Right the Wrong

2 Winifred Yates

2 NoraAt eight-thirty that night, Nora stood at the edge of Budd Bay, threw back her head, and mewed like a gull at the ones circling above her. Her skin still tingled from the bawdy reunion with Kent. They’d left his hotel room an hour ago to share a late dinner at a nearby Tex-Mex cafe. The flavors of guacamole and Tecate with lime mingled in her mouth.

She was giddy, she felt so good inside and out.

The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving scattered scraps of pink cloud floating in the darkening blue sky. The calm, broad expanse of water below reflected the rosy shapes and the blue background like a difficult jigsaw puzzle, the bay a mirror for the sky.

Her gaze slid north past the spiky rows of moored boats in the Marina and over the twisty inlet of Puget Sound. Its ragged shoreline ran along the mountainous Olympic Peninsula on her left, mainland Washington was on her right. The prison she’d visited earlier was tucked away up there. A motor boat embarking from Gig Harbor Bay would have reached this spot in half the time she’d spent on the road.

Not that she’d have dared take the ocean route. She hadn’t encountered saltwater until she was in her twenties. As a kid, she’d been vaguely aware of the Pacific, but during her ten years living at her grandmother’s dusty Eastern Oregon ranchette, she’d been happy on horseback. She hadn’t yearned to dip her toes in the surf. Boating on the open sea was too dangerous to consider.

Still, her way wasn’t the only way, and she could imagine Lisa Fiedler sailing away from prison, riding up front with the wind ruffling her hair, tasting the same free salty air that Nora was.

Walking with Kent from the cafe to this waterfront park, she’d filled him in on her meeting. She turned her gaze from the water to where he lounged on a weathered wood bench. She noticed again how his Levis molded his thighs and how nicely his red-and-blue plaid shirt showed off his sunbrowned arms. Despite his complaints that he’d been stuck indoors learning how to fill out useless paperwork, he’d managed to improve his tan.

She met his gaze, saw laughter in his eyes and a grin tugging at his lips.

“You weren’t kidding when you said being behind bars gave you claustrophobia. You look like you’re trying to fly away with those birds.”

Leaning back against the wood slats, he shook his head in mock disgust. “I’m surprised you didn’t give up after the first ten minutes. Talking to that girl was a waste of your time.”

“Got to respect your assessment,” she retorted, plopping down beside him. “You being a trained investigator and all. But I didn’t think it was a waste.”

“’Course not.” He stretched an arm along the back of the bench, snugged her closer to him, and tickled her ear with his breathy version of the nickname he’d given her. “Remember, Champ. I know how your mind works. You only went to see her so you’d have an excuse to be with me.”

“Pure coincidence, you being in the vicinity.” She pulled out from under his arm and mock-punched him. “Lisa’s a puzzle I want to solve.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Woman confessed to aiding and abetting a murderer. What, you think she didn’t?”

“She admits she’s guilty. But this mental block thing is hurting her. She’s served her minimum sentence. She’s eligible for parole and the board’s turned her down twice. They want to hear the inmate take responsibility for her crime. Lisa’s claim that she can’t remember what she did must sound as hollow to them as it does to me.”

He smiled. “And you think you can help her sound convincingly remorseful?”

“I want to try. She’s been a model prisoner. Nothing’s gained by keeping her locked up. Maybe after I interview those other two co-defendants, I’ll see a way to get her out.”

“Could be worth a return visit.” He nodded sagely. “You get her talking, she might reveal something useful to your client.”

“Quinn’s client,” she corrected. Senior appeals attorney Quinn Isaacs coordinated work at Spokane’s Legal Resource Center. She’d agreed to help him by fact-checking the prosecution case against Trevor Bryant.

“This Bryant another one of those career criminals you folks like so much?” Kent asked.

“He’s been in different kinds of trouble.” She shrugged. “Quinn’s convinced the justice system didn’t treat him fairly when he was convicted. Only fairness matters to Quinn.”

A pair of gulls started a squawking match above them. Kent shook his head, as though her words made as much sense as gull-talk. Fairness to victims was his priority.

“Walk me through the case,” he said. “Where was this crime committed?”

“O’Neill.”

“Up in Evergreen.” He’d named a small, rural county northwest of Spokane. “Sheriff’s office handled the original investigation?”

“Right. Collected the usual samples and sent them to a local lab for basic analysis. Matched what they could to the victim. Some of her blood on the carpet and her saliva and mucus on an embroidered pillow. Lab concluded that the other blood and semen samples from the crime scene were mixtures. Might have come from anyone.”

“Incompetent bullshit.” Kent’s voice was heavy with disgust. “I hope they’re out of business.”

She nodded her agreement. Slipshod laboratory procedure kept cropping up as a problem statewide. “Closed due to incorrect interpretation of results in another case.”

“That’s a relief.” He frowned. “So the sheriff’s office had no physical evidence placing a particular individual at the scene?”

“None is mentioned in the files I’ve read. They interrogated several suspects. Made no arrests.” She leaned toward him. “They questioned Trevor. Searched his car.”

“Couldn’t have been too thorough. Did they check his residence for stolen goods?” he asked.

“None to check for. Nothing was taken from the apartment. Investigators found a thousand dollars tucked into an empty juice can in the freezer.”

“First place any decent thief would look.” Kent chewed the inside of his cheek. “Doesn’t sound like the victim walked in on a burglary in progress.”

“End result was no arrest. Four years later, sheriff got a tip that Trevor and some accomplices killed Mrs. Hancock. Trevor was in the local slammer at the time. He’d resisted arrest when drunk and disorderly.”

He snickered. “How convenient. Makes you wonder if the tip came from someone in the sheriff’s office.”

Restless, she stood and faced him. She inhaled air laden with the rank smell of seaweed.

“Deputies did manage to locate that old file damn fast,” she noted. “And what do you know? Trevor had been a suspect for the murder.”

He nodded. “Of course they found that his three friends claimed they were partying with him when the crime was committed. I bet the deputies told Trevor if he helped them solve the murder, he’d be released on bond for the pending charges. Hoped he’d make a deal to save himself. Give up the others.”

“Bingo.” She raised both hands, index fingers pointed up in an aha!-gesture.

“But Trevor insisted he knew nothing about the murder,” she continued. “Deputies pulled in the three who’d been his alibi. They confessed. Swore Trevor did it all while they watched.”

Kent grunted. “Comes back to me. Newspapers had a field day. Drug-crazed young men and women torture and kill older widow in rural town. Lurid enough for television.”

“Trevor insists he was never in the victim’s apartment. He’s sure a second and more advanced DNA analysis of the semen sample will exonerate him. But the prosecuting attorney won’t agree to the test.”

“Can’t blame the PA.” Kent shrugged. “Those three confessions are pure gold. All the co-defendants served time as a result. Not a deal you make if you’re innocent. PA’d be crazy to waste taxpayer money on testing when he’s got such clear proof of guilt.”

“Well, it’s not completely clear proof. A blood stain and three fingerprints at the scene didn’t match the victim, any of her relatives known to have been in the apartment, or any of the defendants.”

“Pretty flimsy evidence that another rapist was present,” Kent noted.

“Not enough to convince a judge, that’s for sure.” Her turn to shrug. “Still, I have to make sure that the others didn’t conceal participation by a man other than Trevor.”

“Odds of that are a million to one.” He stood and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“Such a soft heart my little Champ is hiding under her tough-girl skin.” He kissed the top of her head. “This Lisa got to you, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Nora relaxed against his solid torso and caught a whiff of him. Tide overlaid by the fading scent of his cologne.

“She’s a great big woman with a little girl voice and enthusiasm,” she said. “Sweet as can be. I couldn’t find a thing to dislike.”

“You want to be on the road by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, we better hit the hay.” He dropped his arm, took her hand, nudged her into motion.

Crossing the street toward his hotel, he added, “Maybe Lisa wasn’t all that sweet before she was incarcerated.”

“According to her, she’d gotten her act together. They arrested her and her life fell apart. She’s clueless as to how she ended up in prison. She doesn’t come across as someone who uses people. More like somebody who gets used.”

“Not too bright, I take it,” Kent said.

His strides were twice the length of hers. She tugged on his hand to slow him down.

“The state IQ-tested her to confirm she was competent to stand trial. She isn’t mentally retarded. Just slow—‘dull normal’ in IQ-speak. If she’d had a stable home life and supportive parents, she might have done fine. ”

“I guess she wasn’t lucky that way?”

Nora shook her head. “By middle school, they’d shunted her into a special education class with kids who were seriously handicapped, some both mentally and physically.”

He grunted. “The ones they used to call the geeks.”

“Before geek meant cool.” She laughed. “But you get the idea. A group with a negative label. Outside of school, Lisa was an ordinary teenage girl. But she couldn’t be in a mainstream classroom. Some kids can handle that. Admit they’re bad at school and try to excel at something else.”

“I knew a guy who did,” Kent said. “He was still taking special ed in high school. His advisor tried to make him work in the cafeteria. He insisted he was a drummer, not a dishwasher, and he proved it. I was struggling with my calculus homework. He was playing in a band, pulling down decent money on weekends.”

She bobbed her head in agreement. “Maybe Lisa could have been good at sports. If she’d bumped into the right coach, perhaps she’d be a famous weight lifter today. Instead, she dropped out of school, ran with a bunch of meth-heads, got into trouble.”

Kent frowned. “She was doing that around the time of the murder?”

“Pretty much. Later, she straightened out. But she still has trouble with her memory. Isn’t sure how many times she’s failed the GED. Remembering things has been a life-long problem.”

“Fits with the mental block,” he said.

“But that’s the odd part. Most people can’t totally repress horrible memories. When she tries to describe what happened, it’s like she’s holding the pillow over her own face. She can only see a blurry image around the edge. Can’t remember hearing or smelling anything.”

He laughed. “That’s why they call it a block.”

“Well, I don’t understand it. Talking to her about holding the old woman down puts awful pictures in my mind. Bound to give me nightmares.”

“I’ll keep you safe tonight,” he promised. “You know, you could revisit her tomorrow. Spend tomorrow night with me, too. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I would, but tomorrow’s the only day that the woman in Portland could free up enough time for a real interview.”

“Is she one of Lisa’s co-defendants?” he asked.

“No, the Portland woman’s a person of interest in another case. My client, this time. I have to get things moving for him. I can’t put off seeing her. Plus, I promised to drive down to Eugene and meet Winnie.”

Nora’s former cellmate had been released in January. Winnie’s agreement with the attorney general’s office required her to participate in a reentry program in the Willamette Valley.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Hasn’t screwed up during these first three months. But sixteen years inside—she’s having a hard time. Doesn’t like the advice she’s getting from the people running the program. I have to squeeze in some hand holding. Help her stay on track.”

“And far away from Spokane,” he said. “You’re overworked as it is. You can’t take on an ex-con’s reentry soap opera, too. Let the professionals handle Winnie.”

“That’s my goal. But she asked me to come and I agreed.” She lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “I can’t cancel on her.”

He sighed. “Got to admit, your heading south makes the most sense. I doubt you’ll get any farther with Lisa. Remember, she was high when she committed the crime. That affects how she perceived events. And she waited four years before she tried to reconstruct what happened. Lots of details disappear as time elapses.”

“All true. But something isn’t right. I can feel it.”

He grinned. “Let me try and distract you, at least for the moment.”

“Good idea.” She pulled him to a halt and snaked her arm around his waist. “I need more law enforcement contact to balance all the time I’m spending with felons.”

Pressing her body against his, she buried her face in plaid fabric and inhaled him again. A hint of citrus, a dash of bleachy detergent, and lust. This bad boy wasn’t ninety-nine and forty-four-one-hundredths percent pure. Not even close.

God, she wanted him.

“Distract me,” she murmured. “Please.”