I hadn’t asked her, and I’ll make you a bet that Uncle Baxter hadn’t either. By the time Sara and I had finished setting the table, Baxter had arrived. We all sat down to a great breakfast. There’s nothing better then Aunt June’s pecan waffles, homemade, hot cinnamon applesauce, hickory smoked bacon, and fresh orange juice. After Sara had left the table, the adult conversation turned to the child custody lawsuit.
“Is anything going on, Sam?” Baxter asked. “How are you getting along with Allison Kittridge?”
“She’s just fine—seems like a straight shooter. I think she thinks our chances are pretty good, but she made it clear that there are no guarantees. She anticipates that the court is about to set some kind of pretrial conference and that I’ll need to fly to Atlanta.”
“Have you spoken with Sara about this?” said Baxter.
“Not a word and I don’t intend to, unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“I think that’s wise,” he replied.
Aunt June chimed in. “Frankly, I’m worried that if we don’t tell Sara, she might hear it from Nicole, or from her parents. They call once or twice a week, Nicole more often.”
“I’ve asked Nicole not to say anything, but we can only hope.”
I debated about whether I should tell Baxter and Aunt June about what I’d learned from Susan Fleming, but I decided against it. I didn’t see the point. The fact that some sleaze-bag PI would probably be snooping around in my private life would only worry Aunt June and there was nothing that she, or for that matter, I, could do about it anyway.
After breakfast, Sara and I cleaned up while Aunt June and Baxter made a dash for the garage sales. While we loaded the dishwasher, Sara asked about her mom. “Daddy, when do I get to see mom again?”
“Well, honey, we’ll have to check on that. Why don’t we call your mom today and ask her when she’ll be coming to Salt Lake City. You know it’s only a few weeks until Thanksgiving. It’s your mom’s turn to get to have you. Isn’t she lucky?”
“Yeah. Can Bob come with me on the plane?”
I hadn’t thought of that one. This would probably be a question I’d be hearing for a while. “Honey, I think that’s going to be kind of hard to do. The airline won’t let Bob on the plane with you. He’s too big. Do you know where he’d have to ride?”’
“Where?”
“Down below where they put the luggage. I think that might really scare him, and we don’t want that, do we?”
She looked sad. “No. Maybe Bob could ride with the pilot. Mom works for the airline.”
“Well, that’s true, she does. But I think they have rules that prevent pets from riding with the pilots. The other passengers might get a little nervous if they saw a dog sitting up front with the pilot. But we can see what your mom thinks. How does that sound?”
“Okay. When can we call her?”
“Let’s call her right now. I don’t know if she’s home, but we can always leave her a message. And even if she’s not home, she always calls you back.”
I found it impossible to keep track of Nicole’s flight schedule. We always tried her at home first. If we didn’t get an answer, we assumed that she was traveling. We would then try her cell phone.
This time Nicole didn’t answer her home or cell numbers, so Sara left a message. We spent the next little while watching television together. I asked her if she wanted to go with Bob and me on his fitness walk. No big surprise. Television won out. I was beginning to worry that television watching was on the increase, while reading and playtime outside was in decline. I didn’t like that. I made a note to talk with Aunt June about it later.
I took Bob on a vigorous three mile walk through the neighborhood in Park Meadows. When we got back, he flopped in front of the fireplace like a guy who’d just run the Boston Marathon. We definitely had some work to do in the weight and physical stamina department. That much was clear.
I took Sara and a neighbor friend, Jennifer, to their noon soccer game at a city park. Sara had lots of saves in goal and her team won. I dropped the girls at Jennifer’s house afterward and then went to work.
***
Gordon Dixon maneuvered the Ford Taurus into the right lane and turned on his blinker to exit the freeway. The massive Utah State Prison compound loomed immediately to the west, visible to anyone traveling in either direction along I-15. The palms of his hands were damp with perspiration and his arm pits were soaked. Smuggling contraband into the state prison was not a matter to be taken lightly. It was a felony offense virtually everywhere. Utah was no exception.
He approached the guard shack at the main gate of the prison. A uniformed officer approached carrying a clip board. Dixon lowered the driver’s side window. “Good afternoon, officer,” he said with a smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’ll need to see your driver’s license. What brings you to the prison today?”
Dixon handed over his license. “I’m an attorney—here to see my client.” The officer looked at the driver’s license and then at Dixon. He wished that he’d been able to convince the Bradshaws to implement the plan on a weekday instead of the weekend. Lawyer visits to inmate clients were common on weekdays, less so on weekends.
The officer jotted down Dixon’s information and handed the license back. He walked deliberately around the car looking through the windows. When he finished, he returned to the guard shack and raised the gate, motioning Dixon through.
He parked in the visitor’s lot under the watchful eye of the guard tower. He took a deep breath and gathered himself. This was the moment of truth. Once he entered the visitor’s processing area, there would be no turning back.
He checked his leather briefcase. He had intentionally filled it with a variety of client files including that of Walter Bradshaw. He’d learned from past experience that the fuller the briefcase the less thorough the search. The prison staff was acutely aware of the lawyer-client privilege. Unless they had some specific information to the contrary, they weren’t allowed to read the legal correspondence. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t open the envelope and inspect the contents before allowing Bradshaw to return to his cell. In all likelihood, they would do that.
Dixon had carefully packaged the drug into a small white envelope, and then carefully taped the envelope to the back of a stapled, twenty page batch of pretrial motions that he’d recently filed with the trial court. He had intentionally taped the drug halfway into the document and up near the staple where there was less chance that it would be noticed. If it was discovered, he would probably be arrested before he ever made it out of the prison.
Dixon got out of his car, locked it, and walked to the visitor’s entrance. There was a short line in front of him and he had to wait. Several additional visitors came in and lined up behind him. In his experience lines were a good thing. The longer the line, the more harried the prison staff. The officer, a mostly bald guy who had to be packing an extra fifty pounds on a short, plump frame, spoke first.
“Sir, I’ll need your picture identification and the name of the inmate you’re here to visit.”
Dixon again produced his driver’s license and handed it to the officer. “My name is Gordon Dixon and I’m an attorney. I’m here to visit my client, Walter Bradshaw.”
The officer hardly glanced at him and didn’t say a word. He logged the driver’s license information into his computer, handed the license back, and asked Dixon to sign the visitor’s log. The visitor’s log carried a written warning to anyone entering the prison that smuggling contraband was a felony offense.
Dixon signed in and moved through the line until a female corrections officer, who looked fresh out of the academy, stepped forward and said, “Sir, I’ll need that briefcase you’re carrying. And then if you’ll empty your pockets, take off all jewelry, your belt and shoes, and your sports coat, I’ll have you walk slowly through the metal detector.”
Doing his best not to betray the apprehension that
he was feeling, Dixon walked slowly through the metal detector without setting off the alarm. He glanced at the young corrections officer. The nametag on her uniform shirt read Officer Claudia O’Brien. She had opened his briefcase and emptied the contents on to a folding table. She did a cursory search of the files and then picked up the sealed manila envelope containing the drug.
This was the moment of truth and Dixon decided to take a chance. He gave her his best smile and said, “Officer O’Brien, would it be helpful if I opened the envelope for you? It contains court documents intended for my client.”
O’Brien momentarily appeared to consider the offer. She shook and squeezed the envelope to see if anything seemed out of the ordinary. Finally, she said, “Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
Dixon took a deep breath and choked down the sense of panic he felt clear to his toes. Officer O’Brien reloaded the briefcase and handed it back to him. “If you’ll take a seat in the waiting room, somebody will call you as soon as Bradshaw has been brought over from max.”
Twenty minutes later, a squat but muscular looking corrections officer stepped into the room and called his name. To Dixon, the officer looked menacing. His head was shaved and he looked like he’d spent half his life in a gym pumping free weights. He was so large through the chest and shoulders that it looked like he was about to pop the buttons off his uniform shirt. Maybe this was the kind of employee you had to have to control a maximum security prison Dixon thought.
The officer led him into the visitor area designated for inmates like Bradshaw who weren’t allowed contact visits. That was basically anybody in max or administrative segregation. Bradshaw was already seated when Dixon entered the room. They looked at each other, smiled through the shatterproof glass and reached for the phones.
Dixon had always been cautious during these encounters. It was safer to assume that somebody was listening in despite the legal constraints. He’d reflected this to his client many times. He had rehearsed this conversation with Bradshaw during his last court appearance.
The meeting was brief. Small talk quickly gave way to a discussion of the legal issues confronting Bradshaw as well as impending trial strategy. Bradshaw was scheduled to go to trial in nine weeks. After that, he would have a date with the state parole board.
“Is it your view, Gordon, that all necessary preparations have been made for my trial?” The two men stared at each other.
“Yes, Walter, I think we’re about ready.” Bradshaw nodded.
It was Dixon’s turn to ask the prearranged question. “And how have you been feeling, Walter? Getting enough exercise, are you?”
“No, never enough exercise. I haven’t been feeling particularly well today.”
“Did you notify the staff?”
“I did. They told me if I wasn’t feeling better by tomorrow, they’d put me on sick call.”
Glancing down at the manila envelope, Bradshaw said, “What have you brought for me today? It looks like another stack of boring legal documents.”
“A variety of things, but mostly copies of various pretrial motions I filed with the court. I finally received the DA’s list of trial witnesses. That’s in the envelope as well.”
“I’ll be sure to look them over, and if I have any questions, I’ll have them ready for you at our next meeting.”
With that, the visit ended. Dixon placed Bradshaw’s case file back into his briefcase leaving the manila envelope out. He handed the envelope to a corrections officer who would give it to Bradshaw once it had been appropriately scrutinized. If they were going to find the drug, it would happen here. Normal protocol required that the envelope be opened in Bradshaw’s presence and the contents examined.
Dixon turned to leave, knowing that if the drug was discovered now, he would never make it out of the prison. He’d be arrested for smuggling contraband and turned over to the county sheriff. He felt an exhilarating sense of relief when the last steel door clanged shut behind him and he cleared the final prison checkpoint without being detained. Freedom never felt better. This part of the ordeal was over.
Chapter Thirty-five
It was mid-afternoon by the time I left for the Snowbird Ski Resort. As I backed out of the garage, I spotted the silver Ford Explorer parked across the street and down a couple of houses. I could see a guy slumped behind the steering wheel. That would probably be Larry Holding, the PI Susan Fleming had warned me about. As I drove off, he followed at a discreet distance. He trailed along behind me all the way to Snowbird.
Kate had left a voice message on my cell phone asking me to call her. She answered on the first ring. I told her where I was going. “What are you up to?” I asked.
“I just came from a meeting with Arnold Ginsberg’s older brother. He’s come from New York to claim the body. I also gave him an update on the investigation.”
“Is he planning the funeral here in Salt Lake City?”
“No. There’s going to be a local memorial service for him at the mortuary on Monday. I guess Rodney applied the full court press on that one.”
“Can’t really blame him for that,” I said. “I’ll bet most of Arnold’s friends are here in Utah, not New York.”
“I’m sure that’s true. It also reinforces Rodney as the bereaved partner. Anyway, then the body is going to be flown to Kennedy Airport. There’ll be a Jewish service on Wednesday, and then he’ll be buried in a family plot in upstate New York next to his parents.”
“Always painful to lose a loved one,” I said. “I’m not sure what you’ve got going now, but I’ll spring for a late lunch if you want to join me at Snowbird. Interested?”
“Thanks, but at the moment, I’m sitting down the street from the house we followed Barnes to early this morning. I got here shortly before eleven. So far, he hasn’t moved. I figured he’d probably be sleeping late since he didn’t get in until the wee hours this morning.”
I promised to catch up with her as soon as I took care of my business. I wanted to interview the front desk and restaurant staff at the Snowbird Lodge to see whether I could pin down Steven Ambrose’s presence on the property, as well as the time he checked in and went to dinner. During our interview, he had been vague about that. I wasn’t sure whether his faulty memory was genuine, or whether it was deliberately designed to provide a plausible timeline for his alibi.
The drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon was stunning. On its worst day, it always was. Today was far from its worst day. Blue skies punctuated by puffy white cumulus clouds dotted the skyline while steep canyon walls shrouded the two lane road in a blanket of shade. High and deep in the cracks and crevices of the rocky mountainside, places that almost never saw the sun, I could see traces of the season’s early snow, snow that had found a permanent home until sometime next summer. Most of the color was already on the ground, save a few stubborn Aspens, whose autumn leaves of orange and gold clung to their branches in quiet desperation, like a young child clinging to his mother on the first day of school.
I parked in one of the guest check-in stalls at the front of the lodge. I contacted the front desk manager and got lucky right away. Computer records showed that Ambrose, or someone using his identification, checked in at 3:05 P.M. I showed the manager and a female front desk clerk a blown up driver’s license photo of Ambrose. It wasn’t a particularly good picture, but they both made the identification. Not only did they remember him but they had his Visa credit card receipt and a photo copy of his driver’s license taken when he checked in. There was now no doubt that Ambrose had arrived at the lodge around the time he said.
My attempt to pin down the time he ate dinner in the lodge restaurant proved more difficult. He hadn’t made a dinner reservation. After leaving me to sit for a few minutes, the food and beverage manager, Albert Mason, returned with a Visa credit card receipt. “Here, I did manage to find this,” he said. “I’m afraid that I can’t help you out on the time this card was used. If you can wait for about f
orty minutes, the wait staff will be in. They start work at four. Maybe they’ll remember him.”
I couldn’t make out the signature on the receipt, but the imprint belonged to Steven Ambrose. Absent someone in the restaurant who could identify him from his photograph, I really had no way to determine who had used the card. It might have been Steven or someone sent in his place. The credit card receipt also did nothing to help me establish what time he had come in for dinner. The only way I was going to find that out was to wait until four o’clock when the servers showed up for work.
I found a plastic evidence bag in the glove box of my car along with a pair of tweezers. I explained to Mason that I’d have to take the credit card receipt. The receipt might have Ambrose’s prints on it and I didn’t want to add mine.
I thanked Mason and wandered into the bar where I ordered a coke and sat down to await the arrival of the restaurant help. I chatted with the bartender and showed him a picture of Ambrose. He had worked the previous night but didn’t recall seeing him. A few minutes later, a guy who looked markedly similar to the same character in the silver Ford Explorer plunked his ass on the bar stool next to mine. He ordered a gin and tonic. We made small talk for a few minutes. He introduced himself as Ray.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
I smiled. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you. My name’s Clark,” I said, extending a hand, “Kent, Clark Kent.” We shook hands. We exchanged a glance that suggested we both knew I was jerking him around.
Just then my cell phone chirped. It was Kate. “Excuse me, Ray,” I said, and stepped away.
“What’s up?”
“Barnes is moving.”
“Where are you at?”
“He’s southbound on the I-15, and we’re about to exit east on I-215.”
“Need some help?”
Silent Witness Page 18
