by Tom Lowe
“How, man? I got sixty-seven hours to live! They’re telling me to decide what I want for my last meal. And guess what, O’Brien…it can’t total more than twenty dollars. My lawyer’s given up. He told my mama he’d help with the funeral arrangements. So, what the hell are you gonna do to keep the state from killing me? Tell me, huh?”
“I’m very, very sorry for what’s happened to you. I’m going to do everything I can to right a terrible wrong. If you can think of anything that might—”
“I can’t even think, O’Brien! Can’t sleep. I’m scared, man. And I’m innocent!” Tears streamed from William’s eyes.
O’Brien said, “I’ll find who did it.”
“Bull shit, man! You got sixty-seven hours ‘till they poison me. How are you going to find the killer in sixty-seven hours? Huh? Tell me? Took you eleven years to find out I didn’t do it. What the hell can you do in sixty-seven hours?”
O’Brien said nothing.
“Tell me, O’Brien!” Williams screamed. “Are you gonna work as hard to get me out as you did to get me in?” He dropped the receiver, blinking tears out of his eyes, lower lip trembling, saliva in the corner on his mouth. Two guards ran over and lifted him, kicking, out of the metal chair. As they dragged Williams back to death row, O’Brien could hear him screaming, “I loved her! I loved Alex! What’re you gonna do now O’Brien! Tell me!”
THIRTY-FIVE
In his rearview mirror, O’Brien could see the white buildings, guard towers, and razor fence of Florida State Prison as he drove away. O’Brien lifted his cell phone and called information. “Connect me, please, to the office of Florida’s Attorney General.”
“Hold for that number.”
He was transferred three times before O’Brien reached the Attorney General’s executive assistant. “May I help you?”
O’Brien explained why he was calling.
“Hold, please.”
After listening to a more than one minute of a tape-recorded message from of the governor, the assistant came back on the line. “Attorney General Billingsley is in a meeting. Then he has a cabinet meeting. May I take a number?”
“Time is running out for Charlie Williams. If the attorney general is busy, please get me the deputy attorney general.”
“Hold, please,” her voice now agitated.
“O’Brien listened to recorded message of the governor discussing his accomplishments in education and job creation. Then a man’s voice came on the line, “Carl Rivera, can I help you?”
“Are you the deputy attorney general?”
“No, but I am an assistant attorney is this office.”
O’Brien fought the urge to throw the cell phone out the Jeep window. “I’ll be quick and to the point.”
The assistant attorney listened without interruption. He said, “Mr. O’Brien, as tragic as the murders are, it’s not within the capacity or jurisdiction of this office to intercede. The original case was tried in Miami. I’d suggest you begin there.”
“The Attorney General’s office is the first to hear a capital case appeal.”
“Indeed, but this isn’t an appeal. It’s a stay of execution. Only the governor can issue that order.”
“I’ve been listening to his tape recorded message every time someone in your office puts me on hold. Stay on the line and put me through to the governor’s office.”
“I can do that, but I can also tell you that Governor Owens is out of the country. He’s in Saudi Arabia on a fact-finding trip.”
“The facts in this case spell death for an innocent man. The governor needs to know it. Media could have a field day while he’s away. I’m leaving you with my cell number. I need to speak to the attorney general. He can at least examine the new revelations in the case and make a call to the governor. We have satellites and phones; all it takes is someone to make the call.”
“What’s your number, Mr. O’Brien?”
O’Brien gave it to him, disconnected and immediately called the Miami FBI headquarters. As his call was being put through, he thought about what the attorney general’s assistant had said. And he wondered how the cabinet could be meeting without the governor in attendance. “Special Agent Miles,” said the voice on the line.
“Lauren, this is Sean O’Brien, how are how?”
“I’ll be damned…if it’s not Sean O’Brien…maybe Miami-Dade PD’s best dropout. What do I owe the privilege? Last time you resurfaced was the Miguel Santana case. After you two met, we never even found a trace of his body.”
“And I spent seven days in a hospital, too. Lauren, I didn’t ask to investigate Santana, but I had no choice. I have no choice in another very urgent matter, either. I could use your help this time around.”
O’Brien heard her inhale quickly. “I don’t know. What do you want?”
“I’m bringing something to you. Don’t have time to explain on the phone. I’m catching a flight to Miami today. I’ll come by your office this—”
“Wait a minute, Sean—”
“Lauren, please. It is truly a matter of life and death. I’m emailing a picture I took of a message left in blood.”
She sighed and said, “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks, Lauren.” O’Brien hung up and called Miami PD for Ron Hamilton.
“Detective Hamilton, homicide.”
“Ron, this is Sean.”
“Hey, ol’ buddy. You’re supposed to be moving on with your life. Aren’t you teaching at UCF, or running a charter fishing boat by now?”
“I wish. Remember the murdered supermodel Alexandria Cole?”
“Sure, how do you forget a loss and a face like that?”
“The kid I arrested and convicted didn’t do it.”
“What?”
O’Brien gave Hamilton a quick rundown of the events and then said, “I’ll explain more when I get there. I’m catching a plane for Miami today. I need a big favor.”
“Name it.”
“Pull the old case file for me.”
“Sean--”’
“Two people have died in the last twenty-four hours. Both knew the ID of the real killer. Charlie Williams is being readied for the needle. A prison guard who may have known the killer’s ID is missing. Is Don Guilder still the DA?”
“Guilder retired. Stanley Rosen took over.”
“Rosen, I remember the name. Guilder was the original prosecutor. Can you get me in to see Rosen immediately?”
“See what I can do. But this better be something we can sink our teeth in, because if it’s not, I’m the one that’s going to get snake bit.”
“Okay. Ron, one other thing. I’m sending a package overnight to your home.”
“What’s in it?”
“My gun.”
THIRTY-SIX
The District Attorney for Dade County, Florida, said he could give Sean O’Brien fifteen minutes. O’Brien thought about that as he parked his rental Jeep in the county’s parking garage and caught the elevator to the eleventh floor.
“Fifteen minutes,” Ron Hamilton had said. “That’s all I could get you on short notice, Sean.” Hamilton had to testify in court and couldn’t meet O’Brien until after five.
O’Brien looked at his watch as he rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Sixty-two hours left.
The DA’s office was furnished in earth tones, lots of plants in the lobby, framed pictures of the Dade County Courthouse and the Florida Supreme Court Justices. It had a subdued feel. Young attorneys in dark suits walked from one hall to the next. Some stopped at the receptionist desk to pick up messages and take a mint from a silver bowl that sat next to small stacks of business cards.
“Mr. Rosen will see you now, Mr. O’Brien,” said the petite receptionist between the soft buzzing of incoming calls. She pointed to her right, “It’s at the end of the hall to the left…the double doors.”
O’Brien followed her directions and met Rosen’s secretary, a woman with a warm smile. She said, “Right this way, Mr. O’Brien.”
District Attorney Stanley Rosen didn’t bother to stand up behind his massive desk when O’Brien entered his office. O’Brien recognized Rosen. He was in his mid fifties.
His hair, now fully white, parted on the left side in a boyish style. He had a sailor’s deep tan. O’Brien remembered Rosen as one of the state prosecutors in a murder trail involving a woman who shot her husband six times, the final shot hitting him in the groin. She had been the victim of abuse for more than twenty years.
Rosen typed on his computer keyboard, looking up once, offering O’Brien a cursory smile. “Mr. O’Brien, please take a seat. Be with you in just a moment.”
The secretary left, quietly closing the door. O’Brien sat in one of the two chairs in front of the big desk. He looked at the framed pictures of Rosen with Governor Owen, the Mayor of Miami, and one photo with actor Sylvester Stallone at a golf tournament.
Rosen stopped typing. “Ron Hamilton mentioned it was urgent. Said you’d explain. I remember some of the highlights of your career with Miami-Dade P.D. You seemed to have had an excellent arrest and conviction record. I also recall media counts of Internal Affairs investigating some allegations of improper interrogation and arrest techniques you may or may not have used. Is your trip to this office related to that?”
“If you’re asking me whether one of my convictions is suing the county for something, the answer is no.” O’Brien leaned forward in the chair. “There have been two murders in Volusia County in the last thirty-five hours.”
“What’s that have to do with Miami-Dade?”
“The murders are a direct result of an arrest and murder conviction in Dade County eleven years ago. The man convicted, Charlie Williams, is innocent. He was found guilty, after I arrested him of killing his former girlfriend, Alexandria Cole.”
“What would you like this office to do, Mr. O’Brien?”
O’Brien gave Rosen the details of the events, including his meeting with Charlie Williams. He concluded by saying, “The case needs to be reopened and a brand new investigation launched into finding the real perp. I don’t think he’s finished killing. The D.O.C guard hasn’t been found, and he’s the direct link between the killer and what happened to Father Callahan and Sam Spelling.”
“But you can’t prove that.”
“I will.”
“I need more.”
“You’ll get it.”
“When you bring it to me, we’ll talk further.”
“There isn’t time to go on a scavenger hunt. I need you to help get a stay of execution until I can find the perp.”
Rosen sat back in his large leather chair, crossed his fingers, pursed his lips once and said, “Mr. O’Brien, these murders are horrific. I don’t want to come across in a fashion that in any way seems to diminish the gravity of what you are telling me. However, I’m suggesting to you that without something concrete, something I can take to a jury and get a conviction, I’m not in a position to reopen a capital murder case, especially one that’s so high profile. I can’t reopen something predicated on what amounts to a former detective using speculation and deductive reasoning, based on information garnered from witnesses that can’t be corroborated because they’re dead. I apologize if that sounds calloused, but it’s fact. You haven’t told me, or given me something I could take to a grand jury or even a criminal jury in a murder trial.
These events, in and of themselves, are heinous crimes, but are they related to the murder of Alexandria Cole eleven years ago? Maybe. Will they prove that Charlie Williams did not do it and point the way to the person that did? No.”
“This is the prosecuting office of Dade County,” O’Brien said, his voice rising. “Is it because this was such a high profile case that has you gun shy? You have a moral obligation to reopen this case. If you don’t, and if Charlie Williams is executed, this office and you will be held culpable parties to his murder. Because that’s what it will amount to—an innocent man killed when it could have been prevented. Prove to me that doesn’t fit the definition of murder, counselor.”
Rosen stood. “Perhaps that temper of yours was why Internal Affairs flagged your file three times during your career in the homicide division. O’Brien, I’m not opening a closed case and let the media play ball with it. Taxpayers deserve better.”
“Charlie Williams deserves to live!”
“Unfortunately, I’m running behind. Thank you for coming to see me today. If Ron Hamilton and MPD want to crack this open, by all means. When they, or even you, bring me something I can use…we’ll talk. Goodbye, Mr. O’Brien.”
“You want something physical? I’ll bring you the killer…then you can hang his mug shot up on the wall with the rest of your souvenirs.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Driving to the Miami FBI headquarters, O’Brien called Ron Hamilton’s cell phone. Hamilton answered in a whisper. “Sean, I’m in a hall outside a courtroom. Just finished testifying. Let me walk over to a corner window.”
O’Brien said, “Let’s meet.”
“Where?”
“Denny’s on Ocean Drive. Around seven.”
“Okay.”
“Bring a copy of Alexandria Cole’s case file and the package I sent you.”
“How’d it go with Rosen?”
“Not good. I’ll tell you more when I see you later.”
O’Brien picked up the thin file folder and locked the car. From the moment he got out of his rental Jeep in the garage of the federal building, he knew his every move was on camera. The feds did a good job hiding cameras. The ones they wanted you to see, they were decoy cameras, blatantly hanging in visible places like metallic piñatas.
At the reception desk, a uniformed guard told O’Brien to sign in and wait. He also had him roll his right thumb in non-visible ink and make an impression on a portable device with a glass surface. The machine looked like a small photocopier. It made an electronic swipe of O’Brien’s print.
The guard rang through to Lauren Miles. “There’s a Mr. O’Brien in the lobby. Says he has an appointment with you.”
“Be right down.”
A tiny green light flashed once on the machine and the guard mumbled, “Looks like you’re good to go.”
O’Brien half smiled and nodded. He stepped over to the tall vertical glass windows and looked at the traffic zipping by on Second Avenue. He thought about the investigation he conducted eleven years ago. He remembered where he was when he got the call. He had taken his wife, Sherri, to dinner. It was their first anniversary. Before they could order, O’Brien received the call—a homicide in a South Beach condominium—the death of an international supermodel. Sherri said she ‘understood.’ She was that way, flashing that winning smile of hers even when the result of evil raised its ugly head time and time again.
“Hello, Sean O’Brien. Welcome to the FBI.”
O’Brien turned and faced Lauren Miles. She smiled wide, reminding O’Brien of Sandra Bullock—inquisitive brown eyes, dark shoulder-length hair.
“Thanks for seeing me, Lauren.”
“So, what’s the life and death scenario?”
O’Brien opened the file folder and took out the blank piece of paper.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Maybe the ID of the perp who just killed a priest and an informant.”
“Talk to me Sean, I see nothing on the paper.”
“This was the sheet directly beneath a written confession an informant was writing out to give to a friend of mine—a priest who’d heard the informant’s confession in an emergency room. I want your lab to see of it can raise the imprint of the handwritten confession. It’s related to the death of supermodel Alexandria Cole.”
Lauren said, “I remember a little about the case. We had agents working it.”
“There wasn’t joint task force working this murder.”
“We didn’t work the murder. We were working a drug connection with DEA before the murder.”
“What connection?”
> “Let’s talk in my office.”
“I don’t have time to hike around this building. Who was your connection?”
“His name was Jonathan Russo.”
“Jonathan Russo was Alexandria Cole’s manager. I knew the DEA was watching him, but I didn’t know the FBI was involved.”
“Let’s talk.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Lauren Miles led O’Brien through the maze of halls, passing glass offices and conference rooms. He couldn’t help but compare the difference between his old office in homicide to what federal money bought in furnishings and equipment.
When they got to the offices in her division she said, “Let’s go through here. We can talk at my desk, or I’ll stake out a vacant conference room.”
They walked around a dozen large cubicles, agents working the phones in hushed tones, faces glued to computer screens. She said, “Many of the agents in this immediate area work counter intelligence, fraud, and organized crime.”
A tall man with gray hair and dressed in a dark pinstripe suite approached Lauren. He said, “I need the information on the Dade Federal hit. A second one was in Vero. The MO is similar. Stick ‘em up and then shoot ‘em up.”
“Mike, this is Sean O’Brien. Sean worked Miami PD homicide for a number of years. Sean, this is Mike Chambers. Mike’s our bureau chief.”
“Are you no longer with Miami-Dade?” asked Chambers.
“Retired,” said O’Brien.
Chambers started to ask a question, but said, “Pleasure.” He turned to Lauren and said, “I’ll need that report on my desk first thing in the morning.”
“First thing,” she said, nodding. Chambers walked away, his wingtips loud across the tile floor.
Lauren’s cubical was austere. Everything in place. No pictures of friends or family. O’Brien said, “I guess it’s hard to find your feng shui in a cubicle.”
