- Margolin - The Last Innocent Man

The fog lifted for a moment, and a figure, half-shrouded by the mist, floated away from her. She ran after it, lifting her legs high to avoid the sand that clutched at her ankles. She must not fall or the sand would suck her down.

The fog was drifting back and her quarry was slipping into the shadows. She ran faster, the pounding of her heart drowning out the cadence of the incoming tide. Faster. She was losing ground. Faster. She was falling, screaming, flailing helplessly as she hurtled downward into darkness.

Then the beach was gone, and the only part of her dream that remained was the beating of her heart.

Monica looked around the room. It was her bedroom and she was sitting up in her bed, drenched in sweat. The clock read sixA.M. She could try to sleep for another half hour, but she was too wound up.

Monica turned on the light and went into the bathroom. The face she saw in the mirror was pale and had bags under the eyes. Not good, she thought, but it would not get better if she did not get a decent night’s sleep.

She had been exhausted during jury selection, and her opening statement lacked the punch of David’s emotional declaration of his client’s innocence. Monica had watched the jurors as she outlined the evidence she would produce at trial. They had listened attentively, and she was convinced that they were responsible people who would convict Larry Stafford if they believed he was guilty. But would they believe that, or would David fool them?

Fool them. That was an odd way to describe the function of the defense bar, but Monica felt it was an accurate description. When they had lived together, David often talked of himself, self-deprecatingly, as a magician whose job it was to make people see what was not there and to conceal what was there. Monica believed that Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch, and she was afraid that David would make her evidence disappear with a wave of his verbal wand.

Monica opened the refrigerator and took out a container of orange juice. She put a kettle of water on the stove and tried to decide between cold cereal and frozen waffles. She settled for two pieces of whole-wheat toast.

Judge Rosenthal had been chosen to preside at the trial, and David did not object, even though Rosenthal had issued the search warrant. Jury selection had taken longer than expected because of the difficulty in finding twelve Portland residents who had not formed an opinion about the “Policewoman Murder.” Monica and David had agreed on a jury shortly before noon on the second day of trial. They had concluded opening statements after lunch, and she had presented the testimony of Dr. Francis R. Beauchamp, the medical examiner, before Judge Rosenthal had called a halt to the proceedings for the day.

The coffee was bitter and Monica grimaced as it went down, but she needed the caffeine. The toast was burned, too. Shit! She felt like smashing something. Not a good way to begin the most important day of the State’s case. She tried to calm down.

Monica was always tense when she was in trial, but it was worse when she tried a case against David. She was a highly competitive woman who enjoyed winning. When Monica tried cases against other attorneys, she thought of them strictly in business terms. She could never think of David that way. Even after all these years she was still a little in love with him, and she knew it, so she overcompensated whenever they were matched against each other, and ended up pushing herself harder than she had to, out of fear that her feelings for him would influence her performance.

There was an added reason for her anxiety this morning: Ortiz and his surprise witness. Last night, after court recessed, she had been making notes on Beauchamp’s testimony when Ortiz and Crosby came into her office. She was in a foul mood and wanted to leave, but the two policemen seemed excited.

“Beauchamp was pretty convincing, I hear,” Crosby said, settling into a chair. Dr. Beauchamp was a frustrated actor with a knack for describing fatal wounds that made them appear more revolting than a color photograph ever could.

“All Beauchamp established was that Darlene Hersch was struck in the abdomen and neck, then had her throat slit. He didn’t establish who did it,” Monica replied testily.

“I don’t think pinning this on Stafford is going to be a problem anymore,” Ortiz said with a confident smile.

“I’m glad to hear that, Bert. I thought we had problems.”

Ortiz’s face clouded over. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“The case is flimsy. No offense, Bert, but all we have is your ID based on a few seconds’ observation after you had been struck on the head hard enough to require hospitalization. I’m beginning to think we may have moved too fast on this one.”

“You can stop worrying, because I’ve got the man who is going to do it to Mr. Stafford.”

Monica put her pen down and waited for Ortiz to continue. Ortiz had a tendency to be dramatic, and he paused to heighten the tension.

“Remember Ron called you when Stafford was arraigned and asked you to oppose bail?”

“Yes,” she said, turning toward Crosby. “You said that another officer was certain that Stafford had beaten up a prostitute and was going to try to find the police reports. I also recall being put off by you every time I’ve asked you about that report,” she added angrily. “I put myself on the line at the bail hearing because of your assurances.”

“You have every right to be angry, Monica,” Crosby said sheepishly. “Tracking down our witness just took longer than we thought.”

“You have a witness who saw Larry Stafford beat up a prostitute?”

“Exactly,” Ortiz said.

“Who is it?” Monica asked.

“Cyrus Johnson.”

“Cyrus-Jesus, Bert. I’m not going to vouch for the credibility of a known pimp and dope dealer.”

“Who else would be able to testify about Stafford’s sex habits? It’s the fact that he’s a pimp that makes him credible.”

“Bert, you’ve seen David operate. Do you know what he’d do to Johnson? The man sells dope to schoolchildren, for Christ’s sake.”

“If you’re afraid of Nash, you shouldn’t be trying this case,” Ortiz said, suddenly very angry.

Monica jumped to her feet. “Get out of my office,” she shouted. “I’m not going to take that shit.”

Crosby put his hand on Ortiz’s elbow and Ortiz was immediately contrite.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I think you’re a hell of a good lawyer. It’s just…well, the case means a lot to me and I want to make sure Stafford doesn’t get away.”

Monica sat down and leaned back in her chair. The outburst had taken a lot out of her.

“Apology accepted. The case is getting to me, too.”

“Will you at least talk to Johnson and read this police report?” Crosby asked, placing the report in front of her.

“Yeah. I didn’t really want to go home, anyway. But you two are going to stand me dinner. I’m starving.”

THE INTERVIEW WITHJohnson created more problems than it solved. The man was smooth, and she could not determine if he was telling the truth. True, the story he told her was the same story he had told the police two years ago, but he had reason to lie to the police then, and he was in trouble, and obviously anxious to deal now. Monica wanted to convict Stafford, but she would not put on testimony she believed might be perjured.

Even if the story was true, she did not know if she could get Johnson’s testimony into evidence. Johnson would be testifying that Stafford had committed a prior criminal act, and the rules of evidence forbade the introduction of that type of evidence, with only a few narrowly defined exceptions. Monica was not convinced that Johnson’s evidence fell under any of them. David was an expert on the rules of evidence, and she would have to research the question of admissibility thoroughly, because she knew how hard David would fight when he learned about Johnson.