The Indictments

by William Eleazer

  It pained Majewski to make the call he was about to make. He had promised Scott he would keep him posted weekly on the investigation, whether or not there was anything. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to one—a good time to catch Scott in his office.

  “Scott, Majewski here. Just checking in. Not much to report. Had a couple of tips last week, negative results. Wish I had more for you, but that’s about it.”

  “I understand. Some defense counsel claim that we manufacture evidence. I wish they’d give us a clue where that manufacturing plant is located—we could use some right now.”

  “Yeah, let me know if you find it.”

  “I filed a written demand for alibi defense, but I haven’t received a reply. They have until ten days before trial, and I’m sure they aren’t going to respond any sooner than that. But your team’s done a lot of legwork on it already, haven’t they?”

  “We’ve got a log, day by day, hour by hour, of every location that we can place him, from the time he was released after his acquittal to the date he was arrested. Of course there’re a lot of gaps, but we are trying to fill ’em in. Let us know if you get that reply. We’ll take care of tracking down all the alibi scumbags he comes up with. We may not have any new evidence, but we’ll make damn sure he doesn’t manufacture any.”

  “Thanks, John. I know you’ve put your heart and soul in this. I still think we’ve got a good shot with what we have.”

  They hung up, but Scott knew he didn’t sound convincing—it’s always hard to convince someone when you’re not convinced yourself.

  ****

  Scott was at his desk midafternoon when his phone rang. He recognized the voice but was hardly prepared for it.

  “Scott, how are you doing, my friend?” Scott doubted it was a sincere inquiry into his health, and had anyone else been listening, he would surely dispute being a “friend” to Max Gordon.

  “I’m fine, Max. What prompts your call?” Scott had no desire for small talk with Max Gordon.

  “Just a courtesy call, Scott. Wanted to let you know I’ve been retained for the John Harrison case. I believe you are prosecuting it, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We’ve filed our appearance motion with the court. And, of course, sent our letter to the Bar’s General Counsel. Just about got that procedure automated now. My request will be sponsored by Archie Lantham, a criminal trial attorney out of Atlanta. I’m sure you will find everything in order.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Of course, that’s up to Judge Thaler, not me. So, you have a different sponsor this time. What happened to Clarence Wilborn?”

  “Oh, he’s staying busy with his local practice in Macon. Too busy to help me full time, so he’s gone his own way—no longer with us. Now Scott, I want you to know that my secretary has instructions to take a call from you anytime, not to tell you I’m ‘in with a client’ or ‘in a deposition’ or any of that nonsense. No, I’ve given her special instructions to put you right through, anytime you call. Between today and the Harrison trial, I’ve got cases in Miami and Cleveland, so I will be out of town a bit, but she’ll connect you anytime.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Scott. “Harrison’s local attorney, Harlow Stern, will he be staying on the case?”

  “No. Harrison wants me to take charge. And I prefer working alone. Stern has given me a full briefing, so his further participation really would add nothing to the defense. I see no reason for my clients to pay for services that are neither needed nor helpful.”

  His smug response was annoying, and Scott made no reply. There was a short pause.

  “Anyway, Archie and I will have it alone.” Now there was a longer pause.

  “Anything else, Max?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Stern asked for reciprocal discovery, and I have everything you gave him. You can send any additional discovery material directly to me at my Chicago office. I’ll see you next month, Scott. Remember, call me anytime.”

  Scott had no intent to call Max Gordon anytime, but he did put in a call to Grady Wilder, a former assistant DA in Savannah. Grady had since moved to Atlanta as an assistant U.S. attorney but was fully aware of the latest indictment of John Harrison. It had been extensively reported in all the Atlanta papers.

  “Max Gordon is bringing in a different Georgia attorney to sponsor him for this trial—Archie Lantham from Atlanta,” Scott briefed his old friend. “I’d appreciate you checking him out.”

  “Sure thing, Scott. I can check with some friends in the state courts. I’ll call you this afternoon if I have anything.”

  ****

  Grady returned Scott’s call only an hour later. Lantham had never tried any federal criminal cases, and according to Grady’s sources, he’d tried very few in the state courts. He’d been in practice about eight years and had a nondescript law practice—rented space in a rundown strip mall. He seemed to survive on speeding tickets and home visits to the elderly to write wills and powers of attorney. Scott thought that was about par for an associate of Max Gordon. He wondered how Max found them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  March 28, 2008

  It was almost 5:00 p.m. Friday, and Scott was about to leave his office when the phone rang. He hoped it was not some crisis with one of his cases, as he was looking forward to a rare work-free weekend. He was heading to Jennifer’s apartment after work, and they were to drive to Hilton Head. He picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Scott.”

  “Hello, Max,” Scott sighed. He had not spoken with Max Gordon since his phone call two weeks earlier.

  “I have an important matter to discuss with you, Scott. Hopefully we can avoid a trial in the Harrison case. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone, and I need to trust you not to mention this phone call to anyone until we can speak in person.”

  “Well, Max, right now there is nothing to discuss. Can you give me some idea what you have in mind?”

  “Just as I said, Scott—to avoid taking this case to trial. I’m in the middle of a two-week trial here in Miami. I start presenting my evidence Monday, but I can fly up tomorrow. We could meet, say, about noon at the airport. I can get an early morning flight via Atlanta. There’s a flight that will get me to Savannah about eleven.”

  Scott paused. At noon on Saturday he planned to be with Jennifer at their favorite beach pub at Hilton Head, not with Max Gordon at the airport. But there was something very intriguing about this. Max Gordon proposing a deal to avoid trial. Intriguing—and important. Unfortunately, it was important enough to delay or even cancel his and Jennifer’s Hilton Head trip. The trial was less than a month away, and the case was getting no stronger. Maybe he should listen to any plea deal Max had to offer—the fact that the time was inconvenient, well, that goes with the job.

  “Noon, at the airport? Specifically where at the airport?”

  “Skyline Inn. It’s close to the airport at exit 104, I-95. I’ll be registered there.”

  “Registered there? You said you were flying in from Miami.”

  “I am. But we’ll need a place to meet—quiet and discreet. Scott, this is not something to be discussed in a bar lounge. Just ask for me at the desk. They will be expecting you.”

  This was a strange twist. He didn’t like the thought of meeting Max Gordon in some hotel room off the Interstate. Yes, this was important, but a plea agreement could and should be discussed in Scott’s office.

  “Max, I can meet you at my office. It will give us a quiet place for any confidential discussion. I’ll arrange for the weekend security officer to escort you up.”

  “No, we can’t do that. Remember, my face is known by everyone at the courthouse. The media would be on this like Black Friday at Macy’s. This matter has to be confidential. You do understand, don’t you?”

  Scott didn’t, but the promise of a plea deal in the case was too tempting. He would agree.

  “OK. Noon Saturday at the Skyline.”

  “Now remember,
Scott, this is confidential. Discuss it with no one.”

  “As I said, Max, there’s nothing yet to discuss. The only person who will know is my girlfriend. We were leaving for Hilton Head this afternoon, and I’ll have to explain why we can’t go. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He hung up and immediately called Jennifer. “Something has come up. We won’t be able to go to Hilton Head tonight, so call your folks. We’ll drive over tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be on my way to your place in a few minutes. I’ll explain then.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  March 29, 2008

  There were only a couple of cars in the Skyline Inn parking lot when Scott arrived just before noon. He parked near the entrance and surveyed the old motel. It was a two-story rectangular building with a flat roof, surrounded by dark asphalt. The parking lines were severely faded, and the asphalt was badly cracked and pitted. There was no grass anywhere, but a few ill-kept hibiscus plants sat woefully on each side of the main entrance. A covered two-car drive-through at the entrance had apparently been added more recently; its yellow paint was a shade or two brighter than the main building.

  Scott opened the driver’s door and stood for a moment gazing at the decrepit motel. He couldn’t fathom why a highly successful attorney like Max Gordon would even be seen at such a shabby place. Then he remembered: Max did not want to be seen, and this was the perfect spot.

  Scott reached into his car for his briefcase. In it were two copies of the indictment, one for him and one for Max. The plea discussion on this multi-count indictment would surely include specific charges to be dismissed in exchange for the guilty plea, and Scott wanted to make sure there was a complete understanding as to each. He had zero trust in Gordon and would insist that he write and initial “guilty plea” or “not guilty plea” for each count before they left the motel. Of course, Max Gordon’s initials would not bind John Harrison, but Scott believed anything on paper was better than an oral agreement when dealing with a known huckster.

  He pushed the handle on the glass door and entered the motel’s small square lobby. A tall commercial coffee urn rested on a wooden table to the right. On the opposite side was the motel desk—unmanned. A large vinyl sofa and several stuffed vinyl chairs were casually crowding the middle of the lobby. A large flat-screen TV mounted on the far wall was soundlessly tuned to CNN. There was no breakfast room. Apparently a free breakfast was not one of Skyline Inn’s amenities.

  The lobby was empty when Scott entered, but a buzzer sounded when he pushed the entry door, and soon an elderly man appeared behind the lobby desk.

  “May I help you?” the man asked.

  “I’m here to see a Mr. Gordon. Has he checked in?”

  “About half an hour ago. Second floor, Room 214. You may want to take the stairway. It’s on the left, down the hall. The elevator has been giving us a problem lately, but I can operate it for you if you want.”

  “No thanks, I’ll take the stairs.”

  Scott walked up the drab unpainted concrete stairwell to the second floor. Room 214 was midway down the hall. He knocked, and soon the door opened. Max Gordon wore a blue dress shirt, dark trousers, and loafers. It was the first time Scott had seen him without his ostentatious silk handkerchief hanging from a coat pocket.

  Max smiled broadly at Scott. He extended his right hand, applying a firm grip, and with his left hand he gave a friendly pat to the handshake.

  “So good to see you again, Scott. Sorry we’re taking some time away from your trip to Hilton Head, but I’m sure you will find your visit here well worth it.” The hand patting continued much too long for Scott, but finally Max released his grip and turned toward the room. “Come on in. I brought some refreshments with me.”

  Scott took a couple of steps into the room and noticed a large portable suitcase-style bar, resting on the table with the room’s small TV. The leather-clad bar stood upright, opened at a ninety degree angle. Scott could see four stemmed glasses hanging upside down on the top of the left side and four lowball glasses in a rack below. Glass containers of clear and dark liquids were neatly arranged in the bar, along with a stainless steel shaker, strainer, jigger, and several stirring utensils. Nearby sat a motel ice bucket filled with ice.

  Max saw Scott eyeing the bar. “I had that made many years ago in Madrid. Designed it myself. I bring it along on most of my trips. If it could talk, it could tell some pretty good tales.”

  Max walked past Scott to the bar. “So, what will it be, Scott? Pretty much have everything here, and I’m a damn good bartender.”

  Scott spied a bottle of Perrier in the bar. “I’ll take Perrier with ice,” he replied.

  “Of course, Scott, and let me add a little something.” Max pulled a dark green bottle from the bar. “I’ve got some really nice Scotch. Glenlivet single malt. Ever try it?”

  “No I haven’t, but Max, the water and ice will be fine. Thanks anyway.”

  There were only two chairs in the room, and Scott took the one closest to the room’s lone double bed. He opened his briefcase, removed the two copies of the indictment, and watched as Max opened the bottled water and dropped ice into two glasses. Water went into one and two shots of Glenlivet were poured into the other.

  “I wish you would join me, Scott. It’s excellent Scotch,” said Max, handing Scott his glass.

  “Thanks, but this is fine. And here’s a complete copy of the indictment. It should help us in our discussion of the agreement.”

  “I’ve got something else to discuss before we talk about the indictment.” Max pulled a chair to within a few feet of Scott and sat down. “I don’t think it should come as any surprise to you that the first Harrison trial garnered you some high profile admirers in a number of top Atlanta law firms. With the entire trial on Atlanta TV and radio, and Senator Harrison’s son the defendant, just about every lawyer in every major law firm was watching. I didn’t come off too well,” Max chuckled, “but you did—all the news commentators could talk about was that young prosecutor who whipped Max Gordon’s ass. ‘A natural,’ they all said.”

  Scott remained silent, somewhat embarrassed to admit that he was enjoying the accolades from his courtroom opponent. But he knew that Max had not brought him here for flattery.

  “Now, Scott, I’m going to cut to the chase. One of those law firms wants you to join them, and they asked me to relay their offer. They want you to start right away. What do you think of that?”

  Scott’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Max. “I don’t have any thoughts on that.”

  “Well, let me give you something to think about. This law firm cherry picks its new associates. Only the best and brightest from the top three or four law schools in the country. And it can do that because they offer some of the highest starting salaries and fringe benefits and perks of any law firm. Some say it’s the absolute highest.”

  Max studied Scott closely before continuing. “For example, Scott, they give an immediate signing bonus in six figures and a moving allowance of whatever it takes. They pay off any student loans for every new associate and make a twenty percent down payment on any house with a purchase price up to a million dollars—and then ensure the associate gets the best long term rates available anywhere. Now that’s something to think about, right?”

  Ignoring Scott’s continued failure to respond, Max reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a slip of paper. “I’m just the messenger. Here’s the telephone number of the go-to guy. He’s the hiring partner at the law firm, and he’s ready to make you an offer. I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but the signing bonus now is a hundred and fifty thousand. But you have to make the call. They wish to remain unnamed until they hear from you, and right now they are waiting to see if you are interested. They need you in Atlanta in two weeks—time enough to give notice to the DA.”

  Max tossed the paper into Scott’s briefcase which was still open on the bed. He paused, finally giving Scott a chance to respond.

  “Are you saying we can wrap the
Harrison case up with a plea—now?”

  “Come on, Scott.” Max took a slow sip out of his double Scotch. “You should know there’s not going to be a plea in that case. You need to drop it before it goes to trial. You really don’t have the evidence to get past a motion. All that trial promises you is front-page and life-long embarrassment.”

  Scott began to rub his left ear, struggling to comprehend what Max was saying and trying to recall just what Max had said on the phone that prompted this meeting in a squalid motel.

  “As I told you when I called yesterday, this meeting is to avoid taking that case to trial—it’s not about a plea. Harrison is not going to plead to a murder he didn’t commit and you can’t prove. Get real, Scott. You have no weapon, no prints, no witnesses, and no forensics. You have nothing except a brief appearance of a masked man no one can identify. If you go forward with this case relying on a voice ID from some old cassette tapes made three years ago in a rural Florida courthouse, you’ll be committing professional suicide as well as professional malpractice. You may believe my client is guilty, but that’s not enough. A prosecutor has an ethical duty to dismiss charges when the evidence provides no reasonable possibility of a conviction. I’m giving you a way out. The public here in Savannah knows you don’t have a case. The news media reports daily on it. You’ll be wasting public money, and you’ll be held personally responsible. You could get this case dismissed, and you would deserve the thanks of every tax payer in Chatham County.”