by Elle Gray
“He’s going to cut a deal,” Astra says. “I’m sure that’s what he and Tinsley are talking about right now.”
“But what’s he got to offer up?” I ask. “The AUSA isn’t going to cut him a deal out of the goodness of his heart. He’s going to need to get something in return—something he can feel good about.”
We both turn and look at Dansby pointedly. It takes him almost a full minute before the light bulb goes on over his head and he sputters.
“You’re talkin’ about me?” he spits. “You think my brother would give me up in return for a deal?”
I shrug and turn back to Astra. Technically, I’m not talking to him or questioning him without his lawyer present. “I don’t know. Do you really think Crawford would use Alex as a human shield for himself if it meant protecting Haven?”
Dansby opens his mouth—I’m sure to vigorously deny it—but he hesitates, and the words seem to die on his lips. He sits back in his seat and looks down at his hands for a moment. It’s then I know for sure we’re on the right track. There’s a crack in the foundation as he thinks about how much Haven means to his half-brother. Dansby seems to realize that there isn’t anything—including serving him up on a silver platter—that would prevent Crawford from protecting his life’s work.
“I can’t go back to prison. It’d be my third strike,” he mutters to himself. “But no. He wouldn’t sell me out. He hired a top-shelf lawyer for me after all.”
Astra keeps her gaze steeled right on me. “It’s just a shame we can’t get in there to talk to Tinsley yet with Crawford. They’re probably cooking up a deal as we speak.”
Dansby’s eyes widen at her words, and I see that he’s just about there. He’s just about at the tipping point. The specter of taking a third strike and going to prison for the rest of his life is hanging heavy over Dansby’s head. I just need to give him one final push to get him there.
“If Crawford’s smart—and he is very smart—he’d definitely be talking deal,” I tell her. “All he cares about is Haven.”
“I want a deal,” Dansby blurts out. “I want a deal now.”
“Sorry, Alex,” I finally turn to him. “We can’t help you. Your lawyer advised us—”
“He’s not my lawyer anymore. He’s fired,” he says. “I want to talk. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Just get me a deal. I can’t have a third strike. I can’t go back. I can’t spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“So, am I correct in saying that you have fired your counsel, you are waiving your right to counsel, and you are willing to cooperate?” I ask.
He nods vigorously. “Yes. That’s correct. All of it,” he says. “Now, get me a deal.”
“Toni, can you bring in the form he needs to sign to waive his rights?” I ask.
A moment later, the door to the pod opens and she comes in with a clipboard and hands it to me. I give her a smile.
“Thanks, Toni.”
“Anytime.”
The door to the pod closes again, leaving us alone with Dansby. I slide the form over to him and point out where he needs to sign to waive his right to counsel. He scrawls his name and pushes the clipboard back to me.
“Now, make me a deal,” he demands.
The door opens and Tinsley steps in, his expression darkens quickly. “What do you two think you’re doing in here?” he asks. “I should actually thank you since you’ve violated—”
“You’re fired,” Dansby snaps.
Tinsley looks at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re fired. Get out.”
“Alex, I just spoke with your brother and—”
“I bet you did,” Dansby snaps. “You’re fired. You are no longer my lawyer. Now, get the hell out.”
“Alex, think this through. I don’t know what these two agents told you, but they’re trying to manipulate you,” he says. “They’re trying to use you. They want to have you thrown in prison forever. This is your third strike, Alex. They’ll throw away the key.”
“Get the hell out of here!” Dansby yells. “Go try to cut a sweet deal for my brother without me. You are fired.”
Tinsley stands in the doorway for a long moment just staring at Dansby. There’s a look of real concern on his face. I start to wonder if I was actually right, and they really were going to serve Dansby up to cut a deal for Crawford. That’d be rich.
“I think he was pretty clear, Counselor,” I shrug.
“Your services are no longer required,” Astra adds.
I tap on the clipboard. “We even have his signature to prove it.”
Tinsley shakes his head, that light of concern still in his eyes, but he backs out of the room, no doubt trying to downshift into Plan B. When we’re alone with him again, Dansby turns to us, tapping his foot on the ground nervously.
“Now, get me a deal,” he repeats.
“All right. Tell us what you have, and we’ll take it to the AUSA,” I say. “If you’re fully forthcoming and honest, I’ll personally make a recommendation for leniency.”
Dansby starts talking, telling us everything—including how Stacy Burkett came to wind up on a slab in the ME’s office. His story is long and detailed and takes some turns I didn’t see coming. And when he’s finished, both Astra and I are left wide-eyed and speechless. This whole thing is even darker and more twisted than we realized.
I sit back in my chair and let out a low whistle. Astra is staring at him slack-jawed, seemingly only able to shake her head. I understand the feeling.
“So? You think that’s good enough to get a deal?” he asks with desperation in his voice. “A good deal?”
“Do you have proof of all of these allegations?” I ask, finally coming back to myself. “Without proof backing them up, these are just the words of a co-conspirator. The AUSA is going to need actual evidence if he’s going to cut you a deal.”
“Of course I’ve got proof. Do I look like an idiot?” he scoffs. “I love my brother, but he always acted like he was better than me because I’m the illegitimate one. I’m the bastard. And because of that, I always figured he’d throw me under the bus if push came to shove. My brother is self-serving, in case you hadn’t noticed. He’d cut me loose in the blink of an eye to cover his own butt—and protect Haven. So, I kept records of things for a rainy day, and it’s storming out right now.”
“That’s good, Alex,” I nod. “That proof is very good. That makes me think the AUSA is going to cut you a deal you can live with.”
Dansby nods to himself, a satisfied smile on his face. “Good. That’s good.”
Thirty-Three
Interrogation Suite Alpha-2; Seattle Field Office
“As we go on the record, take note that in the room are Supervisory Special Agent Blake Wilder, Special Agent Astra Russo, defendant Alex Dansby, and Assistant US Attorney Piper Harvin,” I say as we get this show underway.
“AUSA Harvin for the people,” she says. “We have a proffer for Mr. Dansby, which I am extending to him now. In exchange for his truthful testimony, we are giving Mr. Dansby immunity from all charges. However, if Mr. Dansby is to lie, mislead, or in any way contradict his sworn affidavit in any way whatsoever, this proffer will be null and void, and he will be prosecuted for all of his crimes without consideration. Are these terms agreeable to you, Mr. Dansby?”
He nods and doesn’t look up.
“We need you to verbally acknowledge the proffer,” Harvin says.
“Yes. Fine. The terms are fine,” he says. “Can we get on with it?”
Ordinarily, I would have balked at immunity. Dansby did play a role in Stacy Burkett’s death—her blood was found on the clothing he turned over as part of his plea agreement. To my mind, he should pay the price for it. But the information he’s providing us is so explosive and so much more than we had originally thought, even his public defender was able to wrangle an immunity deal from the AUSA. So, even though I still think it stinks, I have no choice but to suck it up and deal with it, because it serves
a far greater good.
“All right, Mr. Dansby,” I start. “Tell us about the night Stacy Burkett was killed.”
“She was gonna snitch. She was upset Silas had taken her child from her. He said it was for the good of Haven, but she didn’t like that,” he starts. “So, we get wind of her plan to escape and before she can get too far, we catch up with her. Silas worked her over with the bat real good. We both thought she was dead, and he told me to take care of the body. But it turns out, she wasn’t dead, and got away. I chased her through the woods, and she ended up on Highway 12. Almost got hit by a car. But as I learned, she died of her wounds later.”
“So, you were with Dr. Crawford when he beat her with a baseball bat,” Harvin says.
“Yeah. That’s right,” he nods. “I watched him tune her up.”
“Have you seen Dr. Crawford murder anybody else while at Haven?”
He shrugs. “A couple of people a few years back now,” he says casually. “Once you’re a part of Haven, you don’t get to go unless Silas says you can go. And he never lets nobody go.”
“The people we spoke with all seemed very happy to be there,” I bring up.
He nods. “Of course. Because they are. Some people love the way of life at Haven,” he goes on. “But before you agents got there, Silas had the people who aren’t real thrilled with bein’ at Haven—the nonbelievers—locked up in the underground bunker. Can’t see or hear ’em in there, no matter how loud they scream.”
For the next forty-five minutes or so, Harvin guides him through a series of questions as she builds her case. He’s provided the corroborating evidence of his claims, which should make her case bulletproof.
“What about the children?” I ask. “Walk us through that, please.”
Dansby nods. “Silas—he don’t really like kids, to be honest. And he also needs to keep Haven flush, if you know what I mean. He don’t get all the money in his trust ’til his dad kicks off,” he explains. “So, for the last five years, ever since he founded Haven, he’s been sellin’ some of the kids born there.”
“Selling them how?” I ask.
“He’s got an arrangement with an adoption agency—Willet House. The director there, Artie Holbrook, is an old friend of his,” he tells us. “Anyway, Artie and Silas worked out a deal. Silas gets fifty grand for every kid he brings in, then Artie turns around and sells them to couples desperate for a kid for twice that. Artie mostly sells the newborns to desperate parents. But sometimes, he’ll sell the younger kids—five, six years old—to people for other purposes, if you know what I mean.”
“Please say it plainly,” Harvin says.
“The younger kids are sold to pedophiles,” Danby admits, with a grimace.
“And how does Stacy Burkett’s murder tie into this?”
“She found out about the scheme,’” Dansby says. “She was gonna snitch and had this grand plan of gettin’ her kid back and livin’ happily ever after with it. She was gonna jeopardize Haven by tellin’ everybody about it. Silas couldn’t have that. So he killed her. She knew too much and couldn’t be a loose cannon out there ruinin’ everything.”
“Are there guns at Haven, Mr. Dansby?” Harvin asks. “Any kind of weapons or ammunition stockpiles?”
I look at her curiously, because that wasn’t part of our script. It leaves me wondering where she got that intel. I turn back to Dansby, who’s nodding.
“Yeah. Lots of guns. MRs, AKs, M16s, loads of handguns. Yeah, we got weapons out there,” he says. “We wanted to be able to defend ourselves if the worst came to pass—society breakin’ down, chaos, destruction. We still got a Second Amendment and a right to own guns. A right to defend ourselves.”
“That’s funny,” I say. “You reject society and shun the laws that govern this land. And yet, you’ll still cling to that Second Amendment like a drowning man hangs onto a piece of driftwood.”
“Whatever,” he grunts.
“One more question from me—did you hire Sergeant Leonard Burton to deplete the bank accounts of Haven residents by using their ATM cards?”
“Yeah. Sure did,” he says. “That was my idea. A good one, too, since it benefitted all of Haven.”
“Yeah, you’re a real philanthropist,” Astra mutters.
“AUSA Harvin, I’ve heard all I need to. I’ll be stepping out of the room,” I say. “But you can carry on with Mr. Dansby. When you’re done, just let the tech in the pod know to call and have Mr. Dansby taken back to lockup.”
“Thanks, SSA Wilder,” she says. “You and Special Agent Russo did fantastic work.”
I give her a nod, then Astra and I step out of the room and into the pod where Rosie has been joined by Congresswoman Hedlund. I feel myself automatically tense and grit my teeth With everything going on, I hadn’t had a chance to contact her yet. And judging by the look on her face, she’s not about to let me forget it. But she turns away and watches the interview for a moment. As we stand there in silence, it hits me—the question about the guns came from Hedlund. It had to have. But why did she need to know, is my question. Washington State has pretty permissive gun laws—if those weapons were purchased legally, there should be no problem.
“Did you see Selene?” Hedlund asks me suddenly.
I nod. “I did. I spoke with her for a little while.”
“And? What did she say?”
“That she was happy at Haven,” I reply. “Said she’d never felt as at peace and happy as she did there.”
“She’s obviously been brainwashed,” Hedlund snaps. “Either that or they’re keeping her drugged to the gills.”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am. She was sober as a judge,” I say. “I’ve seen enough people drunk or on drugs to know when somebody’s high. Your daughter was very much in her right mind. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”
“What else did she say?” Hedlund demands.
“That she wanted you both to be happy. But she told me she was tired of being your prop,” I continue. “She said she deserved to be happy, that she’s finally found herself. And she told me to tell you...” I trail off, trying to figure out how to put it delicately.
“What? What did she say?”
I take a deep sigh and try to muster as neutral a voice as I can. “She told me to tell you that you are as irrelevant to her life as she was to yours when she was growing up. I’m sorry.”
Hedlund’s expression darkens further. Her lip begins to tremble, but she hardens her face, masking the emotions I know must be roiling around inside of her. But she bites them back. I turn to Rosie and give her a nod.
“If you’ve got things under control here, I’ve got a baby seller to snatch up,” I say.
“Go get him. And be careful, Blake,” she says. “Make sure you and Astra have each other’s backs.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Consider our backs had.”
Thirty-Four
Willet House, Ravenna District; Seattle, WA
The one area where Dansby’s evidence was weak was when it came to Crawford’s arrangement with Artie Holbrook, the director of Willet House. There wasn’t enough there for Harvin to feel comfortable including a trafficking charge along with the laundry list of offenses she’s assembling to indict Crawford. She said they had enough without it to put him away for basically the rest of his life, but it wouldn’t satisfy me to not include a trafficking charge. Stacy Burkett deserved at least that much.
Astra parks the car, and we climb out and I look around. The Ravenna district is a nice upper-middle-class neighborhood just north of the University district. Willet House is in a glen of trees just behind a neighborhood of single-family homes. It’s a tall, three-story building that isn’t much aesthetically, looking a lot like an old, squared-off, u-shaped motel, but it’s nicely maintained and well-kept.
“Ready for this?” I ask.
“Of course, sweetheart,” she replies. “Been looking forward to this all day.”
I
laugh softly. “Good, then let’s go meet Mr. Holbrook.”
We’re both dressed in tasteful pantsuits—Astra is wearing blue with a white blouse under her jacket and I’m in black with a green blouse. Very tasteful. Very professional. Very conservative. We’re trying to project the image of a power couple. I put on a pair of glasses with a camera built into the frame, and we’ve both got earbuds, with mics tucked into the inside pockets of our jackets.
“Testing, testing,” I say. “Are we broadcasting?”
“Loud and clear. We have eyes and ears on,” Mo replies. “And for the record, let me just say you two make a very cute couple.”
“Yeah, we kind of do, don’t we?” Astra asks.
“Very,” Rick says. “I’ll be thinking about—”
“Stop making it weird, Rick,” Astra snaps.
Mo and Rick are in a van halfway down the block running the audio and visual equipment for our sting. After one final check and a smoothing out of our clothes, Astra takes my hand and we walk across the parking lot, mounting the steps and heading into the lobby of Willet House. It’s tasteful in design, with a lot of soft, earthy tones, and what seems to me to be an excessive number of plants. It’s like a jungle in here.
We walk to the desk that stands across from the front doors, and are greeted by a middle-aged woman with blonde hair that spills down to her shoulders, green eyes, and a warm, welcoming smile.
“Good afternoon,” she smiles. “And welcome to Willet House.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “Blake Jenkins and Astra Wagner. We have an appointment with Mr. Holbrook.”
The woman pecks at the keys on her keyboard and reads from her screen. She turns back to us, her smile not having slipped a fraction of an inch.
“And so you do,” she says and gestures to the hallway on our left. “Just head down that hallway, turn left at the junction, and it will be the door at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re very welcome. And good luck to you.”
