Thriller: I Am Sal - A Mystifying Crime Thriller (Thriller, Crime Thriller, Murder Mystery Book 1)

by Abraham Falls

  Gunner’s eyes went wide. “No shit? Oh, man, I wish I could’ve seen that! What did Decker think?”

  “He says he believes me, but that that won’t be enough to prove anything, of course. On the other hand, he’s going to start digging into Branson, see if he can find any kind of a motive for why Branson might have wanted Johnson dead. If there’s anything there that we can use, then my chances of actually proving my innocence will get a lot better.”

  “Oh, hell yes,” Gunner said. “Branson, he’s kind of a tyrant around here, one of those sheriffs who are always pushing people around, making people do what he want. You bring him down, you not only gonna get off, you probably gonna get a medal. Man, even the judges around here hate that asshole.”

  Gunner and I sat around and talked for the rest of the afternoon, and I was surprised when some of the other men began coming over to join in with us. It seemed that I was something of a hero to all of the “independents,” the men who didn’t want to be part of a gang. Most of them were in on petty offenses, such as shoplifting or drug possession, although there were a few with more serious charges or convictions. One man, a white-haired old fellow who called himself Harley, was serving six years for manslaughter, after the car he was driving struck and killed a child who chased the ball into the street in front of him.

  “That’s tragic,” I said, “but it sounds like an accident.”

  Harley nodded, waving a hand at me as if telling me to wait for him to explain. “It was an accident,” he said, “but I’m a medical marijuana patient. I wasn’t stoned when it happened, but there was still enough THC in my system that they could’ve got away with charging me with driving under the influence, which would’ve made it vehicular homicide. There is so much fuss over medical marijuana that I could’ve got life, so I took a plea.”

  “That sucks,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m sure you know why I’m here, right? My lawyer is telling me that if they offer me a deal, I should take it.”

  “Are you guilty?” Harley asked.

  “He didn’t do it,” Gunner put in. “Right now, we thinking the sheriff killed Crazy Kyle, because he was the only other person there. He the only one who coulda done it, far as we know.”

  Harley looked me in the eye. “Son, if you didn’t do it, then don’t you cop a plea. You do whatever you gotta do to prove you’re innocent, but you don’t take no plea. I know it might be scary to think about what they could do to you, but let me tell you what I’ve learned. I’ve been in three years now, and I’ve seen a hundred guys like us come through here. Them that went to trial, yeah, some of them got pretty stiff sentences, but some of them got lighter sentences than they would’ve got in a plea deal, and some of them even got off. If you take a plea, you’re saying you’re guilty, no matter what. That means when you get out, everybody always thinks you did the crime, and they won’t ever believe you when you try to say you didn’t. You won’t ever get a decent job, and every time you turn around, somebody will be accusing you of something else. That ain’t no way to live.”

  “Yeah, but if I go to trial and get convicted, I could get the death penalty.”

  Harley nodded. “Yeah, you might,” he said. “Ain’t likely, though. Montana ain’t big on the death penalty, and most people who get it get their sentences cut back to life on appeal. That still ain’t heaven, but I’ve met lifers who lived better inside than ex-cons live on the outside.”

  I shrugged. “Then why did you take a plea deal?”

  “I’m seventy-one years old,” he said. “If I live to get out of here, I’ll go stay with my son and his family, and I won’t need to get a job. I got nothing to lose, but you, you’re just a kid. You take that plea bargain, and you’ll end up either a homeless bum or back in prison because you got so hungry you stole something to eat.”

  Gunner nodded his agreement. “Or even worse,” he said. “I’ve seen some of my friends who went to prison come back out a whole lot worse than they were when they went in. One of them told me that prison is nothing but crime college, where you learn how to be a better criminal. The things you hear about in there, ways to make money fast and such, they make a guy who’s desperate do stupid things. That’s how come most guys who go up once end up going back again.”

  I sat and thought about what they were telling me, and it made sense. I already knew I would be able to take care of myself if I ended up in prison, and while I’d much rather be a free man, I could see that taking the plea bargain would pretty much ruin my life, anyway.

  Some of the other men joined into the conversation, and almost all of them agreed with Harley and Gunner. If I truly believed I was innocent, they were telling me, I should never be willing to plead guilty just in the hope of getting a shorter sentence. The aftermath would be every bit as bad as a stiff sentence, and probably even worse in some ways.

  Dinner came, and we ended up with a table full of guys joining us, this time. The conversation lightened up a bit, and I got to hear a lot of the stories of how my dinner companions ended up where they were. Some of them, like me, had not yet been convicted of a crime. They were sitting there awaiting their own trials, although some of them considered a plea bargain to be a viable option.

  One of those was a young white man named Jimmy Custer, and yes, he was often asked if he was related to the famous general. His reply was always the same: “Sure am,” he said, laughing. “Can’t you tell? Being a loser is in my bloodline!”

  Jimmy had been pulled over a couple of months earlier because of a bad taillight, but then it turned out that the car he was driving was listed as stolen. He hadn’t stolen the car, he said, he had borrowed it from a friend in order to run an errand, and tried to tell the police that. But when they asked his friend about it, the guy had said he had never seen the car before in his life. Jimmy was shocked, but then his buddy’s wife came to visit him in the jail.

  She explained to Jimmy that his friend, who owned a large used-car dealership and repair shop, had already done time once for car theft. If he were to be caught again, it would mean at least a twenty-year sentence. Jimmy, who had never been in trouble in his life, would probably only get a year or less, and if he agreed to keep his mouth shut and take the fall, his buddy would give him a job as soon as he got out. The pay he would make would be quite substantial. So when the prosecutor offered to let him plead out to joyriding instead of grand theft auto, and give him probation in return for the plea, Jimmy saw it as a way out of a bad situation.

  Even Harley agreed that Jimmy was making the right decision, so we all patted the kid on the back and congratulated him on his good fortune.

  When dinner was over, we all sat around watching movies and TV, chatting among ourselves until it was time for lock down. Gunner and I went to our cell, talked a little bit longer, then turned in for the night.

  The next morning, shortly after breakfast, my name was called out again. Gunner joked that I was becoming popular, and I smiled as I walked over to the cell block door. The jailers waiting there told me that it was time for my arraignment, and I expected to be chained up again, but this time they only put handcuffs on me, leaving my hands in front, rather than putting them behind my back. They walked me down the hall, and through a doorway that led to stairs going down.

  The courthouse was just across the street from the detention center, I found out, and when they were built, the architects had included a tunnel that went under the street. We walked through the tunnel, then got into an elevator and went to the top floor of the courthouse building. I was taken into the courtroom through a back door, my handcuffs were removed, and I was told to sit in a small, sectioned-off area with a half-dozen other inmates.

  We were told not to talk, so we all sat there quietly. I saw Stephanie, my attorney, come into the courtroom. She looked over at me and smiled, and gave a little finger wave. I smiled back, but decided that sitting still was probably the best course of action. After a few moments, a bailiff called out for everyone to stand, and the
judge walked in.

  As each case was called, the bailiff would bring whichever inmate was involved to stand at a table in front of the judge’s bench. The judge would read off the charge against him or her, explain the possible penalties if found guilty, ascertain that the defendant understood what he had said, and then ask for plea. In every case, the defendant entered a plea of not guilty. Gunner had explained to me the night before that this was common, that almost everyone pled not guilty at arraignment. That was because it would allow time for their attorneys to start building a defense, and gave the prosecutor some incentive to come up with a plea bargain. Trials and hearings took a lot of time, and time, of course, is money. If the defendant would plead guilty in order to get a lighter sentence, many hours could be saved, hours that would cost the county several hundred dollars each in terms of salaries for the prosecutor, judge, court clerks, public defenders, bailiffs and everyone else involved. Not to mention the cost of keeping a prisoner at the county’s expense prior to conviction. Even a simple trial, he had told me, could easily cost as much as a hundred thousand dollars before it was done.

  I was the only prisoner there from my cell block, and in fact, most of the prisoners that morning were women. Of course, there were a number of people sitting in the audience section, as well, people who were out on bail and making their first court appearance on their own cases. I watched and listened as each one interacted with the judge, trying to make sure I knew what to do when my turn came.

  And then my name was called. The bailiff motioned for me to go with him, and I went to stand at the table as Stephanie walked up to stand beside me.

  “This is case number 2016 Montana 156, State of Montana v. Defendant known as Sal Jones. Mr. Jones is charged with one count of murder in the first degree and one count of murder of a law enforcement officer in the performance of his duty, in the death of Stevens County Deputy Kyle Johnson this past week. Mr. Jones, do you understand the crimes of which you’ve been accused?”

  “I do, Your Honor,” I said.

  “Mr. Jones, it’s my duty to inform you that if you are found to be guilty of either or both of these crimes, you would be eligible for the death penalty. That doesn’t mean you would absolutely receive the death penalty, because a jury may decide to give a lesser sentence that would involve a term of years in prison, possibly extending to the rest of your natural life. Do you understand the potential penalties if you are found guilty of these crimes?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”

  The judge looked over at the prosecutor, Stephen Vaughn. “Mr. Vaughn, does the state have any comment at this time?”

  Vaughn rose from his seat at the prosecutor’s table. “Only that we do indeed intend to seek the death penalty in this case, Your Honor.” He sat back down, and the judge turned back to me.

  “Mr. Jones, at this time it is customary for the defendant, that’s you, to enter a plea. You may plead either guilty or not guilty, and since this is a capital case, I’m sure your attorney has advised you to enter a plea of not guilty. How do you plead?”

  Stephanie took over. “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” she said.

  The judge nodded. “As expected,” he said. “Alright, but since your memory seems to be on the fritz, the first thing we’re going to do is order a psychiatric evaluation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, I just have to be certain that you’re capable of understanding what’s happening and able to participate in your own defense. The sheriff’s office will take you to see a psychiatrist, so that we can get their report back as soon as possible.” He wrote something down on paper in front of him, then looked up at me again. “Okay, that’s out of the way. We’ll move to the matter of bail. Mr. Vaughn?”

  Vaughn stood once again. “Your Honor, considering the magnitude of this case and the fact that the victim was a law enforcement officer with a long record of exemplary service, and then considering that Mr. Jones claims to have no memory of either the murder or anything prior to it, the state respectfully asks the court to deny any bail.”

  Stephanie leaned close to me and whispered in my ear. “Do you have any assets, any way to make bail?”

  I shook my head. “No, not as far as I know.”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to just sit there in the jail, then.”

  I grinned at her. “Well, I don’t have anywhere else to go. At least I’m not sleeping out in the snow, right?”

  She grinned back at me, and then looked up the judge. “Your Honor, my client is not able to make bail at this time, and has nowhere to go in any case, so he’s quite willing to remain in custody until such time as we are able to prove his innocence.”

  Vaughn laughed out loud, but cut it short when the judge turned to glare at him. “That being the case,” the judge said, “bail is denied at this time. Should Mr. Jones at some point feel that the circumstances have changed, bail may be reconsidered at that time. Are there any further matters on this case before the court?”

  Both Vaughn and Stephanie agreed that there was nothing more, and then she told me that Vaughn wanted to speak with us before we left the courthouse. The bailiff said I would have to wait in the prisoner box, the area where I had been sitting before, until the judge was finished with the other cases being arraigned that morning. He walked me back over to my chair, and I sat.

  It was about 11 o’clock by the time the judge was finished with all the arraignments, and then the bailiff told me to wait while he took the other defendants out to where their escorts would meet them and take them back to jail. When he returned, he simply motioned for me to come over to the prosecutor’s table, where Stephanie was already talking with Mr. Vaughn.

  “Sal, this is Mr. Vaughn,” Stephanie said. “He’s our County prosecutor. Steve, this is Sal Jones.

  Vaughn surprised me when he actually held out a hand to shake with me, and I took it firmly. “Sorry we’re meeting under such circumstances, Jones,” he said. “I just wanted to discuss some possibilities with you, if that’s all right.”

  I nodded, and sat in the chair he indicated. “Sure,” I said.

  Vaughn looked at a file that was lying on the table in front of them, flipping a couple of pages up and out of the way, so that he could see something deeper inside. “Jones, as you heard me say, if we go to trial, I’ll be seeking the death penalty on this case. The thing is, a trial will be lengthy and expensive, so if you’d be willing to consider pleading guilty, I’d be willing to drop that down to life in prison.”

  I started to speak, but Stephanie cut me off. “Steve, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. I’m on the trail of some evidence that will show that my client isn’t the one who did this.”

  Vaughn looked at her as if he was flabbergasted. “Steph, he was caught red-handed. He was kneeling over the body, with his hands covered in the deputy’s blood. This is a pretty open-and-shut case; I’m not going to have any trouble getting a conviction.”

  “If you go by Branson’s report, you probably think so. Trouble is, there are some facts that Branson left out of that report, most glaringly the fact that he was present in the room when my client tripped over Kyle Johnson. Now, when you add that to the fact that it takes less than a minute for a man to bleed to death from a slashed jugular vein, and even less time for him to lose consciousness—you know that my client says Johnson tried to speak to him, which required him to be at least partly conscious—and since my client had to come up from the basement in the house, find clothes and put them on, and only then stumbled across Johnson, he can’t possibly have been the perpetrator.”

  Vaughn shook his head. “You’re mixed up,” he said. “Branson says he found your client kneeling over the body when he came into the house.”

  “He’s lying,” I said. “The front door was closed when I heard Branson behind me, and turned to look at him. That’s when he asked me what was going on, pulled his gun out and pointed it at me, and then stepped over to
check the deputy for a pulse. The fire was getting pretty big by that time, and he grabbed hold of me by the arm and dragged me over to the door, but he had to open it for us to get outside.”

  Vaughn had turned to look at me as I spoke. “Jones, that would be your word against his. Who do you think a jury would believe?”

  “I can get deception experts to testify that my client is being truthful,” Stephanie said, causing Vaughn to switch his gaze back to her. “I’m pretty confident that I can convince a jury that Sal is telling the truth, at least enough to get reasonable doubt. On top of that, you and I both know I won’t have any trouble finding people to testify that Branson routinely lies on his reports. Good Lord, you had to throw out a dozen cases this year alone because of inconsistencies in his reports. Do you think those people will speak up?”

  Vaughn sat there for about half a minute, and I could tell he was thinking. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll drop it to manslaughter, and thirty years. With good behavior, your client could be out in eight.”

  Stephanie’s eyes went wide, and she started to turn to me, but I shook my head. “No,” I said. “No plea bargain. I’ll go to trial.”

  Both of them stared at me. “Sal, you need to think about this,” Stephanie said. “He’s right, you could be out in eight or ten years.”

  “You need to listen to your attorney, Jones,” Vaughn added, but I continued to shake my head.

  “No. I thought this over already, and there won’t be a plea bargain. I know, without any doubt, that I did not do this. I’m not going to take the fall for whoever did, whether it was Sheriff Branson or someone else. I’d rather take my chances with a jury.”