The Indictments

by William Eleazer

  “And you’re worried that Moose is going to be upset when he hears about it?”

  “Not really. That’s his problem. I made the right call.”

  “And you made a nice argument to Judge Vesely. But I wondered why you just didn’t dismiss it outright yourself instead of having the court dismiss it.”

  “Frankly, Bill, I’m not sure I have that authority, and besides, I wanted the grounds for dismissal stated on the record. They are there now, for Moose to see—and anyone else who may be interested, including the grand jury members who indicted him. I tried to emphasize that they weren’t at fault for this mistake. I just regret that I couldn’t convince Moose. He apparently didn’t do any case research—left it up to a student intern. I think she compounded the problem by assuring him that it was supported by case law.”

  “Would that happen to be the young lady he was with at Nick’s party?”

  “Yes, Jessica Valdez, a senior intern from Miami.”

  “They seem to be quite close. He tells me she’s the best thing that’s happened to him since his divorce—in fact, this is the only relationship he’s had since his divorce. I saw her leaving our apartment complex with Moose last weekend. Is that kind of relationship, attorney-intern, allowed in the DA’s office?”

  “Allowed? I haven’t seen anything that says it’s ‘allowed’ or ‘disallowed.’”

  “Seems it could result in difficulties if it turned bad. I’d hate to see Moose hurt again. Just hope he can see this clearly—no surprises. One thing that I’ve noticed that I do like—he’s happy, and I’ve seen a big change. He takes pride in his appearance, updated his wardrobe, works out in the apartment fitness center, even shines his car—I never saw him do that, ever. He seems to finally be getting his life back.” Bill paused for a moment.

  “But I didn’t ask for your time to discuss Moose and his new love. What I want is an update on the Harrison perjury investigation. You asked me not to write anything even suggesting that you guys suspected perjury by those witnesses. And I haven’t. But you also promised to keep me up to date. That was over a month ago, and you’ve given me exactly nothing. Come on, Scott, what’s going on with that investigation?”

  “Honestly, Bill, I’m holding nothing from you. I simply don’t know any details. The GBI has the case. I do know they are shorthanded, but they can trace big bank transfers without leaving their office. They seem to think that in the first few months the witnesses will be laying low. After a few months, they will be more open and prone to make mistakes, and that’s when the GBI will start their active surveillance. At least that’s what I’m expecting. But really, Bill, I don’t have any more than that.”

  “OK, Scott. Next question. What’s going on in the Toussaint’s murder case? Majewski’s not talking. Everyone in the department is tight lipped. I can’t find out if they even have a lead. Our newspaper gets calls every day wondering why we aren’t reporting more. That’s the big one in Savannah now, and we’ve got nothing.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll be reporting the fiasco with the felony murder indictment. At least that’s in the open. And feel free to put in the reasons the DA’s office dropped the charges.”

  “DA’s office? Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  “Well, you were there. I don’t care, write what you saw.”

  “You know what I saw, Scott? I saw a man who thought he had already lost everything in life lose a little more.”

  Scott frowned. “What man?”

  “Daniel Voss. I interviewed his neighbors. He was the kindest, most considerate, helpful neighbor—they all said it. Not a single bad word against that man in a dozen interviews—the same feeling about his wife, and the son and daughter they lost. Said they were a family first to lend a hand to anyone in need. Sat right next to him as you called for the dismissal of that charge against Donaway. Know what he said to me?”

  “What?”

  “He said that you promised to get the man who caused this. He said he recalled your exact words: ‘We will get the man who did this.’”

  “He’s right. I said that. And I believe we will.”

  “In his mind, you had the man who caused it right there in the courtroom. And you let him go. Not only did you not object to his going free, but you argued that he should go free. Voss was crying, Scott. I handed him my handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and looked straight into mine. ‘If he had just not moved, Angela would still be here. Oh, Angela,’ he said, just above a whisper. His words keep running through my mind. He seemed to be shaking. I hoped a bailiff would see his discomfort and come over, but they were all up front. I reached around and gave him sort of a hug. Don’t recall ever doing that to a man. Maybe it helped—he quit shaking. Then it was all over, and he left.”

  “Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” said Scott. “What an ordeal for that man. I saw him in the courtroom when I came in. I didn’t think about how my argument would affect him. But what choice did I have, Bill? That was not a proper charge—it had to be dismissed. Maybe I could have handled it better. I don’t know.”

  “At least he heard your reasons for your action, and I expect when he can sort things out a bit, he’ll see why you had to do it. He’s been through so much lately—it will take a while. But the important thing now is to find the real killer. I’ve got to run, Scott. If you hear anything from Majewski that you can pass along, give me a call.”

  ****

  About 4:00 p.m., Scott had a visit from Moose Mosley.

  “I called in Bill Anderson a few minutes ago to give me a report on the arraignments today in Judge Vesely’s courtroom. Hope you don’t mind that I have a seat. I think we need to talk.” Moose helped himself to a nearby chair.

  So, here it comes, thought Scott. Sooner or later this discussion was going to happen, so rage on, Moose. But what’s done is done.

  “Bill tells me Donaway was there with his attorney, Charles Samarkos, and Samarkos filed a motion to dismiss, scheduled to be heard this morning.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That was the first I had heard of a motion to dismiss.”

  “Well, Moose, I could have run it by you, but I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered with every motion made by every criminal defense attorney in Chatham County. Besides, you recall we had an agreement—I would research it, and if I found it to be an appropriate charge, I would take it to trial, and if not, it would be dismissed. It wasn’t a good charge, Moose, so I didn’t oppose the motion.”

  “Bill says not only did you not oppose the motion, you were the first to speak. Samarkos did not even present an argument.”

  “True, he didn’t present oral argument, but he filed a very good brief. I spoke up to save the court’s time. And I felt our position should be stated on the record before Judge Vesely dismissed that charge.”

  “Bill tells me you made a very brief, but persuasive argument, mentioning just a couple of cases, Scott and Ford.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Bill also told me that he believed you were correct in dismissing the felony murder charge, which surprised me, so I decided to take a look myself. I had read the Scott case, but not Ford. So I read it, and by damn, you are correct. I shouldn’t have taken that to the grand jury—and shouldn’t rely on an intern to do my research. I made a mistake on this one, and I’m glad you took care of it. Thanks. I’ll brief the DA when he gets back and take my lumps.”

  Scott had braced himself for what was sure to be an old-fashioned ass chewing. He really hadn’t expected to be fired—he was sure the DA would have fully supported him and his decision when he arrived back in Savannah. But he expected the working relationship to be strained to the limit. This confession of error was astonishing, showing a side of Moose that Scott was pleased to see. Scott paused a long moment before replying, trying to think of something to shift the focus from Moose’s acknowledged error.

  “We still have the other felony charge against Donaway. He entered a ‘not guilty’ plea, bu
t I’m confident he’ll plead if he gets a pretrial he can live with. Frankly, Moose, I don’t have a clue what’s appropriate in this case. No prior convictions, and the failure to file the registration papers with the ATF was apparently an oversight. But we don’t have to prove criminal intent. I believe his carelessness or lack of knowledge—whatever—is no defense. However, there are no cases in Georgia on similar facts as this one. I’ll need some advice on what we should offer in the way of a plea agreement.”

  Moose looked away, his head high and eyes closed as if searching for a response. Finally he answered.

  “I really don’t know, Scott. I’ll have to get back with you on this. And this time, I’ll do my own research.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  October 26, 2007

  It was a few minutes before midnight when Scott pulled into his parking spot at his apartment complex. He and Jennifer had spent the evening together—dinner and a movie, The Bourne Ultimatum with Matt Damon, who Jennifer teasingly claimed to be Scott’s only real rival. It had been a fun evening, and Scott was looking forward to the two-day visit in Hilton Head to complete what promised to be a wonderful weekend.

  One of the things Scott especially appreciated about his apartment complex was that every tenant had a reserved parking space, complete with name sign, and that there was ample visitor parking. He noted that, like many other Friday nights, a lot of the spaces were empty. Most of the residents in the apartment building were young singles, and most were still out celebrating the end of another workweek. Only one vehicle, an older model, light gray Chevrolet Impala, was in a visitor’s space just a few yards away. It had been backed into the space and the trunk lid was up. It wasn’t something Scott would pay much attention to during the day, but it was strange at midnight. There were no lights in the parking lot near his car, and even with the glow of a full moon, he could not see if anyone was in the vehicle.

  As soon as he stepped out of his car and shut the door, Scott felt a hard object in the center of his back.

  “Don’t move or I’ll put a bullet through your backbone,” came a voice directly behind him.

  A vision of his shattered spine flashed through Scott’s head. He froze but did not panic.

  “This way.” A heavy hand guided his shoulder, and what he now knew to be the muzzle of a pistol, was still firmly at his back. Within seconds he was standing in the rear of the open trunk. The vision of his shattered spine followed him with each step, and in another moment, he was inside the trunk with the lid closed.

  Now he did panic. It had happened so quickly—one moment he was looking forward to a quiet weekend with Jennifer and her family, and the next moment he is lying helplessly in the dark trunk of a car. How could this have happened, and why? If it was a robbery, the man could have taken his wallet and car keys so easily. Scott knew it was more sinister and, likely, more deadly. Someone out to kill for the pure pleasure of killing.

  He heard the car start. Maybe, just maybe, someone could hear him if he screamed. And he did. His call for help roared throughout the trunk compartment, but it reached the ears of no one save his abductor. He thought of Jennifer and the instructions he had given her should she ever be accosted. Never, he had instructed her on several occasions, never get into a vehicle without a fight, even at gunpoint. Once you are in the vehicle, chances of surviving are slim. You must run, run, run—he may not shoot, and if he shoots he may not hit, and the gunfire may bring help. Even if he hits, you have a better chance of survival than if you get into the vehicle. And should he catch you, fight, fight, fight. Time is on your side, not his. Your would-be-abductor will not fight for long and help may come soon.

  And I did absolutely none of it, Scott thought. How could I have submitted without a fight? And now I’m spending the last night of my life cramped in a car trunk on my way to some dumpsite in the salt water marshes. His panic was making it difficult for him to think of anything except how he would eventually be killed. Quickly or slowly? A bullet to the head, or just left to die slowly in the trunk of an abandoned car?

  When the car first turned out of the parking lot, Scott knew from the effect on his body that it was going west. But after several more turns, he could no longer tell the vehicle’s direction. He could feel that they were still on a paved road. The ride was smooth, and while he was uncertain of the speed, it seemed to be moderate. He could hear traffic along the way, so he knew he was not yet on that inevitable rough dirt road.

  If I just had my cellphone, he thought, but he knew it was still sitting on the console in his car. Then something he had once read came to him—a similar situation where a man imprisoned in a car trunk found the receptacle for the brake lights and removed the bulbs. Eventually the car was stopped by a state patrol car for the missing brake lights and he was rescued. It was a long shot at best, and Scott’s efforts in finding and removing the bulb, perhaps hindered by his panicked state, were unsuccessful.

  Soon Scott’s terror began to affect his breathing, which was becoming more rapid and shallow as the minutes passed. How long had it been? He had no idea. He was no longer capable of measuring time.

  He tried to pray. From early childhood his mother had impressed its value on him, but Scott had allowed the practice to lapse. Now, when he needed it most, he felt inept. In his panic, the right words—or what he thought should be the right words—simply would not come.

  Think, think, he said to himself. Don’t go like this, Scott. Fight. It was such an empty slogan. Fight whom? How? When? But at least he was coming to terms with his situation. He would indeed fight. If his abductor was planning to kill him—and surely he was—he would have to raise the lid. And when he did, Scott would burst out and run or fight, as he should have earlier.

  Eventually the vehicle slowed, turned, and continued until the road surface changed abruptly. Apparently he was now on a dirt road. The vehicle continued slowly, and finally it stopped.

  So this was it. He would be ready. Scott pulled his knees under his body, his back against the trunk lid. He listened as the engine was turned off, and he heard a door open. He could not hear the man walking to the rear, but he knew he was. But maybe the man would not open the trunk and instead was abandoning him to die from suffocation, or from heat as the sun baked the car the following day.

  Scott waited, listening for any sound. Just as he was beginning to lose hope, he heard the key in the trunk lock. It was turned, and he heard a click. He knew from the release of pressure at his back that the trunk was swinging free. He put his left hand on the lid, pushing upward, and his right hand on the floor to give him leverage to quickly spring out, feet forward.

  As soon as the lid went up, however, it was slammed down again with a tremendous force, overcoming Scott’s resistance. Once again Scott was lying helplessly in the trunk. It was a moonlit night, and although he did not get a view of his abductor, he did see where they had stopped. It was a cemetery. In that second’s glance, he had seen row upon row of white headstones glistening in the light of the full moon. Eerie, foreboding—an obvious message.

  Scott listened for a door to open or for the engine to start, but he heard nothing. Perhaps he was being abandoned here, but he did not expect such luck. A large cemetery like the one he had just seen would likely have workers or visitors when daylight returned, giving him a better chance to be rescued. But long minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Scott heard nothing.

  Then, perhaps twenty minutes after his aborted escape, he heard the car door open and close, and the engine start. The vehicle moved slowly down the dirt road until it reached a hard surface. Now they were traveling much faster—a sign, Scott believed, to mean his ultimate fate was mere moments away. His thoughts turned to Jennifer and what could have been.

  The ride continued for what seemed another twenty minutes, with occasional stops and turns to indicate they were on a city street. Then there was a slowing, almost to a stop, and a sharp turn followed by a full stop. Then the engine was turned off, and a d
oor opened and shut. Scott tensed. He expected the trunk lid to open momentarily, but he did not brace himself to escape. He was too mentally fatigued and physically exhausted to make another attempt. All his former energy had left him. He waited.

  When the truck lid was fully opened, he saw a large man with a gun in his hand standing about two feet from the car. Scott sat up but remained in the trunk. He saw that he was back in the parking lot at his apartment complex. Scott immediately recognized the man with the gun. His red, moist eyes were illuminated by the bright full moon. It was Daniel Voss.

  “I just wanted you to visit Angela with me,” he said. “When you let that man who caused her death go free yesterday, I just couldn’t believe you would do that. You promised me … I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and I couldn’t sleep. I thought the trip tonight would help. Maybe it did. I know this—where I’m going can’t be more painful than where I’ve been.” With that he threw the pistol into some nearby thick shrubbery.

  “My fingerprints will be on it. You know what to do. If you can dismiss charges so easy, I know you can write them.”

  He turned and walked to the driver’s door, opened it, and got in. Scott scrambled out of the trunk and hurried to his apartment building. From the shadows there, he watched the gray Chevy turn slowly out of the parking lot. The trunk lid was still up.

  Scott was shaking as he fumbled with his keys to open the door to his apartment. His mouth was dry and he was thirsty. Once inside, he poured some cold water into a glass and sat on his sofa, contemplating what he should do next. He thought of calling 911, but what was the emergency now? Perhaps it would be better to call the police on the non-emergency number. It was in the phone book somewhere. But right now he just wanted to hear Jennifer’s voice. He dialed her number. On the fourth ring she answered.