the main road. He didn't turn on his car radio; the Belt Line freeway bypassing Springfield into Eugene was packed with commuters and demanded a driver's full attention.
Passing the Weyerhaeuser plant, its soaring chimneys belching acrid fumes, he held his breath unconsciously for thirty seconds or so. The sky grew blue again as he turned toward downtown Eugene and his office in the courthouse.
It was like a day like any other day--or so it seemed.
Well before eight, Fred Hugi reached his office, the very last cubicle along a corridor flanked by door after door. Like those of the other deputy prosecutors, Hugi's office was eight feet by eight feet. Behind his neat desk, there was a single window next to a translucent rectangle of solid glass blocks. The branches of a huge pine tree, four stories tall, tapped at the window.
Hugi's office was a mixture of whimsy, black humor, and
paperwork--all but the paperwork just there because stuff tended to pile up. A hangman's noose swung from a wooden sconce, but the macabre effect was mitigated by a silly hat with a stuffed white teddy bear sitting on the cap's bill. There was a handful of framed certificates: college degrees, a law degree, and documents certifying that Hugi was an Oregon Guide and Packer and a McKenzie River Guide. Photographs showed a relaxed Hugi. grubby in fishing clothes, holding a three-foot steelhead. There
was an antique photo--a pastoral scene along some now-unidentifiable stretch of the McKenzie River a hundred years ago, and a
SMALL SACRIFICES 49
hiiee map of Oregon. A lone Wandering Jew--virtually impossible lyll with neglect--hung yellow and limp from a planter.
Other offices were empty, but the corridor was alive with members of DA Pat Horton's staff. There had been a multiple shooting during the night. Hugi paused to listen at the edge of one eroup, catching scraps of detail. There wasn't much information
vet only a great deal of speculation. He heard one of the DA's investigators, Howard Williams, say, "And guess where Mama's bullet wound's going to be?"
Hugi was puzzled. "Where?"
Williams held up his arm and pointed at the lower part.
"Right there--where it won't kill you, and it won't even hurt much."
"That's where it isT'
Williams shrugged. "We don't have the reports yet. I'm laying odds though."
Williams's remark didn't make much of an impression on
Hugi. It was the kind of banter that proliferated in cops and DA's offices. He moved to another desk and listened to that first sketchy story of the shootings: a mother and three kids. He knew he was next up.
District Attorney Horton assigned homicide cases on a rotating basis. Hugi had been slated to prosecute the first murder case in Lane County as April ran into May. On May 1, a thirty-twoyear-old California man was shot to death outside a Eugene tavern. The defense indicated it would employ a "Vietnam delayed-stress syndrome" tactic. That would have been "Fred Hugi's murder," but Dave Nissman, another assistant DA, had evinced interest in prosecuting a delayed-stress case. He asked Hugi to trade and Hugi had stepped aside gladly. He'd seen and heard enough of Vietnam first hand to last him a lifetime. And he thought delay ed^ress
reaction was a cop-out. Let Nissman have it.
That meant that this shooting was sure to be his, and Hugi ^asn't particularly fired up about it from what he'd heard so far.
c.very attorney has his own set of criteria of what makes a ' 'good "onucide," pragmatic standards set apart from emotion. The least
-^ught-aiter cases involved bar fights and bum knifings. It was "^d to wring sympathy out of a jury for victims who hadn't kerned to care much about themselves or anybody else.
, Hugi kept a mental list of pluses and minuses to rate homi\u^ cases. Pluses were: respected and innocent victims; victims
50 ANN RULE
and suspects who didn't know each other; multiple victims; lengthy difficult investigations; suspects who tried to evade conviction rather than
Passing the Weyerhaeuser plant, its soaring chimneys belching acrid fumes, he held his breath unconsciously for thirty seconds or so. The sky grew blue again as he turned toward downtown Eugene and his office in the courthouse.
It was like a day like any other day--or so it seemed.
Well before eight, Fred Hugi reached his office, the very last cubicle along a corridor flanked by door after door. Like those of the other deputy prosecutors, Hugi's office was eight feet by eight feet. Behind his neat desk, there was a single window next to a translucent rectangle of solid glass blocks. The branches of a huge pine tree, four stories tall, tapped at the window.
Hugi's office was a mixture of whimsy, black humor, and
paperwork--all but the paperwork just there because stuff tended to pile up. A hangman's noose swung from a wooden sconce, but the macabre effect was mitigated by a silly hat with a stuffed white teddy bear sitting on the cap's bill. There was a handful of framed certificates: college degrees, a law degree, and documents certifying that Hugi was an Oregon Guide and Packer and a McKenzie River Guide. Photographs showed a relaxed Hugi. grubby in fishing clothes, holding a three-foot steelhead. There
was an antique photo--a pastoral scene along some now-unidentifiable stretch of the McKenzie River a hundred years ago, and a
SMALL SACRIFICES 49
hiiee map of Oregon. A lone Wandering Jew--virtually impossible lyll with neglect--hung yellow and limp from a planter.
Other offices were empty, but the corridor was alive with members of DA Pat Horton's staff. There had been a multiple shooting during the night. Hugi paused to listen at the edge of one eroup, catching scraps of detail. There wasn't much information
vet only a great deal of speculation. He heard one of the DA's investigators, Howard Williams, say, "And guess where Mama's bullet wound's going to be?"
Hugi was puzzled. "Where?"
Williams held up his arm and pointed at the lower part.
"Right there--where it won't kill you, and it won't even hurt much."
"That's where it isT'
Williams shrugged. "We don't have the reports yet. I'm laying odds though."
Williams's remark didn't make much of an impression on
Hugi. It was the kind of banter that proliferated in cops and DA's offices. He moved to another desk and listened to that first sketchy story of the shootings: a mother and three kids. He knew he was next up.
District Attorney Horton assigned homicide cases on a rotating basis. Hugi had been slated to prosecute the first murder case in Lane County as April ran into May. On May 1, a thirty-twoyear-old California man was shot to death outside a Eugene tavern. The defense indicated it would employ a "Vietnam delayed-stress syndrome" tactic. That would have been "Fred Hugi's murder," but Dave Nissman, another assistant DA, had evinced interest in prosecuting a delayed-stress case. He asked Hugi to trade and Hugi had stepped aside gladly. He'd seen and heard enough of Vietnam first hand to last him a lifetime. And he thought delay ed^ress
reaction was a cop-out. Let Nissman have it.
That meant that this shooting was sure to be his, and Hugi ^asn't particularly fired up about it from what he'd heard so far.
c.very attorney has his own set of criteria of what makes a ' 'good "onucide," pragmatic standards set apart from emotion. The least
-^ught-aiter cases involved bar fights and bum knifings. It was "^d to wring sympathy out of a jury for victims who hadn't kerned to care much about themselves or anybody else.
, Hugi kept a mental list of pluses and minuses to rate homi\u^ cases. Pluses were: respected and innocent victims; victims
50 ANN RULE
and suspects who didn't know each other; multiple victims; lengthy difficult investigations; suspects who tried to evade conviction rather than
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