Read Online Prosecution: A Legal Thriller by D.W. Buffa - Free Book Online
Authors: D.W. Buffa
Tags: legal thriller, Adultery, murder mystery, Betrayal, Courtroom Drama, justice system, murder suspect
Ads: Link
it
something else?
"There's something I'd really like to talk to you
about," I said, when he hesitated.
"Sure, I'd love to," he replied, reverting to his
normal enthusiasm.
We met the next day at a fish restaurant a block off
Burnside and sat in a wooden booth near the back. Dressed in a
paisley tie and a neatly pressed double breasted suit, Goodwin
smiled at the waitress as he ordered a drink and kept his eye on
her while she walked away.
"Nice," he remarked, turning back to me. "Don't you
think?"
"A little young," I replied.
"So, tell me," he said, his eyes full of apparent
interest. "What made you decide to come back?"
"I thought it was time," I said, looking back at
him.
It was a strange feeling—or, rather, it was strange
that I seemed to have no feeling at all. I'm not sure what I
expected. I had defended dozens of people charged with murder, most
of them guilty, almost all of them acquitted. But a trial, even for
murder, is like watching a play, one of Shakespeare's histories, in
which all the violence takes place offstage. The victim is dead,
and no matter how depraved the manner of the death, it happened far
away from the ornate civilities of a courtroom. This seemed
different and, in a peculiar way, more real. I was face to face
with someone who might be a murderer and did not even know he was a
suspect.
"I never had a chance to tell you," I remarked
solemnly, "how sorry I was about what happened to your wife."
He looked away, as if he was not sure how he should
respond. "It was a long time ago," he said finally. Brightening, he
changed the subject. "Now, tell me," he asked earnestly. "What are
you going to do? I have a hard time imagining you doing anything as
dull as civil work. Or are you back to criminal defense?"
"I'm going to prosecute," I replied evenly.
He had just started to take another drink, and he
laughed. "You're going to what?"
"I've been appointed a special prosecutor in a murder
case," I explained. "You know the statute."
"Oh, sure, sure," he said. "When a county doesn't
have anyone with the right expertise or experience. Well, I never
thought I'd see you trying to put someone away," he went on, as he
lifted his glass. "Welcome to the club."
The waitress returned and, one at a time, dealt onto
the table the dishes we had ordered. Goodwin rattled the ice in his
empty glass and ordered another. As he raised his hand, I noticed
his watch, a thin crushed gold band and a flat jade stone face with
two narrow hands to measure the minute and the hour. It was the
simple elegance of understated luxury, and I could not take my eyes
off it.
"I bought it for myself," he remarked, pulling his
sleeve back until the watch was completely exposed. "Last year,
when I turned forty, I had it made."
"I didn't realize deputy district attorneys did so
well."
"So where is the case you've got?" he asked,
pretending to be interested. "Do you have to go out to one of those
one-horse counties where they've only got two lawyers in the DA's
office?" The smile on his face left no doubt what
he thought of anyone who had to work outside the only
city in the state that counted.
"No, the case is right here."
"Here? Portland? That's impossible."
"They've reopened the case, Marshall."
"What case?"
"The case of your wife's murder." I leaned against
the hard wooden back of the booth, waiting to see what he would do.
He did not react like a husband who had lost his wife but like a
lawyer confronted with a technical question of law.
"She was killed in Corvallis. The case would be
brought there, not here."
"Your wife was murdered in Corvallis. The conspiracy
to have her killed took place right here, in Portland—just a few
blocks from here, as a matter of fact."
He studied me through narrowed eyes. "Just a few
blocks away? What are you telling me, somebody planned her murder?
Why?"
"I thought maybe you could
something else?
"There's something I'd really like to talk to you
about," I said, when he hesitated.
"Sure, I'd love to," he replied, reverting to his
normal enthusiasm.
We met the next day at a fish restaurant a block off
Burnside and sat in a wooden booth near the back. Dressed in a
paisley tie and a neatly pressed double breasted suit, Goodwin
smiled at the waitress as he ordered a drink and kept his eye on
her while she walked away.
"Nice," he remarked, turning back to me. "Don't you
think?"
"A little young," I replied.
"So, tell me," he said, his eyes full of apparent
interest. "What made you decide to come back?"
"I thought it was time," I said, looking back at
him.
It was a strange feeling—or, rather, it was strange
that I seemed to have no feeling at all. I'm not sure what I
expected. I had defended dozens of people charged with murder, most
of them guilty, almost all of them acquitted. But a trial, even for
murder, is like watching a play, one of Shakespeare's histories, in
which all the violence takes place offstage. The victim is dead,
and no matter how depraved the manner of the death, it happened far
away from the ornate civilities of a courtroom. This seemed
different and, in a peculiar way, more real. I was face to face
with someone who might be a murderer and did not even know he was a
suspect.
"I never had a chance to tell you," I remarked
solemnly, "how sorry I was about what happened to your wife."
He looked away, as if he was not sure how he should
respond. "It was a long time ago," he said finally. Brightening, he
changed the subject. "Now, tell me," he asked earnestly. "What are
you going to do? I have a hard time imagining you doing anything as
dull as civil work. Or are you back to criminal defense?"
"I'm going to prosecute," I replied evenly.
He had just started to take another drink, and he
laughed. "You're going to what?"
"I've been appointed a special prosecutor in a murder
case," I explained. "You know the statute."
"Oh, sure, sure," he said. "When a county doesn't
have anyone with the right expertise or experience. Well, I never
thought I'd see you trying to put someone away," he went on, as he
lifted his glass. "Welcome to the club."
The waitress returned and, one at a time, dealt onto
the table the dishes we had ordered. Goodwin rattled the ice in his
empty glass and ordered another. As he raised his hand, I noticed
his watch, a thin crushed gold band and a flat jade stone face with
two narrow hands to measure the minute and the hour. It was the
simple elegance of understated luxury, and I could not take my eyes
off it.
"I bought it for myself," he remarked, pulling his
sleeve back until the watch was completely exposed. "Last year,
when I turned forty, I had it made."
"I didn't realize deputy district attorneys did so
well."
"So where is the case you've got?" he asked,
pretending to be interested. "Do you have to go out to one of those
one-horse counties where they've only got two lawyers in the DA's
office?" The smile on his face left no doubt what
he thought of anyone who had to work outside the only
city in the state that counted.
"No, the case is right here."
"Here? Portland? That's impossible."
"They've reopened the case, Marshall."
"What case?"
"The case of your wife's murder." I leaned against
the hard wooden back of the booth, waiting to see what he would do.
He did not react like a husband who had lost his wife but like a
lawyer confronted with a technical question of law.
"She was killed in Corvallis. The case would be
brought there, not here."
"Your wife was murdered in Corvallis. The conspiracy
to have her killed took place right here, in Portland—just a few
blocks from here, as a matter of fact."
He studied me through narrowed eyes. "Just a few
blocks away? What are you telling me, somebody planned her murder?
Why?"
"I thought maybe you could
Similar Books
