COUNTERPART PATTERNS

by Karin Lynn Swanson

(C) Copyright 1995 by Karin Lynn Swanson
First Edition Published by Cedar Bay Press L.L.C. ISBN: 1-57555-045-8                    SAN: 298-6361

This is a work of fiction.  The events described here are imaginary:  the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific incidents or persons, living or deceased.

This is a reproduction of an unedited manuscript. The work herein reflects that of the author and not the Publisher.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My warmest and deepest gratitude goes to the below named individuals for their assistance on this novel:
Cynthia Camp, Attorney at Law, and associates, Public Defenders Office, Denver; Aristedes W. Zavaras, Executive Director, Colorado Department of Corrections and former Police Chief of Denver; Robert Cantwell, Inspector General, Colorado Department of Corrections and former Acting Police Chief of Denver; J. Adolph Martinez, Housing Major, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; R. Mark McGoff, Superintendent, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; David Smith, CID Investigator, Colorado Department of Corrections; Fred Oliva, Chief, Denver County Jail; Jerry Sylvia, Assistant Superintendent, Canon Minimum Centers; Hank Booth, Security Major, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Ernest Swazo, Physical Plant Manager, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; George Voigt, weapons qualification and Physical Plant Lieutenant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Thomas Bowman, Physical Plant Captain, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; John Gleason, Assistant Disciplinary Counsel, Colorado Supreme Court; Richard Shook, Sergeant, Denver Police Assault Unit; Anthony Iacovetta, Sergeant, Denver Police Metro Unit; Kevin Taylor, Deputy District Attorney, Second Judicial District, Denver; John J. Sullivan, Case Manager, Canon Minimum Centers;  William Bokros, Superintendent, Pueblo Minimum Center, and former Assistant Superintendent, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Karland H. Smalley, Intensive Supervision Parole Officer, Colorado Northeast Parole Operations, and former Locksmith, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Darryl Nelson, Security Sergeant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center and SORT member; Mark Gardunio, Lieutenant, Colorado Correctional Center; York Swanson, Radio and Electronics technician; Eric Swanson, Denver street-geographer and DOD Computer Programmer; Victor Chavez, Security Captain and Emergency Response Team member, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Lance Newcomer, Physical Plant Sergeant, Denver Reception & Diagnostic Center; Phillip Poindexter, Housing Sergeant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; C. Todd Phillips, Captain Diagnostic Assessment, Intake Unit and Case Management supervisor, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Ross Koukol, Sergeant Intake Unit, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Kim Wilken, Administrative Assistant Intake Unit, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Rodney Ruben, Housing Lieutenant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Rose M. Young, Victims Notification Coordinator, Colorado Department of Corrections, and former clerical, Northeast Parole Operations; Dean Condor, Legal Assistant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Gary and Deanna Cupp, former co-owners Thrillseekers climbing gym and gun enthusiasts; LaCole Archuletta, Parole Officer, Community Corrections, and former Parole Officer, Denver Parole Operations; William Moorman, Security Captain, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Robert Taylor, Security Captain, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Robert Trujillo, retired Director, Community Corrections, Colorado Department of Corrections; Chad Barker, former Personnel Assistant, Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center; Linda Rodriguez, Auraria Campus Tivoli Center;  Kim Corbett, consultant;  ...  Special thanks to the efforts of the National Institute of Corrections and the Colorado departments of State Archives, Auraria Campus Library, and Department of Revenue; as well as William C. Fitzgerald, Acting Parole Manager, Northeast Parole Operations; Lois Perry, Network Analyst Intern, Division of Adult Parole Supervision; and Thomas Maddock, Manager, Denver Parole Operations, for their time.








































PROLOGUE





The dog sniffed on and around the cement path she followed. The flashlight beam swung from side to side in the dark night, and it shook ever so slightly.

"Please ... oh, please."  The pleas came out partly as quiet sobs.

The dog stopped every now and then to get a better sniff of something that interested him.  After the older woman took a closer look at what the dog discovered, she would insistently pull him back on to the path.  The trees left eery shadows on the path, and she could see the larger, darker shadow of the lakes not far from the paths.  City Park was very quiet and very dark. The wind blew cold and harsh in the January night air. Typical of Colorado, there was not much snow left after the latest snow storm.  The intense sun of the region came out during the previous day and dried up the traces.  She shivered and pulled her heavy wool coat tighter around her smallish, frail body. She looked toward the other side of the park for her husband and felt some comfort when she thought she could see his flashlight beam. They were both too afraid to call out her name.

"Please, God, oh, please, let her be safe ... I beg of you." The woman bit her lower lip and tried hard to keep looking for anything.  The tears in her eyes blocked her vision, and she had to stop to wipe her mittened hand across her face.

She called the Denver Police sometime that evening, but the missing persons procedures were to wait 24 hours.  She felt certain worse things could happen in that amount of time. Bridgette always went home this way.  Bridgette loved the park and the atmosphere of nature that it gave her.  She would breathe the fresh air of the area and always enter the door of their home smiling and refreshed after a sometimes difficult day at school. Just barely nineteen years old, she was a freshman at Metro State College.  The older woman sobbed thinking about her child's fresh, young outlook on life.  She waited so long to have children, only to find that she could not at first.  Then, almost too late, her little blessing came into the world.  She could not let any amount of time pass before taking matters to hand and finding her daughter or at least some trace of what may have happened to her.

She let the leash out a little further on the German Shepherd and let him wander further from the cement path. The woman preferred to stay where some dim light from the street lamps shown on the path.  The dog roamed further on the brown, frozen grass, stopping to investigate every now and then. With her heart and hopes jumping at each stop of the dog, the woman swung the flashlight beam in his direction.  Both their breaths rose as white clouds to be carried away on the wind, the only movement in the night, aside from the wind's cold kiss on the bare trees and frozen ground.  They were coming closer to the lake with a building constructed on its shore and a porch overhanging the water.  They passed the Museum of Natural History earlier.

As she looked out over the water at the dark shape of the building, she felt the dog tug heavily at the leash.  She swung the flashlight beam around to that side where the dog was near a tree and thought she saw something.  She carefully stepped off the path onto the cold ground.  She knew the snow melted away the day before, and this day had been another bright blue sunny day, which left little ridges in the ground from mud that had frozen. She bent down with her flashlight beam and looked at the ground. She saw the foot prints and the way they seemed to intermix. A little closer to the tree, the dog was whining at something he found.  The older woman crept closer to the tree, fearing what she might see.

She had to push at the dog to get him away and get the flashlight beam centered on the tree's roots poking out of the ground ever so slightly.  She saw the coagulated, brownish- colored pools of liquid and splashes here and there around the tree roots and on its bole.  Her hand flew up to her mouth, and she was sure she would vomit.  She spotted a few threads of color tangled in the tree roots.  She stooped closer to notice the type of threads.  Her whole body started to shake and tremble, and her knees gave way.  She knelt by the dark tree in City Park and recognized the threads from her daughter's sweater she had knitted her just in time for Christmas, and a slow wail escaped her hand still clamped on her mouth.















CHAPTER ONE





Spence stepped gingerly down the snowy steps of the Science Building on Auraria campus while he clamped his biology book closer to his chest.  The early December snow fell lightly, but it iced up as soon as it hit the ground and made the steps treacherous.  He had dropped out of school shortly after Bridgette disappeared, and he further retreated from the world after her body was found on the farm in Bennett last April. He was still in shock.  He so desperately wanted to go the way of Bridgette's mother, who faded away after the body was found. She had read in the papers of the desecration of her only child's body ... and the pain that Bridgette had suffered before dying nearly overwhelmed Spencer.  The police determined and confirmed through the coroner's office that she was raped and stabbed to death.  Mrs. Salance had not lasted six weeks after Bridgette's body was found.

Spence sighed and shuddered deeply as he bent his head against the wind and walked across the campus a long ways toward Curtis Street, intending to go to his car parked in Parking Lot H.  Spence had lost weight, having lost interest in simple things like food.  He was once a robust former high school football player who met Bridgette here at Metropolitan State College, and he still loved her so very deeply.  He kept his head bent and tried to remind himself what the therapist said about his not feeling responsible.  Spence had told Bridgette often when they were together how he felt, and he had intended to marry her when they both graduated.  Now he wished he had not been so stubborn as to think that they should wait until they could both support themselves.  Life passed him by when he should have grasped it for all it was worth when he had it in his hands.  He ached with how much he wished he had her by his side as his wife at least for a little while.  Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and mixed with the snow that blew into his face.

He came under the overhang joining the Art Building and the West Classroom Building and looked over at a young couple talking quietly together.  The young man had his arm around her, and they laughed together.  Spence hung his head and walked a little faster.  As he was about to pass back out into the storm, the figure of a medium height man with blonde crew cut hair and smallish blue eyes passed by, following a young female co- ed. Spencer froze in his tracks.  He pivoted to watch them as they passed by.  The man was trying to talk to the girl and appear cute in his conversation.  She clutched her books close, in the arms of her coat, to her chest and tried to ignore him.

"Oh, my God."  The words were barely audible from Spencer's lips.

There was no mistaking him.  Rage burned in Spencer's heart as his blood ran cold, freezing him to the spot.  He watched the retreating figures in the cold, afternoon daylight then shook himself before it was too late.  He passed by a garbage container and, grabbing the loose papers from the inside of his biology book, he absent-mindedly tossed the book into the trash.  He quickly walked after the retreating pair as he tried to appear as though he were looking through his notes and walking quickly to class.

The girl walked around the library and all the way to the North Building, passing quickly over the red bricks that led across the small, courtyard-appearing area that led to the North Building.  She passed inside and in doing so lost her annoying tail.  The man hung outside the North Building while Spencer passed through the courtyard, looking as though he were going to head into the back entrance to the Science Building.  He paused just outside the automatic door to read an important entry of his notes.  He did not look any different than any of the other students who were cramming for their finals.

The man hung around looking at the glass doors the girl passed through.  Spencer felt that this performance was no doubt to make the girl feel he was deeply interested in her and would wait on her every whim.  He annoyed Bridgette the same way. There was no doubt.  It was him.  Spencer's breath quickened, and he hoped that it did not dramatically increase the little, white cloud that poured from his mouth.  He dropped a sheaf of paper then picked it up again, never letting his eyes leave that blonde crew cut in the green army jacket across the way.  Spence wondered if annoying his victims was a game for him, sort of like flushing out the prey to hunt it down again later.  He shivered again.  He knew this man was dangerous, and Spencer felt weak at the knees but not from the fear of following this man.  He felt an overwhelming fear that he would fail Bridgette by losing him. He owed it to her.  He owed to Mrs. Salance, who went to her grave mourning her dead little girl.  By God, he owed to himself. He would help bring that bastard down.  For Bridgette.  For Bridgette.  He gritted his teeth, and their chattering increased.

His heart leapt in his chest as the man was on the move again.  The man retraced his steps, and Spencer followed at the distance of a quarter of a football field.  Auraria Campus was a large campus that held three colleges, Metro State, University of Colorado at Denver, and Community College of Denver.  He knew it well and felt that he could afford to give this man all the room he needed to operate.  Spence was aware that this was not a football game.  He was not going to tackle this man and "win one for the Gipper."  He wanted to know where this guy was going.  He worried with every step that he did not have the knowledge of how to follow this man who followed others so well.  It seemed to get easier as time ticked slowly and painfully by.  He followed him back under the overhang and beyond into the parking lot areas. When the man turned off into Lot L, Spencer paused again to look through his notes, which were becoming damp from the storm, and waited to see which vehicle he would get into.  Three rows down, the man climbed into a green jeep with a black vinyl roof.

As the man started his jeep, Spence sprinted the smaller section of Parking Lot H into the further most section of the Lot to his own white Chevy pickup.  He started the engine up and waited until he could see the jeep pull out onto Curtis into more intense traffic.  Risking AHEC's police force spotting and stopping him, Spencer chanced that the storm was dense enough to cover his hopping the curb and by-passing the line of cars waiting to pay then exit onto Curtis.  He pulled out onto Curtis and turned right onto Colfax, following the jeep.  It was in the right hand lane, apparently headed for Interstate 25.  Sweat broke out on Spencer's forehead as he prayed he would not lose him on the interstate.

He wondered why the guy was headed north when Bridgette had lived east of the campus.  This guy obviously did not pick his victims by their location.  Spence thought back on how pretty she had been with her long, shining brown hair and dark, brown eyes. She was always fair skinned, never seeming to tan, and she used to marvel at how easily Spencer's young, muscular body tanned, even though he had the same coloring.  They looked so good together, laughing at everything together, and spending as much time as they could together.  They looked almost like brother and sister, but it was easy to tell how in love they were.  They were enthralled with the little touches that once passed between them. Spencer banged his hand against the steering wheel as he thought of how they had to take separate busses to get home back then. Bridgette had lived in northeast Denver, and he lived in the southern suburbs of Littleton.  His parents bought him the stripped-down, white, fleet vehicle, Chevy pickup to try to bring him out of his depression six months after Bridgette's body was unearthed.

Just as quickly as the jeep entered the interstate, it pulled off at Speer Boulevard.  Spencer cursed.  He was circling back around to the campus.  Spence wondered if he spotted him and slowed down to increase the distance between them before he pulled off of the interstate.  Spencer watched the jeep head back down Speer to Colfax again.  The bare trees lining Speer seemed to reach out to Spencer like dead hands in the waning winter daylight.  He gripped the steering wheel tighter and concentrated on his driving.  He spotted the jeep at the light at Speer and Colfax in the left hand turn lane.  Spencer, too, pulled into that lane.  Now their vehicles were only a couple of cars apart, and the sweat glistened on Spence's forehead.  No, the guy had not seemed to spot him.  He was just being careful.  Spence tried to tell himself to relax but realized it probably would not make a difference.  In the storm Spencer felt certain the guy could not see his face.  The guy was heading in the right direction now.  The sweat increased on Spence's brow.  My God, if the guy was a neighbor or something who had his eye on Bridgette... His desire to know about this guy was intense.  He wanted to know why.  Why Bridgette?  There had to be some reason.  Or was the world nothing but madness?  Spence could not allow himself to think, just to follow.

He put his mind in autopilot and allowed the truck to increase the distance between them on Colfax, heading east. The road was flat and only had a few turns through downtown Denver around the Civic Center, so he felt he could increase their distance safely.  Spence thanked his parents silently for getting him such a nondescript vehicle.  Many people drove small trucks in Denver, and the color of his would certainly not draw any attention to it, especially in a snow storm.  As the daylight dimmed further, Spencer turned on his headlights.  The jeep ahead eventually did the same.  The guy in the jeep changed lanes a couple of times, and Spencer feared that the guy would pull off of Colfax at some point soon.  That was all the guy appeared he was going to do, however.  When Spence passed Colorado Boulevard, a cold sense of the unknown swept over him.  He knew that the answer was not so simple as the guy lived near Bridgette and selected her from some previous experience.  This guy kept heading east.

Spencer shook uncontrollably behind the wheel of his truck. He was not sure why, but he wanted an answer.  He wanted something succinct to fall into place and made some sense of how and why his life was ripped away from him, leaving a gaping hole that never seemed to stop bleeding.  His emotions were raw, and he felt violated.  This guy had no right.  He had no right to do what he did.

"How dare that bastard.  I'll get him, God dammit!  I will get that bastard if it takes my last breath."

Sweat poured down Spence's face and under his arms despite the cold outside.  He continued following the man east past Monaco, then Quebec.  The guy did not seem to be in a particular hurry, but Spencer pulled the four-on-the-fly lever under his dashboard and gained better control of his vehicle as the streets started to slush up.  The traffic was very much stop-and-go at the various intersections and yet keeping up with the jeep was not that difficult.  It was like the guy never thought anyone would follow him.  Spencer wondered if it was sheer ego or something more sinister.  Spence prayed that he was not heading into a trap but not for his own sake.  His concern was that this was probably the only opportunity he would have to stop this maniac.  If he were killed, nothing would stop the guy.  The police may or may not catch up with him.  Spencer believed that criminals often had to leave the same patterns for the police to put together an MO to even catch up with them.  If this guy killed again, he may be smart enough to hide the body elsewhere, breaking the pattern.

They passed Peoria and Fitzsimmons Army Medical Center when the guy pulled over a lane.  Spencer was not that familiar with this part of town, but if he remembered correctly, highway I- 225 was up ahead.  He hoped the guy would not pull off onto the highway because Spence was not at all certain that he would not be spotted, if he was not already.  They continued east, and the jeep pulled off onto the highway, heading north.

"Damn it."

Spencer wiped his forehead on the back of a jacket cuff and leaned forward on the bench, looking through the falling snow for an opening to work his way through the traffic to the turn off without attracting attention.  He slowed down until the jeep was pulling off onto the highway then aimed for a well kept car with a woman behind the wheel and started to pull his truck into her car until she braked, letting him into he lane.  Drivers in Colorado were never courteous enough to heed a turn signal, and this was a technique Spence picked up shortly after his parents purchased the truck.  Sweat poured down his back now as he searched the highway for a sign of the jeep.  Spotting it was difficult, but Spencer thanked God that he did.  It was just passing out of the range of his vision.  Spence kept pace with it, watching the rush hour traffic around him for openings and creating them where he needed them.  He did not drive wildly so as not to cause anyone to blow their horn or cause cars to swerve on the highway for fear of attracting the driver of the jeep's attention.

The silent chase continued to the long, sloping turnoff from highway I-225 to I-70 west.  Spencer had no idea where the man was heading but hoped the tension of following him would end soon.  It seemed to him that the man was driving in circles. Spence asked himself repeatedly if he screwed up and the driver of the jeep knew that he was being followed.  His hands began to quake on the steering wheel as his imagination took off, conjuring up that the driver knew who he was and why he was following him.  Spence was afraid he would not see the end to this journey and that he would not be able to lay to rest the horrible deeds this man perpetrated.  He was somewhat mollified that the driver had not turned east on I-70, leading Spencer to some little turn off in the middle of nowhere.  Spence feared for a moment the man might look for a good spot to dispatch Spence and bury him there as the man had Bridgette.  Spencer thought about his own parents and wondered how his mom would deal with his death, and the discovery of his body buried in a shallow grave on a farm just east of where he was now.  He wondered if she would fade away before everyone's eyes and die as Mrs. Salance did after they found Bridgette.  It was too much for him to think about.  He renewed his vow to keep up with this guy and help put him away so that no other innocent people were hurt. Spence wondered if the man had the same plans for the young woman Spence saw him following earlier that evening.  He tapped the accelerator a little harder.

The green jeep changed lanes in the silent, snowy night. Traffic was beginning to thin out, and Spencer carefully changed lanes too, preparing for the guy to pull off.  They came to the Peoria exit, and Spence followed the jeep onto the off ramp at a discreet distance.  If the guy knew he was following him or not, Spence sensed that this was the time to strike.  Something bad was going to happen soon, and he did not think he could live with himself if another young, college student disappeared. Spencer almost felt as though Bridgette were looking down at him and smiling.  He knew he was doing the right thing.  He slowed down at the light to determine which way the jeep turned. Looking anxiously north and south as he neared the light, Spencer finally turned north, feeling certain he recognized the shape of the taillights ahead.

They had not traveled very far when the jeep turned off at a Village Inn restaurant.  Oh, God, Spence thought, he's stopping for a hamburger.  He wipe the sweat from his forehead again. Spencer carefully worked his way over to the restaurant when he noticed the taillights pulling out of the parking lot on Albrook Drive.  The road seemed deserted and wound around empty fields just in back of a Drury Inn hotel for quite a distance. Spence dared not follow him on this stretch.  The jeep was the only car in sight.  He parked his truck and watched the headlights and taillights in the distance, as he turned off his own headlights. He barely breathed as he waited to see which direction the jeep turned as it headed out of sight.  He watched the jeep twist out of sight, then turned on his headlights and sped quickly over the distance to the spot where he last saw the taillights.  He was panting now, certain he messed up and lost the jeep.

The twisting and turning in the back roads of the Montbello neighborhood nearly confused Spence, but he managed to locate the jeep again.  The man was in no apparent hurry and was winding in and out of the light traffic.  Spence swallowed a deep breath and gratefully tagged behind the jeep by at least a block.  He waited until the jeep turned a corner before turning the corner. He was always one corner behind.  He turned one corner and slammed his foot on the brake, sliding around in the snow slightly.  The jeep had come to a halt, having parked to the side of a newly built, ranch styled, Montbello residence.  Spencer quickly killed his lights as watched the man climb out of the jeep and enter the side of the home without knocking.  This was it.  It had to be. This was where the guy lived.  Spence could not believe he had successfully followed the guy home.  His whole body shook as he drove slowly by the home without turning his headlights back on. The address was on the house next to the door, and Spencer had to turn around to make another pass to read it clearly ... 4000.  He drove to the end of the block and read Deephaven Court on the street sign.  Spence's breath came in ragged gasps as he flicked back on his headlights and headed for a Seven Eleven he remembered seeing off of Albrook before entering the neighborhood.

When he reached it, he made a desperate phone call from the pay phone just outside the well-lit store.  He had to convince the police.  He had to.  Everything depended on this phone call. He was put through a few connections at the Denver Police Department and had to explain what he wanted to several layers of officers before finally speaking to the detective assigned to the case.  The guy was still there at the station, but he was obviously not happy to be there.  Detective Martinez listened to the story and had him repeat it several times.  Time seemed to drag to Spence as a decision of how to proceed was discussed with the detective's partner and then his supervisor.  Spence thought he would explode from all the talk, but he did it.  He did it. Stage one was complete.  They had found their suspect in the rape, kidnap and murder of Bridgette Lee Salance.























CHAPTER TWO





Detective Montoya sat out in the snowy evening in his dark- colored, unmarked police car.  He had been assigned the Salance case one year and eight months ago.  They were certain after some time that they would not get enough to put the case together and make an arrest.  This was the first break in a great deal of time.  The case had been shuffled to low priority after the first six months with no leads.  He was surprised, but grateful, to receive a call from the former boyfriend identifying the man who was reported as harassing Bridgette Salance while she attended school at Metro State College.  He was equally surprised to find that the boy followed him to a place of residence.  The affidavit was to be in part completed by the boyfriend, Spencer Claude, and in part to be completed by Montoya's partner, Detective Mark Martinez.  They got a name by running the license plates to the jeep identified by Spencer Claude as being driven by the suspect.

Montoya shifted his bulk in the front seat of the vehicle, trying to get comfortable after a couple of hours of watching the house.  The basement lights were on, but apparently whoever also lived in the house retired earlier because the lights upstairs turned out around 22:00 hours without affecting the basement lights at all.  Montoya thought he could see someone moving around downstairs in the two small square windows at the front of the house at the ground level.  It was a small cream- colored, ranch style house with the garage attached and a patch of dirt to the side of it where the jeep was parked.  The house looked the type to belong to an older couple.  The neighborhood had a few other ranch style houses with quite a few two story houses in similar dull, nondescript colors.  Surrounding the newly erected neighborhood were brown, snow laden fields lit by spotty street lights.  Montoya wanted to call asking if they ordered a pizza at the Lidsky residence to verify things as soon as they had the immediate entry warrant in their hands, and they had the S.W.A.T. team ready to go in.  But right now, from this range, he could not be certain they had the right residence.  He knew the perp was there, though, and that was all they needed for the warrant.

He kept a watch out on the vehicle as well as the house for the guy who fit the description given them by Spencer Claude.  So far no one entered or exited the home.  He waited impatiently to find out if their immediate entry warrant was approved by the judge.  They could be so temperamental as to the reliability of the information sources and the exactness of what they were looking for.  It was additionally difficult to prove the necessity of a no knock-and-notice immediate entry warrant. The crime in the Salance case was violent enough to qualify, Montoya thought, but he knew he was second guessing.  The judiciary would be more concerned about protecting the public's Fourth Amendment rights regarding search and seizure and avoiding setting precedence than getting this maniac who slaughtered an innocent college girl.  Montoya had no sympathy for the perp or anyone else in the house.  He hoped to get them on accessory charges. Detective Montoya was often frustrated by the affidavit process and appreciated it immensely when his partner volunteered to write the affidavit.  Martinez was much better at it, anyway.

He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel repeatedly and watched the falling snow collect on the streets and blanketing the brown, grassy areas.  He wondered what problems the snow would cause the Metro Unit who would do the entry into the house and secure it before the detectives entered the premises.  He, for one, was grateful for the special entry team procedures because he had no wish to play GI Joe.  All he wanted to do was collect the evidence it would take to put this guy away for a lot of years, maybe even life or the death penalty if they were lucky.  Processing the scene and the evidence in a manner that adhered to the Colorado Rules of Evidence was a tricky matter sometimes.  It required thoroughly gathering the details, not passing around the evidence, as well as making certain any evidence for lab tests was properly preserved.  Montoya liked tracking down the details and getting them set up for court. He was good at finding things in a residence that others often missed, spotting details that might normally be overlooked. He took full advantage of the protection the warrant afforded him and tore into a residence.  He had to remind himself repeatedly to slow down and maintain any evidence that led to a particular spot at the residence.  He was once doing a residence on the south side where an officer accused him of being a bull in china shop, but that was not even close to the truth.  He was thorough, that was all.  He fought sleep off for the next couple hours studying the layout of the house and deciding how he was going to take the place apart.

Detective Rich Montoya watched the house through his windshield and noticed the light go out in the basement.  He noted the time as 24:45.  No other movement appeared from the residence.  Montoya continued to watch the house.  He had a back up plan if the suspect decided to leave the house, but it was weak, pulling him over for a traffic violation.  If they went that avenue, then securing the search warrant for the residence would have to start over again, and securing an immediate entry warrant would be next to impossible.  No judge would see probable cause in entering a home without announcing themselves, and presenting the warrant, to arrest a dangerous felon who was already in custody on a different offense.  If this guy did have evidence in the residence, any accomplices could dispose of it as they stood on the porch, stating who they were and basically standing there holding their dicks.  The best way to secure the evidence was an immediate entry warrant, and Montoya wanted that warrant in the worse way.  This guy was guilty; he felt it in his gut.

Who knew what he could have been doing in all this time? Montoya did check for other missing persons reports following similar parameters much earlier on with no success.  But this guy eluded them all along by keeping a low profile.  It was sheer coincidence that Spencer Claude happened across him on the Auraria Campus.  There were other campuses in the state and the area.  The guy could have switched over to the University of Denver, for all they knew.  It was their only break in the case. This guy was careful.  Even Montoya's snitches around town heard nothing.  Usually perpetrators tipped the authorities off about their whereabouts by bragging about the offense, and the usual places were in bars and clubs.

If this guy was the right perp, Montoya knew he did not fit the usual patterns of the casual, career criminal.  In some cases, he knew these types were more dangerous and were often more difficult to catch.  They did not know their victims, so the usual checks of friends and co-workers revealed nothing. That fit in this case.  This guy reportedly tailed the victim around for awhile then cooled it for a period before she disappeared, but no one else had any problems with him, knew him, or could tell them anything.  All it took was a low profile, and keeping his mouth completely shut, and he was impossible to locate. They could not very well have checked every blue eyed, blond male fitting the physical description given the AHEC authorities in the entire country.  They could not even follow up on that description with every male in Denver.  All they could do was follow up with previously known sex offenders in the area who fit the description, and keep an open investigation into other possible suspects.  It was a very frustrating six months initially, and Montoya wanted to deliver this baby by this late date in the worse way.

He looked at his watch for the hundredth time.  He decided to look around the neighborhood a little while he waited, so he pulled the door handle to his car door.  Shifting his weight, he stepped out into the snowy street and closed the door.  He kept quiet, but he knew the car light lit up when he opened the door. He hoped no one in the neighborhood was still awake to see the light, but he was fidgety and could not wait any longer to find out what the guy was doing or if he was still in the residence and had not slipped out the back.  If he left the residence, they were wasting their time.

He walked carefully along his side of the quiet, sparsely lit Montbello street, avoiding leaving too many tracks in the snow.  He kept glancing up from where he was walking to look at the cream-colored, one story residence across the street. He wanted to light a cigarette but did not dare at that point. He waited for the light in the basement to come back on and a face to appear in one of the windows.  Montoya's breath came out in slow, ragged gasps that filled the air with vapor.  He wanted the guy to be there.  He prayed the guy was there.  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped off the curb and into the street.  A car with its headlights off pulled quickly up in front of him and stopped.  Montoya nearly fell backwards, taking his hands out of his pockets to grab at the gun holstered at his right hip, with his breath heaving in frustration, surprise, and anger.

The lean, well kept form of Detective Martinez leaned out the window to hoarsely whisper to Montoya to get back into his car.  Montoya dropped against the side of his car and quietly cursed Martinez as an ass.  His hands shook slightly as he asked if they got the warrant.

"Yeah,"  Martinez whispered back.  "I got it.  Dropped the kid back off at the 7-11 on the way.  The Metro Unit S.W.A.T's been notified, and they'll be here shortly.  Get back in your car, and let them work, okay, man.  I'll join you in a minute."

Montoya nodded and shuffled back threw the small snow drifts to the driver's side of the four door sedan.  He sat, resisting lighting up a cigarette, when Martinez opened the door across from him and pulled himself down in the seat, closing the car door behind him.

"They parked around the corner ... See?"  Martinez pointed to a dark van that pulled quietly up to a curb just around the corner with its back doors opening silently, disgorging a number of dark figures clothed in black hoods and black uniforms. Each carried the issued H&K MP-5 and looked a little like creatures from outer space in the black BDUs with clear goggles over their eyes.  They seemed to locate the sedan quickly without a problem, and one of the group detached from the others to speed quickly to them while looking all around at his surroundings.

"The light-colored ranch is the target?"  The S.W.A.T. team sergeant asked when he approached the window Montoya opened to speak to him.

"Yeah.  That's it."

"How many occupants?  What is the risk level?"  The man kept crouched low to the ground beside the driver's door, looking over the residence carefully.

"Two upstairs, that I know of, and one, possibly more, in the basement.  The suspect is violent and most probably armed. No movement in the neighborhood for several hours.  Pretty much what you see is what you get on the outside.  Haven't been able to see much of the inside."  This part of the operation always made Montoya sweat.  In part, it gave him an upset stomach watching these guys operate on the edge.  The S.W.A.T. team sergeant nodded his cloaked head once and weaved his way quickly back to his men.

The sergeant deployed his men in pairs to case the surroundings, filling them in on the info received from the detective.  They were to look at the geography, count the number of entrances/exits, and look at the kind of doors they were going to have to break through.  He wanted a thorough investigation of the surroundings, including whatever hints they may pick up about the occupants.  One of the officers found a side door to the garage open next to the dirt parking area by the jeep.  They silently but quickly entered the garage and covered the inside, looking for indications of the risk levels inside the residence. The pair that entered the garage found an older model Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme and the usual gardening supplies and tools in the garage.  Nothing of particular significance.  The black BDUs moved swiftly and noiselessly over the property repeatedly.

The jeep beside the garage had a bumper sticker about the marines and looked like a military type vehicle, which the sergeant found significant.  Mentally, he upgraded the possible danger.  He was not certain if the owner of the jeep was current marine, former marine, or para-military type, but to him it suggested a familiarity with weapons and combat maneuvers. They took their time scouting through the windows and quietly assessing the back fields as a possible escape route for the suspect.  The basement windows did not open, and the sergeant smiled slightly underneath his black hood at that.  It suggested that the resident in the basement would be trapped once they entered.  He would more likely fight than flee, and they had to be prepared.

Each black clothed figure returned to the sergeant to report his findings before returning to scouting.  They used mostly hand signals to communicate back and forth.  The sergeant looked up and down the quiet street one more time, then formed an open bottom rectangle in the air to indicate a door toward his team members then pointed as though going around a house.  He held up two fingers to indicate the number of men to be stationed, and he pointed at the team members he wanted.  They held up their right fists, bent at the elbows, to indicate they understood then disappeared around the back of the house to cover the back door. The sergeant then walked a little out into the street and motioned a "come here" motion with his right arm.  Another silent, black clothed figure appeared from the van, carrying a large, long, dark object.  The sergeant motioned a door once more, pointing to the front door, then held out a clenched fist straight in front of his body, indicating his order to use the battering ram on the front door.  He turned, as the officer carried the battering device at a run to the front door, and motioned a move, move, move command to the other waiting team members.  They each converged at a run on the door, MP-5s at the ready, as the door was struck once then twice with the battering device.  It fell inward and the team members poured into the residence.

This stage was a vision of disorganized organization to the detectives waiting passively in their dark sedan across the street.  The S.W.A.T. team began running the walls.  They hurdled their bodies into the residence with their backs slightly to the wall on each side of the entry way, running along the walls until they reached the bedroom on the first floor.  They startled the two occupants in the conventional double bed, as most of the team members continued down to the basement area, pouring down the stairs.  The two in the bedroom were covered by two team members, who grabbed at the occupants' wrists flung up to cover their faces defensively.  They were swiveled around roughly and cuffed with flexible cuffs with their hands behind their backs. They remained there with the officers' weapons on them.  The house was filled with the high pitched screams of the frightened woman and the cussing confusion of the man.

The screams hit the house as the remaining team members with their sergeant swam into the basement.  A lone figure leaped from a bed in the dark for a nearby nightstand.  The team members converged on him, one punching out at the side of the figure's neck, while the figure convulsively recoiled to grab at his neck, and the team members each seized a limb.  The figure flew through the air as the team members twisted the limbs until they had him on his stomach back on the bed.  The man they had pinned was strong and put up a struggle, getting one of his hands out of a grasp.  He grappled at the black nylon webbing at an officer's waist, hoping to grasp a weapon strapped there.  The sergeant relinquished his hold on the man's torso to grab the thumb of the free hand and twisted until he had the wrist bent back on itself. The suspect yelled out in pain, as his hand was quickly thrust into a flexcuff, and his other hand, already firmly held, was thrust into the other end of the cuffs.  A similar set of flexcuffs were placed on the man's ankles.  The breathing in the room was intense but slowed down a bit as they temporarily released their hold on the man.  As quickly, three officers grabbed the man's confined arms and legs and hoisted him up the basement stairs.  They deposited him on the floor, face down, as the two from the bedroom were similarly brought, onto the floor of the front room.  The woman's sobs subsided a bit but were no less frightened.  The older man grew quiet.  The sergeant verified with his team that no other occupants were in the residence.

The entire operation took seconds to complete.  Holding his H&K MP-5 on his hip, the sergeant unveiled his face and quickly made his way out to the detectives in their vehicle.

"The residence is secured.  Our end of the warrant has been executed.  Soon as you get back-up here to help you with the three suspects now in custody, we'll depart the scene."

"Right."  Montoya cleared his throat and thanked the sergeant before hauling his bulk out of the front seat. Martinez radioed for additional street officers to the scene while Montoya walked with the sergeant to the house, hitching at his pants as he went.  Martinez smiled as he replaced the radio's mike and slid out of the vehicle.  The whole gung-ho scene made Montoya uncomfortable, but, shit, they knew how to do their job. Martinez had to admit that he would have had trouble from the start, and he was glad to have the team available to him.

They entered the residence with Martinez stomping the snow from his shoes.  Montoya carefully looked for light switches and started turning everything on in the house.  He only casually glanced at the suspects cuffed on the front room rug with several S.W.A.T. officers MP-5 trained on at them.  He continued down to the basement where he was relatively sure the primary suspect was at when the team went in.  He flicked the stair lights on and proceeded down the wooden stairs.  He searched along the walls until he located the switch for the rest of the room.  The S.W.A.T. sergeant followed him down, mostly out of curiosity. The lights revealed a large room with a circular rug in the center, a conventional double bed at one wall, and a few pieces of furniture.  What stopped the S.W.A.T. sergeant in his tracks was the collection of weapons hanging from a rack on one wall. He saw a M1A rifle, a street sweeper shotgun, and a number of Beretta model 92D 9mm semiautomatic pistols, including one with a 15+1 clip in it on the nightstand.  He thought about how they could have assessed the risk levels better before entering the residence and just shook his head with his hand on one hip and the MP-5 still on the other.  He looked down at the cement floor and thought what it could have been like if the suspect had time to reach that nightstand.  He was glad the heavy detective spotted the guy in the basement.  Something about that clown they came after suggested he would not have blinked an eye about popping one of his cops while they wrestled with a screaming old woman.  Martinez could only look at it and whistle a little.

They carefully circled the room when Detective Montoya spotted a closet embedded in the wall not far from the bed. The doors were walnut-colored wooden accordion doors, which he pulled slowly apart.  A cord hung from the ceiling, and Montoya pulled it slowly.  The light came on to a scene that made them a little ill and expectant.  The closet was bathed in a red glow from the bulb in the ceiling, displaying a bizarre collection of lace, cotton and nylon.  The guy had several pairs of women's underwear hanging from wire hangers over a small dresser, with a odd silver pen sitting on top of the dresser.  Montoya was careful not to touch anything until he could get a full latent fingerprint and photographic team out there that would dust for fingerprints and take pictures of everything.  There was something odd about the pen.  It looked as displayed as the panties, sitting on a piece of white cloth in the center of the dark wood dresser top. Montoya felt certain it was significant, as he studied it under the reflecting red light.  There was no ball point to the pen, just a matching silver clip to hang in a breast pocket.  He leaned closer to it and noticed it had a thumb nail indentation in what looked like a blade sheathed.  He was certain it was a knife of some exotic type that was designed to look like a silver ink pen when concealed in a breast pocket.  Montoya licked his lips and motioned over his shoulder for Martinez to come closer.

"Think this is the murder weapon.  Shit, I didn't think he'd still have it.  I hope the coroner can link it with what was left of the wounds on the body.  If unfolded, it would be about the right length and sturdy enough to have penetrated the right distance into the body cavity, based on what was in the coroner's report."

"Christ, man, that is some wicked piece.  No one would spot that for a weapon.  Not from a distance."  He was huddled over Montoya's shoulder peering at the knife with his face bathed in a red glow.  "I didn't even know what you were talking about until I spotted where the lock blade pulls out.  Do you believe this?"

"You did arrange for the latent fingerprint and photographic team, right?"

"Yeah, yeah.  With the warrant.  They'll be here the minute S.W.A.T. returns."  Martinez could not take his eyes off the closet and wished Montoya would step aside for him to get a closer look, but he knew better than to ask.

Montoya looked over his shoulder and sighed.  He stepped aside for Martinez and started back upstairs to look for the back-up.  They should be here by now, he thought.  Never a cop around when you want one.  He and the Metro Unit S.W.A.T. sergeant continued up the stairs.  The sergeant was anxious to depart with his team.  They were the only team on duty at this shift, and they could be called out again at any point.  He did not want obligations here now that their work was completed. They came into the front room as the two uniformed patrolmen appeared at the door.  Another squad car could be seen behind them pulling up to the curb.  A black female officer and her male hispanic partner could be seen leaving the vehicle as they retrieved their shotguns and batons.

Montoya nodded his approval and thanked the S.W.A.T. team sergeant again as the officers replaced the team members with their shotguns trained on the suspects in place of the H&K MP-5s. The S.W.A.T. team noiselessly melted down the residential block to their black, finely-tuned, service van and departed the scene as ordered.  Their return to the downtown Cherokee and Bannock location would trigger the latent fingerprint and photographic team.  Montoya found this cumbersome, but he knew the defense attorneys would jump at a chance to say the police set their clients up, and the evidence would hit a suppression hearing with a chance of fruit of the poisonous tree hassling their every move.  It also kept things cleaner as far as keeping out of the Metro Unit's way while they handled their delicate end of the operation.  In the meantime he could rid himself of the suspects and start the booking process while he completed the search of the house.

"Read them Miranda,"  Montoya ordered the first officers on the scene.  One pulled out a laminated card, which Montoya appreciated.  No screw ups.

"You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney present during questioning.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will appointed at no charge to assist you during questioning."

The woman's wailing grew louder as each word was read to them, and her husband's cursing began anew.  Montoya watched the prime suspect, who lay quietly on the floor, trussed like a turkey waiting for Thanksgiving.  He smiled and gave the order to have them hauled off.  They would spend the next 72 hours in the city's jail across from the downtown Denver police station, and he could concentrate in taking their home apart, piece by piece. The four officers proceeded to drag the unwilling arrestees into their patrol vehicles.  They sat the two older people next to one another in one patrol car and stuck the younger one flat down in the back of another.  The job was completed quickly, minimizing any resistance, and the patrol cars departed for the station as the plain wrapper, investigative vehicle pulled up to the curb. Montoya's smile increased as he went out to the snowy curb to greet the four members and issue instructions as to the closet downstairs.  He wanted not a fingerprint missed, not a photograph untaken, not a dimension bypassed.

The two technicians departed the vehicle carrying briefcases and camera equipment.  They proceeded into the home ahead of Montoya and sought the stairway to the basement.  Montoya entered behind them and directed the way.  He closed the door behind to prevent any sleepless neighbors from getting curious and sticking their noses where they did not belong.  He called Martinez from the top of the stairs then went into the front room. Martinez came into the room and took the search warrant from his jacket pocket and left it on the mantel.  They would file a return to go with it when they were finished with the residence.  He looked the fire place over carefully, poking at the embers left in it with one of the pokers kept neatly in its rack next to the fire place.  Montoya proceeded to take the books one by one out of the bookshelves and turn them upside down and shake them. Martinez, having joined him, moved from the fireplace to the couch in front of it and took all the cushions off to look underneath.  He threw them heedlessly back down after checking the covers of each one. Neither were truly certain what they would find, even though they specified what they wanted in the search warrant affidavit. If asked, they would reply the knife used to murder the victim, as well as the other items listed on the warrant.  The knife they found downstairs was most likely the murder weapon, but one could never be too sure.

Montoya placed the books back on the shelf, as he took them down and checked them, sideways or anyway that permitted him to move quickly on to the next.  He checked every shelf under the books as well as under the shelf.  He moved throughout the room in the same methodical, however haphazard, manner.  He looked behind pictures then barely hung them back up.  He looked in the recliner and left its foot rest extended.  He looked in lamp shades and slapped the shade back on the lamp crooked.  He rolled up the room rugs and checked them.  Turning the coffee table over, Montoya checked the bottom and the corners then left it lying upside down on the floor.  He proceeded with Martinez from the front room to the master bedroom and took the mattress off the bed, turning it over and dumping it back on the frame after looking the box frame over.  He and Martinez checked the pictures and clothes drawers.  They tossed the clothes onto the disheveled bed after shaking them to see if anything fell out.  They did the same to the clothes hanging in the closet.  They kicked aside the room rugs, checking them.  They left the lights on in each room they passed through.  The hall bathroom revealed nothing new either as they took everything from the shelves and placed them in the sink after checking them.  They recognized some of the medications, such as high blood pressure medication, they found in the cabinet, which had to belong to the older couple. Judging by the number of pill bottles, the couple's health was not all that great.

"Shit, good thing the old ones didn't croak on us, here, Rich,"  Martinez said as he placed another brown, plastic vial in the sink.

"I know.  I know.  But they didn't, so all right?" Montoya stopped and held out his hands, gesturing with his palms up, while holding a different brown, plastic vial he found in the linen closet.  He tossed the pill bottle into the sink and went through each of the towels, shaking them and tossing them into the bathtub, after peaking in there to be certain nothing but shower necessities and shampoo existed behind the burgundy shower curtain.  He kicked the burgundy floor rugs around, looking for something hid in them.  Martinez looked behind the bathroom pictures silently.

They advanced to the kitchen and checked the counter tops and appliances before taking the canned goods and spices from the cabinets and placing them on the counters.  They methodically moved from cabinet to cabinet, removing things like cereal and dishes.  Montoya grunted and went to the refrigerator and checked each compartment carefully.  He left many of the things like milk and cheese on the counter or table while he looked into the compartments.  The meat in the freezer all came out while he poked around for a possible baggy of anything connected to the crime.  He remembered there were no body parts missing from the uncovered corpse in Bennett, but he did not know if the guy was sick enough to collect his own sperm samples after raping her and placing them in a zip lock to have as a nifty souvenir for the freezer.  Rich Montoya met a few just that sick.  He grunted after finding nothing and left the meat out on the counter as he moved on absentmindedly to the small storage closet. Martinez just watched him and shook his head.

"Let me know when you're ready to move on to the yard."

"Yeah.  Yeah."  Montoya removed a mop and broom from the closet, knocking over the vacuum cleaner.  He told Martinez to look over the bag in it.  Martinez sighed and grabbed the appliance, lifting it to the kitchen table.  He unzipped the outside cover and pressed his hand against every inch of the inside bag.  Clouds of dust rose into the air, but Martinez was more concerned with not reaching in to get cut by the murder weapon or something of that nature.  He finally pulled off the bag and looked inside.  Disgusted, he tossed the bag down amidst additional clouds of dust and asked Montoya if he was ready to look at the yard.  He knew Montoya would want to leave the basement for last to give the technicians their time to work on the closet.

They opened the back door and stepped out to the deck with its barbecue next to the door.  Shuffling around the snowy deck, Montoya turned to look at the dark mountain range visible in the distance.

"Damn fine deck for a couple of old folks to have.  Not the same wood as the house.  Think the kid built it?"  Montoya asked.

Martinez stood shivering in the cold night air and wrapped his arms around his chest, slipping his hands under his armpits. "Might be.  Might be."  He wondered if Montoya was so hyped that the cold did not even affect him.

Montoya put his hands on his hips and surveyed the somewhat snow covered deck, which covered ninety percent of the back yard. He shuffled out to the railing that lined the outside.  He tested the boards to see if one was loose.  He walked the entire length of the deck shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Go inside and get a flashlight from the techs." Montoya kept bouncing on the wood.  Martinez was glad for the opportunity to go back inside to the warmth even for an errand.  He returned shortly from the basement with a flashlight.  Montoya flicked it on and climbed down from the deck into the yard that finished off the rest of the fenced in area.

He ran the beam of the light under the dark shadows created by the deck, back and forth slowly, inspecting the areas closer to the house.  He was loath to climb under the deck because of the spider webs that looked suspiciously like abandoned black widow webs.  He toyed a bit with the idea of sending Martinez under there, but he was sure Martinez would tell him where to get off at that point.  He chuckled a little at the thought.

"What's so funny?"  Martinez was dancing from foot to foot but not to check for loose boards.

Montoya chuckled louder as he got on his hands and knees and looked deeper under the deck area.  "Nothin'."  He mumbled something else and came out from under he deck.  "Well, whatever I hoped to find wasn't easily seen.  What if we're missing something?"  Montoya stood with one hand on his hip and the other with the flashlight in Martinez's face.  He suppressed a grin.

Martinez shaded his eyes and worried that they were missing something.  "Do you want me to crawl under there?"

Montoya took the light away and ducked back under the porch. He tried to keep from laughing and double checked the area. When he came back up, he had a straight face.

"I think we'd better check the garage because there's nothing really here.  I would have seen a glint on anything metal, and I think the techs are busy with our biggest find of the girl's underwear.  He must have used a vehicle to move her from where he initially stabbed her.  We'll most likely find the fibers matching the fibers on her clothes and body. Probably a blanket wrapped around her.  She inhaled some of the fibers, so she wasn't quite dead yet at that point."  He climbed clumsily back up to the deck.  "But he had to have it tightly wrapped around her face and most likely her body, so we might not find much blood in the vehicle, but we might get lucky and find the blanket."

Martinez followed Montoya back into the residence, saying, "We also need to look for the tool used to bury her body. It left green paint flakes in the over-turned dirt."  Montoya nodded.

Montoya turned inside the back door and started looking through a group of keys hung on a peg board next to the door, placing the flashlight on the corner of the counter.  He stopped looking through them and grabbed each key ring off the board. Holding on to the keys, he entered the garage from the kitchen door, leaving it open when he passed through.  Martinez was following on his heels.  They left the door open and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights.  They stepped down the cement steps into the garage and started examining the tools hanging on the walls on brackets.  They found the same four door sedan the S.W.A.T. team found, but their job was to look for objects they specified in the affidavit, so they concentrated on the gardening tools.  Any of a number of the tools could have been used as a murder weapon, and Montoya frowned in thought.  If the body had not been four months in a shallow grave, they would have had more than bone scrapes and vague tears in the skin.  The edges were no longer cleanly ragged because of the decomposition involved. The coroner's office could not identify the exact type of weapon used; however, they could estimate the length of the weapon and thickness.  The knife in the basement could have been it, or a screwdriver collection on the wall could contain the murder weapon, depending on the thickness.

He put his hands in his pocket and continued to look at the tools for some sort of clue, as though blood would still be on the screwdriver nearly a year later.  He looked down and shook his head, closing his eyes.  Martinez continued to stare at the wall, then finally drifted off in the direction of the vehicle. He tried the driver's door and found it locked.

"You got those keys?  I'd like to get a gander in this heap."

"Yeah, here."  He rummaged in the pocket that he just put his hand into and pulled out the keys.  Sifting through them, he chose the proper marking in black on the keys.  He handed that ring over, and Martinez used them to open the car door.

Martinez ran his hands in the cracks between the seats and along the floor boards.  He flipped the car seat forward and looked behind the seats.  Hanging in the open car door, he reached over and unlocked the back door.  He walked around the car to open the rear door and checked the seats and floor boards. Montoya took a few tools down from the wall to closely inspect them while Martinez moved on to the trunk of the vehicle. He inserted the key slowly and turned it, not knowing what he would find.  Somehow he hoped he would find the blanket.  Flinging the truck door in the air, he held his breath.  He let it out again when he found an empty trunk, with the exception of a jack. Nothing.  He turned to look over the rest of the garage. His footsteps in his leather shoes resounded off the walls as he walked slowly around the garage.  When he completed his circuit, finding nothing outside garden tools, a snow shovel, and a lawnmower, he exhaled deeply and rolled his head on his shoulders.  He reached up both hands to knead the flesh at his neck and shoulders, looking up at the same time.

"Hello."  Martinez called out.

Montoya was putting down one of the tools haphazardly on a bracket.  He looked over at Martinez.

"Storage."  Martinez pointed up at the rafters where several sets of ski's hung, as well as a couple of saw horses.

"The point being?"  Montoya looked a little irritated.

"Come look."

Montoya shuffled over to Martinez and looked up at the rafters, squinting to see what Martinez was babbling about. In the glare of the overhead lights, he followed where Martinez's finger was pointing.  He saw the corner of a beige-colored, wool blanket.

"Shit, Mark, I think you have it."  Montoya's head swung from side to side, looking for a ladder.  Not spotting one, he looked back up at the blanket and spotted the ladder stuck next to it in the rafters.  "Think the kid stuck the ladder up to keep the parents away.  Two older folks couldn't get up there."

Martinez hitched at the waist band of his pants beneath the his nylon jacket.  He adjusted his 9mm in his shoulder holster as he walked over beneath the ladder.  Grunting, he leaped into the air and grasped a rafter where he hung by one hand.  The other hand worked at the end of the ladder, twisting it back and forth, forcing it to come further out of the rafters.  As the ladder worked free, Montoya stood below, waiting to catch an end as it fell toward him.  He slowly placed the ladder on the floor as Martinez dropped back to the cement floor with a thump. Stretching the ladder out to join with the rafters, Montoya started up.  Martinez took a hold of the ladder below, watching Montoya's weight sway the old wood of the ladder back and forth with each step and pull up it.  He reached the top after a time and gently pulled the blanket out of a corner of the rafters.  It fell to the cement floor.

"Don't touch it.  Don't touch it."

Montoya climbed clumsily but quickly down the ladder as it swayed in Martinez's grasp.  Martinez only turned to look at the blanket where it fell.  He was already wondering what else might be up there.  When Montoya was all the way down, Martinez started up the ladder.

"Where you goin'?"  Montoya was bending to examine the blanket when he noticed Martinez ascending.

"To take a longer look.  I think we have the blanket. Maybe there's something else up there."

He quickly reached the top of the ladder and stepped up on a rafter, holding onto the ceiling beams as he hunched his back and shoulders in the cramped space.  He walked from rafter to rafter, carefully placing his feet and not looking down.

"For God's sake, don't fall,"  Montoya admonished.  He bent back to the blanket and unfolded a corner of it.  He kept unfolding corners until he had a large area exposed.  The beige color of the blanket was stained in the center with irregular, dark stains.  He stopped unfolding it and stepped back.

"Shit, yeah, we found the blanket.  I need to go back in and put the team back to work."  Montoya turned and left the garage through the open door.  Martinez kept peering into the shadows left by the fluorescent lights he was standing over.  He kept looking into the recesses.  Montoya returned with the flashlight in his hand.

"Here, need this?"  He stepped around the car to the ladder and climbed the few bottom rungs to hand the flashlight up to Martinez.  Martinez's foot slipped off a rafter as he reached for the flashlight.

"Damn, watch it.  You fall straddling one of those, and you'll be singing in a boy's choir again, you good little Catholic boy,"  Montoya chuckled.

"Very funny."  Martinez carefully worked his way on the rafters to the corner that contained the blanket again.  He flicked on the flashlight to peer around.  Nothing additional appeared to him.  He back tracked his footing until he was at the ladder then descended.  Once at the bottom, he turned to Montoya and brushed his hands off on his jacket, handing the flashlight back to his partner.

"The team will come in here when they've finished with the closet.  Let's go out to the side of the house where the jeep is to see what's what."  Montoya led the way to the unlocked side door.

They stepped out into the dirt and brown grassy area of the side of the garage.  There was not as much snow on this side, but the dirt would have been mud had the sun been out.  As it was, the foot prints in the hard ground were somewhat difficult to step on and over.  It took them a little longer to reach the jeep, sort of like walking over little mountains ranges. Montoya fished in his pocket for the keys while Martinez hiked his jacket collar higher around his face against the rising, bitter wind. Howling noises from the wind made the moment eery, and Martinez shivered slightly.

"What?"  Montoya asked as he inserted the right key into the driver's door.

"Nothing.  Don't you even find it cold out here?"

"Naw, not really.  I'm a native, kid.  Remember?"  He smiled, enjoying having one over on his partner.  He did find it cold but ignored it, enjoying how his partner was not able to. He would warm himself back up when the job was done, and he was home in his arm chair with a hot cup of coffee.

He opened the jeep's door, leaned in and reached one hand back out to Martinez for the flashlight, noticing that the old military style jeep had no light that turned on.  Martinez turned the flashlight on and placed it in Montoya's outstretched hand. Montoya swung it in on the jeep.

"You know this is the right color green for the paint chips,"  Montoya observed dryly.

"Think he used a fender or something like that to dig with?"

"Nope."

Montoya ran the beam over the sparse bucket seats and long, black stick shift in the floor.  He rubbed at his forehead at a headache that was brewing.  They had been searching the residence for hours.  He leaned over the front seat and concentrated the beam on the rear flat bed area of the jeep.

"I think I've found a trunk or something like a foot locker. Let's see if there's a way to open the rear."

He backed out of the front of the jeep and headed around to the rear.  He inserted several keys, trying to find a match while Martinez held the flashlight beam steady on the lock. Martinez reached over and tried to turn the handle, verifying it was locked.  Montoya just gave him a sour look over his shoulder.  He finally found a match and turned the handle sideways, lifting the door out and upward.  He shakily grasped the flashlight from Martinez, his breathing increasing a little.  At that point they had not located everything they listed in the affidavit, and he felt this was going to be a find.  He was sure of it. Montoya climbed into the back, carefully swinging the beam over the area in large sweeps, searching for anything like blood stains. He crept closer to the foot locker and pulled on the lid.  It was also locked.  Climbing backward over the covered bed area, Montoya crawled out of the jeep.

"Damn thing's locked."

Martinez started to climb into the rear of the jeep. "Want me to break it open?"

Montoya grasped his partner's jacket and tugged him out of the jeep then headed for the garage.  Martinez reluctantly followed him.  They re-entered the brightly lit garage and blinked repeatedly, Montoya heading for the tool wall.  He grasped the end of a long, heavy screw driver and lifted it from its pegs on the wall.  He turned to leave the garage and nearly bumped into Martinez.  Montoya motioned impatiently for his partner to exit back toward the jeep.  They walked around the sedan in the garage and returned to the jeep outside.  The wind was much stronger in this neighborhood and it whipped at Montoya's open jacket.  He wanted to zip it closed but was too stubborn to bother.  He wanted to get back into that jeep and hack at the foot locker.  They reached the back of the army green jeep, and Montoya climbed back into the covered bed area. He was glad to be out of the wind.  Working his way back to the flashlight where he left it, he grabbed the lit instrument and swung it on the locker.  He took the screwdriver and pried at the lock, trying to hold the flashlight straight.  In frustration, he broke out in a sweat despite the cold, and the flashlight slipped from his grasp.

"Shit.  Fuck it."  He let his breath out in a huff and called Martinez into the jeep.  "Hold the fucking flashlight, will ya?"

"No problem."  Martinez squeezed in next to Montoya and held the flashlight on the lock.  He squirmed back out of the way a bit when he watched Montoya savagely attack the top lock hinges. He did not want to get stabbed in the eye with the screwdriver by accident.

The metal foot locker started flaking green paint onto the bed of the jeep as Montoya repeatedly stuck the screwdriver back in the hinge and pried at the metal.  It slowly came up from the metal locker.  He was sweating heavily now, the heat having increased in the back of the jeep with both men there.

"It's coming.  It's coming."  Montoya wiped the sweat at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and worked harder at the hinge.  Martinez watched the hinge pop off with a metallic clank.

Montoya wiped at the sweat again at his nose.  He smiled at Martinez and opened the foot locker.  The lid came open easily and stayed open when lifted up completely.  Montoya grabbed at the flashlight from Martinez and eagerly looked into the locker.

"Oh, man.  This is it."  Montoya pointed to a green painted army shovel, folded into the locker.  He found a pen flashlight, a jack, a field first aid kit, some jumper cables, and a black nylon jumpsuit with black lace up leather boots and nylon black gloves.  The shovel, the clothing, the boots and the gloves were all items listed on the search warrant, which also specified the search of the property as well as the house.  This was his find. He knew the shovel would match the flakes uncovered in the dirt at the grave site in Bennett.  He knew it.  He hoped the battle dress uniform jumpsuit, boots and gloves would have some sort of blood stains on them.  He was not certain, but he thought he saw some darker splotches.  A fiber left behind on the blanket and enough left of the bloodstain on that, and there was enough to link it all to her death.  He crawled back out of the jeep and Martinez quickly followed him.  They stood in the frozen dirt, ignoring the cold wind freezing the sweat on their bodies.

"Shit, man.  We found it all.  Damn, we found it all!" Martinez repeatedly ran his fingers through his hair.  They stood and grinned at each other.

"Yeah,"  Montoya said.  "We found it all.  We found it all. Airtight.  Let's go in and get the pictures and shit before we inventory everything."

They headed back in and ran into the four latent fingerprint and photographic team members working on collecting samples from the blanket, both wool fibers and blood stained fibers. Montoya and Martinez watched them take pictures of it and then place the blanket it a large clear plastic bag.  Montoya gave them instructions on the jeep, and they headed out to take pictures, samples and measurements of the shovel and the other specified items, as well as the foot locker, while the detectives headed around the sedan, through the house and back down to the basement.

They took the stairs two at a time.  Martinez's slimmer body leading Montoya's slower bulk.  When they reached the bottom, they stood with their hands on their hips, surveying the scene. Everything was placed in different sizes of plastic baggies. It looked neat and tidily laid out on the bed for the detectives to inventory.  When they finished with the jeep, the team would leave.  Montoya looked around the stark basement with the guns hanging in the rack on the wall.  The guns were photographed, but they were not admissible as real evidence and would not be confiscated.  They were not listed on the search warrant. Telling a jury about them and showing the photographs may possibly be admitted in Montoya's testimonial evidence as a way to show the defendant had the means, skills and abilities to kill.  He turned from that wall and looked back at the bed. The light still shown red in the closet next to the bed, but the evidence had been removed from the closet and placed in baggies. The knife was also in a baggie.  Montoya nodded at the neat work and silently approved that they followed orders exactly, taking no initiative.

He shook down the drawers of the dresser quickly and went over the rug, bed and stark corners of the cement floor of the basement.  There was a sump pump in the farthest corner with a washer and dryer nearby.  He looked in that corner further and found a stark cabinet shower and toilet beside it.  Nothing of note, but he stood with his hands on his hips, observing it.

"You think the guy came back and cleaned up after offing her?"  Martinez stood at his shoulder.

"Yeah.  I think the bastard had all the time in the world once he removed her from the park, where someone she knew might have seen her or someone might come looking for her.  Once gone, she could have been anywhere.  Why not take the time to come home, park beside the garage, come on through to the house through the kitchen and on down to the basement.  Take a shower," he gestured toward the washer and dryer, "wash the BDU, clean up after himself and change clothes before heading on out east. Damn, why not, huh?"

Martinez stood still and nodded silently.  It was not a pretty picture.  It was too easy and too hard to solve. Totally random and totally clean.

"Any blood left along the way in would be cleaned up by mommy while daddy cleaned out the garage.  You think?" Montoya continued.

"Maybe."

"Shit, I don't know."  Montoya ran his hands threw his hair and spun around.  "Maybe not.  Maybe he did.  Like I said, he had all the time in the world."  He dropped his hands with a slap to his sides.

"When it was later and the farm areas were dark and silent, he brought her and drove into a bare field a ways, took out the army shovel and dug a shallow grave where he buried her," Martinez continued the hypothesizing.

Montoya nodded.  "Okay.  Then he drives back home and finishes cleaning up, including washing the blanket in which he rolled her body at City Park.  The stab to the heart caused so much blood on the blanket that it wouldn't come completely clean at that point.  It was still stained after, what, three or four washings?"

Martinez looked at the floor and nodded.  Montoya continued.

"So he stashed it in a corner of the garage in the rafters. Maybe to hide it from mommy and daddy, maybe to hide it from accidentally getting tossed out with the trash where God knows who might see it.  In the garbage, it's abandoned property and could be legally picked up -- if we received a tip -- but in here, we need a search warrant and nobody sees it.  Ever. That is if he takes care of it all himself or keeps it inside the family."

Montoya walked slowly back to the bed and eyed the baggies on the unmade bed.  "But between killing her and burying her, he cuts her panties off as a souvenir.  Needs a reminder to get off on later, over and over.  But shit, we're looking at six pairs of women's underwear.  Who's?  Salance's, I hope.  But who else?"

Martinez came over to study the baggies.  They were both so into finding all the evidence, they did not have time to consider the number of women's panties they originally uncovered.  He frowned down at them.

Montoya sighed and rubbed at his head again.  "I think we need to get in touch with other agencies nationwide and see if they have similar cases pending.  Shit, when I think of it, this guy could have been anywhere."  He paused to look back at the bed with the six panties in baggies.  "At least we got him on ours. He won't be out duplicating the crime.  Unless between the killing and now he's done a number of other ones.  God, how I hate loose ends.  We need to get with the father, and see if he can identify a pair as his daughter's. "

Martinez shifted his feet uncomfortably.  "I can't get over the way the mother faded ... You know, like she just couldn't go on."

Montoya looked up at his partner with his eyes but kept his head bent toward the bed.  "Yeah."  He looked nervously back at the bed.

Martinez stared at him then at the bed.  "But we got him now."

Montoya pushed his hands into his pants' pockets, feeling he a little inadequate at the lack of the police's ability the to prevent things like this from happening.  Every act the police took was tied to probable cause in the court system ... intent and act.  Without them, they could do nothing.  That always seemed to mean action on their part after the fact and not before.

He echoed Martinez's comment,  "Yeah, but we got him now. Let's just make it stick."  He paced the basement floor with his hands still in his pockets.  "We need to get with the DA's office first thing in the morning and see who's going to handle the filing of this case.  We want to present the evidence as completely and legally as possible."

Martinez stood still, looking down at the evidence on the bed.  "And, call the father to identify the underwear.  God, do fathers even know what kind of underwear their daughters wear?"

"Or maybe the boyfriend.  Or maybe both.  Yeah, let's look at both,"  Montoya said.

He continued pacing, thinking of how he was not likely to enjoy the "line-up."  Montoya found it embarrassing that sickos like this were raping young women and keeping their underwear, as though it was some kind of trophy.  It turned his stomach. He wished he could go over to the toilet bowl and heave.  He stopped pacing.

"What's taking them so long in that jeep?!"  Montoya stormed.

He went back upstairs to check outside, stomping up the stairs and pulling himself up them using the wooden hand railing. God damn, but he was tired.  He exited the house through the garage and approached the jeep, where he could see the four people moving about under the bright lights they set up to do their work.  Martinez appeared on his heels.

"You guys about done?"  Montoya stood looking over their shoulders.

They looked impatiently at the detective and one answered defensively, "We're working at it."

Montoya opened his mouth when Martinez grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.  "Let's take a walk, okay, man?"

Montoya let his partner lead him around the house to the front yard.  The snow stopped but left a decent coating on the streets and sidewalks.  They walked across the street, looking at their dark sedan.  At the car, Montoya sighed and leaned his backside against it.  He felt in his pockets until he found his cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth.  He fumbled some more until he found his lighter in the other pants' pocket. Lighting one up, he inhaled deeply.  Slowly, as he puffed on his cigarette, his body began to unwind.  He smiled as he noticed Martinez shivering and huddling in his jacket.

"Been a long night,"  Martinez said between clenched teeth that were on the verge of chattering in the cold wind.  He watched snow devils whirl and form in the middle of the dark street.

"Yeah,"  Montoya breathed, exhaling the smoke in the air above him.

Martinez paced a little bit, avoiding slipping on the slick pavement, trying to keep warm.  "I can't believe we still have to returned to the station to check all this into the evidence room."

Montoya could feel some of the tension returning. "Thanks for reminding me."

Martinez smiled sheepishly at his partner.  "Sorry."

"Look, kid, let's just start on the Return, okay?"

"Good idea."

Martinez walked around the car as Montoya opened the driver's door and slid in.  Martinez pulled open his door and slid into the chilly car.  At least he was out of the wind. He pulled a blank form from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Montoya.  They began mentally inventorying the evidence and filling out the blank Return to the search warrant. They needed to list each item that would be removed from the residence on the Return, and leave a copy of it with the copy of the search warrant on the mantel place in the living room where Montoya placed it before the search began.  It would have to be complete, or the court might throw whatever they missed out of court unless they could prove good intentions.  Montoya rather he was so complete on the form to be turned into to the court that issued the search warrant that it would be known that he never intended anything but doing his job most thoroughly.  It was his way.  No loose ends, no slip ups.

By the time they finished the form, Montoya noticed the latent fingerprint and photographic team looking around for them. He focused again on his work and ignored them.  Martinez glanced at them and then at his partner.

"Let's just get it wrapped up so we can go home sometime before sunup, okay?"

Montoya sighed.  "Yeah."  He opened the door and slid out of the car, Martinez following him from the other side, carrying the black box attache case he had stashed on the floor boards on the passenger's side.  They crossed the street again and approached the team.  They handed the detectives several baggies from the jeep, containing the shovel in one, each boot and each glove in a others, and the nylon BDU jumpsuit in still another. Martinez placed the baggies into his black attache.  The latent fingerprint and photographic team exchanged tired, irritated looks with them and then prepared to depart, having already packed their equipment.  The last member to walk past them carried the flashlight, which she swung to her shoulder, glaring at the detectives, as she departed for their vehicle. Montoya shrugged as he thought of how they left the flashlight out at the jeep.  Their unmarked vehicle left the curb quietly. Montoya grunted and turned to the residence.  He rubbed at his tired, aching eyes as he mounted the steps to the front door and entered the unlocked home.

All the lights still blazed in the house as Montoya walked the length of the front room, dragging his feet as though it was the proverbial last mile.  He kept picturing his arm chair, the remote in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His feet hurt, his back hurt, and he was cold.  Walking over to the fireplace, he placed one copy of the multiple copied Return on the mantel to the fireplace and turned for the kitchen and basement stairs.  He stopped on the first step with his hand to his head.  He felt like he was forgetting something.  He and Martinez went into the basement and collected the baggies on the bed and placed them into the black attache.  They tiredly pulled themselves up the stairs and exited into the garage. Working their way around the old sedan, they collected the baggie with the blanket and samples in it.  They did not bother going out to the jeep.  They already had that evidence.  It seemed to drag out forever.

Re-inventorying the items, they left the house through the front door.  Montoya checked the lock to be certain the house was locked up.  They had no further jurisdiction over the residence, and he did not want to be sued for someone else coming along and burglarizing it.  They disturbed the snow devils still playing in the street and climbed into their dark vehicle.  Montoya took the wheel and headed for downtown.  They would check the evidence in, and go home.  He did not even want to begin interrogating the suspects until morning.  He had a little less than 72 hours to complete that.  Time enough.  He pulled the police vehicle away from the curb on the dark and snow covered December night.























CHAPTER THREE





Thomas Michael Lidsky found himself ushered into a courtroom in downtown Denver across from the Denver Police Department Headquarters.  He and others were taken down the elevator from the Denver City Jail on the floors above, where he was being held for the last day and a half after his arrest.  He thought about his parents and the helpless feeling of being trussed up by the Metro S.W.A.T. Unit and placed next to them in the living room of their home.  He was indignant and angry over the treatment they received.  He did not care so much if they wanted to take him on; although, he wished he had more time to prepare before they came busting in.  They would have had a few regrets at that point.

Lidsky lined up behind the others as they were told to file into a glassed in area recessed in the wall to the far right hand side of the judge's bench.  As the deputies locked the heavy steel door leading to the room, those in the room jockeyed for a seat in their rows on the plain benches.  He was told he was here for his Rule 5 Advisement and reading of his rights.  He thought he already had his rights read to him with his face pressed into the carpet of his parents' front room during the arrest, but now he supposed they would check if he had representation for the court proceedings.  He could not afford representation, and he was a little leery of trusting anyone.  He hoped he could represent himself.  He thought he could handle it; although he admitted not knowing anything about court proceedings and the law.  He felt that the jury might believe him better if he told them he was innocent, and they might have trouble believing the garbage coming out of the mouth of someone spouting legalities. He felt certain he could get them to understand his point of view.

The prisoners were all dressed in their street clothes. Lidsky's parents sent him a pair of pants and a T-shirt after he begged them to.  They were released after some time in questioning.  He was not told the reasons, and they would reveal nothing more to him when they were allowed to visit him briefly before leaving.  His mother was in tears at the time.  She could not get over the intrusive and violent incursion of the police into their home.  She kept looking at him in the strangest way, weeping and shaking.  His father said very little, but he looked old and frail.  Both his parents were somewhat limited in their ability to get around because of their age and advanced arthritis.  Lidsky took care of them by cleaning and doing the laundry.  With him living at home, they did not have to worry about anything.  He took care of them.  Now, he had to beg for them to bring him some clothes while he wore a pair of pajamas. Something had changed, and he was frustrated because they would not talk to him.  They had not even asked him how he was feeling after the arrest.  He tried calling from the Denver City Jail, but they would not accept the charges for the collect call. He tried to write them but did not have the money for stamps. They never visited him.

Lidsky shifted his athletic frame on the uncomfortable bench and perfunctorily ran his hands threw his short cropped blond hair.  He looked around him outside of the glass and saw the tables set up for the defense and district attorney's office. The podium between them had a microphone on it.  The room was filled with lightly-colored oak veneer furniture, including the imposing judge's bench.  The other prisoners were talking shit to one another and generally being verbally disruptive.  The deputies were stationed on the outside of the glass, occasionally looking in on them to make certain no fights broke out.  The female prisoners were sectioned off in a room to the right of the men.  He realized this was a group advisement, but he objected to feeling like one in a herd of cattle, pushed into a locked room, aggravating his sense of independence and self- righteousness.  He was above the rest of the rabble in the room, and he refused to have anything to do with them.  He wanted to scream in utter frustration at having to be locked up in such close quarters with the other prisoners.  He wanted to claw at the walls and smash the large glass pane separating him from the rest of the room, but he was certain it was some sort of safety glass.  He breathed deeply and looked up at the ceiling, shaking slightly in frustration and anger.  He had to convince someone he was innocent, that was his only hope of being released from confinement.

The room outside started to fill.  He could barely see the area off to his right where people could sit in Courtroom T to view the proceedings.  He could see some movement in the front row just behind the waist high wall sectioning them off, but he could not see anywhere else in that area.  He watched some of the attorneys arrive and disperse their papers and manila folders on the desks set up beside the podium.  Lidsky watched the two groups at either desk intermix and make some sort of jokes where both groups were laughing.  He tucked his chin into his neck and chest, looking down and wanting to cry.  His emotions overwhelmed him for a brief moment, then he sucked in air, and smoldered in his frustration.  He did not want to believe or face that the prosecutors and defense attorneys could possibly be on friendly terms with one another.  He felt strongly that his chances lay in a good defense attorney who wanted to believe in him, to him that meant that they could not believe in the prosecuting attorney. He gathered himself together and reformulated his thinking patterns.  He realized what he was seeing had to be the underlying behavior of these people.  He felt the adversarial judicial system existed in this country to confuse and bewilder people who bought into it.  He shook his head in frustration.

The judge appeared in the courtroom, without an announcement and demanding everyone to stand.  He sat in his black, formal robe behind the imposing bench at the front of the courtroom.  He made a few jokes with the attorneys, who laughed at the jokes. Lidsky could not hear through the wall to tell what was said. After they were through joking and laughing, some sort of microphone system was turned on.  The judge's voice filled the room the prisoners waited in.

"You are all here in preliminary proceedings for felony proceedings following arrest.  You need to understand that you need make no statement and any statement made can and may be used against you as the defendant.  You have the right to counsel.  If indignant, you have the right to request the appointment of counsel or consult with the public defender before any further proceedings are held.  Any plea you make must be voluntary and not the result of undue influence or coercion.  You have the right to bail, if the offense is bailable, and the amount of bail that has been set by the court.  The charges against you will be explained.  You have the right to a jury trial.  The defendant has the right to demand and receive a preliminary hearing within a reasonable time to determine whether probable cause exists to believe that the offense charged was committed by the defendant."

The room went quiet while the judge shuffled through the papers on his desk.  He called off several names.  The Denver Deputies standing guard outside the window moved to unlock the steel door.  A female deputy moved up the stairs to the back row of benches and went to open the door leading to the women. She led several of the women to the steel door held closed by her male counterpart.  The women of various ages and ethnicities lined up to the podium, followed by the female deputy.  Case by case the judge explained the charges against the women and asked if they had attorney on record.  Lidsky watched as the women all answered the judge and asked their silly questions.  He quickly lost interest in the proceedings.  He crossed his arms across his slim and athletic chest and leaned back slightly.  If he leaned too far, he would simply fall off the bench.  The judge went through the women first and worked on the men next.  As they lined up in groups and discussed things at the podium.  The D.A.s office presented the charges and, if no counsel was appointed, the Public Defenders at the table on the other side of the podium formally agreed to take the position of attorney of record.

Lidsky watched the number of cases to be taken by the Public Defenders Office and worried that they would even have time for a case as complicated as his.  He realized that one Public Defender would handle more than one case at a time, but it seemed they handled far too many to suit him.  It was clear they played their own game and would not accept him as his own representation. He rocked a little on his butt and watched the groups return to their glassed in room, the door locked behind them, while another group that exited line up at the podium.  Shortly later his name was finally called.  He lined up at the steel door behind several other men whose name had also been called.  He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor as he walked down the stairs to the door as they proceeded out of the glassed in room.

They walked the short distance and lined up behind the D.A.'s table.  Lidsky thought fleetingly how simple it would be to reach down and eliminate one or two of the D.A.s seated at the table, but he did not think he would get very far with the courts being guarded by the Denver County Sheriff's Department and the Denver Police Department right across the plaza from the preliminary courts.  He smiled at the idea as he wiped the side of his nose where the nervous sweat was running down.  He waited patiently in the line.  His time at the podium came and a Deputy District Attorney flipped through his many manila folders and read off the charges against him.

The Deputy District Attorney stood and read off from a file, "The defendant is charged with first degree murder, first degree sexual assault, first degree kidnapping, and first degree felony murder."

It was all said so simply.  Lidsky turned a little white and held on to the podium.  The judge asked him if he understood the charges against him, and Lidsky replied into the podium's microphone that he did.  He never thought it would ever get this far.  He felt certain no charges would actually be filed in the end.  He spoke of nothing during any of the interrogations. He maintained his right to remain silent.  He closed his eyes and swallowed, then straightened and maintained his composure, taking a military at-ease posture.  He raised his chin when the judge asked if there was a defense attorney of record.  Lidsky reluctantly asked to have one appointed.

"Does the Public Defenders Office agree to take this case?" the judge inquired.

The representative from the Public Defenders Office stood to reply,  "Yes, your Honor, we will agree to take this case." He then sat down.

That easy, Lidsky thought.  He stepped back from the podium into the group for the next individual to take the podium. He stood in the same posture, trying to gather the events in his mind.  The system bewildered him.  He had to work with someone on friendly terms with the District Attorney's office, the judges, and probably the police.  He did not know all of this to be true, but he felt he needed to be alert and aware at all times to survive this "trial."

They were returned as a group to the glassed in room and locked in it until all the prisoners were brought to the podium in a similar fashion.  Sometime during the proceedings the Public Defenders Office left the proceedings.  This puzzled him. By the time the proceedings ended, he figured that they knew in advance from their little manila folders who needed a Public Defender and who did not.  He felt it was some kind of judicial farce. The things said here could have been said by their office.  He found the frustration he felt that morning building instead of diminishing.  He obediently followed the verbal directives given him when the time came for them to line up and return upstairs to the City Jail.  As he followed the rest of them, he thought how he would have to play the system to survive and somehow find the right time and place to make his move and rid himself of these leaches, pulling him down and sucking the life out of him.








Chris Mason was a public defender in the State of Colorado Public Defenders Office in Denver.  She liked her job the vast majority of the time, but there were times when she was not even sure why she went to law school anymore.  It seemed like a lofty goal at the time, but now as she sat at her desk on the 13th floor of their building in downtown Denver on the 16th Street Mall at the corner of Broadway and 16th, she looked out at her admittedly brilliant view of the State Capitol dome and the city of Denver and tried to bring to mind those lofty goals.  She shook her shoulder length brown hair and wondered if she was just experiencing burn out.  She wanted to help the indigent solve their legal problems ... she wanted to fight from the corner of the underdog.  She knew she was a damned fine courtroom attorney, but somehow in the last five years since University of Denver Law School, she stereotyped herself.  Few private law firms would touch her because of the stigma of a female courtroom attorney with the Public Defenders Office and the overabundance of attorneys in the Denver area.  She knew nothing so harsh as "blacklisting" from other attorneys was probable in this day and age of continual litigation, but subtle drops to a prospective employer, perhaps over lunch in the Tabor Center, happened everyday ...  Well, I heard that she suffers from drastic mood swings with PMS or the like would be enough to do it in this male dominated environment.  That is why she shortened "Christina" to "Chris."   She took the use of "Christina" as another subtle attack on her ability in trial court.  She knew all of her feelings were overreacting, but she could not help it; reading the signs people sometimes put out was difficult for her at the best of times.  Her ex-husband often told her she read into things.  God, what an cretin ... a bachelor's degree in criminology and a know it all.  Plenty of abilities as a parole officer, but no room to let her do what she needed to accomplish in her own life.

Chris sighed heavily and tossed down the brief she had been reading.  She ran her fingers around her large, brown eyes to try and relieve the sinus headache accumulating there, then ran her hands through her shoulder length brown hair that complimented the widely spaced eyes that shone golden in the sun.  She was an attractive woman in her early forties, and she was aware of it. She, however, preferred not to be told of it, followed, or pursued by admirers.  She kept to herself, mostly, her closest friends and her beautiful, young daughter, who closely resembled a somewhat smaller version of her mother.  Chris tapped one long, slender finger on the desk top and thought about her new case, which involved a stalking murder.  A senseless murder that should never have occurred if the cops were ever willing to listen to the victim during the first scared, nervous phone calls she had undoubtedly made, never expecting to be believed, but always nervously hoping and praying.  But, no, threat of bodily harm was needed to even talk to the guy.  Chris shook her hair a little and tried to push those thoughts out of her mind.  Her job was to provide a defense for the alleged perpetrator, turned defendant, and, most currently, inmate at the Denver County Jail.

She looked over the facts put together by the Denver P.D. in their search warrant affidavit.   They told the intern who picked the report up from Records at the Denver P.D. that it was too early to have a copy of the police offender report; it was not yet prepared.  She was assigned the case based on their rotation schedule after, at the Rule 5 Advisement at the County Court, defense counsel had not attached and the defendant was determined to be indigent, wishing representation by the Public Defenders Office.  He apparently did not want counsel at the arrest and interrogations, according to the intern.  She hoped this meant that he maintained his right to remain silent during the interrogations.

She continued with the search warrant affidavit.  It was a "No Knock" warrant, which meant the police did not need to identify themselves as their "special entry team," or S.W.A.T. team, burst into the place and disrupted everything in sight. The affidavit was sworn out by a Mark Martinez, Detective and Investigator for the Denver Police Department, who identified the residence as 4000 Deephaven Court Denver, CO 80239 in the City and County of Denver; believed to be concealed on the premises - one (1) device used for digging painted olive green with flakes of paint missing from the tool - one (1) pair of female underclothing belonging to Bridgette Lee Salance, murder victim - one (1) slender, knife-like one sided blade approx. 6" in length - fibers from a multicolored hand knit sweater - fibers from a gray wool moving blanket - blood type A stains belonging to Bridgette Lee Salance, murder victim, on clothing belonging to the perpetrator and on the physical premises - body hair belonging to Bridgette Lee Salance, murder victim - footwear with deep, waffle treads matching the casts taken at the murder scene - gloves worn at the time of the crime with possible blood stains - the person of Thomas Michael Lidsky, copy of arrest warrant attached.  Facts supporting the search:  A phone call was received from Spencer Claude, Bridgette Lee Salance's former boyfriend, at approx. 18:30 hours on December 14, 1991, identifying that Thomas Michael Lidsky was currently at the residence of 4000 Deephaven Court and was the man he and Bridgette Lee Salance previously filed a complaint against with the Auraria Campus Police for harassment.  Mr. Claude further stated that he followed the suspect to the address from Auraria Campus, where the suspect had been seen attempting to talk to another young woman.  The suspect was identified by Mr. Claude as the same man he witnessed harassing and following his former girlfriend, Bridgette Lee Salance, around Auraria Campus in the City and County of Denver on November 8, 1989 (copy of complaint filed with the Auraria Campus Police attached).  After Mr. Claude followed the suspect to the home and then went to the 7-11 on Albrook Street to phone the Denver Police, he returned to the residence and visually verified through the windows that the suspect was still present.  The home of 4000 Deephaven Court has been verified by an undercover officer who arrived on the scene and verified that the suspect was still present in the residence.


End of Report.  No coroner's report.  No copy of the arrest warrant.  Typical ... time to go fishing.  She grabbed the legal size manila file on Lidsky as well as those of a couple of her other clients she would visit while she was at the jail, then grabbed her purse and headed down the long halls of the Public Defenders Office.  At the small waiting area, she told the receptionist at the counter where she was going so that she would put the magnet on the board next to Chris' name to "out." Chris glanced around the small waiting room with its bright colors, but dirty walls, with the children's toys scattered around, and seeing no one waiting, proceeded out the door to the elevators. She smoothed her navy blue Liz Clayborne skirt while she waited for the elevator to arrive on the 13th floor.  She knew the over the knee length skirt clung to her legs, and she wished she could give more of an impression of business.  She wished she chose her outfit more carefully that morning.  She was a tall woman with a thin, well shaped body.  Finding clothes that worked was not a difficult thing at 5'9", but she rarely took enough time out of her schedule to go shopping.  She stepped briskly into the empty elevator when it arrived.

Chris was surprised this case did not get more press than it did, but she was certain, as it came to trial, it would command more.  She pressed one for the first floor.  It was nothing unusual to find another body in Bennett like this one, she thought as the elevator moved to life.  The small, farming town just east of the metropolitan area was a popular place to dump bodies into a rapidly dug, shallow grave.  Almost as popular as taking them into the foothills without the additional risk of driving off a cliff if you were stoned or something. Farmers occasionally dug the stiffs up when they went to plow their fields in the spring.  Chris briefly wondered how that made the farmers feel after they worked so hard on their own land, minding their own business of producing food to bring to market.  Of course, in this case, original jurisdiction reverted to the original crime scene in the City and County of Denver.  She shook her head in exasperation.  Was not life just the best kind of joke?  Chris looked at her watch and saw that it was just after 4:00 pm.  She felt certain she could get out to the jail to talk to Lidsky, Thomas Michael and get his version of the truth before calling it a day.  She stepped off the elevator, walked through the lobby of 110 16th Street and walked across the snowy 16th Street Mall streets toward the Amoco Building where she parked her Chevette.

She drove easily through the maze of downtown streets to Colfax then west to Interstate 25, eventually turning off on I-70 eastbound.  The driving was fairly light in that direction, but the snow was slushy under her tires.  After the airport tunnels, she pulled over to the far right lane and the Havana Street exit. Crossing the railroad tracks, she pulled off onto Smith Road.  It was dark by now, and the street lights shone with splinters of light along the crack in her windshield as her wipers pushed the snow out of her view.  She parked her car in the snow covered dirt along the railroad tracks, gathered up her files, leaving her purse under her seat and checking to make sure she put ID in her pocket, then headed for the main entrance.

The room inside was much warmer, but darker in appearance, the facility having been built sometime in the 50's and looking its age.  There were rows of light brown chairs for the visitors to sit in, which Chris worked her way around after passing the Roll Call Room.  She went to the window of the entrance room control center and thankfully did not have to wait.  She was known at the jail, as she spent some time with her clients here, preparing cases.  She passed light small talk with the brown and tan clad Denver County Sheriff's deputy at the well protected window and retrieved her Request For Official Visit form. She thanked the female officer and sat down in one of the rows of chairs to fill in her name, agency name and address, as well as three of her clients' names.  She returned the form to the officer and sat back down to wait.

They waved her through the electronically controlled, steel doors that slid open, operated by the deputy in the control center.  She stood in the center waiting for the first set of doors to close before the second set would open.  Security was tight, and she was, as were her co-workers, glad to have a good rapport with the Denver Sheriff's Department to alleviate some of the hassles they could be forced through just to get their job done.  She went to one of the cubicles provided for attorneys with its bright yellow, plastic chairs and little white table between them.  The officer in the entrance's control center could see into each cubicle through the large windows that ran parallel along the entire wall in back of the control center.  Chris knew from a previous tour that the Master Control Center was down the hall further, where the inmates would pass by to go sit with their attorneys.

She stood in the doorway of the cubicle and waited to see one of her clients come down the long, dim hallway.  They would all be called, then escorted to sit on the benches much further down the hall near the Master Control Center until their turn, that was if they responded to their page over the loud speakers. Some of her clients kept her waiting and some did not.  She hoped this would be a non-wait day for her.  She wanted to get home at a decent hour to spend some time with her daughter.  She crossed her arms and absentmindedly tapped her toe on the floor. The hallway had a few deputies moving about their duties.  Chris waved hello to the chief who nodded amicably back as he passed her on his way to the rear of the jail with a deputy, deep in conversation.

One of her clients finally appeared, and she called him into the tiny room to discuss his case.  When she answered his questions, and he returned to the rear of the facility, she logged the visit in on the front of the manila folder on the next blank line.  She looked up to find her next client ready. His questions were routine, and she followed through with them patiently and with in depth knowledge as well as sympathetic understanding of his situation.  She liked being able to answer their questions and not leaving them in limbo to the complicated, indepth legal process.  The last to be seen was her new case.

Chris sat across from her client and after absorbing the usual denial, she leaned over the small, white table to look closely at him.  She did not speak for several minutes.  She observed that he was a clean shaven, attractive, young man with smallish blue eyes, blonde hair cut in a military like crew cut, and a face that looked chiseled from strong, determined stone. Her advantage right then in his case was that he apparently did not have an arrest record.  He was also a little unnerved to be locked up for the first time.  Finally, after staring down his watery blue eyes, he looked away.  Most criminals in her experience were not as tough as they thought they were and fewer still were true psychopaths.  They were just compulsive behavior types, and when you challenged them at the right time, in the right place, their stories no longer jived with each other. Their avoidance techniques sometimes interfered with her ability to build a sound defense in some cases.  She sensed that was what she was going to get here.  Most of the time, it represented a challenge to gain their confidence, but, in this case, she felt her own defense walls going up.  She resented this in herself a little.  She wanted him to be open with her and share his concerns so that she could have something to work with, but his denials of ever knowing the situation did not ring true. She was frustrated by being stone walled and determined to break it down for his own good and for her own sense of having done her job properly.

"I can't help you, Mr. Lidsky, in court, if you don't level with me.  Believe it or not, I would really like to help you through this."

"And what do you get out of this, browny points?  A gold star?  Why won't you turn around and give anything I tell you straight to the cops?"  Thomas Lidsky was still staring at the white, marbled looking, plastic table top, remembering the scene at the advisement.  He saw the DAs and Public Defenders apparently huddling around a table laughing.  He could not get it out of his mind.  He wondered if this one came here to laugh at him.

"Problem is that the law states that I must provide an affirmative defense for you, or I face charges myself.  If I were to go the police, I would find myself in front of the Disciplinary Counsel of the Colorado Supreme Court, arguing my own case, which would be indefensible.  I'm not asking you to trust me, and, quite frankly, I'm not sure anymore if I truly care if you do or not.  I just want you to give me something I can work with so that I can do my job.  Do we understand each other?"  Chris kept looking at her watch, worrying about her other life's obligations.

"I see.  Just a number ... So what if we try insanity as a defense?"  Lidsky was just testing the waters after her outburst.

"Yes, we could do that.  It would be an affirmative defense. First, though, before any adversarial proceedings attached, in the case of this violent a crime, you'd go in front of a court appointed psychiatrist or psychotherapist to determine your psychological ability to stand trial, so it would be a little harder of a defense.  If they determine you fit to stand trial, it may then be too difficult to prove you didn't have the psychological ability to form mens rea, or the intent, before the actus reus, or the act, of murder.  Then if we did prove it, you could be kept in the Colorado Mental Health Hospital indefinitely, which could be worse than a life sentence, in my opinion.  If you really didn't do it, is that what you want?" Chris looked at his bored eyes and knew he did not.

"Temporary insanity."

"Not an affirmative defense any longer.  People don't just wink in and out of insanity anymore.  Sort of a trend in the law. I gather you don't want to plead guilty?"  Chris waited for the response.

"I don't think that's very affirmative.  Might be rather trendy for the court, though."

Smart ass, Chris thought.  "All right.  Not Guilty."

"Yeah, right, not guilty with an explanation."  Lidsky was cleaning out his finger nails.  Chris just looked at him.

Chris thought he was rather meticulous to be a cutter. A gun maybe but hard to imagine blood under those fingernails at any point in time.  Oh, well, it was not her job to determine guilt or innocence, that was for the jury, but rather to provide a defense.  Looking at her watch and standing at the same time, Chris concluded her initial interview.  She produced a card from a breast pocket of her matching navy suit jacket and handed it to Mr. Lidsky.  "That's my number.  When you feel more open and willing to give me some details to work with, call me.  In the meantime we'll need to wait for the preliminary hearing results before we can address the question of a bond hearing.  But you'll probably find it denied in a violent crime like this one. We'll ask for a bond anyway and see where it gets us."  She turned on her stylish navy blue leather shoes to leave.

"Just a minute.  I have a question!"  Lidsky stood abruptly up from the yellow plastic chair, raising his voice just a little.  The deputy at the entrance control center looked questioningly through the glass windows that looked through each cubicle and on into his.  Lidsky did not really notice the deputy just then but stopped anyway when Chris ceased opening the door. He was angry with her negative attitude concerning his chances on a case that had nothing but circumstantial evidence at best.

Maybe he did have what it took; after all, carpenters often got dirt on their hands, Chris thought as she paused.  Guess this guy just preens himself a little more than most.  "Yes, Mr. Lidsky?"  She was overly tired and a little short with him.

"Where will I go and for how long if I'm found guilty? What are the sentencing laws?"  Lidsky's eyes bulged a little as he held his breath, waiting for the answer, and praying his new fancy-assed attorney had what it took to take apart their circumstantial evidence at his trial.

"If we're very unlucky, they'll go for the death penalty. If we're very lucky, murder one, life imprisonment, which for a crime committed in January of 1990 would total 40 calendar years minimum.  Parole would only be possible after the 40 years, if, say, you're given 48 years, sentenced to the custody of the Colorado Department of Corrections.  You have any enemies there they need to know about?"  Chris smiled a little at one corner of her mouth, hoping, unreasonably, Mr. Lidsky would meet the parole board and become Mr. Lucien T. Mason's problem instead of hers. She tossed her hair and gathered her files, thinking again was not life just the best kind of joke?

She turned to leave and let him stew on his prospects, which, judging from his open mouth, was apparently exactly what he was doing.  She wanted to get home before the big snow storm hit, and Smith Road always seemed to have the worse blowing snow of many of the local roads, as she saw it.  After passing through the sliding metal doors, she walked out to the "parking lot" in the dirt off of Smith Road and climbed into her light blue Chevette.  She was glad she put the money into maintaining the little car on nights like this.  Of course with the sun down, at this late point, the bright lights of the newly built nearby prison and that of the jail shown off of the large white flakes that sporadically blew against the windshield of her car. She pulled out of the side of the road beside the railroad tracks and drove to Peoria.  She headed north for I-70.  She preferred the turnoff onto the highway from Peoria to I-70 east because it gave her some leeway before the airport tunnels came up.

She looked around her at the lightly falling snow and thought about Lorrie, her daughter.  She was in college at UCD, just as the victim in the Lidsky case was a student at Metro. Same campus.  She could not fathom what she would do if she ever lost her only child.  She loved Lorrie to the deepest recesses of her heart.  She was a sweet, loving, carefree, young woman who lived with her mother and behaved like an angel.  Chris smiled at other mothers whose daughters were unruly and arrogant when she ran into them at the King Soopers or where ever.  Her daughter was too good to be true.  She knew that Luke deserved some of the credit for this, and she grudgingly gave it to him.  He was a wonderful father for her, except that he did not take enough time out of his schedule to see her.  They both instilled values in Lorrie that few parents bothered to do anymore.  And even though Luke wanted more children, she felt that Lorrie had their full attention and was the better for it.  She did not have to compete with any other children to get her parents concern, their love, or their time.  She knew uncomfortably that these were the reasons she was not handling the Lidsky case as well as she should be.  She felt she was spending time making verbal points with him instead of helping him, which was unlike her. Chris was buried deep in her thoughts as she negotiated the streets that were becoming slightly slick as she headed for the "mouse trap" at I-25 then north for home.








Walking across the master bedroom of their north Denver home, Lorrie picked up the phone and cradled it next to her ear. She got home not long before from school after taking the RTD bus.  She was excited about the new assignment in Constitutional Law class, and she wanted to get a head start on the project. Lorrie punched in the numbers from memory.  It was much more fun to concentrate on school now that she had a close friend in a course with her.  She thought about how many years she had known Theresa, as the phone rang on Theresa's private line, and how they started out at UCD together on different tracks, only to come together after the first year.  They were now both in Criminal Justice.  Her lithe, young body paced around her pastel- colored room with its cheery wall mirror and green plants in brass planters.  Theresa picked up after the eighth ring.

"Hello."

"Hi!  It's me, whatcha doin?"

"Shedding uterine wall.  Thanks for asking."

Lorrie choked and laughed as she coughed.  Theresa's comebacks were one in a million sometimes, Lorrie thought and could not stop laughing.  She could picture her laying on her bed with way too much white and crossing her feet on her headboard of her waterbed.  Thoughts of that bed brought Jimmie to mind.

"Lord!  Caught you at the wrong time, huh?  So Jimmie hasn't knocked you up yet?"

"Bite your tongue, girl!  How about Mr. Milton?"

"Now, that's gross."

"About the best way I'm going to get a good grade in Con Law!  How did I ever let you talk me into this class?  I just wanted to sit back and mind my own business studying often contradicting opinions on the criminal law, but, no, I had to go and sign up for torture, destruction, and the interpretation of a dusty, over-applied, and, seemingly, ever-changing-opinioned document."

"It's a required course!  On with it, woman!  We must forge on if we're going to get into law school to explore the depths and sophistication of what we are now just meddling with. The Constitution and the Appeal Process are all.  Case Law reigns supreme in this country."

"Please, spare me the rhetoric!  You called wishing to discuss the Terry Stop, I assume."

"That and a few other inconsequential things.  Perhaps the Fourth Amendment comes to mind?"  Lorrie cocked her head, amusedly, and tossed her light brown hair with a flick of her hand.

Theresa groaned at the mention of the Fourth Amendment. They plotted their assignment as Lorrie paced back and forth in the master bedroom of her mother's Denver suburban home, holding the base of the phone in one hand, which had its umbilical cord to the receiver cradled against Lorrie's flushed and excited face.  The report would be wonderful, and she was glad Milton let them pick their own partners in the course.  She knew Theresa was a whiz at research, and Lorrie knew how to write ... the brief would be a piece of cake with their two geniuses at work.

They went into depth on the reasonableness clause as the basis for Terry v. Ohio when Lorrie heard the car pull into the driveway.  The discussion with Theresa electrified her, and she wanted to go into it in more detail on a different level with her mother.

"Okay, so you're going to check out the reasons why seizure of anything other than a weapon in a stop-and-frisk would not be covered by Terry v. Ohio, and get back with me so I can get cracking on the draft on my PC? ... Good!  Great!  Then I'll have the introduction to the points of understanding done later tonight ... that's fine ... my mom just pulled in the driveway and hit the garage door opener so I'm going to take off and help her with dinner ... okay, see you then!"

Lorrie hung up the phone and placed it back on her bedside table.  She thought about the chicken she defrosted earlier that day and dashed toward the kitchen to whip up her herbal chicken recipe.  She entered the small kitchen in their two story home and ripped open the package of chicken laying on the stove. Turning to the sink under the window over looking the large and largely unkept back yard, especially so since her father was no longer around to keep it up, she turned on the faucet to a warm setting.  She noticed the snow that started earlier that day and fell on the ragged looking evergreens in the back.  She started to wash the chicken thighs, pulling off the skins, then placed them in a rectangle lasagna pan she yanked out of the cabinet below the counter next to the refrigerator.  She added the herbs from the cabinet just above the counter, then opened the refrigerator door looking for the lemon juice when her mom walked through the door.

"Dinner just started?"  Chris was tugging off her heavy weight trench coat, putting that and her purse on the wooden coat rack just outside the kitchen.  Her hair was somewhat wet from the snow storm outside.

"Yes, sorry.  Theresa and I were on the phone working on our Terry v. Ohio project."

"You know I appreciate everything you do around here. Just let me know where I can help."  Chris came up behind her daughter and placed both hands gently on her shoulders.  "Need me to throw together a green salad?"  Chris moved to open the refrigerator and took out the lettuce, tomatoes, Kraft shredded cheese, jar of sliced mushrooms, and a cucumber.

She turned to the table in the middle of the kitchen and placed the fixings on it.  She returned and reached past her daughter for a knife in the block on the counter.  "So tell me about the Terry Stop project.  How's it going?"

Lorrie prepared some Minute Rice and spoke to her mom animatedly about the project.  Chris smiled, remembering what it was like when she first started discovering the law and its intricacies.  Her daughter obviously found Con Law as interesting as she did when she was in school.

They finished the preparations for the meal, and placed the chicken in the oven.  Chris listened to her daughter, asking questions when Lorrie drew in breath, and felt the warm kinship she and her daughter shared.  They both sat in the orange junk chairs at the table Chris picked up at a garage sale shortly after the divorce.  She was lucky she got the house.  Most everything else had to be sold and split in the divorce proceedings.  It was ugly back then but not as bitter as some divorces she had seen.  She had redecorated the place with inexpensive wicker wall hangings, a few strategically placed green plants, and some warm lighting with lamps from one of the discount stores.  Chris looked at Lorrie and listened to her talk exuberantly about constitutional law, search warrants and citizen's rights.  Chris knew both her and Luke's reasons for putting away any bitterness was due to this vibrant, young woman so full of life and living.

Lucien and Christina Mason did not have a lot of money at any point of their lives together; however, a divorce brought additional financial hardship.  As a Parole Officer for the Colorado Department of Corrections, Luke made good money but not a fortune.  Chris' student loan bills nearly broke them, but she could not give up her dream.  There were times when she wanted to because she could not exactly call her days at the University of Denver Law School happy and carefree.  She did not exactly enjoy the three years earning her J.D., but she kept seeing the bigger picture, and it helped carry her through.  She was living that dream now as an attorney, and she was watching that same dream developing in her young daughter.  The excitement Lorrie displayed was refreshingly different than her own approach to Law School, and she hoped her daughter would maintain her momentum. Chris also knew she would stop at nothing to get her daughter that education and that chance at her dream.  Absolutely nothing. Luke better understand that, even if she had to drag a crow bar to his office to meet with him on it.  Child support by no means ended at eighteen anymore.

When the timer went off, Chris got up and removed the chicken from the oven.  This dish of Lorrie's was one of Chris' favorites, and, as usual, it smelled great.  She placed the pan on a hot pad on the table while Lorrie dished the rice onto a couple of plates.  With salad, chicken and gravy added to the plate, they both sat down to their meal.  Chris lapsed into a comfortable silence and chewed her food slowly.  She was thinking about Luke and their years together.  Here she was in her early forties, alone, raising a nineteen-year-old.  She never felt a kid was too old to benefit from a positive role model and, therefore, she was "raising" her still.  Chris dated a few men here and there over the three years they were divorced but nothing serious.  She just was not interested half the time. She knew when she started law school all those years ago that he would resent her higher education, but she honestly thought he would adjust, especially when the increased income coming in eventually made a difference in the bills.

She never knew exactly what happened after that.  He resented the student loan bills even more, and her deciding on a job with the State of Colorado was not a way to get rich quick. She felt some resentment herself on this issue.  He worked for the State of Colorado as well, so why should her job bring out the resentment in him?  In the back of her mind she was not quite sure whether it was her choice of the Public Defenders Office because he was a "cop" who worked for the Department of Corrections as a Parole Officer or not.  She never thought that should be a factor, that was until the day came when she was assigned a case to sue the DOC in which Luke was named as a defendant.  She was divorced from him then and could have accepted the case, but she could not go through with it. She still loved him; she just did not know why most of the time.

"Mom?"

"Yes."  Chris focused her eyes again and looked down at her plate as she speared some lettuce with her fork.

"You okay?  You looked like you were a million miles away."

"Oh, yeah.  I'm okay."  Chris smiled at her beautiful daughter.

"Thinking about life?  Or Dad again?"

Chris sighed and pushed a slice of chicken around in the gravy on her plate.  "Little of both ... so how's he doing?"

"Fine.  He's healthy, working too much, and argumentative, as usual."  Lorrie thought about her Dad as she bit into a chicken thigh.

"Do you resent us for turning your life upside down?" It was a question Chris worried about often.

Lorrie shook her head and finished her mouthful.  "No. I was sixteen when you decided to split up.  Old enough to understand it wasn't my fault, and old enough to understand that people have to lead their own lives.  You've got to do what you've got to do."

"Does it make you afraid to start a relationship yourself? I haven't seen you date very much these years."

"You should talk!  Neither have you, but, no, it's not a factor.  Not really, anyway.  I want someone solid, who wants to be with me and wants to stick around for more than a month. You know how hard that is to find? ... It takes time."  Lorrie looked back down at her plate and tried to concentrate on the last of her salad on her plate.

Chris stood and took her plate to the sink to give it a quick rinse before putting it in the dishwasher.  She turned toward the open doorway and stopped to smooth her daughter's hair and kiss the top of her head.

"Let it take all the time you want, Baby Doll.  I'm going downstairs and watch 'Murder She Wrote.'  Want to join me?"

"I'm going to finish clearing the table then write the introduction to our project.  Will you proof read it when I'm done?"

"Now there's a deal!  I get out of cleaning the kitchen, and all I have to do is proof read an introduction!  Wouldn't pass it up for anything!"  Chris and Lorrie giggled over their verbal contract, and Chris reached into the refrigerator for a Diet Pepsi on her way out of the kitchen.

Lorrie rushed through cleaning the kitchen so she could dive into her room and work on her personal computer.  It was not a great PC.  It was an old 8086 processor dinosaur with a 40 MB hard drive.  Sometimes it was so slow compared to the 286s in the PC Lab at school that it nearly drove her crazy, but it was at least something compared to nothing.  Her mother's in the front room was only for her legal work and off limits to Lorrie. Lorrie had a standard typewriter hooked up as a printer, and this improved the quality of her output.  She loved taking the justification off the wordprocessing package and letting her instructors think she typed it all.  They must think she was one hell of a typist!  Perfect, every time.  She slammed out the introduction and switched on the typewriter.  Grabbing a blank sheet out of the lower desk drawer, she stuck it in the typewriter and invoked the codes on the keyboard that converted it from an electronic typewriter to a printer.  As soon as the print function completed, she pulled it out of the machine and ran down downstairs to her mother.

As expected, her mother was parked in her reclining rocker with a Diet Pepsi in one hand, the remote control in the other and a blanket wrapped around her legs and lap.  Lorrie sat down in the chair that used to be her father's spot to sit, although his large Lazy Boy was long gone.  The remote control used to be his exclusive property too, but all that was changed now. It was a change Lorrie could deal with, but she wished she could see him more often.  He never seemed to have much time anymore.  It reminded her of the middle school plays he missed because he was busy with his job, as well as the spelling bees and father daughter dances.  Lorrie inwardly sighed and waited for the next commercial, knowing her mother enjoyed this program more than any other.  Chris's eyes remained glued to the screen and her mind to the plot.  The remote control stood poised in air as though ready for action but was very seldom used these days.  The commercial break finally hit, and Lorrie passed her mother the paper's introduction.

"Oh, all right.  A promise is a promise."  Chris smiled and reached for the paper.  "But you know that it's rare when I don't have a case to prepare or some brief to draft of my own.  I just thought maybe your old mom could sit back and vegetate in front of the tube for once ... "

Lorrie laughed, knowing her mother was reading the introduction the whole time she talked.  She frowned a bit when her mother reached for the pencil and a scratch pad kept next to the phone on the table between the chairs.

"You might want to look into these cases as a more indepth approach, as well as redesign it in a brief format, of the importance of the Terry v. Ohio case, emphasizing its impact on the interpretation of the Fourth Amendment."  Chris jotted down the cases and passed it all back to Lorrie.

Lorrie read over the notes as her mother's program came back on.  She hoped the Auraria Campus Library had the Shepards or Supreme Court Reporters because she hated going over to DU Law School when she could not check anything out there.  Lorrie would have to sit in the DU Law Library and scribble down the points of law she thought were important.  Lorrie also knew her mother enjoyed seeing her do just that because it taught her to think under pressure and to quickly read for the important factors of her research.  Lorrie contemplated this as she absent mindedly watched the TV authoress unravel her latest crime to the delight of her many fans.

When the program ended and Chris activated the waiting remote control for Channel 2 and the news, Lorrie opened the conversation.

"Okay, I'll look into the citations.  Mom ... "

"Yes, dear."

"I'm not sure what I want to do.  I mean, I know I want to go to Law School.  Probably DU like you did, but what then?" Lorrie leaned back in the chair and flipped the lever that elevated her feet like her mother's were.

"Well, that's something you'll have to think about and do a little research into some of your options.  I always thought Property Law or Water Law would be interesting avenues."

"Well, I kind of like Criminal Law."

"Hmm.  Not much leeway there.  For or against the accused?"

"I'm not sure.  What if I wanted to be a Public Defender like you?"

"No glory.  And most of the cases are sad.  It's like watching this news here ..."  She waved the remote control at the screen.  "... nothing good ever really comes along.  Most of the time the whole situation is just sad.  The defendant messed up, or the system is taking advantage of a situation, or something of that nature.  It's just perpetually sad.  You see some really ugly things, and you wish they never happened, but they did, and now you're in the middle of it.  You think the defendant is salvageable, but sometimes you know he/she is guilty, and they know it, too.  But the system gives them something like a million years, and then there's nothing left to salvage because prison never really helps.  The prisons exist to remove the offender from the public to prevent the crime form happening again or to shelve them to show who's boss.  I'm not sure which.  When a really ugly crime happens, and you're assigned the case, you don't look forward to defending someone who you think did it. It's not fun.  It's sad."  Chris turned her large, warm, brown eyes briefly to her daughter, then looked back at the screen that flickered electronic colors over the room.

"They never had the sense to stop it from happening in the first place.  All you can do sometimes is provide representation. You want to work to make sure they're sentenced proportionately, as the system will not otherwise.  You either really believe in what you're doing, or you flounder in all the sadness ... Wouldn't you like something happier in your life?"

"So you really believe in what you're doing?"  Lorrie watched her mother's profile as Chris watched the television screen.  Chris' expression did not change.

"I believe that without the Public Defenders Office the indigent offender would wallow in the system.  Trial court is too complicated to muddle through alone, and who else is going to take them on?  No other attorney would.  Their constitutional rights need to be looked after if nothing else because they are never supposed to lose the majority of those, but in reality they often do."

"Don't you ever feel badly for the people these indigent's victimized?"  With that question, Chris' face flickered a bit.

"Very much so, but you have to remember there is rarely a person who is totally innocent.  Very few people walking down the street, completely minding their own business, are attacked and victimized.  The streets are dangerous, mind you, and you have to use common sense as to where and when you walk - which is a simple and ugly reality - but most perpetrators know the people they victimize.  What's worse, most people exploited sometimes do something to escalate the situation.  Take domestic violence. You'll see some spouses who will start an argument, knowing that the other spouse will react badly to the comment or argument, but they say it anyway.  Violence is often the result."  Chris sighed and switched off the television.  She turned in her chair with one blanketed knee poking above the arm of the chair, looked at her daughter, and continued.

"I'm not saying they deserved whatever happened.  No one deserves violence, but they pushed the reaction button for whatever reason.  Then there are those who are falsely accused and need someone to defend them, but you don't always win those cases just because you should.  Juries reach their verdicts, as well as convictions, based on their own feelings.  It was decided everyone accused of a crime should have representation, so the Public Defenders Office came about in the '70s.  That's fairly recently when you think of American history or the history of law.  I get something out of being a part of all that, but not everyone else would.  Now let's hit the hay, sweetheart. This isn't a decision you will make for yourself overnight or anytime soon.  Let's just concentrate on your Bachelor's Degree, and go from there."

Lorrie smiled at her mom and said good night.  She tripped lightly past her mother and up the stairs, turning out lights as she went.  Chris resisted the temptation to pat her daughter's behind as she passed Chris by, remembering the lecture she received from Lorrie after her seventeenth birthday about her being a grown woman now.  Chris smiled affectionately at her daughter's retreating form and thought about how quickly she had grown.  She hoped Luke had not missed too much of that in the last few years they had all been apart.  She sighed and flicked the lever on the chair, lowering her feet to the floor.

Chris walked across the finished half basement, which looked much the same as the upstairs, preparing to retire to her own room downstairs.  Chris gave up on any semblance of a master bedroom when she and Luke split up, so she gave that to Lorrie upstairs, and she took one of the smaller ones downstairs. It made her feel less lonely.  She started to change into her nightgown but stood for awhile in front of the mirror, naked. She still had a good body.  Her belly flattened back out after giving birth to Lorrie and remained that way ever since. She kept active, working out when she could at a downtown health club.  Her breasts had a tendency to sag just a bit, and she cupped her hands on them, lifting them for the mirror and wondered what it would be like to have a breast lift.  She let them go and gave herself a break.  She sighed and realized there had not been anyone to share them with since the divorce, so what was the point in having firm, little, young breasts?  She slipped the flowered nightgown over her head and pulled the blankets down from the single bed.  She had a long day.

As she climbed under the covers, she thought about her comments to her daughter about there seldom being a completely innocent person in cases where violence erupted, and she thought about the Lidsky case and whether he was a bad example of that point.  She closed her eyes and thought about the ugly comparison between the victim in his case and her own daughter's life. She hoped they stepped up security at the Auraria Campus after the stalking incident was reported.  Students should not have to worry about anything but midterms, papers, and finals. After awhile she dismissed the thoughts and drifted off to sleep.


























CHAPTER FOUR





Lucien "Luke" Mason looked nervously over his shoulder and pulled his jacket tighter around his neck.  God, he was cold.  He walked the sidewalk outside his parolee's registered place of residence and tried to look casual, like he was just one of the neighbors.  He hated these stakeouts where he needed to verify the residence of each of his caseload.  His still athletic body paced slowly back and forth, and he thought, not for the first time, that he wished he had a dog to walk or something so he did not feel as though he stuck out.  He determined to return to the car shortly and continue his watch through a pair of binoculars. Fortunately, this inmate paroled to his brother's house, which was situated near Cheeseman Park.  It was not a bad neighborhood where being discovered might mean a lynch mob of minorities that wanted to string his white butt up from the nearest tree. His job made him a target, and his training in weapons and Pressure Point Control Tactics, or personal combat, was his primary protection.

He wiped his hands over his stubbled face and walked across the street to his assigned parole vehicle.  The dark, two door Oldsmobile sedan reminded him of a pimp mobile trying to keep a low profile.  It was not his choice of car but it was functional. Luke opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.  He was frustrated because his walk got him full of snow, and he still did not get any better view into the house to see if he could spot his parolee.  He picked up the binoculars and watched the movements of the parolee's brother and his wife as they watched television.

After about another half hour of freezing his rear off and thinking about the 89 other cases he had to deal with, the parolee, Daniel Townscend, pulled up in his brother's car. That was a good sign.  Now, if he stayed here or gave Luke some impression that intended to stay here, Luke could go home to his small, run down, overpriced, little apartment near Stapleton Airport.  Luke thought it ironic, as he watched Townscend closely through his binoculars, that Luke chose the same area where he once lived in an apartment with his then wife, Chris, and young teenage daughter, Lorrie, way back shortly after Chris started Law School at DU.

Luke considered it a great compromise to CHris' pursuit of higher education, even though he only had a Bachelor of Arts in Criminal Justice.  He had a lot of problems with the guys at work kidding him about how much smarter his wife was than he. Luke had the pressures from work, the strange hours and pages in the middle of the night and with the added feelings of inadequacy he experienced when he returned back home.  Sometimes he felt like screaming.  One night the pager went off while they were love making.  She just finished a midterm that day and felt like celebrating.  It was passionate, and he had her on top for once when the damned thing went off.  She climbed off him, pulled on her robe and left the room for their small kitchen.  Luke was pissed.  They had had a large argument about it, with her throwing in his face that she felt like the parolees were all watching whenever she heard that pager go off.  Chris did not understand why he would not turn it off when they were in bed together.  He paced the floors that night, trying to explain to her that it was his job and that the job was putting food on the table, financing the kid through private school, and paying for her law books.  Luke was madder than he had been in a long time. He felt like he never got a break.  He had enough problems dealing with the job being twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without her complaining about it being an inconvenience for her.  She used to tolerate the job hours before she enrolled in law school.  Then all of a sudden she was more important than he was.

It was the same argument many nights after that.  When she graduated law school and passed the bar, she added injury to insult by signing up with the public defender's office.  If Luke thought he had it bad from the guys at work that his wife was smarter, he could not even think about how bad it got when she went over to the "other side."  Luke took the brunt of that abuse and turned the other cheek.  The newly added income allowed them to buy a small, two story house in north Denver, but between the mortgage, her student loan bills, the cost of living, and the plans for Lorrie to go get her bachelors degree in a few years, the arguments increased.  That, and his caseload never let up for a moment.  Then Chris' arguments turned into fear of his getting into something over his head on the street and leaving her and Lorrie alone in life.  He had had it.  He did not need this pressure of watching his back anymore than he did already. Luke was wound up tightly at work, on the streets, and at home. All he could look forward to when he came home were the arguments. He finally left.  He got the apartment and had not moved in three years.

His home life had no pressure in it anymore, but he stayed away from home as much as he could because it echoed with how empty it was.  He saw Lorrie when he could these days.  He would take a break sometimes while she was at school and show up on campus to take her to the nearby Burger King for a quick lunch together.  He liked that she was studying Criminal Justice because he felt she was following in his footsteps.  Luke had the ugly suspicion that she was really following in her mother's, just as Lorrie closely resembled a somewhat shorter version of her mother, but he never asked because he did not want to know. He did not hate Chris; actually he was a little embarrassed about how much he missed her.  Luke had dated a few others in the intervening three years, but he was uncomfortable with them. Sometimes he prayed the pager would go off and give him an excuse to leave.  No relationship lasted more than a few weeks at a stretch.  He failed to call them, and they invariably found someone else.  Luke would just thank God and keep running when he finally gave up looking.

Luke ran his hands through his conservatively cut, light brown hair, which was streaked here and there with gray, then down along the back of his neck, rolling his head from side to side to ease the tightness in his shoulders.  He concentrated on the house and resituated the binoculars to his blue eyes in time to watch Townscend head up the stairs inside the house.  So far, so good.  An upstairs light switched on behind the curtains, and Luke lowered the binoculars.  After a half hour the light went out, as did the ones downstairs.  Everyone seemed to have gone to bed at approximately 24:00 hours.  He would give it another hour, and if the guy stayed home, he would document that he has maintained this residence, which was the one submitted in the parole plan.  Townscend knew, like all the others, that he had to report any changes of residence so that Luke could pay a visit to the home and check it out prior to the parolee moving in. It became additionally complicated when Luke had to run the other occupants through the NCIC/CCIC computer network to verify that they did not have a criminal record.  He made it hard on his parolees who wanted to change residency.  Luke personally did not appreciate the additional work load.

The hour passed slowly, and, as usual, when he was bored he thought of Chris.  Most of all he thought about sex with Chris. He wondered why the human mind dwelled on that physical aspect of life when things got slow.  It was not that he minded thinking about it, but he tried to think of other things to keep more alert.  The cold was helping to put him to sleep behind the wheel of his parole vehicle, and his mind began to wander as he watched the now darkened house.  He remembered the really great times before the kid came along with the unbridled passion and the long sleepless nights.  Chris loved sex as much as he did, and they seemed perfectly matched.

Lorrie put a small damper on things initially, but they got back up to speed after she started sleeping in her own room the through the night.  That took a couple of years, but it was like rolling the clock back.  Once, they christened the new sofa they bought as their first piece of real furniture and laughed quietly the whole time.  The kid slept soundly while her parents carried on like a couple of adolescents.

Luke started at Denver Parole Operations in 1981 when Lorrie was only eight.  He struggled back then with the basic training after being hired, as well as the on-going training in conjunction with the Colorado State Patrol with a .357 Magnum and a .38 Special.   Luke did not upgrade his training with Pressure Point Control Tactics, a form of personal defense, at a POST certified academy and start using a Smith & Wesson 9mm until the 90s.  The training and constant qualifications were difficult, but back then was hardest when he had to endure the week away from his family while he went down to Canon City for the DOC Training Center held in the old, rambling, historical, former Warden's House on the grounds of the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility.  He enjoyed the intense 40 hour training and touring the numerous, old rooms; many of them that had old French doors that led into beautiful, old courtyards.  On one side, the yard had the largest stone fire pit, built with a large chimney, that Luke had ever seen, but he still could not wait to get back to his family.  When he got back to Denver, he and Chris carried on as usual, but Luke was to find out how much the Colorado Department of Corrections would change his life.

The hours were long, and he was tired when he came home most nights, too tired to carry on as they did once.  He thought that was when Chris first started thinking about going back to school. He remembered her researching various schools for master's programs.  He failed to see how they could afford her to go to school when they could not even afford to have more children, but Chris put up with a lot in those days when Luke worked long hours, in some cases with female parole officers.  She never mistrusted him or complained when he would come home in one of his quiet moods from the frustration of the workload and the constant dealings with the seedier sides of life.  That lasted about two years when she finally settled on law school. Neither one of them had much time for sex then.  When they did get it, it was crazy sometimes.  He remembered the time in the apartment laundry room.  Luke came home from work, checked in on Lorrie, who was fast asleep in her room, and went looking for Chris. She was in the laundry room doing the wash and had her hair tied up on her head, combating the summer heat, when he came up behind her and ran his hands all over her body, kissing the back of her neck.  They pretended they were strangers.  He did not think he would ever stop shivering that night when he finally climaxed.

Luke Mason shook his head and looked at his watch.  He realized the hour passed, and he started the vehicle.  The motor was fairly quiet, and he kept his lights off until he was a little further down the block.  His car looked like it could have pulled out of any of the driveways in the neighborhood as he headed home to his quiet, little apartment.  He could have swung by another parolee's apartment on the way and completed a quick verification that he was there, but Luke was too tired at that point.  He would verify that parolee was at work tomorrow. His conscience cleared that he was doing a good job, he concentrated on the drive home.

The laundry room came to mind again as he negotiated the dark, snowy Denver streets.  He remembered her turning around and melding her body against his, kissing him.  He lifted her by her legs, which she spread in obvious anticipation, and placed her roughly on the edge of the folding table, bruising her small, tight buttocks ever so slightly.  He had one hand deep under her sun dress while the other grappled with his zipper.  She was laughing at him quietly, adding to his frustration.  As soon as he had his pants down and her underwear flung in the general direction of the washing machine, he took her.  While he enjoyed the depths of her body, she leaned back on her elbows and undid the buttons at the top of the dress, unhooking the front of her bra.  He always enjoyed watching her body and breasts bounce and jiggle with each thrust.  They both moaned softly, and he prayed no one used their key to enter the laundry room at that moment. In the spirit of their game, he tilted his head toward the ceiling and closed his eyes.  Suddenly she was a blonde. She climaxed shortly before him, feeling like little earthquakes along his length, making it a little wetter for him to reach his climax.  Later he asked her what she thought about and received a rude awakening.  She thought about the young, blonde, long haired, totally muscle-bound, tanned guy who lived two doors down.  That was another big argument.  He pointed out that he never knew his fantasy, but he was not sure from that day on if hers would ever become less of a fantasy.  He made the "compromise" to live closer to school for her when their lease ran out a couple of months later.  So they packed their things and moved, and he breathed a sigh of relief, feeling he had averted a possible disaster.

Luke turned into his apartment parking lot, which thankfully was not filled up with airport parking, and thought about a hot cup of tea.  He tromped up the snowy stairs to his second floor apartment.  Luke liked the second floor because he was above anything that might be coming his way, if one of the parolees decided eliminating his Parole Officer was a good idea, and he was below the roof for any of those previously charged with burglary.  It never hurt to be careful.  He unlocked the heavy deadbolt he installed, which was much to the management's chagrin.  They chilled after he gave them a duplicate key. That part sucked about apartment living, but, at that stage of the game, he could not afford another house.  Part of his pay check was on wage assignment through the courts to go to Chris for Lorrie and the house.  He flicked on the lights and closed the door behind him, locking the deadbolt.  He never bothered with the chain.  If they could get the deadbolt open, they were smart enough to use a rubberband on the end of a pen to slide off the chain.  He walked into the kitchen and filled an old styled percolator with water and placed some Sleepytime herbal tea in the strainer.  Luke put it all back together and plugged in the cord.  He pulled off his gray Gortex jacket, tossing it on a piece of the cheap lawn furniture "decorating" his living room.

The bathroom door closed behind him, as he went in and started stripping off his clothes for a shower, pitching his dirty clothes into an old hamper.  Luke took a shower at night so he could sleep a little later in the morning.  All he would have to worry about then was running the electric razor over his face, brushing his teeth, pulling on some clean clothes, and driving to his first stop, usually at some parolee's place of business to verify that he was there and working.  Certain agreements were reached with the Parole Board and submitted to the Parole Officer as part of the parole agreement, signed before they ever left their respective CDOC facility.  Luke started the water and stepped under the hot spray, letting it work out the soreness in his lightly muscled shoulders.  He ran his hands over his well shaped face and soaped up his 6'3" frame.  After washing, he turned off the water and stepped out.  He toweled off and ran to the bedroom to grab a pair of light weight sweats.  He kept the heat low to save money and preferred wearing sweats to bed in the winter to compensate.  He resentedly wondered if Chris had to make sacrifices like that, and he wondered how his life ever got so complicated.  Sometimes the answer came up:  law school. He wished she just wanted another kid.  That was something he could have given her and felt more the man for it.  Under the sweat top, he scratched his lightly hairy, smooth belly and headed back for the kitchen.

The tea was done, and he poured a cup.  Pulling up a folding chair to the card table he used in the place of a diningroom table, he sat down and reached for the pad of paper and pen he kept there.  He planned his day tomorrow by each parolee's name and his final destination.  He did not want to drive all over Denver from one end to the other and back again in one day. He knew his cases pretty well and scheduled his time by location, but he had a few unknowns, with inmates looking to parole. He unfolded the map he kept next to the phone and looked up some of the addresses.  His job was to feel out whether they were acceptable places to parole, or to work, and interview the families or friends where the inmate wanted to parole.  His report would be part of the basis of deciding whether the inmate would parole at that time.

Luke sighed, sat back and sipped his tea.  Tomorrow was Thursday and soon enough it would be Monday, where his parolees reported to the office to check in, and he additionally would calculate their earn time for the month, among other tedious paperwork duties.  If they were following the parole plan properly, they "earned time" at ten days a month, which whittled down the amount of time they had to be on parole.  After they killed their number, they were no longer his problem, and he had no right to track them anymore.  If they screwed up and were revoked back to a facility, then they lost all that earn time gained on parole.  In the meantime, he did things like administer drug testing and completed reports.  If they were drug abusers, he could usually depend on a hot "UA", or urinalysis.  He would document it, and recommend a parole revocation hearing.  If they were caught by Denver P.D., they were automatically set up for a revocation hearing, which consisted of meeting with a couple of the Parole Board members at the Denver County Jail, or in whatever county where they were nabbed.  Luke would always be notified when they were picked up, and he would have to run out there and place a hold on them.

Luke finished up his scheduling and his tea.  He stood, stretched his tall frame and headed for bed then cursed his absentmindedness and went to unplug the percolator.  His feet were cold on the tiled, kitchen floor, and he quickly made his way to the bedroom.  As he climbed under the warm covers, the pager went off.  He groaned and rolled out of bed.  Luke picked it up off the bathroom floor, where he tossed it earlier, and read the digital readout.  Once at the card table, he sat down and dialed the number.  He had a brief conversation with one of his parolee's, who got a new job and started it tomorrow morning. He wrote down the information and asked him why it took him so long to call it in.  The guy gave some song and dance about just finding out.  Yeah, yeah, whatever.  Luke hung up.  He did not think it was going to be such a hot job that popped up in the middle of the night, and Luke penned it into his schedule. Shit, now he had to take a leak.  He should not have had so much tea.

By the time he crawled into bed it was well after 1:30 in the morning, and he set the cheap alarm clock on the floor by the bed for 8:00 am, allowing himself some of his compensation time with which he had an ongoing agreement with his supervisor. Sleep overcame his hard worked body, which was laying face down on the waterbed he picked up inexpensively at a garage sale. The snoring was so loud it would have undoubtedly drowned out the sound of the pager laying on the card table had it gone off again that night.









Chris sat at her desk, rubbing her eyes late the following Friday evening.  The day seemed to fly by without her noticing it.  She looked up at the clock on her wall.  It was about five thirty.  The Denver streets were dark below her, and she walked to the window and parted the curtains to watch the tiny images of people on the sidewalk below, moving to and fro, on their ways toward their homes.  She let the curtains fall back with a sigh and turned back to the room.  The shag lamp on her desk threw a warm light everywhere she looked.  She preferred a desk lamp that looked a little like a living room lamp for the ambience it gave the office.  She felt less stark and cold about her job that way rather than having the overhead fluorescent lights. Peculiarly enough, she actually saved the State of Colorado some money that way.

Chris paced around the room, rehearsing the words she wanted to present in her opening remarks to the jury in one of her cases.  She had been working on it all afternoon, and she had had a busy morning with preliminary hearings.  Her case load existed at its usual eighty-five.  It would be another late night, she thought.  She walked back to the curtains and looked again at the streets below, lit by the street lights.  There was very little snow left on the roads and none on the sidewalks.  Typically of Colorado, the moment the sun came out, the snow evaporated in the intense Southwestern rays.  It was quite warm some winter days, if one stood in the sun.  She returned to her pacing and rehearsing when there was a knock on her office door.

"Yes?"  Chris asked.  She thought most of her colleagues went home already.

Eric popped his head in.  "Hi.  Still at it, I see." He smiled warmly at her.

"Yes."  She gestured to the desk with her notes and opening remarks typed out from the computer.  Chris liked Eric and encouraged his opinions on her work.  She got along with him about as well as most of the other attorneys in her office, all of which she was on very good terms.

"Hey, you know I'd help if I had the time, but for once my case load has eased up, so I'm planning on taking the wife and kids out for pizza.  Catch you Monday, okay?  And try to have a good weekend, okay?"  He started to leave and close the door behind him.  "One last thing.  You'll do fine, but good luck Monday morning anyway, huh?"

She smiled fondly at him.  "Thanks."

After she heard Eric retreat down the empty halls of the Public Defenders Office, she went back to her pacing.  She started her opening remarks three or four times, then stopped in the middle of the large office and dropped her head to her chest.

"Oh, hell."  She laughed a little at herself and shook her head.  It was gone.

She knew she was overworked and over-stressed.  It was gone, simply gone, and rehashing it at this point would do no good. She knew herself well enough to know that it would all come back in a flood as she faced off to those twelve men and women, looking into their inquiring or doubting faces.  That was when it all came together for her, when the pressure was at its peak. She started to pack her wheel cart with briefcase and purse and grabbed her long coat.  She needed to relax.  She needed to get away for awhile.  Pulling her cart behind her, she left the office, locking it behind her.  She headed for the small lobby with its dirty but colorful walls and children's toys piled in the toy boxes in the corner by the receptionist's counter, and she continued out through the outer door and turned to insert her key.  She carefully locked the door behind her and headed for the elevator.  She was glad for the modern, high rise building that their office was in on the Sixteenth Street Mall, downtown Denver.  Being on the thirteen floor would be a drag if the elevator tended to go on the blink periodically.  Instead, they enjoyed every modern convenience, which she appreciated every time she stepped into the elevator.  Chris punched the first floor button.

Standing in the elevator, she rubbed her neck and rotated her head from shoulder to shoulder to ease the tension.  She was dressed in usual Liz design.  All her clothes were basically the same make.  Some of the skirts were a little longer, some of them a little looser around her legs, but the only true difference was the colors.  She did not like having to make choices in the morning.  She wanted to free up her mind to decide on the bigger issues in life than wardrobe.  Her appearance was guaranteed to look professional, every morning, every time, automatically. She tapped her fingernails on the handle to the cart, waiting for the elevator to reach the first floor.  There were no other passengers as yet.  Chris thought about Lorrie and realized Lorrie would be in her study group tonight until late. Massaging her neck again, Chris laughed at herself.  Surely she could entertain herself for once.  Chris thought becoming a mother was guaranteed company, but she had to realize the child had a life of her own.  Motherhood was innately designed to become more so as time marched on.  Chris would have to learn to let go to a degree.

The elevator doors opened on the 8th and 5th floors, picking up passengers also headed home.  Chris cleared her throat and kept her eyes glued to the floor.  The added passengers looked at the floor lights slide from one number to the next until they finally reached the first floor.  They all departed the small elevator compartment, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief. She tossed her light brown hair and headed across the lobby floor, her heels clicking on the tile.  She looked cautiously out the glass doors at the winter evening.  There was no snow falling and even less on the ground than she originally thought she saw from the thirteenth floor.  Chris smiled and walked out into the mildly chilly twilight.  She headed across the 16th Street Mall, lined with its shops, restaurants and department stores, to where she parked her car on Broadway at an Allright pay-for- parking lot.  Climbing into the vehicle, she pulled a pink nylon bag from between the seats, yanked the cart with her briefcase into the front passenger seat across her lap, and started the car. Chris pulled her car out into traffic on Broadway then quickly turned off onto Colfax Avenue.  She went one block over to Lincoln and up to make a right on 17th Avenue.  Going as close to Grant as she could get, Chris parked out on the street.  Drawing her pink bag out with her, she stepped out onto 17th Avenue.  She went up to the 17th and Grant Athletic Club and entered the building. She paid every month in person so that the staff would get to know her not only when she worked out but also dressed in street attire.  She smiled at the girl at the front desk and headed back for the women's locker room.








Somewhat earlier that day, Lorrie and Theresa walked into the Auraria Campus Library, passing the thick white columns that supported the second floor.  The Circulation Desk was to their right as they headed further back to the Reference Desk. Just past the desk, they took a free table next to the floor to ceiling windows, not too far from the glass double doors that led to the small, interior courtyard.  Lorrie set her notes and Constitutional Law book down on the table and looked out the window.  It would grow dusk again early that evening, and Lorrie was looking forward to spring's eventual arrival.  Lorrie longed for sunny days again when she and her dad would go climbing in the mountains, but she knew spring was a ways away.  She thought about sitting outside but realized it was still too chilly. Lorrie sighed and looked back at the rows and rows of reference books.  She particularly studied the law books, including the U.S. Supreme Court Reporter.  Lorrie looked at Theresa to find her looking back.

"What?"

"You can't be serious about this.  We're in the library when Jimmie and I could be out catching a movie, and you could bring that guy you've been giving the eye every time we get out of class."

"Oh, please.  He's in a class not far from ours, but I don't even know which one, much less his name.  We've got to get serious about our paper here.  The movies are, perhaps, not such a good idea the weekend before the paper is due.  Just a thought, though."

Theresa sighed and dumped her books on the table next to Lorrie's things.  "By your command, dearheart."

"Cheer up.  The sooner we start, the sooner we get done." Lorrie headed over to the shelves and picked out the first in her elaborate series of reference books necessary to Shepardize the case.  On a scratch paper provided on the counter-like, high, wooden tables that sat between the isles, she jotted down the first reference number while Theresa hung over her shoulder.

"Want me to do that?"

Lorrie looked up over at her, replying,  "You're much better at legal research than I am.  I need to brush up on the sequence, if it's okay?"

"Sure.  Sure.  No problem.  Want me to tell you when you're off?"

Lorrie laughed quietly.  "That'll be a big help.  Here we are ..."

They proceeded to Shepardize Terry v. Ohio and neared completing the process when a few of their classmates approached, dumping their books on the desk next to them.

"Well, here she is,"  a tall, good looking, co-student commented.

Lorrie looked up from her notes and smiled slightly at him. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

Theresa looked him up and down, glancing at the two other guys around him.  "I'm taken, big boy, but this one might give you a run for your money if you're looking for a life time commitment."  Lorrie nudged Theresa under the table with her foot.

The tall classmate looked down at Theresa as though her interruption was an annoyance.  "We were just talking about you. Lorrie, isn't it?"

"Yes,"  Lorrie answered.  "And you're ...?"

"Sam Sundberg.  My Dad's Alan Sundberg; he's a Court Administrator in the Second Judicial District."

"That must be interesting,"  Lorrie commented, resting her chin on a fist balled around her pencil.

Sam was barely taken back.  "He knows what your mom's done."

Lorrie stood up straighter.  "My mom?"

"She's taken on the case with that guy who raped and kidnapped the girl here at Auraria."  Sam's sneer was very evident in his voice.

Lorrie's face went a little blank at the classmate's tone, and her fist holding the pencil shook a little.  "She's a Public Defender.  She gets all kinds of cases, and she doesn't get to pick and choose."

Sam pulled up a chair and sat with his legs straddling the back of it.  He leaned a little closer to Lorrie. "Christina A. Mason was listed on the court documents as the attorney of record to a slime ball who deserves to die.  If I could get my hands on him, he would receive a little help toward that end, but, no, your mom's protecting him in the court system from the justice he deserves.  You know what that makes her?"

The guys behind Sam snickered a little as Sam leaned up closer to Lorrie's ear.  "That makes her a whore.  A whore willing to sleep with any case for the job."  He sneered again at Lorrie.

Lorrie looked at Sam and tried to form the words in her mouth.  While she thought of how to respond to the rude manner of her classmate, he and his friends left their table, picked up their books, and walked out of the library, snickering at Lorrie as they passed her standing at the desk between the book shelves, dumbfounded.

Lorrie moved back to her table a little shakily, and she and Theresa sat there looking at each other.  Several seconds passed before they each moved.  Lorrie bent her head down to the table and began to collect her things.  She brushed her hair from her face several times as she coordinated things in her arms.

"Lorrie.  Lorrie.  Wait.  Wait a minute."  Theresa came around the table and placed her arm loosely around Lorrie's shoulders.  "Take it easy, okay?  They were just jerks. Don't take it to heart, okay?"

Giving her friend a quick hug, Lorrie said,  "I know. It's okay, really.  I ... I just don't feel like working on this anymore.  There'll be time tomorrow morning, I think." Lorrie started to turn to leave.

"Lorrie, I'll finish the research tonight.  Don't worry about it.  We can get it typed up in the morning, just as you say.  Then we'll have the rest of the weekend to worry about revisions or whatever.  No problem."

Thanking her friend, Lorrie headed for the large, white, book detectors that framed the individual exits to the building. She stepped out into the cold air and headed for her car parked in the lot across from the Arts Building.








Chris wasted no time grabbing a locker, shoving her clothes in it and changing into her navy blue spandex outfit.  She put her purse in the locker and took the combination lock out of her bag before shutting the door and slapping the lock on it. On her way back out to the floor, she hung her coat up on the coat rack. There were no aerobics at that hour on a Friday night, so she completed her stretching exercises on the floor before heading for the universal and free weights.  Some of the guys looked at her, appreciating her slim figure.  Chris ignored them and climbed on the leg lift machine, as it was the only machine without a waiting line.  The co-ed club was open 24 hours a day, and she came in at odd hours, as a lot of other patrons did too. She kept to herself and concentrated on her routine.

Sliding on the machine on her stomach, Chris inserted her heels under the bar.  The weight, she noticed, was set at 20 pounds by the last individual who used it, which worked for her too.  She liked high repetition and low weight in her routine. Folding her hands under the side of her face, which she had turned toward the mirrors, she began lifting the bar with her heels.  Chris looked at her watch for the ten minutes she expected to be on the machine.  By not counting, that allowed her to let her mind roam.  She watched her buttocks rhythmically move up and down on the bench with the exertion of her legs on the weighted bar.  Her hamstring muscles were also working the periodic up and down motions.  Chris began to relax as she let herself think about other things than work.  She smiled a little and tucked her face against her folded hands, appearing to wipe the sweat from her brow.  She was thinking about Luke. Chris let herself relax again and face the mirror, but no matter how hard she tried, thoughts of him would not go away.

Chris thought about the hiking they did before Lorrie was born.  They used to go up into the mountains and hike to a spot near El Dorado where Luke would climb solo for awhile.  He was very into climbing, and sometimes she wished she had known more about it so she could have shared in it with him, but she never learned.  Privately, it scared her.  Chris was always afraid he would fall, but she kept her feelings to herself because she was afraid she would lose him with all of her insecurities.  It only became worse when he started with the Department of Corrections. She was always afraid something would happen to him.  She worried about him carrying a gun.  She worried about the late night stake outs.  She worried about the parolees and whatever they might get a hold of while out on the streets instead of behind bars. Chris turned her face back to the mirror and concentrated on the up and down motion.  Sometimes she wondered if she chose law school and eventually the Public Defenders Office to strike back at him for all the worry he put her through.  Her ten minutes on the machine passed, and she climbed off it.

She worked her way over to the butterfly machine and parked her small rear on the seat then sat straight in front of the two vertical arm rests, leaning her forearms on the vertical pads. Chris began to pull the arm rests toward one another and let them extend back out.  She was not sure what the machine accomplished and did not wish to go through the bull of listening to the staff prattle on about the machines and their benefits, but she felt this machine helped build her bustline.  She was by no means large, but she wanted to keep what she had firm.  It felt nice, that was all that mattered to her, and that was the only reason she worked out on it.  The push in the room pretty much thinned out, leaving her and a few other patrons to compete for the machines.  She liked it better this way and intended to take advantage of the break in the crowd.

She would work ten minutes on this machine also and relaxed to go the distance.  Chris was beginning to break a sweat, and she let her mind drift again.  There was one hike that was especially memorable.  They had packed a pup tent that he carried in his backpack and went up on the South Platte river, below Cheeseman Reservoir.  They hiked the area in late September when very few people were up there.  The wind was kind of brisk, but there was something exciting about it biting into their bare legs as they hiked in their matching khaki REI shorts.  She laughingly decked them out in matching clothes, trying to make a game of it. He went along in the spirit intended, light-hearted and carefree. It was the weekend, and they packed Lorrie off to a friend who had a little girl Lorrie's age.  They felt secure that the child would enjoy herself, not cause anyone any trouble, and be safe in their long time friend's hands overnight.

Chris loved that area up by the river.  The South Platte ran shallow that time of year, practically a trickle.  That meant no anglers to worry about, and, because of the chilly weather, they did not have many other campers at night.  They spent the day hiking and climbing around low sloping mountain tops before dragging their tired bodies back to the river and the camp grounds that lined it.  The only facilities were outhouses, but Chris would not have traded any of it for the world, no telephones, no interruptions, no glasses of water in the middle of the night.  They pitched their small tent and ate a cold dinner of sandwiches and potato salad with hot coffee from the thermos.  They climbed into their tent to cuddle together as soon as the sun went down.  Chris smiled again as she worked back and forth with her weights, as she remembered giggling over his joke to tell scary campsite stories.  She wiped her forehead on her bicep and wiped the smile off her face.  She dug in more intently on the machine.  Chris remembered zipping their sleeping bags together.  Sleeping bags that she was originally angry with him for buying top of the line at prices they could not afford. His problem was that he could not step into REI without going buy- crazy.  They were members, but the ten percent they got back as dividend at the end of the year only went right back to the store for some other expensive gadget with which Luke fell in love.

They heard the soft nature sounds in the woodsy area by what was known as "Nighthawk," and the sounds of the clear river trickling over the rocks.  It was so romantic.  They cuddled in their large single sleeping bag that would go to forty below zero, kissing and gently making love repeatedly.  He brought the woman out of her time and again that night, and she delighted in the feel of his lean body and the hardness she brought out in it. He was something when it came to the bedroom, or any room for that matter.  She could only remember a few times in the past when things were not good; hell most of the time they were great together.  Money, that was their problem.  Never enough of it. She wanted to have a career where she did not have to worry about money anymore.  She wanted to make enough for all three of them, but he resented being usurped as the bread winner, and she rankled at having to buckle down to his ego.  Chris finished on the butterfly machine and took one of the stationary bikes when she noticed one come free.

She worked herself into an intense sweat on the bike. She intended to spend about half an hour on the bike and was not peddling all that fast; she wanted to go the distance.  She remembered the seemingly never ending arguments about the gadgets he bought.  He got the fever from their many REI trips together and developed it further into a more high tech area after he started working for the Department of Corrections.  He had so many pieces of spy equipment that she could never keep track of it all.  Blowing a thousand dollars on electronic locksmith equipment meant nothing to him, and she resented it tremendously. He never allowed her to work early in their relationship. He wanted a child very early on, but it took awhile for her to get pregnant.  Her job became taking care of home and child, but, with the money he spent on his toys, they never had a house. They could never save money to buy anything, always living in various apartments.  When Lorrie hit ten years old, Chris put down her foot to go back to school.  He nearly flipped when he found out it was Law School and how expensive it was.  She fumed back at him that it was more of an investment than his playthings and trinkets.  The first thing she wanted when she started making money was a house.  Oh, they got that, but the thought that it was mainly due to her paycheck nearly killed his supremely tiny, male ego.  He ended up only spending more of his money on surveillance equipment.

Money.  Chris shook her head and continued peddling. The sweat dripped down her face.  She had that now.  She was comfortable, financially speaking, but there were times when she missed him.  Never far away, though, was the reminder that she would not have the financial security if she allowed him to continue to spend them into a hole.  He never backed off of REI equipment, either.  They had a house filled with expensive outdoor sporting goods and electronic gadgets.  She wondered if he stored any of it or, God forbid, sold some of it.  Every time he felt in the least bit low, he bought something new and expensive to make himself feel better.  She hated it.  As she worked on the bike, she began to get irritated with her thoughts. She remembered his response to Lorrie's turning nine.  Time to pop more babies out of the oven.  She rankled with the memory. She felt she spent too much of her life in the home, and it was time to do something with her bachelors degree.  She wanted to do something important and be someone important.

Chris did not know what direction she wanted to head in until the following year.  She had a BA in Business Administration, which was pretty generic.  Chris wanted to specialize so when she looked for master's programs, but she steered clear of MBA programs.  She settled on the law degree after looking over the University of Denver's other programs. The master's classes simply did not interest her, but, with Law School, she became intensely interested in the beginning when she read the class descriptions in the brochures.  Law was what she wanted, and she was not wrong in that desire.  She peddled on the stationary bike a little more aggressively and ignored two guys checking her out from the free weights area.  She remembered the struggle in getting through law school.  She also remembered the heart ache from flunking the bar exam the first time, but the final victory made it all worth it.
She thought Luke would settle down once they bought the house, giving him something to work on.  The lawn work was not something he got into really.  It was something he suffered for the prestige of having a house and, apparently, the safety of having a house and being comfortable in knowing what to expect when he reached home.  She found out that he worried about the possible attack of a parolee with a hell of a grudge.  It never happened, that she knew of anyway.  But it bothered her that he worried about it.  He was never willing to discuss her fears of it but to learn that he had his own fears was more than she could handle.  She realized there were many fights over a number of issues.  Money was basically only one of them.

Chris dismounted the bicycle and headed back for the women's locker room.  She stopped at the towel area and picked up a towel before heading into the shower area.  There were a few women around dressing or undressing, but the showers were open. She stripped out of her spandex after she entered the shower stall and pulled the curtain closed.  She swung the spandex and towel over the curtain rod before turning on the water.  She showered off her slim, tight body quickly and turned off the water. Grabbing the towel to dry her body in the stall, she wrapped it around herself and climbed out.  Chris pulled her spandex onto her shoulder and headed for her locker.  She twirled the combination and yanked the lock open, pulling out her clothes and redressing.  Her outfits always needed cleaning after the health club.  They were crumpled and looked a little strung out after hanging in the locker for the last hour.  She straightened her hair with her fingers and packed her gym bag.  Departing the club for her car outside, she hoped she did not get a parking ticket. There was always that risk at night, but she had been lucky up to that point.

She pulled open her car door, after opening it with her key, and scooted into the driver's seat.  She tossed the gym bag onto the passenger seat and pulled off onto 17th Avenue all the way down to Colorado Boulevard and north to I-70.  On her way to the Pecos turnoff, she passed by the Purina factory near Commerce City just before the Mousetrap at I-70 and I-25.  The rotten stench of dog food assailed her nostrils.  She always smelled it every time she drove by the tall tower with the checkered emblem on it.  Luke never seemed to even notice it when they were together and drove by it.  Chris kept her windows up whenever she had to pass it.  It could not be helped, but it was not exactly a tourist attraction for the Denver area, just a necessity of commercial business.  It passed by quickly as she drove into the Mousetrap formed by the two highways.

She concentrated on drive through the twisted highway flanked on either side by high, beat up, wooden walls.  When a car broke down in the middle, it blocked traffic for miles. There was no walkway and no room to stop and change a flat tire. If a car broke down, everyone was almost forced to wait for the cops to come along and order a tow.  There were not even walkways to walk out and get a gallon of gasoline if someone ran out and wanted to go pick some up.  It was a dangerous stretch in her opinion, and she hoped it would be revamped some day in the future.

Pulling off by the Keebler cookie factory on 48th at the Pecos exit, she turned right on Pecos.  She headed north and relaxed.  She was almost home.  A little further north, Pecos turned from a large street with quite a lot traffic to a small two way road, lined mostly with fields that stretched for miles. She saw a few small businesses and later the water and sanitation buildings.  Chris passed a large building yard on the right and hit the multiple track railroad crossing before Highway 76. After passing underneath the new overhang for Hwy 76, she stayed north on Pecos past many empty fields to 69th Avenue.  She turned left and drove to Alan Drive.  Turning left again, she took a right into the driveway of her home at 6602 Alan Drive.  The garage was two car, but she rarely ever used it, preferring Lorrie to park her AMC Concord in it.  Lorrie's car was not much better than hers, but it seemed to keep running even after the gray paint oxidized and the vinyl top split to nothing. Lorrie never complained, but Chris knew she wished she could have a new car.  They would both have to wait, Chris thought, as she stepped out of her light blue Chevette, pulling her gym bag and cart with her.

Chris unlocked the front door and stepped into the entrance hall, taking off her coat as she headed up to the second level of her old, brick, comfortable, two story home.

"Hi, honey, I'm home,"  Chris called out to Lorrie.

When she reached the living room area, that Chris used as a den, she placed her cart next to her desk, which was littered with papers.  Her file cabinet stood to the side of it, and the telephone stood on the file cabinet.  She had a 286 processor IBM Personal System II on her desk while Lorrie was stuck with the older model in her room.  Lorrie also knew that her mother's PC was off limits to her use.  There were few things she would not share with her daughter, but this system was an investment for her work at home and not a toy to play with doing Lorrie's homework.  Chris drew lines with it because of the confidentiality involved in the attorney-client privilege. She had things on the computer and things in the filing cabinet that Lorrie could not have access to without Chris possibly facing disbarment.  Chris had a password protection set up on the boot file of the PC to keep her friends honest, too.

Chris had not heard a peep out of Lorrie since entering the house.  She became concerned and called out again.

"Lorrie?"

No answer.  Chris entered the kitchen and looked on the old, green refrigerator to the right of the open doorway.  Lorrie always left her a note when she went out and Chris could not be reached.  Lorrie preferred not to call her at the office just to tell her she was putting in late hours at the Auraria Library or such, but Chris always counted on the note.  There was not a note from Lorrie on the refrigerator.  Chris turned a little to her left and flicked on the kitchen overhead fluorescent lights. She saw a corner of piece of yellow paper sticking out from under the refrigerator.  Sighing, Chris bent over and pulled the scrap out. It was a Post-It-Note signed by Lorrie telling her she was at Theresa's house until 9:30 that night.  Chris placed the note under a magnet on the refrigerator as a reminder to her to speak to Lorrie about using the magnets versus a Post-It-Note that came unstuck, as in this case.  Relieved, she started to put together a sandwich from the refrigerator and, retrieving a glass and small plate from the cabinet next to the sink, she poured herself a large glass of apple juice and placed her sandwich on her plate.  She pulled out one of the orange chairs at the kitchen table and sat down.  She started in on her small meal hungrily. It was after eight thirty when she finished and placed the dishes in the dishwasher.  She was again thankful for all the work Lorrie put in around the house because she remembered starting the dishwasher that morning before she left for work, and it was already cleared.

Chris leaned against the closed dishwasher door and turned to look at the cart still loaded standing by the desk in the front room.  She pushed herself away from the counter area and headed for her desk.

"Can't put you off much longer, can I?"  She started to unpack the cart and opened the briefcase.  Her court date was not until Monday morning, but she would need most of the weekend to work over the details.

Clearing a spot on the desk, she pulled the rolling, burgundy chair up to the large desk.  She booted the PC and punched in her security code, seven letters and one number. She changed it periodically when she reminded herself to do so. Chris felt a little like she was cheating on her daughter doing that, but if Lorrie wanted to be an attorney, she would have to learn that there were some legal necessities in the job. The code this time around was MASONLT1.  She shook her head and wondered why she chose that code.  If she ever bothered to see a psychiatrist, they would probably tell her she had an obsession with her ex-husband.  She did not particularly care, which is most likely why she did not bother to give a psychiatrist an opportunity to tell her that.

Chris pulled up the file in WordStar wordprocessing on her case that she had to make opening remarks in Monday's Denver district court and started reviewing the data and facts on the case she put there earlier in the criminal action.  The data was pretty complete, covering the arrest, search, interrogation, and the Public Defenders Office's investigation of the witnesses. The case involved a drug possession charge, and she expected to win it based on the fact the woman she represented was just a woman who resided in the house.  The woman knew nothing of the actions of the man who also resided in the house, and the drugs were nowhere near any of the woman's possessions.  They were also found in only one location in the house, not here, there and everywhere, where the woman might have come across them. The woman tested negative in her blood test, but the man tested positive.  There were her children involved, and Chris felt the jury would take pity on that situation.  Chris intended to lean as much as she would be allowed to on that angle.

Chris worked at her case until Lorrie came slowly in the door.  She had heard the garage door open somewhere in the back of her mind, but she was so wrapped up in her work that it did not register until Lorrie came in the door.

"Hi, honey,"  Chris greeted her daughter.

"Hi, Mom.  Theresa and I were at the library trying to wrap up our paper.  Then I went for a long walk."  Lorrie went into the kitchen and pulled a Diet Pepsi out of the refrigerator.

Chris pulled herself mentally out of her case work and focused on her daughter.  She realized she did not wish to continue working on it that night and exited the program, turning the computer off.  She reached over and tugged the cord to the brass desk lamp.

"Well, how did the paper go?"  She swiveled in her chair to face her daughter.

Lorrie stood leaning against the open doorway to the kitchen and popped the top to the Diet Pepsi.  "Well, so far it is so good, what else could old man Milton give us except an A, grade wise?"

Chris smiled at Lorrie and rocked in her chair.  "Can I have one?"

Lorrie got another Diet Pepsi from the frig and walked across the room to hand it to her mother.  "He couldn't, could he?"

Chris opened her can after wiping the top off and smiled again.  "You'd know the results better than I would."

Lorrie walked to a corner of the front room.  She sat down in a oversized, stuffed chair, which sat next to a plant in a large, brass planter and sipped her soda.

"Why so quiet all of a sudden?"  Chris asked.

Lorrie looked up at the ceiling as though she was holding back tears.

"I'm sure you'll get that A, but why do I get the feeling there's something else deeper here?  You said you went for a walk too.  Was it to clear your head of something?"  Chris watched her daughter with concern and sipped her Diet Pepsi, waiting for the explanation she desperately wanted, but she did not dare press for it.

Lorrie put a hand up to her forehead and brought her face back down to the Diet Pepsi she was holding in her lap.  "We were working at Auraria Library, Shepardizing the case."

Chris waited patiently and did not stop her rocking. She wanted Lorrie to feel as though nothing was unusual or out of the ordinary.

"There were some kids there.  They were pre-law students too, and one of their dads is some kind of court administrator in the Second Judicial District.  I guess you're listed as the attorney of record for the case on the disappearance of Bridgette Salance."

Lorrie waited for her mother to respond to the comment. Chris just smiled and looked at her daughter.  Her smile was open and kindly, hiding nothing, but expecting a lot.

"I'm listed as the attorney on the case.  It's a pretty personal case around the school, huh?  Since she was a student there,"  Chris observed.

Lorrie grunted and gulped a swallow of the soda. "Very. You know she was raped and murdered, don't you?  Why do you have to take the case?"

"He's also charged with kidnapping her since her body was moved to Bennett.  I took the case because, unfortunately, my name was next on the roster.  I cannot claim prejudice in this case and bow out.  It's a sad and ugly case, but we don't have all the facts yet."

"You think he may be innocent?"

"I didn't say that.  I don't know what to think.  I only met him once at the Denver County Jail.  But if I did have any opinion formed, you know I couldn't share it with you.  It's a hard life, Lorrie, but we knew what we signed on for from the beginning.  I would really rather talk about whatever the kids might have said or done to you."

Lorrie looked back down at her Diet Pepsi.  It was a very emotional topic, but she knew what her mother expected.  She expected her to be mature about the situation and any further situations that occurred along the same lines.

"They kept saying things like how low you would stoop to get a case and weren't you smart enough to be an attorney on your own.  Stuff like that."  Lorrie tossed her hair, and it reminded Chris a lot of her own gestures.  She looked so much like her. Chris smiled proudly briefly.

"Basically, they thought I was a traitor."

Lorrie looked at her mother.  "Yeah."

"Well, we can take action if you want, or we can turn a very difficult cheek.  Which do you want to do?"  She kept rocking in the chair.

Lorrie laughed to herself and looked back up at the ceiling then down again at her Diet Pepsi.  "The cheek option."

"You'll have other classes with them again, as well as finishing this one with them."

"Yeah, I know.  But if we make waves, they'll make things worse."

"I have to agree.  You're always going to meet someone who doesn't agree with what I stand for or what I'm doing.  Next time it may be a judge's son or daughter, or a D.A.'s niece or nephew. There will always be at least one, no matter where you go. By taking course work in that area, you leave yourself in a position to run into them all the time."

"One day I may even be so lucky as to have them disagree with what I'm doing."

Chris laughed.  "Yep."

They sat in silence for awhile, sipping their sodas. Lorrie broke it first.

"Reminds me of Dad and how I guess the guys at work used to get on him about what you do.  He turned the other cheek for a long time, but he couldn't keep it up.  Will I be like that too?"

"No.  There were a lot of reasons your dad couldn't keep it up.  It wasn't all my choice of career.  Oh, that was a big part of it, but I threw up a lot of other obstacles.  Every time he turned around, there was another barrier between us.  He threw some up, and I threw some up.  We sabotaged our marriage. It became easier than working at it.  Not some thing to be proud of, but there it is.  You should probably talk to him, too, about what happened at school.  He can give another angle on how to deal with it."  Chris finished off the Diet Pepsi and held on to the can to place it their recycle bag in the kitchen.

Lorrie smiled.  "Thanks, Mom.  He probably can.  I'll page him and set up a meeting."

Chris laughed and stood to walk to the kitchen and put the can in the bag hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.  She asked Lorrie if she was done.

"No, not yet."

"Hmm."  Chris leaned reflectively against the door frame to the kitchen.  "Page him and schedule an appointment.  Does that ever bring back a lot of memories."

"Oh, Mom, you two are birds of a feather.  You both work yourselves to death, and if I weren't living here, I wouldn't get the half hour or so each night with you either.  When I move out on my own, I'll have to schedule appointments with you too."

"Oh, so you think you're moving out?  Not likely.  No way."

Lorrie laughed.  "So, I'm to marry and raise my children here, as I practice law out of a shoe box like you do!" Lorrie pointed with the Diet Pepsi can at the computer.

"Sounds good to me, but I suppose I have to let you grow up sometime.  It was probably why I want you to go to expensive law school, so you can't afford to live on your own."

"Oh, please.  You want the best for me."

Chris smiled at her daughter and tussled her hair as she passed her to the landing by the front door that twisted around to her basement bedroom.  "Good night, Baby Doll.  Sweet dreams."

" 'Night, Mom."  Lorrie drained her can, stood and went to place it in the recycle bag, then headed for bed.







CHAPTER FIVE





In the office Monday morning, Chris found it all waiting for her.  Sweating all weekend, she felt prepared to face the morning, but she was on a tight time line.  She had court at 9:00 a.m. and had to run.  Chris went over her opening statement one time, then packed the materials she would need during the trial and loaded the cart.  She headed out the door in an eye catching purple, Liz skirt and blazer with an off white blouse. Chris passed the front counter on the way to the elevator when the front desk administrative clerk called to her.  She was patient with the girl, but they seemed to go through them in that position.  Chris thought it must be a hard job running the front area with the clients and such coming in all the time and the multiple phone lines ringing constantly.  The girl finished paging one of Chris' co-workers over the office intercom and faced Chris.

"Ms. Mason, you received a collect call from the Denver County Jail, but I couldn't reach you over the intercom.  It was from a Thomas Lidsky.  He said something about needing to coordinate some points with you."

Chris stood at the counter, looking down while she listened, then shook her hair back and looked up at the girl.

"Thank you.  I've got to get to court.  If anyone else calls, I'll be at the district court, okay?  Oh, by the way, I want you to put in a request to the DA's Office for discovery on the Lidsky case."  She did not wait for a response but turned and headed out of the office.

She had a full schedule.  It was a Monday morning, and she would be expected early to talk to her client and help him understand the procedures necessary this morning.









Luke dragged his rear into his parole car outside his apartment complex Monday morning, oh nine thirty hours.  He hated Mondays, and it showed in his reluctance to get moving.  One good thing, he did not have to schedule anything for the day.  It would be pretty straight forward dull.  He was expected from the hours of 1000 hours to 1900 hours, so he pulled out of the parking lot onto Martin Luther King Drive and headed toward Sixth and Bannock.  The parolees had to report to the office at 660 Bannock on the first floor and would file into his office one at a time while he listened to their mamby-pamby, little problems while he completed paperwork, such as position assessment summaries.  He would also have to knock off his monthly report, detailing his activities and what not, considering this was the end of the month.

He remembered the days in 1981 when he first started. Things were different now.  Luke was not one of the old- timers that remembered the split of the Department of Corrections from the Department of Institutions in 1976.  Parole came under the same executive director until the split required Corrections to have their own executive director but, thanks to the U.S. Supreme Court decision in Morissey vs. Brewer, the parole divisions of the States had a jurisdiction all their own.  Luke's job as a Parole Officer often included gathering enough proof in any one of his case load gone bad to satisfy the requirement of due process in a parole revocation hearing in order to send the guy back to prison.  To regress his custody to the prison system was subject to the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments of due process. That made Luke a cop, and he liked that aspect of his job.

Luke reoriented himself to the office and being stuck behind his desk today.  Another good thing, he would be paid today. Luke found it tough getting paid only once a month, but he had done it for so many years that it was second nature, and he never overdrew his checking account.  This month he was looking forward to getting paid because he had his eye on a voice changing communication device he spotted in the latest Edge catalog. It would run a couple hundred, but it would give him the ability to call parolees at home with a female voice or a deeper male voice and check up on them.  It gave his voice dimensions of possibilities, according to the catalog's description.  Luke thought irritatingly of the arguments with Chris on his "gadgets," as she called them.  She felt he spent too much money on them, and perhaps he did, but he had nowhere near the quantity of "toys" as she thought he did.  He was a small time collector, no more.

Luke drove west on Martin Luther King Blvd. until he reached Colorado Boulevard then south to Eighth Avenue.  On his drive west to Bannock, Luke thought about dealing with those in the office.  He did not think so much about the parolees, who were documented nineteen ways to sundown, but more the staff. There were three clerical office support, Shelly, Lisa and Linda, and eight parole officers, Warren, Mike, Tom, Gary, Keith, Michael, Carla, and Bill.  He liked his co-workers just fine, and they all joked and had fun at work when they were in the office on Mondays, but Luke had trouble forgetting the needling he endured while he was married to Chris.  He did not enjoy being the butt of the jokes when Chris worked for the Public Defenders Office or when she graduated law school.  Chris told him not to be so sensitive, that it did not mean anything.  Guys just kidded. She seemed to think it was some kind of male macho thing, but Luke felt like a little kid again with some of the bullies in the neighborhood.  He tried to dismiss it and act like an adult, and it was easier to take when he dished it out every now and then. It brought him down to their level, perversely enough, and it made him feel like he belonged.  He never admitted something like that to anyone else on the face of the earth but Chris.  He would have rather cut out his tongue.

He was turning south on Bannock, heading for the corner of Sixth and Bannock, still mulling over the office politics. He thought about his supervisor and the Denver Parole Operation's Manager, and that was the main problem, talk about office politics.  The supervisor ran the officers, and the manager ran the office while bending over to kiss the Division of Adult Parole Director's rear end.  Their Director, of course, schmoosed as often as possible with his Deputy Director and the Executive Director.  Or so Luke had it figured.  It was hard to tell because they never saw much of anyone above the level of the Division Director.  Luke's manager was an egomaniac, and he had a hard time dealing with him.  Luke sometimes thought about putting in a transfer to Northeast Parole up in Westminster or even Southeast Parole down in Colorado Springs.  Shaking his head, he pulled his vehicle in the parking lot across from the Denver General Hospital in the $1.00 a day parking spots next to their building.  As he climbed out of his car, he thought about "Yoda," as he thought of his manager.  His manager firmly believed that knowledge in the Department of Corrections was power, and the more "Yoda" had, and the less the officers had, the better to manage his empire.

Luke felt his job would be easier if he could operate more often in the light and not so often in the dark concerning all the goings-on in the CDOC.  He knew there was something in the air brewing about not bringing the parolees back to the county jails because of the jail backlog problems the CDOC was already causing for the counties.  Rumor had it they may one day have to bring the parole violators to the newly built Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center on Smith Road to await their parole revocation hearing.

He went around the five story, red brick and glass building and mounted the front steps.  He entered through the glass and brass doors and turned right down the hallway.  Stopped at his office and inserting his key from his personal ring, he pushed open the door on the stark, white walls and white, tiled floor. His desk dominated the room, and he preferred no wall hangings. Nothing personal for the parolees to see and nothing for them to take, information wise, back to the streets with them.  Luke did not even have any desk pictures of Lorrie.  He preferred it that way.  Settling behind his desk, after hanging his blue Gortex jacket on the hook on the back of the office door, Mike came in to say good morning.

"Hey, Lone Ranger, how's it hanging?  We got a full office all ready."  Mike sipped coffee from his styrofoam cup and looked at Luke over the steaming brim. "Ready for this?"

Luke smiled noncommittally.  "Another day, another dollar."

Mike grunted agreement and motioned with his cup. "Coffee's ready."  He turned to leave.

Luke skipped on the coffee and pulled out the proper paperwork from his drawers for his first parolee.  He picked up his standard, black, desk phone and dialed Shelly.

"Good Morning, Shelly.  This is Luke.  Are there any first arrivals?"

"Sure thing, boss man.  Dale Richardson's right here waiting for your escort."

"Thanks."  Luke hung up the phone, cleared his throat and proceeded down the hall to the waiting area.  No parolees were permitted to roam the area unescorted.  Security was tight. He waved at a few of the other officers with their doors open. Denver Parole Operations had the entire first floor of 660 Bannock Street reserved for them, but rumor had it that the powers that be were looking for a new location for them, possibly a 16th Street Mall location.  Luke was hoping that was not the case because then he would have to face Chris every Monday, and Mondays were hard enough.

He rounded the corner to the waiting area and motioned for Dale Richardson to proceed him back to his office.  Monday was definitely here.  Luke hoped at least that the boss was at the Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center, discussing budgets with the Business Manager, who had an office there.  He welcomed anything to break up the possible things that could go wrong that day.  On his way back to his office, he ran into the supervisor, Mark Carter.  Mark was a big, African-American man built for action, and a man that Luke knew he could depend on in a jam.

"Luke, hold up a second."  Mark held out his hand toward Luke's chest.  "I want to meet with you this afternoon to discuss your case load and go over any anomalies or problems you may be having - case by case.  Okay?"

"Sure, Mark.  Is there anything I should take under consideration?"  Mark Carter was always up front with his parole officers when something was going down, and it was the one thing Luke could count on.

"They may be raising the number of cases each parole officer is to manage.  We have to cover an increase in the Arapahoe County area, especially the City of Aurora."  Mark Carter glanced at the parolee Luke was escorting, who was standing a few paces away, and lowered his voice.  "It seems more and more are paroling to that area.  We need to look at how best to distribute the additional case load, and I know you want it all, but, hey, look, we got to be fair."  Carter winked at Luke and hit Luke's chest with the back of his hand then continued along his way down the hall.

Luke laughed at his supervisor's twisted sense of humor and continued to escort Richardson to his office.  He sat behind his desk and let the parolee pull up his own chair across the other side of the desk.  Luke pulled his rolling chair to the filing cabinet, pulling the parolee's file from it.  He flipped through its meticulously kept order, as maintained by the clerical staff, and started with the basics.

"Okay,"  Luke rearranged his chair behind his desk. "Have you found work yet?"

"Nope."

Luke barely looked up at him.  He was expecting that answer. "Have you been seeking employment?"

"Well, yeah, of course I have."

Luke glanced at the parolee, who was studying the dirty, white tiles of the floor.  "Where at?"

"You know, here and there.  Where I see a help wanted sign or something, man."

"Don't call me 'man.'  Specifically where have you seen these help wanted signs, and who did you apply with?"

"I applied at an Amoco station once, ma--.  Um, and a 7- 11, too."

Luke confirmed with the mittimus and parole agreement in the file.  "Those are inappropriate places for you to be applying for work.  You were sentenced to the Department of Corrections with a conviction of armed robbery.  Your parole agreement specifically states that you will seek appropriate employment."

"Oh, man.  What am I supposed to do?  You guys are always down on me no matter what I do.  I got two kids and a wife, and I got bills, man.  I need the money, and if I can land a job pumping gas then I'm gonna do it!"

Luke leaned back in his chair with his hands on the desk. He was wearing his gun, as all on-duty parole officers did, but he came up against this all the time and did not feel threatened. It was a story line they all used, in different forms, from time to time.

"I told you not to call me 'man.'  The chances of your re- offending in a high cash transaction business are quite high.  I suggest looking at janitorial work where you receive a check every two weeks and no one tosses around cash."

"Shit, well, you can fuck that.  I ain't doin' it.  No way."

"Your choice, Richardson.  You can look for any appropriate form of work you want and not be in violation of your parole agreement; however, you re-offend ... "  Luke leaned forward over his desk straight at the parolee.  " ... 'cause you don't have the money for the wife and kids, and I'll catch you.  You can bank on that.  I'll be all over you."

Luke bent down to mark the parolees latest complaint on the position assessment summary form.  He let the parolee squirm a little before looking back up at him.

The day proceeded from parolee to parolee, as he took urinalysis samples, marked them and gave them to the clerical staff for transport to the lab.  He had similar lines of questioning for each of his case load.  He knew the trends in public sentiment, which tended to swing one way and another throughout the years involved in long term incarceration in prisons, of people later released to the custody of parole. These days of corrections allowed for no corporal punishment. Luke even noticed a decline in the death penalty sentencing, and he had to treat his case load with human respect and dignity even when he thought some could use a good kick in the teeth. Some of his cases had jobs, and some did not.  Some wanted to change addresses and fought with him when they had to be put on hold until Luke could check out the address.  Some claimed they had to go out of state for a sick relative, some quit a job and started another, and some could not verify that they had a legal driver's license and still wanted to drive their cars.

Luke found that he had to place a couple of holds at the Denver City Jail on parolees who were picked up, one for DUI and one for domestic violence.  He ran out there during his lunch hour and took care of all that.  They would be held after the charges were settled to deal with the parole revocation hearing, and it would be up to the Parole Board to decide if they should have their parole revoked.  Luke would have to be on hand for the proceedings, but that would be at the scheduling and discretion of the Parole Board.  He grabbed a Big Mac and a drink on his way back and chowed it down.

On returning to work, he found Yoda was back from his meetings at the Dry Creek office of the Division of Adult Parole Supervision Director's office.  Fortunately for Luke, the man simply walked passed him, barely giving him an up and down inspection.  Luke sighed his relief and prepared to escort his next parolee back to his office.  After that, Luke hammered out his monthly activity report on his typewriter and listened to the phone ring.  Luke always loved the number of calls he got, on Mondays, from some of his case load who were just too sick to come into the office.  They would have to be checked out that they were really too sick to come in, as required of them. Luke did not enjoy having to chase the sick ones down and usually gave them a very hard time when they called in like that because it doubled his work on Mondays.  Some changed their tune and came in while others had to be difficult.

By 1900 hours he was ready to call it a day.  He had the files all in the cabinets as they needed to be and cleaned up his desk.  He tossed the last of his large, orange drink from McDonalds in the trash by his desk, adjusted the gun strapped to his belt, grabbed his blue Gortex jacket, and locked his office door behind him.  He looked up and down the hall but did not see Yoda.  Their only female parole officer at DPO, Carla, was headed his way.

"Did you talk to Mark yet?"

"Oh, shit.  That's right.  I forgot."  Luke stood by his door and stared at the knob still in his hand.  He unlocked the door and stepped in for the files.

Carla followed him.  "You won't believe the numbers. We're all going to have to expand by five or more.  They seem to be squabbling over who will get six and who only five."

Luke looked back up at the boyish-looking woman with short blond hair, pale skin and no makeup.  He often wondered if she were straight or not.  He shrugged and commented,  "They'll do what they want in the end."

"Don't I know it."  She stood with her hands on her hips and watched him pull the files out one by one.  "Oh, don't bother with that.  Just go tell him you're here, and he'll come in." She gave him a puzzled look and left the office.

Luke coughed behind his hand and went to go look for Mark. He found him in his office finishing up with Warren.  Luke hung around the open door, waiting to be noticed.  Mark finished telling Warren what was going on, and Warren packed up his files to go back to his office.  Luke felt especially silly not having his files with him.

"Uhh, did you want me to bring my files in with me, or should we go back to my office?  Or what?"  He stood in the door shifting from foot to foot.

"Oh, quit looking like a dancing bear.  I just took Warren in here 'cause he had all his files in his arms.  We'll go back to your office."  He gathered up some notes and a clip board. They headed back down the hall.

Parked at his desk, Luke described each parolee and the problems he experienced or suspected with each.  He was concise and as brief as possible.

"Okay, watch out with that Hyatt kid.  Call for back up on the radio, if you need it, okay?"  His supervisor leaned back with his chair against the plain, white wall, which was marked with black smudges from the back of the chair.

"Sure, no problem.  If I know in advance he's going to be a problem that day, I'll call for back up."  Luke started placing the files back in the cabinet.

"Smart ass, you smell trouble, you call for back up. Got it?"

Luke smiled at him, and he returned the good natured grin. Mark knew Luke very rarely called in help on his case load, but they were supposed to go by the book.  Mark knew Luke probably would not ever call for help even though it was a bone of contention.  Mark dealt with it because he respected Luke Mason. Luke knew that the day it all back fired on him, and he had problems, was the day Mark would really deal him some cards from the bottom of the deck.  They both knew it and accepted it. Luke took the opportunity to hand Mark his forgotten but completed monthly activity report.

Mark took it from Luke and went into the politics of the additional case load.  He redundantly described the Denver area's population that fell under their jurisdiction, the increase in the Arapahoe County's population, and the increases in the number of applications to be paroled in those areas.  It was stuff either Luke all ready knew, or what Mark all ready explained to him in the hall.  Repeat.  He respected Mark, though, and stayed attentive to the conversation.

"Will you help me out here, Luke, and take six additionally?"

That surprised Luke, and he nearly dropped the file he was refiling alphabetically in the cabinet.  "Guess you're looking for volunteers, huh?"

"Yep."  Mark swung his feet back and forth while they were crossed out in front of him.  He paid strict attention to his feet and did not look at Luke.

Luke put his elbows on his desk and rubbed at his tired eyes.  "Do I have a choice?"

"You may not in the end, but you do now."  Mark still did not look up.

"Then, why, sure, boss, I'll be glad to."  Luke let his head rest on his crossed arms on the top of the desk.

Mark Carter stood and looked down at his parole officer.  He was six years senior in age to Luke and looked on him as kind of a son.  Luke knew it and wondered how many other children the guy fathered when he was six years old, but he tolerated it.

"That's my boy.  I knew I could count on you.  See you tomorrow maybe, if you plan to hang around here at all.  If not, happy hunting."  Mark turned to leave the office.

Luke dragged himself up.  Looking at his watch, he found it was nearly 2000 hours already.  He knew the extra minutes would be compensatory time, but Luke would have to add it to other minutes here and there to get it to amount to anything significant.  In the long run, he would have to take a block of time off to kill all the accrued compensatory time.  He left the office, locking it, and took off out of the building. Walking around the building to the parking lot on the side, Luke climbed into his parole vehicle, when his beeper went off.  He slumped against the steering column then leaned over to take a peek at the read out, still attached to his hip.  It was either Chris or Lorrie.  Chris never paged him, so it had to be Lorrie. Luke climbed back out of his vehicle.  He looked across Sixth Avenue at the Division of Motor Vehicles across the way then turned to re-enter his building on Bannock.  He went down the hall to use one of the clerical's phones.  Mark was in Michael's office conning him into six additional cases.  Luke did not bother them but dialed the old, home phone number.  Lorrie answered on the second ring.

"Yeah, honey."

"Dad, hi!"

"Hi!  What's up?"

"Can we meet to talk?"

"Not a problem.  Want a late dinner?"

"Sounds great!  I didn't think you'd have time tonight, but I'd really appreciate it."

"Where should I meet you?"

"How about our usual spot at the Burger King near Auraria Campus?"

Luke was sick to death of burgers and really wanted some Italian food, but this was his one and only child, and he would do anything for her.  "Sounds like a deal.  How about half an hour?"

"Okay.  I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, baby.  See you in half an hour."  Luke hung up the phone and turned to leave.  Mark stood in the entry way. He handed Luke a white, window envelope.

"You forgot your paystub."

Mark knew how much Luke disliked Mondays as compared to the rest of his duties, and how he preferred to get it over with and get on his way.  He made allowances for him when it came to such things as his monthly activity report if its due date fell on a Monday, so he was not at all surprised to be standing there still holding the man's paystub.

"Thanks."  Luke folded the direct deposit receipt and placed it in the front pocket of his jeans.

"Say hi to the kid for me, will you?"  Mark smiled at him and motioned him to get on his way.

Luke smiled back, saying he would, and hurriedly left the building.  He drove his vehicle down Sixth Avenue to Lincoln Street, and then north to Speer Boulevard where he drove northwest.  He got off on Colfax Avenue and drove to the Burger King.  Luke parked and waited for his daughter.  There was no snow anywhere on the streets except a few wind blown piles hidden in corners of buildings where the sun never got to it. Those piles had hardened to dirty, off-white blocks of ice.

He told Lorrie a half an hour but he knew it would be quicker for him to get there than it would be for her.  He did not go pick her up at home strictly because all parole officers were prohibited from carrying passengers in their vehicles. This was something Lorrie understood very well.  Luke thought it would have to be some kind of dire emergency before he would ever violate that condition of employment and, even then, he would dial 911 before he took her in his work vehicle.  This detour before home would be chalked up to normal driving around town. He was still in the Denver Parole Operations' jurisdiction, and he had no problem with his stopping for a meal before heading home.  Lorrie pulled into the parking lot shortly thereafter, driving her beat-up AMC Concord.  He smiled when he saw her and stepped out into the chilly night air.  They greeted with a hug in the parking lot, and Luke led her into the restaurant with an arm around her shoulders.

They went to the counter and placed their order.  Luke ordered a chicken sandwich and a diet soda, and Lorrie ordered a Whopper with a shake.  They both preferred to avoid fries whenever they could.  Luke paid for the order and went to get straws and extra ketchup.  Lorrie picked up the order when it was ready and led the way to a table.  They both slid into the booth so they could face one another.

"As usual, you look lovely,"  Luke told his daughter. She was wearing fitted Levis jeans and a roomy sweatshirt with the CU Denver logo and her hair in a short pony tail.  She looked very young and fresh, and he was proud of her.

"Thanks."  She tossed her hair, which reminded Luke so much of Chris that his heart leaped in his chest a little when she tossed her head.

"You look beat, tired, but good."  She smiled impishly at him.

"Thanks,"  he replied.  "So, anything going on?  You and mom okay?"

She frowned at him.  "Of course, we're okay.  No problems."

He looked down, a little embarrassed.  "Well, you know I'm here if you ever need something.  You know, like any trouble in the neighborhood.  If you have to call the Denver Police for something, I want you to also page me.  I'll be there for either of you."

She smiled lovingly at him.  "We know, Dad, and it's appreciated.  No this is more personal, and mom suggested I ask for your advice."

He looked a little surprised and then quite eager. Luke was very glad Chris included him on the decision making still.

"I ran into some kids at school last Friday, at the library ... "

"And?"  Luke prompted her when she faltered.  He looked at her a little tensely and immediately wondered if it was a gang related situation.

"Well, they found out mom was the defense attorney on this case going on right now.  You know, the one where the girl was kidnapped, raped and murdered on her way home from Auraria Campus."

Luke tensed briefly.  His daughter threw around those terms like they meant nothing.  He was, however, relieved it was not gang related.  He nodded for her to go on between bites of his chicken sandwich.

"Well, they didn't let up about her doing something really wrong, like it was my fault or something.  I overreacted, I guess."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing.  I kept it inside.  You know.  I just left the library after they started in on us.  I was with Theresa at first."

"Well, I'm glad you had someone with you.  I'm also glad you didn't do anything, other than turn the other cheek, that is." He finished up his sandwich and turned to his soda, keeping his eyes on his daughter's.

"I felt so horrible.  I just wanted some time to work it out in my own head.  Mom said people used to get on you for her work, and she thought you'd be able to tell me how to handle it better."

Luke cleared his throat.  "I see.  God, I wish I knew how to give you all the answers.  It was tough being needled about your mom's work.  Turning the other cheek was all I could ever manage when it came from other people.  You just can't internalize it. Reaching out to me and to mom is a good idea.  We're always here for you to talk to even if we don't always have the right answers.  So when did this happen?"

"Friday afternoon while Theresa and I were researching a project."

"So some time has passed.  How are you dealing with it all after the fact?"

She thought about it.  "Like I'm afraid to face them again. A little, I guess."  She finished the Whopper and slurped at her chocolate shake.

"Don't ever be afraid to face something or someone. Not ever.  You can only handle your own reactions, not theirs. You can't let them affect your reactions to the world one iota. Being afraid of things you cannot control will only make you crazy, and only because the events are filled with unknown variables.  You are in control of this situation.  You are in control of your own reactions.  Remember that.  Please." Luke looked at her intently, as he leaned over the table to peer into her large, brown eyes.

She returned his look.  "Yeah, I see what you're saying."

He relaxed, smiled and leaned back.  "Good.  One less worry in the world, huh?"

Lorrie laughed.  "Yeah, Dad, one less worry.  Want to go for a walk and walk off dinner?"

Luke smiled and shook his head.  "Not in this neighborhood at night."

"Aw, Dad, you're armed!  What could possibly happen?" She cocked her head and looked at him as though he lost his senses.

Luke just shook his head and smiled.  "Just out to the vehicles, Baby Doll.  Listen to your old dad when he speaks." Luke deepened his voice.  "He has many years of wisdom on you, a regular Yoda."

Lorrie laughed at the inside joke, stood and linked her arm in his when he joined her.  They went out to the vehicles, chatting about the day's events.  Luke loaded his daughter into her car and watched her drive off safely in the proper direction toward home before getting in his and heading toward his apartment, a cup of hot tea, his scheduling for the next day and bed.








Luke's day started quietly, his first scheduled stop was with a parolee who started work for his uncle in a ramshackle dry cleaners out at 38th and Pecos.  Luke varied his scheduling nightly as to where he started his patrols and where he ended them.  He did this to keep his pattern erratic and the parolees on their toes.  As he pulled out toward I-70 and his next stop, he thought about how this guy at the dry cleaners would kill his number peacefully, unless something untoward happened, only to become a statistic in the recidivism rate.  No one who got into burglary was suddenly going to turn into a full time dry cleaner and live a long, boring, stable life until he died.  No way. He might toe the line, like he consistently had been, until he was bored some night and hooked up with his old friends, and that would be all she wrote.  The stop went uneventful, and everything checked out as it should.

His next stop was a big question mark for Luke.  He was headed to 48th and Grant to check on a parolee who worked for a mom and pop convenience store and probably got the job by extorting the older couple, and then robbed them blind nightly. Luke didn't like the nervous way the older couple did not have time to talk to him, nor the way they let his parolee dominate them.  It was all so subtle; Luke couldn't prove a thing, but he kept extra tabs on Michael Hyatt.  He was sure the parolee would screw up, and Luke very much wanted to be there at the right moment to kick his drug-possessing ass from Denver to Adams County.

Luke pulled up along the curb of the old building and stepped out of his car.  He checked the 9mm at his belt. His badge was fastened to the other side of his belt.  There was no mistaking him, which was good and bad.  The neighborhood was mostly minority, and Hyatt was in tight with most of them. He glanced in the large store window past the display of comic books and hot coffee advertisements.  He could not see Hyatt, but he did see the older couple.  The woman was behind the counter while the man stocked a small shelf of canned foods.  Luke swung open the door and a bell jangled.  The woman looked up and a pained expression came to her face.

"Yes, can we help you, Officer Mason?"

"Good Morning, Mrs. Randall."  Luke picked up the morning paper and went to get an orange juice out of the old styled refrigeration unit.  He liked to buy something at the store to be polite and try to get them to open up to him a little. Unfortunately, he never knew if it was working or not.  Luke said "Good Morning" to her husband, with no response, as he passed him to get the orange juice.  He returned to the front to stand awkwardly at the counter and watched the nervous, frosty expression on Mrs. Randall's face.

"That will be two dollars and twenty-two cents."

Luke fished the money out of his pants pocket and paid her.

"It sure got warm in the sun compared to last night, didn't it, Mrs. Randall?"  Luke unfolded the paper and tried to look casual as he surveyed the place.  They were not busy yet.

The Randalls were old members of the African-American community and respectably well established in the area.  He knew they viewed him as an outsider who could not help them, but he wished they would thaw enough to appreciate that he was trying. Luke knew the retaliation from the disreputable side of the neighborhood would be swift and intense if they were seen talking to him or any other cop, but he always hoped.  With no response but nervous looks to her husband, Luke got to the point.

"Where's Michael at?"

"Out back.  Want I should fetch him for you?"

Oh, that was much too helpful, Luke thought.  He folded the paper slowly and stuck it under his arm.

"No, that's quite all right, Ma'am.  I know the way."

He could see the fear creep into her eyes and face. Luke felt for his gun and loosened the strap a little so he could get at it easily if the need arose.  He stepped around a few empty boxes by the back door and opened the door a crack.  He peered out, but the door suddenly slammed in his face.  Luke dropped the paper and orange juice, then ripped the gun loose from it's holster and threw his body weight against the door, holding the gun with both hands up next to his right ear.  The door flew open and a small group of young blacks scattered down the alley. Luke sprinted after them and spotted Hyatt.

"Freeze your ass NOW, Hyatt!"  He was gaining on the youth but knew Hyatt could outlast him.

As soon as Luke was within arm's reach he swung both arms, still holding the gun, to slam the back of his forearm into the side of Hyatt's neck.  The youth yelled out and hit the ground in a full body slam, skidding to a halt and nearly sliding into a snow bank.  Hyatt was holding the side of his neck but wiggled over on to his back in the dirty snow-spotted alley, ready to kick Luke.  Luke kicked the kid's thigh with a full-force kick, using the top of his foot and part of his shin.  The youth screamed and grabbed his leg.  Luke swung the gun around to cover the kid.  With his left hand he yanked his cuffs out of the back of his pants, holding the chain, and slammed an open end onto the wrist of the hand that grappled with the injured leg, closing it sharply, and twisted with all his weight, forcing the kid onto his stomach.  As soon as Hyatt realized he had one hand cuffed, and he was on his stomach, the kid resisted letting his other hand come within reach of the cuffs.  Luke landed his right knee down on the back of the kid's shoulder and yanked on the kid's cuffed thumb sharply, giving him repeated verbal orders to place his hands on the back of his head.  The kid's response was another scream before finally complying.  Once the kid was fully cuffed, Luke easily stood back up and pulled the kid by one arm roughly to his feet.  Luke reholstered his gun.

"Well, congratulations, Michael.  Only twenty-three, and you have the distinction of being a parole violator."  Luke shoved the kid, still holding his arm, toward the shop door.  He wanted to get back to his car using the path of least resistance in this neighborhood.  The last thing he wanted was to advertise that he was alone and just arrested someone - anyone - from their neighborhood.

He stepped inside the building and was mildly surprised to find that the older couple had not bolted it from the inside.  He thanked his luck and continued past them to the front door.

"Good day, Mrs. Randall ... Mr. Randall."

Luke kept going without hesitation through the shop door to his parole vehicle.  He opened the door, and, placing his hand on the top of the kid's head, he shoved the kid into the back behind the front seat.  Hyatt would have to crawl past Luke to get out of the car.  After slamming the seat back in place, Luke slid in on that side of the car, quickly pulling his butt over behind the wheel.

The carefully maintained vehicle started up, and Luke pulled away from the curb without further incident.  He headed back towards I-70, intending to pass through the airport tunnels and pull off on the Havana turnoff to check his guest into the Denver County Jail.  His schedule was thrown way off, but he got him, by God, he got the little bastard.  He was looking forward to the search and UA, knowing this kid was hot.  Luke knew his supervisor would just wig, but he seriously never had time to call for back up.  Tough luck.  Nothing at that point could have wiped the smile from Luke Mason's face.








The court was adjourned early for the day.  Chris got through her opening arguments and listened to the opening statements made by the prosecution.  She took as many notes during his remarks that she could.  She was hoping for something more that she could give their investigator to work up an angle. There were no real surprises, and that disappointed her. They adjourned shortly after that because the prosecution requested time for some test results to get back.  All the evidence would need to be logged in with the court and marked as exhibits before they were introduced into evidence formally through testimony. Chris was glad for the break so that she could work on some of her other cases.

She decided it was time to return to the Lidsky case. He was asking to see her and perhaps felt more like talking about his case.  She drove the route down Colfax Avenue, from her parking spot outside the City and County Building, east away from the mountains.  She was not a native of Colorado, but she appreciated the ease the mountains gave her to find her direction in Denver.  If anything was west, then you could see the mountains if you were headed in the right direction.  They were large and majestic with beautiful peaks and long ranges. She liked it when she headed back downtown so she could see the mountains, and how the peaks looked with the Gold Dome capitol building briefly in the forefront as she drove by it.  This time she was headed in the opposite direction for Peoria right now. It was about a 30 minute drive with the traffic and very stop- start with all the traffic lights on Colfax, but Chris rarely liked to fight her way through traffic to a highway turnoff, if she could avoid it, and then trying to merge once she got on it. She preferred to go with the flow of traffic on the side streets.

Chris turned off north on Peoria and drove past the fast food restaurants to Smith Road and turned back west.  Now she could see the mountains as they framed the new prison built next to the Denver County Jail.  She had not had an opportunity to go into the new prison and figured she would someday when she had an appeal she had to handle.  She pulled off on the dirt side of Smith Road and parked her Chevette.  Chris stepped out of her car in her light weight tan trench coat and light blue Liz suit coat and skirt, carrying her burgundy briefcase.  She wore a pink frilly blouse under the suit coat, and she attracted quite a bit of attention from the male deputies in the Denver Sheriff's Department.  She maintained an all-business appearance with the officers, preferring that they not misread anything as flirtation.  Chris thought well of them, but she knew men would be men wherever she went.

She retraced her steps that she had taken when she first came to visit Lidsky.  She knew the facility well and spent half her running-around time visiting the jail.  She was well known, and she hoped well liked, at the facility and was allowed through the metal doors to a visiting booth with its yellow table and plastic chairs.  She sat in one of the chairs and waited for Lidsky to be brought to her.  She had filled out and turned in his name on the proper form, so they would know who she was here to visit.  She also knew the forms were useful to the Sheriff's Department when some attorney tried to claim they were not afforded visiting time with their client.  Chris preferred to play it straight with them, and she knew they treated her in kind.

While she waited for Lidsky to appear, Chris looked out the small open door.  She knew behind her head was the glass windows that allowed the control center at the entrance area to see into every cubicle.  She looked idly around her when she noticed Luke Mason headed up the hallway.  She tensed up, as she did every time she ran into him.  He was about to pass the open door to head for the electronically controlled steel security doors to the front area of the jail when Chris called out to him.

"Hello."

Luke stopped in his stride when he saw that it was his ex- wife who called at him.  "Hi!"  He walked over to the open door.

"So what brings you here?"  Chris asked to open the conversation.

Luke leaned his athletic frame against the doorway.  "I caught one of my parolees red-handed and took him here for the shakedown, UA, and hold order."

"Was the UA hot?"

Luke looked up at the dark ceiling and shook his head lightly. "Is that a small-talk question or an attempt at premature discovery?"

Chris let her chin fall to her chest.  "Never mind.  It was a stupid question ... I was ... just trying to take an interest in your work."

Luke just stood looking at the ceiling for awhile, saying nothing.  Finally he said,  "Thanks."  He looked back down at her and smiled hesitantly at her.  "Well, I better get back on the road ... I'm a little behind schedule this morning."  He slowly started to leave, shifting his weight from the door frame.

"Congratulations on getting him."  Chris added to his back.

Luke spun around to wave at his ex-wife before he stood in front of the steel slider.  When they opened the door, he passed through into the waiting chairs and area by the lockers.  He continued walking underneath the television set playing some cartoon.  The waiting room was full of many walks of people, all waiting to see someone in the jail's visiting room, and talking at the same time.  Luke ignored them and continued through the glass door of the front door.  He felt pretty good right then. He nabbed his parolee that he knew was dirty but could not prove it until now, and Christina Mason congratulated him for it. He hitched at his pants as he walked down the ramp area, headed toward the side of the facility where he could collect his car.








Chris continued to watch Luke's back until he passed out of sight.  She looked down at her hands on the brightly- colored, plastic table.  She thought about how good he looked.  She hoped she looked just as good to him, but she was not quite sure why. Chris laughed at herself and realized she still had feelings for him.  The way he walked when he was unaware of it was something she always enjoyed watching.  He moved like he was always aware of where his feet were whether he was looking at them or not.  He moved like a cat, athletic and sleek.  She shook her head and looked up at the ceiling too.  She nearly blew it there. She never felt like they were on two separate sides of the Criminal Justice spectrum until after the divorce.  Now she could clearly see the division, and sometimes she wondered if she made the right decision in choosing the Public Defenders Office.  She shook her head again and thought how she was doing something important that kept her clients from being confused and taking it out on the authority figures around them in the rest of the Criminal Justice system, not to mention the need to defend those who simply did not belong in the system from the start. Chris wished Luke could understand that.

She twisted to fidget in her briefcase, which she kept in the chair directly behind her back.  She wished they would send Lidsky soon so she could get back to her office and get some work done.  Just as Chris was pulling the legal size, manila folder on Lidsky out of her briefcase, he was standing at the cubicle door. She tried to smile reassuringly at him and motioned for him to sit across from her.

"So you heard I wanted to talk to you,"  Lidsky said as he slid into the chair across the table.

What there was of the smile faded from her face. Always the attitude with this one.  He never even seemed confused by the system or had the typical list of desperate questions that she could help answer.

"Of course, that's why I'm here."

He slouched back in his seat.  "I'm innocent, you know that, don't you?"

She looked skeptically at him.  "If it's true, I need something to work with.  Start by giving me your story, and we'll look for witnesses to establish your alibi."

He smiled at her.  "Okay.  I was at my parents house the night they claim I murdered this girl.  I was in the basement room, minding my own business.  I admit I followed her around school awhile once, trying to get to know her and ask her to go out with me.  I have no prior record of any activity like this, and I have never killed anyone, despite my military background. I was always stationed here in Colorado.  I don't know who killed the girl, and I think it was a real waste because she was a very nice girl.  I would never have done anything to harm her in any way."

Chris looked at him in silence for awhile.  She could not tell if he was on the up-and-up, but it did not really matter. What mattered was what he gave her especially if his parents could vouch for his whereabouts on, she consulted her file, January 18, 1990.  She wrote down on a yellow legal pad everything he just told her, word for word.  It was short and to the point.

"We can get with your parents and our investigator could interview them --"

Lidsky sat up straighter.  "Are you saying you don't believe me?"

Chris pushed her bangs away from her face.  "No, no, of course not."

"Look, my parents are disabled.  They have extreme arthritis in their joints.  They're old people, and I took care of them.  I don't want them bothered if at all possible."

Chris looked at him and wondered why he was saying all this. "I need to put them on the stand.  If you were at their house, we need them to say so on the stand.  The investigator only locates good witnesses for me.  It's nothing personal.  You need them right now, and if you took care of them, then I'm certain they would want the opportunity to help clear you.  They probably need you as badly as you need them right now.  Maybe they're even a little lost without you there to help them.  Think of them too, okay?"

Lidsky seemed a little at a loss by what she said. "They haven't written or came here to visit since I've been here."

Finally, some sense of humanity, Chris thought.  "If the arthritis is bad enough, it may be too difficult for them to get here.  I'll be going along with the investigator, so it won't be something cold for them, I promise."

"All right."  He put his head in his hands on the table and ran his fingers through his short, stubby blonde hair.  "As long as you go too, I suppose."

"I need something more to deal with, though.  You spoke of a military background.  The jury, if it goes to trial, are going to look at that as having the proper ability and skills to commit such a crime.  Do you know anybody I could talk to from your military days who could speak of a positive background?" She held her pen poised over her legal pad.

He leaned back thoughtfully.  "I had a friend.  I think he's a sergeant now, but we were party buddies back then.  His name is Frederick Garry.  He's still stationed up at CU, last I heard of him.  You could try him.  You just said 'if' it goes to trial. Isn't that what this is all about?  Why bother my parents for nothing if you expect the charges to be dropped."

Chris' head jerked up from her writing.  "I never said anything about the charges being dropped.  What you're facing here, Mr. Lidsky, are some very serious charges.  The best we can hope for is a plea bargain to some lesser charges if it looks like going to trial is too risky."

Lidsky looked angrily at her.  "It will never be too risky for an innocent man to go to trial.  Collect your witnesses, do your job, and I won't have anything to worry about."

Chris tapped her pen against her legal pad.  "You still don't get it.  You may face the death penalty if you go to trial. The charges against you are that serious.  If your witnesses appear that strong, we can discuss the possibilities of going to court, but, most of all, I want to prepare to go to trial because the DA's office may want that without offering any plea bargain. Now.  Can I get your parents' names and confirm their address. It's in the file from the search warrant affidavit, but I just want to check it over with you."

Lidsky looked at her with the anger still smoldering in his eyes.  He did not like her attitude, he felt she was not the attorney to handle his case, but she was all he was offered at this point.  He gave her his parents' names and their address. Lidsky felt certain she would change her tune once she talked with his parents.  He would demand an apology from her at that point.  They wrapped up their interview, and Lidsky returned to his part of the jail where the deputies locked him down. Chris prepared her briefcase, said goodbye to the deputy working the control center by the steel slider and left the Denver County Jail once the sliders opened.  Her drive back to the office gave her time to consider her new information.








Luke's next item on his agenda was to check out a parole plan.  The Colorado State Board of Parole accepted the parole of a James R. Arco contingent on the findings of his investigation. It was pretty routine, and Luke started with the guy's girlfriend.  He intended to parole to her address and to her care.  Luke had to check out her ability to handle the situation, her ability to prepare to assist him from re-offending, and her "stable" background.  He pulled his parole vehicle up to the corner of Marion and 6th Avenue.  Luke walked the rest of the way up Marion to the tiny two story house.  He stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door.  After the second knock someone came to the door.  He showed the young woman his badge and introduced himself.

"Is this a good time to discuss Mr. Arco's parole situation?"  Luke found it best to start out politely. Knowing this meeting could make or break her boyfriend's parole, he expected she would be agreeable to talking with him.

"Sure, Officer."  She opened the door wider for him to pass through.

He had seen neater places, but Luke did not think living in a garbage dump was going to be an issue.  He looked around for weapons, drug paraphernalia, or anything out of the ordinary. The guy was convicted of assault, and the victim was a cousin. Luke asked her if she ever saw the cousin.

"Well, yeah.  He lives a couple blocks away and hangs around the neighborhood 'cause he has a friend across the street, but there won't be no trouble, Officer.  Jimmy, he swears it, and he's real sorry it ever happened.  His cousin, Joe, says he'll keep to his side of the street.  No trouble here, Officer."

Luke nodded and jotted down a few notes on a small notepad. He had no intention of recommending this environment for the inmate to parole.  The chances of getting into it again with the cousin were extreme because of the close proximity.  He small- talked with the girlfriend and told her she would soon hear whether he would be paroling to her or not.  Luke did not want to get into anything with her.  He just wanted to make a graceful retreat at that point, so he said good bye and walked back to his vehicle.

Luke drove on to his next stop.  He thought about the rest of his stops that day, the new case load coming his way, and how he wanted to get in some work out time that evening before dinner.  He worked out in the weight room of the complex where he lived.  It was a small universal gym available off of the laundry room on the first floor, but it was all he really needed. Fortunately, most of the tenants did not use the weights and that left them free for him to use.  It was one of the reasons he chose the complex to live in when he and Chris first looked at it back when they lived there together with Lorrie.

He had also met one of the few girlfriends he had after the divorce there in the weight room.  It ended in a disaster with her making it with other guys in the complex.  Luke hated the feeling of egg all over his face and had to put up with seeing her around with some of the other guys for the next six months until she moved out of the complex with one of them.  The whole episode only made him miss the stability of marriage.  There were a lot of things to work at in a marriage, but, as attractive as Chris was, he never had to put up with seeing her with some other guy.  She just was not the kind to run around.  The weight room brought back the memories every time he used it, but he figured it was a good reminder to play it safe and not date women from the complex.

Luke cruised the streets looking for the next address he needed to check out.  One of his parolees got a new job, and he had to check out how the job was going and how the supervisor felt it was going to work out.  Luke thought about disclosure of information that the guy was a parolee paroled from the rape of an old girlfriend, but decided he would keep it cool and get the information he needed before telling the parolee's supervisor. It was a job at a garage, and Luke hoped the disclosure would help the supervisor understand that he needed to limit the contact the guy had with customers, especially female customers. Luke was not sure the guy would rape just any woman, but the chances that the guy would get emotionally involved with a customer increased the risk that she would be in the same position of the previous girlfriend.  He wanted to limit the access from customers totally.  He continued driving along, looking at the green and white street signs.








Walking into the corner office belonging to one of the Public Defenders Office investigators, Chris greeted her co- worker cheerily.

"Hi, Mike!"  She sat on the chair next to his desk and pulled out her legal sized, manila file folder on Lidsky. "Got one for you to schedule for me.  He's got an alibi that I want checked out.  He claims to have been at his parents' house the night of the killing.  If you'd outline the hours that killing was supposed to have taken place and then the hours that he was at his parents, we would have a good time line to present in court."

Mike leaned back in his chair and took some notes.  He glanced up from the corner of his eye as he flicked through the open file she placed on his desk.  Chris was taking the opportunity to look out at his view of the mountains from their thirteenth floor building.  Mike admittedly enjoyed the view of the mountains himself, but he also thought her office view of the Gold Dome was pretty impressive.

"Is this one a hot one, or can I take some time on it, Chris?"

She focused her eyes on him and smiled.  "Well, we're on a time deadline, of course, I mean, aren't we always?"

He chuckled at that and noticed her notes on Frederick Garry.  "Want to take the time to call this one now?"  He tapped her notes on Sgt. Garry.

"Sure.  Where do we start?"  Chris crossed her legs. "He said he thought he was still stationed in Colorado up somewhere at CU Boulder."

Mike smiled and picked up the telephone.  He placed some calls to Buckley, apparently having a friend out that way. He tracked down the Special Forces stationed out at CU Boulder and finally placed the call to their installation.  Sgt. Garry was a liaison to a lieutenant in the installation and was accessible at that time.  Mike waited for the call to be placed through to him while he pressed on the speaker phone feature and hung up the receiver.  He smiled reassuringly at Chris and hunched over the phone.

"Sgt. Garry here."

Mike cleared his throat.  "Sgt. Garry, my name is Mike Church.  I'm an investigator for the Public Defenders Office in Denver.  My associate Chris Mason, an attorney, and I have a few questions about one of your former associates if we may have a few moments of your time."

Chris thought she could hear the man rearranging some things, perhaps on a desk, in the background.

"I have a meeting in 15 minutes.  Please make it brief. I need to know who this 'associate' is."

"Yes, sir.  We'll keep it brief.  Ah, "  Mike pulled the file over closer to him.  "His name in Thomas Michael Lidsky.  He was stationed with you three years ago in Boulder."

The hesitation on the line was audible.  "He was stationed here."

Mike looked at Chris with a quizzical look in his eye. "Can you tell us a little about him?"

"What is your interest in him?"

"We're representing him in possible murder charges," Chris input, evasively.

"Who was he supposed to have murdered?"

Chris looked back at Mike, unsure of how much information she should be giving.  "He was arrested for suspicion of the murder of Bridgette Salance, a Metro State College student."

Sgt. Garry sucked in his breath and slowly let it out. "He received a dishonorable discharge for conduct unbecoming in January of 1987.  I was stationed here in Special Forces with him."

Chris reached for a pencil and took some notes on a tablet at Mike's desk.  "He said you were friends."

Sgt. Garry chuckled harshly.  "No, we enlisted at about the same time and received the same training."

Chris tapped the pencil eraser on the desk.  There was a lot more here that she was not getting out of Sgt. Garry.  "He said you could possibly vouch for him that he would not be the type of man who would follow a woman around campus for the purpose of sexually assaulting her and murdering her."  Chris hoped the shock of her statement would make an impact.

Sgt. Garry's end of the connection became very quiet. Finally the man spoke.  "I guess he hoped I would keep quiet about what happened.  Ah, God."

Chris waited for the man to go on, totally perplexed about what was happening.  She was once again glad that the Public Defenders Office routinely worked through their investigators. she needed Mike there more than ever.  Something was happening and her word alone would not work, especially not in court.

Sgt. Garry asked to put them on hold while he rescheduled his meeting.  When he came back on the line, he was calmer. "Okay, its about time it came out.  I cannot let this guy blackmail me when I've come so far.  He told you I would vouch for him because of a party we were at three and a half years ago. We went together with another of the enlisted men, and we stayed quite late ... I was pretty drunk ... Lidsky came up with this idea.  He invited us to one of the apartments where some of the girls from the party lived.  We thought he knew one of the girls. It turned out he didn't.  Oh, we went to their apartment and Lidsky was already there.  He let us inside.  The girls weren't home yet.

"There were three of the women sharing the apartment together.  Lidsky seemed like he was right at home, walking around, offering us drinks, using the john.  We waited for his girlfriend and her roommates to show up.  When they came home, they were surprised to see us.  They remembered us from the party and wondered what we were doing there ... They were open enough and not concerned about us being in their apartment.  They had a few too many drinks also, and they were college students that were used to having a good time between classes.  It became obvious to us that Lidsky did not know them, but we took it as a kind of joke ...  The girls laughed right along with us. Lidsky grabbed the one laughing the loudest and took her to a bedroom. She didn't seem to resist much.  We went along with the idea and each had a girl ...  No charges were filed, but Thomas Lidsky knows how things like that can haunt a career man.  I've always been ashamed of myself for the incident, once I sobered up. We agreed not to speak of it again.

"Oh, yes, Thomas Lidsky is the kind of man to follow a college woman around and sexually assault her.  The question becomes, would he kill her?  I'm afraid he is trained to do just that.  He can kill with some of the most sophisticated methods."

Chris looked at Mike in amazement.  Mike took over, "You mentioned a dishonorable discharge.  Could you elaborate on the conduct?"

"Not officially."

"Unofficially, then.  If we have other leads, we can utilize them and not you, sir."

Sgt. Garry breathed in and let it out slowly.  "He liked to party whenever he was allowed off base.  In order for him to report for duty the next morning, we discovered he was applying field IVs of water to himself.  Maybe it was some sort of voodoo way of taking care of a hangover, I dunno.  But he wasn't one hundred percent when he reported for duty ... There were also complaints from some of the women from the parties.  He was very popular with the college women in particular.  There were enough witnesses to that kind of stuff.  The women were throwing themselves at him, but he rejected them in front of the same witnesses.  Later, the women claimed he showed up at their apartments, or outside their apartments, working his way in and had his way with them.  Nothing criminal could stick because the same women were seen at the parties trying to get him to go to bed with them.  All formal charges were dropped, but the military labeled him an unwanted.  His excessive drinking and the field IVs were cited as the main reasons.  The continual complaints from the women were also cited.

"I'm afraid you have a very questionable case, counselor.  I wouldn't take it if I had a choice."

Chris just looked at the black phone.  She did not even blink.  Mike gave his thanks and reassurances to the Sergeant and disconnected the telephone connection.  He sat back in his chair and studied Chris.  She just shook her head.

"What do you think?"  She finally asked.

"I think you got a loser case.  However, I would like to follow up on the parents as an alibi."

Chris gave him a sour look.

"What?"  he asked.  "Can't a guy be a little curious? This guy may have dug a pretty deep hole for himself, or you may get a solid alibi.  This way you'll know for certain."

Chris sighed and finally said,  "Let's go then."  She started to rise from the chair.

"Now?"

"Yes, now.  I'd like not to waste a whole lot of time and thought to this case by way of a defense if we have nothing to stand on, if you don't mind."  Chris waited for Mike at the door to his office.

Mike laughed and grabbed his coat from the rack on the wall. "Better get your coat.  It's chilly out there."

Chris gave him another look but took his advice and headed for her office to grab her coat and her purse.  She was pulling the coat on when she met up with him just outside the crowded reception area.  Chris left instructions to file another request for discovery to the DA's Office on the Lidsky case.  She was a little irritated that the first request was ignored.  They jostled politely through the crowd and exited the office. Once in the elevator, Mike turned to Chris with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.

"Soo, what if this doesn't pan out?"

"I plea bargain."

Mike laughed and scratched at his nose with his hand and pushed his hand back in his coat pocket.

"What if this guy still wants to go to trial, claiming he's innocent?"

Chris looked down at the carpet in the elevator. "Mike, he may be up against the death penalty.  I don't see as he has much choice."  She chuckled sarcastically and shook her head. "That is if the DA's Office will even offer a plea bargain."

"Hmm,"  Mike muttered.

They continued down, stopping from time to time to take on or let off passengers, and discussed whose vehicle they were going to take.  They settled on Mike's black Toyota truck. Mike did not look forward to filling out the expense voucher to get reimbursed the mileage, but he knew it was all part of the job. The first thing they did when they reached his truck, parked at one of the nearby pay lots, was pull out his map and look up the area where they would be going.  Chris was appointed the navigator and they pulled off onto to Lincoln and off to Brighton Boulevard.  Mike picked up I-70 and headed east.  They quickly passed the highway 270 interchange and went into the airport tunnels to the highway I-225 interchange.  Mike drove briefly into the suburb of Aurora and took the Chambers' exit. Heading north on Chambers, he quickly put them back in Denver.  He asked Chris to consult the map again to find the street they would have to turn on to find Deephaven Court.  Chris pointed out 53rd Avenue, and Mike took that to Deephaven Court and locating 4000 was simply accomplished.

After Mike parked along the curb, Chris looked over the small, beige ranch house.  She had read the search warrant affidavit, which detailed the things to be retrieved from the residence.  Chris had to assume that they found everything until the Public Defenders Office received a response to their request for discovery.  She shuddered to think of how she could explain the real evidence confiscated in Mr. Lidsky's home.  Despite any alibi they might find here, the circumstantial evidence would be very strong.  If the DAs office was careful enough, the circumstantial evidence would far outweigh any preponderance of the evidence in the minds of the jurors when compared to anything the parents would say.  Chris sighed, gave Mike a "here we go" look, and exited the Toyota truck.  They both approached the residence, looking professional in their suits and calm in their attitudes.  Chris preferred this image.  She did not want to appear threatening in any manner to possible witnesses -- just the opposite.  They wanted to appear as competently reliable as possible.

They rang the door bell and waited on the small covered porch for an answer.  They waited for a full minute, and Mike rerung the bell.  They waited another minute when Mike reached up again.  Chris covered his hand gently.

"Lidsky said something about his parents having advanced arthritis.  Let's wait awhile longer before ringing again."

Mike lowered his hand and put it behind his back.  He looked down at his feet and tried to listen for sounds inside the house. Presently he heard someone coming to the door in a slow shuffling gait.  He nodded at Chris.  A woman who looked anywhere from fifty to sixty answered the door.  The fingers she curled around the door she opened were gnarled and disjointed.

"Yes, can I help you?"

She appeared shaky and unused to answering her own door. Chris was reminded of Lidsky's explanation that he cared for his ill parents.  She hoped he was telling the truth and that they were not just going to get the pat answer that two caring parents would give to protect their only son.

"Yes, ma'am.  I'm Christina Mason of the Public Defenders Office, and this is my associate Mike Church.  May we speak to you about your son?"

The older woman in the doorway began to shake.  She looked around her as though for support.  Chris suggested quickly that they go inside and sit down.  Mrs. Lidsky looked gratefully at her and turned to walk back to her front room, leaving the door open for Chris and Mike to enter.  Chris quickly stepped inside and reached hesitantly out for the older woman's arm.

"May I please assist you to sit down?"

"Yesss, that ... would be nice."

Mrs. Lidsky moved very slowly in her shuffling gait. Chris could not tell through the stretch elastic banded pants what the woman's knees and legs must look like, but she felt badly for this woman.  Chris gave her arm strong support, which the older woman leaned on heavily.  They walked in a teeter totter method to a front room.  Mike watched on, feeling somewhat helpless. Once in the front room, Chris and Mike were introduced to Malcolm Lidsky, Thomas Lidsky's father, who was watching television. He, too, had the gnarled hands that appeared more clawlike than human.  He did not stand but politely said hello and turned the television off with a remote control.  The effort to work the buttons was visible.  Chris briefly wondered how both parents could have been struck by such a disabling illness.  She aided Esther Lidsky down onto the couch.  Chris offered to get them something to drink.  Mrs. Lidsky looked up at her in some surprise.

"No, no.  Most kind, but I should get something for the both of you ..."

Mike and Chris hurriedly assured her that they were fine. Chris tried politely inquiring on their health after lowering herself slowly beside Mrs. Lidsky on the couch.  She watched in amazement as the older woman broke down and began to cry. Chris wanted to reach out and hold the woman's hand, but she dared not even pat it.  She waited patiently, glancing up at the husband from time to time.  Both of them looked rather shaken. Chris looked at Mike, who kept looking at her.

"I'm sorry.  Is there something I can do?"  Chris finally managed.

Mrs. Lidsky wiped at her cheeks with the back of one clawlike hand.  "No, not really ... "  She looked shaken. "I ... we ... it's just been so difficult ..."

Chris tried to smile reassuringly.  "With your help perhaps we can have your son home to help you once again.  That would make things easier."  Chris hated lying, but she did not have many options at that point.

Mrs. Lidsky simply looked at Chris through her tears in shock.  Mr. Lidsky spoke up.

"Blast it all, he's the problem!"  The man waved one gnarled hand in the air and dropped the remote control unit to the floor. He cursed it and tried to bend over to pick it up.  Mike quickly crossed the room, picked it up and placed it on the arm of the reclining chair.

"Oh,"  the man straightened up in his chair and said. "Thank you  ... but you have to understand how we feel!"

"Yes, do."  Mrs. Lidsky breathed deeply and tried to compose herself.  "It was all so shocking and painful!"

Chris looked confused.  "I'm not sure I understand."

The older man went back to waving a hand in the air after carefully tucking the remote control unit into the chair. "They just barged in, God dammit!  They man-handled us like furniture!"

Mrs. Lidsky began to cry softly again.  Chris could not imagine what they were talking about.  Mike cleared his throat and tried to help out.

"Who did, sir?"

"Those men in black with the police, that's who!  They had guns, and they pointed them at us after taking us in here and throwing us on the floor like unwanted garbage.  You can't imagine how humiliating that is, but, on top of it, God dammit, it was painful!  It takes the doctors days to get the right dosage of medication to relieve the pain.  I thought I was going to die, I did!"  He was waving both useless hands in the air.

Chris blushed and looked up at Mike.  Mike crouched down by the older man's chair and spoke calmingly to him.  "Sir, what they did was not right.  We can help you bring this out so that they cannot do this to you again.  Please let us help."

Mrs. Lidsky spoke up, her gnarled hands shaking as they brushed at the tears on her face.  "You don't understand. They did it because of Thomas.  They would not have done it all if Thomas had not have provoked them ... Detective Montoya, he explained this to us.  He showed us what they found in Thomas' room downstairs ... Oh, Lord.  He had such things down there. The police showed them to us ... they were in these plastic bags, looking so cold and inhuman ... We haven't even touched the anything downstairs since they left.  They say there are guns down there!  The detectives, they showed us pictures of them!"

Mr. Lidsky spoke up again from his chair.  "They should not have hurt us, that's true.  But what Thomas did was horrible.  He might have ... been dangerous to the police, or us, or himself. Only a crazy person does things like that ... It was so hard to accept, God dammit.  It was so hard."

They both fell silent for a few moments.  Chris and Mike simply looked helplessly at each other.  After awhile Mrs. Lidsky went on.

"He was gone for long periods at a time, but we never thought he would do anything like this.  They showed us what he had down there ... not just pictures, mind you, but the real things.  He had ... women's underwear ... I'm not sure what he wanted them for, but I can assure you we had no idea."

"That's right,"  the older man put in.  "We can't even go down the stairs.  We could not have known what the boy had down there, by God.  It's disgraceful, downright disgraceful." He tried to run his gnarled hands through what hair he had left on his head.

Chris decided to bite the bullet and get the answer they originally came for.  "Your son said that, on the night of January 18, 1990, he was here home with you both."

Mrs. Lidsky drew in a breath.  Malcolm Lidsky answered her question.

"By God, certainly not!"

Chris and Mike looked at each other.  "So, you remember that night?"

Malcolm Lidsky wiped at his mouth with his clawed hands. "Yes.  Of course.  The police asked about it.  He was in and out. We could hear the garage door leading into the house open and close, letting that awful cold blasts of air into the house when he knows his mother and I can't stand that.  We were doing what we usually did, watching some TV before bed.  We like to watch the news before we go to bed.  The news the next night talked about the missing college girl, I remembered that.  The very next night, mind you!"

"All that blood they found in City Park.  Oh, it must have been awful for that mother!  I can't bear that my son might have had anything to do with that ... Oh, in the beginning Thomas was so helpful after leaving the military, but, as time went on, he didn't get a steady job, and so we had to pay for him too out of our disability checks.  He helped when he could, doing the laundry and cooking every now and then, but we needed someone steady.  We couldn't afford to bring anyone else in with paying for Thomas and all.  It was a struggle.  Mind you, we loved him too much to kick him out, but he was here and gone so much. It was just such a struggle.  We had to pay someone to come in and clean upstairs after the police detectives went through all of our things.  Oh, it was distressing, and all because of Thomas."

Well, Chris thought, that explained why they never visited their son while he was in jail.  She wondered if he really saw himself as some kind of saint.  Maybe he saw himself as someone who tried when not that many would.  Chris shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You said you couldn't get downstairs to clean up after the police were here?"  Mike asked.

"God dammit, we can't get downstairs to do our own laundry, young man!"  Malcolm Lidsky was still waving one clawed hand in the air.

Mike cleared his throat.  "Would you mind, sir, if we took a look downstairs?"  Mike stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the man.

Mrs. Lidsky smiled at him.  "Go ahead, young man.  Just as we assured the police, we haven't changed a thing.  If they have to come back, we don't want anymore trouble."

Mike nodded at Chris, and they both moved to the entry way of the room.  "The stairs would be this way?"

"Yes.  The stairs are by the kitchen."  Mrs. Lidsky looked down at her hands in her lap.  She seemed dazed by it all.

Chris and Mike continued toward the kitchen, found the darkened staircase, and turned on the light to go down. They proceeded down the stairs to the equally dark basement.  The two windows in the basement did not let in a lot of light.  Mike tried the switch by the staircase, but it failed to work.

Mike looked up at the bulb in the ceiling and reached up to shake the hanging bulb.  "I think they may just have let the light bulb burn out after the police left the light on. They couldn't even get to the bottom of the stairs to turn the light out again.  That's sad."  He let his hand fall back to his side.

Chris shook her head and gripped her arms around herself, hugging her coat closer to her.  She walked around in the half light of the bare basement.  She could make out a bed in a corner and a round rug under it.  She looked up and down the room, avoiding looking at the shadowed corners.  The room gave her the creeps.  She walked slowly over toward the bed, her heels clicking on the cement floor.  She looked down at the unmade blankets and sheets and noticed the 9mm pistol on the dressing table next to the bed.  She looked around further and noticed the armament on the walls, the M1A and the shotgun.  Chris rotated and let her heels click as she walked over to the closet. Mike was already there, and he pointed out the dark-colored light bulb, which was also burnt out.  The closet did not look like it held normal clothes in it.  It looked deserted and empty.

"Think this is where they found the panties?"  Mike asked Chris.

"I suppose."  She turned on her heel and proceeded to the staircase to return upstairs.

Mike followed her up the stairs where they thanked the Lidskys for their hospitality.  Mike assured them that they would lock the front door on their way out.  Chris wished she could say or do more for them, but she could not think of anything that would help in the least.  Considering their reactions to the simple questions they came to ask, she did not want to risk saying anything more.  She felt strange and somewhat useless as she left their home.  Chris only felt some relief in that the parents were able to re-establish something of their lives. Chris made a mental note to notify Social Services to send someone to help with the laundry and the shopping.  She sighed as she stepped off the curb to climb into the black Toyota truck while Mike was holding the passenger door open.  She climbed in and stared straight ahead.  After closing her door, Mike went around and climbed behind the wheel.  He looked over at Chris while he started the engine.

"You had to ask, Chris.  It's your job.  What happened to them isn't your fault."  Mike glanced at her again as he pulled away from the curb.  If Chris heard him, there was no sign.





















CHAPTER SIX





The next morning brought Chris to the realization she had to face Thomas Lidsky and tell him that his alibi would not work in court - he basically had no alibis.  She felt repulsed by what was happening to his parents, and she wished she could undo what had already happened to them, but there was no way.  She shook her head as she drove down Pecos toward I-70.  She ran one hand repeatedly through her hair, angry with herself.  She had to gain control of herself.  Her job was their son, not them.  She already placed the call to Social Services for the parents, but now she had to concentrate on how to deal with her client. She did not want to tell him.  She did not want to face it.  She wished she never saw the case.  Chris pounded one heal of a palm onto the steering wheel of her little Chevette.  There was nothing much she could do for Thomas Lidsky.  The real evidence his parents spoke of seeing were most likely the things outlined in the search warrant affidavit.  The circumstantial evidence was all so very strong.

Chris shook her head again and hoped that her own prejudices were not entering into the picture.  She had a little voice in the back of her head that said this was a loser case because this time the guy was as guilty as sin.  Her shook her head and reminded herself that her job was not to judge.  Guilt or innocence was for the jury, not the defense attorney.  She had to concentrate on her case.  She had to present the facts to him, and she wanted him to understand that, if offered a plea bargain, it was probably the best they would ever get.  She needed him to understand that there was no one to bail him out this time. His parents took him back after he failed at the military, and God knew how many other failures littered his life where they stepped in and made it all better.  He was facing a possible death penalty this time, and his parents were far from the point of stepping into the situation.  It was horrible to think that she was acting as some kind of messenger for him to get them to come forward and lie for him.  It was time for him to face facts, and it was her job to make him aware of them.

Chris found herself driving on some kind of remote control on one side of her brain.  She found herself already at the mousetrap on I-70.  She looked down at the briefcase on the seat next to her and recounted the documentation in his manila file in her mind.  Her notes were meticulous.  She completed those at home where she could at least have a drink while she had to relive the details of meeting with his parents.  She also outlined the conversation with Sgt. Garry for Lidsky and the file.  She hoped that was one aspect the prosecution would not get hold of, but she had to prepare for it in case they did. She saw it as irrelevant to the current charges and planned to take it to a suppression hearing if it showed up in the discovery. She needed to plan in more detail, but everything was contingent on the discovery.  She cursed the unwillingness of the DA's Office to follow the procedures in a timely fashion.

She drove through the airport tunnels and to the Havana turnoff.  She spun around on the turnoff, slipping on the slick road from the icy snow that fell that morning.  She gained control of the vehicle, tried to breathe deeply to gain control of herself and slowly pulled back onto the extreme curving road of the Havana turnoff.  Chris' hands shook on the wheel as she continued to breathe deeply.  She ran a shaky hand through her hair.  She hoped this was not an omen for the rest of her day. Chris drove over the railroad tracks and to the four way stop at Smith Road.  She turned left and parked off the road onto the dirt further down from her usual place.  She wanted some time to get herself together.  She sat in the parked car with her hand to her mouth and thought about crying.  She sat very still and closed her eyes.  Deciding the best way to refocus her mind was to go through the file, Chris reached shakily for her briefcase and took out the manila file.  She looked briefly around her and hoped no one she knew would see her and think anything was unusual.

Slowly Chris began to relax.  She organized the facts in her mind she needed to review with Lidsky.  She felt more in control and business-like once she completed her once-over.  She shoved the paperwork back into the briefcase, took a deep breath and opened the car door.  She stepped out of the vehicle and slung her briefcase on one shoulder, and her purse on the other shoulder of her long tan coat.  She took another deep breath of cold air and headed for the entrance.  Chris knew things were looking up when she entered the place and there were few people waiting to visit.  She greeted the deputy at the control center and accepted the attorney visit form.  She filled out the form and waited for the slider to open.  She went to one of the cubicles and waited for Lidsky.  She wondered if she would run into Luke today.  Part of her hoped she would.  A little ashamedly, she wondered if that was why she liked to visit her clients most at the Denver County Jail.  God, she wondered, would she ever get her life back together again.  Things were always so complicated while single.  Chris got up, leaving her briefcase and purse in the chair and paced the large, dark hallway, hugging her arms closer to her body.

Seeing Lidsky was going to be very difficult albeit very quick.  She needed to check the docket and see when the preliminary hearing was and that would be the next big step. Until then, the entire situation rested with him.  He needed to face the possibility of accepting a plea bargain instead of insisting on an innocence that no jury was going to believe. The problem came in that she could not appear to be urging him to accept a plea bargain.  It had to happen of his own free will. The Rule 11 advisement would check and recheck that it was voluntary.  How to tell him in a way that would not cause him to feel compelled?  Chris continued to pace the floor, practicing her speech to Lidsky in her mind.  She needed to get this over with and move on to her other duties and cases.








Luke's new cases turned into a three ring circus as he checked their parole agreements out.  With six new cases that were on top of one another, he placed visits to each of the listed new parole addresses and checked out any jobs they said they would have when they got out.  He found each location an acceptable location and people to parole to, completed his paperwork at the office on it and forwarded the copies to the proper personnel.  The only one with a job offer was questionable, but Luke grudgingly gave the thumbs up.  He intended to watch the situation very closely.  He would word his reservations as instructions in the parole agreement as a way of keeping control of the situation.

Luke reflected on his work as he drove into the Amoco station on the corner.  He left the car and started to self serve the gasoline into his parole vehicle.  Luke rubbed at his forehead and thought about the stress that came with his job.  He thought about the timing in his life and the duties of a parole officer.  He wondered if he should have been looking into taking the tests to upgrade to a parole supervisor.  Few openings in that area occurred; however, he remembered passing up a couple. He did not want his life to change back then.  He liked his case load the way it was then and was not ready to have taken on additional responsibilities involved in the supervision position. Now, he was not so sure anymore.  Luke felt like an old man in a young man's position.  Mark seemed so happy in his position as a parole supervisor.

Thoughts of Mark brought to mind how unhappy he was with Luke's collar of the Hyatt kid.  Luke continued to fill his tank as he thought about the conversation.  Mark wanted him to call for back up more often.  That seemed something of a joke because Luke almost never called for back up.  Guess that made him a non- team player.  Luke chuckled when he remembered that argument. Somehow calling for back up when he never knew if it was going to be a routine visit or turn into something that he had to respond to immediately seemed like a paradox.  Luke finished filling the tank and went into the building, pulling out his wallet.  He placed the white State of Colorado gasoline credit card on the counter and signed for his gasoline purchase.  Luke tucked the credit card receipt into his wallet and headed back out to the vehicle to record the mileage in the book that belonged with the car, as did the credit card.  He was on North Peoria not too far from Smith Road.  Luke climbed into the vehicle and headed for the Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center.

Driving west down Smith Road, Luke prepared to turn left into the new diagnostic center's parking lot, and he could not help but look over at the Denver County Jail's parking areas in the dirt near the railroad tracks.  He was sure he saw Chris' light blue Chevette.  She would be visiting one of her clients. He sighed and veered left in the parking lot for the staff parking.  Luke wanted to check out the new facility and talk with a few of the people.  Some were new and some were transfers from Canon that Luke might know.  Anyway, he wanted to work out a tour sometime in the future, if at all possible.  The idea of the visit was to schmoose a little to get to know people in the Department of Corrections.  Luke never knew when it would come in handy, and he preferred to keep up good relations.

He parked the car and looked over the bare dirt perimeter road.  Things still looked unfinished and a little raw about the outside of the facility.  He looked around and realized that in a few years it would be an impressive facility.  He approached the glass Gatehouse and walked up to the counter.  He introduced himself and asked to sign in as a DOC employee.  They gave him the clipboard and asked him to store his 9mm in the weapons box out in the Intake entry area.  Luke was so used to wearing the gun, he forgot he had it on.  He stood at the side door to the Gatehouse and waited for the tower to buzz him through the chain link gate.  He passed through and opened the metal locker- like box.  He stored the weapon and pocketed the key.  He had to wait again for the tower to buzz the gate and re-entered the Gatehouse.

There were no inmates housed in the facility as yet, which made it look a little deserted, and Luke was buzzed through the first of the chain link gates designed for pedestrian traffic just on the other side of the Gatehouse.  He closed the first gate and waited at the second gate.  Once buzzed through that one, Luke proceeded through the spare mulch area that would eventually have grass and flower beds to the main two story building that housed Administration on the second floor. Luke wanted to look over the facility before saying hello to the new Superintendent of DRDC, so he headed through the double doors into the building and up to the metal and glass slider marked "CAUTION STAND CLEAR" in large red letters.  Luke showed the officer in Master Control, which was behind the raised glass wall, his identification as a Department of Corrections employee. He knew the facility would have a very slim staffing at this point but he wanted to see if he knew any of the transfers from Canon.  He heard that Dirk Palmer transferred from Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility, and he wanted to see if he could spot him.  After passing through the dual sliders into the facility, Luke looked around at the sparse grounds.  The officer in Master Control spoke over the silver speaker beside the slider he just passed through.

"Sir, who are you looking for?"  The voice sounded detached and metallic.

Luke turned to face this side of Master Control, which jutted a little out above the sidewalk from above the brick wall. The glass had a tinted shield over it from this direction, and Luke could no longer see the officer.

"Is Sgt. Dirk Palmer in the facility?"

"Yes, sir.  He's prepping Intake.  What is your name, and I'll notify him of your 20?"

"Parole Officer Luke Mason."

"One moment."

Luke waited in front of Master Control for the disembodied voice of the officer to return.  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket.  The February day was chilly but sunny.

"Officer Mason, Sgt. Palmer will meet you at your present location,"  the Master Control officer responded.

Luke nodded at the tinted glass and stood looking for Dirk. There was very little movement in the facility, but Luke had little time to notice much of the new surroundings before Dirk Palmer came jogging along the sidewalk that ran along the wall where Master Control was.  He was wearing the light blue uniform shirt and dark blue uniform pants of the DOC facility officer line.  Luke did not need to see the shiny name tag to know that this was Dirk Palmer.  They greeted each other with an enthusiastic hand shake.

"Hey, Luke!  Good to see you, man!"  Palmer was a young, dedicated officer who worked his way up to Sergeant after a few years with the Department.  Luke still outranked him, however, in that a parole officer was the equivalent in grade to a lieutenant.  Palmer stood lightly on his feet, sort of dancing back and forth.  Luke envied him his age.

"Dirk, how'd the transfer up here go?"  Luke smiled at the man he met at CTCF just after Palmer qualified for the Special Operation Response Team, known as SORT.

"It's a whole different world up here!  Things in Canon are so quiet outside of work and nearly the whole town is made up of prison personnel.  Hell, here I don't know anyone.  It's such a big place, Denver, it took me awhile to find an apartment - and the cost of living!  It's unbelievable!  How do you do it?"

Luke chuckled and pushed his hands back in his pockets. "Not easy ... not easy.  I've lived here for a lot of years, though.  Not so unusual for me.  Roll with it, and give it a chance.  You'll adjust."  Luke clapped his friend on the shoulder.  "Well, I just thought I'd stop by and cruise in to see you.  Heard you were up here and all."  Luke smiled fondly at Palmer and turned to return through the slider.

"Hey, Luke, you want a tour of the place?"  Palmer asked.

Luke smiled at him and took a rain check.  He wanted to stop up in Administration and then get back on the job.  His supervisor would not appreciate his hanging around too long.

"Well, bud, if you big kahoona parole officers ever need a hand, remember us little guys on SORT, okay!"

Luke looked over his shoulder at Palmer and chuckled. "Yeah, right.  If I ever need an AR-15 on the streets like some military takeover, I'll be sure to give you a buzz."

Palmer laughed and waved at Luke as he headed back the way he came at a casual jog.  Luke shook his head and passed into the trap between the sliders in Master Control.  He waited at the next slider for the last one to be closed by the officer in Master Control, passed through, and rounded the ruddy- colored tiled floor to the corner Administration stairs.  The three tiered stairs rounded the elevator shaft, and Luke ran into the Assistant Superintendent Lee Blythe, who also transferred up from Canon, on his way up.

"Hi, Lee!  So you landed this facility, huh?"  Luke reached out and shook his hand.

"Yep.  I'm on the transition team, and I'm to be assigned here as Assistant Superintendent.  So how have you been?" Lee Blythe leaned against the white steel railing to the stairs.

The entry area to Administration had dark-colored, indoor/outdoor carpeting, and the few offices in that area had oak veneer covered doors.  The skylights above shown down with the warm, winter, Colorado sun.  The overall effect was one of class.  Luke answered the man's question and complimented him on the facility.  Blythe smiled at Luke.

"Oh, yeah.  It's something, and it's all mine.  We're rather proud of it."

"Well, you have reason to be.  So who's this new Superintendent we're hearing so much about?"

"She's been with DOC a couple of years, taken on from California, but she's over at the warehouse we've rented space in.  We've been running the initial building of this place from there.  It's just across the street.  I would introduce her to you if she were over here."

Luke nodded, and they talked a little of the Department, and how things were running for both of them.  Luke knew Lee Blythe from a very long time ago, and they talked of the politics that faced them daily.  The friendly conversation drifted.

"So have you heard about some of the public sentiment trends occurring in Virginia?"  Blythe made conversation.

"Naw, what's up?"

"Well, seems public opinion is leaning toward the elimination of parole.  Some of their politicians are even building campaigns on that premise."

Luke looked down at the stairs he was standing on and shook his head.  "You know, the inmates go from an environment like this ..."  Luke spread his arms to encompass the new diagnostic center, designed to initiate every inmate in the Colorado Department of Corrections.  "... where everything is structured right down to when they eat and what they wear, much less how they will behave.  If what you're suggesting happens in Virginia, then those inmates will kill their number in these cozy, little, controlled environments and be released unsupervised into society.  Absolutely no one will check up on them to make sure they are adjusting and not re-offending.  No one will make sure they get a job, or prevent them from going into the same behavior patterns that put them in the system to begin with.  It will be chaos.  Sheer chaos.  Every single one of them will freak from years of control to a totally unsupervised environment. They will go where they want in that chaotic adjustment period, and they do what they want.  I would feel sorry for the public in that case.  That's sad."

Lee Blythe smiled to himself.  It was so easy for him to get Luke going.  Blythe knew as well as Luke did what would happen to the unsuspecting public by an inmate released on "society's rebound," but he wanted to hear the harangue from Luke. Blythe knew Luke took his job seriously and worried about the public when he went around trying to steer parolees in the proper direction of reaching readjustment to general society.  He chuckled at Luke after he could see that the man caught on to his game.

"Aw, don't get me going!  I've got to split.  I've got work to do!"  Luke threw his hands up and headed down the stairs.

Blythe laughed openly as he watched the man walk down the stairs and then returned to his duties in setting up the administration of the facility, while Luke proceeded from the facility to retrieve his 9mm and return to the morning schedule that he set up the night before.








Chris lined up the day's preliminary hearing with Lidsky. He would be handled with a number of other PHs she had to handle that day.  Sharing the docket was standard operating procedure in the court system.  Lidsky felt he would be in better position of what to expect at a trial by continuing with the PH instead of waving it.  She shuffled through her manila files while in the back rooms of Courtroom S across from the plaza area of the Denver Police Department in downtown Denver off Cherokee Street. Lidsky would be chained in leg irons in the back rooms of the courtroom while she handled some of her other cases.

She prepared the next file requested by one of the many Deputy DAs moving about the rooms.  The judge's chambers were just off the room they were in, but he was closeted at that time. The Deputy DA offered her a plea bargain on that case.  She thought it over and argued that it was not much of a bargain compared to the sentencing that might be handed down by the court.  He went back to his legal size manila file folder and considered what she said.

"Okay, okay.  How about no DOC time?"

"Agreed.  I'll have to check with my client, but I think she'll go for it.  Do you want to work on McKelly?"

"No.  That one's not negotiable at this time."

Chris bit her lip, wishing he would have offered something on that case.  Her client wanted a plea bargain there, and it did not look like he was going to get one.  Chris reshuffled the files, putting that one back on the bottom.

"Is Calvin going to go to preliminary hearing or is he going to waive?"  The Deputy DA, Wade Douglas, was shuffling through his files as the back ground noise filtered noisily around them.

"We're waiving that one."  Chris left the small rooms briefly and retrieved a form from a clear plastic file pocket attached to the wall out in the courtroom.  She brought it back to the discussion and proceeded to fill it out.  Her client Sammuel  Calvin would have to sign it before the judge would accept it, but she wanted it ready.  She stuffed the partially completed form into his manila file and moved on to the next case the Deputy DA was already questioning her on.

A few of the other Deputy DAs approached her on their cases, offering plea bargains and questioning intentions on PHs.  A few cops milled about in the rooms, adding to the crowd.  They were subpoenaed by the DA's Office to appear and were excused here and there as intended waivers for PHs were brought back by Chris after consultation with her clients.  Chris came and went from the rooms to the outside of the courtroom to meet with her clients in available alcoves to find out whether they would accept their plea bargains, as well as answering their questions. A few of her clients were like Lidsky and locked up in the back. She went back and forth in that area, settling the same type of questions and concerns with those held because of the violent nature of their charges.  She returned again to the Deputy DAs in the back room with decisions from those clients.  The constant movement of all parties involved in the morning's procedures punctuated the atmosphere of Courtroom S.

She walked past the DA's desk on one side of the wooden podium, facing the judge's bench and the court reporter's lower box, with the defense desk on the other side of it and across from the half wall separating the courtroom spectators from the proceedings that would be taking place.  There were no seats for a jury, as the room was strictly used for preliminary proceedings in Denver.  She passed the closed door that led to the back room where Lidsky would be locked down.  She passed the two deputies from Denver County Sheriff's Department.  She smiled briefly at them, maintaining her typically good relations with the sheriff's department.  She proceeded out the double doors to the waiting area outside.  Chris glanced up at the deputies at the metal detector and x-ray equipment for briefcases and the like. The deputies were busy processing people coming into the court and looking on the bulletin boards posted outside Courtrooms S and T.

Chris looked around for her client and spotted her next to her kids, with a little one in a stroller.  She was released in an earlier proceeding on her own recognizance, and she explained to Chris that she had no place to take her kids while she came for her court appearance.  Chris assured her it was not that unusual and told her about the offer made by the DA's office. She cleared that her client wanted to accept the plea bargain and understood the waiving of the preliminary hearing.  She returned to the courtroom to find Wade moved to the podium out in the courtroom.  Her morning went with her crossing back and forth from meeting with the judge in his chambers and a deputy district attorney, then meeting with a deputy district attorney one on one on case after case.  They finally reached Lidsky's case, and it could quit preying on Chris' mind.

She held the manila folder and wrote the information the Deputy DA gave her on him, the date and the location.  She tapped her pen on the folder.

"So, you won't go for a plea bargain in this case?"

The Deputy DA looked up at her in feigned surprise. "Did your client expect one?"

Chris knew the game very well.  She played it most of her time with the Public Defenders Office, but she did not feel up to any games that day.  She could play like she was not in the least interested whether they offered a plea bargain or not, and he could act like there was none being considered.  She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  She really had a sinus headache brewing, and she wondered if a storm was blowing in causing her sinuses to react to the changes in air pressure.

"Look, Wade.  My client doesn't expect anything.  I want to know if you'll offer a plea bargain.  I want to know what all the options are before going into court.  Is there one being considered?"

Wade tapped his pen on his similar file folder, which contained all the prosecution's side of the case.  "Is this one getting to you, Chris?"

Chris smiled.  The two-sided system set up by the opposing sides of prosecution and defense only partially existed in reality.  They both wanted to win their cases, someone had to lose, but they hardly hated one another.  She gave him a look that said she was waiting for his answer.

Wade held up his hands.  "Okay, okay.  You won't like it. Guilty plea to First Degree Murder, no earned time or good time and Life without parole until 40 calendar years expire, and that's only because the murder took place in January of 1990 when Life was still 40 years.  The charges are First Degree Murder, First Degree Sexual Assault, First Degree Kidnapping, and Felony Murder First Degree."  Wade pointed his pen at Chris.  "That offer is in exchange for not going for the death penalty." He put the pen down on the podium he was standing against and waited for her reply.

She tossed her hair and looked at him.  "That's not much of a plea bargain."

He shrugged and went to scribble a few notes in the lines on the front of his manila folder on the Lidsky case.  "I said you wouldn't like it."

"I'll need to confer with my client, of course."

"Of course.  What do you want to do with the preliminary hearing?  We could waive for the rest of the day and get out early.  He'd be smart to take the plea, anyway."

Chris just smiled at him and headed for the closed door to the side of the court spectators' area and asked the deputies to allow her back to see her client.  While walking, Chris made the entry of the plea bargain on the front of her legal sized manila folder on the Lidsky case.  She tucked her folder under her arm and sat down across from Lidsky.  She explained the plea to him.

"The evidence we'll hear about in the preliminary hearing will tell us more about what kind of case they have, but from the discovery I can tell you that the circumstantial evidence is strongly against you."

Lidsky tried to move his wrists around in the handcuffs.  He moved his legs a little and the leg irons rattled.  "So you're telling me to take the plea bargain."

Chris paused to look at him.  He was getting angry. She wondered briefly about his psychological stability, and she wondered if his ability to stand trial would come into question. She shook her head and rubbed at her eye lids.  The pressure was still there.

"You did hear me say they would be going for the death penalty?"

Lidsky looked at her with slowly smoldering eyes. "You're saying you can't handle the case?"

Chris looked at him in confusion.  "I am handling the case! I don't think your chances of winning an acquittal exist. The witnesses you named are not going to testify on your behalf, and, from what they said, you don't want them on the stand. Please understand the situation.  You don't have many options."

Lidsky leaned across the table to look at her.  She leaned back a little.  "Let's see what the results of the preliminary hearing are, shall we?"

"Yes, of course.  Just consider the plea bargain."  She looked at him uncertainly, picked up her file and stood to leave the room.  She passed the deputy who accompanied her, giving him an uncertain look, and the deputy took charge of the prisoner, deciding to watch him more carefully.

Once back with Wade, Chris told him they would be continuing with the preliminary hearing but would be keeping an open mind as to the offer.  Wade just shrugged and moved on to the next case. They watched their time and worked on other cases until court was ready to convene.  When the time drew near, they packed up their separate files and prepared to take their places.  The court clerk came into the room from the back and announced that all rise, the Honorable Judge Joseph Kruse presiding.  Everyone in the courtroom stood.

"Be seated,"  the judge announced and sat down at his chair above and next to the witness box.  He placed his reading half- glasses on the edge of his nose and looked at the defense and prosecuting attorneys.

"Are we ready, people?"

The answers came back in unison.  "Yes, your Honor."

The judge proceeded to call out the cases on the docket and each defendant was brought to the podium while they declared that their preliminary hearing was waived.  The proper waiver forms were presented to the defendant by their attorney and signed before the judge.  The defendants of violent crimes were brought out in their jail greens, shackled by the ankles and cuffed at the wrists, by the deputies to the podium and asked the same questions as the other defendants and signed their waiver of preliminary hearing.  At one point the judge rejected a signed waiver because the defendant was Spanish-speaking.  The case was rescheduled for when an interpreter could be provided for the questions, and the judge cautioned that when the form was signed, it must be the Spanish form provided by the court.  There was some confusion as the proper form was obtained, and Chris did her best to explain to her client what was going on.  She felt stupid that she did not make the necessary provisions in advance. She cursed herself for not realizing the situation sooner, but she did not meet with the client before this and had not known the man spoke no English.  Chris wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and moved on to the next case on the docket.

The action at the preliminary hearings was always fast paced, from the plea bargaining to the minute the judge walked in, it was nonstop.  Lidsky's name came up on the docket, and Chris notified the judge that the preliminary hearing would be held, as Lidsky was brought to the defense desk next to the podium by the deputies.  The judge asked the prosecutor if he was ready.  Wade did a quick check to be certain the detective he subpoenaed was still present in the courtroom and answered in the affirmative to the judge.  The Deputy DA motioned the detective to the prosecution table.  Detective Montoya passed through the short gate and proceeded past the defense table and the podium to the prosecution table.  He sat down in the chair next to Wade. The judge asked the prosecution to present their case.  Wade stood up, a little nervous, and consulted his notes as he stepped before the podium.

"Your Honor, the State would like to call Detective Richardo Montoya to the stand."  Wade leaned into the microphone attached to the podium.

Detective Montoya stood up from the chair and walked between the court reporter's desk and the podium to the witness box below.  He sat in the witness box attached to the higher judge's desk.  He was sworn in and asked to repeat his full name for the record.  Wade shuffled through his notes and leaned both hands on the podium.

"Detective, how many years have you been a Denver Police Officer?"

Montoya knew the routine.  He answered the question, swiveling slightly in the chair in the witness box. "Seventeen years."

"How long have you been a homicide detective?"

"Seven years."

"Were you assigned to the Bridgette Salance murder investigation?"

"Yes, sir, that is correct."

"Were you on the scene after the body was discovered?"

"Yes, sir, I was."

"So you were on the case from the beginning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell the court about the disappearance of Bridgette Salance?"

Chris stood up and addressed the court properly before the witness could answer.  "Objection, your Honor.  The Prosecutor has established that Detective Montoya is a homicide detective and not involved in missing persons.  His qualifications as a witness for missing persons, which he could not have been involved in, is in question."

The judge considered the objection carefully.  "I am going to allow the statement, since hearsay is permissible in a preliminary hearing.  Objection overruled."

Chris sat back down, watching as the detective continued, taking as many notes as possible during the proceedings. She knew she would never get a better chance to find information that the DA's Office had, which may have been missed in the discovery, if Lidsky wanted to go to trial.

"The Denver Police received a complaint from the mother of Bridgette Salance about 8:50 at night.  Procedure is to wait for twenty four hours to follow up on a complaint of missing persons involving a legal adult.  We received another call from the father of Bridgette Salance at around 11:00 that night. They found traces of evidence they felt related to the disappearance of their daughter, including blood."

"Were you called out on the case at that point?"

"No, sir, it was not until the patrol car sent to the spot in City Park, where the parents saw the evidence, and the amount of blood on the scene brought us to the belief that Bridgette Salance met with foul play that I was called into the scene."

"And you suspected a homicide at that point?"

"Yes, sir.  The forensics on the scene determined that a major artery had to have been punctured to produce that much blood at the scene."

"At what point did you develop a lead suspect?"

"We researched Bridgette Salance's movements on the Auraria Campus and found that she filed a report with the campus police on November 8, 1989 complaining of being stalked on campus. We had a description of the man, but we had no way of locating the suspect again."

"At what point was a body found where you firmly established that she had been murdered?"

"The body of Bridgette Salance was found on April 24, 1990, at approximately 8:15 in the morning by a farmer in Bennett, Colorado, who was plowing his field that morning, preparing for spring."

Chris thought how Montoya was hitting all the right points. She marveled at how carefully he reviewed his case before the testimony.  He had not even asked to refer back to any reports. He just knew his facts.  Chris wondered if that tactic was to keep her from finding out what reports to request.  She kept her nose to the yellow legal pad on her table, furiously taking notes.  Lidsky watched her out of the corner of his eye, not sure why his attorney was not objecting more to the testimony. He was frustrated that he did not understand why the judge was allowing the detective to just rattle on without allowing his attorney to ask any questions.

"And in what state was the body found?"

"The body was partially decomposed wrapped in a single blanket and partially clothed."

"Partially clothed?  Could you be more specific, Detective?" Wade shifted his weight at the podium.

"Her pants were found wrapped in the blanket beside her, and her underpants were completely missing."

"Was she raped, Detective?"

"Yes, sir, she was.  The coroner's office identified semen residue that was too old to test.  There was also pubic hair not belonging to Bridgette Salance found in her pelvic region."

Chris leaned closer to Lidsky and asked if any hair samples were collected from him while he was at the Denver City Jail. Lidsky leaned over to Chris and was tempted to tell her off for asking such a personal question, when he dipped his forehead to his arms folded on the table, and realized the importance of the question.  He quietly whispered yes.  Chris tapped her pen on her pad and wondered why that was missing from the discovery provided to the Public Defenders Office.

"Did the hair samples match those of the suspect you later arrested?"

"Yes, sir, they did."

"And could you identify that suspect for the court?"

"He's sitting right there next to the defense attorney. His name is Thomas Michael Lidsky."

"And could you describe the circumstances involving his arrest?"

"We received a call from the former boyfriend of Bridgette Salance on December 14, 1991 at approximately 6:30 in the evening.  He spotted the man he and Bridgette Salance identified as the man who stalked Bridgette Salance on Auraria Campus back in November of 1989.  He followed the suspect to 4000 Deephaven Court Denver, Colorado 80239.  After watching the suspect enter the residence, he went to a phone at a 7-11 and called the police."

Wade smiled slightly to appear at ease in his questioning. "And did you respond to the scene?"

"I did."

"What happened at that point?"

Montoya took a deep breath, looked briefly up at the ceiling and then back at the Deputy DA.  "We determined the residence and placed a stakeout while the search warrant affidavit was prepared."

"Who maintained the stakeout?"

"I did."

"Did you establish that the suspect was still at the residence?"

Montoya sweated the question a little.  "Yes, the jeep the suspect had been driving was still parked beside the residence, and a cursory inspection of the residence showed a man fitting the same description in the basement."

"You obtained a 'No-Knock' Warrant?"

"That's correct."

"And you called in a special entry team?"

"That's correct."

"After obtaining entry to the home, did you arrest the suspect?"

"Yes, sir."

"He was in the basement?"

"That's correct."

"And you executed the search of the residence?"

"I did and my partner, Detective Mark Martinez."

"Did you find all the evidence listed on your affidavit?"

Montoya swiveled confidently.  "We did."

"Could you give us a breakdown of that evidence?"

"Yes, sir.  We found a blanket matching the fibers left with the blanket and body.  We found threads in the blanket matching those of the sweater found on the body of Bridgette Salance. We found the underpants identified as belonging to the victim. We found --"

"Objection, your Honor.  The underclothing was identified how?  By whom?"  Chris was on her feet as quickly as she could get there.

"Sustained.  How were the underpants identified, Detective?"

Montoya swiveled to face the judge.  "By the father of Bridgette Salance, your Honor.  There were also pubic hair on the underpants identified by the coroner's office as those of Bridgette Salance."

The judge nodded and motioned for the prosecutor to continue.

"Please continue with what evidence you uncovered," the Deputy DA encouraged his witness.

"Well, we found a weapon, a knife, that the coroner identified as being consistent with the length and sturdiness of the blade used to murder Bridgette Salance.  We found combat boots that matched the treads found in the dirt at the scene where the blood was identified by the coroner's office as belonging to Bridgette Salance.  We found a bloodstained battle dress uniform black jumpsuit and gloves.  We found an army shovel whose green paint flaked off and was found in the shallow grave on the Bennett farm."

"What did the tests show from the paint flakes?"

"Same batch of green paint matching the amount and type found in the shallow grave consistent with what was missing from the shovel found in the rear of the jeep belonging to Thomas Lidsky."

"I see."  Wade shifted his weight to lean against the podium with one knee cocked confidently.  "And all that evidence was listed on the search warrant affidavit?"

"Yes, sir, it was."

Wade took a deep breath and stood straight.  "No further questions, your Honor."  He stepped away from the podium, gathering his notes, and sat down at the prosecution's desk.

Chris stood to take her place slowly at the podium. She had a few questions, but she was not sure how effective they would be.  She was certain that Judge Kruse would find probable cause to bind Lidsky over for trial.  She carried her notes to the podium and arranged them properly.

"Detective Montoya, you stated that you found a battle dress uniform and gloves with blood stains on them.  Were they determined to be blood stains from Bridgette Salance or blood stains from Thomas Lidsky?"

The detective continued swiveling in his chair and tried to appear confident.  "The tests were inconclusive."

"Detective, were there any witnesses to the murder?"

"Not that came forward."

"So, not to your knowledge?"

"That's correct."

Chris shuffled through her notes that she took during his testimony.  "Detective, were there any witnesses to Bridgette Salance being followed from Auraria Campus the night of January 18, 1990?"

"No, ma'am.  Not that came for ... Not to my knowledge."

"Detective, did you have probable cause that you would find any evidence at the home of Thomas Lidsky the night you received a phone call from Bridgette Salance's former boyfriend?"

The detective paused and looked at the Deputy DA briefly. Wade kept his head down at the notes that he was taking. "Thomas Lidsky was the prime suspect due to the report filed by Bridgette Salance on November 8, 1989 describing him as stalking her around Auraria Campus."

"And that report was filed in 1989, Detective?"

"November 8, 1989."

"The disappearance of Bridgette Salance occurred on January 18, 1990, is that correct, Detective?"

"Yes."

"How much time is that which passed, Detective?"

Detective Montoya stopped swiveling in his chair.

"Objection, your Honor.  The defense is leading the witness. We ask that she be more specific."  Wade stood.

"Overruled.  I'll allow the question."  The judge pushed his reading glasses up on his nose as he took notes on the proceedings.

Wade sat back down.

"Detective?"  Chris asked.

"That would be ... I'm not sure.  I would need my notes to work it out ..."

"Does it sound reasonable that there would be 22 days left in November.  Thirty-one days in December and 18 days in January?"

"Yes, that sounds about right ... Seventy-one days."

"Well over two months worth of time.  Was Bridgette Salance reported to be an attractive woman?  Did any of her friends describe her that way?"

"Her young boyfriend did."

Chris bit her lip slightly.  The detective was playing with words with her, and he was good.  "Did anyone else ever follow her in those 71 days?"

"Not that was reported."

"Was Thomas Lidsky reported as having followed Bridgette Salance before the date she filed a report?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Was Thomas Lidsky reported as harassing Bridgette Salance after she reported him?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Did Thomas Lidsky know of the report filed on November 8, 1989 with the Auraria Campus police?"

Detective Montoya felt a little uncomfortable.  "Not to my knowledge."

"Could it be true that you based your probable cause on an isolated incident, Detective?"

"Objection, your Honor!"  Wade jumped to his feet as quickly as he could and leaned his fingertips on his desk.  "The search warrant was issued by Judge Brenda Jane on December 14, 1991. The probable cause was supported by Judge Jane at that time."

"Sustained."

Chris hunched her shoulders and withdrew the question. She was tired after the many hours they were at this preliminary hearing, and she wished she could think more clearly.

"You stated that Bridgette Salance's father identified the underpants found in Thomas Lidsky's home.  How was he certain what underpants his daughter was wearing that morning, did he say?"

"No.  He was only certain of the brand name.  She wore 'Jockey For Her' as a personal preference."

Oh, great, Chris thought.  She shifted her weight at the podium to her other foot.  Chris wanted to ask if any of the other pairs, mentioned by Mr. and Mrs. Lidsky that the police showed them, matched that brand in the house, but she would be opening a whole can of worms that undoubtedly the police were trying to link to other unsolved cases.  She frowned and tried to concentrate on her questioning.

Chris shook her head. "No further questions."  She sat down in frustration at the defense desk.

Detective Montoya was dismissed, and Wade signed his initials on the man's subpoena to prove his presence in court to his supervisors.  Judge Kruse asked if he had any further witnesses.

Wade stood and addressed the judge, "No, your Honor."

Chris stood.  "Your Honor, I object to not being given the chance to cross examine other witnesses in this case before you make your ruling."

Judge Kruse removed his glasses and blinked at Chris. "Ms. Mason, you understand that in the preliminary hearing not all witnesses are necessary to establish probable cause.  I am satisfied that there is enough probable cause to bind Thomas Michael Lidsky over for trial."

Wade ran his hand down the front of his suit as he stood up. "Your Honor, due to the incredibly violent nature of the crime, the District Attorney's Office requests that bail be denied."

"So ordered,"  Judge Kruse stated and struck his gavel on the bench mark.  They took a minute to coordinate the scheduling of the next proceeding in the case in each of their appointment calendars as well as the docket.

The judge stood, and all in the courtroom were asked to rise.  He departed to his chambers, leaving Chris and Wade standing at their desks.

"Well, that's a wrap."  Wade clapped his hands together and began collecting his files and notes.

The deputies came to take possession of Lidsky when Chris turned to look at him.  Lidsky said nothing as he was led to the back room, but his eyes smoldered with an anger that confused Chris.  She ran her hands through her hair and started to collect her files and jam them into her briefcase.  She did not have much to work with in this case to begin with, but she somehow wondered if there was not something she could have done better.  She would not see him again until February and would enjoy the respite. She then hung her head, realizing she still had to talk to him about the plea agreement or face a trial in which he could end up losing his life.








Chris paced the hallway outside the attorney visiting booth at the Denver County Jail.  She had only one shot left to convince this man that he should seriously consider the plea bargain.  She continued her pacing, despite the looks she was receiving from the deputy in the control center.  She finally sighed and slipped into the plastic chair behind the plastic, yellow table.  She began drumming her long fingernails on the table top.  After five minutes of listening to the monotonous tapping of her nails, she stopped, sat back and tossed her light brown hair impatiently.

Lidsky came down the dark hallway and was motioned to the proper booth by the deputy in the control center.  He spotted Chris and slid into the plastic seat across from her.  He sat silently, coldly smiling at her.  Chris was chilled by that smile.  She shivered silently in her seat and waited for him to say what was obviously on his mind.

"You won't go out and look for the evidence that will prove my innocence?"

Chris was exasperated by this line of reasoning.  He had taken this mind set with her recently in their telephone conferences, and she could not shake him of it.  "Can you give me names, dates, times, places, facts that I or our investigators can gather?"

Lidsky leaned forward in his seat and his smile got colder. "They're out there, Chris.  You just have to look for them. They can be the alibi I need to go to trial."

"I can only gather information.  I cannot manufacture it.  I wish you could understand that."

"If you won't get them, then what choice do I have?"

"If you go to trial, which is an alternative, you will lose. The DA's office stated they intend to go for the death penalty. If you go to trial, you will be sentenced to death.  If you accept the plea bargain, you will live.  You will qualify for parole in 48 years.  That is something; whereas, the other option leaves you with nothing.  Those are your alternatives."

Lidsky leaned back slowly in his seat.  His cold smile vanished to be replaced by an equally cold stare, as he crossed his arms.  "Then I'll take the plea bargain, won't I?"

Chris shook her head and wrote the date and time down on the outside of his legal manila file folder.  "Will you?"  she asked without looking up.

"Yes."  He did not move a muscle.

Her large, brown eyes looked up at him.  "They'll ask you if your plea is voluntary on your part.  Is it?"

"Of course,"  Lidsky stated, getting up from the table and retreating back down the dark hallway.



CHAPTER SEVEN





Thomas Lidsky's arraignment was scheduled for February 2, 1992, and Chris knew she had little to prepare for it.  She was glad he accepted the plea agreement since it saved him from a trial that in all probability would have resulted in the death penalty for him.  The agreement was far more than reasonable, in her opinion, even if Lidsky did not agree, Chris thought as she bundled her coat around her and trundled from her office on the Sixteenth Street Mall down to the District Court across from Bannock.  She, as did her fellow attorneys, preferred walking from the office to the court, and today she walked in silence with Eric Allen.  He had to deal with an arraignment in the same courtroom, but they both talked out how their cases would not have panned out well if they had gone to trial.  In both cases, their clients accepted a plea bargain, which was a common way of saving court time and expense as compared to a trial that the DA's office did not want to devote time to either.

They crossed over Cleveland passed the downtown buildings, watching the traffic, to Bannock and over to the District and County Building then went in through the entrance near Bannock and Colfax Avenue.  Eric stepped up to the x-ray machine and placed his briefcase onto the conveyor belt, which were manned by the Denver Sheriff's Department Deputies.  He passed through the metal detector as Chris loaded her briefcase onto the conveyor belt and followed him.  They retrieved them from the other side and proceeded down the dark, old, cream and brown-colored, marble halls to the elevators.  They crowded onto the first one with the other court crowds, either there for business or touring the historical building.  Leaning through the crowd, Eric punched the button for the fourth floor.  He smiled at Chris, and they headed up.

They stepped off the elevator, headed down the hall and around the corner to Courtroom 11.  Pulling open the door for Chris, Eric followed her into the majestic looking courtroom. The mottled glass set in wood on the entrance double doors Chris and Eric came threw read in black letters the number of the courtroom, the name of the judge, the courtroom administrator's name, the bailiff's, and the court reporter's, all very proper. The District Courtroom looked like the ones depicted in the movies, others on the floor were not like it.  The jurors' seats were just to the left of the doors and looked pretty much like those in the other courtrooms.  There were twelve of them and comfortably set off from the rest of the courtroom by the dark wooden baluster.  To the right of the door was the little, boxed off seat for the bailiff or, in this case, the deputy who escorted the inmates who were to appear in court.  The seating for spectators stood directly to the side of the deputy's box. Chris and Eric pushed open the section of baluster that acted as a half-gate separating the defense, prosecutor and judge from the rest of the courtroom.  They walked to the dark wooden table next to the far windows and proceeded to set up their files in the order of their cases on the docket.

Chris looked up at the high judge's bench with its contoured back drop of mahogany-colored wood.  To its left was the witness chair in the same color, and underneath it was the matching court reporter's box.  To the right of that was the box for the court administrator.  She knew from experience that this judge could be a hard one in trial, but she expected no difficulties in the arraignments.  The Honorable Judge Betty Jorgenson was thorough and went through the cases meticulously.   Judge Jorgenson would be entering once the sheriff's department had the inmates in the courtroom, and they would all be asked to rise as she climbed the high stairs to her lofty seat, with all its accountability.

Eric conferred with his client, who had bonded out in earlier proceedings and sat in the back of the courtroom behind the baluster in the spectator's seating.  Chris waited for the deputies to bring Lidsky into the courtroom.  She did not have long to wait when he was filed in, cuffed to several other inmates who would be arraigned in Courtroom 11 that day. Chris went over to Lidsky, carrying her legal manila file, as she jotted down the date and proceeding on the cover.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Lidsky?"  Chris asked her client.

"Just peachy, Christina."  Lidsky was leaning away from the other inmates and stretching his hands out as the deputy uncuffed him from the others but left the set cuffing his own wrists intact.

Chris disliked the use of her christian name, normally, but she knew it was meant to rankle coming from Thomas Lidsky. She drew in a deep breath and set the file down on the dark, wooden railing.

"Do you have any questions concerning today's proceedings?"

"Not a one."  He still had his resentment and attitude, Chris could see.

"Do you still plan to plead guilty to the first degree murder charge?"

"It's what you think is in my best interest, isn't it?" He was swiveling in the juror's seat.

"Yes, I do think it's in your best interest, but is your plea voluntary on your part, or do you feel I have unduly influenced your decision to plead guilty?"  Chris looked the man directly in his cold, blue eyes and waited for an answer.

"You have not unduly influenced my decision.  You just haven't given me any alternatives."

"Your conception of alternatives is to hunt down evidence to prove you innocent when you don't have any idea of where we should start.  You have to give us leads, Mr. Lidsky.  We cannot start trolling the streets just in case we might stumble across something, or someone, that proves you did not murder Bridgette Salance."

Lidsky squinted a little at the mention of the girl's name. He did not think of the whole situation as real until someone brought up the specifics.  He took a deep breath.  Chris told him earlier that the specifics would be explained to him as they related to each charge at the arraignment, which was today. He was unhappy with his situation and saw Chris as his only chance of getting out of his situation.  Chris, however, was unwilling to go out and look for the people, such as those around campus, who knew him as a peaceable man who hassled no one.  He continued to swivel in his chair when the courtroom administrator announced the arrival of the judge and ordered them all to rise.

Chris turned, then returned to her table where Eric was all ready seated.  She set her file down and sat when the judge was seated.  While the docket was addressed, and other cases were heard before the judge, Chris dwelled on Lidsky's attitude. She missed the first three cases, which were all Eric's, and suddenly her's was up on the docket.  She stood and proceeded to the podium between the defense table and the DA's table, where Lidsky was motioned forward to by the sheriff's deputy.  She looked at Lidsky and prepared to take her part, which was to mostly listen and advise him if he appeared to want to add improperly to the proceedings.  The Deputy DA presented the case to the judge where he read off the multiple charges and explained the arrangement to the judge.  The judge asked Lidsky to enter his plea. Lidsky hesitated at the podium.  Chris looked up at him, then leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"Guilty,"  Lidsky finally answered.

"You're pleading guilty to the charge of first degree murder under CRS 18-3-102(a), as agreed upon with the District Attorney's office?"

"Yes."  Lidsky said into the microphone, never looking up at the judge.

"Is your plea voluntary?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Young, could you please detail the specifics."

Chris did not know the Deputy DA, who read from his files about the death of Bridgette Salance being willfully murdered, with premeditation, by Thomas Michael Lidsky.  She looked to her notes and checked off each of the charges listed there, as each of the other CRS were read into the record.  CRS 18-3- 402(1)(a)+(b) first degree sexual assault, CRS 18-3-301(a) first degree kidnapping, and CRS 18-3-102(b) felony murder first degree.  Each of the specifics involving the death of Bridgette Lee Salance were read into the record.  Lidsky fidgeted at the podium at her side.  She could hear the leg irons on his ankles rattle.  The judge asked Lidsky if he were promised anything else than the waiving of the other charges.  Lidsky fidgeted as though he were going to say something.  Chris leaned over towards his ear and whispered that he should simply answer the question as it was presented.

"No,"  Lidsky responded to the judge.

The judge then stated that the other charges would be set aside per the agreement reached.  The entire proceeding took minimal time, and they signed the proper paperwork, exchanging the copies for each of the files.  They looked to the long calendar that ran down the length of the wall to schedule the next proceeding in the case.  Chris flinched a little when the only spot open for all of them at the same time was on February 21st.  She bit her lip and scheduled it in her personal calendar.









On February 21, 1992, Chris took her files to the old, dark wooden table that ran perpendicular to the tall judges bench with the low court recorders bench in front of it in Courtroom 22 on the third floor of the District and County Court Building. She thought about what little sleep she seemed to be getting of late from the worry of this case.  She was in District Court to handle Thomas Lidsky's Rule 11 advisement and the entering of his plea bargain.  Chris looked across at the similar table, which was parallel to the defense attorney's table, which served the District Attorneys Office.

A Deputy DA Chris sometimes dealt with by the name of Logan Connor was going to handle the DA's case that day.  Two others Chris did not recognize waited beside two private defense attorneys waiting for their cases to come to a hearing.  She saw a suppression hearing on the docket and knew that would be after her case.  Chris, herself, had one later that afternoon in a courtroom down the hall, then she had to meet with a new client at the office.  The attorneys sat in the row directly in front of a bench area just behind a short wall that separated the spectators and, in some cases, the witnesses and bonded-out offenders coming in to have their time in front of the judge.

Everything in the courtroom was wooden, old, mismatched, and dark in color, from the padded jurors seats against the far wall next to the windows to the calendar-holder on the opposite wall. The long calendar that displayed the squares for each month of the year stretched from the high ceiling of the old, historical courtroom almost to the floor.  Attorneys and judges lived by their calendars.  At the end of any proceeding, the next proceeding was scheduled right then between the DAs Office, the defense attorney, and the judge.

Chris often thought how ridiculous it must appear to an outsider when everyone took out their calendars and started saying what would work for them and what would not. Sometimes the scheduling went on for five minutes while the attorneys and judge shuffled around their calendar pages.  The wall calendar was Judge Ruzo's way of running his courtroom, as it was in every courtroom.  It worked well for the needs of all, as though any attorney would ever forget to bring their appointment books.

Chris set up her file for the Lidsky case when Logan strolled over to her to talk.  She was a tall, willowy woman wearing a dark blue dress.

"So you got through the snow okay to this side of town, huh?"

Chris smiled off-handedly at her.  "Oh, the snow's only about a foot deep so far."  She sat down at the chair on the side of the table, which faced the DA's desk and the old podium, with its microphones, in between.

Logan laughed.  "A foot deep in a Chevette is like three feet deep in a four wheel drive.  You ought to upgrade that old clunker, Chris.  I know you've got to be making the bucks with the state."

Chris stopped entering the date, time and description of the proceeding on the front of the legal-size manila folder and looked up at Logan.  "Well, you know what a clothes hog I am, Logan."

Logan laughed again and sauntered over to DA's table again. They made their usual small talk, which made working together much easier over the long haul.  Chris tapped her pen against the folder and looked at the other attorneys in the wooden chairs and thought about the turnover involved in this kind of business.  It was easy to get burned out early.  The case loads were intense and the dockets were long, leaving both the DAs Office and Public Defenders Office overworked, so many cases and so many of the defendants indignant.  Chris sighed and tossed her hair to the side, concentrating again on her entry on Lidsky's file folder.

The Denver Sheriff's Department deputies arrived with several offenders in tow.  The men were handcuffed together with leg irons on their ankles.  They were placed in the jury box, since none of the cases to be heard that day involved a trial. Chris walked across the room to Lidsky and leaned her hands on the dark, wooden railing.

"Can I answer any questions for you before the proceedings start?"

"I doubt that."  Lidsky looked at her sullenly and leaned back in the padded seat.

"You're certain?"  She was exasperated and perplexed by his attitude.  He made the decision to accept the plea bargain, and yet he seemed to think it her fault in some way.

"I think it might take a real attorney."

Chris let out a long breath and let her head fall to look down at the railing.  "If you want to go to trial with this, that is fine with me, but you do remember the charges against you. They assured me that they would go for the death penalty. Is that what you want?"

"I don't want to be put down like a rabid dog, no."

"And you think there would be any other outcome from the trial?"  Chris looked up at him with her eyes but did not move her head.

"There very well could be."

Chris shook her head.  "With what?"

"There is evidence of my innocence out there, if you would only look for it,"  Lidsky said in a low but intense voice.

"That's too vague.  I need names, dates, physical evidence, something to take to my investigators.  I can't just tell them, 'go out and see what you can dig up.'"

"It could have tremendous results if you would do it. But you people aren't interested in my life or what's best for me. I'm just a number to you,"  Lidsky said resentfully.

Chris drummed her finger nails on the baluster.  "We checked out your story, and you agreed it would not stand up in court. You were treated with all the safe guards we can offer our clients.  You called me and later told me you changed your mind and wanted to accept the plea bargain.  Does that still stand?"

Lidsky sucked in a deep breath that seemed filled with resentment.  "Yes."  He let it out again.

"You will be asked at this proceeding whether your acceptance of the plea agreement was voluntary on your part. Do you feel that it was voluntary?"

Equally resentfully Lidsky answered, "Yes."

Chris just stood, looking down at the floor and shaking her head.  She was baffled by what this man expected from her office. They checked out every name the man gave them, but they could not follow up with people whose names she did not possess.  She was standing there, trying to think things through, when Anne Kingley, another attorney from her office, came up behind her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Happy Birthday, Chris!"

Chris smiled at her friend and co-worker and hugged her shoulder back.  "Thanks!"

"You are going to be back in the office for our lunch in the break room, aren't you?"

"Oh, you guys!"

Anne hugged her again, shaking her a little.  "Humor us. Say, do you have a few moments to talk to me about a case of mine that I just found might be linked to one of yours?"

"Always,"  Chris answered.  They walked across the room and out of the wooden and glass double doors of the courtroom, marked in black lettering on the glass the name of the judge and the number of the courtroom primarily, to confer on the details.

Lidsky sat in the padded juror's chair thinking and looking at the long wall calendar across the room.  Chris Mason was born on February 21st, Lidsky thought as he stored the information in the back of his mind.  He thought about how Chris had time to discuss someone else's case, but not enough time or manpower to work on his.  He let his resentment of her apparently unconcerned attitude further erode his sense of compassion for others.

A short time later Chris re-entered the courtroom and tried to talk to her client again.  Lidsky was unwilling to speak to her further.  He sat in silence studying the calendar and the rest of the courtroom, ignoring her in complete silence. Chris looked at him for a full minute, not speaking, and finally turned to return to her table by the doors.  She sat down in one of the old, wooden chairs and began re-reading her file on the case. She was totally perplexed at his attitude.  He seemed to think he was the only person in the world, or maybe the only case she had to handle.  She had to provide a defense for every single one of the 80 to 90 people she represented at a time, or she risked disbarment from law, much less the loss of her job.  She sat in silence until the arrival of the Honorable Judge Antonio M. Ruzo, and they were all asked to rise.

Chris stood and waited until Judge Ruzo was seated, asking that they all be seated.  She ran a hand under the back of her skirt as she sat again in her chair.  She was wearing another of her suits, burgundy this time, and a beige blouse.  When the judge announced the case on the docket, Lidsky's, Chris stood again with the Deputy District Attorney, Logan Connor. Logan explained to the judge the plea bargain offered to the defendant and offered up a copy of the filing with the court.  Judge Ruzo asked if the offer was made in conjunction with the defense, and Chris answered yes.

"Please ask the defendant to step forward,"  Judge Ruzo requested.

The deputies unchained Lidsky from the others and escorted him to the podium where Chris and Logan stood.  He stood next to Chris and looked the Judge in the eye.  Chris wondered that he showed not a sense of wrong-doing or remorse, and yet he was here accepting a guilty plea.

Judge Ruzo looked over his paperwork.  "Mr. Lidsky, did you understand the rights read to you in your Rule 5 Advisement?"

Lidsky shuffled his feet.  He looked down at the floor. He could remember having his rights explained to him many times in the last several weeks, but he could not specifically remember a Rule 5 Advisement.  He figured he must not know the name of the particular proceeding, but he thought he had his rights explained to him often enough not to want to hear them again.

"Yes."

"You are pleading guilty to 1st Degree Murder.  Do you understand the nature of that charge and the elements of the offense to which you are pleading and the effect of your plea?" the Judge continued.

Lidsky tried to digest what the judge was saying. "Yes." He was tired of it all and just wanted his life back to some semblance of normality, no matter where it may be.

"Is the plea voluntary on your part and not the result of undue influence or coercion on the part of anyone?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand your right to trial by jury and that you waive your right to trial by jury on all issues?"

Lidsky wondered if his life would ever be normal again. He looked at the floor and closed his eyes.  He could feel nothing but resentment.  "Yes,"  he answered.

"Do you understand the possible penalty or penalties?"

Lidsky was not sure that he understood them, but he knew his role was to answer in the affirmative to receive the plea bargain.  "Yes."

"Do you understand that the court will not be bound by any representations made to the defendant by anyone concerning the penalty to be imposed or the granting or the denial of probation, unless such representations are included in a formal plea agreement approved by the court and supported by the findings of the presentence report, if any?"

Lidsky was not certain the judge was making any sense any more.  He felt like it was all rote, and he answered mechanically, "Yes."

"There is a factual basis for the plea.  If the plea is entered as a result of a plea agreement, the court shall explain to the defendant, and satisfy itself that the defendant understands the basis for the plea agreement, and the defendant may then waive the establishment of a factual basis for the particular charge to which he pleads.  Do you understand the basis for the plea agreement, Mr. Lidsky?"

"Yes."

"The court is so satisfied.  A copy of the formal agreement has been filed with the court.  I will accept that this plea agreement fulfills the necessary requirements,"  Judge Ruzo stated.

The judge then went on to explain the sentencing possibilities open to the court, including ones that were explained to Lidsky in advance by Chris that were not going to be applied in a case involving a class 1 felony.  Lidsky stood there and let the judge make his statements.  He was asked if understood, and he replied that he did.  They took the time to schedule the sentencing between the DAs office, Chris and the Judge.

The proceedings over, Judge Ruzo turned to the next case on the docket.  Chris walked with Lidsky back to the waiting deputy, who took custody of him and re-shackled him.  Chris said goodbye to Lidsky, who failed to answer her, and left for her proceeding down the hall.  She knew he would remain in Courtroom 22, shackled, until all the others who were chained with him had their turn at the podium, be it for a Suppression Hearing or another Rule 11 Advisement.  He would not like that, and he would probably like it less that Chris had to leave for another case but that was the breaks in life, she thought.








That evening before Chris got home, Lorrie spent her time looking over a new recipe for beef stew she thought her mother might like.  She prepared her ingredients to put into the stew when the phone rang.  Wiping her hands on the kitchen towel, she went to answer the phone on the far kitchen wall.

"Yes."

"Hi, Lorrie!  This is Dad.  How are you?"

"I'm fine, Dad!  Is everything okay on your end of things?"

Luke thought he heard a tinge of worry in his daughter's voice.  "Everything's just fine, sweetheart.  I was just wondering if you'd like to spend some father-daughter time and help your old Dad do some climbing at REI?"

"Sounds like fun, but I need to finish putting together some dinner.  I'll just get it in the oven to bake for about four hours since Mom's going to be working very late tonight, and we should be back by then, shouldn't we?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely.  I know your mom appreciates everything you do.  How about we meet around 6:00?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Or do you want me to come pick you up?"

"No, that's okay, I'll drive myself."

"Okay, but at least let me give you some gasoline money when you get there."

"Now, that I would accept!"  Lorrie laughed, told her father she loved him and would see him at REI at 6:00.








Luke finished cleaning his Smith and Wesson 9 millimeter firearm and slid the pieces back together again, putting the brush and cloth aside.  Dinner consisted of a can of Chunky Sirloin Beef Soup heated in the microwave, accompanied by a couple pieces of buttered bread and a cup of tea.  He was biding his time until he had to leave his apartment to meet his daughter.  He was looking forward to seeing her, but he wondered if it was because she was his daughter, and he loved her, or if it was just to have someone to talk to at times.  He felt guilty about taking her time when she should be socializing with people her own age, but he did want some time with her now and again. He sighed and placed the gun in its holster, which he hung on the back of the lawn chaise where he was sitting.  Luke stood up and walked into the kitchen to straighten up before leaving.

Once he had the dishwasher loaded and running, he went into the bedroom to change into a pair of khaki cut offs.  It was cold outside, and he knew he would have to wear a pair of sweat pants over his shorts.  He picked out a baggy pair of sweats and his climbing shoes out of the closet.  He sat on the very edge of the bed and pulled on his sweats, then bent to pull on his Mythos Sportiva shoes.  He did not want to wear them on the street, but he also did not want to take the time to put them on at REI. He grabbed a gym bag near the door and shoved in his chalk bag and harness from the closet.  He checked to make sure there was a clean towel in the gym bag.  He was wearing a REI black sweat shirt and looked slim and athletic.  He was also glad to be going with his daughter to avoid any unwanted attention.  Once, he went browsing, looking to purchase a new nylon rope that was being measured out on the countertop by a clerk, when one of the women he saw climbing with a partner one day started browsing over him instead of the merchandise.  It was not the first time for him to be checked out while looking to climb the 20' wall, but it never failed to make him uncomfortable.

In the back of his mind he was still committed to his marriage.  He remembered the times when he and Chris went to REI to look over the new merchandise and to plan their hiking and climbing trips, including the times they laughed over the new high tech camp burners that never blew out in the wind.  Of course, they always bought the equipment, and they always put it to good use.  It was their way of escaping the world around them to be alone.  Luke pondered if it was during one of those times they conceived Lorrie, their little miracle, as they first called her when she came into the world and their lives.  Luke put aside his feelings of guilt about his daughter's time and headed out the door of his apartment.  She would always be a part of his life, and he had no intention of ever giving that up.

Luke drove to the REI off of Alameda and Zuni and parked out in front of the block long building.  The large display windows all along the front exhibited camping gear, canoes and kayaks. REI was gearing down from the ski season and gearing up for the spring season, he could see.  He laughed and climbed out of his personal car, a late modeled, gray Chevy Blazer into the light falling snow.  Colorado was not through the snowy season, but the retailers were all geared up for the spring thaw.  He lugged his gym bag over his shoulder and slammed the vehicle door shut. He skated his feet over the snow to the door at the west end of the store.  Entering the first set of doors to the shop, Luke kicked the snow from his climbing shoes.  He pushed on through the second set of glass doors and turned right through the book section.

Luke spent some of the remaining time to six o'clock looking over the books mounted on what was meant to appear as rustic, light-colored, wooden shelving.  The entire store had a mountaineering, rustic feeling to it.  He enjoyed looking over the goods in the store.  Everything was so intricate and meant for active people, like how he, Chris and Lorrie ran their lives. People who worked hard and played hard came here to find the newest equipment on the market to aid them in their recreation. Luke opened a book on the Rivers of the Southwest and looked over the kayaking pictures.  It was one sport that interested him, but he never had the guts to go through with learning it.  He spotted Lorrie coming in through the second set of doors in her climbing gear, and he smiled at her, placing the book back on the shelf.

Luke briefly hugged his daughter and thanked her for allowing her old dad to climb the wall.  Lorrie well knew that REI did not allow soloing on the wall, and she knew that it was her mother that used to belay him on the ropes.  She felt a little guilty in taking her mother's place in that for him, but, deep down, she relished the time with him.  She was proud of her dad and mom, both, but she seemed to get more time with them each as they worked so hard at avoiding spending time with each other. She hugged her dad lightly back and tugged at his jacket toward the 20' climbing wall just beyond the book section.  She wondered not for the first time if her parents would ever get back together when they seemed to have so much in common and enjoyed each other's company, in the past, so very much.  She personally never saw them fight, so she was a little bewildered about what happened between them.  She felt it was too painful for her to ask them, so she reluctantly let it ride.  It tore Lorrie apart watching the last couple of years drift past them.

Lorrie smiled at her dad as she stepped out of her sweats and was wearing her spandex climbing shorts.  Luke gave one young guy hanging around the area a dirty look as the guy stopped to watch his daughter.  They stashed their sweats in their gym bags and set them aside.  They would pay for their climbing time on their way out the door, but Luke was eager to leap on the wall. They each stepped into their harnesses and latched the harnesses together with the carabiners.  Luke hooked his chalk bag onto the back of his harness and looked up at the vertical wall covered with rock holds made out of poly resin, which was frequently referred to as fiberglass.  Luke reached out for one of the ropes hanging from chain anchors at the top of the wall.  He tied in with his double figure eight knot, passed an end to Lorrie, and stuck his hands one by one in his chalk bag behind him, then leaped on to the wall.  He stuck to a double red and blue ribboned path and begun his intermediate climb of the wall.

Luke down pulled up on a rock hold and slung one long, slimly muscular leg across to a toe hold.  He pulled himself up to the next level and tried to scout his next hold on the ribboned path.  He concentrated on the climb and forgot the rest of the world as he worked up a sweat.  He tried a lie back on one hold and slipped from the wall.  Lorrie easily held him in place with her hold on the ropes.  Luke smiled down at her and re- gripped the path on the wall.  He tried another path with a mantle hold and pulled himself over to the next level.  He worked laboriously at the wall, concentrating with every hold.  He seemed to mentally blend with the climb and his case load and personal life slipped away from his mind.

Lorrie gripped the rope from below and watched her dad, knowing this was his way of working out the world.  She also studied the wall and pictured how she wanted to work at an undercling.  She was sorry that her mother did not take to the sport, but Lorrie remembered the hikes through the mountains to the climbing points.  Her mother loved the hikes and would often have a hot meal waiting for them when they returned from their climb.  Camp was often all set up, and they both used to laugh a little guiltily as they devoured the meal, thinking how they should have stuck around to help with camp but could not wait to get to the top of a peak.  This was a love she and her dad shared, but without her mom, it just was not the same.  She tightened her hold on the rope as she noticed her dad was at the top and smiled, knowing her turn was next.








Chris showed up in Courtroom 11 a little before the sentencing in early March.  She sat at the defendant's table across from the judge's elaborate bench, which was imposing with its dark, wooden backdrop.  She met earlier with most of her co- workers in their lunchroom at their office on the 16th Street Mall.  She particularly enjoyed the comradeship that they all shared every day, as they discussed their cases in the privacy of their office.  She heard about Larry's drug case being a losing case that he had to put quite a lot of work into because his client insisted he was innocent.  She could identify with him. She was here today for the final determination of the Lidsky case.

She looked around the empty courtroom as a few spectators filed into the room to sit behind her on the opposite side of the balustrade.  She remembered the arraignment in that very room last month.  Lidsky's responses were getting stranger and stranger toward the assistance she provided him.  He seemed to expect more, no matter how many times she explained she could not hunt up, or make up, evidence.  She followed up on his every actual lead, and she could not understand what else he expected. She tossed her shoulder length brown hair and opened his legal- size manila file to review what she had.  She could not find anything that she missed.  The evidence he wanted simply was not there.  The DA's case was circumstantial but solid.  She sighed and shut the folder.

The Deputy DA came in and prepared his end of the sentencing.  Chris recognized Will Young and said hi to him. Will went up to chit-chat with the courtroom administrator. The Denver County Sheriff's Department brought in Lidsky in his jail greens, leg irons, and handcuffs.  He looked Chris up and down, as though memorizing her looks, and a small chill went up Chris' spine.  She went over to him once the deputy had him seated in the jury's seats by the entrance doors.  The deputy sat in the boxed seat on the other side.  She had her file out.

"You will be sentenced today based on your plea agreement. The sentence administered is based on the judge's research, opinion and the law."  Chris leaned against the balustrade that separated the jury box from the rest of the courtroom.  "You will most definitely be sentenced to the Colorado Department of Corrections.  You will be returned today to the Denver County Jail but your custody will switch to the CDOC.  You will be in what is known as jail backlog.  Once they take you physically into the CDOC, you will either be taken to the Reception Center in Canon City for processing or, because of the current change- over occurring, you will be taken into the newly built Denver Reception and Diagnostic Center for processing.  I don't know which or when.  Today, as we discussed earlier, you will get a chance to make a statement on your behalf to the judge before sentence is pronounced, as will the prosecution.  Okay?  Any questions?"

Lidsky just looked at her.  The resentment in his face was quite plain.  "None."

As Chris thought about how to respond to his attitude, the judge entered the courtroom, and they were asked to all stand. The Honorable Judge Betty Jorgenson was announced and presided over the proceedings.  Chris returned to her table on the other side of the courtroom.  Judge Jorgenson read off the docket number of Lidsky's case as well as the charges to be sentenced that day.  Chris listened as Will Young read his name and station into the record as the prosecuting attorney.  Chris then read her name and position into the record as the defense attorney. The deputy led Lidsky up to the podium to join Chris as she moved to it.

"Ms. Mason, do you wish to make a statement before I pass sentence?"  the judge asked.

"Yes, your Honor.  I would like to point out that this offense, although a serious one, is a first offense committed by my client.  He has held down employment as a private contractor for a number of years, acting as a responsible, taxpaying citizen."

"Thank you, Ms. Mason.  Mr. Young, would you like to make a statement?"

Will stood up.  "Yes, you Honor.  The offense committed here is heinous.  People cannot be allowed to willfully take the lives of young female college students, who are going about their own personal business, for any reason.  The people ask that the maximum possible sentencing be levied."  He sat down again.

"Thank you, Mr. Young.  Mr. Lidsky, would you care to address the court?"

Lidsky stood looking at his feet, fuming at his position. He felt that no matter what he said, the results would be the same, and he had no wish to add to what he considered the charade.

"No, ma'am."

The judge nodded and looked down at her papers.  She looked over the Pre-Sentence Investigation Report, or PSIR, prepared by the Probation Department of the court, which detailed previous offenses, interviews with the defendant, victim's impact statements, victim's family statements, etc.

"Very well, Mr. Lidsky.  The court finds your sentence to be Life, plus eight years before parole can be considered, sentenced to the custody of the Colorado Department of Corrections for the charge of First Degree Murder.  Mr. Lidsky, that means that you will serve 48 years in the state's prison system, as determined by the criminal laws of this state based on the fact that the crime took place in January of 1990 before the law changed where Life means a full life term as it does today.  The charges of First Degree Sexual Assault, First Degree Kidnapping, and Felony Murder First Degree will all carry a sentencing of zero years, as per the agreement reached with the District Attorney's Office and the courts.  Do you have any questions?"

Chris watched the red color sweep up Lidsky's neck and cover his face.  She could not tell if he were embarrassed or infuriated by the sentencing.  He took almost thirty seconds to respond to the judge.

"No, ma'am."

That done, the sheriff's deputy came forward to take custody of Thomas Michael Lidsky while Chris Mason and Will Young tended to the formal paperwork that followed the proceeding, and Lidsky was lead from the courtroom for the last time.


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