by Scott Pratt
“Say your clothing smelled like gasoline?” he said.
“I must have spilled some on me when I was pumping gas. I don’t remember it, though.”
“Where is this convenience store where you say you woke up?”
Tommy gave him the location, and Harmon and Norcross went into the hall for a few minutes.
“Agent Norcross is going over to the convenience store right now to see whether anyone remembers you,” Harmon said when he returned. “In the meantime, tell me how you felt when you heard about what Judge Green had done to your father.”
“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Confused, surprised.”
“Were you angry?”
“Not really. When Dad first told me about it, he said he’d fix it. He said everything would be fine and for me just to go about my business at school and not worry about it. So that’s what I did.”
“But then things got worse, didn’t they? How did you feel then?”
“My dad didn’t tell me much about it. I didn’t know how bad things really were until my mom called me and told me my car was going to be repossessed. That’s when they bought me the Honda.”
“What were you driving before?”
“A Jeep.”
“A new one?”
“It was a couple of years old. My dad got it for me when I graduated from high school.”
“So you go from driving a new Jeep to an old Honda,” Harmon said. “That must have bothered you, at least a little.”
“I got used to it.”
“Tommy,” Harmon said, “if I’m going to help you, you have to be honest with me. Please don’t try to tell me you felt absolutely no anger toward Judge Green.”
“I can’t honestly tell you I felt no anger toward him, especially after Dad killed himself,” Tommy said.
“And that’s only natural,” Harmon said. “Anyone in your situation would feel the same way. On a scale of one to ten, how angry would you say you were?”
“On a scale of one to ten? Twelve.”
Anita cringed. Tommy obviously didn’t know it, but by being honest, he was hanging himself.
“So you were angry enough to kill him.”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t kill him.”
“Really? How do you know? You say you don’t remember what happened. You say you were angry. I know if some jerk had caused my father to kill himself, I’d want him dead. Maybe you drank yourself a bunch of liquid courage and went over and got a little revenge.”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t. I could never do something like that.”
“We have two witnesses who saw your car in the judge’s neighborhood right after the murder. One of the witnesses got a good look at the driver, and the description the witness gave matches you.”
Anita shifted uneasily in her chair. Harmon was lying. It was perfectly legal for a police officer to lie to a suspect, but the tactic sometimes backfired.
“Really?” Tommy said. “You have people who say they saw me?”
“Tell you what I’m going to do, Tommy,” Harmon said. “Agent White and I are going to take a little break so we can check on Agent Norcross. You take the time to think about things. Think hard, Tommy. You seem like a good kid to me, and I don’t want to see you go down the wrong path. If you tell us what happened that night, we’ll talk to the district attorney for you. We’ll tell him you were cooperative and remorseful. It could be the difference between a long sentence and the death penalty. And who knows? After everything you’ve been through, you probably have some kind of mental defense. Diminished capacity, that kind of thing. So you just think things through carefully, and we’ll be back in a bit.”
It went on like that all night. Anita knew what Harmon was doing. He was wearing the boy down, trying to get him to agree that he must have been the killer. Norcross’s trip to the convenience store revealed that no one who worked at the store remembered seeing Tommy. Norcross had even made a side trip to visit the employee who had worked the graveyard shift. He showed the employee Tommy’s photo and described his car, but the employee said he didn’t recall anyone who looked like Tommy in or around the store that night. There was no record of any credit card transaction with Tommy’s name on it.
Harmon would leave Tommy sitting for hours at a time, then go back into the room and question him again. With each visit, he’d reveal another detail about exactly how the judge had been killed, how someone had lain in wait, cut down a tree across the driveway, ambushed the judge with a blunt instrument, dragged him across the yard, doused him with kerosene, and hanged him from a maple tree. The intensity of the conversation increased with each visit. Anita noticed the physical and mental changes in Tommy as the grueling hours passed and the questioning became more confrontational, more accusatory. The boy was exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, which had taken on a forlorn, empty look. His speech had grown slow and deliberate, as though he had to search for every word. He was easier to confuse.
Finally, at ten minutes past three in the morning, after nearly twenty hours of questioning, Harmon leaned across the table to within a foot of Tommy’s nose.
“I just talked to your mother,” Harmon said. “She says she thinks you did it.”
Tommy burst into tears, and Anita knew that Harmon had broken him.
“My mother thinks I did it?” Tommy said slowly.
“Your own mother,” Harmon said, shaking his head.
Tommy’s head dropped to the table. His shoulders shuddered as he sobbed loudly, uncontrollably.
“Oh my God!” Tommy cried. “Oh my God! I’m a murderer!”
46
Roscoe Stinnett pulled into the gravel driveway of a small bar outside Morristown. He’d been here before, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable. The place was a dump. It was in the middle of nowhere. But Rafael Ramirez owned it and refused to meet anyplace else. Since Stinnett’s relationship with Ramirez had been so profitable, he ignored his misgivings, got out of his Jaguar, and walked through the gravel. He’d brought his briefcase along, just in case. He didn’t know what Ramirez wanted, but he hoped it was something that would involve another fat fee. Perhaps he needed help moving his cash around. Stinnett had some experience in that regard, but he’d never dealt with a drug dealer as wealthy as Ramirez.
Stinnett pushed through the heavy front door and stepped into the bar. Ramirez was waiting in the corner booth, the same seat where Stinnett had met with the person he knew only as the Mexican. It was there, in that very same booth, where Stinnett had set in motion the murder of Hannah Mills. He immediately put his hands on the table of the first booth inside the door and waited for the two men to frisk him and check him for recording devices. When they were finished, he walked back to Ramirez’s booth.
“How about a scotch on the rocks?” Stinnett said as he sat down.
“No scotch here,” Ramirez said.
“Beer then. Whatever’s on tap.”
Ramirez motioned to a white man behind the bar and told him to bring Stinnett a draft beer. The man brought the beer around the bar and put it down in front of Stinnett.
“So how’s life on the outside?” Stinnett said.
“I want my money back,” Ramirez growled.
Stinnett nearly choked on the beer. He put the glass back down on the table.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“The money I paid you for the murder case. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You didn’t earn it. I want it back.”
“But I fulfilled my obligation under the contract,” Stinnett said. “The case against you was dismissed. I earned the fee.”
“I’m willing to let you keep twenty thousand,” Ramirez said. “But I want the rest of it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stinnett said. “It’s unheard of. You signed a contract. The fee is nonrefundable. Nearly all fees in criminal cases are nonrefundable. I couldn’t run my business otherwise. I have to pay my bills, plan my budget-”
“Live li
ke royalty?” Ramirez interrupted. “I saw the Jaguar when you pulled up.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I think I’m being generous,” Ramirez said. “More than fair.”
“I don’t see how you can call giving you a hundred and thirty thousand dollars of my money-money to which I have a contractual, legal right- fair,” Stinnett said. “The contract called for me to represent you to the disposition of the case, whether it be trial, plea bargain, dismissal, whatever. I got the case dismissed.”
“I was responsible for the case being dismissed,” Ramirez said. “Not you.”
Stinnett heard the door open and looked around. Another Mexican had walked into the bar. He looked at Ramirez and shook his head.
“But I was the one who brought you the proposal in the first place!” Stinnett said.
“And for that, you’re being paid twenty thousand dollars.”
“But when I first mentioned the deal, you didn’t say anything about refunding the fee for the murder case. I was under the impression it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“You were wrong.”
Stinnett sat back in the booth and ran his hands through his curly hair. The truth was that he no longer had the money. He’d used it for a down payment on a used Cessna Skyhawk. He’d been flying for most of his adult life and had had his eye on the plane for a long time. Ramirez had given him the means to go ahead with the purchase.
“This isn’t right,” Stinnett said. “What if I refuse?”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“What if I told you I don’t have it? That I’ve already spent it?”
“I’d think you’re either a liar or very stupid. I want my money, and I want it in the next twenty-four hours.”
“But that’s impossible! I’m telling you I don’t have it.”
“What if your life depended on it?”
“So now you’re threatening me? I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with. I’m not some criminal you can kill and nobody will care. If you do anything to me, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Ramirez began to laugh.
“Did you hear that, muchachos? There’ll be hell to pay!”
Stinnett squirmed in the booth as the laughter continued. He started to get up, but Ramirez’s hand caught his forearm.
“Relax, my friend. Relax. I should have known better than to try to get money back from a lawyer.”
“You don’t understand,” Stinnett said nervously. His leg was beginning to shake uncontrollably. He suddenly felt nauseated. “It’s just that we had a contract. A contract, you see?”
“Yes, yes, a contract,” Ramirez said.
Ramirez reached beneath the table, and Stinnett suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol equipped with a silencer.
“Speaking of contracts,” Ramirez said, “I’m afraid you’re the only person who might be able to tie me to the contract on the girl. The only person I don’t trust, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Stinnett said. He felt his bladder give. Warm urine was running down the inside of his thigh. “I’d never do that. Think about it. If I ever said anything about you, I’d be right in the middle of it, too. It would be professional suicide. I’d wind up in jail.”
“This friend of yours, this friend from the district attorney’s office who gave you the money for the contract,” Ramirez said. “He knows who I am, that I arranged the murder.”
“So what? You didn’t touch the money. You didn’t talk to the people who actually killed the girl. You’re clean on this, Rafael.”
“I don’t like loose ends.”
“Will you please get that gun out of my face?” Stinnett was trying to remain calm, but he felt himself on the verge of tears.
“I’ll give you the money back,” Stinnett blurted.
“No, you won’t. You’re lying.” Ramirez pulled the hammer back on the pistol.
The last words Roscoe Stinnett heard were, “You’re all the same. Fucking lawyers.”
47
Special Agent Mo Rider felt his adrenaline surge as the UH-60 Black Hawk banked and began its descent into the valley below. It was just before dawn. There was enough light to see, but the sun hadn’t yet climbed over the mountain peaks to the east. As the wind whistled and the blades beat like war drums, Rider was thankful that someone up the chain at the Department of Justice had finally listened.
Through the network of informants he’d developed in more than twenty years with the DEA, Rider had been able to gather enough information to convince his superiors that if they committed the assets, they’d get their man. Satellite time had been approved, which was a rarity in the mountains of East Tennessee, and the images they relayed had confirmed the informants’ information. The patch was there. Their man was there.
Two helicopters had been assigned and had arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, at five that morning. They were equipped with state-of-the-art thermal-imaging capabilities. And now nineteen men-seven FBI agents, eleven DEA agents, and Sheriff Bates from Washington County-were about to rock Rafael Ramirez’s world. Each of them wore a black Kevlar helmet and vest, black utilities, and black boots. Each carried the weapon of his choice.
Rider had both planned the mission and conducted the preraid briefing. He was confident every man knew his job. They knew exactly where the Mexicans were sleeping. Rider even knew which space on the tent floor was occupied by Ramirez.
The choppers came in low and fast, one on each side of the small campsite. The Mexicans were just beginning to scramble from the tents when the pilot pulled the nose into the air and dropped the skids onto the deck. Rider launched himself from the door and ran straight toward Ramirez’s tent. He was carrying a sawed-off Beretta semiautomatic twelve-gauge shotgun. There was no time for taking careful aim on this mission. If he had to use the weapon, it’d be point and shoot.
Rider could hear the agents behind him shouting, ordering the Mexicans to get on the ground. A man ran from Ramirez’s tent, tripped, and fell to the ground. Two agents were on him before he could get back to his feet. Another man suddenly appeared in the opening of Ramirez’s tent. He was carrying a pistol in his right hand.
Rider stopped in his tracks. It was Ramirez. The scar was unmistakable.
“Drop it!” Rider screamed. The Mexican hesitated.
“Drop the weapon!”
Ramirez’s eyes tightened. The pistol started to come up, and Rider pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, Ramirez’s right leg jerked backward, and he fell to the ground on his face. Rider stepped quickly to Ramirez and tossed the pistol away while two more agents entered the tent. Rider pulled Ramirez’s hands behind his back, pulled a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his web belt, and tightened them securely on the Mexican’s wrists.
“I should have blown your fucking head off,” Rider said, and he meant it. Rider knew Ramirez was a violent sociopath, and he believed him to be directly or indirectly responsible for at least a dozen murders, but the two that stuck in Rider’s craw were the murders of Katie Dean’s aunt and her son. And now, according to Sheriff Bates, Ramirez had been involved in Katie’s murder. Bates had only circumstantial proof and had told Rider he didn’t think Ramirez would ever be convicted of the murder, but Ramirez didn’t know that. Ramirez also didn’t know how far Rider was willing to go to get him to talk. He was about to find out.
Rider moved to Ramirez’s side and knelt. He placed his boot on the bloody crater in Ramirez’s thigh. The Mexican moaned.
“It looks like you’ll live,” Rider said. “That is unless you don’t talk to me.” He leaned close to Ramirez’s ear. “Now I swear to God, asshole, if you don’t tell me exactly what I want to know, I’ll stake you out over there and leave you for the animals.”
48
I’m dreaming of sitting in an electric chair with a hood over my head and Brian Gant standing with his hand on the switch, laughing maniacally, when my cell phone awakens
me. I pick it up and see that it’s 4:12 a.m. The caller ID tells me Anita White is on the other end of the line.
“I need to talk to you,” she says when I answer.
“Now?”
“Yes. Can you meet me?”
I crawl out of bed, throw on some clothes, and drive to Perkins restaurant in Johnson City. Anita is sitting at a booth in the corner, alone. She’s drinking coffee, looking haggard and exhausted.
“I didn’t want you to hear this on the news,” she says after I’ve sat down and ordered coffee and ice water. “Tommy Miller confessed a little while ago to killing Judge Green.”
The words stun me, as though I’ve just been hit in the face with a shovel. I stare at Anita, unable to speak. When my senses begin to return, I’m left with feelings of betrayal and confusion. How could I have misjudged him so fundamentally? Why did he have to drag my family into this mess? I think of Toni Miller, and wonder just how much more emotional devastation she can take.
“Tell me about it,” I say, barely able to speak. “Tell me everything.”
Anita spends nearly an hour telling me about Tommy’s interrogation. She goes into great detail about Harmon taking over and the tactics he used, which included planting the details of the crime scene in Tommy’s mind. She tells me that Harmon wrote out the confession himself, and that Tommy initialed each page and signed it. By the time she’s finished, I’ve become angry.
