“What?” I couldn’t compute what she was telling me, and looked from Eileen to Jack and back again. “You’re out on parole? For what?”
“I was convicted of criminally negligent homicide. But I wasn’t guilty of it,” Jack announced matter-of-factly. He poured himself more of the fragrant coffee. No one said anything for several long moments. Jack sighed. “I used to be married. My wife, Fiona, loved to ski as much as I did. Don’t think I’m arrogant, Goldy, I’m just a really good skier. Fiona was more like low-intermediate. One day, we both had too much to drink at lunch. She wanted us to race to an out-of-bounds area beside a black run. It has a great view, and she’d been there once with her son.” His voice had flattened, as if he were reciting his story under hypnosis.
“Jack, don’t make yourself do this,” Eileen implored.
Jack held up a hand. “Please, hon, you wanted advice from Goldy. She needs to hear what happened.” He took a deep breath. “Fiona and I got to the overlook. A minute later, somebody crashed through the trees and attacked us. Fiona lunged for me and I tried to catch her, but she slipped away somehow. The attacker was wearing a ski mask. Whoever it was, was strong and fast. He or she hit me with a rock and I passed out.” He stopped. “Then the attacker must have pushed Fiona over the cliff. Anyway, my wife … was killed.”
“And you were convicted of homicide?” I asked incredulously.
“They had to have somebody to blame. The prosecutor said I shouldn’t have let Fiona ski drunk, that I shouldn’t have taken her down such a dangerous run. She had grabbed my hand when we were trying to defend ourselves against the attacker, and my mitten was by her body when the ski patrol came. They trampled the snow so much, they couldn’t trace our attacker.” He sighed again. “It was a day of unstable snow, too. But that didn’t matter. The police didn’t find enough evidence to charge anyone else, and I was sentenced to three years in prison. I served a year, was granted parole six months ago … I had a record of good behavior.” He snorted cynically.
I felt an ominous tingling at the base of my spine. “If you were granted parole six months ago, what does this have to do with Doug Portman?”
Eileen narrowed her eyes at me. “So you haven’t faced the parole scenario with The Jerk yet, have you?”
“No,” I confessed. “Why?”
Jack grunted. Eileen said, “There were people who were opposed to Jack getting out when he did.” When I looked at her blankly, Eileen added, “Jack’s first wife had a lot of money. Her son is the one who filled her full of wine before she skied off Bighorn Overlook that day. Afterward, he went on and on about how Jack and Fiona weren’t getting along. All crap: Arthur wanted my Jack to be liable for Fiona’s death. Now the money’s all tied up in court. But Jack isn’t going to court, because he doesn’t want Fiona’s money and never did. Only crybaby Arthur doesn’t want the million-dollar trust fund Mama set up for him. He wants the nineteen million she left to charity.”
“Sheesh!” I said impulsively, then struggled to sort out what Eileen had just told me. Arthur? “You say Fiona’s son filled her full of booze before she went out? Do the cops know this?”
There was a silence. Finally Jack said, “Fiona was drinking wines offered in a sampling by her son. He lives in Killdeer and is a wine expert. You’re working with him in the show. Arthur Wakefield. You probably saw how he gave us the cold shoulder yesterday morning.”
“Arthur Wakefield? You were his stepdad?” I was stunned. What if I had to work in close proximity with a relative of The Jerk’s? Say that relative hated me? How would I cook, much less be a chef?
Jack shook his head. “Forget stepdad. We weren’t even friends. Arthur showed up at my parole hearing, claimed he hadn’t been able to sleep since his mother died, that he brooded about her death all the time, and so on, which wasn’t true, if you judged by the fact that he never even came to our wedding, or called Fiona more than three times in the year before she died—”
“Oh, Goldy, I hate to bother you with our problems,” Eileen interrupted in a rush. “It’s just that we’ve been so upset … Look at this.” She handed me a photocopied clipping from a Denver newspaper. “It’s long. You can skip to the end if you want.”
But I never skip to the end. I’d signed too many contracts to know the perils of that particular shortcut. I took a fortifying sip of coffee and began reading a letter to the editor that was headlined:Kangaroo Court or Porkers’ Parole?When rough justice for rough crimes prevailed in the Australian outback, an out-of-doors court often had to be convened. Kangaroos sometimes hopped up to watch the trial. The big marsupials would sit on their haunches and silently observe the proceedings like solemn jurors. Hence the term “kangaroo court.”Although the criminal court system in Colorado may be slow and inefficient, families of crime victims CANNOT rest easily once the perpetrator of a crime has been placed behind bars. You think a three-year sentence may be light for the person who has killed your loved one. You think: At least it’s a sentence. But it isn’t.The kangaroos have left. The pigs are on their way. If the killer of your loved one plays the parole board right, he could be out on the streets in a mere six months to a year. Surely the parole board is smarter than that, you think? Don’t count on it.Are you aware that in Colorado, a criminal has to meet with only one member of the parole board when his case is reviewed? Do you know that only that one member, who may be a newspaper critic who’s donated heavily to the governor’s campaign, makes a recommendation to the full board? And that the board, never having met with the criminal, or even read his file, follows the one member’s recommendation ninety percent of the time?Speak out, Colorado! Let’s change the parole system. And while we’re at it, let’s make sure none of our current piglet parole board members are succumbing to the temptations that might be offered by rich criminals. Better yet, let’s eliminate those parole board members altogether.
The letter was signed, Arthur Digby Wakefield.
This was a morning of surprises. I took another sip of coffee to steady myself. You didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that Arthur Wakefield was dealing with a truckload of unresolved anger.
“May I keep this?” I asked. “To show to my husband?”
Jack nodded. His beautiful eyes bored into me. “Do you know what he means by ‘succumbing to the temptations offered by rich criminals’?”
“No,” I replied. “Do you?”
His pained face relaxed slightly. “Almost all the convicts had heard the stories about Portman. When Portman worked with me, he just heard what I had to say and decided to let me out. He even had a stenographer there. But what if a convict met with Doug Portman without the stenographer?”
I shook my head. Again I saw Doug Portman’s bloodstained cash billowing out over Killdeer Mountain. I asked, “Do you know anyone who actually bribed Doug? Or tried to?”
Jack took a bite of cake and chewed it thoughtfully. “One guy, in for armed robbery, offered Portman a used Porsche that he’d kept hidden from the cops. That guy swore Portman just blew him off, pretended he didn’t even know what he was talking about.” Jack pressed his lips together, then went on: “ ’Nother guy, said he knew Portman already had a Porsche, and that you had to offer him something bigger, or fancier, or funnier in that first meeting. Otherwise, he’d cross you off the list of people he’d allow to bribe him.”
“Did you offer him anything?” I asked neutrally.