having it towed to the impound lot. While they were inventorying the car, Officer Townes found cocaine concealed in the headrest on the driver’s side.”
“No further questions.”
“Sergeant Broadstreet,” Charlie said, “this isn’t the first time you’ve arrested Mr. Easley, is it?”
“No.”
“In fact, you’ve arrested him six times, haven’t you?”
“That sounds right.”
“Did any of these arrests result in a conviction?”
Broadstreet’s cheeks flushed. “No.”
“Isn’t it true that you’ve told people on several occasions that you won’t be able to have a good night’s sleep until you’ve put Mr. Easley behind bars?”
“I may have said something like that.”
“Did you have a conversation with Mr. Easley in the street before you arrested him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you accuse him of selling dope to little children?”
“I may have.”
“Did he say that he sold dope to your mother?”
“Yes,” Broadstreet answered as the red color of his cheeks darkened.
“You don’t like my client, do you?”
“That’s obvious.”
“You hate him, don’t you?”
“I think he’s scum. Does that answer your question?”
Charlie smiled. “Thank you for your honesty, Sergeant Broadstreet. Were you surprised when Officer Townes found cocaine in Mr. Easley’s car?”
“No.”
“You suspected he might have a controlled substance secreted somewhere in the Toyota, didn’t you?”
“Knowing Peter, I thought it was possible.”
“No further questions.”
“The State rests,” Fournier said.
“I’d like to question Officer Townes,” Charlie said.
Anthony Townes looked like he’d just graduated from junior high school. The slender rookie had wavy blond hair and fair skin, and he fidgeted in the witness-box.
Charlie smiled. “Hi, Officer Townes. You look a little nervous. Is this your first time testifying under oath in court?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you the advice I give everyone I call as a witness. Just tell the truth and you’ll do just fine. So, I understand you just graduated from the police academy.”
Townes nodded.
“Officer Townes,” the judge said. “You have to answer out loud for the record.”
Townes blushed. “Sorry. Yes. I just graduated.”
“Congratulations. You’re fortunate to have Sergeant Broadstreet as a mentor. He’s a very experienced officer. Was the incident with my client the first time you were involved in an arrest?”
“No. There was one other time a few days before.”
“What about conducting a search? Had you done that before?”
“No, this was my first time.”
“What was the sergeant’s reaction when he heard that Peter Easley was creating a disturbance?”
“He, uh, he got excited.”
“I assume he explained that my client was a notorious drug dealer?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Someone he was dying to take off the streets because of all the harm he caused?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Given Mr. Easley’s criminal history as someone who deals drugs, I assume that the sergeant was certain he’d have drugs on his person or in his vehicle.”
“He said that Mr. Easley never left home without narcotics,” he answered with a smile.
Charlie stared for a moment. Then he laughed. “I get it. That’s like the American Express commercial. ‘Don’t leave home without it,’ right?”
Townes blushed and grinned. “That’s the one.”
“Now, I’ve been to the impound lot and looked inside Mr. Easley’s car. That hidden pocket in the headrest is really hard to see.”
Townes nodded. “Sergeant Broadstreet said the defendant wouldn’t hide his narcotics in any place that was obvious.”
Bridget Fournier had barely paid any attention to Charlie’s direct examination, but now she stiffened.
“Didn’t it make sense that Sergeant Broadstreet would tell you to look for drugs in a hidden compartment in the Toyota since he knew how clever Mr. Easley is?”
“Yes, sir. The sergeant said we probably wouldn’t find the defendant’s stash unless we were really disciplined.”
Charlie noticed that Bridget Fournier was paler than usual.
“How long did it take for you to find the cocaine?”
“It wasn’t easy. I’d almost given up when Dennis—that’s Officer Newsome—told me to check around the headrest.”
Charlie smiled. “No further questions.”
Judge Carter turned to Townes. “Do I understand that Sergeant Broadstreet asked you to search Mr. Easley’s Toyota for drugs?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Townes answered.
“Do you have any questions of this witness, Miss Fournier?” the judge asked.
“No,” Fournier answered. She looked furious.
“Do you have any more witnesses, Mr. Webb?” the judge asked.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Thank you, Officer Townes. You’re dismissed.
“Do you have anything to say?” Judge Carter asked Bridget as soon as the door closed behind Townes.
Fournier looked like she was going to throw up.
“I … No. This is embarrassing.”
“I’ll say,” the judge told Fournier. “I’m going to grant Mr. Webb’s motion, and I suggest that you have a heart-to-heart with Sergeant Broadstreet and Officer Strom. Thank goodness we had the testimony of a naive rookie who hasn’t learned how to cover up illegal conduct yet. Court’s adjourned.”
Easley leaped up and hugged Charlie. “That was fucking awesome.”
Charlie looked over Easley’s shoulder and saw his opponent fight her way through the Barbarians, who were surging toward the front of the courtroom. Charlie actually felt a little sorry for Fournier. He assumed that Broadstreet and Strom had lied to her. He didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the two policemen, but he hoped that Townes didn’t get in any trouble.
“Drinks are on me!” Easley shouted as the crowd dragged Charlie toward the courtroom door. Noon was several hours away, but Charlie knew that the Barbarians would not see that as an excuse for staying sober. So, he accepted the praise and went along with the crowd that was headed for the Buccaneer Tavern.
CHAPTER THREE
The Justice Center was a sixteen-story building in downtown Portland that housed the Multnomah County jail, several courtrooms, and the Portland Police Central Precinct among other things. The detective division of the Central Precinct was a wide-open space that stretched along one side of the thirteenth floor. Each detective had his or her own cubicle that was separated from the other detectives’ by a chest-high divider.
Yesterday evening, Detective Sally Blaisedale had been part of a team that had raided a house where a cartel was storing narcotics and cash. The raid had resulted in several arrests, and it was early morning before the prisoners had been interrogated and processed. Most of the participants in the raid had gone home to snatch a few hours of sleep, but Sally had stayed at the Justice Center to write her reports.
Blaisedale’s intercom buzzed after she’d been working on the reports for an hour.
“There’s a woman on the line who wants to talk to a detective. Do you want to take the call?” the receptionist asked.
Blaisedale needed a break, so she told the receptionist to put the call through.
“How can I help you?” Blaisedale asked.
“Are you a detective?” the woman asked. Sally thought she sounded young and frightened.
“Yes.”
“We want to talk to you about something terrible that happened to us.”
“There’s more than one of you?”
“There were a lot of girls, but it’s just us two who want to meet with you.”
“Okay. Do you want to come to my office at police headquarters?”
“No. We can’t risk going to police headquarters. They might be watching us.”
“Who might be watching?”
“We’ll tell you when we meet. Can you go to the Thai restaurant in Hillsdale in the mall across from Ida B. Wells High School?”
“Are you a student?”
“Please. Can you meet us?”
“Okay. When?”
“After school. Three thirty.”
* * *
Detective Blaisedale was seated in a booth at the back of the restaurant, dressed in jeans, a Trailblazers sweatshirt, and a Blazers ball cap while she read a mystery novel and sipped a Thai iced coffee. When the girls came in, she had no trouble spotting them. They were the only women of high school age in the restaurant who weren’t smiling and who looked scared.
Blaisedale made eye contact, and the girls hurried to the booth. They were both wearing jeans and hoodies. When they sat down, the hoodies fell back.
“Hi,” Blaisedale said as she flashed a smile that she hoped assured them that they were safe. “I’m Sally Blaisedale. I’m a detective. Who are you?”
“I’m Kendra Miles, and this is Felicity Halston.”
Miles was five three with curly black hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes. Halston was two inches taller than her friend and had long, straight blond hair and a pug nose.
“Nice to meet you,” Blaisedale said. “Now, how can I help you?”
“Before we tell you,” Kendra Miles said, “we need to know that you’ll protect us.”
“I’ll need to know what this is about before I can work out the best way to do that.”
“What if this involves very powerful people with a lot of political influence?”
The detective looked directly at the girls. “No one is above the law. If you have evidence that a powerful person committed a crime, I’ll go after him the same way I’d go after anyone else.”
The girls looked at each other. Blaisedale thought that they were really scared, but they also looked determined.
“We were kidnapped, taken to an estate in the country, and forced to have sex.”
Miles stopped and took a deep breath. Halston wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her.
“I can see that this is very hard for you,” Blaisedale said. “Take your time.”
“I want you to know what they did to us,” Miles said as a tear ran down her cheek.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two weeks after Gretchen Hall bought his painting of the Venice canal, Guido Sabatini experienced an uncontrollable urge to visit the dining room of La Bella Roma Italian Ristorante so he could see the enraptured faces of the patrons as they gazed upon one of his masterpieces. Guido knew that he had promised Gretchen that he would not return to La Bella Roma. Unfortunately, impulse control was not an item that Guido stored in his psychic toolbox.
When Guido made his entrance at the height of the lunch hour, Salvatore Borelli’s face turned an irate shade of red. Guido scanned the dining room in search of a gondola passing under a low stone bridge that crossed a narrow canal. The maître d’ smiled at the couple who were waiting to be seated and excused himself.
“What are you doing here?” Borelli demanded.
“I have not returned to disturb your customers,” Guido assured the maître d’. “I have missed my painting of Venezia, and I wanted to see her once more.”
“Well, you won’t see it in the dining room. Miss Hall hung it in her office, and you’re not going in there.”
Guido stared at Borelli in shock. “Signora Hall is hiding my masterpiece in her office, where no one can see it?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“She can’t do that.”
“She owns the painting, so she can do what she wants with it. Now, why don’t you take off so I can deal with people who want to have lunch?”
“Where is Signora Hall? I must speak to her about this. We must resolve this problem.”
“Miss Hall isn’t here, and she won’t be here in the near future. She’s out of state, and I don’t know when she’s going to return. So, unless you want lunch, get lost.”
Guido drew himself up to his full height. “Signora Hall has insulted my painting by hiding it from your patrons. I will not rest until the insult has been avenged.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Now, are you going to leave, or do I have to call 911?”
Guido glared at Borelli. Then he turned on his heel and stomped out.
* * *
La Bella Roma was at one end of a strip mall that was patrolled by an elderly security guard, who made his rounds in a circle at the same time, on the same route, every hour. Guido Sabatini knew this, because he had staked out La Bella Roma for two nights after it closed. On the third night, as soon as the security guard was far enough from the restaurant, Guido walked to the rear door and used lock-picking skills he had learned from a thief he had met during his time consorting with shadowy characters in backroom poker games.
The restaurant had a primitive alarm system, and Guido disabled it quickly. Then he walked into Gretchen Hall’s office. He used his flashlight to find his precious painting of the Venice canal. When he lifted it off the wall, he saw that Hall was using it to cover her wall safe. That made him furious. The painting was a work of art, not a decoration like a cheap, plastic wall sconce.
Guido had an amazing memory and an incredible facility with numbers, which helped him count cards, among other things. When Hall had opened the safe, Guido had seen the combination reflected in the ornate mirror that faced it. The numbers were backward in the mirror, but that was not a problem for Guido, who’d memorized the combination as easily as if he were reading it off a piece of paper.
Guido wanted revenge, and he hoped that there was something in the safe that he could use to blackmail Hall into hanging his masterpiece in the dining room, where all the restaurant’s patrons would be able to see and appreciate it.
Guido played the beam of the flashlight around the safe’s interior. Guido was not a thief, so he had no interest in the stacks of currency, and many of the papers he saw were too bulky to carry when he was also carrying his painting.
Guido was about to give up when the beam alighted on a small object. Why would Gretchen Hall be hiding it in her safe, he asked himself, and concluded that it must be important. Guido scooped up the flash drive and put it in his pocket. Then he left La Bella Roma and carried his booty to his car.
CHAPTER FIVE
At nine in the morning the day after Guido Sabatini burglarized La Bella Roma, Salvatore Borelli was standing in the open door of the restaurant, watching a police car park. A stocky, middle-aged police officer got out of the driver’s side, and a muscular young policewoman got out of the passenger side. Borelli went to the sidewalk to greet them.
“Thanks for coming so fast. I’m Sal Borelli. I manage La Bella Roma.”
“I’m Ken Jackman, and this is Sandy Tanaka,” the male officer said. “What’s the problem?”
“Someone broke in last night,” Borelli said as he led the officers inside the restaurant. “The thief took a painting from my boss’s office, and I know who he is. The security cameras took a beautiful picture of the son of a bitch.”
“A painting?” Officer Jackman asked.
“Yeah. It was hanging over the safe. The bastard broke into that too.”
“Was this an oil painting of a scene from Italy?” Jackman asked.
Borelli stopped in front of the door to Gretchen’s office. “How did you know?”
“The thief isn’t by any chance Guido Sabatini?”
Borelli stared at the officer. “What are you, Sherlock fucking Holmes?”
“I wish.” Jackman sighed. “If I were that smart, I’d be a detective by now.”
“Then how…?”
