Robin turned to her investigator, an ex–Navy SEAL, who hadworked as a spy before retiring from government work. Ken was slender, clean-cut, and five foot ten with a full head of short, silver hair, and he looked more like a CPA than someone who had been a spook for the CIA.
“How much do you know about my trip to Black Oaks?”
“Only what Loretta told me.”
“We’ve been hired by Frank Melville to save an innocent man who’s on death row. You’ll need to go through this stuff,” Robin said, pointing at the center of the conference table. “We can talk when you’re up to speed.”
Robin turned to Loretta. “What have you got for me?”
“Getting Stallings’s confession in may be a problem. The attorney-client privilege is still in effect even if the client dies. If Melville can’t tell the judge that Stallings confessed, we’re dead in the water.”
“Any ideas about how we can circumvent that problem?”
“I have some ideas, but I haven’t had time to see if they’ll work.”
“Any other problems?”
“Well, yeah. Even if Melville can tell a court about Stallings’s confession, we’ll still have to corroborate it with evidence, like the testimony of that woman who knew about Prescott and Stallings.”
“That’s going to be your job,” Robin told Ken.
Breland nodded.
“Any other problems?”
“A big one. The statute of limitations has run out on raising Alvarez’s post-conviction issues in our state courts.”
“What about federal habeas corpus?” Robin asked.
“I’m looking into that avenue.”
“Okay. That’s enough for now.” Robin pointed to the center ofthe table. “We’ll all have to read through the files and trial transcripts. When you do, keep one thought in your mind. This case doesn’t involve reasonable doubt or some violation of an evidence rule or a provision of the constitution. Jose Alvarez is on death row. We now know he is completely innocent, and he will die if we don’t do our job.”
After the meeting broke up, Robin grabbed several trial transcripts and took them into her office. The long ride back to Portland from Black Oaks had tired her, and she stopped reading when the words began swimming on the page. Robin stuffed two volumes of the trial transcripts in a book bag, bought a rainbow roll and an unagi avocado roll at her favorite sushi restaurant, and headed to her condo.
Robin’s first job in Oregon had been a clerkship at the Oregon Supreme Court in Salem. When Regina Barrister hired her as an associate, she drove up I-5 and moved into a small apartment in a trendy area of Portland on the east side of the Willamette River that was known for its restaurants and locally owned shops. Jeff Hodges had moved in soon after they started dating, and they were living there when he died. Robin tried to stay in their apartment after Jeff’s death, but the place was filled with ghosts.
Now Robin lived in a modern, high-rise condo on the west side of the river with a view of snowcapped mountains and the Willamette that was a fifteen-minute walk from her office. Robin treasured the view because it was so different from the view she and Jeff had shared and didn’t evoke memories that made her sad.
Robin waved at the security guard and took the elevator to her floor. The neighbors in her old apartment house had been artists, students, or new professionals, and they tended to be friendly. Hernew neighbors worked long hours. They were partners in prestigious law and accounting firms and successful businessmen and -women. Robin rarely saw them, but that was okay, because she wasn’t interested in socializing.
As soon as she was inside, Robin changed into sweats and ate her dinner. Then she took out the transcripts but didn’t have the energy to read for long. There was a UFC fight on TV. She knew some of the fighters from her MMA days and tuned in to see how they did, but she only lasted through a few bouts before she switched off the set and dragged herself into the bedroom. It was early, but that was okay. She wanted to get a good night’s sleep because she would be starting a quest to save Jose Alvarez’s life when the sun rose.
PART FOURHabeas Corpus
CHAPTER EIGHT
In order to find Debra Porter, Ken Breland did not have to call in a favor from an old friend at the CIA or hack into the files of the NSA. He just had to log into Facebook, where he found many pictures of the Randolph College alum, including one of her outside the high school where she had been an English teacher for twenty years.
Ken studied Porter’s photo while he waited next to her car in the teachers’ parking lot outside Ida B. Wells High School. He knew which car was Porter’s because he’d gotten the number of her plate from a friend at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Half an hour after class had been dismissed, a heavyset woman in her fifties walked toward him.
“Mrs. Porter?” Ken asked when Debra approached her parking space.
“Yes.”
Ken handed Debra his card. “I wonder if you could spare afew minutes to talk about a case I’m working on for Robin Lockwood.”
“The attorney?”