Chapter Ten
Jack Blackburn was scared. He’d been in jail before, but that had gone okay.
No one had tried to beat him up or rape him like they did in the TV shows, and his cellmate had been a nice guy.
His sentence had been probation with only two months locked up.
His lawyer had told him that he would probably get out sooner if he behaved himself.
The lawyer had been right. So, it was in and out.
Jack knew that it wouldn’t go that way if he was convicted of murder.
Jack wasn’t sleeping much. Jail nights were not peaceful nights.
There were mentally disturbed inmates who screamed, there were inmates who sobbed, and there were inmates who threatened to kill the men who were robbing them of sleep.
When he did drift off, he had terrible nightmares that left him exhausted and frightened when he woke from them.
Worst of all was not knowing what was going to happen.
He didn’t have the money to hire an attorney who could let him know what was going on, and he didn’t know anyone who would lend him what it would take to get a good lawyer.
He didn’t have many friends in Portland, and there weren’t any he could hit up for lawyer money, because they were as poor as he was.
Relatives weren’t an answer either. He was an only child. His parents had divorced when he was young. His father was dead, and his mother lived in Utah. They didn’t get along, and she was on welfare anyway.
Jack was lying on his bed in his cell worrying when the guard told him that his lawyer was waiting for him and let him out of his cell. That confused Jack, but he followed the guard so he could find out why a lawyer would be visiting him.
Prior to 1983, the Multnomah County jail was an antiquated, fortresslike edifice constructed of huge granite blocks that was located on Rocky Butte, several miles from downtown Portland.
When the Rocky Butte jail was torn down to make way for the I-205 freeway, the detention center was moved to the fourth through tenth floors of the Justice Center, a sixteen-story concrete-and-glass building located across a park from the old courthouse in downtown Portland.
Karen and Morris walked through the Justice Center’s vaulted lobby, past the curving stairs that led to the courtrooms on the third floor, and through a pair of glass doors that opened into the jail reception area.
They showed their IDs at reception, then walked through a metal detector to an elevator that took them to the floor with the contact visiting rooms. When the elevator doors opened, the lawyer and her investigator found themselves in a narrow corridor with a thick metal door at one end.
Affixed to the pastel-yellow concrete wall next to the door was an intercom.
Moments after Karen used it, electronic locks snapped open, and a guard ushered them into another narrow corridor that ran in front of three contact visiting rooms. Each one had a large shatterproof window that let the guards see what was going on in each room.
The guard opened the door to the middle room.
A molded plastic chair stood on each side of a table that was bolted to the floor.
Karen took one of the chairs, and Morris leaned against the wall.
Moments later, a second guard opened another steel door in the back wall, and Jack Blackburn shuffled into the room wearing an orange jumpsuit that seemed to swallow his skinny body.
Blackburn’s unkempt, straight blond hair swept across his forehead, shading dull blue eyes. He was so pale that any color he might have had seemed to have been bleached out of his complexion.
Karen stood up. “My name is Karen Wyatt, and I’ve been asked by the court to represent you. This is Morris Johnson, my investigator. He’ll be helping us find the evidence that can clear your name.”
Blackburn flashed a weary smile. “I can’t pay you, Miss Wyatt. I’m not working right now, and I’m pretty broke.”
“That doesn’t matter. The judge appointed me to help you out at the state’s expense. You don’t have to worry about being able to afford an attorney.”
Blackburn looked relieved. “That’s great. Thank you.”
“How are you feeling? Jail must be tough,” Karen said when Blackburn took the empty seat.
“I was in once before. That’s how I got in this mess.”
Karen had read through the discovery provided by the district attorney’s office before coming to the jail, but she wanted to find out how Blackburn’s version of events might differ from the police reports.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened.”
Blackburn flushed with embarrassment and looked down at the top of the table.
“This is all my fault. I was stupid, and I listened to Preston. He said we could rob the pharmacy, that it would be easy. But it wasn’t, and we got caught.
The judge was fair. He gave me probation, but he said I had to go to jail for two months, and that’s where I met Billy, who was in for a bar fight.
“One day, after I got out of jail, I was walking down Broadway, and I saw Billy. He was dressed real nice, so I asked him what he was doing. He told me that he was working as a chauffeur and houseman for this rich guy, and it was his day off. Then he took me to this restaurant and treated me to lunch and a beer.”
“Did he say who the rich guy was?”
Blackburn looked away, and he hesitated before answering. “I don’t think he told me his name. If he did, I don’t remember.”
“Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”
“I’m pretty good with cars, and I had a job working at a garage when we had lunch. I gave Billy my phone number and said they did good work and I could get his boss a discount.
“I didn’t hear from Billy for a while. Then, a few days ago, he called me and said he wanted to get together. I told him I wasn’t working at the garage anymore, but he said that didn’t matter. It was late, about nine, but I wasn’t doing anything, so I said sure.
“Billy told me to meet him at the Clinton Street Tavern, which wasn’t far from where I was staying.
I didn’t have a car, so I walked over. Billy was waiting in a booth way in the back, and he had this girl with him.
I think he said her name was Candy or Cindy or something like that.
She looked nervous and didn’t say much, and Billy talked a lot.
I thought he might be high, and he definitely seemed nervous.
“Anyway, after we’d had a few beers and shot the shit, his girlfriend said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home.
Billy said he’d had one drink too many and didn’t want to drive.
He gave me his keys and told me his car was parked in a garage nearby and asked if I’d drive Cindy or Candy home, then come back with the car. I said sure.
“Cindy—I’ll call her that—took me to the garage, and I saw the car. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I never dreamed I’d ever drive a car like that.”
“This was the Jag?” Karen asked.
“Not just any Jaguar. It was an XJR575. You know what they cost?”
“I read the police report.”
“They use that car to drive the king of England around! It was like I’d died and gone to heaven, because I had to think that heaven was the only place I’d ever get a shot at driving a car like that.”
Blackburn shook his head. “I should have known better. Nothing ever goes my way.” He flashed a sad smile. “You know that saying, ‘If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all’? That’s the story of my life.”
“Did you drive Cindy home?” Karen asked to get Blackburn back on track.
“Yeah, or I thought I did. She had me let her off at a corner. She waited there until I drove off. I never saw her go into a house.”
“Do you think Billy set you up?”
“Now I do, ’cause when I got back to the bar, he was gone. I asked the bartender if he knew where Billy went, but he didn’t know who I was talking about.”
“So, you kept the car?”
“Well, I had to, didn’t I? I had no idea where Billy lived. And now that I had the Jag, I was worried sick. I don’t live in the best neighborhood, and I was afraid someone would steal the car or do something to it. I paid for a spot in a parking garage, even though I really couldn’t afford it.”
“Why were you driving the car when you were arrested?”
“Honest to God, I was looking all over for Billy. Just cruising and hoping I’d see him so I could give back the Jag.”
“There’s a problem with what you just said. You didn’t want to give the car back, did you?”
Blackburn’s cheeks turned bright red. Karen looked Blackburn in the eye until he looked away.
“You don’t lie very well, Jack. If you tell a jury what you just told me, do you know what the DA will ask you?”
“No.”
“He’ll ask you why you didn’t drive to Terrance Cogen’s house and return the car. If you say you didn’t know he was the owner, that tricky DA will hand you the registration with Cogen’s name and address on it that was in the glove box. What will you say if he does that?”
Blackburn looked at the tabletop while he thought about how he would answer the DA’s question. When he realized that he wouldn’t be able to bluff, he looked up.
“You got me.” Blackburn sighed. “I loved that car, and I never wanted to give it back. I figured that Billy would get in touch and tell me where to bring the car and I’d get to drive it until he did.”
“So, you did look at the registration?”
Blackburn nodded.
“And you knew where Cogen lived.”
“Yeah, but I never went there, and I didn’t know that Cogen had been murdered.”
“When you opened the glove box, did you see the wallet?”
“I saw it, but I’m not a thief. I never used the credit card.”
“Did you notice the bloodstain?”
“Honest, I didn’t know it was blood. I looked through the wallet. Then I put it back. That’s all.”
“Which explains how your prints got on it.”
“I guess.”
“There’s one more problem, Jack. The police found a beer glass on a table near Cogen’s body. It had your fingerprints on it.”
“What?!”
“How did that get there?”
Suddenly, Blackburn looked angry. “He did set me up! I drank a glass of beer at the bar. Billy must have taken the glass and put it in Cogen’s house.”
“If that’s true, he probably killed his boss and framed you,” Karen said.
Blackburn looked grim. “That sounds about right.”
“What do you think?” Karen asked Morris Johnson when they were on the street walking back to the office.
“I’m skeptical,” her investigator answered. “Every felon who was ever arrested with stolen goods didn’t know the goods were stolen and met some guy in a bar who sold it to them cheap.”
“But we know Billy exists. Mrs. Cogen told the detectives a Billy Kramer was her husband’s houseman and chauffeur. And Cindy could be Cynthia Woodruff.”
“True. Where do you think they are?”
“Long gone, if they murdered Terrance Cogen.”
“Blackburn could have done it. He was convicted for burglary. He goes to Dunthorpe and cases Cogen’s place, breaks in, kills Cogen, and steals the car.”
“And has a glass of beer with his victim before bumping him off?”
“That’s a good point.”
“Go to the Clinton Street Tavern and see what you can find out. Then head over to Cynthia Woodruff’s apartment. The address is in the police reports.”