Dark Side of Justice

1

Spring 1998

I could taste the fear building on my lips; a bitter and repellant memory recalling my first brush with death twenty years ago. That moment shines in perfect clarity; my survivor mechanism saving my life. If not for this ancient trait programmed into my genetic code, I wouldn’t be here to tell my story. The primative brain functioning at its best. That’s the upside. The downside is that it crushes the spirit, forcing body, mind, and soul to simply survive. Still, it’s not living.

Such was my predicament as I stared at the Seattle skyline from the top deck of the Winslow Ferry. From here I had an unobstructed view of the Emerald City. I stood at the bow with the wind blowing my hair into a mess. Normally, I’d have been spellbound by the sight before me, but not on this blustery morning.

The city was laid out like a row of gothic chess pieces. I could see the Space Needle north of the city and followed the skyline all the way to the Kingdome. Over head, a cobalt blue, nearly cloudless sky was bordered by the Cascade Mountains lying east of the city. Mt. Rainier stood majestically, captivating all who visited the Pacific Northwest.

I couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that someone had followed me on board. I looked down at my hands, white knuckles, gripping the rail for support. My well-constructed world had been turned upside down when I learned that someone wanted me dead. I closed my eyes willing a calmness to overtake my trembling. After a few moments, I opened my eyes surprised to feel somewhat better.

I drew in a deep lungful of salt laden air then slowly releasing it. I could feel my heart rate throttle back, feeling calmer. Off to my right, new cherry blossoms were sprouting among homes dotted along the eastern side of the island as the ferry maneuvered out of the harbor. Spring was making its annual announcement, an event I looked forward to after months of mottled gray overcast. Winter’s wrath always made Spring’s promise more vibrant living in the Northwest.

In the distance, seagulls were squawking and wheeling along the shoreline. Behind me lay the snow capped Olympic Mountains protecting Puget Sound, the state’s vast inland waterway. Seattle was putting on it’s best face, which generally inspired people to move here. As my wife and I did in 1978.

I came topside to avoid my fellow commuters, the veterans preferring to read their morning newspapers or work on their laptops. Tourists often charged upstairs to gawk at the skyline or mug for photos during the thirty minute commute. I was alone save for a couple sitting port side.

To my right, two seagulls floated on an invisible wake, hovering just above the railing. They glided effortlessly, within hands reach, close enough to feed. I turned and saw that another man had taken up a spot about thirty feet behind me. He quickly looked away when our eyes met, shooting another spasm of fear through me. Was the man following me - my shadow these past few weeks? Get a grip, I warned myself.

I turned back, shaking my head in relief. They wouldn’t have followed me on the ferry. Resting my arms on the rail, I thought about the implications of the plan I was going to put into motion wondering if I had the resolve to see it through. I had received a death threat as a result of my work with a defendant accused of operating a methamphetamine lab. What made it worse was that the death threats had come from the same cops investigating the Green River serial murder cases. Scores of women, mostly prostitutes, were found along the Green River in King County and the police seemed impotent in finding the killer. Or were they?

Beginning in July 1982, young women were found raped and strangled. Their bodies found dumped, near or floating in the Green River located southeast of Seattle. Law enforcement officials were baffled by an invisible killer who seemed impossible to find, even more impossible to stop. In all, forty-seven women, and perhaps more, would be discovered before the carnage ended. Since most of the young women were prostitutes, the public’s concern seemed tempered by the deaths. Later, they’d learn that some of those victims had been innocently ensnared by an elusive killer. The body count would continue for years. The numbers piling up with no resolution in sight.

What I knew about the investigation had put me in harm’s way. The information could prove that members of the Task Force had been derelict in their duty to find the killer, making them desperate to keep the information from becoming public knowledge, hence the death threats. If the public learned of their duplicity, it would send a ripple across all levels of law enforcement and ruin many careers. I took the threat seriously.

The last time I had felt this unsettled was the Winter of 1968. I was an executive officer assigned to a mechanized infantry battalion at Fort Richardson, Alaska. We had been put on standby for deployment to Viet Nam. Eight hundred men were in a state of disbelief as we waited anxiously to hear from the Department of Defense. Alaska seemed a safe haven, leaving us to believe we were untouchable.

We waited nearly a month to hear our fate while we put our lives on hold. During that uncertain time, I unexpectedly received orders to transfer back to Fort Benning, Georgia. I was headed back to the lower forty-eight and safety. Even the long flight from Anchorage to Atlanta couldn’t shake my disbelief.

Five weeks after arriving at Benning, my battalion received orders for deployment. I missed going to the Big Hurt by a whisker. At the time, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. That was the closest to real peril I’d ever experienced. After all these years, I still find myself amazed at my sudden reversal of fortune. Memories I thought had been safely stowed away.

I reflected back on my current predicament that only my wife, Clarisse and best friend, Marty knew about. A high school friend who now worked for the King County Police Department. The same department responsible for finding the serial killer.

We spent a weekend working on a plan that would see his department exposed for incompetence and neglect during the murder investigation. Someone I knew had evidence that would expose officials responsible for failing to stop the human carnage, perpetrated by a slick and psychopathic killer. I was skeptical about the outcome, and Marty reminded me that I had no other option. I would either expose the corruption or die trying.

Right now, action was what was required of me. Whether it was the right course of action didn’t matter, momentum mattered. From there it was easier to take the next step. I learned early in life that the first choice tended to be the right one.

Marty was a senior homicide detective and had been with the department twenty-two years. He recently made lieutenant and he looked good with those shiny bars on his collar. We never told anyone about our friendship. Marty was a year behind me in high school, and we met on the wrestling team in my junior year. Later, we went out for track and loved the competition. As our success grew, so did our resolve to play better.

Marty had become a big man on campus, his athletic prowess eventually earning him a football scholarship to Arizona State University. He majored in police administration and played defensive end for the Sun Devils. He devoted himself to a strict physical training regimen that would have crushed the average guy. I worked out with him once which caused me to question my judgment. His rigorous weight lifting routines had me begging for mercy.

If it hadn’t been for several major knee operations, he might have made it to the NFL. He had the resolve and physical stamina to play pro ball, but unfortunately his spongy knees forced him to the sidelines. He lost his scholarship and turned his formidable discipline toward earning a degree in police administration. Now he was tackling criminals instead of running backs.

We carried our friendship into our professional lives. We kept this a secret, because I was a forensic expert working on criminal cases for defendants, and he was a police officer trying to put those same people in jail. It would seem that our roles put us on opposite sides of the legal fence, but our secret gave us the flexibility to help one another. There were things I saw in the police department’s investigations that he never knew, and told him so in confidence.

On the flip side, he gave me intel about general police procedures and policies that made my services indispensable to defense attorneys. We made sure never to cross the line of divulging information that might compromise a criminal case. We were walking a tightrope without a net, and we believed that the system would benefit from our collaboration. He was a damn good cop, and I was, in my mind, a competent criminalist. It would have been much more interesting to work together, but circumstances proved otherwise.

The long blast of the horn brought me out of my reverie as the ferry approached the Seattle dock. I picked up my briefcase and headed downstairs to merge with my fellow commuters heading off to work. I walked off the ferry, passed the terminal building, and headed toward First Avenue. At the stoplight, I turned left and headed to the Pike Place Market. A blast of wind barreled toward me catching me by surprise. I leaned into it, making the six block trip more challenging than usual. The Market had become a destination for locals and tourists alike. Over the years, it was still one of the top activities on everyone’s ‘to do’ list.

First Avenue wasn’t always a pleasant stroll. Over the years, and through a valiant effort to reclaim this part of the city, trendy restaurants, coffee shops, art galleries, and clothing stores eventually changed the landscape, welcoming young professionals with discretionary income. I remember a time when walking along First Avenue brought a sense of urgency in order to avoid meeting a mugger or worse. I found myself enjoying the short trip as I passed upscale stores trying in vain to part me from my money. Some were more successful than others.

I was on my way to see Maggie O’Connor, who owned a concierge travel agency just outside The Public Market. I had met her fifthteen years earlier while waiting in court for my client’s case to begin. Maggie was testifying, a victim of a street mugging. Her defiant manner and commanding presence captivated jurors and lawyers alike. After she left the witness stand, I followed her out to the hall to commend her on her testimony. That was the first of many great smiles, and our friendship began that day.

She never missed an opportunity to provide a little surprise, a bottle of champagne, a gift basket in the hotel room, or an unexpected upgrade to first class. She even surprised me with limo service, the driver standing at baggage claim with my name on a placard. For all this, people were happy to pay a little extra. She never failed to make each trip a memorable one for her clients. Doing good work was it’s own reward, she told me once. A motto to live by.

I stopped in front of her office door at 1457 First Avenue, her business name stenciled on the plate glass window in gold color: Eternal Travel. There was a drawing of a cruise ship chasing a setting sun toward a tropical paradise. I thought the name of her business would have been better suited for a funeral home. But that was Maggie - a free spirit. I peered through the window, and I could see her talking on the telephone. She had it scrunched between her ear and shoulder as she worked on her computer.

Maggie was single and just shy of fifty. She once mentioned a brief marriage in her twenties that didn’t work out. He was just a young punk who had knocked her around a few times. One day she told him to hit the bricks. She just picked up his stuff and tossed it out the window of their third floor apartment. Well, at least that’s the story she told everyone. We asked her why she never remarried. Her standard reply was, ‘I’m having too much fun to be trapped in a marriage again.’ Who was I to argue?

2

Unexpectedly, I found Maggie looking back at me through the window. She gave me one of her brilliant smiles and waved me in. She mouthed hello and pointed to the coffee pot. I strolled over to her little waiting area and picked up a travel magazine. I casually looked out the window, hoping I could spot my tail. I knew I was under surveillance, Marty had reminded me not to look suspicious. It was important to give the watchers the impression that everything seemed normal.

I tossed the magazine down and poured a cup of Caffé Verona, my favorite cup of joe. Maggie got her supply of fresh roasted coffee from the original Starbuck’s at the Market. She was one of the first to buy stock when it went public. She told me in confidence once, that she was sitting on about six thousand shares. Every time she had a great year she’d buy more stock. I did some quick math and realized that Maggie was sitting on a nice little nest egg. She was as good at picking clients as she was at picking stocks.

I looked back and saw her staring at the ceiling assuming a client was droning on. When she caught me looking with those deep hazel green eyes, I smiled sheepishly and turned away. I stole another glance out the window to see if someone had followed me. If they had, they were being real cool about it. I didn’t know what to expect. Some gumshoe standing by a telephone pole reading a newspaper upside down in an ill fitting suit? I probably wouldn’t have been able to spot a good tail. I gave up trying and returned to my coffee.

I heard Maggie say, Look, Sid, I’ve got a client wearing a hole in my carpet, and he needs to get out of town right away. Yes, darling, you can count on me. Thanks, bye bye. With an exasperated look, she waved me over.

Hi, handsome. What’s your pleasure? she asked, fingers poised above the keyboard.

Vacation, Maggie. Back to Italy, I stated matter-of-factly.

She paused, searching for some old file in her memory. Yes, I remember now. You purchased a car and spent two months traveling thoughout Europe. She paused again, Let’s see, late 1987, if memory serves me. I smiled. Well? she asked.

Yes, Maggie, you’re spot on. How she remembered these details was beyond me.

Anyplace specific, Carlton? Florence? Venice? She tilted her head sideways with that questioning pose. She could be so intimidating when she looked at me that way. She was the only person who called me Carlton.

I told her Rome, one night there and then on to Tuscany. Rome was a great city, and I loved it the first time I visited there. But it was just another big city with the usual big city problems; smog, lots of traffic, thousands of tourists, and the incessant noise which was the bane of large metropolitan areas.

How long?

Thinking back on our plan, I told her, About three weeks, give or take a few days. For anyone who checked up on me, I added, Maybe I’ll get lucky and get a chance to work in someone’s vineyard. Learn a little more about the wine business.

Are you planning on going anywhere else during your vacation? she asked.

No, just Tuscany, I replied. I wanted to avoid more questions And, if it isn’t a problem, could you arrange to get an exit row or bulk head seat for me?

Why don’t you just spend a few more dollars, Mr. Moneybags, and fly business class? Then you can stretch out that 6’3 frame of yours."

Maggie was damn good at promoting her business, and most of her clients followed her advice.

Now, Maggie, I said in a condescending tone, you know as well as I, that if you book me in one of those roomy seats with the extra leg room I won’t have to fork over an extra $1500.

She was about to respond when I continued. Besides, the business class passengers don’t arrive any sooner than the rest of the herd. Do they?

She knew I was teasing her.

I was just thinking about your comfort. Tall men like you shouldn’t have to sit in the rear cabin with your chin resting on your knees. It must be so uncomfortable for a hunk like you.

The way she tossed in those offhand compliments made Maggie so charming at times. But, I wasn’t going to take the bait.

I finally said to her, Find me a great seat, Ms. O’Conner, please. with the best pretty-please voice I could find. I knew if I didn’t insist she would have me reaching deeper into my wallet for that upgraded seat. She’d have her way with me if I wasn’t careful.

She agreed and told me I would have to leave the departure date open to accommodate my request. I told her that would be fine, I wanted to leave around the middle of May. That would give her at least a month to find the ideal flight to Rome and then somewhere between fifteen and twenty days after that for the return home. I was flexible. I hoped I sounded convincing.

What about the missus? she inquired.

Maggie for some reason she never mentioned my wife by name. In fact, she never mentioned any man’s wife by name. They were always the missus or the girlfriend. I think it was her way of believing that all her male clients were hers, exclusively. ‘Her boys,’ she once called us.

I told her that Clarisse was taking care of her sister who was recuperating from surgery. A tumor had been removed, and everyone was concerned for her health. She’d be there for an extended period of time. Clarisse was a cardiopulmonary technologist at the Pacific Medical Center, about a mile from my office. She took a leave of absence to be there during her sister’s time of need. They were very close.

As she scanned her computer for flights, I marveled at my duplicity in arranging my trip through her. I had always been honest with Maggie and found it upsetting to have to lie. My plan was to disappear. I was getting off in Zurich. If anyone inquired about my trip, they’d learn I was going on a three week European vacation. Period.

I’d have to find someone to take my seat for the remaining trip to Rome. I didn’t think it would be difficult to find some young kid looking for a free pass, and I didn’t think the ticket agents would make a fuss about it, particularly in Europe.

Minutes after the flight left Zurich, I planned to leave the airport and take a taxi to the Hauptbahnhof, the main train terminal, and purchase a one way ticket to Gothenburg, Sweden. I would be returning to my grandparent’s ancestral home.

The Bowman family had lived in Värmland for as long as anyone could remember. My grandfather owned a small estate called a Herrgård about ten miles outside of Karlstad and was a well-respected teacher in his community. The family was better off than most Swedes, owning a large main house with three smaller outbuildings on five acres. Large enough to have a caretaker and his family living on the property. But the hard times that befell Swedes in the first part of the twentieth century forced a huge migration to America.

There were such terrible food shortages that tens of thousands of starving Swedes were forced to leave for America. When the farmers left, my grandfather knew his time was coming. Eventually, he took his family and immigrated to America in 1920. They spent a horrible year in upstate New York farming on hardscrabble land. They had been miserable there and even considered going back to Sweden. Then, with the help of friends, he followed a small group of Swedes to Minnesota, or as the Swedes liked to call it, Min-e-sota.

This was one of the more peaceful invasions in American history. The family settled in a small community in Karlstad, Minnesota, just a few miles from the Canadian border. It reminded my grandfather of his homeland. My father, Martin, was born two years later, the youngest of six boys. It was a hard life, and everyone worked from dawn to dusk to survive. My grandfather’s only regret was that he never had the opportunity to teach again.

In the 1920’s, America didn’t need teachers, they needed physical laborers. People who could work long, arduous hours producing things faster and cheaper. Just when the family was making good in their adopted country the depression hit. And it hit my grandparents very hard. During this difficult time my father learned the value of hard work and sacrifice. He often reminded us that this dark period in American history would pay great dividends later in his life.

The lessons learned during the depression would be passed on to me and my cousins. Swedes were noted for their work ethic and resilient nature. If you ever heard a Swede complain, then you knew things were really bad. They were as tough as their Viking ancestors a thousand years before them. They knew how to adapt to their new environment, conquering America without firing a shot.

Only Marty knew where I was going and why. Although I had told Maggie the truth about Clarisse, I never mentioned that she was in LA. Clarisse would join me when she felt it prudent to leave her sister’s side. For now, she was safe there. She was concerned beyond words that I would have to go without her, albeit, for a short time. She didn’t fully understand why I couldn’t wait until her sister got better, and we could travel together. But, just like Marty, she knew that the longer I stayed, the greater my chances of having an ‘accident’.

Her last words tore through my heart. ‘How long will we be apart?’ Neither one of us had the answer. It would depend on how well her sister faired during her recovery. As much as I wanted her with me, I felt the situation provided the best solution for both of us. This separation would be trying. There are times in our lives when necessity overrides our wishes. This was one of them.

I told her as soon as she felt her sister was getting better, she could join me in Sweden. I thought it might take a year unless something happened with the serial murder investigation. If it did, then we would return home sooner. We couldn’t communicate directly at first, just in case they tracked her down and forced the information from her. A shudder of revulsion snaked its way down my spine.

Marty would contact her regularly to report on my well-being. As difficult as this was going to be, I had to impress upon her the importance of disappearing. Although she knew I was going to Sweden, she wouldn’t know the specific city. Her safety and mine depended upon it.

Maggie’s voice brought me back to reality.

Earth calling Carlton, she said with a laugh in her eyes. Where’d you go, big guy? She was smiling at my loss of focus.

I was just thinking about my trip working in some lovely vineyard. I was laying it on thick.

I’ll need more time to find the right flight for you. She gave me her famous smile.

Thanks, you’re the best.

Take care, dear. I’ll be calling you soon, home or office? she asked.

Office, please, I replied. If I’m not in just leave a message and I’ll get back to you. I think you have my credit card number on file, don’t you?

She tapped the computer. It’s right in here. I’ll call with an itinerary.

Take care, Maggie.

Ciao, bello, said Maggie. She blew a kiss my way as I headed for the door.

Ciao, bella donna, I replied. She loved these little games and we waved goodbye to one another. I wondered if she’d ever forgive my deception. I paused at the door and looked back. She was on the phone with another client, focused on her computer screen. Even if I got out of this alive, I knew I was going to lose friendships I had built up over the past twenty-one years.

I’m sorry, Maggie, I whispered to myself.

3

I pushed the plate glass door and stepped onto First Avenue. There was a lot of pedestrian and vehicle traffic at this hour. I forced myself not to look over my shoulder appearing unconcerned.

I recalled a crime scene I worked long ago where I had that same gut feeling. An intuition hard to describe. On that occasion, I believed the suspect was still in the house. The commander in charge had given me a disgusted look when I told him I wasn’t going in until he confirmed my suspicions. He’d snorted that the suspect was probably long gone. I told him he could call another CSI expert to conduct the investigation. I wasn’t going to risk my life on his opinion. I didn’t like people second guessing me.

He relented and sent in two officers to secure the house. Both were armed with Heckler-Koch MP-5 machine guns equipped with thirty round magazines. Minutes later we heard an intense burst of gunfire. They had encountered the suspect pointing a pistol at them from a partially closed bathroom door.

One officer had unloaded a full magazine into the suspect. His badly riddled body flopped out of the bathroom, crashing on the floor in front of him. If there ever was a time in my life when I wanted to tell somebody, ‘I told you so’, this was it. It took all my will power not to confront him. However, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give him ‘the look’ as I proceeded past the barrier tape.

The Market was less than a block away, and I decided to give my tail something to report on. The place was a free spirit zone. The first thing one saw was a giant bronze pig. You couldn’t miss it, and it often served as a meeting point.

There are many small vendors, and one that catches everyones attention is the fish market. When a customer orders a fish from the glass case the man reaches in, picks it up, and then flings it to his partner positioned at the cash register. This always amuses the crowd. After twenty years I still found myself captivated by the show. When friends visited, I made sure to include a visit to the Market. It was easy to get them to buy dinner after taking part in the show themselves. My wife once accused me of taking advantage of our guests this way. Guilty as charged.

I passed the many food stalls and went into the Athenian for lunch. It had a spectacular view of Puget Sound with the Olympic Mountains in the background. The place was packed and would stay that way until well past three. I looked around and spotted the owner across the dining room.

He was schmoozing his customers, making them feel important. When he looked up, I waved. He smiled and waved back. I saw him weave his way through the dining room and came forward to give me a big Greek hug. I could smell garlic on his breath and a very powerful after shave. ‘These Greeks’, I said silently to myself. He wore a silk, pastel colored shirt with the top two buttons open. Numerous gold chains and crosses adorned his neck. A Mr. T starter set.

Carl, it’s been a long time, my friend. He pulled away but still held onto me, gazing up into my face. Stavros still had a noticeable accent his customers loved.

It hasn’t been that long, has it? I replied innocently. It was good to see him again.

My friend, a couple of months is too long for Stavros. He broke his grip and said, Come, I have a table for you in the back. With a conspiratorial whisper, he added, Only for my special customers.

I passed two attorneys with whom I had worked for on previous cases. They gave me a small nod in recognition and I smiled in return. No big hello or stop by to shake hands from these guys. The only time I was their friend was when their clients were in trouble and needed my help. Then I was on their A list. Today I was on another list. You know the name.

We took the stairs up to the second level and pointed to a table for two by the window.

Here you go, my friend. He pulled back my chair and waved for me to sit down. What have you been up to these past few months? He took the seat opposite me. I had become his new schmoozee.

I’ve been busy with a difficult murder case. It’s taking a great deal of my time, I replied. No opportunity to come and dine at your wonderful restaurant.

He beamed at my compliment and said in a secretive voice, Many hours means many dollars, n’est ce pas? Stavros also spoke French. His immigration to America began with a five year layover in Marseilles.

I wish it were true but not on this case. I’m working on a set fee ordered by the superior court and was told not to exceed fifteen hundred dollars.

So how much time do you have into the case then? Stavros was curious by nature, ever the business man.

The bad news is I’ve got about twenty-four hundred dollars worth of my time in the case. The good news is I’m almost done, I said with relief.

The courts in King County were less than enthusiastic in providing funds to indigents seeking forensic experts. In one well-publicized case I had worked, the judge had cut my invoice in half. I was convinced it was retribution for my testimony against an incompetent criminalist in the Spokane laboratory. The judge knew I couldn’t sue to collect my fee.

You can’t make a living working like that, Carl. He seemed concerned and warned me, You need to have business smarts like your friend Stavros, he said tapping his chest. Looking around the paceked dining room it was obvious that he knew what he was talking about.

I know, but it’s such an interesting case I couldn’t let it pass. It’s similar to the type of case your friend Emile was involved in a few years ago.

Stavros stiffened at the memory, recalling the horrible trouble his friend had been in. Emile had been accused of murder. He was arrested two days after killing his girlfriend with a shot gun. He claimed that it had gone off accidentally. Emile had been drinking all day with some friends when his girlfriend arrived home unexpectedly. She chased his friends off, and they began quarreling in the front yard. Emile’s drinking had become a problem.

To change the subject, he retrieved his new shotgun to show it off. She tried pushing by him, and when he reached over to hug her, the shotgun discharged. It struck her in the forehead, killing her instantly. Horrified, he fled the scene. She was found the next morning by a man walking his dog. No one had heard nor seen the actual shooting. Later, he turned himself in confessing that it had been a terrible accident. The King County Police Department handled the case and failed to collect crucial physical evidence, believing it was a homicide. Especially since they had a confession. Cops, like prosecutors, love confessions, making their job easier.

They found his statement inconsistent with their facts. And the medical examiner’s opinion was the fatal shot had to have occurred from a distance greater than six feet. They promptly charged him with second degree murder. The investigators believed that had solved another case and took it to the district attorney. They argued that Emile had to be lying about the shooting. Besides, they added, the medical examiner’s report confirmed that the defendant’s statement was misleading.

Stavros looked me in the eye and said, If you hadn’t proved it was an accident he’d still be in prison today. Even though he was found guilty of a lesser charge, I know in my heart that without your help he would have gotten a life sentence.

I appreciated his compliment. Thank you. By the way, how’s Emile doing?

That tragic accident changed his life. He stopped drinking, went back to school, and completed a degree in family counseling. He’s working with terminally ill patients at a hospice center outside Portland. I’ve never seen him happier.

Well, enough chit chat. You came here to eat, not talk. With that he got up, snapped his fingers, and a waiter materialized at my table. Enjoy your lunch. He stopped at the next table to visit another customer building a great clientele list.

I took the menu from my waiter, a young college kid, while he left to get water and silverware. Although I had a strong feeling of being followed to Maggie’s place, I didn’t have that same gut feeling at the Athenian. They probably saw me enter and kept themselves at a safe distance. It would be easy to watch the front door while staying well hidden behind the mass of people who visited the Market everyday.

Feeling comfortable, my appetite reappeared. I put the menu down and the waiter quickly returned and took my order. I pointed to the Tuesday special, salmon almondine with wild rice. He asked me if I wanted wine or beer with the meal. It was tempting. I begged off, preferring to keep a clear head.

The mention of Emile’s case brought back unpleasant memories as the investigation became highly contentious. I was challenging the King County Police Department and the King County Medical Examiner’s Office. They tried to prove that Emile had been lying, since the shot gun blast had to be fired from a distance greater than six feet based on stippling found on the victim’s face. Reviewing the medical examiners autopsy photographs, I saw an unusual mark on the victim’s forehead, reminiscent of a shot shell power piston.

My proximity tests would prove that Emile was indeed telling the truth. That mark could only have occured at very close range, less than two feet. They had bungled the investigation. The jury returned a verdict in less than an hour, exonerating Emile of second degree homicide. They did find him guilty of involuntary manslaughter, a lesser charge resulting in a three year prison sentence.

One week after the trial a man approached me in the courthouse and asked if I recognized him. He had been a juror in Emile’s trial. He informed me that the jury had been confused by the conflicting testimony between the medical examiner and myself. He went on to add that my demonstration of the physical evidence fit the facts so perfectly, they felt justified overruling the medical examiner’s opinion. A better compliment I couldn’t have asked for.

I found Emile’s case to be symptomatic of the rush to judgment I found regularly in my work. It takes time and effort to study the facts in a case and work on reconstruction models that best fit the evidence. It was obvious in Emile’s case, they failed to make the effort. Several months later, I presented this case to my peers at a forensic symposium in California. From a technical point of view, it was a very satisfying case.

I returned my attention to the view out my window. It was a spectacular sight gazing at ship traffic coming into Puget Sound, and in the background, the snow capped Olympic Mountains. It gave me a brief respite from my burden. Lunch at the Athenian was a time out from my worries.

In spite of my dread, lunch had lifted my spirits. Stavros was a hell of a guy and loved by all. I felt bad about not confiding in him. I couldn’t risk telling him the trouble I was in, even though I knew he wouldn’t tell a soul. I had to keep up appearances in the event someone asked about me. In fact, the only thing I was working on was the police corruption case. The funny thing was that the corruption had nothing to do with money or power; it was all about arrogance. A ‘might makes right’ attitude. Something I could never tolerate.

This detective and his crew were covering up their incompetence through coercion and deception. Unfortunately, I had no solid proof to support my allegations. In the mean time, I was waiting for evidence that would give me the necessary leverage to go to the State’s Attorney General. And until that time came, I had to keep my head down.

I thought about the number of people brought before the bar of justice on trumped up or over charged arrests. And, if it wasn’t fabricated evidence, then it was lost evidence. I saw police incompetence on a regular basis, and no one seemed to notice. Not judges, not prosecutors, not police officers, and certainly not most defense attorneys. I felt completely alone in my outrage. If it weren’t for a few exceptional lawyers, I would have packed it in years ago.

One of the most egregious cases to unfold in recent memory occured in Seattle. An officer assigned to the DUI detail had been filling out his arrest reports ahead of time. This saved him a great deal of time, allowing him to arrest more drunk drivers. More arrests meant more overtime pay. If it hadn’t been for two attorneys complaining about their client’s vehement denials that the officer had never performed certain sobriety tests, the cop might have gotten away with it. He admitted to fabricating his reports, and received a mild reprimand.

I forced these dark memories from my mind, returning to the captivating view. It was just short of breathtaking, and Stavros was making a fortune here. Even if his best chef walked out on him, people would still line up for a shot at the view and to be seen with the ‘in’ crowd. Knowing Stavros as well as I did, I’m sure he was enjoying his well deserved trips to the bank.

Helping Emile put me on Stavros’ ‘A’ list. Since that time, I’d always gotten the royal treatment. He ran an honest business, taking care of both his staff and customers. He once told me that if you made people the most important part of your life, then the money would follow. He even had a sticker on his cash register that read, The most important things in life are not things. A customer had added in red ink just below it, ‘But you still have to pay for your meal!’

Speaking of which, my salmon arrived. I must have been ravenous. I wolfed it down like a man coming off a two week fast. I mopped up the last remnants with a little sourdough bread and gave the meal a nine on a ten scale. I ordered a coffee, black, and thought about what to do next. I glanced out the window, running through several options.

There was nothing I could do until I heard from Maggie. I didn’t like the idea of waiting so I had to give the impression that everything appeared normal. If Marty hadn’t tipped me off about the death threat, I would have gone on about my business without a care in the world. I took the threat seriously, forcing my decision to disappear. I had