“Fixed it up? That’s the most decrepit looking office I’ve ever been in. What am I missing here, Nick? In the year and a half I’ve been here, Mosley hasn’t tried a case. I’ve never seen him even close to a courtroom.”
“Oh, he’s tried cases. Misdemeanors—his first year or two here.”
“So a year or two of misdemeanors qualifies him to be the chief assistant and head of felonies? What about Joe Fasi, Dave Veenstra, or Rob Mitchell? They’ve been here for years and are in felony court almost every day. Wouldn’t one of them be a much better choice?”
“Not for me to decide. And not for you, either.” The tone in Nick’s voice made it clear that the conversation about the qualification of Scott’s new boss had come to an end.
“OK,” said Scott. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll see you at three tomorrow.”
Scott returned to his office with the question still foremost in his mind: why would someone who had never even tried a felony case be taking over as felony chief?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
September 19, 2007
At noon Wednesday, the felony attorneys were gathered in the conference room for the announcement. The DA stood at a small lectern in front of the room. He was brief.
“We are all pleased when one of our own builds a reputation that is recognized in Atlanta. The governor’s appointment of Nick to the bench is a compliment to our office and a well-deserved reward for Nick. I’m confident he will fulfill his judicial duties as competently as he fulfilled his duties as chief assistant and head of our felony section. Nick, would you come up, please?”
Nick, who was seated in the rear row, walked up to the lectern. The DA quickly unwrapped a large walnut plaque and presented it. “Nick, we are all very proud of you and send our best wishes with you as you leave for your new job.” The room broke into applause.
“And now, I am pleased to announce that Johnny Ray Mosley will be replacing Nick as chief assistant and head of the felony section.” The DA glanced at his watch. “I have a speaking engagement at a civic club at twelve-thirty, and I’m sure Johnny Ray has a few words now for all of you—about what you may expect from this changing of the guard. Johnny Ray, you have the floor.” The DA quickly departed the room, followed by Nick.
Johnny Ray? Scott had never heard Mosley called “Johnny Ray.” Every reference to him had been Moose. But he knew little of his new boss. In fact, he could not recall ever hearing him speak, so he observed Mosley expectantly as he stood and walked to the lectern.
His speech was brief. It was delivered in a slow and lazy drawl that may be at home in some parts of south Georgia, but not Savannah.
“I’ve got nothing special to say,” Mosley began. “I’m surprised and, of course, honored to be asked to take over from Nick. I don’t plan no changes. You gotta problem, see me. We’ll work on it. Most I ask is that you level with me. Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. We’ve got a lot of work here, and we’re short-handed. But we’re a good team. Let’s keep ’er that way.”
Mosley turned quickly from the lectern and walked out the door.
Scott was mystified by the abrupt ending, but no one else seemed to be surprised. Normal chatter filled the room—about judges, on-going trials, sports, and a new restaurant that opened nearby. Not a conversation anywhere about their new boss, and the room emptied rather quickly.
Nick’s words floated through Scott’s mind: He’s the smartest lawyer we have or will ever have. To Scott, Johnny Ray Mosley sounded like the country bumpkin who indeed may have just fallen from a turnip truck.
Scott headed to his office, and, as often was the case when he opened his door, the phone was ringing.
“Hi, Scott, Bill Baldwin here. Got a moment?”
“Not really, but I know you’ll call again if I hang up, so shoot.”
“Thanks. I’m doing a short spotlight on Johnny Ray, the new chief assistant and head of felonies—your new boss—for tomorrow’s paper. Wonder if I could get a comment.”
“Bill, you astound me. How did you find out who my new boss is so quickly? It was just announced five minutes ago.”
“Hell, Scott, I knew on Monday. That’s my job, to know stuff. Now, a comment.” It was not a request, but a command.
“Bill, you’re way ahead of me. You know I’m new to felonies. I didn’t even know his name was ‘Johnny Ray’ until the announcement at noon. I’ve only met him a couple of times. No, correction—I’ve never really met him—just delivered some papers to his office a couple of times and passed him in the hall. You tell me about Johnny Ray.”
“OK, I’ll tell you, but let’s do it over a beer at Churchill’s. Meet you there after work today. Name the time.”
Scott had a jury trial scheduled to begin in the morning and some pressing work on motions pending in another trial. He had expected to remain at the office until seven or eight. Beer at Churchill’s was certainly not in his plans, but he was curious. He could meet Bill, have a beer, maybe a sandwich, and return later to finish his work.
“OK,” he said. “Make it five o’clock.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bill was seated at the bar when Scott arrived a few minutes before 5:00 p.m. The tall beer glass in front of him was almost empty. “Let’s get a table,” Bill said.
Scott followed Bill to a table in the far end of the restaurant. As soon as they were seated, Bill caught the eye of a young waitress near the bar and held up two fingers. The waitress looked at Bill and mouthed a couple words which Scott couldn’t make out, but were clearly understood by Bill. He gave a thumbs up. In minutes she was setting two large glasses of a golden draft in front of them.
Scott smiled approvingly.
“They know me. I tip well,” Bill said. “And I get a lot of tips too. Love it here.”
“Yeah, nice. I haven’t been here in a while.” Scott picked up his glass and surveyed the room. He tilted the glass to his lips for his first taste. “Ahh … ” He smiled and lifted the glass toward Bill in a bar salute. “Very good; I needed this. Thanks.”
“You work too hard, Scott. Maybe you should lighten up. You’ve been with the DA’s office how long—about a year and a half, right? And you hardly know Johnny Ray?”
“Don’t know Johnny Ray at all. Hardly know him as Moose. And that’s why I’m here. Apparently you know him.”
“Yes, since we were students at the University of Georgia. I was a student sports reporter on the Red and Black when Mosley was setting records as a running back.”
“So, you’ve been in the newspaper business since your college days?”
“No—since my high school days. That’s all I ever wanted to do. Especially sports. I wasn’t much of an athlete, but I loved sports, so I got my kicks from writing about it.”
“And you wrote about Mosley?”
“You bet—for four years. I started a year ahead of him, but we were seniors together. Took me a year longer. He had broken a lot of high school rushing records at Valdosta, and there was a lot of excitement when he signed with Georgia. I was a stringer with the paper and on my own got the first interview when he arrived on campus. He was Johnny Ray then. He didn’t become Moose Mosley until his junior year.”
“He’s not that big—not much taller or heavier than I am. Obviously there’s a story there.”
“A short one. Some of the Georgia papers were already comparing him to Herschel Walker. Maybe he wasn’t quite that good, but he was a hell of a good back. After a game in which he pounded out almost 200 yards, one writer raved, ‘He’s got the speed of a deer and the power of a moose.’ That’s all it was, but he suddenly became Moose Mosley, and it stuck. At his graduation, when the dean called his name, ‘Johnny Ray Mosley,’ the audience all stood and started shouting Moose, Moose, Moose! He always liked the name, and when he signed autographs, that’s how he signed. After graduation, he was Ray Mosley. But that’s another story. And a sad one.”
“Sad?”
“Yeah, you like
sad stories?”
“Not particularly, but since I’m going to be working for the guy, let me hear it.”
“Well, Moose was not only a good football player, he was a hell of a good musician. I knew from that first interview that Moose never knew his mother and that his dad was an alcoholic country musician. His mother left the area when he was a small child. He was raised on a farm a few miles west of Valdosta by his grandparents—and his dad, when his dad was sober. Moose claims he got his musical talent from his dad, who could play any instrument and owned quite a few, including an old, but well-tuned piano. His dad taught him to play the saxophone, but he learned the piano on his own. I never saw him read a sheet of music, but man could he play! Except during football season, he partied every weekend. Big parties. He would be part of a pickup band, and if there was no band, he would play by himself. New Orleans style jazz on the sax, or rock and roll on the piano à la Jerry Lee Lewis. Being a varsity football star and an entertainer made him very popular, especially with the coeds.”
“That’s sad?”
“Very sad as it turned out. One of the football cheerleaders was a gal named Lisa Cromwell from Atlanta. She chased Moose for two years and married him in a big Atlanta wedding in June after his graduation. Moose had been in one of the agricultural programs at Georgia. All he wanted to do was go back to Lowndes County, run his granddad’s farm, and maybe start a local rock band. Lisa rebelled. She couldn’t imagine herself spending her life on a farm in south Georgia. My wife—well, my ex-wife—was a sorority sister and good friend of Lisa’s, so I was hearing about this big conflict while it was ongoing.”
Bill paused to sip his beer and let his eyes roam around the room. Someone seated several tables away waved. Bill returned the greeting by touching his forehead with his right finger tips and pushing off in the form of a sloppy salute.
“Lisa’s dad was a prominent civil trial attorney in Atlanta,” Bill continued. “He couldn’t imagine his only daughter being subjected to life on a south Georgia farm. So he decided, along with Lisa, that Moose would enter law school and join his law firm in Atlanta upon graduation. Lisa’s dad would pay tuition and support them through the three years of law school. Moose was a good student. It helped that he was blessed with what some call a photographic memory. Don’t know if that’s what it was, but he had a fantastic memory. Really intelligent guy. If he read or heard something just once, he had it forever.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard about that memory. But intelligent? He made a little speech today when he was introduced as the new felony chief, and it didn’t really reflect a lot of what I would call intelligence.”
“Scott, Moose was in the top part of his class. He had no trouble getting accepted to law school at Georgia, though Lisa’s dad would have helped with that also, if needed. It was Lisa’s dad who directed Moose to not only drop his nickname, but drop the ‘Johnny’ in his given name. Apparently he thought that would be a better fit in his prestigious law firm. Moose—Johnny Ray—went along with all of this because that is what Lisa wanted, too. He loved her like life itself.”
“Bill, you really know how to tell a sad story. I’m getting teary eyed.”
Bill laughed and looked down at their empty glasses. He placed his thumb and index finger between his lips and let out two sharp whistles heard far across the room.
Scott turned toward the bar and saw the bartenders looking his way and laughing, along with a couple of waitresses. Two cold glasses of beer arrived within minutes.
“Don’t try that Scott until you’re a regular customer for ten years—and with a rep for tipping well. You’ll be ushered out.”
Bill paused and reached for his glass with both hands, inhaling the rich aroma. He raised the glass to his lips and slowly sipped. Scott waited patiently while Bill relaxed in his chair, a smile of pleasure on his face. It was a ritual perfected by many years of practice.
“Now let me finish,” Bill continued. “I’m getting there. So Lisa had one more year of undergrad when Moose entered law school. She graduated and found a temporary job in Athens. Things were going well. They were madly in love and looking forward to moving to Atlanta. When Moose graduated, Lisa’s dad’s graduation present was a two-week trip to Europe. When he passed the bar, it was a two-week trip to Australia. And as soon as he returned, he was hired, as promised, and became an associate with his father-in-law’s West Peachtree firm—one of Atlanta’s largest, with a blue chip list of global clients. Of course, that’s when the problems started.”
“So, finally we get to the sad part?”
“Right. See, Moose just didn’t fit into that law firm. It was a cultural shock—not so much for Moose, but for the firm. He was smart enough, but they had never had an associate so lacking in social graces. His drawl annoyed them, and his grammar was … well just plain unsophisticated. He wrote well, better than most, but when he spoke, he just sounded ignorant—or like he didn’t care. According to my ex, Lisa had hoped three years of law school would cure that, but no luck. Lisa would correct him frequently, but it didn’t take. And this first year in Atlanta was a difficult year for both of them. There was the pressure of the new job for Moose, and Lisa was in graduate school at Emory. They stayed busy in their separate worlds and were drifting apart.”
“I think I see where this is going,” said Scott.
“I’ll try to make it short. Moose was always something of a mystery to Lisa’s dad, who recognized his sharp mind and writing ability, but was perplexed and personally embarrassed by his rustic speech and unrefined manners which his partners sometimes commented on. At the end of the year, Lisa’s dad told her that there was going to be opposition within the firm to renewing Moose’s contract, and he didn’t know if he could save his job.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t like that,” Scott mused.
“Actually just the opposite. Lisa’s reply shocked him. She told him she was fine with it, that she was going to file for divorce. And she did. I was working for an Atlanta paper at the time and ran into Moose. He was crushed—really despondent. He truly loved that girl. So you see, it is a sad story.”
“Very sad indeed,” Scott responded, as both men reached for their glasses.
Bill took another long sip of beer. “It was by chance that we arrived in Savannah within months of each other. I took a job with the South Georgia Times, and Moose went to the DA’s office. That was over fifteen years ago. We see each other often because we live in the same apartment complex. He still has that sad look, though. As far as I know, he hasn’t had a relationship with a woman since. In fact, it appears he hasn’t had any social relationship with anyone at all.”
“He seems to keep pretty much to himself at the DA’s office, too. We’ve had several office parties since I’ve been there, and he wasn’t at any of them.”
“Yeah, still carrying the torch for Lisa, self-exiled to eternal loneliness. Like I said, a sad story. But enough of that—let me change the subject. Since I have you here, I was wondering if I could get a copy of the transcript of the Harrison trial?”
“The first trial?”
“No, yesterday’s.”
“That was an acquittal. We don’t make transcripts of acquittals. No reason to; it’s over.”
“You know it’s not over, Scott. You guys are going to charge perjury, and you’ll need the transcript.”
This was the first time Scott had heard any news source suggest that either of the two witnesses committed perjury. He recalled Nick’s caution to not reveal any plans to investigate the perjured testimony. If they were going to nail Gordon, the evidence would likely result from some mistake Patel or Johnson would make, and if they knew they were being investigated, mistakes wouldn’t happen.
“We’re going to charge perjury? Where did you hear that?”
“I was at both trials. I heard the testimony of both Patel and Johnson. You’ll charge perjury.”
“Tell me why you think they committed perjury.”
Bill qui
ckly listed many of the same reasons Nick and Scott had considered, then said again, more forcefully, “You’ll charge perjury.”
“If we do charge perjury, Bill, I promise you’ll be informed as soon as the ink dries. Now I want you to promise that you will not mention this in your paper, or elsewhere. You may assume we’ve considered the same compelling evidence that you have. But if you reveal or even suggest perjury in your paper, you will be giving a warning to the lying bastards, which could compromise any investigation. So far the media has attributed the acquittal to our lack of evidence and not to lying witnesses. Please leave it at that.”
Bill remained silent for a moment, then picked up his beer glass and drained it. He put the glass down and looked pensively at it for a good thirty seconds.
“I agree, Scott. But as soon as you file those perjury charges, I want a copy of the transcript.”
“I’m not sure I can do that, but I’ll check. And if I can, I will. I promise.”
“That’s all I ask.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was after 6:00 p.m. when Scott got back to his office. On his desk was a trial notebook prepared by Jessica. A note on top read, “Stopped by a little after five to deliver this. It’s for the Cyris Jolly trial set for next Tuesday. Luke Schaub, Jolly’s defense counsel, called this afternoon to tell me they rejected our pretrial offer.”
Scott quickly leafed through the sections: Motions; Jury Questions; Opening; Direct Exam; Cross Exam; Closing—all there. He would read through it and go over it with Jessica later in the week. But right now he had pressing work to do on his own cases. It would be late when he got back to his apartment.
He was preparing an outline of his closing argument for Thursday’s trial when his cell phone rang. He expected it to be from Jennifer. It wasn’t.
“Well, hello, Jessica, what’s up?”
“I stopped by your office a little after five today. You weren’t in, but I left my trial notebook for Tuesday’s trial. Did you get it?”
The Indictments Page 10
