Blood for Wine Page 8

  I didn’t find much to question or object to. It was what it was.

  When Ballard finished, I cross-examined him carefully to dig for any information that hadn’t shown in their report but didn’t find anything of note.

  I called Juan Cruz to the stand next and had him explain that Jim’s Jeep was always left unlocked, and virtually all the workers at Le Petit Truc had ready access to the lug wrench in question. “So, your honor,” I concluded, “someone planning to kill Mrs. Kavanaugh and blame it on my client could have easily taken the wrench from the Jeep in question. Furthermore, the evidence presented does not prove the recovered wrench even belongs to Mr. Kavanaugh.”

  That brought Berkowitz out of her seat. “Which is it, Mr. Claxton? Was the murder weapon from your client’s Jeep or are you suggesting some kind of bizarre coincidence here?”

  I turned to my diminutive adversary. “This isn’t a trial, counselor. I don’t have to choose at this juncture.” I turned back to Cruz. “Do tools go missing at the winery?”

  “Quite often. We have a lot of acreage and high turnover. Things get lost or stolen. That wrench was used a lot.” He shrugged. “It might be somewhere on the property, or someone walked off with it. Hard to say.”

  Berkowitz was back on her feet. “Your honor, Detective Ballard covered the fact that the wrench was searched for and not found.”

  “The search warrant only covered the barn and immediate area,” I countered. My client’s winery extends over one hundred and fifty acres.”

  After Cruz stepped down, I produced a letter from the regional Jeep sales and service manager stating that there were an estimated forty-five hundred Grand Cherokees in the greater Portland area with the exact same lug wrench and black nylon floor mats. In addition, I showed the court a copy of an e-mail from the maker of Arrow 2000 lubricant stating that they sold an estimated fifteen hundred cans of that particular grease in Oregon and Washington over the last five years.

  Berkowitz was on her feet again. “Your honor, these statistics are silly. Mr. Kavanaugh’s lug wrench is missing, the one we found at the scene contains materials similar to those traced back to his SUV, and his barn—”

  “Similar being the operative word here, your honor,” I cut in. “This entire case is circumstantial.”

  Berkowitz shot me a glance that said Really? and then summoned a look of impatience for the judge. “Your honor, we all know that if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck then it’s most certainly a duck.”

  Of course, Berkowitz was right. My defense was flimsy at best.

  Hal Ballard gave me a surprised look when I called him back to the stand. I handed him a photo showing Lori Kavanaugh’s body and the interior of her car. I said, “Kudos on these crime scene photos, Detective. These high definition shots are impressive.”

  Ballard nodded, eyeing me warily. He knew compliments from a defense attorney were not to be trusted.

  “Your report states that the assailant was sitting next to the victim, in the passenger’s seat, when the attack occurred. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. And the medical examiner noted the assailant was right-handed, like Mr. Kavanaugh.” He shot me a look of righteous indignation.

  “Of course, we’re not disputing the favored hand of the assailant.” I took the photo from Ballard and gave it to Whitcomb. Then to Ballard, I said, “So, when he struck the victim with the wrench, it created blood spatter. Is that correct?”

  Ballard shifted in his seat and shot a quick look in Berkowitz’s direction. “That’s right.”

  “Let me make sure I’m being precise here. By blood spatter I mean the small, high velocity droplets that were created when the victim was struck first in the face, and then on the head. These droplets have a unique, tear-drop shape or signature. Is that correct, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  I handed him two more photos. “These shots show that the spatter went in all directions, is that correct?”

  Ballard put on a pair of reading glasses, leaned in for a closer look at the photos, and looked up. “Yes.”

  I handed both photos to Whitcomb, then turned and faced Ballard, who was now avoiding eye contact. “So, tell me, Detective, did you find any traces of blood spatter on my client?”

  Ballard shifted again but didn’t look at Berkowitz. “Well, we found lots of blood on him. He wiped his hands and that smeared the spatter marks on his sweater.”

  “What about his face, the backs of his hands, his hair, his watch face, his shoes? Did you find any blood spatter at all on Mr. Kavanaugh?”

  Berkowitz came out of her chair like she was propelled by a spring. “Your honor, Mr. Claxton has dragged us down into the weeds. We haven’t completed all our forensic analyses. This is premature and ridiculous.”

  Whitcomb swung his gaze from Ballard to Berkowitz, then back to Ballard. “Answer the question, Detective.”

  “No. We did not find any blood spatter on Mr. Kavanaugh.”

  “Let me clarify,” I said. “You did look for blood spatter on Mr. Kavanaugh, but you did not find any. Is that correct, Detective?”

  “Uh, yes it is.”

  “How do you explain this?”

  Berkowitz popped back up. “Your honor, these are details best left for—”

  Whitcomb put a hand up. “I’d like to hear the answer. Detective?”

  Ballard shifted in his seat again and said in a voice that had clearly lost some steam. “We assumed Mr. Kavanaugh wore some kind of protective clothing during the assault or somehow washed up afterwards.”

  “Protective clothing? Washed up?” I shot back. “Did you find any evidence of that at the crime scene? Any evidence at all?”

  “Uh, no we did not. But, the—”

  “Thank you, Detective Ballard. That’s all the questions I have.”

  The room went silent. Whitcomb looked at me, then Berkowitz. “Do either of you have anything else to present?” I said no, but Berkowitz stood there for a while trying to look unflustered. I could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head.

  “No, your honor,” she finally said, “just my closing remarks.”

  “I don’t need any closing remarks,” Whitcomb said. “I’ve heard enough. You’ve both given me a lot to think about. We’ll reconvene at one o’clock this afternoon for my decision. We’re adjourned.”

  Juan was waiting out in the hallway and was disappointed we didn’t have a decision. I told him I’d call and sent him back to Le Petit Truc. The last thing he said was, “I think the judge’s on our side, Cal.”

  I checked my calls—two from Eddie Manning and one from Candice Roberts. I called Candice first and told her we were waiting for a decision. “Okay,” she said, “I’ve got everything arranged. Just say the word and I’ll bring you a certified check. I’m feeling good about this, Cal.”

  Eddie apologized for not being there and pressed me for a prediction I was unwilling to give. “What’s your gut say?” he finally asked in frustration.

  “The odds are against us.”

  Whitcomb was back on his perch at one sixteen. They brought Jim in and we stood together at our table. Grim-faced, the judge eyed us both, then drew a bead on Helen Berkowitz and got right to the point. “Your case may be strong enough to secure an indictment against Mr. Kavanaugh at the grand jury hearing, Ms. Berkowitz. However, I did not find your proof sufficiently evident for the question at hand. In particular, I found the blood spatter evidence, or lack thereof, significant. In addition, I am convinced that Mr. Kavanaugh does not represent a flight risk and that he does not pose a danger to the community. Therefore, I’m granting bail of three-hundred-fifty thousand dollars with the following conditions—Mr. Kavanaugh is not to leave the state without permission. He is to surrender his passport, if he has one, and he is to wear an ankle monitor until the charges against him are adjudicated.” With th
at, Whitcomb gaveled the hearing closed and left the courtroom.

  Jim let out an emphatic “Yes” and gave me a bear hug that damn near cracked a rib. “Thank you, Cal. I knew you could do it.” Then, holding my shoulders at arm’s length, he added, “You’ll let Candice know, and she’ll bring the money to spring me, right?”

  “Yes. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  As the bailiff approached to take him back to his jail cell, Jim said, “Tell me one thing. How the hell were you so certain that I didn’t have any of that spatter on me? I mean, when you asked that question, I just puckered up and held my breath. The night of the murder, they looked me over with a magnifying glass.”

  I had to chuckle. “They teach you in law school to never ask a question in court you don’t know the answer to. The answer to that question was so obvious I damn near missed it. I realized it had to be true. If you didn’t kill Lori, then there was no way you could have had any blood spatter on you. It was as simple as that.”

  Jim was led back to his cell a happy man. I was more subdued, knowing that this was just a skirmish, that the real battle was yet to be joined. Helen Berkowitz and her team would have plenty of time to figure a way around the blood spatter problem I threw at them, and getting a jury to buy a frame-up was always a tough job in any case.

  Better to fight the next battle outside the courtroom? I wondered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Candice brought the money and passport and then hurried back to Le Petit Truc to meet some wholesale customers. I paid Jim’s bail deposit, surrendered his passport, and then waited while he was fitted with an ankle bracelet containing a GPS chip. When Jim emerged, he pulled a pant leg up to display the bracelet, a steel wire reinforced band with a transmitter the size of a small lemon attached. “The price of freedom,” he quipped.

  A lone reporter and photographer from the McMinnville News Register awaited us. I let Jim proclaim his innocence in one sentence and then gave them a terse statement. I was relieved at the minimal coverage, particularly at the absence of anyone from The Oregonian or The Statesman Journal out of Salem. Not surprising. Like all major newspapers, they had both undergone draconian cuts in their staffs over the last couple of years.

  On the way back to Dundee we rehashed the hearing, and then I brought up my interest in Luis Delgado and my search for Isabel Rufino. When I finished, Jim said, “So, you think Delgado might’ve helped the killer get away and then took one between the eyes for his trouble?

  “Could be,” I told him. “The cops think it was a drug hit. Anyway, I’m trying to find Rufino.”

  “Before the killer does.”

  “Right. I think she knows something.” Then I switched to another subject. “I had lunch with Candice the other day. She mentioned that you have a silent partner.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?”

  “Yeah. I’m wondering who it is?”

  “It’s Eddie and Sylvia.”

  “Nice of them. What kind of deal did you cut?”

  “He and Sylvia have a private investment firm in Lake O. They’re printing money. Anyway, they loaned me enough to keep me from going under. I’m paying them back with interest. Winemaking’s a capital-intensive business, man, and it takes a long time before you see a payback.”

  “What if you can’t repay him?”

  “They get Truc. I signed a note.”

  I tried to hold a neutral look. “They insisted on your land as collateral?”

  Jim shifted in his seat. “No. They wanted to give me the money outright, no conditions. They’re the salt of the earth, those two. It was me—I insisted on doing it right.”

  “Why are you so touchy about this?”

  “Jesus, Cal, think about it. I had to borrow money from my sister’s kid to save my business. It’s fucking embarrassing. I didn’t tell anyone about this, not even Lori.”

  “That reminds me. Candice mentioned Lori was a patient of Richard Amis. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. She was, ah, having some depression issues. We thought Amis might be able to help.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know. Lori didn’t want anyone to know. I guess I was in the habit of not saying anything.”

  The sky had cleared, and by the time we reached Le Petit Truc the vineyards were bathed in the soft gold light of the dying sun. I glanced up into the hills toward my place and hoped Archie wouldn’t be too upset with me if his dinner was late. The first thing Jim did was march into the warehouse to find Juan. I tagged along out of curiosity. The air in the building was even heavier now, a dank, forest-floor kind of odor signifying sugar being converted to alcohol in a chemical process as old as civilization. Jim had Juan take him to each fermentation bin where he pored over the logs, discussing temperatures, acidity, alcohol, and sugar content, and when next to punch down.

  When I asked what the latter term meant, Jim said, “The pulp, skins, and stems get pushed up to the surface by the CO2 that’s evolving.” He picked up what looked like an oversized plunger attached to a broom handle leaning against a fermenter bin and handed it to me. “We use this tool to punch the crud—called pommace in polite company—down to keep everything well mixed. Go ahead, give it a try.”

  I mounted a stepladder next to the bin and set to work. Juan laughed at my awkward strokes, and Jim even managed a thin smile. “This is hard work,” I told them, and then on my final thrust, splashed fermenting grape juice in my face.

  Juan stepped in and steadied the ladder. “Don’t quit your day job, Cal.”

  Afterwards, we found Candice bent over a computer in the tasting room. She looked up and said to Jim, “How’s the crush look?”

  Jim nodded and clapped Juan on the back. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried so much. I’ve got you two, after all.” He tried to smile, but it failed to launch. I read his look—he was out on bail, his grapes were safe, but the love of his life was still dead.

  Juan smiled modestly, and Candice said, “Does that mean we both get big raises?”

  “Of course not,” Jim said, trying to look stern. “An appreciative boss is payment enough.”

  At this point, Eddie and Sylvia arrived and after hugs, high fives, and a reprise of the hearing, we sat down at a table on which Candice had set a couple of bottles of his 2012 reserve and a big, crystal tulip glass for each of us. She opened the first bottle and poured a little into my glass. “Do us the honors, Cal.”

  I swirled it, breathed it in, and then tasted it. “Umm. This will do nicely.” I took another sip, closed my eyes, and put a hand up. “Wait, wait, I’m getting something else here…silky layers of fig sauce, and some crushed plum with a hint of cassis, and, oh my God, some pencil lead, 2H, to be exact.”

  The table erupted in a chorus of groans. Jim actually smiled. “God save us all from wine speak. Just drink it and shut the fuck up.” It was good to see my friend relax a little.

  Eddie said, “Cal, you sound like that shrink, Amis, the biggest wine snob in the valley, and that’s saying a lot.”

  Candice stopped giggling long enough to say, “Don’t take Amis’ name in vain. He’s a great customer. Which reminds me, his wine bash is this Friday night. Everybody in the wine world’s coming.”

  “Does my invitation still stand?” Jim said.

  Candice swiveled in her chair. “Of course, Amis called and made a point of telling me he wanted you to come, unless, quote, unquote, your schedule doesn’t allow it.”

  “How diplomatic of him.” Jim swung his eyes to me and raised his brows.

  I nodded. “Absolutely. You should go.”

  “Okay, I will, but I’m inviting my lawyer, too.” Jim looked at me again and managed another smile. “When Amis opens his wine cellar, you don’t want to miss it. Bring your Portland friend, Winona,�
� he added. “I know she loves wine, and Amis always welcomes attractive women at his parties.”

  Sylvia said, “We’ve got another engagement, but it was nice of Richard to include us.” Then to me she added, “What happens next on the legal front?”

  “The grand jury hearing’s scheduled for Tuesday. As I’ve told most of you, the prosecution will probably get an indictment. They almost always do.”

  “Even with the lack of blood spatter?” Eddie asked with an incredulous look.

  Jim scoffed a laugh. “They’re going to say I cleaned up somehow or wore a raincoat or some damn thing.”

  Juan laughed. “That’s stupid.”

  “Cal’s already got a lead on the killer,” Jim went on. “He’s trying to find—”

  I cut Jim off with a laugh and shot him a quick warning look. “Jim’s exaggerating. We’re just getting started. The only thing I’m sure of at this juncture is that someone’s trying to set him up.” I didn’t want anyone to know about Isabel Rufino or the person pursuing her, even Jim’s inner circle.

  ***

  Archie greeted me at The Aerie that evening like I’d been gone for thirty years. It was dark, but that didn’t stop him from trying to talk me into a game of slobber ball. I made him leave his ball on the porch and took him in and fed him. I was pleased that I had the foresight to thaw a chunk of steelhead in the refrigerator. After putting Leonard Cohen on the sound system, I snipped off some rosemary sprigs from a potted bush on the porch, chopped them together with a clove of garlic and made a paste of it with olive oil and lemon zest. I slathered the paste on the fish, broiled it up, and served it with steamed broccoli, leftover white rice, and a glass of chilled Sancerre.

  Archie lay watching me cook, alert for anything edible that might get dropped. When I finally sat down to eat, I raised my glass to him and said, “Here’s to a better than average day, Big Boy,” and right on cue, Cohen began singing “Anthem.” It was my deceased wife’s favorite song. My heart squeezed a little in my chest, but I was stronger now, and the song brought more joy than pain. But Cohen was right. There was a crack in everything, but I wasn’t sure much light got in.