Read Online Proof Positive (2006) by Phillip - Jaffe 3 Margolin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phillip - Jaffe 3 Margolin
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were located in a youthful, exuberant belief in the law as a protector of the little person. Doug had always been a little person, the object of bullies, never a member of the in crowd, the poor, pathetic soul who hid his love for the most popular girls in high school because he knew it would never be returned. Armed with the might of the law, Doug believed that he could help those without the power to help themselves. Reality had been a cruel teacher, but deep down, he still held on to his belief that he could make a difference.
Doug's bedroom opened on a small living room. There was no wall between the living room and the kitchen. He turned on the kitchen light and poured himself a glass of cheap scotch from a bottle that was almost empty. Doug added ice to the glass and sat at the kitchen table. He took a strong taste, then held the glass to his forehead. The cold felt good, and the burn of the liquor distracted him for a moment. He put down the glass, rested his elbows on the table, and held his head in his hands. He was all messed up and he didn't know what to do. Each day he had to drag himself to his office. He called himself an attorney, but sometimes he felt like a fraud. What if Ray had really been innocent? Doug had talked Ray into pleading guilty, coerced him. Now he felt sick with doubt. Maybe he should quit his practice, but what else could he do? He was too old to start over in a new profession assuming that he could even think of something else he wanted to do. He came to the same conclusion whenever he had this argument with himself. He would muddle through and hope that he didn't hurt anyone else. He had to earn a living; he had to pay rent and feed himself. And there was one other thing that kept him going: the hope that someday he would redeem himself.
Chapter 8.
THE DETECTIVE DIVISION OF THE PORTLAND POLICE BUREAU Central Precinct was a wide-open space that stretched along one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center. Each detective had a cubicle separated from the other working spaces by a chest-high divider. Billie Brewster's cubicle contained a gunmetal gray desk, an ergonomically designed chair she had purchased with her own money to try to save her back, and the desk chair she had been issued, which was now used to hold case files. Hanging on one of the walls was a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix that Billie had owned since middle school and had brought to work to serve as a reminder that there was more to life than abused children and dead bodies.
The only other personal items in the cubicle were photographs of Billie's mother and her brother, Sherman Brewster. Sherman, who was serving serious time in the Oregon State Penitentiary, was a constant source of sorrow to Billie. When she was sixteen, their father had deserted the family, and her mother had been forced to work at two jobs to make ends meet, leaving Billie to raise Sherman. She had tried her best, but she had lost the battle to keep him straight when he joined a gang. Even though no one else blamed her, Billie could not help feeling responsible for Sherman's failures.
The detective had just finished a fifteen-minute call from an Idaho state trooper who was investigating a Boise case with Portland ties when Bernard Cashman called from the crime lab.
Hey, Bernie, what have you got? Brewster asked, leaning back in her chair.
For you, only the best.
Speak.
Our special of the day is a beautiful thumbprint belonging to Arthur Wayne Prochaska.
Brewster sat up straight. Where was it?
On the beer can on the nightstand in Vincent Ballard's motel room.
You' re shitting me?
Would I lie to a fellow Hendrix aficionado?
That is fucking great! Look, I need a report I can attach to a search warrant affidavit. If you can put Ballard's murder on Prochaska you'll have made my year.
You'll have the report ASAP and anything else I come up with as soon as I get it.
Cashman was the best. When Brewster hung up the phone, she was one
Doug's bedroom opened on a small living room. There was no wall between the living room and the kitchen. He turned on the kitchen light and poured himself a glass of cheap scotch from a bottle that was almost empty. Doug added ice to the glass and sat at the kitchen table. He took a strong taste, then held the glass to his forehead. The cold felt good, and the burn of the liquor distracted him for a moment. He put down the glass, rested his elbows on the table, and held his head in his hands. He was all messed up and he didn't know what to do. Each day he had to drag himself to his office. He called himself an attorney, but sometimes he felt like a fraud. What if Ray had really been innocent? Doug had talked Ray into pleading guilty, coerced him. Now he felt sick with doubt. Maybe he should quit his practice, but what else could he do? He was too old to start over in a new profession assuming that he could even think of something else he wanted to do. He came to the same conclusion whenever he had this argument with himself. He would muddle through and hope that he didn't hurt anyone else. He had to earn a living; he had to pay rent and feed himself. And there was one other thing that kept him going: the hope that someday he would redeem himself.
Chapter 8.
THE DETECTIVE DIVISION OF THE PORTLAND POLICE BUREAU Central Precinct was a wide-open space that stretched along one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center. Each detective had a cubicle separated from the other working spaces by a chest-high divider. Billie Brewster's cubicle contained a gunmetal gray desk, an ergonomically designed chair she had purchased with her own money to try to save her back, and the desk chair she had been issued, which was now used to hold case files. Hanging on one of the walls was a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix that Billie had owned since middle school and had brought to work to serve as a reminder that there was more to life than abused children and dead bodies.
The only other personal items in the cubicle were photographs of Billie's mother and her brother, Sherman Brewster. Sherman, who was serving serious time in the Oregon State Penitentiary, was a constant source of sorrow to Billie. When she was sixteen, their father had deserted the family, and her mother had been forced to work at two jobs to make ends meet, leaving Billie to raise Sherman. She had tried her best, but she had lost the battle to keep him straight when he joined a gang. Even though no one else blamed her, Billie could not help feeling responsible for Sherman's failures.
The detective had just finished a fifteen-minute call from an Idaho state trooper who was investigating a Boise case with Portland ties when Bernard Cashman called from the crime lab.
Hey, Bernie, what have you got? Brewster asked, leaning back in her chair.
For you, only the best.
Speak.
Our special of the day is a beautiful thumbprint belonging to Arthur Wayne Prochaska.
Brewster sat up straight. Where was it?
On the beer can on the nightstand in Vincent Ballard's motel room.
You' re shitting me?
Would I lie to a fellow Hendrix aficionado?
That is fucking great! Look, I need a report I can attach to a search warrant affidavit. If you can put Ballard's murder on Prochaska you'll have made my year.
You'll have the report ASAP and anything else I come up with as soon as I get it.
Cashman was the best. When Brewster hung up the phone, she was one
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