by Anne Hagan
I tapped my brakes a couple of times to try and make the driver aware that he was closing too fast. I realized my mistake and the amount of trouble I was in way too late. The van had an Illinois front license plate. The driver must have been lying in wait for me in Morelville. My deputies hadn’t spotted the van!
I had no radio, just my department cell. I fumbled trying to dial 911 and dropped the phone on the floor of the cab.
“Fuck! I am so screwed!” I screamed out loud. I tried to watch the road while reaching around frantically for my phone.
I was on Cutler Lake Road headed toward the turn off at Mannsfork Road, just before Salt Creek, when the van rammed me with force from behind. My F-150 went fishtailing. I did my best to steer through it as I had been taught at the Academy all those years before. The van caught me again on the left rear quarter panel, turned me and railroaded me into the “Y” intersection of Cutler Lake and Mannsfork. I went sailing through the intersection sideways and toward the creek embankment. There was nowhere to go. I was headed for a splashdown in Salt Creek just off the Muskingum River. Drowning is not the way I want to die!
Chapter 17 – Waterlogged
I hit the electronic window release and the window started coming down. At least I had an escape route. I braced for impact. There was a nice but thin tree line dotting the narrow, high banks of the creek. My big truck would give me some protection but I had no idea if my pursuers would stay around to finish the job they started.
My truck skittered through the trees and slowed a little but then it ran out of terra firma and was sailing sideways through the air and into the creek, passenger side first. I looked to my left to see that my attacker had run up over the berm of the road and stopped just before the tree line. He sat staring at me from behind dark sunglasses. He had a gun raised in his left hand. It was pointed out the window toward me. That was the last thing I saw before my truck hit the lower part of the bank, rolled and then hit the water, passenger side down.
It had been a fairly dry spring so far. The creek was a bit deeper than it would be at the peak of summer and moving pretty good but not enough to suck the truck completely under – even on its side – or to move it along in the current.
The steering wheel airbag deployed at impact stunning me. I hung sideways in my seatbelt. After a few seconds - that seemed like an eternity - the bag began to deflate and I started to breathe again. The truck rested on its side, passenger side down. The driver’s side, with the open driver’s side window was up out of the water. For the moment, I was protected from the view of my attacker by the undercarriage of the truck. I shut the still running engine off and looked around. My phone was resting against the opposite door. Creek water was coming in through cracks in the windshield. In moments it would likely shatter and I’d be both soaked and without any working form of communication. Hurriedly, I unlatched my belt and reached for the phone. I grabbed it and then tried to reposition myself standing upright on the interior of the passenger door. The rushing creek likely wouldn’t reach the top of my gun belt when the windshield finally went.
As I dialed 911, a gunshot pierced the air followed very quickly by a ping somewhere off of metal just over my head. He had a good enough angle to shoot into my door! I prayed more traffic would come along and he’d get in his van and leave before he was spotted. I’m a sitting duck!
I crouched low and prayed the windshield held a little longer. I was already ankle deep in water. I didn’t relish the soaking or the cuts I was likely to get when the whole thing came crashing in.
“911 Dispatch. What’s your emergency?”
Another shot rang out. I started choking out words to the dispatcher. “It’s Sherriff Crane. I’ve been run off the road into Salt Creek at the intersection of Cutler and Mannsfork roads by a White, ¾ ton van with Illinois license plates. One assailant is armed and dangerous. Unknown number of assailants. Dispatch any PD or County units in the vicinity. Advise they proceed with extreme caution.”
By the time I’d identified myself, I could hear other dispatchers broadcasting my distress call out. At least it was my county issued cell phone I had been carrying and my identity wasn’t questioned!
“Shots fired” was a phrase that was repeated several times. The first dispatcher had to have heard the shot as she came on the line...
I blew out a breath and prayed that units were in the area.
Over the deafening sounds of my own breathing and the flowing creek, I picked up the sound of an emergency siren. Then, seconds later, I heard tires squeal. I hoped it was my attacker leaving the scene.
My elation was short lived. As I stood back up from my crouched position, the windshield gave way. Safety glass chunks scattered everywhere and cold, muddy creek water poured into my sideways cab. Life sucks but at least I’m alive to tell about it!
After a minute or so, the sound of sirens filled the air. I hazarded a peek up through my open window. I could only see the edge of the steep bank from my vantage point and there was no way to leverage myself out of the truck. It was going to be difficult to get out of both the truck and the creek.
Dispatch was still on the line. “I believe the van has left the scene. I can see out of the truck but I can’t see much from where I am. There isn’t anyone shooting anymore.”
“A city unit is in pursuit of a white van with Illinois plates Sheriff. A unit should be on the scene with you momentarily and rescue units are being dispatched. We’ll get you out of there!”
An hour later, I was sitting on the back bumper of a rescue squad, soaked, muddy and with a few cuts and a pounding headache but thankfully alive and free of major injuries. My truck was in much worse shape. The city PD had a recovery vehicle and crew out trying to right it and pull it out of the creek. There was even talk of bringing a crane in to hoist it. I just wanted to cry. The truck was my baby! I held back my tears and tried to regroup.
As I was exiting the creek, a deputy had handed me a radio. I was still hearing traffic chatter as the chase of the white van continued. Various officers in pursuit were reporting two assailants visible and multiple shots fired. Dana had been right all along. This is a dangerous game, played for keeps!
I needed to call her and tell her what was happening here and warn her to be extremely cautious. In my currently backwards state of mind, I felt responsible for putting her in extreme danger too.
I pulled up Dana’s number and dialed. My call went right to her voicemail. I left an urgent message to call me. There wasn’t anything else I could do. Here I was, a Sheriff, but I’d never felt so powerless.
Chapter 18 – Dana: Attorneys and Gangbangers
Traveling was really starting to wear on me. I had spent more than six hours yesterday on the road between Cleveland, Zanesville and the Crane farm way out in BFE, Ohio. During the drive from the farm to Cleveland, I had a long telephone conversation with agent Webb about the Dawes brothers and the Gangster Demons and our two cases.
I didn’t get back into Cleveland until late and I didn’t sleep well. I was whipped and now I was on an early AM plane to Chicago – again! A desk job like my roommate Cheryl had was starting to look better and better.
I still hadn’t had any luck reaching the criminal attorney, Jonathan Joseph. I was just going to have to pay him a visit. Meanwhile, Gene in the Cleveland Port Office was going to try to work his magic to get me into Stateville to see DeShawn Dawes this afternoon. I was hoping for some breadcrumbs there but holding my breath wasn’t in my plans.
Once my flight landed, I was off and running. No rest for the weary! I picked up a rental car and sped off. I needed to get to Joseph before he went to court or made up some other such excuse not to talk with me. I did do him the courtesy of leaving a message saying I was on my way.
Joseph’s office was a couple of blocks from Douglas Park, west of downtown. It wasn’t in a swanky neighborhood but it certainly wasn’t in the ghetto either. It was close to the Cook County Criminal Court building and that’s pro
bably why he chose that location for his offices. He wouldn’t have far to go to defend his clients involved in preliminary criminal proceedings. It was also close to the freeway and an hour drive to Stateville Correctional, in good traffic – if there was such a thing in Chicago. Anyway, if he picked his prison visit times carefully, he could avoid most of the rush hour crush either way.
I circled his block and then the next before I finally found a parking spot. I got out and hoofed it back to the law office on foot.
Jonathan Joseph’s space wasn’t large or even particularly impressive. His was a one man show. Really, since he wasn’t dealing with high profile, white collar crime, these offices probably fit just fine with his clientele.
I’d done a little research on Joseph when I first got the visitor logs from Stateville. I knew that he was 53 and I had a basic idea of what he looked like if he or anyone else tried to play dumb with me. The photos on his website and in the bar review showed him to be about 6 feet tall, thin, with thinning gray or silver hair and glasses. He wasn’t a snazzy dresser, judging by his photos. He’d blend into any crowd in the city and be invisible to most people. He seemed to be alone in the world; no spouse, no children, no siblings and both his parents had passed away.
I have no idea what this guy’s story is! He isn’t living “high” but he’s visiting known gangbangers in jail that were not ones he defended in court. There’s something awfully fishy here.
I let myself into his outer office. The lights were on but there were no other signs of life in the tiny area. A copy machine stood silent, not even turned on. There was a reception desk but no one was sitting there and, judging by the layer of dust, it looked as if no one had used it in quite some time. The offices were eerily quiet.
“Hello?” I called out. There was no immediate response. I peeked around but there wasn’t much to see up front. After waiting a couple of minutes, I called out again, “Is anyone here?”
After several seconds had passed with no response, I took out my badge and I ventured down the tiny hallway that opened off to one side of the reception desk. The first room I came to was a dark, very empty conference room. There was a table and several chairs and a single wall of law books but not much else. Across the hallway was a small restroom, also dark. A few more steps down and I was standing at a door that stood just slightly ajar. Behind it was presumably Jonathan Joseph’s office.
“Mr. Joseph? Are you here?” Again, there was no response. I put my badge away and put my hand on my gun as I moved against the door frame. Slowly I pushed open the door with my foot and I peered around the frame into the room. The lights were on but there was no movement from inside. I drew my pistol and stepped around the door frame, gun at the ready, and quickly found myself facing into a room that was not only empty of its usual occupant, but one that had been left in a hurry.
The room wasn’t tossed but it was in serious disarray. File drawers were open and files were missing in chunks. Storage boxes were scattered on the floor, some full, some still flat, ready to be put together for use. A small coat closet door stood open to one side of the room. I crossed to the closet and peered in. It was empty except for an old umbrella and a pair of men’s dress shoes that had seen better days. There were a few bookshelves in the room. The held some books but little else. The office was completely devoid of personal items.
I suspected Jonathan Joseph had left his office in quite a hurry – he hadn’t turned off lights or locked the front door. I thought though that he left voluntarily given the obvious signs that he’d been packing and that he’d already taken anything of sentimental or personal value.
I crossed to his desk. His phone answering system was flashing bright red digits. The attorney had multiple messages he hadn’t listened to. I’m sure that my call from this morning was among them and possibly some others I’d made too. On a whim, I took out my cell phone and dialed his office number, hoping to get his answering service. No such luck. It rang right back to his office. Wherever he was, he hadn’t let them know to service his calls.
I left the office without touching anything other than the front door handle that I’d touched when I came in. The place might be a crime scene, but I doubted it. It was more likely that Joseph was running to keep from being a gang hit statistic.
I walked back to my car and, once safely inside, I called Gene in the Cleveland Port Office.
“Gene it’s Dana.”
“Hey Rossi, I was about to call you. You’re a go for Stateville.”
“I’ll head that way now. I just left Jonathan Joseph’s office.”
“What did you find out there?”
“It’s unlocked but deserted Gene. Someone’s been packing. It doesn’t look like there was any sort of a struggle but it sure doesn’t look like Joseph intends to return either.”
Gene let out a low whistle. “We just can’t catch a break on this case!”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, can you start some of the team working on finding him? Check his home, his bank accounts, properties he might own, whether he’s bought airline tickets...” I trailed off.
“We’ll get on it Dana. If he’s not at home, do you want a missing persons report filed?”
“Not yet. He has no family that I could find when I did my initial screen. This may be a somewhat voluntary disappearance. If he’s running, we don’t want to tip anyone.”
“Gotcha. You be careful Rossi!”
“Always.” I hung up and clipped my cell back to my side. My mind skipped ahead to the meeting with DeShawn Dawes at Stateville. I never noticed the blinking message light on the phone indicating I had a voicemail.
###
Stateville Correctional Center is a maximum security facility about an hour west of Chicago. It houses some of Illinois’ worst male offenders; the majority of whom are locked up gangbangers from multiple, rival gangs that run rampant in Chicago and environs.
It seems that it’s only slightly easier to process into the facility as a visitor than it is as a prisoner. At least, since I’m a Federal Agent, I was afforded professional courtesies. Still, it isn’t a place I wanted to visit often.
As a law enforcement officer, I was shown into a private conference area where I could meet with Dawes like other law enforcement officials, lawyers and prosecutors would. I cooled my heels for about a half hour before he was led in, in cuffs, and placed in a chair opposite me by a corrections officer who then went and stood by the door but didn’t leave the room. That practice has to make the process of passing gang information difficult if it’s coming through a lawyer... bet it didn’t happen that way!
I looked DeShawn Dawes over. Really, he was just a boy. I knew from my talk with Agent Webb that he was 20 years old and a convicted rapist and batterer, but he still had a baby face without even a hint of a sign that he’d ever had to shave it. He was thin and wiry and not all beefed up like so many males with nothing to do in prison but work out. Life inside had to be tough for a guy like him, even with gang protection. I wondered if he even had protection. No gang tattoos were visible in areas left uncovered by his prison issue.
“Mr. Dawes, I’m Agent Rossi with Customs and Border Protection.” He just stared at me. “I’m here to ask you some questions. I think we can help each other out.”
“I don’t need no help agent.” He spat the word out as if it were distasteful for him to even talk to me and then he sunk low in his chair and looked at the floor.
I decided to lay my cards on the table early. I leaned across the surface toward him and added a little concern to my voice. “Ok, maybe you don’t, but your brother DeWayne needs all the help he can get right now and you might be able to provide that.”
His head shot up. “What’ Wayne got to do with this?”
“DeWayne was picked up on Federal charges in Ohio a couple of days ago.” I didn’t tell him why because I wanted to see what he would give up. “In the process, he took a couple of shots at a police officer. He’ll be charged in Ohio with a
ttempted murder of a law enforcement officer for that, as well. He’s looking at a lot of time unless we can get some answers.” I sat back and let that sink in.
Dawes stared through me for what seemed like several minutes. While I waited, I thought about how to frame my next questions. I hadn’t dealt with a lot of gang members in my line of work. I didn’t know if he’d cooperate and, if he was willing, what he’d actually say with the C.O. standing there by the door, pretending to look bored but, in reality, listening in. I looked at Dawes and then, when I caught his eyes, I shifted mine quickly to the C.O. and back without moving my head.
DeShawn shifted his gaze down and nodded almost imperceptibly. He sat back up in his chair, looked straight at me and asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”
Sensing where he was going, I responded, “That’s up to you. Time’s short for me and my colleagues. We can chat and you can decide how much you want to say, off the record. If you want to go ‘on record’, we’ll have to wait until we can get your lawyer in here.”
Dawes turned his gaze to the C.O. and cleared his throat. I stepped in.
“Officer, I need to speak with Mr. Dawes privately about a matter unrelated to the crimes he’s serving time for.”
The officer stepped forward. “Give me a moment ma’am.” He keyed his radio mike and gave a coded request involving our interview room. Minutes later, two additional officers entered the room. Dawes was forced to stand while he was placed in leg irons and then shackled to a ring cemented into the floor. He was then allowed to reseat himself. He remained handcuffed. Once he was secured in place, all three officers retreated from the room. One remained visible just outside the door.
I decided to take a more familiar approach with him for now. He was an already hardened criminal at his young age but, he was really young. A friendly tone would go further than an authoritative one. I clasped my hands on the table and leaned forward a bit. “Who did you work for on the outside, DeShawn?”
