CHAPTER 9
The old woman moved cautiously, negotiating her steps by finding the running lights on either side of the aisle. She moved with an unsteady gait, using a cane that gave her a slight bit of certainty. She smelled of lilac and wore a sweater she had knitted herself. When she was close enough to see her grandson onstage, she found a seat, and it was home for the next two hours.
It was the annual mid-summer Tulsa Junior Symphony Concert and Velma Doggett’s grandbaby, Frankie, Jr., filled her heart with pride. One needn’t know Mrs. Doggett to notice her puffed up chest at the sight of her Frankie sitting as concert master. When he rose to deliver a perfect Hayden Violin Concerto No. 2, tears filled her eyes.
The Doggett family was one of Tulsa’s finest. It had turned out musicians, athletes, engineers, lawyers and educators. Velma’s oldest granddaughter was at the University of Oklahoma studying to be a neurosurgeon, and her oldest grandson was enrolled at Conception Seminary in Missouri with two years remaining before his ordination to the priesthood. But it was only her youngest grandson, Frankie, who could summon the tears to her eyes like this. Velma’s heart filled with emotion when she heard the classics. She had been a musical prodigy of sorts herself when she was in high school, but never pursued her dream of being a concert pianist after graduation. Her late husband would tell most everyone that it was a regret Velma would live with forever. Or at least until Frankie got up on a hot and humid summer evening on the stage at East Central auditorium where he nailed the Hayden piece and proved himself every bit the prodigy as any Julliard-trained classical violinist anywhere. And it was during that moment, when Velma beamed with pride for her Frankie, that she also let go of the disappointment at her own failure for not pursuing her dream.
She rose to her feet struggling, to take part in the rousing ovation that the remainder of the crowd was heaping upon her Franklin Roosevelt Doggett, Jr. The sound of the applause only brought more tears.
Velma found her grandson after the concert, and after a long, sustained hug, she shook his cheeks in her hands and conveyed the pride she had in him with and without words.
Frankie Jr. loved his grandma and helped her into his car at the end of the night.
She was well taken care of by her grandchildren, and Frankie saw her to the door of her home in East Tulsa, forsaking all other showings of praise that could have been poured out on him had he hung at the auditorium another hour or so. Family came first for the Doggetts and for Frankie, Jr.
The sound of Frankie Jr.’s car faded down Atlanta Street, and as Velma heard him pull away from the stop sign at the corner, she walked in to her den, lifted the glasses from her head and sat down in her chair. She reached for the light and began to look for her Bible. She had let the day slip by without going over her daily readings, and she always felt lost when that happened. As she reached for the Bible on her coffee table, the image of the man sitting across the room finally caught her eye.
“My lands, Ben, you scared me to death,” Velma said. “Why didn’t you say somethin’ before now?”
“Wanted to surprise you, Mama,” he said.
“Well, you sure did that, but not in a good way. My lands, you scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Good gracious, what brings you to town?” she said, still trembling.
“Few extra days off, just like every summer. Thought I’d come see you.”
Ben knew his mother would never believe whatever story he was lucky enough to make up on the spot. But that wasn’t enough to stop him from trying. Ben may have been able to fool Angela, Shanna and all the students and teachers at school, but he couldn’t fool his mama who could read him like large print in the sunlight.
“C’mon, Ben, I’m your mama, why are you here?” Velma said.
He would try on a couple of stories half-heartedly, neither of which she bought, until he finally settled on the half-truth tale of his “spat” with Angie, as he called it, even though spat didn’t begin to cover it. Ben wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gone with that story in the first place. His mother never much cared for Angela and would likely buy whatever Ben dished out on her.
“Just trying to work through a few issues with Angie,” he said. “Thought I’d come home to the old neighborhood and clear my head a little.”
Velma rocked back and forth in her chair. Ben always thought she looked lonely when she did. Next to her was the chair where Ben’s father always sat, unused for the last six years since his death. He had sat across the den from them often as a boy growing up, facing the parental court as he wandered in and out of minor mischief. Or during the times when the three of them would have pleasant chats in the evening about the day they’d all had. His parents had raised him well. Neither his mother – but especially his father – would believe how far he had fallen now, and it pained Ben greatly to have his failures enter into his mind while sitting in the living room where he spent his childhood.
“There’s a rail yard on the outskirts of Valparaiso,” Alex said. “That’s where I followed the men who had driven away in the bobtail truck down at the docks,” she said, not looking up from her latte. “I parked across the street and looked down about a hundred yards as four men got out and began to unload the cocaine onto a waiting northbound train. With four of them, it took just a couple of minutes to transport the coke. There was much more than just the two kilos I was following.”
Alex moved uneasily in her chair, shifting as though she thought for a moment about getting up and heading somewhere else. Somewhere she wouldn’t have to share her story any longer.
“When they were done moving the shipment, the two men who had been in the front seat shook hands with the two men who had been in the back. The men who had been in the back turned and started walking away, as if they had been hired hands, who were there simply to make the move go more smoothly.
“The driver pulled out a long-barreled handgun, walked up to both of the men and shot them point blank in the back of the head. He moved with incredible speed, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d executed someone. The second victim didn’t even have time to turn and see what had happened to the other man before the driver had killed him, too. One of the most brutal things I have ever witnessed. The shooter and his partner who obviously had helped orchestrate the entire incident, climbed back into the truck and left the dead men in the middle of the street. There was no one else around. It was an industrial district but not a high traffic area. They got in the truck and drove my direction. They were looking in every car as they passed by. I scrunched down in the front floor board as tightly and as small as I could get myself.
“When they pulled up next to my SUV they stopped. I heard a door shut. There was a shadow like they were looking right in through the window where I was.”
Alex’s story became even more unbelievable as she told Garrison of how the men attempted to kill her even though they hadn’t seen her and couldn’t even be for sure someone was in the vehicle.
“They must have taken notice of the cars that had been parked on the street before they transferred the dope and shot the two helpers. They must have thought they hadn’t seen my SUV before the job. They pulled out AR-15s and began pounding away at that car. They must have sprayed it with 200 bullets.”
“How on earth can you explain that? You’re still here!” Garrison asked.
“I asked myself the same question. When I heard those bullets hitting the SUV, I knew I was dead. Later, much later, I got out of the car to see that it was covered in knicks. Little pock marks where the bullets had hit. The SUV that had been left for me was armor plated with impenetrable glass windows.”
“So, whoever gave you the car knew what you were doing and knew what you were up against?” Garrison asked.
Alex said nothing, but instead only shook her head in disbelief.
“Somebody apparently wanted me alive,” Alex finally said.
“I stayed crouched down low in the front floorboard for the rest of the day and through that night. I knew by then my chase of the cocaine was probably over. No way was it still there. But when the sun came up that morning, I looked around and saw the same train car on which it had been loaded the day before. I heard the train’s engines turn over, and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before it pulled away. For a moment I thought about ending all of this madness and going home to Pierce and Carly, but at the last minute, I climbed in the boxcar behind where the coke had been moved. And when I did, it started the longest two weeks of my life.”
CHAPTER 10
Tony looked at the men across from him. He stressed again to them the need to live a right life. He was used to seeing them in the orange dungarees that many county jail prisoners were outfitted with. Seeing them today in street clothes as they processed out of the jail improved everyone’s outlook in the room. Hope prevailed and it was brought on simply by the vision of men in something other than orange jump suits.
It was the first day of Tony Nail’s trial and opening arguments would begin later that same morning, but Nail still found the time to counsel the men who were soon to be free.
His job as he saw it, even among the bleakness of what was just ahead, was to leave inmates with a positive message or two. Something they could take with them and maybe make their second go at life more manageable.
“You guys probably aren’t gonna be able to write your own obituaries,” Tony said. “That’s the last reason I can think of to live right. If the people you love don’t like you when you go, they may not sugarcoat what you were all about for your fans in the hometown newspaper. You all talk about how you’re gonna change your life, so you’ve gotta do it up right — right now, while you have the chance. There are a lot of people who depend on you, guys. Charlie, your little boy; Duncan, those twin baby girls you have. Maben, that beautiful woman who somehow waited for your sorry butt. Now’s the time, gentlemen. Best of luck to you all. Get it done. And get it done right this time. And I don’t want to see any of you again unless you’ve got something you’re proud to share with me.
“Before you go, I want to tell you all about Santo Nino de Atocha. Anyone ever hear of it?” Tony asked, looking around the room full of blank stares. “I didn’t think so.
“Santo Nino de Atocha is the story of a small child who repeatedly brought food and water to inmates who had been wrongly imprisoned in a jail in Spain in the 1500s. The child, who some people believe was an apparition of Jesus Christ, returned so many times to help these men who had been imprisoned for their Christian beliefs, that he wore out his shoes. And then he wore out another pair. And another. And another. But the baskets and buckets he used to bring the food and water to the prisoners never ran empty. Ever. It was a miracle. Today there is a church in the mountains of New Mexico dedicated to the miraculous Atocha.
“My point, gentlemen, is this: in the tradition of Christ, I will never give up on you. I am here for you, and my encouragement and support for you is without end. But I want you to promise me that when you leave here, your love and support and encouragement of your family, and for your brothers, and for your fellow man — good and bad, friend or enemy — will be unending in the same way as Atocha. Now get on outta here.”
The men shuffled out of their chairs, all of them walking by Tony on the way, extending their arms for a final embrace of this man who himself had been falsely accused and could only wait for and pray the possibility of a trial to prove his innocence.
Two blocks away, as Tony continued to help the men leaving the jail, Midland Federal District Judge Robert Halfmann informed his courtroom bailiff it was time to begin.
“Larry, make a call over to the jailhouse. Tell Mr. Trask we’re ready for him and his client,” Halfmann said.
Larry Dillinger was a legendary bailiff in Midland. He walked with a limp he earned during Desert Storm. Larry likely wouldn’t have been able to get a job in many courtrooms, but in West Texas, his gait was a badge of honor that only made him more the hero. The people in Midland took care of those who took care of them. And there was no one more loyal to his judges than Larry. He may have been assigned to Judge Halfmann, but he worked for all judges in town on both the district and federal levels. His preference was that he was constantly on call. Since Dillinger lost his family in a car accident ten years earlier, most of his waking hours had been spent in service to the court.
“On the way, your honor,” Dillinger said, closing his phone. “You need anything, judge? Water?”
“I’m good, Larry, thanks,” Halfmann said.
The judge and his bailiff were frequent fishing buddies. Dillinger knew what his boss liked. He knew, too, that he preferred speedy trials and set firm ground rules before he gaveled in his sessions. He knew this week’s trial would be no different.
“All rise,” the bailiff said to the sparsely populated courtroom as a jury of eight men and four women filed into the jury box. The ethnic breakdown of those selected in Tony Nail’s trial were evenly split: four Caucasians, four African Americans, four Mexican Americans.
When the jury was seated, Nail and Trask walked in the back door of the courtroom, a departure from the usual way a courtroom’s opening proceedings occurred. While Halfmann liked swift justice, he was more lax on other areas such as a defendant being seated prior to a jury’s entrance. The U.S. attorney, Joe Midkiff, was hard as nails. While he had a stable full of capable litigators in his office, Midkiff was known for putting himself in the prosecution’s hot seat.
Midland may be full of genuine folks with high character and impeccable integrity, but loyalty was still loyalty. Midkiff had gone a different direction than his seven brothers and two sisters, all of whom stayed in the family ranching business. But Joe had fallen in love with the law since stumbling upon it during his years studying at the University of Texas. The fact that Joe was a UT graduate was a bigger bone of contention for his nine Texas Tech alumni siblings than the fact that he had wandered off into lawyering. As a result, Joe was always perceived as the black sheep of the Midkiff family, something with which he never really had a problem.
Judge Halfmann addressed the jury in his opening remarks, assuring them that they would likely be free to return to work by week’s end, maybe sooner. He zipped through the housekeeping rules the court, read the charges against the defendant and tossed it to the district attorney for his opening argument.
“Thank you, your honor,” Midkiff said, glancing in the direction of Nail, who sat stiffly in suit and tie, and Trask, who true to form, was incessantly and forever updating notes on his legal pad, clicking his pen open and shut, open and shut, open and shut, and looking uncomfortable in his button-down Oxford shirt with his extra wide 1970s style tie that always seemed to come up about an inch higher than most other fancy lawyer ties.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. What you are being asked to do this week will be fairly simple, and frankly, the quicker we can all come to agreement, the quicker we can all resume our day-to-day activities. The prosecution views the evidence against the accused, Tony Nail, as convincing, and the government will show Nail had motive and malice in murdering Junior Walker on or about June 1, 2011. Mr. Nail has even admitted to being in West Odessa on the night of the crime.
“Tony Nail has a criminal history in narcotics, ladies and gentlemen, and is known to frequent the area where this murder occurred — a pretty rough neighborhood. In fact most weeks, he’s in that same West Odessa neighborhood three, perhaps four times per week. The defendant personally knew the victim and the prosecution will prove the murder was the result of non-payment on a drug debt. Money that Tony Nail just didn’t have.”
Trask was dumbfounded as to the flimsiness of the government’s case. It seemed one of the worst thought-out
plans he’d heard in a while. Prosecutors were no doubt hoping for a quick resolution to the case. So far Trask could debunk everything the prosecution was trying to offer up.
“The government will also show you that not only did Tony Nail have motive to kill Junior Walker, we’ll prove to you Nail is somewhat of an expert marksman with a pistol. We’ll show you that he has been skilled in shooting since long before his arrest on drug charges several years ago.”
Trask looked at Nail. The attorney’s gaze was filled with daggers. Nail avoided eye contact with Trask. It was not a good time to answer Trask’s stare.
“What the hell, Tony?” he whispered in his ear. “What’s this about?”
Trask had never known Nail to pick up a gun. Ever. A skilled shooter? Never. It was ridiculous. Or at least that had been his notion until just a moment ago.
Nail finally mustered up the courage to look Trask’s way.
“I’ll explain,” he said. “Just let me do it later.”
Trask didn’t like surprises. He shot a rejoinder back in Nail’s direction.
“You better be prepared to tell me everything,” he said. Friendliness and reassurance were not a part of Trask’s directive.
Midkiff’s opening was lengthy, just the way Halfmann preferred that it not be. The judge popped a few sunflower seeds in his mouth and took a swig from a water bottle.
“Mr. Trask, your opening,” Judge Halfmann said.
“Thank you, your honor,” Trask began. He walked to the jury box, legal pad in hand, as always. He took out his ever-present, neatly-folded handkerchief, and slightly dabbed away the perspiration as it formed, which it tended to do in courtroom settings. He was confident, to be sure, but that didn’t stop him from an occasional bout with nerves.
An Absence of Principal Page 9
