Searching for Murder

A Thomas Martindale Mystery

by Ron Lovell

Chapter 3

I spotted the woman as soon as she entered the courtroom while I waited to see if I would be picked for jury duty. I had come early to observe some of the proceedings. As she walked up to the wooden railing that separated the spectators from the front half of the courtroom, she paused momentarily before pushing through the gate. The loud clang from its metal hinges competed with the clap of her wedge-style shoes in disturbing the quiet of the courtroom.

With little for us to do while we waited for proceedings to begin, the five of us already there watched the woman. She was short and somewhat stocky, probably in her mid-fifties. Her blonde hair needed retouching, evidenced by the dark roots that were showing. She was wearing a short skirt that was not as sexy as she hoped; instead, it merely emphasized her unattractive legs. They were what my father used to call “piano legs.” Her cheap-looking leather coat partially covered a white sleeveless blouse. She was carrying a large backpack and a bottle of Mountain Dew.

Now on the other side of the railing, she did not sit down, but immediately began pacing behind the carved table and four chairs that were grouped there. The judge’s bench was on the left, slightly higher than everything else. What I took to be the clerk’s desk was on the right, a bit closer to the front, with a computer resting on it. The jury box was on the right wall: two levels, nine chairs, with a railing that separated it from the rest of the courtroom. The witness stand was in the front, flanked by both the American flag and the flag of the State of Oregon. There were two doors in the center of the rear wall. Light came from an old-style gaslight, recessed modern lighting in the high ceiling, and the high curved windows in the left wall—their upper panes of colored glass. The room looked great, its oak furniture and overall appearance very much in keeping with the year the building had been dedicated: 1888. The renovation completed in time for the one-hundredth anniversary of the building had been handled with painstaking precision.

The woman stopped pacing as two other people walked through the swinging gate. An older man in a mismatched plaid suit stepped back to admit a slightly frazzled-looking woman in her forties. She sat down in a chair to the left. He whispered something to the blonde before they both sat down in chairs on the right. Before doing so, however, she took off her coat and laid it and her backpack on one of the chairs lined up along the inside of the railing, I presume for expert witnesses.

As the clock struck nine, the doors at the rear opened. “All rise.”

The judge entered at a brisk pace, her black robe rustling faintly in the suddenly hushed room. Her clerk followed closely, saying, “The circuit court is now in session. The Honorable J. Betty Andrews presiding.”

The clerk sat behind her desk on a level below the judge and reached over to turn on her computer.

“Please be seated.”

The judge looked to be in her forties with a pleasant face and kind eyes.

“We are here in the matter of custody of a minor child, Douglas Acton. The petitioner is the child’s mother. Am I correct, Mr. Harcourt?”

The older man on the right rose. “Yes, Your Honor. The child’s mother, Angelique Acton-Jones, is here.” The blonde woman started to rise, but Harcourt abruptly pushed her back in her seat. The man sat down too, whispering in an agitated way to his client.

“Ms. Brompton, is the state ready to proceed?”

The frazzled-looking woman riffled through a stack of papers in front of her before rising. “Yes, Your Honor.” Although her suit appeared expensive, the assistant district attorney already looked a bit disheveled, with the tail of her silk blouse hanging out enough to reveal her bare back. She sat down so quickly that she bounced up slightly from her chair.

“Very well, then,” said the judge, “we will proceed. Ms. Brompton.”

The assistant D.A. once again riffled through the mound of papers on her desk for a few seconds before finding what she was looking for. She stood up. Then she gulped water from a glass.

“The state will show that Ms. Acton-Jones is not fit to regain custody of her son, a seven-year-old male named . . .” she looked alarmed before finding the name on yet another piece of paper, which she then dropped on the floor. “. . . Douglas Acton.”

“You are going to present evidence relating to Ms. Acton-Jones’s competence as a parent?”

“Yes, Judge. I have in my hand the report of an incident involving Ms. Acton-Jones, her son, and a male now housed in the Benton County Correctional Facility. He’s being held on a charge of child endangerment. He and Ms. . . .”

“His name, Ms. Brompton. Please give us his name for the record.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, Judge.” More paper shuffling ensued as the assistant D.A. looked for the magic page. She found what she was looking for and held it high. “Roy Dewayne Richards. Mr. Richards is a convicted pedophile . . .”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Harcourt, the defense attorney. “Mr. Richards is not on trial here and his background is not an issue.”

“The court will get to that matter in due time, Mr. Harcourt. Do you have anything more, Ms. Brompton?”

“Nothing at this time, Judge.”

“Very well, then, we will proceed. Ms. Acton-Jones, will you please take the stand and be sworn in?”

The blonde got up from her chair, squared her shoulders, and headed for the witness stand, her clunky shoes again making noise on the polished wooden floor. The clerk walked over to stand in front of her; the woman raised her left hand, then her right, then her left again, before the patient clerk whispered to her the proper procedure.

“Under penalty of perjury, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

The blonde nodded.

“Please speak up, for the record,” said the judge.

“I do,” said the blonde.

“Please be seated.”

The blonde’s shoes made another clomping sound as she arranged herself in the witness chair.

“State your name and place of residence.”

“Angelique Lelani Acton-Jones.”

She smiled at her attorney and glanced at the judge.

“Place of residence?”

The blonde’s face looked blank.

“Where you live?”

“Oh yeah. I see. North Cascades Mobile Home Park, number 103. I’m not sure of the exact address, but it’s out on Highway 99 W, near the turnoff to that forest place run by the college. I could . . .”

“That will suffice for the record. The clerk will fill it in later. Now then, Ms. Acton-Jones . . .”

“You can call me Angie if you want to, Judge, I mean Your Honor. I don’t mind.”

The blonde’s attorney was shaking his head vigorously.

“Ms. Acton-Jones, you are petitioning this court to regain custody of your son, a minor child named Douglas Acton?”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean, Judge, that is correct. My little Dougie is the dearest thing in the world to me. He’s . . .”

At this point, the room filled with the familiar strains of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” coming from her coat across the room. A look of sheer terror came over the blonde’s face. The judge sat impassively, waiting for the ringing to cease.

“Please resume your testimony, Ms. Acton-Jones. You were saying?”

“Sorry, Judge, I mean Your Honor. I was saying that my little Dougie means more to me than life itself. I brought him into this world, and I am going to fight for him with the last breath in my body.” And then the blonde started to cry.

The judge nodded to her clerk, who walked to the witness, carrying a box of tissues. The blonde grabbed a fistful and dabbed her eyes.

“Sorry, Your Honor. I just can’t help . . .”

Yankee Doodle made its presence known again.

“Ms. Acton-Jones! Will you please take care of your cell phone!”

The blonde got up and clomped rapidly to the railing, pausing to glance nervously at her attorney, who seemed to have slouched even lower in his chair. With the phone still ringing, she grabbed her coat and tried desperately to find it. When it was not in the pocket, she ran her fingers up and down the coat; we were in the fifth rendition of the tune when she finally appeared to locate the device. The problem was that the lining of the coat stood between her and the OFF button.

“My lining is torn,” shouted the blonde over her shoulder to the judge, whose face was stern and impassive, although I thought I saw a slight smile beginning to form on her mouth.

The blonde then began to punch desperately at the phone, hoping to connect with the correct button. After another agonizing minute or so, she succeeded and the ringing stopped. She threw the coat on the chair and walked more slowly and less confidently back to the witness stand.

“Now, Ms. Acton-Jones, you were saying?”

“Just that I love my little boy and want him with me.”

“Mr. Harcourt. Do you have anything to add to what your client has said?”

The attorney rose slowly, some papers in his hand. “May I approach?”

The judge nodded.

“I have a record of Ms. Acton-Jones’s successful treatment in the Lynn-Benton drug rehabilitation program.” Harcourt handed the papers to both the judge and the clerk, before returning to his place at the table. “I think this speaks for itself as to Ms. Acton-Jones’s desire to turn her life around and return to her proper role as a loving mother.” He sat down and gave his client a fatherly pat on the arm.

“Now, Ms. Brompton. As to the matter of Mr. Richards. The question still to be answered is regarding his presence in the house with a minor child.”

The assistant D.A. got to her feet and nodded vigorously. Then she drank more water. “Yes, Your Honor. He is a convicted pedophile, and he was living in the same house with Ms. Acton-Jones and the minor child, Daniel Acton.”

“I believe his name is Douglas Acton,” said the judge.

“Yes, of course. Sorry, Judge.”

“Mr. Harcourt, is Mr. Richards now living with Ms. Acton-Jones?”

The attorney leaned over to his client, who whispered in his ear and gestured with both hands. “Yes, Your Honor, it appears that she was before his incarceration.”

“In that case, I think we need Mr. Richards in this courtroom before we can proceed. I may need to question him. Bailiff, can the prisoner be produced?”

The judge looked at a fireplug of a man, fairly short and well-built, his shaved head glistening in the lights.

“I can call over there, Your Honor. They are all in the exercise yard now. It might take an hour to transfer him.”

“Before I order that, tell us about the incident in question, Ms. Brompton.”

The frazzled assistant D.A. once again riffled through a stack of papers before standing. This time, she paused to tuck her blouse back into her skirt.

“On the early evening of August 25, Corvallis police responded to a complaint phoned in to 9-1-1 about a man and a woman fighting in front of a trailer at the North Cascade Mobile Home Park at 6832 North West Highway 99 W in Corvallis. Upon arrival, the two officers reported a man brandishing a knife at a woman.” She paused to look at Angelique Acton-Jones, who stared stoically at the flags in the front of the courtroom. “The officers quickly subdued the man—Roy Dewayne Richards—and noticed at that time the presence of a young boy standing behind the woman—Angelique Acton-Jones. He seemed to be crying.”

“I was protecting my baby,” shouted the blonde from her seat.

“Mr. Harcourt, please control your client.”

The attorney again whispered in the blonde’s ear.

“I want to talk to Mr. Richards,” said the judge. “If we can’t get him over here, I’ll have to reschedule this hearing until he is in my court. What are we looking at, Margaret?”

She turned to her clerk, who looked at her computer screen and punched a few keys.

“A week from Friday is your first opening.”

“That’s what we’ll do. Ms. Brompton, Mr. Harcourt. We will reconvene to hear from Mr. Richards. Until then, we are adjourned.”

“All rise.”

The judge picked up the folders in front of her and walked through the door, trailed by her clerk. The blonde looked angry and started gesturing as she whispered none too softly into the ear of her attorney.

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” she said. “What about my little boy? He really needs his mommy!”

“You should have thought about that before you got yourself into this mess with your boyfriend!”

“But I love him, and he loves me.”

“A convicted pedophile living under the same roof as a seven-year-old boy! You’ve got to be kidding me if you think this will be easy.”

I must have been sitting in just the right place for the sound of their voices to resonate as clearly as if I had been sitting next to them. I glanced at Ms. Brompton, the harried assistant D.A. She seemed not to be listening, but was, instead, attempting to organize her mountain of papers. As she tried to arrange a particularly large pile of them, they suddenly fell onto the floor, flying in every direction. I jumped to my feet to help gather those that had scattered under the railing into the spectator area.

“Here, let me help,” I said, gallantly.

“Oh, sure, great, thanks.”

She grabbed them from my hand and stuffed everything into an open briefcase. She practically ran from the courtroom, teetering unsteadily on her high heels, shirttail untucked again.

I sat down in the back at the end of a bench—a good observation spot. What I had come for—jury selection—would begin in a half-hour. My potential fellow members of the jury pool were gathering.

The diversity of Corvallis as a town—located in an agricultural valley surrounded by a timber-covered mountain range, with a large university and a large high-tech manufacturer—would probably be reflected in the jury pool.

Sitting around me were a few younger people, a lot of people who looked like retirees, and a smattering of men in suits and ties. I only recognized one face. I did not know Duncan Delgado personally, but I had seen him on campus and read about him in the newspaper.

He was a biologist who did research on viruses and plagues. He was also a political activist, speaking out on a number of causes, including the plight of Vietnam veterans. There was rarely a peace march in Portland where he was not photographed in the front rank of protesters. As a tenured full professor who brought a lot of grant money into the university’s coffers, he could get away with his high-profile activities, as long as he did not cross a certain invisible line.

Delgado was probably in his fifties, but looked ten years younger. He was tall and well-built, his dark features accentuated by a huge mane of brown hair flecked with gray. I was surprised when he sat down next to me.

“Can you believe all these yokels,” he whispered. “They don’t look like they’ve got the brainpower to carry on a decent conversation, let alone render a verdict.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said. “Tom Martindale.”

We shook hands.

“Yeah. I know who you are. It’ll be good to have someone . . .” he glanced behind us, “. . . intelligent to talk to.”

“I don’t know much about the case,” I said, deciding not to say anything to alienate people I might be spending a lot of time with in the near future.

“A couple of dumb wetbacks who got their dicks in a ringer by killing the owner of a jewelry store they tried to rob,” he said. “Pretty much of a slam dunk, if you ask me.” He paused to look at me closely. “You surprised I say that about my own people? Shit. I come from a background poorer than theirs. I made something of myself. They could too, if they didn’t take what for them was the easy way. Rob a store.” He shook his head. “How dumb is that? A couple of stupid beaners. Shit. A slam dunk.”

“Have you ever been on jury duty before, Delgado?”

“Naw. I always got out of it. This case intrigued me a bit, though, I got to admit. I’m Mexican too, so I thought I’d better make sure justice was served.” Then he winked at me, instantly negating the worth of the words he had just uttered. “You?”

“My first, too. The journalist in me likes to get the inside track on things. We like to be in the know. I have to admit that I hoped I’d be put on this jury ever since I got my original summons.”

“Oh, so you were a reporter before you started teaching? I’d better watch what I say.”

Our mundane conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the judge and her clerk.

“All rise. The circuit court is now in session. Judge J. Betty Andrews presiding.”

“Please be seated. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

There were murmurs of the same salutation to her.

“We are here to select the jury for the trial of Hector Morales, who is charged with homicide in the first-degree in the death of Saul Ivenski. Bailiff, please bring in the prisoner.”

At that, the rear door of the courtroom opened and a short man entered, flanked by two sheriff’s deputies. He shuffled slowly down the aisle, the shackles binding his hands and ankles clanking loudly with each step. Morales scanned the courtroom as he proceeded to his seat, pausing to look twice at Delgado. His head was shaved. A tattoo of a dragon was visible on his neck, just above the top of his sweatshirt, which had the letters BCCF on the back. A practiced hand at courtroom appearances, he turned around with his back to the deputy who unlocked and removed his handcuffs; the shackles on his ankles remained in place, however.

As this was going on, a youngish-looking Spanish woman with thick brown hair stood up and approached an impeccably dressed man who wore his black hair in a ponytail. I figured he was Morales’s attorney.

After the two conferred for several minutes, the attorney spoke quietly to his client, who shook his head slightly. The woman resumed her seat.

“Good morning again, ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge. “Are we ready to proceed with jury selection?

Attorneys on both sides stood. The deputy district attorney was the opposite of Morales’s lawyer in both looks and attire. He wore a shapeless brown jacket and baggy khaki pants. His rounded face sported a goatee and mustache.

“My clerk will read some numbers. If your number is called, please sit in the jury box. If your number is not called, you should wait in the hall.”

The clerk started calling numbers and in response, people got up and walked through the gate and took seats in the jury box. My number was called right after Delgado’s. We sat next to one another in the second row.

“Thank you, Margaret. And thanks to all of you,” said the judge, as she looked out at the people sitting in the spectator area. “Please wait in the hall for the time being while we proceed with jury selection.”

About ten people got up and walked out of the courtroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to proceed with the voir dire, the preliminary part of a trial where attorneys for the state and defense ask you questions to determine your background and impartiality as jurors in this trial. You will be sworn in, stating that you are telling the truth, before you answer the questions. If either of these two fine attorneys challenges you—our word for objects to you —as a juror, please do not take it personally. Mr. Bates, please begin.”

The rumpled assistant D.A. sprang to his feet and walked to a point directly in front of the jury box. He read from a list of names he held in his hands.

“Mrs. Haggerty.”

“Yes,” replied the short woman in a pink pantsuit who sat in front of me. Her tightly permed hair had a faint blue tint to it.

“Please tell us what you do.”

“I am a homemaker.”

“Your husband is still living?”

“Yes, sir. My Pat’s in good health.”

“Children?”

“Three kids and twelve grandchildren.”

“It seems that everyone is in fine fettle in your family.”

The others tittered and Mrs. Haggerty blushed.

“Mr. Bates. I don’t think we need your misplaced humor. We are not here to comment on the size of our juror’s families.”

“No, Judge. Sorry.” The assistant D.A. continued with his questioning. “Have you ever seen the defendant before? I mean, Mr. Hector Morales over there?” Bates had started a nervous pace back and forth in front of us. When he did stop walking, he arched his feet so that he rocked up and down.

“No, sir. Never in my life.”

“No objection to Mrs. Haggerty, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Madrid.”

The immaculately dressed defense attorney stood in stark contrast to the D.A.; every hair on his head was in place and his unlined face virtually glowed, probably the result of regular visits to a spa. His suit could easily have cost more than I paid for my entire wardrobe.

“Mrs. Haggerty, do you consider yourself a fair person?”

The lady looked confused, as if she had never been asked such a question before. “I guess so.”

“I am afraid that guessing is not allowed when it comes to deciding whether a man is guilty of murder.”

When Mrs. Haggerty did not answer, Madrid began tapping his pencil on the edge of the table. The judge intervened.

“Mrs. Haggerty, what Mr. Madrid is asking is if you can be fair in deciding Mr. Morales’s guilt or innocence.”

“You mean whether I’ll hold it against him because he’s a spic?” Mrs. Haggerty said without a trace of embarrassment.

“The defense challenges this juror, Your Honor.”

“You may step down, Mrs. Haggerty. You are excused for the day.”

The lady still looked confused, but quickly complied with the judge’s directions. She walked briskly to her chair in the jury box, picked up her purse, and was gone from the courtroom within seconds.

“Duncan Delgado,” the assistant D.A. read from the list.

The man nudged me in the ribs, rose to his feet, then sat down again. I could tell that he liked to be looked at and admired. He was good looking, but it seemed to me that he probably used his good looks to get what he wanted from others, that he hoped the people he encountered in life would be so in awe of him that he could get whatever he wanted from them. It was an arrogant view of the world, but I suspected that it was probably true of him.

As Bates approached the jury box and the resplendent Delgado, the difference between the two men became even more apparent.

“What do you do, Mr. Delgado?”

“It’s Doctor Delgado, actually, Mr. Bates. I have a Ph.D.”

“Sorry. Doctor Delgado.”

“I am a tenured professor of biology at Oregon University, specializing in the study of viruses. I have a large number of ongoing research projects, most of them funded by the United States government.” Delgado smiled as if to savor his standing in society.

“The state has no problem with this juror. I accept him.”

Madrid stood up and approached the jury box.

“You are obviously of Hispanic ancestry, Dr. Delgado,” he said. “Do you think you can be fair in rendering a verdict in this case? I mean, you might be just the opposite of our previous juror candidate, the unfortunate Mrs. Haggerty.”

“I’ll ask that you not refer to Mrs. Haggerty in that way, or at all,” said the judge. “She is not connected in any way to the matters before us.”

“You are right, Judge Andrews. I am sorry. Can you be fair, Dr. Delgado?”

“Yes, sir, I can,” said Delgado, suddenly becoming humble before our eyes. He betrayed none of the prejudice he had displayed earlier, when he told me that he wanted to be on the jury.

“The defense accepts the juror,” said Madrid, sitting down.

Both sides questioned, then accepted the next six jurors quickly. They were evenly divided between men and women, with four whites, one Black, and one Hispanic. Their ages ranged from early twenties to sixty, in my casual calculation. Then it was my turn.

“Thomas Martindale.”

I held up my hand.

Bates walked to the jury box briskly.

“Tell us what you do, sir.”

“I am a journalism professor at Oregon University.”

“How long have you been at the university, Mr. Martindale?”

“Over fifteen years.”

“Do you know the defendant, Mr. Hector Morales?”

Both Morales and Madrid turned to look at me, as if they were trying to decide if they knew me.

“No, I have never seen him before.”

“I have no problem with this juror, Your Honor. The state accepts Mr. Martindale.”

For me, Madrid decided he needed a closer look and walked over to stand at the end of the jury box next to where I was sitting in the second row.

“It says on your juror questionnaire that you were once an investigative reporter for a magazine in New York.”

“Yes, that’s right. For eight years.”

“Did you cover crime in that job?”

“On occasion, yes. But a lot of other subjects as well—politics, the environment . . .”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Martindale.”

I could feel my face become red as it always did when I was embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“What about race and nationality?”

“The civil rights problems in the South on occasion.”

“Problems of illegal immigration along the border?”

“No, I never did any stories there.”

Madrid paused and rubbed his temples, as if he was trying to remember something he obviously already was prepared to talk about.

“Haven’t I read about you in the papers, Mr. Martindale?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. There have been stories about me when I’ve been promoted or written a book or article, I guess.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Martindale . . .” He paused for some kind of dramatic effect. “You are Mister, is that right, or should it be Doctor?”

“No, Mister is correct. I don’t have a Ph.D.”

Why was he making such a big thing out of my title? Was he somehow comparing me with Delgado? If so, I couldn’t figure out why.

“Have you not been involved in several well-publicized cases where you helped the police solve crimes and catch the bad guys?”

“I’m not sure how well-publicized they were but, yes, I guess you could say that.”

“And I think the last one resulted in the death of one of your students, a young woman.”

Why was Madrid making it sound like the wrong people had been arrested and tried for those crimes, and that I had been the obvious culprit?

“My involvement, as you put it, had nothing to do with the death of the student. I just helped determine the person who killed her.”

“So, you like this amateur sleuth work, do you, Mr. Martindale?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. I guess I enjoy figuring things out. Being a reporter is sometimes like solving a puzzle.”

“Would you be inclined to do a bit of investigating of your own in this case, Mr. Martindale? I mean, to help the police with their work?”

Angela Pride often accuses me of just that, but I wasn’t about to admit it here. Besides, I preferred to think of it as helping friends in trouble.

“No, Mr. Madrid, that would not be my role.”

“I wonder.” The attorney rubbed his temples again for guidance before speaking. “The defense challenges this juror.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martindale. You are dismissed with the thanks of the court.”

As I got up from my chair, Delgado patted my knee.

“Too bad, old man,” he sneered. “I guess your past caught up with you.”

I walked through the swinging gate, out the door of the courtroom, down the hall, down the main stairway, and was back on Fourth Street within minutes. My career as a juror was over as quickly as it began.