Chapter Fifteen
When Karen walked into the courtroom where Jack Blackburn was going to be arraigned, she noticed Muriel Lujack sitting in the back row and Oscar Vanderlasky seated at the prosecution table. Karen walked over to Vanderlasky while she waited for the guards to bring her client from the holding area.
“Hi, Oscar.”
Vanderlasky looked up from his notes and flashed an insincere smile. “I’ve got your client dead to rights, Wyatt. Let me know when you’re ready to discuss a plea.”
“I’ll do that,” Karen said. Then she saw the guards leading Jack Blackburn out of the holding area, and she sat down at her counsel table.
“What’s going to happen?” Blackburn asked when he was seated next to her. It was obvious that he was very nervous.
“Nothing much, today. The grand jury charged you with murder, car theft, and several other crimes in an indictment. Getting that document was necessary if the DA wanted to bring you to trial. We’ll waive a reading of the indictment, and I’ll enter a not guilty plea on your behalf.
Then the judge will set a trial date. The date isn’t binding.
I’ll probably be filing pretrial motions, so there will be a date set for them later.
Meanwhile, my investigator is trying to find Billy Kramer and Cynthia Woodruff.
It looks like they skipped town, but the DA is also looking for them, so there’s a good chance they’ll be found. ”
Before Karen could say anything more, the Honorable Nathan Stark took the bench. Stark was a no-nonsense former prosecutor who had been assigned to handle Blackburn’s trial. Karen had tried one case in his court, and she had been happy with the way he had conducted the trial.
“This is the case of State of Oregon v. Jack Thomas Blackburn,” the bailiff called.
Oscar Vanderlasky stood. “Ready for the State of Oregon.”
“Ready for Mr. Blackburn,” Karen said. “We will waive a reading of the indictment and enter a plea of not guilty. We would like to have the court set bail.”
Vanderlasky smiled. “The State opposes bail. This is a murder case, so bail is not automatic.”
“You know I can’t set bail in a murder case without a hearing, Miss Wyatt,” Judge Stark said. “Do you want to have me set one?”
“I do.”
“Okay. I’ll set a date for the hearing and trial. Court is adjourned.”
Vanderlasky left the courtroom, and Karen told her client that she would be in touch soon.
The spectator section had been packed, and Muriel Lujack was just getting into the aisle when Karen started for the courtroom door.
Karen hadn’t seen Muriel since the Post case, and she had not had a chance to talk to her one-on-one since the day she was freed from prison.
“Wait up, Muriel,” Karen said.
Muriel froze in the middle of the aisle.
“Are you involved in Jack Blackburn’s case?” Karen asked.
“No. I was just passing by.”
Lujack looked nervous. Karen thought she might be uncomfortable because she had represented her office at Karen’s hearing.
“I never got the chance to tell you how much I appreciated the way you handled my post-conviction hearing. I can think of some DAs who might have argued against my release.”
“That would have been unethical,” Muriel replied. “There was no question that you should never have been in prison.”
“How are things going for you in the office? Did anyone hold what you did for me against you?”
“No. What happened to you was appalling. Most of the people in the office just wanted to forget it ever happened.”
Karen noticed that Morris Johnson had entered the courtroom.
“Well, thanks,” Karen said. Muriel flashed a nervous smile. When she left the courtroom, Johnson walked over to Karen.
“Mrs. Cogen is at the Westmont,” Karen’s investigator said.
“I talked to a bartender at the Clinton Street Tavern,” Morris Johnson said as he drove Karen along the Willamette River. “He wasn’t working the night that Kramer gave our client the Jag, and the waitress who served them is out of town at a funeral. I’ll follow up, next week when they’re back.”
“Sounds good,” Karen said moments before she spotted the stone pillars that marked the entrance to Portland’s most exclusive country club.
The tree-lined driveway passed the emerald-green fairway of the sixth hole of the club’s championship golf course and ended at a sprawling fieldstone clubhouse that had started in 1925 as a small central building and grew larger and more imposing as Portland’s rich and famous became members.
Karen had been taken to the Westmont by her own attorney, Harry Schmidt, who often entertained his well-to-do clients at the club.
Karen was wealthy enough to afford the six figures it cost to become a member, but her drug-dealing, violent-offender clients weren’t the types of people you wined and dined there.
It was a sunny day and close to lunchtime, so Karen led her investigator to a sprawling patio in the rear of the clubhouse, where she spotted Rosemarie Cogen eating a Caesar salad and sipping an iced tea under the shade of an umbrella.
“Mrs. Cogen, my name is Karen Wyatt. I’m an attorney, and this is my investigator, Morris Johnson. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d be grateful if you could spare some time to talk to me.”
Rosemarie studied Karen for a moment. Then her face lit up. “My, my, you’re a celebrity, Miss Wyatt. I watched your press conference after you were sprung from the pokey. You look like you’ve coped quite well.”
“It’s been a few years, and I’m doing just fine.”
“I bet the millions you got from those bastards who set you up must have helped.”
“To be honest, no amount of money could ever make up for what I went through. But my settlement does give me the freedom to choose the people I want to represent without having to worry about the fee—people like Jack Blackburn, who is accused of killing your husband.”
“I was not my husband’s biggest fan, and I bear no ill will to the person who got him out of my life. Sit down. Can I get you or Mr. Johnson something to eat or drink?”
“Thanks, but we’re good,” Karen said as she took a seat that faced the eighteenth hole of the golf course, where a woman in a foursome was chipping onto the green. “Have you thought about anyone who might have had a sufficient motive to kill Mr. Cogen?”
“Not anyone in particular. I’ve been told that Terrance scammed a lot of people.
An investigator said he looted the life savings of some of his victims. You might want to find the people he hurt.
And there’s Billy Kramer and Cynthia Woodruff—his chauffeur and maid.
They’ve gone missing. I don’t know why they would kill Terrance, but running away certainly makes them look guilty. ”
“Do you know if anything was stolen from the home?”
“You think robbery was the motive?”
“I’m just covering all the bases. My client swears that he’s innocent.”
“I haven’t been back to the place since Terrance was murdered, so I don’t know if anything is missing. Quite frankly, when he was alive, I didn’t visit if I could help it. When I did, I never paid much attention to the décor.”
Rosemarie shook her head. “Terrance had abominable taste. Any interior decorator who went into the living room would come out with PTSD. I do have jewelry in my bedroom. Some of it would bring a pretty penny, but, like I said, I haven’t been back to my place to see if it’s there.
“There are some valuable paintings. My grandfather was quite wealthy, and he hired a man named Hiram Ellington, who owned an art gallery, to purchase art for the mansion. There’s a Turner seascape that the Tate has asked about and an early Cézanne in the living room.
But Terrance and my father mucked up the room with African voodoo crap. ”
Rosemarie chuckled. “That statue that was used to brain Terrance was Rodin’s The Thinker. From what I’ve been told, it’s the real deal—a smaller version Rodin made as a model—but the killer probably figured it would be difficult to sell with blood and brains on it.”
“You don’t seem to be upset that Mr. Cogen was murdered.”
“Is it that obvious?” Rosemarie sighed. “I guess I should try to appear upset, but I just didn’t like Terrance.”
“Did your husband shoot the taxidermied animals?”
“Heavens, no!” Rosemarie laughed. “Terrance wouldn’t have had the guts to face down a lion. No, my father was the big-game hunter. He tried to get me interested in killing defenseless deer and rabbits, but I stopped hunting early on. It made me sick.”
“There was an odd piece of information in the autopsy report,” Karen said. “The medical examiner found traces of ice cream laced with a barbiturate in Mr. Cogen’s stomach. It looks like the killer dosed him, then killed him when he was unconscious. Did your husband drink milkshakes?”
“Terrance was a recovering alcoholic. He guzzled milkshakes all the time to counter the urge to drink booze. That’s why he got so fat.” Rosemarie shuddered. “I found it repulsive.”
“Who knew he drank milkshakes?” Karen asked.
“A lot of people. Billy Kramer and the chef used to make them, and Woodruff would know. So would anyone who socialized with Terrance.”
Karen asked a few more questions before finishing her conversation with Rosemarie.
She was walking across the patio toward the clubhouse when Oscar Vanderlasky walked out dressed in tennis whites and carrying a racket and a container of tennis balls.
Vanderlasky looked surprised and stopped in front of Karen.
“You’re not a member, are you?”
“No. I’ve been talking to Rosemarie Cogen.”
Vanderlasky laughed. “The grieving widow. Did you get anything out of her?”
Karen smiled. “You’ll find out when I send you discovery.”
“Mrs. Cogen’s testimony won’t help you, Wyatt. Nothing will. And now I have to go.” Vanderlasky puffed up his chest. “I’m in the semis of the club championship.”
“Good luck,” Karen said.
“I won’t need it,” Vanderlasky bragged as he strutted toward the tennis courts.
Morris shook his head. “What a tool.”
“I’d say he’s more of a blunt instrument,” Karen commented.