“Moose, any chance you would teach me to play the saxophone? I’d like to try.” Scott knew it seemed senseless, but he was doing the best he could, and his stomach was churning as he spoke, silently willing Moose to respond. “I never had music lessons of any kind, but I always wanted to try—piano, guitar, something—never had a chance as a kid. But I always liked the sound of the saxophone. How about it, Moose?”
“Don’t have time now, Scott.”
Wrong response, thought Scott. Where is that intervention team?
“Moose, that was some performance you gave on the piano at Nick’s party. Jennifer still talks about it,” said Scott.
“Jennifer?”
“Jennifer Stone, my girlfriend.”
Moose did not respond, but instead, attempted to take another step up the inclined cable. Scott quickly realized that, for this situation, bringing his “girlfriend” into the conversation was a poor choice. And just where was that crisis team?
Scott turned and saw Bill in a conversation with a man and woman who had just arrived. He also noted a number of additional police cars parked in the lanes behind his car. Both lanes of northbound traffic had been stopped, although the traffic remained flowing southbound into Savannah.
The man and woman walked toward Scott and quickly introduced themselves as Bobbi Sambridge and partner, Keith Martin, from the Metro Police Crisis Intervention Team. Sambridge said that they had just been briefed by Baldwin. They understood the man’s name was Moose Mosley, that he was an attorney with the local DA’s office, and was despondent over a romantic relationship that had ended abruptly without explanation.
“That’s essentially it,” said Scott. “We’ve followed him out here and have been with him since.”
“It’s good you were here. Now, give us a few minutes with him,” said Martin. “We’ve had pretty good success in these situations. Most suicidal people desperately want to live—they just can’t see any end to their present misery. We can help them see a way out. Stay over by that car. We may need you.” He pointed to Moose’s car, about twenty feet away.
Scott did as directed and watched as the team walked slowly toward Moose. Eventually he could hear them speaking softly to Moose, and he appeared to be responding. The quiet conversation continued for several minutes, then Sambridge turned and walked over to Scott.
“Do you know a lady by the name of ‘Jessica’?”
“I do. They’ve been in a close relationship over the past couple of months. She invited him to go home with her over the Christmas holidays, but she called it off Thursday.”
“That’s good to know. We need her out here—now. If we can just get him down from those cables, we can probably save him. But right now, he’s pretty desperate, and it won’t take much to set him off. If we try to remove him forcibly, we may lose him—and whoever tries to do it. Do you think you can get Jessica out here—ASAP?”
“I’ll sure try. I have her number,” he said, running toward his car to make the call.
Jessica answered on the second ring.
“Jessica, it’s Scott Marino. I’ve got to make this quick. I’m out on Talmadge Memorial Bridge. It’s Moose, and he’s suicidal. There’s a crisis intervention team talking to him now, and they need you out here right away.”
There was a long pause before Jessica sighed into the phone. “Uh, wow, Scott. I haven’t even had breakfast, and I’ve got a bunch of things to do today.” She paused again.
“Jessica—”
“Scott, they don’t need me,” she said quickly. “Moose and I’ve broken up, or whatever you want to call it. I couldn’t help.”
“You can, Jessica. He’s despondent, thinking about jumping. We just need to get him down from the cables. We need you out here now.”
“Scott, we both know that if he had wanted to commit suicide, he would’ve just done it. It’s all show, maybe to embarrass me. I don’t want to be part of it. I’ve got exams coming up, and I don’t need this kind of distraction.”
Scott could feel the steam building as he listened to this callous, self-absorbed manipulator. He was likely to pop his carotid artery if he continued this conversation, and he owed it to Moose to remain calm.
“Hold on a minute, Jessica.”
He waved toward the crisis team and got the attention of Sambridge. She hurried over to Scott.
“I have Jessica on the phone. She doesn’t feel her presence is needed.”
Sambridge took the phone. “Jessica, this is Bobbi Sambridge of the Metro Police Crisis Intervention Team. This is real. This man may take his life, and I believe you can prevent it. In fact, you may be the only person who can prevent it. If we can just get him down from the cables and into professional care, he would be easily treated. This is a situational despondency. It would eventually pass, but right now it’s critical. We need you down here as soon as you can get here.”
“All right, all right! I’ll come!” said Jessica.
“The northbound approach to the bridge is cordoned off, but we’ll have a police escort at MLK Jr. Boulevard and West Oglethorpe to escort you here,” said Sambridge. “You know that intersection?”
“Yes,” replied Jessica.
“What vehicle will you be driving?”
“Mercedes SL550. Black convertible.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
“They’ll be waiting for you at the intersection. Thank you, Jessica.” They hung up.
Sambridge gave Scott a thumbs up, and said, “Fifteen to twenty minutes.” Then she called in the instructions necessary for Jessica’s escort.
Scott was relieved. Apparently Jessica was not completely void of empathy after all. He watched as the crisis team continued to engage Moose in conversation, but he could not hear it. In a few minutes, Bill came to where Scott was standing.
“What’s new?” Bill asked in a low voice.
“Jessica’s coming,” said Scott. He looked at his watch. “She should be here in fifteen to twenty minutes.” Scott did not mention Jessica’s reluctance; he was just relieved that she was on her way.
Bill waited with Scott. They watched as the police let cars in the northbound traffic pass in the left lane. They needed to clear it for Jessica and her police escort.
Time passed slowly. Fifteen minutes seemed like an hour. But still no Jessica. Twenty minutes after the phone call, Sambridge came back to confer with Scott.
“He’s exhausted, and very unstable. We’ve been trying to calm him, telling him Jessica was on her way to see him. I checked with the police escort; she hasn’t arrived. Can you please call and see where she is right now?” Sambridge had a very worried look.
Jessica answered on the third ring. “Jessica, where are you?”
“Home.”
“Jessica, the crisis team was expecting you to be here now!”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be part of his little blame game. He’ll come out or come down or whatever he’s supposed to do, with or without me. If he wanted to kill himself, he would have already done it. From what you said, nothing is stopping him.” She hung up. The phone’s speaker was on, and Sambridge heard the entire conversation.
“Oh, no,” she said. “We promised him. Call her back—she’s got to understand how important she is.”
Scott redialed. No answer. He redialed again. Sambridge conferred with her partner. Scott and Bill remained where they were, straining to hear the conversation between the crisis team and Moose, though they could hear very little. Then, in a louder voice, they heard Moose.
“I didn’t expect her to come. I’ve made my decision. Don’t worry about me. I’m ready now.”
The words were instantly chilling to both Scott and Bill. They knew what was to follow.
“We love you, Moose!” Bill shouted. Scott lowered his head. He did not want to watch.
CHAPTER FORTY
December 3, 2007
At noon Monday
, Moose’s office was dark, but the hallway outside was awash with flower arrangements, potted plants, and an array of cards taped to the door. The death of Moose, and the circumstances of his death, had stunned the office. There were many that morning simply going through the motions of their work with sad faces and teary eyes. The District Attorney called a meeting of the entire office at 1:00 p.m. in Courtroom H. He wanted the office to know that he shared their grief and to tell them of the tentative plans being made for the services. The funeral and burial would be in Valdosta with a memorial service to be held the following week in Savannah.
“But even with heavy hearts,” the DA added, “the business of the office must go on. I am appointing Joe Fasi as chief assistant and felony chief.”
He did not mention any of the details of the events on the bridge, and, of course, there was no need to do so. The incident had been widely reported on Savannah’s TV and radio stations since Sunday afternoon and had been covered thoroughly in the morning paper. Bill Baldwin was not the listed staff writer, but his role in the drama played prominently in the account. Scott’s name appeared only a couple of times. There was no mention of Jessica Valdez.
A close-up of the edge of the bridge and cables, which provided the platform for Moose’s leap, accompanied the article, along with a photo of the Chatham County Marine Patrol vessel that retrieved the body. The article reported that the medical examiner had not released any autopsy results, so it was unknown whether the death occurred from trauma or from drowning. The article concluded with a note that an investigation was continuing by the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department.
****
Midafternoon, Joe Fasi stopped by Scott’s office.
“Got a minute, Scott?”
“Sure, come in, have a seat.”
“Sad ending for a good man. You had a tough day yesterday. You OK?”
“I’m OK. I just wish I could have done something. I’m sure we missed a chance, but it was happening so fast. I’m still looking for something we could have done.”
“Don’t beat up on yourself. I’m sure you did all you could. Even a trained crisis team couldn’t stop it.” Fasi paused and looked carefully at Scott. “You look exhausted. Go home now, relax a while, have a good meal, and get a good night’s rest. It’ll do you good.”
“Thanks. Yes, I think I will take off a little early today.”
“And about the Harrison case. When Moose assigned it to me, he said you were to assist. He also said you had made a pitch to the DA to keep the case as lead prosecutor. Well, that’s OK with me. We’ll both be lead prosecutors. It really won’t make any difference unless we disagree on trial strategy, and that’s unlikely. It’s been your case from the start, so I want you to still think of it that way. And with my new assignment as chief assistant, I won’t have as much time as it deserves. We’ll try it together and divide up the work. I’m grateful to have you on it.”
****
Bill Baldwin had an appointment to meet with Detective Jim Brown at 4:00 p.m. Monday afternoon. Brown was the detective assigned to conduct the suicide investigation. There was no allegation of criminal activity, but in any suicide, an investigation was required. Brown was made aware of many of the events preceding the tragedy, including the fact that Moose had given Bill a key to his apartment Sunday morning. Brown wanted to check Moose’s apartment for a note, a routine procedure after a suicide.
Bill was waiting outside when Brown arrived, and they entered the apartment together.
“I’ve conducted a dozen or more attempted suicides and suicide investigations in my eighteen years with the department,” Brown said as they began their search. “We’ve found a suicide note in about half, and they’re always left out in the open—usually on a desk or table. One was taped to a refrigerator.”
Together they went silently from room to room. Moose’s apartment consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, large living room, and dining area. It was clean and orderly, and even Moose’s bed had been made. Nothing was out of place, and the empty bourbon bottles were placed neatly in a trash can in the kitchen.
“It’s not really unusual to find the home of a suicide victim so neat and organized,” said Brown. “Some apparently don’t give a damn and leave a mess, but others seem to worry about what people may think—want to leave a good impression, I guess. I had one case where a lady wrote her suicide note, called a cleaning service to come clean her house, and committed suicide as soon as they left.”
Brown took the lead as they made their way through the apartment. There was nothing on any of the side tables in the living room. The dining table held only a place mat. The kitchen counter was clean and paperless, and nothing was taped to the refrigerator. The top of his desk in the bedroom contained only a small card, originating in a florist’s shop. Printed on the card were two words: “Be Good.” And just underneath in blue ink, “But not too good!” followed by a lipstick imprint—a kiss—in a bright raspberry color.
It was a “suicide note” written long before the suicide—and perhaps the first ever written by someone else. Both Bill and Detective Brown read it, put it down, and moved on. How were they to know?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
December 17, 2007
At 8:50 a.m. Monday, Scott was sitting at the prosecution table in Courtroom G with his friend, Daniel Mackay, waiting for Judge Gail Feather, who would be presiding over the day’s arraignments. Mackay would be representing the state in all of the arraignments except for one: John Harrison. Scott was there for that, and it was scheduled first on the docket. The grand jury handed down the Harrison indictment the previous week, a multi-count indictment which included felony murder, attempted murder, armed robbery, aggravated assault, and aggravated battery. Additional charges could have been included, but Scott and his new boss, Joe Fasi, thought that should be sufficient.
“Looks like you’ll be making a career out of prosecuting Harrison,” said Daniel. “How’s the evidence shaping up?”
“Not as well as we would like,” admitted Scott. “Still haven’t found the pistol Harrison purchased. His attorney claims he left it in his unlocked car, and it was stolen the day after he bought it. I don’t believe a jury will buy that, but we still need that pistol. Forensics could tie it to him like a tattoo. Majewski and his team are still searching. I’m not optimistic—been too long. But he’ll have to take the stand to explain it away, and man, I lie awake at night smiling just thinking of having him on a witness stand. Our best witness on the voice recognition is Donaway, and he’s got a lot of baggage with that silencer charge.”
“What’s going on with that charge now?”
“Nothing. His attorney has asked for a delay in setting a trial date, and I’m not opposing it. I think I would rather have him take the witness stand in Harrison’s trial without a felony conviction, but either way, the defense is going to work him over on cross. If he hasn’t gone to trial, they’ll be arguing that he’s testifying to get a deal.”
“Have you offered him a deal?”
“Nope. Can’t determine what to offer. Here’s a guy with a clean record, a gun hobbyist and firing range junkie, who buys a silencer for hearing protection—I’m certain he had no criminal intent. Through some error or oversight, he doesn’t file the NFA papers. But it’s a five-year felony, and lack of knowledge or intent is still no defense. Got a plea suggestion?”
“Yeah, how about straight up?”
“I wish. But, let’s say he did plead straight up, no agreement. You’re the judge. Now, what’s your sentence, Judge Mackay?”
“No frickin’ idea—that’s why I’m destined to labor in the pit and never make it to the bench.”
“And I have no idea either, and that’s why that case isn’t going anywhere until I get Harrison to trial.”
Promptly at 9:00, Judge Feather took her seat on the bench, and the court was called to order. Harrison, cuffed and with a deputy on each side, was brought into the courtroom. His new attorn
ey, Harlow Stern, stood near him when his case was called and entered a plea of “not guilty.” Stern was an experienced criminal defense lawyer—one of Savannah’s best and most expensive. Scott was not surprised that he had been hired for this case.
Stern presented his motion for bail, and Scott spoke against it, his only real function in the whole proceeding. Bail was denied, and the case was sent to the clerk’s office to be randomly assigned to a superior court judge for trial.
Scott returned to his office. He had an appointment that afternoon with Joe Fasi.
****
At 4:00 p.m., Scott went to Fasi’s office—previously Moose’s office—for his appointment. He sat down and looked around the office. Framed photos of Savannah’s parks and tree-lined streets were still displayed on the walls, but Moose’s diplomas, Georgia Bar certificate, and college awards were gone, and there were no white roses at the doorway to welcome visitors. Scott was pleased, however, to note that some of the photos of Mosley in action on the football field were still prominently displayed.
“Any surprises at the arraignment?” Fasi asked.
“You mean like a guilty plea?” Scott answered, smiling. “Now that would be nice, but no, nothing new except the trial date was set: April 21. Harrison’s attorney, Harlow Stern, asked for bail, claiming the defendant was a stellar citizen—not a flight risk, had no priors, and not even a speeding ticket—all the usual tripe. Said he could post substantial bail. The judge took about two seconds to deny it.”
“Wonder who was going to post that ‘substantial bail’—his dad or his new girlfriend over on Tybee Beach?”
“I don’t think it could matter, and I think Stern knew it. He made a strong argument, but I’m sure he realized there wasn’t going to be any bail in this case. Oh, and the case has been assigned to Nick Cox. So he goes from prosecuting Harrison in September to sitting as trial judge for him seven months later. Do you see any conflict there?”
“Good question.” Fasi leaned back in his chair and rested his hands against each other. “If Nick had been with the office when Harrison was indicted, yes, there would be both ethical and statutory grounds for recusal. But he’d already left the office when this crime occurred. He had nothing to do with the new charges. Judges are assigned randomly among our Superior Court judges. The judges themselves have nothing to do with assignments, so it’s not like Nick was shopping for this case. In fact, the random system is run out of the clerk’s office. So, it’s up to Nick to determine if there’s a conflict. Anything new in the investigation?”
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