“I assume you waited until I agreed to take the case to tell me that Rex was prosecuting.”
Wright chuckled. “No backsies.”
“Yeah, well, you just lost my vote when you run for reelection.”
The judge laughed; then he said, “See you in court, Counselor.”
CHAPTER TWO
English majors were expected to read highbrow literature, and law school students were supposed to spend all their time slogging through legal minutiae, but Douglas Armstrong had a dirty little secret. As an undergraduate and a law student, he had spent an inordinate amount of time reading mystery novels. Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot was his favorite detective. That’s why the lawyer had fallen into the habit of using his “little grey cells” to deduce facts about potential clients as soon as they were ushered into his law office.
Blaine Hastings Sr. pushed his way past Armstrong’s secretary, and Armstrong decided Hastings was a take-charge type who was used to having his way. Hastings’s thinning blond hair was combed across his scalp to hide his bald spot, which the lawyer took for a sign of vanity. The broken corpuscles that crisscrossed his puffy nose, and the beefy man’s beet-red complexion, screamed alcoholic. His six-foot-plus size, thick chest and shoulders, and the paunch that strained the fabric of his buttoned suit coat were the physique of an athlete gone to seed. And he kept sucking his gut in, another indication that the man was vain. Armstrong also noted that Blaine’s suit was expensive—possibly hand-tailored—so the Hastingses had money.
These deductions were strengthened by a quick scan of Hastings’s wife. Gloria followed her husband into Armstrong’s office, her hands gripping her purse tightly and her shoulders bowed from tension. The expensively dressed bottle blonde looked like an aging cheerleader who had suffered through too many plastic surgeries and undergone way too many tanning studio appointments in a losing battle with Father Time. Cheerleaders dated football players, and people with money could afford plastic surgery and spa treatments.
Armstrong indicated the client chairs on the other side of his granite-topped desk and said, “Please, have a seat.”
Blaine accepted the offer grudgingly, which told the attorney that he was not in the habit of following orders even when they were benign. Gloria sat stiffly. Her stress radiated toward Armstrong like a laser.
“How can I help you?” Armstrong asked.
“It’s our son,” Gloria answered. “He was arrested this morning.”
“What is he charged with?”
“He said he was arrested for rape,” Gloria answered. She sounded bewildered.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Blaine Hastings Jr.,” Senior answered proudly.
“And how old is he?”
“He’s just turned twenty-one,” Gloria said.
“Do you know where he’s being held?”
“He’s in the jail across the park from the courthouse,” Mrs. Hastings answered.
“And they won’t let us see him,” Blaine added indignantly.
“Yes, well, there are visiting hours,” Armstrong explained. “But a lawyer can talk to him anytime. Can you tell me a little about your son?”
“Blaine is unique, a shooting star,” his father said forcefully. “He’s a senior at Oregon, an honor student, and a preseason All-American linebacker. The pros are looking at him.”
“Did you play football, Mr. Hastings?” the lawyer asked in an attempt to stroke Hastings’s ego.
Blaine pushed out his chest. “Offensive line. I was a second-team All-American at Oregon, and I was drafted by the Steelers.” Hastings frowned and tapped his left knee. “Blew this sucker out during training camp, and that was that.” Then he brightened. “I always wondered how I would have done in the pros, but the bum knee turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I went into insurance and made more money than I ever would have playing football.”
“So you were your son’s inspiration?”
“Blaine inspires us,” Gloria said. “He’s an angel. He could never have done what they’re saying.”
“Has he ever been in trouble before?” the attorney asked.
“Of course not,” Senior answered indignantly. “Not real trouble.” Senior laughed nervously. “Boys will be boys. That type of thing.”
“Were there ever problems with his relationship with a girl?” Armstrong asked diplomatically.
“Blaine can get any girl he wants,” Senior answered, sidestepping the question. “They fall all over themselves when he’s in a room. He would never have to resort to rape to get laid!”
Gloria reached out and covered her husband’s balled fists. “Please, there’s no need to talk like that.”
Blaine’s head snapped around, and he glared at his wife. “You’re worried about my language when our son is caged up like an animal?”
For the time being, Armstrong decided not to pursue the possibility that Blaine Junior was not always an angel.
“Do you have any information about what’s behind the charges?”
“No. Blaine just called us from the jail,” Gloria said. “He was arrested in his apartment in Eugene by detectives from Portland. We didn’t have a chance to find out any facts.”
Senior leaned forward and jutted his jaw toward Armstrong. “We want our son out of jail and his name cleared. Can you assure us you can do that?”
Armstrong had dealt with A types like Hastings, and he knew Senior wouldn’t be satisfied if he said he could guarantee only that he would do his best.
“I’ve handled several cases where an innocent person has been accused of a crime, Mr. Hastings, and my track record speaks for itself. But I won’t be able to tell you much until I’ve talked to Blaine, read the police reports, and finished my own investigation. I can tell you that seeing Blaine as quickly as possible is my first priority. The longer I wait, the higher the possibility that he’ll say something to the detectives or a cellmate that could doom him at trial. So, I suggest that we get the business aspects of my representation out of the way so I can go over to the jail.”
“What do you charge?” Blaine asked bluntly.
Armstrong quoted his hourly fee and the retainer he would require.
When Hastings hesitated, Gloria touched him on the arm. “Please, don’t haggle,” she said, taking the initiative for the first time—a lioness protecting her cub.
Senior wrote a check for the amount Armstrong requested. The lawyer took down the Hastingses’ contact information, then saw them out. Thirty minutes later, after making a few calls, Armstrong headed across town to the Multnomah County jail.
The Justice Center is a eighteen-story, concrete-and-glass edifice in downtown Portland that is separated from the Multnomah County Courthouse by a park. The building is home to the Central Precinct of the Portland Police Bureau, a branch of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office, several courtrooms, state parole and probation, and the Multnomah County jail.
The jail occupies the fourth through tenth floors, but the reception area is on the second floor. To reach it, Doug Armstrong walked through the center’s vaulted lobby, past the curving stairs that led up to the courtrooms, and through a pair of glass doors. Armstrong showed his ID to the duty officer and went through a metal detector before taking an elevator to the floor where attorneys met their clients.
A few seconds later, Doug stepped out of the elevator into a narrow, concrete hall with walls painted pastel yellow. There was a thick metal door at one end. Armstrong pressed the button on the intercom that was affixed to the wall next to the door and announced his presence. Moments later, electronic locks snapped. A guard opened the door and ushered the lawyer into another narrow hallway, which ran in front of three contact visiting rooms. Armstrong could see into the rooms through large windows outfitted with shatterproof glass. The guard stopped in front of the solid steel door that opened into the second visiting room. Two molded plastic chairs stood on either side of a table secured to the floor by metal bolts. Moments after Armstrong sat down, a second door on the room’s other wall opened and a guard escorted Armstrong’s newest client into the visiting room.