by Randy Singer
17
Thursday ended with an office meeting called by Bill Masterson. He assembled six other ADAs and me in our largest conference room and, in typical Masterson style, got right to the point.
“We’ve got four months before the primary, and things are getting kind of nasty on the campaign trail.” Masterson was seated at the head of the table. Regina Granger sat at his right hand. From the look on her face, she probably knew the purpose of this meeting. The rest of us did not.
“My little RV tours of the state seem to be picking up momentum, and some of the front-runners are getting spooked,” Masterson said.
For the last six weeks, Masterson had been touring around in an RV a supporter had loaned him, attending small events and church services while shaking hands with every Georgian he could find.
“One of my opponents just sent out a direct-mail hit piece.” He passed around a glossy tri-fold that had some unflattering shots of a young Bill Masterson dancing with somebody other than his wife on a dark dance floor. There were pictures of three other women who alleged that Masterson had fostered a hostile work environment at the DA’s office.
“Years ago, when I was the chief assistant, our illustrious DA would throw an office party every Christmas. Some of you were here and know that spouses weren’t invited. Things sometimes got a bit out of hand. One of our ADAs got fired about ten years ago and filed a sexual-harassment lawsuit against my predecessor. But since I’m the one now running for office, this whole thing somehow becomes my fault.”
I had heard stories about the office parties. I wrote off most of it as legend. Everybody who worked for Masterson knew that he was a fair boss who treated everyone the same. He was rough around the edges but never tolerated anything that remotely smacked of harassment.
His wife had filed for divorce six years ago because Bill was an incurable workaholic; she finally gave up trying to compete with his work. As far as I knew, there wasn’t even a hint of an affair. He had dated a few women in the last couple of years but spent most of his time at the office, consumed by the job.
“They’ve quoted a few rape victims who claim I was less than enthusiastic about pursuing their cases. Same for three or four battered wives. Throw in a few anonymous sources who say I like dirty jokes around the office, and you’ve got yourself a pretty good piece.”
Just hearing this reminded me of why I never wanted to go into politics. I liked the courtroom, where at least there were rules of evidence and, for the most part, impartial judges. Politics usually degenerated into something that resembled a middle school food fight more than the lofty democracy our founders envisioned.
“My political advisers asked me whether the women in my office would be willing to sign a petition stating what an enlightened and fair-minded boss I am,” Masterson continued. “I told them you might do so as long as you didn’t have to sign it under oath.”
There were some nervous chuckles, and I got the sense that the other ADAs, like myself, were anxious to help. We all knew politics could get ugly, but it was hard to watch a good man like Masterson get slimed for something he didn’t do. He had gone to the mat more than once for just about everybody around the table, and prosecutors had a way of sticking up for their own.
“My consultants want to put together a ‘Women for Masterson’ piece that we could distribute to the media and turn into a television ad as well. They’ll be asking each of you individually, but I wanted to meet with you first and let you know that you don’t have to get involved and, though it goes without saying, it won’t affect your job evaluations either way. In fact, I was reluctant to drag any of you into this, and I’m sorry that I have to make this request. I would rather just ride it out. But I’m being told that if we don’t respond aggressively, the public will assume it’s all true.”
“This is crap,” Regina said as soon as Masterson took a breath. Bill’s voice had been calm and measured, but Regina was fired up. “I’m sure every one of us would be willing to sign whatever you need. And you might as well have one done for ‘African Americans for Masterson’ too because that will probably be the next attack.”
After Regina spoke, the brownnosing began in earnest, and all of us told the boss that we were on board. He thanked us for our support, told us not to believe everything we read in the papers, and apologized again that he had to make this request. A few of my coworkers started reminding each other of how Bill had stood up for them when they were attacked by this defense attorney or that defense attorney, but Bill cut them off. He said he didn’t want to waste our valuable time eliciting pats on the back. “The streets aren’t getting any safer while we sit around singing ‘Kumbaya,’” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”
I got up to leave with the rest of the women, but Masterson had other ideas. “Brock, can I see you a minute?” he growled.
Regina stayed behind as well and listened as Bill made his request. “I’ve asked Regina to be part of our television commercial,” he said. “It would help me a lot if you’d be willing to say a few words as well. Maybe remind folks that I prosecuted your mother’s killer and that’s part of the reason you’re working for me now.” Masterson shrugged. “It would probably take some of the sting out of the claims by these victims.”
“Plus, you’re photogenic,” Regina said. “I’ve got a face for radio, but you’ve got a face for TV.”
I agreed to do the TV spot and then gave Bill and Regina an update on the Tate investigation. I reported that we were making progress, though we couldn’t yet prove that Tate had access to the drugs.
“A minor point,” Masterson said sarcastically. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you enjoy the play?”
I just agreed to do you a favor, I wanted to say. But things didn’t work that way with Masterson. He was always straight up, a man who didn’t believe in owing people.
“I understand,” I said. “But Tate is already acting guilty.” I detailed my conversation with Tate after the bond hearing—everything except my threat at the end.
“Definitely guilty,” Masterson responded. “Wants to take a polygraph, answer police questions, and cooperate fully. Basically a confession.”
I hated it when Masterson slipped into his sarcastic mode. But the man had a point. “I didn’t say I was ready to indict yet.”
“The queen of understatement,” Masterson replied.
The next day, film crews were at our office. Regina Granger, big and boisterous, looked straight into the eye of the camera and confidently proclaimed her support for her boss and trusted friend, Bill Masterson. She did it on the first take while I watched nervously. The camera crew decided to do a second take with Regina just to be on the safe side.
After she finished, it took me five tries to get the right amount of intensity and enthusiasm. Everybody kept encouraging me, telling me I was a natural, but then they would suggest another try and give me some coaching on how to change my facial expression or hold my hands or talk slower or faster or look toward a different spot. When they finally said, “It’s a wrap,” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
The mudslinging commercials from the other candidates started running on Saturday, and “Women for Masterson” responded on Sunday. Despite the counterpunch, Masterson’s consultants worried that he had dipped in the polls. “Negative ads work,” they told him. “Positive commercials are just damage control. We need to think of something more creative. We need a game changer.”
18
On the three-hour trip from death row to Rabun County, Mace kept himself occupied with thoughts about Antoine Marshall’s living conditions. Because of two attempted death-row suicides last year, Marshall and the other inmates were being held in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day and were limited to noncontact visits from lawyers, clergy, and family members. Antoine had no family, and his only occasional visitor was Mace.
Over the past eleven years, Mace had watched his client go through cycles of despair and hope. Som
etimes Antoine would stay depressed for months. But when he was in a manic phase, he would furiously scribble notes of future sermons he intended to preach once his innocence was finally established. He was studying to be a pastor, and he had visions of leading the down-and-out to Christ. His slant on the New Testament, which Mace found refreshing and entirely consistent with his own, saw Jesus as a defender of the oppressed and powerless. And Antoine was ready to be his wingman.
Antoine also spent time writing letters. He had some female pen pals from the more liberal European countries, two of whom had proposed to Antoine. He had also written letters to the Brock family, though only Chris had bothered to respond.
It was late Friday afternoon when Mace pulled into the parking lot of Chris Brock’s church—First Baptist Church of Rabun, Georgia. Driving his truck, Mace felt right at home in the Georgia mountains. Normally, Mace would ride his Harley on a beautiful spring day like this one. But he would have enough stereotypes to overcome as Antoine Walker’s defense lawyer, so he’d left the Harley at home.
The church was small and nondescript, like a thousand other Baptist churches in rural Georgia. Pastor Brock ministered to about a hundred salt-of-the-earth types, true conservative believers devoted to God, guns, and the Georgia Bulldogs, though not necessarily in that order.
A receptionist whose nameplate identified her as Diane greeted Mace suspiciously, probably thinking he was looking for a handout. Mace explained who he was, and her skepticism turned into thinly masked hostility. “Pastor Brock is at the parsonage this afternoon,” she said. “Perhaps next time you could call for an appointment.”
“Could you call him and ask if I could stop by?” Mace asked. “I promise I won’t take more than a half hour of his time.”
Diane frowned. Pastor Brock’s time was apparently very important, especially when the lawyer representing his mother’s killer was asking. Mace could see her mind formulating excuses. She looked like she was regretting the fact that she already told him the pastor was at the parsonage. “He’s probably studying for Sunday’s sermon,” Diane said. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in the middle of Sunday prep.”
“You’re very good. And I appreciate what you’re doing for the reverend. But, ma’am, I could find out from a hundred different people here in Rabun where the pastor lives. I’d rather not show up unannounced on his doorstep, but I’ve driven more than three hours, and I really need to talk to him for just a few minutes. If I were him, I’d want you to call and let me know.”
Diane shook her head and let out a big sigh. What could one expect from a criminal-defense lawyer? She dialed a number and, after talking to Pastor Brock, told Mace to take a seat. She even asked if he wanted coffee.
When the reverend arrived, he greeted Mace with a smile and a firm handshake. Mace had always been struck with how alike the Brock kids looked. They both had bright, expressive eyes and dimples when they smiled. Jamie had a firmer set to the jaw and high cheekbones, a hard-edged beauty that attracted lots of attention. Chris looked more wholesome and good-natured, a few added pounds bringing a softness to his face that Jamie’s features lacked.
“They’re painting my office, so maybe we could talk for a few minutes in the sanctuary,” Chris suggested. “Did Diane offer you anything to drink?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Mace followed Chris into the sanctuary, and the silence increased his nervousness. In his letter to Antoine, Chris had said he’d forgiven the condemned man. He’d even expressed gratefulness that Antoine had come to Christ. Yet Chris had still planned to be there to watch the scheduled execution. Now, with the new evidence of Antoine’s innocence before the Georgia Supreme Court, Mace was hopeful that Chris might be having second thoughts about the next execution date.
The two men sat on a padded front pew, a few feet apart, looking at the altar in front of them.
“I appreciate your seeing me, Pastor. And on behalf of my client, I can’t tell you how much your forgiveness means to him.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a pastor if I preached about it but didn’t extend it myself. I’ve seen how bitterness and revenge can shrink a man’s soul,” Chris said. He spoke softly and seemed entirely at ease in this situation. Mace wondered if he might be talking about Jamie—or maybe their father.
“How does a Christian’s duty to forgive square with the death penalty?” Mace asked. He knew the question was blunt, but he thought it would be a greater insult to beat around the bush when it was obvious why he had come.
Chris thought about it for a minute. He had undoubtedly wrestled with the question before, but he probably wanted to choose his words carefully. He might have been worried that Mace would try to use his answer against him. “Individuals should forgive. But the government’s role is to restrain evil, and sometimes that requires using the death penalty. I’m not against capital punishment in general. It’s just that if there’s any doubt about guilt, it should be off the table.”
“Do you believe in second chances?”
This brought another pause from Chris, his eyes fixed on the altar. “I don’t believe that anybody is beyond redemption, if that’s what you mean. But our actions have consequences. So in that respect, no, I don’t believe that a guy like Antoine Marshall should be released so he can have another chance to kill.”
“What about King David? What about Moses?”
This time Chris responded with an irritated grunt. “What do you want from me?”
Mace turned to look at the pastor. “I’ve spent the last several years in prison ministry. You probably know this, but I’ve also spent some time in prison myself, prior to law school. I’m one of maybe three or four lawyers in the entire state with a felony conviction. If anybody knows how to sniff out a fake jailhouse conversion, it’s me.
“I just want you to know that Antoine Marshall really is a changed man. Whoever he was before . . . that’s not who he is now. As you know, the Scriptures say that the old man is gone and that everything becomes new.
“What I’m asking is for you to meet with him, Pastor. Judge for yourself. If you still want to support his execution after doing that, I’ll never bother you again. But you can’t judge a man from his letters or know his heart unless you look into his eyes. I’m asking you to go down to Jackson and meet my client.”
Chris shifted in his seat. “Professor James—”
“Please . . . call me Mace. Everybody else does.”
“Okay . . . Mace. My problem with your request is simply this: Every believer needs to learn how to extend forgiveness. If somebody slaps me on one cheek, I need to turn the other. But before absolution can be granted, the person who commits the wrong must repent. You sound like you’ve read through the Bible a few times. So you know that John the Baptist and Jesus and all of Jesus’ disciples had one thing in common—they told people everywhere to repent. And repentance begins with acknowledging what we’ve done wrong.”
Chris stood, signaling an end to the meeting. His voice was still soft, but it was also firm. “I’ll go down there and meet with your guy,” Chris said. “But the first thing I’m going to ask him is whether he killed my mother and whether he’s sorry for what he did. Changed hearts begin with repentance. And if he’s truly repentant, he’ll have no greater champion than me. But if he’s not, I can’t help him.”
“Fair enough,” Mace said. “I’ll set it up.”
19
At the beginning of the Caleb Tate investigation, I had asked Bill Masterson to use his influence to get a couple of senior homicide detectives I knew from the major felony squad assigned to the case. But Masterson reminded me that he didn’t let the cops run the DA’s office, and they didn’t let him run theirs.
So instead, the case got assigned to Tyler Finnegan, a young detective who had moved from Los Angeles to Atlanta just three years ago and had consequently been tagged with the unimaginative nickname “LA.” He was only in his early thirties and had none of the hard-edged demeanor I th
ought we needed in dealing with a slimeball like Caleb Tate.
LA was more surfer than cop, with an unruly shock of blond hair and bright-blue eyes. He sometimes came across as clueless or disinterested, but according to a few ADAs who had worked with him in the past, he had an uncanny way of making suspects open up. He also noticed things that nobody else caught. Sometimes it was a gesture of discomfort, sometimes a microexpression of anger, sometimes a change in vocabulary. Many times, according to my sources, LA couldn’t even explain it himself. But he had been one of fifteen thousand people tested by California researchers in a project concerning social intelligence for law enforcement officers. Among the candidates, only fifty had been able to score at least 80 percent on two separate lie-detecting exercises. LA was one of them and had been ostentatiously labeled a “truth wizard.”
He had also worked a few celebrity crimes in Hollywood and supposedly knew how to deal with the press. And after a few weeks of working with the man, I began to appreciate the fact that he had a blue-collar work ethic, even if he tried to disguise it with a laid-back attitude.
But most important, he was a fellow believer in the guilt of Caleb Tate. For both of us, it wasn’t a matter of if; it was only whether we could prove it. All in all, by the third week of the investigation, I had pretty much concluded that LA was the right guy for the job, even if we did tend to rub each other the wrong way.
I admired LA’s ability to keep the press churning out pro-prosecution stories on an almost-daily basis. He made very few comments on the record, but on the side he would feed juicy tidbits to favored reporters, and the stories then cited “unnamed sources familiar with the investigation.” The Tate story had legs because it hit all the hot-button issues. There was the Pretty Woman angle of a girl working for an escort service and then marrying a rich guy. There was marital strife with rumors of affairs. There was a high-profile conversion to Christianity and a disapproving husband. And there was the creep factor. An “anonymous source” leaked information that Caleb Tate habitually recorded his wife’s phone calls and made her get his approval anytime she spent more than fifty dollars. Not only that, but Caleb Tate had publicly disagreed with his wife’s decision to file suit against the websites that displayed topless pictures of her.
