“No, because of the error factor.”
“No further questions.”
Peter Ragland flailed around during his cross-examination and accomplished nothing. While he gave his closing argument, Regina glanced at his table. Among the papers spread across the prosecutor’s table was the unopened manila envelope Regina had given him with Oscar Benitez’s report. When Ragland’s witness list did not contain the name of an expert witness, Regina guessed that Ragland had not bothered to read it or couldn’t find an expert to refute it.
Regina stood to argue for acquittal, but Judge Ogilvie waved her down.
“I don’t have to hear any argument from the defense, Miss Barrister. Mrs. O’Leary was not driving erratically; she passed the field sobriety tests and the odor of alcohol alone is not proof of intoxication. The only evidence that the State produced that would tend to prove that Mrs. O’Leary was driving while intoxicated is the breath test and your expert’s uncontested testimony is that we can’t say beyond a reasonable doubt that the real percentage wasn’t point-seven, which is below the blood level you have to prove to convict. So, I have to find Mrs. O’Leary ‘Not Guilty’.”
Regina hoped that Peter Ragland would leave the courtroom so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, but he came up to her on his way out.
“You got lucky you had Ogilvie for your judge. No one else would have bought your argument.”
Regina was mad at Ragland for wasting everyone’s time, but she reined in her anger.
“I tried to tell you that you had no case. You should have listened to me. It would have saved us both a lot of time.”
Ragland turned red with anger. “We both know the senator is a drunk. She may have beat the rap this time, but the voters will remember that the senator was charged with drunk driving, and a lot of them won’t remember the verdict when it comes time to vote.”
Ragland stomped off and Regina stared after him. He was a vindictive prick, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him again.
CHAPTER SIX
The parties and special dinners at the Westmont always made the holiday season hectic, but Sam Moser’s obsessive preparation helped him get through the days between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve. Moser envisioned the holiday season as a battle between chaos and order. There would always be screwups, but you could deal with them if you worked out all possible scenarios in advance.
With Thanksgiving and Christmas in the rearview mirror, only the New Year’s Eve festivities remained, and Moser believed that he had all things New Year well in hand. That enabled him to take a deep breath and relax even though it was two days before the last major party of 1997.
Moser was in a particularly jolly mood when his secretary brought him his mail, which included a package gift-wrapped with paper displaying Santa and his reindeer and bound by a bright red bow. Moser looked for the name of the person who had sent the gift, but there was none. He tore off the wrapping paper and smiled when he saw that his gift was a box of chocolates. He opened the box and saw a dozen delicious-looking pieces. A legend on the inside of the lid described the treats. One was filled with caramel, and Moser’s fingers were halfway to the tempting square when he remembered that he was supposed to be on a diet in which cakes, candies, and all things fattening were strictly forbidden. The diet had been imposed by his doctor after his last physical. He had promised to keep to it, but he had failed in his resolve. Soon after, there had been a minor cardiac incident that scared the hell out of Sam, his wife, and their children. As soon as he left the hospital, Moser vowed to stay on the straight and narrow path to health and a long life.
Moser closed the box with great reluctance and retied the bow. Then he carried the box to the anteroom. Unlike her boss, Sophie Randall did not have to watch her weight. Even though she was married with a three-year-old daughter, the attractive redhead had a teenager’s figure.
“A gift?” Sophie asked with a smile of delight when Moser set the box down on the edge of her desk.
“You, my dear, are the beneficiary of my horrible but mandatory diet. Enjoy.”
Sophie grinned. “Thanks, boss.”
Moser returned the smile and went back into his office.
Ten minutes later, his door opened and Sophie staggered in. She was starting to say something when she grasped her stomach with both hands and vomited on Moser’s rug. Moser leaped to his feet, but Sophie went into convulsions before he could reach her and was dead within minutes.
* * *
The Westmont Country Club was walled off from the hoi polloi by a ten-foot-high, ivy-covered wall. While the guard at the front gate examined Morris Quinlan’s shield, Roger Dillon looked through the car window at the beautifully manicured grounds.
Homicide Detectives Dillon and Quinlan were separated by almost twenty years of age, oceans of experience, and appeared to have nothing in common. Quinlan’s clothes were mismatched and off-the-rack, and there was a faint coffee stain over the left breast of his wrinkled white shirt. The detective’s gut flopped over his belt; his jowls, which were covered by a gray-black stubble, were fleshy; his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to his scalp; and a badly reset broken nose decorated a face with the reddish hue of the recovering alcoholic.
Where Quinlan was overweight, sloppy, and self-indulgent, Roger Dillon, who ran distances and pumped iron, was trim, self-disciplined, and dressed to look like a businessman or an attorney.
Where Dillon and Quinlan were similar was in their IQ scores. Dillon’s high school grades and SATs were good enough to get him into a top college, but he was the sole support of his disabled single mother and three siblings, so he’d ended up working a full-time job and going to night school. In later years, Dillon would get the nickname OED because his breadth of knowledge reminded people of the Oxford English Dictionary.
People usually assumed Quinlan was a Neanderthal, but the older man was an excellent detective with a gift for logical thinking, who was capable of making brilliant intuitive leaps.
“Have you ever been in a place like this?” Roger asked as they drove down the winding, tree-lined lane to the clubhouse.
“Do I look like I hang out at country clubs?”
When his partner didn’t answer, Quinlan glanced at him and saw that he was nervous. Places like the Westmont were as alien to Dillon as a raja’s palace or the wilds of Borneo. He had grown up in Portland’s poorest neighborhood and graduated from its worst high school. Portland State, where he went to night school before the police academy, was not known as a destination for the rich and famous.
“Look, Roger, I’ve dealt with these country-club types before. They may dress better than we do and drive fancy cars, but they take a shit just like you and me. So anytime they start talking down to you, imagine them sitting on the crapper.”
Dillon smiled, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that people who belonged to places like the Westmont didn’t have their servants go to the bathroom for them.
And it wasn’t just the setting that was making Roger nervous. He had made detective a year ago and had just been promoted to Homicide, a rapid rise from newbie to the most sought-after assignment in the Portland Police Bureau. There were whispers that the promotion had been made so that Homicide could have a token African American, but no one who wasn’t jealous would seriously assume that was the reason for Dillon’s promotion.