Injustice for all jd-3

by Scott Pratt

  “Why did she leave?”

  “She was lonely, I suppose. My father worked all the time. He thought he was doing what he was supposed to do. It’s all he’s ever known.”

  Anita walks back over to her chair and sits down. I take a sip of wine. It’s warm going down my throat.

  “How do you like it?” Anita says.

  “Excellent.”

  “Do you like Chopin?” She waves her hand slightly. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  “I like classical music in small doses. I’m more of a rhythm and blues guy.”

  “So what did you come to tell me?”

  I take another sip of the wine and look at her. I’ve been struggling with this for weeks now. Before I start to talk, I raise the glass to my lips and take a long swallow. I set the glass on the table, rest my elbows on my knees, and fold my hands.

  “I saw Tommy Miller the morning Judge Green was killed. I found him sleeping downstairs on a couch at my house before I left for work. I didn’t really think anything about it at the time. I thought he probably just didn’t want to go home the night they buried his dad. But later, after I found out what had happened to the judge and after I talked to you at the crime scene, I guess I should have told you.”

  She’s holding the wineglass under her nose with both hands, gently swirling the liquid and breathing in deeply.

  “Now you’ve told me,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t really change anything, does it?”

  “There’s more. I found out later that the clothes he was wearing when he woke up smelled like gasoline. He had what seemed to be a reasonable explanation at the time, so I didn’t say anything to anyone.”

  “What was his explanation?”

  “He was drunk, and he spilled gas on himself when he stopped at a station.”

  “That should be easy enough to verify, provided we can ask him which station he went to.”

  “You’ll have to find him first.”

  “Did he tell you all of this?”

  “No. I haven’t talked to him. It’s all secondhand.”

  “And what became of this clothing?” Anita says.

  “I’m not sure. I think it might have been destroyed.”

  “Intentionally destroyed?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it could potentially harm someone I love very much.”

  “Your son?”

  “Someone I love very much. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Anita leans forward, the wineglass still dangling from her slender fingers.

  “You realize you’re telling me you may very well be guilty of a crime, Counselor. And this person you love so much, he or she could be guilty of a crime as well.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate for several seconds. “I still don’t think Tommy killed the judge, but I guess I just wanted to apologize for not being honest with you from the beginning.”

  She’s silent for a minute, and then she does something that takes me completely by surprise. She gets up from the chair, walks over, and sits next to me on the couch. I feel a tightness in my stomach, a rush of excitement. My face flushes, and I immediately feel guilty.

  “I owe you an apology, too,” she says. She smells like lilac.

  “Really? For what?”

  “For getting you fired. Indicting Tommy Miller was my boss’s idea. But sitting there listening to you rip the case apart and thunder away at Mooney made me realize I should have stood up to him. I guess I was feeling a little desperate with all the pressure to make an arrest. Judges and politicians from all over the state were calling my boss, and he was starting to lean on me. You know how cops are. The last thing you want to admit is that you have nothing, that you can’t prove a single thing. So when Harmon came up with this bright idea to go to Mooney, I went along with it. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not the first cop who’s given in to the temptation to use the power of the grand jury prematurely,” I say, “and I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

  “I never dreamed it would cost you your job,” she says.

  She places her hand on my thigh, and my skin tingles. I take another drink of the wine.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “We’re fine. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I need to get going. Caroline should be home by now. Thanks for talking to me.”

  I set the empty wineglass on the table and stand. Anita leads me back through the condo to the door. She opens it and I step out into the night air. Relief washes over me. I’ve escaped. But I turn back.

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why aren’t you married? I mean, you’re bright, you’re beautiful, you’re talented. I can’t believe they’re not standing in line to snatch you up.”

  “I’m waiting for a man like my father,” she says. “I’ve only met one who could even come close, and he’s taken.”

  She smiles at me and winks, and gently closes the door.

  43

  The next morning I’m at the grocery store, leaning over the fresh chicken comparing prices, when I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I can see someone in my peripheral vision standing about ten feet to my right. I glance over and see a blond, overweight, middle-aged woman I vaguely recognize. She’s staring at me. I try to place her but can’t. The look on her face is one of contempt, and I turn back to the chicken, hoping she’ll go away.

  I pick out a small packet of breasts, place it in the basket I’m carrying, and glance back toward her. She’s still there, and she’s still staring. I turn and start walking in the opposite direction. I’ve taken about five steps when I hear a voice behind me.

  “We missed you at the execution.”

  I keep walking.

  “Hey, superstar lawyer! I said we missed you at the execution!”

  I suddenly realize who she is, and my throat tightens. It’s Brian Gant’s wife, Donna. I’d read the cursory account of Brian’s execution in the newspaper a few days earlier with a deep sense of regret. With everything that had been going on, I’d forgotten about it completely. I remember mentioning it to Mooney the morning Judge Green was killed, but after that, Brian had faded from my consciousness like fog being warmed by the sun. I stop and turn to face her.

  “I’m sorry, Donna. I’m truly sorry.”

  She steps up close to me, her eyes filled with fury.

  “You’re right about that,” she says. “You’re the sorriest damned excuse for a lawyer I’ve ever seen. How does it feel to be responsible for the death of an innocent man?”

  “I can’t explain how it feels,” I say honestly. “I wish I could have done more.”

  “Brian told me you came down to the prison a few weeks ago and tried to unload your guilt on him. He said you told him you were sorry. You’re just sorry all over the place, aren’t you?”

  “What do you want from me, Donna? I did all I could.”

  “You know what the worst part of this is? The only reason Brian ended up with you as his lawyer was because we were poor. Tell me something. When the judge appointed you to represent him, why didn’t you tell the judge you didn’t have enough experience to handle a death penalty case?”

  “I thought I was ready.”

  “You thought you were ready? You thought wrong, didn’t you? You got your ass kicked by a confused five-year-old girl. And now my husband is dead.”

  I look at the floor in shame. The same thing has passed through my mind a million times. I was young, I was eager, and I wanted to make my mark. But she’s right. I wasn’t ready.

  “Look at me, you son of a bitch,” she says.

  I raise my head slowly and look into her eyes. There are no tears, only the stark face of hatred.

  “My husband was innocent,” she says. “Say it!”

&nbs
p; “Your husband was innocent.” The words come out weakly. I feel so ashamed, I’m barely able to speak.

  “And you killed him. Say it!”

  “And I killed him.”

  She moves even closer to me, so close I can feel her breath on my cheek. Then she spits in my face.

  “I hope you rot in hell.”

  She abruptly turns and walks away.

  44

  At some level, I’m conscious that I’m dreaming, but my mind won’t allow me to wake up.

  I jump from the door of the C-130 Hercules and tuck. The static line snaps me backward as it rips the cover off my pack and deploys the parachute. I take a quick look up at the green canopy and then look down. I’m dropping toward a narrow peninsula on an island, thousands of miles from home. An airstrip extends far out beneath me. The green ocean is beating against jagged rocks no more than thirty feet on either side of the strip.

  Two hours earlier, I’d never heard of Grenada. All they told us when we left Georgia was that we were going to war.

  During the long flight, they’ve given us a quick briefing. The Grenadian government has been overthrown by left- wing radicals. Russian, Cuban, and North Korean advisers have been spotted on the island. They’re completing a ten-thousand-feet-long airstrip. A military buildup is suspected. There are hundreds of Americans on Grenada, most of them students at the Grand Anse area’s True Blue campus of St. George’s University School of Medicine. President Ronald Reagan has issued an executive order. We’re going in.

  Our mission is to jump from only five hundred feet above the airstrip at a place called Point Salines. We’re to neutralize any resistance and secure the airstrip so our planes can land. Once we’ve done that, we’re to evacuate the students from the medical school. They’ve told us that a small number of Delta Force operators are already on the island, along with a few Navy SEALs. A U.S. Marine amphibious force has been diverted from a mission in Lebanon and will be mounting an assault. The Air Force is sending AC-130 Spectre gunships and combat controllers. Two battalions of Rangers are going in, and fighters from the Eighty-second Airborne Division will land as soon as we clear the runway. They’ve told us that Grenada is roughly one hundred twenty square miles, but that the fighting will concentrate around a city called St. George’s. The entire country has a population of one hundred thousand. I remember shaking my head when the lieutenant said that. All this for a country with a population roughly the size of Knoxville?

  I’m only twenty-one, and despite having been through Ranger school and feeling bulletproof, as soon as the sound of machine gun fire below reaches my ears, I feel fear welling in my stomach. Ten seconds later I hit the tarmac, roll, shed my chute, unstrap my weapon from my ruck, and make for a rally point just east of the airstrip.

  I dive behind a berm as small arms and machine gun fire whizzes by overhead and kicks up sand near my feet. The steady thump of antiaircraft fire echoes off the hills beyond the airstrip. I belly crawl to the edge of the berm and shoulder my weapon. Other Rangers are running and yelling around me. I look for a target and am just about to fire when something falls on my back, nearly knocking the wind out of me. It’s a fellow Ranger. I push him off me, and when he rolls, I see that his face has been blown off. I scream, stand up, start firing, and run straight toward the enemy.

  “Joe! Joe! Wake up! Joe!”

  I open my eyes. Caroline is sitting up, shaking my shoulder.

  “You’re screaming. Are you all right?”

  I shake my head in disbelief. It seemed so real. “Yeah, baby, I’m fine. I guess it was just a nightmare.”

  “ Just a nightmare? You’re soaking wet.”

  I sit up on the edge of the bed as Caroline rubs my back.

  “Why don’t you go dry off and come back to bed?” she says.

  I look at the clock. Almost four in the morning. I stand up and walk around the bed to Caroline’s side. I tuck the comforter in around her and kiss her on the forehead.

  “Go on back to sleep,” I say. “I think I’ll just stay awake.”

  I walk out to the couch, turn on the television, and try not to think about the dream. But it won’t go away. A year after I jumped into Grenada, I learned that the U.S. State Department had issued a warning to the Grenadian government that we were coming. They, in turn, told the Russians and the North Koreans, who immediately left the island. All that was left were a few Cuban engineers and the People’s Defense Force, but they were armed to the teeth, and they were waiting for us.

  That was the day I knew I would leave the army, and that was the day I knew I’d never trust my own government again.

  45

  Anita White believed Tommy Miller would show up at his mother’s house before long. He was a kid, after all. His father had just been buried. He’d want to be near his mother, and he’d need money. Anita formulated a simple but effective plan for finding out if Tommy came around. She gave her cell number to the nosy neighbor, Trudy Goodin, and told her to keep a close eye out.

  Mrs. Goodin called late on a Tuesday night.

  “I saw him through the window,” she said. “I’m sure it’s him.”

  Anita and three other agents took Tommy down at six the next morning when he and his mother backed out of their garage. Toni Miller was driving, with Tommy in the passenger seat. The agents made the usual show of force on a felony arrest-the guns drawn, the yelling, the threats. When Special Agent in Charge Ralph Harmon discovered that Tommy had an airline ticket to San Francisco and five thousand dollars in cash in his backpack, he became infuriated and arrested Toni for obstructing justice. Both Tommy and his mother were handcuffed, taken to the TBI office, and placed in separate interrogation rooms. Agent Harmon tried to interview Toni Miller first, but she immediately demanded to speak to an attorney.

  “What are we going to do with her?” Anita asked as Harmon walked out of the room.

  “Let her sit. We can hold her for up to seventy-two hours before we have to get her in front of a magistrate. There’s no way I’m letting her anywhere near a phone. The first thing she’ll do is start calling lawyers.”

  Anita watched on the monitor as Harmon walked in and read Tommy his Miranda rights. To her surprise, Tommy didn’t mention anything about an attorney. Harmon then left Tommy alone for three hours. Toni Miller was still in the other interrogation room down the hall. During the entire three hours, the only peep the agents heard from Tommy was when he asked to go to the bathroom. Other than that, he simply sat with his head down on the table.

  Just before Anita, Norcross, and Harmon entered the interrogation room to interview Tommy, Harmon called them into his office.

  “I’ll handle the questioning,” Harmon said. “The two of you just watch and learn. The only satisfactory conclusion to this interview will be a signed confession and an arrest for first-degree murder, and I intend to make sure it happens.”

  When they walked into the room, Harmon took a seat directly across the table from Tommy. Anita sat down to Tommy’s right, Norcross to his left. Anita looked at Tommy closely. What she saw was a frightened boy who looked very much like his father. Anita had seen pictures of Ray Miller in the newspaper, and she immediately noticed the similarities. He had a young handsomeness about him, with dark hair and eyes, a slight lump in the bridge of his nose, high cheekbones, and well-defined facial lines.

  “Where have you been, son?” Harmon said in a friendly tone. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I was on the road for a little while,” Tommy replied.

  “I want you to understand something from the beginning, Tommy,” Harmon said. “It’s okay if I call you Tommy, right? I want you to know that we’re here to help you. We’re willing to do anything we can to help you help yourself. You believe that, don’t you, Tommy? You believe we’re here to help? We’re your friends, son. We don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

  Tommy nodded his head silently. Anita thought she saw a look of relief cross his face. She w
anted to tell him that Harmon wasn’t his friend. She wanted to tell him he should ask for a lawyer, but she sat there silently, just as Harmon had ordered.

  “I read your Miranda rights to you earlier, correct?” Harmon continued. “I know your dad was a lawyer, so you should be familiar with your rights, but there’s been a change in the law recently. The United States Supreme Court says you no longer have a constitutional right to have an attorney present during questioning. You still have a right to an attorney, and you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand,” Tommy said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer present during this interview?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that ever since you picked me up,” Tommy said. “I don’t have anything to hide. I just want to get this behind me.”

  “Of course you do. Besides, only a person who’s done something wrong needs a lawyer, am I right? Only guilty people need lawyers.”

  “Where is my mother?”

  “She’s just down the hall. She’s fine.”

  “Is she going to go to jail?”

  “A lot will depend on how our conversation goes,” Harmon said. “Can we get you anything? Something to drink? Eat? A cigarette?”

  “Some water would be good,” Tommy said.

  Harmon nodded at Anita. “Get the boy some water.”

  Anita returned quickly with a bottle of water, stung by the cavalier manner in which Harmon had ordered her out of the room. She watched as Tommy lifted the bottle to his lips. His hands were trembling slightly, which was understandable, given the circumstances.

  “I guess you know why you’re here,” Harmon said to Tommy.

  “Yes, sir, I think so. I think you want to talk to me about Judge Green’s murder.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Tommy gave Harmon the same answers he’d given Jack Dillard a couple of weeks earlier. He recounted the evening as best he could but was unable to answer any specific questions about his actions after he left the cemetery that night. He told Harmon about waking up outside the convenience store and driving to the Dillards’. He told him about how his clothing smelled like gasoline and that Mrs. Dillard had offered to wash the clothes for him. He said he ran from his home because his mother told him the police suspected him of being involved in the judge’s murder. No, he didn’t know how she found out about it. As soon as he returned home that morning, his mother told him he should leave. He ran from the police in Durham for the same reason he left Johnson City-fear. He didn’t think the police would believe his story about not being able to remember. He explained how he gave his car to a stranger in North Carolina, knowing the police would be looking for the car, and how he hitchhiked and rode buses around the Southeast for two weeks, staying in cheap hotels and flophouses along the way. When he was finished, Harmon sat back and folded his arms.