Phillip Margolin - Ties That Bind

Hayes held up a hand and the questions stopped. "As you know, I rarely accept a court appointment, but I did in this case because Judge Grant asked me. He's an old friend and a hard man to turn down."

"Why didn't Judge Grant use one of the lawyers on the court-appointment list?" shouted a reporter from one of the network affiliates.

"Jack Stamm is going to seek the death penalty, which limits the list to death-qualified lawyers. Judge Grant wanted to avoid any suggestion that Mr. Dupre was not going to be treated fairly because of Senator Travis's prominence."

"What's your defense going to be?" a reporter from the Oregonian asked.

Hayes smiled. "Grace, I haven't talked to Mr. Dupre yet, so I can't possibly answer that question. But I'm going to do that now. So, if you'll excuse me . . ."

Hayes turned to one of the deputies manning the reception desk, a huge man with red hair who was almost as tall as the lawyer.

"Hey, Mac, help me make my escape from this rabble, will you?" he said loudly enough so the reporters could hear him. A few laughed.

"Sure thing, Mr. Hayes."

The lawyer started to hand the deputy his bar card, but he waved him off.

"I'll need to check your briefcase, though."

A metal detector stood between Hayes and the jail elevator. He handed over his briefcase and took his keys, coins, and a small Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. Then he stripped off his coat and handed it and the metal objects to the guard.

"How'd you think the Blazers made out in that trade?" Hayes asked as the guard laid down the jacket and gave the papers in his briefcase a cursory going-over.

"I don't know about that forward from Croatia. I'd have gone for Drake."

"The guy from Dallas?" Hayes said as he walked through the metal detector. "He's big but he can't shoot."

"Yeah, but he can block shots, and the Blazers are definitely hurting on defense." Mac handed back everything but the knife. "Sorry, Mr. Hayes. I gotta hold on to this."

"I'll pick it up when I'm through," Hayes said as he put on his jacket. "Beam me up, Mac."

It was Hayes's standard line, and Mac flashed his usual smile as he walked over to the jail elevator and keyed Hayes up to the floor where Jon Dupre was being held.

One of Adam Buckley's jobs as a jail guard was escorting attorneys to the three soundproofed visiting rooms designated for face-to-face meetings with their clients. Buckley could see into these rooms when he walked along the narrow corridor that ran in front of them, because each had a large window. The corridor ended at a thick metal door. A small glass window in the top half of the door looked out on another hallway into which the elevators from reception emptied.

"I'm here to visit Jon Dupre," Wendell Hayes said as soon as Buckley opened the door.

"I know, Mr. Hayes. I got him in room number two."

"Thanks," Hayes answered as he glanced through the glass at a woman in a business suit and a young black man who were huddled over a stack of police reports in the room nearest the elevators.

Buckley led Hayes to the second visiting room and let him in through a solid-steel door. A second door at the back of the room led to the unit where the prisoners on the floor were housed. Jon Dupre, dressed in an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, was sprawled in one of the two molded plastic chairs that stood on either side of a round table secured to the floor by metal bolts. Hayes walked past Buckley, and the guard pointed to a black button that stuck out from the bottom of an intercom that was recessed into the yellow concrete wall.

"Press that if you need assistance," he told Hayes, even though he knew that the lawyer was familiar with the routine.

Buckley relocked the door just as his radio came to life and the dispatcher notified him that another attorney was on the way up. He ambled down to the door and watched a harried public defender walk out of the elevator, reading a police report. Buckley recognized him and let him into the corridor.

"Hey, Mr. Buckley, I'm here for Kevin Hoch."

"They're bringing him down."

Buckley was passing the second contact room when Wendell Hayes crashed into the glass window.

"What the . . ." Buckley started to say, but he froze with his mouth half open when Hayes turned his head and blood poured out of his left eye socket, smearing the glass. The public defender made a strangled cry and tried to burrow through the far wall as Hayes pushed off the glass and turned toward Dupre. Buckley watched the prisoner stab the lawyer, then snapped out of his trance when more blood sprayed across the window and Hayes sank to the floor. He wanted to break into the room but his training took over. If he opened the door, he would be facing an armed man without a weapon and endangering everyone else on the floor.

"Major assault, major assault in contact visiting room two," Buckley shouted into his radio as he rushed to the window. "A man is down."

Buckley pressed against the window so he could judge Hayes's condition. Dupre thrust a jagged metal object at the guard. Buckley jumped back, even though the glass was between them.

"I need backup," Buckley shouted. "Weapons are involved."

Dupre kicked the window. The glass shuddered but didn't break.

"What is the man's condition?" the dispatcher asked.

"I don't know, but he's bleeding bad."

Dupre ran to the door at the back of the room and slammed his hands into it, but the steel door didn't move. He began pacing frantically and muttering to himself.

"Who else is on the floor?" the dispatcher asked.

"I've got a lawyer and prisoner in room one and an attorney in the corridor," Buckley answered as Dupre turned his attention to the other door.

"Evacuate. I'll get the sergeant."

"Get out, now," he told the public defender, as he opened the hall door. When it was relocked, Buckley opened the door to visiting room one and told the woman to leave. Her client looked confused.

"There's an emergency," Buckley told the inmate, keeping his voice calm. "The guard will be here for you in a moment."

The woman started to protest just as Buckley heard Dupre slam a chair against the glass window. The window was thick but Buckley wasn't certain that it would hold.

"Out!" he yelled, grabbing the attorney by the arm and hustling her into the hall. The prisoner got to his feet.

"My papers," she started to say. Then the chair hit the window again and she clamped a hand to her mouth when she noticed the blood-smeared glass for the first time. Buckley locked her client in and pushed the woman into the hall with the elevators. This time she didn't protest. Buckley followed her and locked the door. If Dupre broke through the glass he would still be trapped in the narrow hall outside the visiting rooms.

"This is Sergeant Rice. What's the situation?" a voice asked over Buckley's radio.

"There's a prisoner in one. I just locked him in. I don't know if there's an inmate in three yet, but someone was supposed to bring Kevin Hoch down. I'm in the hall outside the elevators with two attorneys. I think Wendell Hayes is dead." Buckley heard an intake of air. "He's inside room two with Jon Dupre. Dupre stabbed him several times. He's got some kind of knife."

"Okay. Hold your position, Buckley. The jail is locked down and I'll have help to you in another minute. Then I'll go in through the back door with the CERT boys."

As they spoke, the elevator doors opened and ten members of the Corrections Emergency Response Team rushed out of the elevator in flack jackets and face shields. They were all carrying nonlethal weapons, like Mace, and three of them had man-sized Plexiglas shields.

"Buckley?" one of the men asked. Adam nodded. "I'm Sergeant Miller. What's our situation?"

Buckley repeated what he'd told Sergeant Rice.