J. Jance: Trial By Fury

I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.

It’s one way to take your mind off your troubles.

The murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital N. The department’s conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a Who’s Who in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.

Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer has kept us at odds for as long as I’ve been with Seattle P.D. He has a way of getting under my skin. And staying there.

Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.’s public information officer, is a reasonable sort, but I could see he was losing patience as Max asked questions that were nothing less than an illdisguised tirade-the media busily manufacturing news to suit themselves.

"One of my sources stated that Mr. Ridley was…" He paused for dramatic effect and consulted a small notebook. "I believe the word he used was lynched. Doesn’t that sort of take you back to the Old South? Is it possible this homicide was racially motivated?"

"As I said before, Mr. Cole, at this time we have no motive in this crime. The exact cause of death is being withheld pending investigation."

"But wouldn’t you say lynching is a step backward to the Ku Klux Klan mentality of the sixties?"

"I wouldn’t say anything of the kind."

"You’re ruling out race as a possible motive, then?"

I was glad Arlo was running the press conference instead of me. About then I would have told Max to fuck off. Hamilton managed to remain unruffled. "We are investigating all possibilities at this time. No potential lead will be ignored, racial or otherwise."

Arlo glanced around the room, hoping to shut Max down by calling someone else. Max blithely launched into another question.

"Two years ago, during the height of the Neo-Nazi scare, there was talk of creating an all-white preserve here in Washington. Could this action be connected with one of those groups?"

"As you know, Mr. Cole, members of those groups were apprehended, tried, and found guilty of numerous crimes. Those who didn’t die during the initial siege of their headquarters are in prison for long terms. I don’t think we need worry that Mr. Ridley’s death is part of a Neo-Nazi plot. Any other questions?"

Fortunately, someone else raised his hand, and Hamilton gratefully acknowledged him. "Were police officers in attendance at the basketball championships in Seattle Center Friday night?"

Hamilton nodded.

"The Mayor’s office has been concerned about special event security at the Center. Has security been beefed up?"

"Yes, it has. The horse patrol was there as well as several officers patrolling the grounds on foot. None of them saw anything out of line."

"You’re saying that it wasn’t a lack of security?"

"Look, you guys, give me a break. Don’t read between the lines. We had numerous officers at the Center, but until we know exactly what happened, I can’t say whether it was a security problem or not."

It was clear the newshounds had Arlo’s scent. There was no need for Peters and me to hang around for the bloodletting. I reached over and tapped Peters on the shoulder. "Let’s get out of here."

He followed me to the door. I didn’t notice that Maxwell Cole had trailed after us until he showed up at the elevator lobby. Everything about Max is big, from the layer of flab that spills over the top of his belt buckle up to and including his ego. He wears a waxed, handlebar mustache that tends to be littered with bits and pieces of his most recent meal-egg yolk in this particular case.

"How’s it going, J. P.? You two working this one? I saw you hanging around the briefing room."

"Look, Max, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. Get lost."

"Come on, J. P. Give an old fraternity brother a break. All I need is an angle. Race would be dynamite. It would bust this town wide open."

I try not to deal with Maxwell Cole in anything but absolute contempt. Lesser insults go straight over his head. "We’re booked up already, Max. We don’t need you to start a race war just to keep us busy."

The elevator door slipped open. We got on and left him standing there in the hallway. "Think he got it?" Peters asked once the door closed.

"Beats the hell out of me."

We went on down to the garage and checked out a car. The first order of business had to be the voluntary search form from Joanna Ridley. That would enable the crime lab to go to work on Darwin Ridley’s Buick.

Several cars were parked on the street outside Joanna Ridley’s house, including an immense old Lincoln. I led the way to the door and rang the bell. A tall but stoop-shouldered black man opened the door and peered down at us through gold-rimmed glasses. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked.

"We’re with Seattle P.D.," I said, offering him my ID. "We’re here to speak to Mrs. Ridley."

"Joanna’s not feelin’ too well."

Joanna Ridley appeared in a doorway behind him, wearing a flowing blue caftan. Her eyes were swollen, and she wore no trace of makeup. She looked haggard, as though she hadn’t slept well, either. "It’s all right, Daddy," she said. "I’ll see them."

The old man stepped to one side, allowing us to enter the house. The living room was filled with nine or ten people, all of them involved in various conversations that ceased as Joanna led us through the gathering to a small study that opened off the living room. She closed the door behind us, effectively shutting out the group of mourners gathered to comfort her.

"Mrs. Ridley, this is my partner, Detective Ron Peters. We brought along a form we need you to sign so we can search your husband’s car." I extracted the folded form from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. I watched as her eyes skimmed the lines.

"It’ll save us the time and effort of getting a search warrant," I explained.

A scatter of pens and pencils lay on the desk. Without hesitation, she put the paper on the desk, located a pen that worked, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the form.

"Will that do?" she asked, handing it back to me.

"For a start. We also need to ask some questions, if you don’t mind." She took the chair behind the desk. Peters and I sat on a couch facing her. With determined effort, Joanna Ridley managed to retain her composure.

"To begin with, you told me yesterday that, as far as you knew, your husband had no drug or gambling connections. Had you noticed anything unusual in your husband’s patterns? Any threats? What about money difficulties?"

She shook her head in answer to each question.

"Any unusual telephone calls, things he might not have shared with you?"

There was the slightest flicker of something in Joanna’s expression, a momentary waver, before she once more shook her head. A detective lives and dies by his wits and by his powers of observation. There was enough of a change in her expression that I noted it, but there was no clue, no hint, as to what lay behind it. I tried following up in the same vein, hoping for some sort of clarification.

"Anyone with a grudge against him?"

This time, when she answered, her face remained totally impassive. "Not that I know of."

"How long had you two been married?" Peters asked.

"Fifteen years." Peters’ question came from left field. It moved away from the murder and into the personal, into the mire of Joanna Ridley’s private loss and grief. She blinked back tears.