The Indictments

by William Eleazer

  The DA narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Scott, it’s not that I don’t have confidence in you. I do. I’ve spoken with several judges about your capability, and I’m very pleased with what I’ve heard. But you expect me to ask a fifteen-year-veteran prosecutor to sit second chair to someone with less than two years’ experience in a case as important as this one? I need a smooth working team on this case—one of the most important ones we’ve had in years. And from what you explained, one woefully short on evidence.” The DA shook his head. “I’m sorry Scott, I just can’t chance it.”

  “I understand that you need a smooth working team. How about assigning Daniel Mackay? He’s experienced, and we work well together. He was second chair last year in the first Harrison trial and did not object.”

  “Daniel?” The DA thought for a moment. “I’ll consider it, but I won’t make any promises. Thanks for your report.” He turned to Moose, who was standing by the doorway. “Moose, would you stick around for a few minutes?”

  ****

  Midafternoon, Scott received a phone call from Moose. He had been expecting the call, as he was sure the DA and Moose had discussed assigning Mackay to the case. He hoped it was good news.

  “The DA insists,” Moose said, “that I assign one of my most experienced prosecutors on this—and one experienced in capital cases. Mackay doesn’t qualify. I’m assigning the case to Joe Fasi, who has prosecuted three dozen or more capital cases and has several defendants now on death row. He’s also our next senior felony prosecutor. And he agreed to keep you on—very pleased to have you, actually—and says perhaps he can give you an active role in part of the trial.”

  It was a bittersweet phone call. It hurt to lose the lead on the Toussaint’s case, but at least he would still be involved. And as he reflected on it, it was a smart move by the DA. This was going to be a tough, closely watched case, requiring an experienced prosecutor—not someone who just happened to be the duty DA on the night of the murder. Joe Fasi had a reputation as a smart, tough prosecutor. This could be a very valuable experience. And it could have been much worse—Moose could have decided to take the case himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  November 30, 2007

  Bill Baldwin called Scott Friday morning. They had not spoken since the brief call Wednesday night when Scott alerted him that Harrison had been arrested.

  “Sorry to be so late in getting back to you, but your last phone call kept me busy—which is why I’m calling. I’m ready to make good on my promise to treat again at Churchill’s. How about tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m taking Jennifer out tonight. Exams start next week, and beginning tomorrow, she’ll be studying twenty-four-seven. This will be our last night together for a while. How about next week?”

  “We don’t have to make an evening of it—actually I wanted to talk about Moose.”

  “About Moose? What about him?”

  “Let’s talk over a cold beer. We can meet early, say at five—and you can still take Jennifer out.”

  “OK, I can do that. See you at five.”

  Scott hung up and began to think about what Bill had said. His thoughts turned to concern. Haven’t seen Moose today. I hope he’s OK.

  ****

  Bill was sitting at the bar when Scott arrived. He left his empty glass on the bar and motioned for Scott to join him at a far table. A waitress followed, and almost immediately two cold drafts appeared in front of them.

  “They always treat you like you’re part of the family, Bill.”

  “I am. All part of my business plan—me and the waitresses, we all survive on tips. And thanks again for yours.”

  “I should congratulate you on the well-written article in yesterday’s paper. Always surprises me when a reporter gets it right.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “You decide. Now, tell me about Moose. What’s up?”

  “Honestly? I’m worried about him. How’s he been doing, taking over from Nick Cox?”

  “I think it was a bit rough at first, but he’s growing into it. I think he has the respect of the felony section. He and the DA seem to be getting along fine. I was in a meeting with them yesterday morning, and I think the DA has full confidence in him. Why the questions?”

  “Last night I saw him at the apartment complex where we live. He looked awful. I asked what was wrong, and he confided that he had spoken with Jessica that afternoon, and she told him she had other plans for the Christmas holidays. You know how he had been looking forward to that. He said she wouldn’t explain why, or what she would be doing. They were at the DA’s office when she told him, and now she won’t return his calls. I asked him to go with me to get a bite, but he refused. He seemed devastated. And then this morning, I saw his car still in the parking lot at nine. Was he at work today?”

  “I don’t know, but I didn’t see him.”

  “I’m worried, Scott. I’ve seen him depressed before, and I hope that’s not coming again. What do you know about Jessica?”

  “Well, she was my intern for a couple of weeks. I supervised her for one trial—thought she did well. But then she asked for a new supervisor. Said she had a personal conflict with me. I don’t think she ever explained that to anyone, but that’s how she became Moose’s intern. He’s really been too busy to supervise her in any additional trials, so I think he had her mostly as a research assistant. He said she did the research on the felony murder charge against Donaway, which may make you think she’s a flake, but she’s pretty smart. Her dad’s a very successful attorney in Miami, and he takes good care of her. She drives an SL550 convertible and has her own apartment.”

  “I hadn’t heard about the car, but Moose told me about the apartment. All white—everything.”

  Scott took a thoughtful sip of his beer. “Really?”

  “According to Moose, the carpet, the sofa, all the tables, even flowers—all white. The only thing in it that’s not is the wall-mounted TV.”

  “Sounds like a neat apartment,” Scott said. “Would be a nice place to spend some time.” He smiled.

  “Moose apparently thought so. He was there often,” Bill said. “He loves that girl. I hope they haven’t broken up for good. I’m not sure he could take a second failure.”

  “Oh, he’s a big strong guy. He’ll get over it and be better for the experience.”

  “Hope you’re right.” Bill picked up his glass, took a long sip from it and put it down. “Now, tell me, what’s new in the Harrison case?” he asked.

  “Ah, so this isn’t just friendly concern over Moose?” Scott teased. “I should have known. Well, I haven’t talked to Majewski today, so you know as much as I know.”

  “Have they located the gun?”

  “Off the record, Majewski told me they tore the house up and didn’t find it. Found a stash of letters he wrote from prison. They wanted to take them, but the warrant didn’t authorize that. I’m not sure what they could’ve revealed—possibly some admission of the Fast Eddie’s robbery, but I doubt it. Might give some insight into his mindset and character, however. Any reaction to your article—phone calls, email?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Most want to know more about the voice ID lineup procedure, especially where you got the sample of Harrison’s voice. Care to explain how that came down?”

  “OK, I can give you some background. But none of this for attribution.” Bill nodded, and Scott gave him a quick explanation of the procedures used to identify Harrison’s voice, where and how they obtained the “fillers,” and which witnesses participated. He did not mention the specific results nor did he mention where or how they obtained Harrison’s voice. At last, Scott checked his watch.

  “This is fun, Bill, but I have a date with the most beautiful girl in Savannah. Keep me informed about Moose, though. I didn’t really know him a couple months ago, but I have to admit, he’s grown on me. I hope he can just shake off that girl and forget about her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

&nb
sp; December 1, 2007

  It was Saturday afternoon during the fourth quarter of the SEC Championship between LSU and Tennessee when Scott’s cell phone rang. Tennessee was leading, 14-13, and he wasn’t anxious to answer. He knew the call wasn’t from Jennifer–—they had spoken before the game, and she was heading over to a friend’s apartment to study. Reluctantly, he turned the sound down and answered.

  “Scott, it’s Bill. I know you are probably watching the game, but something has come up and I wanted to let you know. It’s about Moose.”

  “It’s OK, Bill. What is it?”

  “I just got home from the office and found a recently shined saxophone leaning against my door with a note from Moose. Said he didn’t need it anymore, and he wanted me to have it or to give it a good home if I didn’t want to keep it. I went to his apartment and knocked, but there was no answer. Came back and phoned every five minutes. Finally he picked up. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t talk. Said he was too tired. I’m concerned, Scott. He’s really low. How about giving him a call? Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

  “If you think that will help, Bill. Sure. I have his number.”

  Scott hung up and immediately made the call. As the phone rang, he turned the TV off—he did not want to be distracted. Yet, he had no idea what he would or should say. The call went to voicemail. “This is Moose. Please leave a message.” Scott redialed, and again, the recorded voice. Scott continued to redial, hoping the annoyance would eventually make Moose pickup. It worked.

  “Hello,” came a slow, dull voice, hardly recognizable.

  “Hey, Moose, it’s Scott. I’m just checking in. Didn’t see you yesterday. You sound like you have a cold. Are you OK?”

  “Yes, OK,” or at least that’s what Scott thought he heard. The voice was slurred.

  Scott thought hard for a follow-up question. “I’d like to discuss something that’s come up in the Harrison case. Mind if I come over now?” Of course, nothing had come up, but if Moose agreed, Scott would think of something.

  “Not now, Scott. Maybe tomorrow.” Again the speech was slurred. It was obvious that Moose had been drinking.

  “How about noon tomorrow, Moose? Is that OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Maybe we can go to lunch.”

  “OK,” again, a single word reply.

  “Then I’ll see you at noon, Moose.” They hung up.

  Scott called Bill with the results of his phone call.

  “He’s been drinking pretty heavily,” said Scott. “He’ll have to sleep it off. I’ll stop by tomorrow noon and take him to lunch. Probably hasn’t had a decent meal in a couple of days.”

  “I’m sure you are right on that. I don’t think his car has moved since Thursday. I won’t call him again tonight—hopefully he’ll just sleep it off.”

  Scott flipped the TV on again. The game had just ended. LSU had scored a touchdown to go ahead, 21-14, to win the 2007 SEC Championship. Scott had missed all the excitement of the fourth quarter, but right now, that did not seem important.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  December 2, 2007

  Scott was well into his Sunday morning ritual, enjoying the sports section and a freshly brewed cup of coffee, when his phone rang. It was Bill Baldwin.

  “Scott, Moose just knocked at my door and handed me a key to his apartment. He said if anything ever happened to him, I could have anything in it I wanted, and everything else—just have the Salvation Army haul it away. His eyes were red, and he looked like a complete mess, Scott. He wasn’t drunk, but I could smell alcohol on him.”

  “Oh, man, that’s not good. What did you say?”

  “I said, (Come on in, Moose, let’s talk,’ but he said ‘no,’ he was going jogging.”

  “Jogging? Does he go jogging?”

  “Well, he had on a sweat suit like I’ve seen him wear in our little gym, but I’ve never seen him jogging or heard him even talk about jogging. He runs on the gym treadmill. I don’t believe he’s going jogging. Let me get to my window—I’ll be able to see if he’s leaving the gate.” Bill paused a moment. “I don’t see him … oh, yes I do! He’s getting in his car. Scott, I don’t like this. I’m going to follow him.” Bill quickly hung up.

  Scott put his coffee down and picked up his cell phone. He was already dressed, and his keys were in his pocket. He would head in the direction of Bill’s apartment complex—less than a ten-minute drive—and try to reach Bill on the phone.

  As soon as he had turned out of the parking lot onto the street, he placed the call, and Bill answered.

  “I’m behind him, staying back a half-block or so. He’s not driving fast. Heading west,” Bill said.

  “I’m in my car,” Scott said. “I’ve got you on the speaker phone. Keep me posted.”

  “OK.”

  Scott continued to drive toward the apartment complex. Soon he got an update from Bill. “We’re heading north on Montgomery.” Then there were a couple minutes of silence and another report. “He just turned left onto West Oglethorpe … now he’s going a bit faster … he’s on the connector … Scott, he’s heading north for US 17, and he’s slowing again.”

  Each time Bill gave an update on his location, Scott maneuvered in that direction. And Scott was traveling faster, so now he was within a minute or less of Bill.

  Bill had closed to a few car lengths behind Moose. Traffic was very light. Moose was in the right hand lane as he pulled onto Talmadge Memorial Bridge, which spans the Savannah River with four lanes, two in each direction. Moose cut his speed further and was now traveling about fifteen miles an hour. Bill could see him turning his head as if surveying the right side of the bridge and the heavy steel cabling that supported it from two tall towers anchored on each side of the river. He passed the first tower, then he continued at the same low speed until he reached the center of the bridge, close to where the last cable coming down from the top of that tower connects to the bridge. Moose stopped in the narrow emergency lane, opened his door, and within seconds had hopped up on the concrete ledge. He stood and observed the river, some 185 feet below.

  Bill stopped behind Moose’s car and turned on his emergency lights. He looked back and saw Scott pulling up behind him. As they began to get out of their vehicles, Bill held up a hand to Scott, signaling him to remain where he was.

  Slowly Bill approached Moose, who was standing on the ledge and resting one hand on a suspension cable. Moose turned and saw Bill approaching.

  “Bill, I’m OK. I’ll be alright—this is something I think I need to do.”

  “Moose, I know you’re upset. How about we just talk?” Bill inched closer as he spoke. He was now perhaps thirty feet from Moose.

  “Bill, please stay there. I need to think. Don’t make me decide too fast.”

  That was all the warning Bill needed to back off. “Of course not, Moose. I just want you to know we’re here for you. It’s going to be OK. Take your time. I’ll be over by the car. Scott’s here. Let’s all go get a bite to eat.”

  Moose did not respond. He stepped on one of the support cables, and with his hands on a higher one, he seemed to be trying to walk up the inclined cable. The cables, with one end anchored to the bridge, rose at various angles to the top of the tall concrete tower that supported them. Moose was standing on a cable that projected upward at a thirty-five degree angle from the bridge. Bill watched as Moose managed to move about two feet up the incline.

  “Moose,” called Bill, “I promise not to bother you, but please, keep off the cables.”

  “I really think this is best for everybody, Bill.”

  “Not for me, Moose. Believe me. Let’s go talk about it.”

  “Let me just think.”

  “OK, you think, and let me go talk to Scott. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Bill walked back to Scott’s car. Scott had heard the entire conversation and thought of calling 911, but was not sure that was the thing to do at that time. But Bill did.

  “Scott, Moose
needs help but so do we. This situation calls for someone with experience.”

  Scott dialed 911. “There is a man on Talmadge Memorial Bridge who’s suicidal—northbound lane, center of the bridge.” Scott gave his name, stated that he was a friend, and that there were three vehicles stopped in the emergency lane near the man. “Please, no blue lights.”

  Two Metro Police patrol cars were the first to arrive. They pulled up quietly with no flashing lights. An officer got out and approached Scott and Bill. Moose was still standing on a cable and holding onto a higher cable.

  “The 911 operator called for a crisis intervention team,” he said, “and it’s on the way.” He turned and observed Moose. “How about one of you just try to talk to him until they get here.”

  Bill looked at Scott. “I’m drained and nervous, Scott. I don’t think I can do it. Can you?”

  “I’ll try,” replied Scott.

  Scott walked toward Moose, who seemed to have moved up another foot, his hands still clinging to a higher cable. Scott stopped where Bill had been. “Moose, I thought we were going to lunch today at noon. I’m still hungry, and we can still make it. How about it? I know a nice place over in Hardeeville.” Even as Scott was speaking, he realized how vacuous this conversation was. Moose needed something to allay the cause of his pain, not a meal in some dingy roadside restaurant in Hardeeville.

  “I just want to think,” Moose said slowly. “This is a great view.”

  “I agree, Moose. The river is beautiful. And busy. Lots of boats zipping around down there, even on Sunday morning.”

  “Is it Sunday?”

  “Yes, Sunday,” said Scott.

  “I think that makes my decision a lot easier. Sunday is God’s special day.”

  His voice was calm and stolid, but the response heightened Scott’s anxiety. Maybe he should start asking Moose questions, something to get his mind off the decision he was trying to make.