Philip Margolin - Gone ,but not forgotten

Alan Page was trapped in a car, careening downhill through traffic at breakneck speed on a winding turnpike, brakes screeching, tires smoking, twisting the wheel furiously to avoid an inevitable collision. When he sat up in bed, he was inches from the burning headlights of a massive semi. Sweat glued his flannel pajamas to his damp skin and he could feel the thunderous pounding of his heart. Page gulped down lungfuls of air, still uncertain where he was and half-expecting to die in a fireball Of lacerated steel and shattered glass.

"Jesus," he gasped when he was oriented. The clock read four fifty-eight, an hour and a half before the alarm would go off, four and a half hours before the bail hearing. He fell back onto his pillow, anxious and sure sleep was impossible, haunted by the question that had hounded him since the arrest of Martin Darius. Had he moved too soon?

Was there "clear and convincing" evidence that Martin Darius was a murderer?

Ross Barrow and Randy Highsmith had argued against searching Darius's house, even after hearing what Gutierrez had to say. They wanted to wait until Nancy Gordon was found and they had a stronger case, but he had overridden them and instructed Barrow to make an arrest if the tire tracks at the scene matched the treads on Darius's car. Now, he wondered if Barrow and Highsmith hadn't been right all along. He had counted on finding Nancy Gordon for the bail hearing, but even with three detectives working around the clock, they were striking out.

If he could not sleep, he could rest. Page closed his eyes and saw Nancy Gordon. He had thought of the detective constantly since learning that her body was not in the pit. If she was — alive, she would have gotten in touch with him as soon as she learned of Darius's arrest.

If she was alive, she would have returned to the Lakeview. Was she dead, a look of unimaginable suffering on her face? Darius knew the answer to Page's Questions, but the law forbade Alan to talk to him.

Page would need all of his energy in court, but the fear in his belly would not let him rest. He decided he would shower, shave, eat breakfast, then dress in his best suit and a crisp, starched shirt, fresh from the laundry. A shower and a big breakfast would make him feel human.

Then he would drive to the courthouse and try to convince the Honorable Patrick Norwood, judge of the Multnomah County Circuit Court, that Martin Darius was a serial killer.

Mar-tin Darius slept peacefully and felt well rested when he awoke with the other inmates of the Multnomah County jail. Betsy Tannenbaum had arranged to have his hair cut by his barber, and the watch commander was permitting him an extra shower before court. Only a breakfast of sticky pancakes soaked in gluey, jailhouse syrup spoiled his mood. Darius used the acidic taste of the jail coffee to cut the sweetness and ate them anyway, because he knew it would be a long day in court.

Betsy had exchanged a full wardrobe for the clothes in which Darius was arrested. When Darius met her in the interview room before court, he was attired in a double-breasted, chalk-striped, dark wool suit, a cotton broadcloth shirt and a navy blue, woven silk tie with white pinpoint dots. Betsy wore a single-breasted jacket and matching skirt of black and white, windowpane plaid and a white silk blouse with a wide collar.

When they walked down the courthouse corridor in the glare of the television lights, they would look like a couple you might "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," rather than seen on a suspected mass murderer and his mouthpiece.

"How are you feeling?" Darius asked.

"Fine."

"Good. I want you at your best today. jail is interesting, if you treat it as an educational experience, but I'm ready to graduate."

"I'm glad to see you're keeping your sense of humor."

Darius shrugged. "I have faith in you, Tannenbaum.

That's why I hired you. You're the best. You won't let me down."

The praise made Betsy feel good. She basked in it and believed what Darius told her. She was the best.

That was why Darius chose her over Matthew Reynolds, Oscar Montoya and the other established criminal defense lawyers.

"Who's our judge?" Darius asked.

"Pat Norwood."

"What's he like?"

"He's a crusty old codger who's nearing retirement.

He looks like a troll and acts like an ogre in court. He's no legal scholar, either. But he is completely impartial.

Norwood's rude and impatient with the prosecution and the defense and he won't be buffaloed by Alan Page or the press. If Page doesn't meet his burden of proof on the bail issue, Norwood will do the right thing."

"Do you think the State will meet its burden?" Darius asked.

"No, Martin, I don't think they will."

Darius smiled. "That's what I wanted to hear." Then the smile faded as he changed the subject. "Is Lisa going to be in court?"

"Of course. I talked to her yesterday."

"Looks like you're having more luck getting in touch with my wife than I am."

"Lisa's staying with her father. She didn't feel comfortable — alone in the house."

"That's funny," Darius said, flashing Betsy a chilly smile. "I called His Honor last night and he told me she wasn't home."

"She may have been out."

"Right. The next time you talk to my wife, please ask her to visit me, will you?"

"Sure. Oh, before I forget, there's a woman named Nora Sloane who's writing an article about women defense attorneys. She wants to follow me through your case. If I let her, there's a chance she might learn defense strategy or attorney-client confidences. I told her I had to ask your permission before I let her get involved. Do you have any objections to her tagging along?"

Darius held the question for a moment, then shook his head.

"I don't mind. Besides"-he grinned-"you'll have more incentive to do a great job for me if someone is writing about you."

"I never thought of it that way."

"That's why I'm a millionaire, Tannenbaum. I always figure the angles."

There were several new courtrooms outfitted with state of-the-art video equipment and computer technology that Patrick L. Norwood could have commandeered because of his senior status, but judge Norwood preferred the courtroom where he had ruled with an iron fist for twenty years. It had high ceilings, grand marble columns and a hand-carved wooden dais.

It was an old-fashioned courtroom, perfect for a man with the judicial temperament of a nineteenth-century hanging judge.

The courtroom was filled to capacity for the Martin Darius bail hearing.

Those who were too late to find a seat stood in line in the hall.

Spectators had to pass through a metal detector before entering the courtroom and there were extra security guards inside, because of death threats.

Harvey Cobb, an elderly black man, called the court to order. He had been Norwood's bailiff from the day the judge was appointed. Norwood came out of his chambers through a door behind the bench. Short and squat, he was ugly as sin, but his toadlike face was crowned by a full head of beautiful snowy white hair.

"Be seated," Cobb said. Betsy took her place beside Martin Darius and glanced briefly at Alan Page, who was sitting next to Randy Highsmith.

"Call your first witness, Mr. Page," Norwood ordered.

"The State calls Ross Barrow, Your Honor."

Harvey Cobb had Detective Barrow raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth. Barrow sat in the witness box and Page established his credentials as a homicide investigator.

"Detective Barrow, sometime in mid-August did you become aware of a series of unusual disappearances?"

"Yes, I did. In August a detective from our missing persons bureau told me that a woman named Laura Farrar was reported missing by her husband, Larry Farrar.