am. I don’t know how you guys pull these crazy shifts. I’m about to fall over.”
“It’s all about the adrenaline, baby.” Chuck does a mean Austin Powers. “You want me to rub your shoulders while you read?”
Grace’s masseuse says I have a bad habit of storing stress in my shoulders. Funny, I think I store it in my ass along with all the food I pack down when I’m freaking out. But I do get big knots in my deltoids after a long day, and Chuck’s back rubs were heavenly. Turning one down was painful. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re at work and everything.”
“Your call. If it makes you feel any better, the bureau has a woman come in once a month to do chair massages. It’s just a relaxation thing, not foreplay.”
“I know. Thanks anyway.”
I finished reviewing the warrant. It was a quick read, since we were reusing the affidavits MCT wrote to get the warrant to search Derringer’s house. The only new material was the information Chuck had added about the car.
“Looks good,” I said, as I signed off on the DA review line of the warrant. “Who’s on the call-out list tonight?” The judges rotate being on call to sign late-night warrants and put out any fires that might arise.
“Lesh and Hitchcock.”
Lawrence Hitchcock was a lazy old judge who smoked cigars in his chambers and pressured defendants to plead out so he could listen to Rush Limbaugh at eleven and then close up shop early to play golf. I’d rather swallow a bag full of tacks and wash them down with rubbing alcohol than risk waking up Hitchcock at eleven at night.
David Lesh was the clear preference. He’d been a prosecutor for a few years after law school, then jumped ship to the City Attorney’s office to work as legal advisor for the police department. He was a couple of years older than I was and had been an easy pick for the governor to put on the bench a few years back. He had a good mix of civil and criminal experience and was known throughout the county bar for being as straight-up and honorable as they come. Best of all, he hadn’t changed a bit since he took the bench. He still worked like a fiend and went out for beers with the courthouse crowd every Friday. Lawyers missed talking to him about their cases, but we were better off having him as a judge.
“Call Lesh,” I advised Chuck.
“No kidding. I had that lazy fuck Hitchcock on the Taylor case, remember?”
I always forget that cops know as much about the lives of judges as the trial lawyers do. I suspected they gossiped about the DAs as well. In this specific instance, Chuck had good reason to know about Hitchcock. He’d presided over the very complicated trial of Jesse Taylor, a case that had landed Forbes on the MCT. Taylor’s sixty-five-year-old girlfriend, Margaret Landry, confessed to Forbes that she and Taylor had killed a girl.
When I started at the DA’s office, Landry was the big talk around the courthouse. The local news covered the case’s every development. Most stories started with the phrase, “A Portland grandmother and her lover….” Headlines spoke of murderous Margaret. If you asked them, most people who followed the case would tell you they were fascinated that a sixty-five-year-old grandmother and hospital volunteer eventually confessed to helping her thirty-five-year-old alcoholic boyfriend rape and then strangle a seventeen-year-old borderline-intelligence girl named Jamie Zimmerman.
Forbes had stumbled into the case fortuitously. Landry initially told Jesse Taylor’s probation officer that she read about Jamie Zimmerman’s disappearance in the Oregonian and suspected her boyfriend’s involvement. At the time, Chuck was working a specialty rotation, helping the Department of Community Corrections track people on parole and probation. If not for the cooperation agreement between the bureau and DOCC, Taylor’s PO might never have told the police about Landry’s suspicions, because Landry used to call him
“It’s all about the adrenaline, baby.” Chuck does a mean Austin Powers. “You want me to rub your shoulders while you read?”
Grace’s masseuse says I have a bad habit of storing stress in my shoulders. Funny, I think I store it in my ass along with all the food I pack down when I’m freaking out. But I do get big knots in my deltoids after a long day, and Chuck’s back rubs were heavenly. Turning one down was painful. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re at work and everything.”
“Your call. If it makes you feel any better, the bureau has a woman come in once a month to do chair massages. It’s just a relaxation thing, not foreplay.”
“I know. Thanks anyway.”
I finished reviewing the warrant. It was a quick read, since we were reusing the affidavits MCT wrote to get the warrant to search Derringer’s house. The only new material was the information Chuck had added about the car.
“Looks good,” I said, as I signed off on the DA review line of the warrant. “Who’s on the call-out list tonight?” The judges rotate being on call to sign late-night warrants and put out any fires that might arise.
“Lesh and Hitchcock.”
Lawrence Hitchcock was a lazy old judge who smoked cigars in his chambers and pressured defendants to plead out so he could listen to Rush Limbaugh at eleven and then close up shop early to play golf. I’d rather swallow a bag full of tacks and wash them down with rubbing alcohol than risk waking up Hitchcock at eleven at night.
David Lesh was the clear preference. He’d been a prosecutor for a few years after law school, then jumped ship to the City Attorney’s office to work as legal advisor for the police department. He was a couple of years older than I was and had been an easy pick for the governor to put on the bench a few years back. He had a good mix of civil and criminal experience and was known throughout the county bar for being as straight-up and honorable as they come. Best of all, he hadn’t changed a bit since he took the bench. He still worked like a fiend and went out for beers with the courthouse crowd every Friday. Lawyers missed talking to him about their cases, but we were better off having him as a judge.
“Call Lesh,” I advised Chuck.
“No kidding. I had that lazy fuck Hitchcock on the Taylor case, remember?”
I always forget that cops know as much about the lives of judges as the trial lawyers do. I suspected they gossiped about the DAs as well. In this specific instance, Chuck had good reason to know about Hitchcock. He’d presided over the very complicated trial of Jesse Taylor, a case that had landed Forbes on the MCT. Taylor’s sixty-five-year-old girlfriend, Margaret Landry, confessed to Forbes that she and Taylor had killed a girl.
When I started at the DA’s office, Landry was the big talk around the courthouse. The local news covered the case’s every development. Most stories started with the phrase, “A Portland grandmother and her lover….” Headlines spoke of murderous Margaret. If you asked them, most people who followed the case would tell you they were fascinated that a sixty-five-year-old grandmother and hospital volunteer eventually confessed to helping her thirty-five-year-old alcoholic boyfriend rape and then strangle a seventeen-year-old borderline-intelligence girl named Jamie Zimmerman.
Forbes had stumbled into the case fortuitously. Landry initially told Jesse Taylor’s probation officer that she read about Jamie Zimmerman’s disappearance in the Oregonian and suspected her boyfriend’s involvement. At the time, Chuck was working a specialty rotation, helping the Department of Community Corrections track people on parole and probation. If not for the cooperation agreement between the bureau and DOCC, Taylor’s PO might never have told the police about Landry’s suspicions, because Landry used to call him
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