Help Me Nora

2 Marianne Freemantle

2 Marianne FreemantleMarianne Freemantle frowned at her email. It was Saturday morning and she was at home in her upstairs den. “Call me,” read the message from Zane Carter, who worked for Oregon’s attorney general.

All their previous communication had been via email. What had he chosen not to put in writing? She pulled out her cell and tapped in the number he’d provided.

When Zane answered, she heard the clink of a spoon against china along with his muffled and high-pitched, “Hello.”

The man’s girlish voice did not go with his macho first name. And why was a busy attorney eating cereal at ten-thirty in the morning?

She identified herself and asked, “Am I interrupting your breakfast?”

“All finished.” He swallowed whatever was clogging his mouth. “Thanks for getting back to me so quick.”

“What’s up?”

Carter’s response was stiff. “We won’t name your person of interest during this phone conversation, okay?”

Had he developed second thoughts about the task he’d agreed to do for her?

“I made a legitimate request,” she reminded him. “An inquiry concerning a resident of my state who’d been incarcerated in yours.”

“Might have told me how she’s earning her living these days. I did a records check. Confirmed your person spent twenty-five months at the former Oregon correctional institution for women near Salem. I dug a little deeper and learned she shared her cell with only one inmate while incarcerated. Winifred Yates, a thirty-five year old white woman serving three consecutive sentences totaling nineteen-plus years for felonies committed in 1997.”

The time inside implied serious crime. Yates had hurt somebody. She might be willing to hurt her former cellmate.

She scribbled notes while she did the math.

“So Wicked Winnie was twenty-one when they put my person in her cell. She remember her fondly?”

Carter’s laugh was sour. “Too fondly for your purposes. According to Winifred, your person is a candidate for sainthood. Not only did she turn her life around after release and become a lawyer. She helps the downtrodden, including her old cellmate. Who’s very attractive, by the way. Beautiful black hair and lots of charm. She was real cute, flirting with me.”

With him? She’d expected Carter to send an investigator.

“You saw the woman in person?”

“Didn’t want to involve anyone else at this stage. I had an appointment with another inmate at the same facility. Found time to fit in Winifred. My schedule’s a little lighter these days. Appeal process has gotten leisurely.”

By “these days,” Carter meant since Oregon’s governor banned executions in the state. She believed the ban to be a huge mistake and feared her own governor would soon copy Oregon’s.

“Glad you can get something positive from that,” she said.

“Not entirely negative, at least,” Carter said. “Anyway, Winifred and your person must’ve been quite the jailhouse couple.”

Intrigued, she jotted “lesbian?” on her pad. “You mean they were playing house?”

“No suggestion by Winifred that they were more than friends. But both of them being in their twenties. Winifred being such a looker. Your person making herself so helpful to everyone. The combination had to be attention getting.”

Marianne drew a line through “lesbian?” and moved on. “What do you mean, my person is helping the cellmate?”

“Your person is trying to get Winifred out of jail.”

“Of course,” she said. “No doubt she was wrongly convicted. No one doing time ever committed the crime.”

“Winifred did,” Carter retorted. “She confessed to the Springfield home invasion. Copped to one count of first degree robbery, one of second, and one of second degree kidnapping.”

Marianne let her surprise color her voice. “And that plea bargain put her inside for two decades?”

Carter grunted. “She may not have gotten the best advice. Each count means a separate mandatory sentence. The end result is she’s doing twice as much time as women convicted of manslaughter.”

He was making an editorial comment.

She countered. “Society is better off keeping violent criminals in jail. And I understand that the Oregon law is like Washington’s mandatory minimum sentences. The inmate gets no time off for good behavior and has no possibility of parole.”

“Right,” Carter confirmed. “Basic philosophy is lock’em up and throw away the key.”

“So what can my person do to get the cellmate released earlier?” she asked.

“Remember, Winnie has three separate sentences, served consecutively. She’s completed the first and second and part of the third.”

Marianne understood.

“My person petitioned the court to amend the sentencing. Allow the cellmate to serve her third sentence simultaneously with the second.”

“You got it,” Carter said. “If granted, she’ll be released.”

Marianne sniffed. “Makes no sense to let her out early. The whole point of mandatory sentencing is to deter convicted felons from resuming criminal activity.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Carter said. “Because Winifred didn’t volunteer negative information concerning your person. And I was reluctant to fish for any. Given their friendship, I could hardly suggest she might benefit by cooperating with me.”

“Of course not. The only thing you can offer is to support her petition. Hardly logical when what you want in return concerns the lawyer preparing the petition.”

“Soon as I realized that,” Carter said, “I terminated the interview. So far, Winifred’s petition has been denied in two lower courts. Your person has pushed it up to the next level each time. Very determined lady. When I agreed to make inquiries for you, I didn’t realize you were digging for dirt on a death penalty appeal lawyer. Could be a land mine buried in that excavation. I don’t want any shrapnel hitting me.”

The squeaky-voiced coward was refusing to help her expose an unfit attorney. She hid her annoyance.

“I’ll keep your assistance completely confidential. I appreciate your effort.”

Sounding mollified, he said, “You’re welcome.”

She lowered her voice making her next words intimate.

“And you’ll send me the complete police report on her crime?”

He didn’t reply, his silence accusing her of asking him to break Oregon law.

After ten seconds, she added, “I need that information so I can compare it to her application for admission to the bar. If she was truthful, she’ll never know I checked. Surely, you see the logic.”

Grudgingly, he agreed. “But give me your home address. I don’t want a package from me accidentally logged in to your office mail system.”

She recited her address, thanked him again, and ended the call.

Hard work, extracting what she needed. Especially from a man with no balls.

And lousy judgment.

She doubted the women’s prison in Oregon got many visits from lawyers on the attorney general’s staff. Carter’s appearance would raise questions.

His prissy attempts to hide his involvement were late and inadequate. She bet that minutes after he left, Winifred Yates had called Dockson.

Was that a problem?

She glanced at the trio of framed photos on the corner of her oak desk.

Grandad on his horse.

A PR shot of her British-born husband Nigel taken for one of the corporate boards he served on.

And her favorite photo of her father, a dashing twenty-nine-year-old in a Navy uniform.

After law school, her dad had spent four years in the office of the Judge Advocate General. Smart, street-savvy, and intense—intimidation was among his favorite tactics. In this case, she’d copy him.

She imagined Nora Dockson, worried that her prison record could go public. A nervous Dockson might reveal damning details.

Plus, she’d learned that Dockson consorted with felons off the job as well as on. All in all, Carter had done a good job despite being a wimp.

Still, she hoped Kent Harper was made of stronger stuff.

She carried her phone downstairs and got comfortable on the floral-patterned couch in the living room. Their house was in one of Olympia’s upscale neighborhoods and the floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a glimpse of Budd Bay in the distance. The miniature water view was invigorating. As if she was inhaling salt air from the Puget Sound inlet.

She’d been battling Nora Dockson on the Gustavo Ochoa case for seven years.

Three weeks ago, Dockson had filed an appearance for the appellant in another of her cases. Quinn Isaacs remained the lead attorney representing Jared Nelson, so Dockson’s addition to the team probably meant she was in charge of fact checking.

The woman didn’t stick to the trial transcript, searching for possible legal argument. She roved the field. It was impossible to predict what would attract Dockson’s attention.

Marianne had realized she needed inside information. State Trooper Sergeant Kent Harper had agreed to assist.

She placed the call and sat up straighter, alert to hear his report.

When Harper answered, his “hello” sounded wide awake, firm and deep.

Nicely matching his appearance.

“Had a chance yet to chat with Nora Dockson?”

“Indeed I have,” he replied. “We had a couple of beers together last night.”

Last night?

She’d been too tired to move off the couch, but Dockson had gone out on the town. Was the woman popping amphetamines?

She focused on the more critical issue. “Did she reveal any strategic details?”

Harper laughed. “Nope. Soon as I mentioned Jared Nelson, she ran off. But I think I planted a useful seed.”

She hadn’t imagined the sergeant would show initiative. Hoping he’d done no damage, she asked, “How so?”

“Last night, Dockson was all fired up over yesterday’s hearing, where she lost to you. I always enjoy listening to someone who’s passionate on a subject. I encouraged her to talk. And I realized how important it is to her that Gustavo Ochoa is innocent. Her willingness to work hard for him comes from her conviction that he didn’t commit the crime.”

Harper paused and she heard his tongue click against the back of his teeth.

“She’ll find Jared Nelson is a less sympathetic character,” he continued. “And she’ll remember I called him a cold-blooded criminal.”

“Could be,” she said. “Though Dockson isn’t inclined to accept negative evaluations of Center clients by law enforcement. Did you learn anything else that might help me anticipate what she’ll do?”

Harper let out a reflective rumble.

“She described herself as interviewing witnesses in Ochoa’s case. I suppose she’ll do the same with Jared Nelson. Boils down to his wife, the victim.”

“Very likely.”

She kept her tone neutral. No point in revealing to Harper she had foreseen that likelihood. “Good work. I appreciate your going to so much trouble for me.”

“No trouble at all,” Harper assured her. “Like I said, I enjoyed hearing the Little Buckaroo’s story.”

“Little Buckaroo?”

“Dockson grew up in cattle country. She claims she was never a rodeo rider, but she sure sounds like one. I thought she should have a name to match.”

Harper had gotten friendly enough to give Dockson a nickname? She kept her displeasure out of her voice.

“So what else do you remember from what she told you?”

“Well,” Harper said, “the cops investigating that Sweet Home murder apparently suffered from tunnel vision. I’m surprised the prosecution could make a case against Ochoa based on what they provided.”

“Dockson can be persuasive. But don’t jump to any conclusions until you hear my side. I’ve yet to lose a decision to her.”

“She has no warm feelings toward you.”

“She mentioned me?” Marianne asked.

“Said when she showed you the pubic hair, you didn’t agree to a new trial. Apparently, she thought you should have.”

Harper paused. When he resumed his tone was more intimate.

“I’m guessing you’re no cowgirl, working in Olympia. You always lived on that side of the state?”

“No cowgirl.”

She didn’t tell him she’d been born in the middle of Central Washington, an agricultural region housing enormous data storage facilities for Seattle’s high-tech companies. What nickname would Harper make from that—Geek Girl?

She heard the purr of a familiar engine. Going to the window, she peered toward the three-car garage and saw her husband’s Jaguar.

“I have to run. But I owe you dinner next time I’m in Spokane.”

“I look forward to collecting.”

She ended the call. Dinner was the only thing Harper would collect from her. If she stayed friendly, she might hear something useful about his Little Buckaroo.

Marianne slipped the phone into her pocket and went to the kitchen. She intercepted Nigel as he entered from the garage.

Every lock of his crisp silver mane was in place. No wrinkle marred his “casual” outfit—dark blue linen trousers and light blue long-sleeved linen shirt with French cuffs.

She eyed his apparel. “I thought you had a tennis date this morning.”

“Postponed,” Nigel said. “I drove up to Seattle to breakfast with a new board member. Exhausted as you were last night, I didn’t want to bother you with such a trivial change of plans.”

“Good decision.”

After the long drive home to Olympia, all she’d wanted was a glass of wine. Several glasses. She’d rebuffed Nigel’s efforts to start a conversation.

“Sorry I was such unpleasant company.”

He shrugged to dismiss any need for apology. “Feeling better?”

“Exercise helped.”

Earlier, she’d pushed hard through her core strengthening program, upping the weight on the leg press, increasing the reps for the suitcase lift. Topped off with twenty minutes alternating sprints and fast walking on the treadmill.

Toning her forty-five year old muscles and sculpting her shape, she enhanced the physique she’d inherited from her stocky mother along with the mud-brown hair.

“I’m sick of this case,” she said to Nigel. “And since that b***h took over the appeals, I’m beginning to doubt it will ever end.”

Careful not to spell out that by “end” she meant Gustavo Ochoa would die. Last year, she’d been promoted to lead attorney in the state’s litigation unit handling appeals of all sentences involving death or life imprisonment.

England had hung its last murderer forty-nine years ago. Nigel did not share her firm support for capital punishment.

“When you say b***h, you mean the female lawyer named for a dog breed?” he asked.

Her chuckle had an acid undertone. “She doesn’t spell it the same way.”

He laughed. “The dachshund is known for persistence. When hunting, she tracks the badger to its den and barks loudly to summon her master to finish it off.”

“It’s apt. Nora Dockson never stops barking. Prosecution, police work, legal representation, forensics, informant testimony—she’s yapped at them all.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Apparently with some justification since her motions continue to be heard.”

“And dismissed. Gustavo Ochoa is guilty of murder. Evidence was mishandled but not in a manner unduly prejudicial to the defendant.”

“Marianne, Marianne.”

Nigel repeated her name in a sorrowful voice.

“I don’t need details. What concerns me is that you are using your brilliant mind to defend questionable behavior.”

Stung, she began, “I’m not—”

“Don’t you see?” he interrupted. “When you tarnish yourself in this manner, you become vulnerable. Why allow that?”

“You make no effort to understand the American legal system.”

“I will certainly never understand your tawdry love affair with the death penalty.”

He took her hands.

“You are an incredibly talented lawyer. You can easily find more suitable work. Why demean yourself?”

She inhaled but before she could speak he released her hands and put a finger to her lips. She smelled lavender, the scent of his favorite soap.

He kissed her cheek. “Don’t say anything. We’ll talk later, when you’re calmer. I have to change and go to the club.” He hurried from the room.

Controlling her anger, she extracted an orange juice carton from the Sub-Zero. She filled a crystal glass and carried it upstairs to her den, firmly shutting the door.

What her husband refused to understand was that she couldn’t admit the prosecution had made any errors. Doing so would weaken the state’s case, perhaps fatally. If she lost to a guilty appellant, she failed the citizens of Washington.

She set her glass on the desk. The heavy wooden piece had belonged to her grandfather when he was county sheriff. Her father had inherited it and passed it on to her. She’d also claimed her father’s glass-front bookcases and his leatherbound law books.

Nigel found her office décor “quaint”.

His insult didn’t bother her. She was pleased to be the third generation in her family to work on the side of law and order in Washington.

She’d brought nothing to her home that had belonged to her mother. Lorraine Silverstone Lawrence had given birth to her but had been as distant as a legal guardian, instructing her to say “Lorraine” instead of “mama.”

When Harold Lawrence dropped dead from a heart attack at age sixty-eight, Lorraine-the-society-matron had morphed into Rain-the-do-gooder and left Washington abruptly in pursuit of lost causes. It had felt as if her mother was atoning for the imagined sins of her husband and father.

Dad and Grandad.

The two people whose good opinion had mattered most to her.

Nigel ranked lower.

Lorraine wasn’t on the list.