- Margolin - The Last Innocent Man

“You may proceed, Mr. Nash.”

“Your Honor, I believe the burden is on the district attorney.”

“You’re asking for bail, aren’t you? Your motion, your burden,” Autley snapped.

“If I might, Your Honor,” David said, careful to maintain his composure and to address the judge formally. He had once seen Autley, in a fit of anger, hold a young lawyer in contempt for not using the proper court etiquette. “Article one, section fourteen of the state constitution states that, and I quote, ‘Offenses, except murder and treason, shall be bailable by sufficient sureties. Murder or treason shall not be bailable when the proof is evident or the presumption strong.’

“InState ex rel. August v. Chambers, our supreme court held that if the State seeks to deny bail to a person charged with murder, it has the burden of proving that there is proof of, or a presumption of, the defendant’s guilt which is evident or strong. In light of the Chambers case, it appears that the State has the burden, not Mr. Stafford.”

Judge Autley glared at David for a moment, then turned rapidly toward Monica Powers.

“What do you say to that?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Your Honor,” Monica said nervously. It was widely known that the one thing Autley hated more than young defense lawyers was any kind of woman lawyer.

“Then why are you wasting the Court’s time? I have a busy schedule. You see all these people waiting here, don’t you? Why did you let him go on and on if you agreed with what he said?”

“I’m sorry…” Monica started, but Autley waved a hand toward her.

“What’s your evidence?”

Monica tendered to the judge a copy of the indictment charging murder. His bailiff, an elderly woman who had been with him for years, handed the document to him.

“I believe the indictment in this case should be sufficient. It establishes that the grand jury, after hearing testimony, decided that there was sufficient proof to indict for murder.”

Judge Autley scanned the document for a moment; then he handed it back to the bailiff.

“Bail denied,” he said without looking up. “Next case.”

David was on his feet, waving a law book toward the judge.

“Your Honor.”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Nash. Next case.”

“Your Honor, last month in the Archer case the Oregon Supreme Court ruled on this specific question and held that an indictment is not sufficient evidence to support a denial of bail in a murder case. I have the case here, if the Court would read it.”

“What case?” Autley asked, annoyed that the matter was not over.

“Archer, if you’d take a look.”

“Give it to me. But if this case isn’t on point…” He let his voice trail off, leaving the threat dangling over David’s head.

David handed the law book to the bailiff. Stafford leaned forward to say something, but David touched his leg and he sat back. Autley read the page twice, then turned his anger on Monica Powers.

“Don’t they teach you the law anymore? Didn’t you know about this case?”

“Your Honor, I-”

“You’d better have more than this, young lady,” Autley said, waving the indictment toward Monica, “and you’d better produce it fast.”

“We do have further evidence, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz is prepared to testify.”

“Then call him.”

Monica gestured toward the first row of spectator seats, and Bert Ortiz rose from his seat next to Detective Crosby. He pushed through the gate that separated the spectators from the bar of the court and stopped in front of the bailiff.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the bailiff asked.

“I do,” Ortiz replied.

“Then state your name and spell your last name.”

Ortiz sat down in the witness box and spelled his last name for the court reporter. His throat felt dry as he did so, and there was none of the air of self-assurance about him that he usually had when he testified. He felt uncomfortable reliving the events of the murder.

“Officer Ortiz,” Monica asked, “how are you employed?”

“I’m a police officer with the Portland Police Bureau.”

“How long have you been so employed?”

“It will be seven years this coming February.”

“Were you so employed on the evening of June sixteenth of this year?”

“I was.”

“And what was your assignment at that time?”

“I was working in a special vice unit. We were using policewomen disguised as prostitutes to arrest males who were soliciting prostitution.”

“Could you be more specific for the Court?”

Judge Autley leaned toward Monica and waved an impatient hand.

“I know what he means. Don’t insult the Court’s intelligence. Now, get on with this.”

“Very well, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz, who was your partner that evening?”

“Darlene Hersch, a policewoman.”

“When did you begin work?”

“The shift started at ten-thirty, but we weren’t out on the street until about eleven-thirty. We had a meeting first.”

“Officer, please tell the Court what happened from the time you began work on the street until the time Darlene Hersch was murdered.”

Ortiz leaned forward slightly. There was tension in his shoulders and a tight feeling in his stomach. He looked down at the railing of the witness box and quickly ran his tongue across his dry lips.

“I was in our car in a parking lot on the corner of Park and Yamhill, and Officer Hersch was on the far corner. Shortly after I started my surveillance, a beige Mercedes-Benz stopped and Darlene-Officer Hersch-got in. It drove off and I followed.”

“Were you able to read the license number of the car at that, or any other, time?”

“No.”

“Go on.”

“Officer Hersch was not supposed to enter a vehicle if asked. She was supposed to decoy the subject back to the lot, where we would make the arrest. She had strict orders not to do that.”

Ortiz stopped. He realized that he was trying to justify his actions by putting Darlene in a bad light. He looked up. Monica was waiting for him to continue. There was little sound in the courtroom. For the first time in a long time, he noticed the faces watching him.

“Officer Hersch got into the Mercedes and I followed the car to the Raleigh Motel. I saw Officer Hersch enter the motel office, and I saw the car drive around back. I parked in the lot of a fast-food place next door and took up a surveillance post.”

“To this point had you been able to see who was driving the Mercedes?”

“Not really. I had a look at him when Officer Hersch got into the car, but he was too far away. It was the same when he was letting her off at the motel office.”

“Go on.”

“Well, Officer Hersch was new. She didn’t have much street experience. I started to worry about her being alone with the, uh, the subject.”

Ortiz paused again. He wanted to look for Crosby but was afraid. Would the older man condemn him for letting things go as far as they had? He had been wrong. He should never have let Darlene go into that room alone. Even if it meant losing the collar, he should have stopped it as soon as he reached the motel. Should have parked in the motel lot and gone straight up to the room.

Ortiz looked over to the defense table. They had dressed Stafford in a suit. Very Ivy League. He looked more the lawyer than Nash. Their eyes met, and Stafford’s face, for a brief instant, reflected contempt. There was no fear in his eyes, only ice. Humorless, emotionless, unlike Ortiz’s own, which wavered with confusion and self-doubt. Ortiz looked away, defeated. And in that moment he felt the sick feeling in his stomach turning to hate for the man who had taken Darlene Hersch’s life. He wanted that man. Wanted him more than he had ever wanted any other man he had hunted.