confession and accused Forbes of coercing the statements from her. But
after she was convicted by a jury, Landry confessed again and agreed to
testify against Taylor to avoid the death penalty. When Taylor was
convicted and sentenced to die in one of Oregon's first death penalty
cases, she once again recanted.
By then, however, common sense had prevailed, the hype died down, and
people realized that Margaret Landry's confession spoke for itself. The
grandmother who looked like Marie Callender was as deviant and sadistic
as any man who comes to mind as the embodiment of evil. Last I heard,
both Taylor and Landry were maintaining their innocence, and Taylor
still had appeals pending.
At the time, the public interest in the Jamie Zimmerman murder was
chalked up to tabloid curiosity. I didn't see it that way; in my
opinion, people were riveted because Margaret Landry scared them. When
they saw her interviewed, they saw their aunt, the woman down the
block, or the volunteer going door-to-door for the Red Cross. If she
could abduct, rape, and murder a young woman, then locking our doors,
moving to the suburbs, and teaching our children to avoid strange men
would never be enough to protect us.
Chuck's mind clearly had wandered in a different direction. "I had a
hard enough time swallowing a death sentence on a case I worked on, but
when it comes out of the court room of some ass like Hitchcock, I
almost hope it does get thrown out."
After decades without a death penalty, the Oregon legislature had
approved one in 1988. The relatively gentle jurors of Oregon had
delivered capital sentences to only a handful of people, and most
people assumed that those defendants would die natural deaths in prison
before Oregon's courts would permit an execution to be carried out.
Despite the unlikelihood of an Oregon execution, handling murder cases
in what was now theoretically a death penalty state still bothered
Forbes and other people in law enforcement with mixed feelings about
the issue. Like me, Chuck could not definitively align himself with
either side of the debate. Unlike most knee-jerk opponents, he
recognized that an execution could bring a kind of closure to a
victim's family that a life sentence could not. But he continued to be
troubled by the role of vengeance and the inherent discrimination that
too often lay at the heart of the death penalty's implementation.
"Where is that case anyway?" I asked.
"Last I heard, Taylor hated prison so much he'd fired his attorneys and
waived his appeals, but the State Supreme Court was still sitting on
it. I almost hope they throw the sentence out. As long as the
conviction stands, it's still a win for us."
Maybe Chuck had finally taken a position on the issue after all.
"Hey, enough of this. Why don't you head on home?" Chuck suggested.
"No, I'll stay here. I'm OK."
"You've got less sense than a thirteen-year-old. Do I have to talk to
you like you talked to Kendra?" He counted the multitude of reasons I
should go home on his fingers. "I probably won't even do the search
tonight. There was a shooting a couple hours ago up in north Portland,
so the night-shift crime lab team is probably tied up out there. The
car's in the impound lot, so it's not going anywhere. Go home. Vinnie
misses you."
Vinnie is my French bulldog. He moved in with me a couple of years
ago, the day my divorce was finalized. He gets upset when I stay out
late.
Chuck wrinkled up his face and pulled out his ears, like a mean-looking
pug with bat ears. In other words, he looked like my Vinnie. "I can
picture him right now. He's going, "Mmm, these curtains taste good.
This carpet looks a lot better soaked with a huge puddle of French
bulldog piss." " For whatever reason, Chuck had decided that if Vinnie
could speak he'd sound like Buddy Hackett.
"You're right. I'm going home. And the search can wait until
tomorrow. Don't you work too late either," I said.
"Aye-aye," he said, waving his hand in a quick salute.
I stopped as I was walking toward the door. "Will you be able to get
your car OK?"
"Yeah. I'll get a patrol officer to take me out there."
I turned around again at the door. He was making copies of the
warrant. "Hey, Chuck."
"Huh?"
"You're really good at what you do."
His face softened, and his eyes smiled at me. "Thanks. Back atcha,
babe. Now go home. You're only this sweet when you're tired."
I drove home smiling.
Five.
By the time I got home, it was almost midnight. Vinnie was waiting for
me at the door, very disappointed. In my head, I heard Chuck's Buddy
Hackett impersonation, scolding me for being out so late.
I threw off my coat, picked him up, made all sorts of embarrassing
cooing noises, and scratched him ferociously behind those big goofy
ears. When the snorts began, I knew he'd forgiven me.
Vinnie's basic needs are met when I'm gone. He has his own door in
back that goes out to the yard. An automatic feeder keeps him portly.
He's even capable of entertaining himself. I'm pretty sure he thinks
his rubber Gumby doll is his baby. But at the end of the day, he's a
momma's boy and needs me to talk to him.
Between work, keeping in touch with the few friends who are willing to
put up with me, and trying to burn off all the crap I eat, I have just
enough time left for my chunky little pal. I have no idea how other
people manage to be needed by whole other tiny little individual people
and still maintain their sanity.
I went into the kitchen and checked the level on Vinnie's feeder to be
sure he ate. He had. He takes after me that way. Every little
meat-flavored morsel was gone. I was sorry I missed it. Vinnie's so
low to the ground that he has to reach his neck up over the bowl and
then plop his whole face inside to eat. Then he picks out all the soft
and chewy nuggets from his Kibbles "N Bits. When those are gone, he
eats the dry stuff. When he really gets going, he breathes fast and
loud like an old fat man.
I must've been really hungry, because that mental image actually made
me think of food. I was torn between the refrigerator and my bed.
I was leaning toward the latter when I noticed the message light
flashing on my machine. I knew if I tried to sleep now, I'd be lying
in bed wondering who called. I hit the Play button and unpeeled a
banana that was turning brown and spotty on the counter.
"Sammie, it's your old man. Are you there? I guess not. Glad to see
you're out and not sitting at home alone reading a book with that
rodent you call a dog. Hi, Vinnie. You know I'm only kidding. You