1 - 11-4
1928 Words
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.
3 Nora DocksonSaturday morning, Nora was finishing her second cup of coffee and weighing her next move in Gus’s appeal.
Should she file a motion to exhume the body of Timothy Randall?
Her cell croaked like a bullfrog, interrupting the mental debate.
She grabbed it and heard a repeat of Friday’s automated message from Oregon’s correctional facility for women.
After the beep, she accepted the call and greeted her former cellmate. “What’s up?”
“Got a little Christmas surprise for you.” Winnie’s contralto was deeper than usual, freighted with concern. “Lawyer name of Zane Carter came to see me yesterday. His card says he works for Oregon’s attorney general. First thing he asked was if I remembered you.”
“Since my name is on your approved visitor list, it’d be pretty strange if you didn’t.”
Knowing the conversation was being recorded, she kept her tone neutral, but the coffee turned bitter in her mouth. She was being investigated. The only person with enough clout to merit assistance from the Oregon AG was the Law Beast: Marianne Freemantle.
“What’d you tell him?” she asked.
“Everything, of course.”
Winnie’s laugh was harsh. She was performing for the tape. “Your basic bad girl turns good story.”
“So you thought he was looking for a character reference from you?”
“What else?” Winnie’s voice rang with fake innocence. “Anyone in his line of work must be pleased when a former inmate turns model citizen.”
She paused. When she resumed, she’d switched her tone to exaggerated puzzlement.
“Funny thing, though. He didn’t look pleased. More startled. Maybe a little pissed? He cut me off with a thank you and left.”
“Interesting. Thanks for letting me know. We can talk more when I see you next month.”
“Gotcha,” Winnie said. “Take care.”
Nora said a quick goodbye and hung up. She carried her empty cup to the kitchen alcove and rinsed it in the sink. The tap water felt icy on her fingers—same temperature as the lump forming in her gut.
Why was Freemantle sniffing around her past? And why had she sent a government attorney to question Winnie? Freemantle had to know she’d hear of it.
Was she trying to frighten her?
Freemantle represented the State of Washington in both the Gustavo Ochoa and Jared Nelson appeals. She was warning her away from one of those cases.
Back off or I will hurt you.
Nora conjured up an image of Freemantle gloating over her victory the day before.
The mental snapshot of her perfect hairdo and self-satisfied smile was enraging. Fury melted the lump in her stomach and she found herself breathing hard, like a rodeo bull preparing to charge a fallen rider.
She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply to calm herself.
The Law Beast had tried to scare the wrong person. Nora Dockson did not back down. She shot back. Bullseye.
She’d make that motion to exhume Timothy Randall’s body. She’d file Monday. She’d teach Freemantle not to f**k with her.
For the rest of Saturday, she worked to complete the legal document and the supporting paperwork. She paused only to consider her best strategy.
She couldn’t stroll into the office on Monday morning and put it in front of cautious Quinn. He’d object.
She couldn’t risk trying to convince him. She might let slip that Freemantle was investigating her. This wasn’t the right moment for him to learn of her felony conviction. She had to avoid Quinn.
Luckily, her best friend had canceled plans to spend the holiday with family on the East coast. So Channing would be in the office on Monday. Much wiser to get her to handle Quinn.
At nine o’clock on Sunday morning, Nora rang the townhouse bell.
Channing opened the door, wearing a Santa hat atop her blond chignon, dressed in a green sweatshirt and red plaid pajama pants. Shivering in the cold morning air, Channing pulled her inside and shut the door.
Nora held up the flash drive with her motion saved on it and explained why she’d come.
“Could you help me out here?
Channing shrugged a “maybe” and led her into the room off the foyer she used as a study.
Ribbon and gift wrap littered the desk. Overflowing shopping bags were massed on the floor. The Messiah played softly in the background and the air smelled of cinnamon from the scented candle burning on the windowsill.
“I’ve been trying to create the right atmosphere to play Santa,” Channing explained. “Clayton took the kid to a children’s church service so I can wrap his presents in peace.” Pushing a stuffed Triceratops to one side of her desk, she opened her laptop, turned it on, and plugged in the flash drive.
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the request for an exhumation order. She shook her head, jingling the bell on her hat.
“Quinn won’t let you file this.”
“He has to. Randall should’ve been printed and his DNA-tested before Gus was arrested. We have to arrange that ASAP.”
“But disinterring a long-buried man.” Channing grimaced. “You’re pushing the limits of the law. The sensationalist aspect will generate negative publicity. Quinn hates that. If you’re able to show that the hair and the print came from Randall, the prosecution can argue that he was a frequent visitor. Of course, he’d leave traces of himself in the house.”
“The pubic hair was recovered from the victim’s body, found in her upstairs bedroom. The palm print was on the underside of the toilet seat in the adjacent bathroom. What frequent male visiting takes place only on a lady’s second floor?”
“Better hope the judge’s mind is as filthy as yours.”
Channing gathered scraps of red-and-green wrap in her fist. The paper crackled as she crumpled it.
Nora forced herself to hold completely still. Her next statement was technically accurate. She knew it wouldn’t be true much longer—but Channing didn’t.
“The press has shown little interest in the case. The publicity risk is manageable.”
“Maybe.”
Channing frowned at the screen.
“I can tell you wrote this in a hurry. It’s not your smoothest work. Quinn gave you more time. Why the big rush to file?”
“I realized Quinn was right.” Nora shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I have to finish my work for Gus and turn my full attention to Jared. Deadline is coming right up.”
“You knew that yesterday,” Channing pointed out. “You did a one-eighty overnight. And I know who you talked to. Is Harper behind this sudden U-turn?”
“As a matter of fact, he is,” she said, hiding her twitching hands behind her back.
Not mentioning Winnie’s call was a tiny lie of omission, yet still a lie.
“Right off the bat, Harper told me Jared is a stone killer. My bullshit detector clanged so loud I figured he’d hear it. He was trying to steer me away from doing more investigating.”
“Could be.” Channing pulled off the Santa hat and rubbed her forehead. The bell tinkled again as she spoke. “Is the Beast handling Jared’s appeal for the state?”
“Right. Winning is the only thing that matters to her. She has no interest in discovering someone else committed the crime. I think she’s behind Harper’s charade.”
“But which charade?” Channing gave her a probing look. “The one you described? Or the one you didn’t? Because Harper also gave you the idea of exhuming Randall, didn’t he?”
“Right again. But that was no charade. He threw it out as part of the conversation. Didn’t have the same staged feel as what he said about Jared.”
“Harper’s logic is warped. You can’t guess his agenda.”
Channing pushed out of her chair.
“You have to assume he wants to cause trouble for you.”
“Granted,” Nora conceded, “the Jared remark was aimed at me. But Freemantle can’t be promoting the exhumation idea. Scroll down and get a looksee at the letter I drafted to her.”
“‘Get a looksee’?”
Channing continued to mock her friend’s Western twang as she recited the letter’s single sentence:
“Since you have said many times that it is your duty to seek justice, I am sure you will have no objection to the attached motion.”
“Of course she’ll object,” Nora said. “Might keep her so busy, she loses track of what I’m doing for Jared. I don’t see how it can hurt. I think filing this motion is absolutely in Gus’s best interest.”
“Good point,” Channing agreed. “And that’s the argument you want me to make when I run it by Quinn tomorrow?”
“A good exhumation result will add weight to our case. You can see how important it is.”
“And you want me to do this for you because you’re leaving right this minute to visit your grandmother and won’t be in the office tomorrow.”
Channing’s tone was skeptical.
“If I drive to Pendleton today, I’ll have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Grandma. December twenty-sixth, I’ll go to Walla Walla and speak with Jared. The following day, I have an appointment with his ex-wife in Idaho. After what Harper said, I wish I’d interviewed her earlier. The attempt to divert me is a red flag. I may find a flaw in her eyewitness testimony.”
“Visit your old granny. Serve your clients. You tell a pretty tale. Since it’s Christmas, I’ll pretend you gave me the whole story and help you out.”
Channing fended off a hug. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t I always?” Nora replied.
“Oh God.” Channing sighed. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
Driving south from Spokane across the sun-drenched Palouse hills, Nora felt guilty as hell. She didn’t want to deceive her friend, but she’d had no choice.
Channing knew the details of her felony conviction. Her best friend was the only person in Spokane who did, but she didn’t know Marianne Freemantle had sent someone to interview Winnie.
If Channing had known, she wouldn’t have agreed to ride herd on the motion. Her best friend would never intentionally blind-side Quinn.
So she’d kept her mouth shut. No matter the consequences, that motion had to be filed tomorrow. She could not let Freemantle’s threat go unanswered.
She spotted the shiny silver ribbon of the Snake River in the distance. Ten yards before the crossing, she pulled onto the shoulder and turned off the ignition. Slipping on her parka, she climbed out into the cold and lit a cigarette.
The concrete bridge spanning the Snake was topped by a metal superstructure curving upward and down again like roller coaster tracks. A graphic picture of the plunging ride her emotions had taken since she’d learned of Marianne Freemantle’s interest in her past.
On the far side of the Snake, the midday sun burnished the sandy hills to golden brown, their jagged outline mirrored in the reflective sheen of the river.
She wished her grandmother were with her to enjoy the glorious view. Opal Dockson loved nature. The garden behind her rural three-room house had been a symphony of color. Every summer when she was a girl, she and Grandma had hauled countless buckets of water to keep the flowers blooming.
Two years ago, her grandmother had admitted she was too infirm to live on her own. She’d sold her property and combined the proceeds with cash from a payout on a life insurance policy to make a deposit on a room in a residential care facility in nearby Pendleton.
Social Security and Medicare didn’t cover the monthly rent. Grandma had reluctantly agreed to let her pay the difference. And so long as she kept her student apartment and continued driving the aging Buick, she could manage that on her salary from the Center.
- Writer
