by Scott Pratt
“Don’t bother,” I say. “Bates is on it.”
“Bates? What do you mean, Bates?”
“I called him.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because there’s a puppy in the house that’s obviously been alone for a while. Because there’s meat spoiled in the refrigerator. Because her house is outside the city limits, so it’s his turf. Something’s wrong, Lee. Bates thinks there’s blood in the trunk of her car.”
“Bates is a redneck.”
“Bates is a good cop.”
Mooney leans forward and puts his face in his hands.
“My God,” he says, “she’s such a sweet kid. I’ll never forgive myself if something’s happened to her. And with what’s happened to Judge Green … what will people think?”
What will people think? We have a murdered judge and a young woman missing, and he’s calculating political fallout. My distaste for him is growing faster than a garden weed.
“There has to be some reasonable explanation,” I say.
“I’m the one who talked her into coming here, you know.” Mooney’s voice takes on a dreamy sort of monotone. “She gave a seminar in Nashville about the importance of compassion for victims in the district attorney’s office. She was so convincing, so persuasive. Bright, funny, attractive. When she finished, I felt like I’d been saved at a revival. I saw her in the hotel lobby a little while later and introduced myself and asked her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee. We ended up talking for a couple of hours, and I convinced her she’d love northeast Tennessee and she’d enjoy working here.”
“No offense, but what you’re saying sounds like a little more than professional interest.”
“No!” Mooney says, slamming his palm onto the desktop. His eyes open wide, and he glares at me. “Why is everybody’s mind always in the gutter? It wasn’t anything like that. I just thought she might bring some fresh air into this place. Besides, I’m not a cradle robber. I’m old enough to be her father. That’s the way I felt about her. Fatherly. Protective, you know?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know where it stands.”
I leave him with his head in hands, surprised at the depth of his emotion and relieved that he didn’t mention Ramirez again. But there’s something that’s bothering me, something he said: “That’s the way I felt about her. Fatherly. Protective, you know?”
Felt about her. He’s referring to her in the past tense.
Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue.
Or maybe he knows something I don’t.
22
Anita White sat across the desk from Judge Ivan Glass while he read over her application for search warrants for Toni Miller’s home and Tommy Miller’s car. She’d drafted the affidavit carefully, laying out everything she knew about Ray Miller’s relationship with Judge Leonard Green, the suicide in the courtroom, the subsequent funeral, the judge’s murder, and her reasons for believing she had probable cause to search for evidence.
Anita had gone back to the Lake Harbor neighborhood and obtained a signed affidavit from Colonel Robbins, the neighbor who saw the white car. She’d gotten the nosy neighbor, Trudy Goodin, to sign an affidavit saying she’d seen Tommy Miller arrive early that morning in his white Honda. She’d also picked up a tape recording of the 911 call from the motorist who was nearly run off the road by the white car near the time of the murder and had it transcribed. She’d obtained copies of the vehicle registration from the Department of Motor Vehicles that said Tommy Miller was the owner of a white Honda Civic. She’d attached everything to her written application for the warrants. She’d done everything she could think of. Now it was up to the elderly judge to sign the warrants so she could proceed with this part of her investigation.
Anita had also followed Dillard’s suggestion and collected the judge’s computer. She’d sent it to Knoxville, but it would be at least a couple of weeks before the techs could sift through all of the information on the computer and report back to her. The investigation into people whom Green had sent to the penitentiary revealed that only two had been released in the last six months—a burglar named Wayne Timmons who’d moved to Jackson, and a nonviolent, drug-addicted check kiter named Melanie Buford. Anita didn’t think either of them a likely suspect.
She’d already contacted a detective in Durham, North Carolina, a veteran named Hakeem Ramakrishna—they called him “Rama”—and faxed him a copy of her application. Rama was doing the same thing in Durham that Anita was doing in Jonesborough. He was asking a North Carolina judge to issue a search warrant for Tommy Miller’s car and an order allowing the police to collect a DNA sample from him. Anita thought the logical place for Tommy to go would be back to Duke University.
Judge Glass finished reading, removed his tinted glasses, and began rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was the first time Anita had been in Glass’s office; the first time, in fact, she’d ever spoken to him. His reputation was that the pain medication he took for his plethora of health problems made him cranky and erratic, and that he suffered mightily from black-robe fever. But he was also known as an ally to law enforcement, a judge who would stretch the limits of probable cause.
Glass quit rubbing his nose and gave her a fierce look.
“This is pretty goddamned thin,” he said. “The core of this application is a white car. It doesn’t say what kind of car it is, what make or model; just that it’s white, that it might have been seen in the vicinity of the murder around the time it was committed, and that your suspect owns a white car. Very little specificity here.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Anita said.
She knew Glass had been around forever and had probably seen and heard every trick cops use when trying to get warrants. There was no point in trying to bullshit him.
“But when you add everything up,” Anita said, “and look at the totality of the circumstances, I think there’s enough probable cause to at least search.”
“Totality of the circumstances?” Glass said. “They teach you that at the academy?”
“I have a law degree, sir,” Anita said.
“I didn’t like the son of a bitch, you know,” Glass said.
“Beg your pardon?”
Glass leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The folds in his neck looked like string cheese.
“Green. Didn’t like him worth a damn. You know he campaigned openly against me during my last two elections? He was jealous because I was the senior judge in the circuit. He wanted to be the big shot. But he was dumber than a coal bucket and had the personality of a goddamned salamander. And those teeth, Jesus. He could eat an ear of corn through a picket fence. I don’t know how he kept getting elected.”
Anita attempted to maintain her professionalism. She’d never heard a judge speak in such a manner. His reputation was well deserved, at least the part about being erratic and cranky.
“Whatever his shortcomings, Your Honor, I’m sure you agree he didn’t deserve the death he received.”
“I heard he was hanged and burned,” Glass said. “That right?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“Been a few times when I would like to have hanged the bastard myself.”
Glass chuckled, obviously amused with himself.
“Yes, well, as far as the standard for probable cause for a warrant goes, I think the affidavit is sufficient,” Anita said. She wasn’t about to indulge Judge Glass in bashing a murder victim.
“He was a fag, too, you know,” Glass said. “Never saw him with a woman, not once. You’d think a man in his position would at least try to fake it. Not Green, though; he was so goddamned arrogant. But you know what? He probably couldn’t have faked it even if he wanted to. It was just too obvious.”
Anita wished she’d brought a tape recorder. Norcross and the rest of the agents in the office would have loved this.
“Is there anything else I can tell you?” Anita asked. “Any mor
e information you’d like to have before you decide?”
“You married, young lady?”
“No, sir. Never been married.”
“Lesbo?”
Anita stood. Enough was enough. She reached out and picked the warrant application up from Glass’s desk.
“Thank you for your time, Judge,” she said.
“Wait just a goddamned minute,” Glass said. He reached out and snatched the papers from Anita’s hand. “I’ll sign your warrant. What’re you getting so goddamned touchy about?”
23
Late in the afternoon, I receive a telephone call from Roscoe Stinnett. He’s the lawyer defending Rafael Ramirez, the drug dealer and murderer Mooney wants me to set free. Stinnett is from Knoxville, and he and Mooney are close friends. Both of them are Texans. They did their undergraduate work at Texas A&M together, and both of them were heavily involved in the ROTC program. Mooney wound up going to law school in Texas and then enlisted in the Marine Corps, where he served as a JAG officer, while Stinnett migrated to the University of Tennessee and stayed in Knoxville. He carves out most of his living defending crack cocaine dealers in federal court, but Ramirez has hired him on the murder case. During each of the few discussions we’ve had, he’s made sure to tell me how close he is to my boss.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Stinnett?”
“My client has some important information for you. He wants a face-to-face meeting with you at the jail. I think he wants to make some kind of deal.”
“You think he wants to make a deal? You mean you don’t know?”
“He won’t tell me anything. I don’t think he trusts me.”
“Imagine that. A client not trusting his lawyer. What kind of information does he have?”
“He won’t tell me.”
“So when do you want to set up this meeting?”
“Now.”
“Now? Where are you?”
“At the jail. Waiting for you.”
There doesn’t seem to be anything that demands my immediate attention going on with the investigation into Judge Green’s murder, so I make the short journey to the Washington County Detention Center. On the way over, I ponder how strange it is that Stinnett would call and want to make a deal after Mooney has told me to dismiss the charge against his client. I have no intention of dismissing the charge, however. I’ve decided that if Mooney wants it done, he can go into court and do it himself.
After I walk through the maze of gray hallways and sliding steel doors, I find myself sitting across a table from Stinnett and his client, fifty-three-year-old Rafael Ramirez, known on the streets as “Loco.” Ramirez’s skin is olive colored and leathery. His hair is graying and no more than an eighth of an inch long, his eyes as black as a moonless night, and he has a jagged scar running from his hairline to the tip of his left eyebrow.
Ramirez looks defiant, his eyes hardened with anger and resentment. He smells of perspiration and cigarette smoke. Stinnett is leaning over, whispering forcefully in Ramirez’s ear. The longer I’m away from criminal defense law, the more horrified I become that I once did the same thing Stinnett is doing now. Ramirez is handcuffed, waist chained, and shackled. He shrugs his shoulders violently and pulls away from Stinnett. The scar in his forehead becomes ridged as his forehead crinkles in anger.
“No, motherfucker!” Ramirez snaps. “I walk out of here. Now. I don’t want to spend another minute in this jail. That’s the deal.”
“If he thinks he’s walking out of here, you’re wasting my time, Roscoe,” I say to Stinnett.
“He says he has some information he thinks is worth it.”
“He could tell me who killed JonBenét Ramsey and he wouldn’t walk.”
“This is better,” Ramirez says with a smirk. “I got something you might care about personally.”
“Really? And what might that be?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you’ll dismiss your bullshit murder charge against me if I tell you what I know.”
“Not a chance.”
Ramirez smirks at me. “She might still be alive,” he says.
I’m temporarily stunned. Could he be talking about Hannah Mills?
“You’ve figured out by now she’s gone, right?” Ramirez says. “Been gone, what, forty-eight hours or so? Ticktock.”
I fight to keep my composure. I want to rip his throat out.
“Exactly what are you talking about, Mr. Ramirez?”
“I’m talking about a little punta who may work in your office, you know? Something bad may have happened to her, and I might know something about it.”
“Is she alive?”
“Could be. Can’t really say.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Maybe.”
My mind starts racing through the possibilities. He obviously knows something about Hannah, but how? He’s been in jail. Has she been kidnapped? Maybe to get back at us for charging Ramirez with murder? Maybe some of his people are holding her for ransom. We let him go; he lets her go. That’s it. It has to be.
“I’m not going to let your client extort me,” I say to Stinnett. “If he knows something, he needs to tell me now. If the information pans out, I’ll ask the judge to take his assistance into consideration when he’s sentenced for the murder.”
“The deal is I tell you what I know about the girl and you dismiss the murder charge,” Ramirez says. “No negotiation.”
I stand up.
“Not interested. Can I talk to you outside for a minute, Roscoe?”
I push the button on the wall to let the guards know I want to leave. As I’m waiting for them to release the air lock on the door, Ramirez gives me his parting shot.
“Somebody wants her dead real bad,” he says, “and I might know who that somebody is.”
The lock releases, and Stinnett follows me back through the maze, through the lobby, and out into the parking lot. I don’t say a word until we’re clear of everyone else, and then I turn on him.
“What the hell was that?”
Stinnett looks as if he’s seen Satan himself. Sweat is running down the side of his face, and he’s gone pale.
“I swear I didn’t know what he was going to say,” Stinnett says. “He called my cell yesterday and said he wanted me to come up today. Said it was urgent. Given the fee he paid, I drove up. When he said he wanted to meet with you, I advised against it, but he insisted. I didn’t know what kind of information he had. I still don’t.”
“Do you remember Hannah Mills? She worked in the Knoxville DA’s office for a while. Victim-witness coordinator.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember her.” Roscoe is distracted, almost panicked.
“She’s missing. We just found out about it a few hours ago, and your boy is already offering information. I’m sure that’s what he’s talking about. Nobody’s seen her since Friday.”
“Sorry. Like I said, I had no idea.”
“I want you to go back in there and give him a message. You tell him if we find her dead, and if he’s withholding information that could have saved her, he won’t have to worry about a murder trial. I’ll put the word out that he’s snitching on everyone he’s ever known. He won’t live a week.”
Roscoe Stinnett hurried back into the jail and through the steel doors and bland hallways. Rafael Ramirez was still sitting at the table. Stinnett walked in and banged his fist down on the table dramatically.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy or something? I told you I had this taken care of.”
Ramirez stared at him coldly. Despite Ramirez’s being cuffed and shackled, Stinnett feared him. He was more intimidating than any defendant Stinnett had ever represented, and Stinnett had represented more than his share of sociopaths and psychopaths.
“All you have to do is be patient,” Stinnett said. “It will happen.”
“Sit your ass down, Counselor,” Ramirez said, “and don’t ever raise your voice t
o me again.”
Stinnett lowered himself weakly into the chair, making sure he was out of Ramirez’s reach.
“That wasn’t smart, Rafael. You could have jeopardized the whole thing.”
“You came to me with a job,” Ramirez said. “You said you needed it done quick and clean. I put you in touch with the right man. The job is done, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask you to be patient, did I? I didn’t try to put you off. I didn’t refuse your request. I just did what you wanted me to do, and now it’s your turn to do what you promised. I want out of this place, and I want out now.”
“It’s a delicate matter. It has to be done a certain way. It has to at least appear to be legitimate. It will just take a little time.”
“I don’t have time to sit around in here,” Ramirez said. “I have work to do.”
“Just a little while longer.”
“I’ll give you a week. If I’m not out of here in a week, the next contract will be on you.”
24
Katie Dean laid her walking stick aside, took off her pack, and sat down on a fallen log to eat. It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday in June 1998. The sun was shining, the temperature in the mid-sixties, the mountain air clear and crisp as the breeze rustled through the canopy above. Taking out a Baggie filled with a trail mix of peanuts, raisins, dried bananas, and chocolate, she began to munch.
“You want some?” she said to Maggie, the border collie who had become her constant outdoor companion over the past five years.
The time had passed like a single night for Katie. Her life on the small farm outside of Gatlinburg was simple. The days were long and the work was hard, but Katie had grown to love the animals, the land, and, most of all, the people who surrounded her. She kept her mother and brothers and sister close to her heart always, but she’d come to accept that Aunt Mary, Luke, and Lottie were her family now.
The awful memory of that faraway Sunday crept up on her occasionally. A couple of weeks after she moved in, Lottie had fixed fried chicken for dinner on a Friday evening. The smell sent Katie running out of the house and through the pasture, screaming. Aunt Mary had caught up with her in the old pickup truck, and after she calmed down, Katie had tearfully told Aunt Mary what she remembered about the day her family was slaughtered. She never smelled fried chicken in the house again.
