Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Oregon oaks created a leafy canopy over the dirt track, casting it in shadow. Through the trees Brad could see low-lying hills and a clear blue sky. Below the hills were cultivated fields divided into fire-blackened squares, where field burning had been used to enrich the soil, and other squares of wheat yellow and jade green. Brad wished he could share the gorgeous scenery with Ginny, but he knew he had to conduct his interview alone to protect her job.

An unspectacular ranch-style house was waiting for Brad at the end of the road. The yard did not look like it had been tended recently, and the paint on the house was peeling. Brad parked in the gravel driveway and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chimes echo in the interior of the house. When there was no answer he rang the bell again. Moments later, he saw a shape moving toward him through the frosted glass on one side of the door.

“Who are you?” a woman asked. It was only one in the afternoon but her speech was slurred.

“I’m Brad Miller, ma’am. I’m an associate with the Reed, Briggs law firm in Portland.”

Erickson had worked as a legal secretary for Christopher Farrington, so Brad hoped that the firm’s name would impress her. A moment after he’d said the magic words the front door opened. In a photograph of Marsha Erickson taken shortly after her daughter’s murder she looked a little heavy but nothing like the grossly overweight woman in the red-, yellow-, and blue-flower print muumuu who stood before him. Rings of fat circled her neck, she had a double chin, and her eyes, which were almost hidden beneath fleshy folds, were bloodshot.

“What does Reed, Briggs want with me?” she asked belligerently. Her breath left no doubt about why she was swaying and why her words ran together.

“Reed, Briggs is a very successful law firm but we don’t want the public to see us as simply a money machine,” Brad answered, remembering the pep talk Susan Tuchman had given before dumping the Little case on him. “In order to give back to the people of Oregon we take on pro bono projects, and I’ve been assigned to one.”

“Are you going to get to the point?” Erickson asked impatiently.

“Yes, well, could we step inside? It’s a little hot out here.”

“No, we can not. I’m not letting you in until you tell me why you’re here.”

“It’s Clarence Little, ma’am. I was assigned his appeal in the Ninth Circuit from a denial of habeas corpus.”

The blood drained from Erickson’s face.

“We have reason to believe that Mr. Little may not have been responsible for your daughter’s death,” Brad blurted out, afraid that Erickson was going to shut the door in his face.

“Who sent you?” Erickson asked, her voice trembling.

“Reed, Briggs,” Brad said as he handed her his card. “I just have a few questions I wanted to ask you about your daughter’s relationship with President Farrington.”

Erickson’s head jerked up at the mention of the president. “No, no. You have to leave.”

“But-”

“Leave or I’ll call the police.”

“Mrs. Erickson, did Christopher Farrington bother your daughter sexually?”

Marsha Erickson stared at Brad. She looked terrified. “You have to go,” she said as she stepped back into the house.

“But Mrs. Erickson-”

“You have to go.”

Erickson slammed the door shut, leaving Brad alone.

Ginny and Brad were sitting side by side on secondhand lawn chairs on the tiny balcony outside Ginny’s living room window. Three stories below people strolled along the sidewalks of Portland’s fashionable Pearl District where savvy developers had converted warehouses into expensive condos and apartments and lured in upscale eateries, art galleries, and chic boutiques. Ginny justified the high rent she paid for her small one-bedroom by pointing to the money she saved on gas by walking or taking the trolley to work.

“It doesn’t sound like you learned much,” Ginny said when Brad finished filling her in on his visit to Marsha Erickson.

“I learned that Marsha Erickson is scared to death of Christopher Farrington,” Brad answered. “I bet he paid her off and she’s smart enough to know that you don’t double-cross the president of the United States.”

“I bet you would have learned a lot more if I’d been along. She would have related better to a woman.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not kidding when I say she was scared. As soon as I mentioned Farrington she panicked.”

“Damn.”

“I tried.”

Ginny took hold of his hand. “I know you did, and you’re probably right about her not talking to me, either.” She sighed. “Without Erickson’s mother we have nothing.”

“We tried our best. Now all we can do is hope that Paul Baylor proves that Laurie Erickson’s pinkie isn’t in the Mason jar and whoever Tuchman’s got working on the case goes to the police.”

“There’s not much chance of that with the Dragon Lady supervising. You said yourself that she’s Farrington’s big buddy.”

“If I tell you something will you promise not to get mad at me?” Brad asked Ginny.

“That would depend on what you tell me.”

“I’m relieved that Mrs. Erickson wouldn’t talk to me and that we have no further leads. I don’t like Clarence Little one bit. He’s a sick bastard who deserves to be on death row. This case is probably going to cost me my job, and it might have put your position with the firm in jeopardy if Tuchman learned you’ve been helping me, so I’m glad it’s over for us. There, I’ve said my piece. If you want to hate me, go right ahead.”

Ginny squeezed Brad’s hand. “I don’t hate you and I’m sorry the case has caused you so much trouble. It’s just that…Damn it, I believe in our system of justice. If it’s going to mean anything at all it’s got to work for scum like Little as well as for the decent people who get in trouble. But you’re right, enough is enough. I won’t get on you anymore about the case. I’ll even take some of your workload off your hands so you can catch up.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but two of the partners I work with are on vacation, so I’ve got some free time. And I want you to have some free time because I’m horny.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, I was hoping to catch a few innings of the Yankee game.”

Ginny stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Who would you rather sleep with, me or George Steinbrenner?”

“How long do I have to make up my mind?” Brad asked with a grin.

Ginny grabbed Brad by the ear and pulled him to his feet. “Get in the bedroom, Bradford Miller, before I really get mad.”

Dana Cutler drove aimlessly to give the adrenaline in her system time to subside. Then she gassed up and headed for Pennsylvania. She spent the night sleeping in a farmer’s field then drove through Ohio on back roads, spending the next night in an abandoned warehouse outside of Columbus. Dana was in the middle of a meal at a fast-food place in Des Moines, Iowa, when she decided that she couldn’t keep running. She had a lot of money, but it would be gone eventually, and the forces hunting her were much better at finding people than she was at escaping detection. She knew that for a fact after what had happened at the Traveler’s Rest. If she was going to survive, she was going to have to fight back, but how?

Dana abandoned Jake’s bike in the rear of the restaurant. She felt bad about ditching the Harley, but she couldn’t risk riding it anymore. She vowed to buy Jake a new one if this one wasn’t returned to him and if she wasn’t dead or in prison.

After dyeing her auburn hair jet-black in the bathroom of a gas station, Dana put on the glasses she’d saved from her escape from The 911 and changed into a plain, loose-fitting print dress that made her look poor and pathetic. Then she walked a mile to the public library on Grand Avenue, intent on learning as much as she could about Christopher Farrington in the hope that the key to her survival lay somewhere in Farrington’s past.