The Perfect Alibi (Robin Lockwood #2)(9)

“No. She said I followed her into Forest Park and pulled her into the woods.”

Forest Park was the largest urban forest in the United States and had many isolated areas.

“Were you in the park when she was?”

“Yeah, but I had three witnesses who told the police that I was with them all the time we were in the park. Plus, there was no forensic evidence like hair, DNA. I mean the whole accusation was complete bullshit.”

Armstrong made a note to find out more about the Angstrom girl’s complaint.

“We may have a serious problem that we need to discuss,” Doug said. “The DA told me that Miss Stark went to the hospital after the party and they did the tests they always do when a woman says she’s been raped. They found semen in Miss Stark’s vagina and tested it for DNA. I assume you know what that is if you’re premed.”

Hastings nodded.

“Okay. Well, the lab says the DNA is a match for your DNA.”

“What!”

“Do you have an explanation for that?”

“No, I … It’s impossible.”

“It’s definitely a problem if you insist that you never penetrated Miss Stark and never ejaculated inside her.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Hastings was lost in thought for a moment, and Armstrong gave him time to think. “I do have a possible explanation for the sperm. Randi had a reputation in high school, if you know what I mean.”

Armstrong nodded.

“She could have had sex with someone else that evening. She was pretty drunk.”

“That wouldn’t explain the match.”

Hastings looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know what to say. That can’t be mine.”

“Okay. Let’s leave this for the time being,” Doug said. “I’ll hire an expert on DNA, and we’ll see if we can get to the bottom of this. So, do you have any questions?”

“Not right now.”

Doug stood. “I’m going to check on how much progress we’ve made with the bail as soon as I get back to my office. Meanwhile, do not—under any circumstances—discuss your case with anyone, no matter how sympathetic they may seem. I am the only person—and that includes your parents—that you can talk to. A fellow prisoner will run to the DA with anything you tell them. Remember, I am your only friend until the jury says not guilty.”





CHAPTER THREE


If ever a man looked like a criminal, that man was Everett Henderson. His massive head was shaved, his bulging biceps and thick neck were evidence of hours spent pumping iron in a prison yard, a knife scar crawled down his pockmarked cheek, teardrop tattoos under his right eye announced to the world that he was an ex-con and more tattoos attested to his membership in a racist prison gang.

As soon as she’d been court-appointed to represent Henderson, Robin looked up her new client’s rap sheet. It read like a list of all the possible ways one man could violate the criminal statutes of the State of Oregon.

“Mr. Henderson, the Court has asked me to represent you,” Robin said when her client was seated across from her in the contact visiting room at the jail.

Henderson studied Robin and he didn’t look pleased. “You’re awfully young to handle a case like mine.”

“I am young, but I’m very good. Have you heard of Regina Barrister?” Robin asked.

“Sure, who hasn’t?”

“I’m Regina’s partner, and this is not the first death penalty case I’ve defended.”

Henderson relaxed a little, but Robin could see that he was still skeptical.

“Look, Mr. Henderson, I can see why you might not trust me. You didn’t choose me to be your lawyer and you don’t know a thing about me. So, let me give you a little background: I graduated from Yale Law School, which is one of America’s best, and I clerked for the chief justice of the Oregon Supreme Court before Regina hired me.”

Robin was about to continue, when Henderson suddenly leaned forward and stared at her.

“Are you Rockin’ Robin Lockwood?”

Robin smiled. “I am.”

Henderson broke into a grin. “I seen you fight. You were pretty good.”

“I was okay.”

Henderson nodded. “That Kerrigan broad did put a hurt on you.”

Robin nodded in agreement. “That she did, which is why I decided it was safer to duke it out with DAs and judges.”

Henderson laughed.

“So, Everett … Can I call you Everett?”

“Sure thing.”

“I read the police reports before I came over. The DA is saying you killed Greg Schaefer, an off-duty cop, in a bar fight.”

Henderson stopped smiling. “I did kill that motherfucker, but he started it.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“My lady and I was in the Shamrock and we were dancing. The asshole I killed was in civilian clothes, and there’s no way I could tell he was a cop. He’d been drinking with his buddies, and he’d had way more than one too many—or he would have known better than to come on to Felicia.”

“Felicia is your girlfriend?”

Henderson nodded. “And she’ll tell you she told him real polite that she did not want to dance with him. She’ll also tell you that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. That’s when I suggested that he fuck off or get hurt. Which is when he took a swing at me.”