by Rick Mofina
“…our top stories this morning…Isaiah Hood will be executed tomorrow as scheduled, Montana’s attorney general says. The U.S. Supreme Court rejected Hood’s latest appeal and the governor will not delay the sentence. The Montana Board of Pardons and Paroles convened an emergency meeting last night and did not recommend the governor intervene in the case. And, it’s day four of the massive search up in Glacier National Park for Paige Baker. The ten-year-old San Francisco girl reportedly wandered from her mother and father while camping in the remote and rugged Grizzly Tooth Trail region of the park. Across the nation, a deadly heat wave in Dallas claimed three lives as temperatures soared--”
Reed’s cell phone trilled. He killed the radio and took the call.
“Tom Reed, San Francisco Star.”
“This is David Cohen.”
Cohen? Cohen? Hood’s lawyer.
“Yes, Mr. Cohen. I just heard the latest on your case. Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
Reed was just exercising professional courtesy.
“I’ll come to the point. How fast can you get to Deer Lodge?”
“Why, what’s happening there?”
“I’m offering you an interview with Isaiah, right now, today in the prison.”
“Exclusive?”
“Exclusive.”
The ABS brakes on the rental engaged, bringing Reed to a halt.
FORTY-THREE
Maleena Crow arrived early at her law office on South Main in downtown Kalispell to await an expected referral call from Philadelphia. She went over a file while sipping herbal tea, stopping to consult ‘the partners’, the exotic fish gliding in the aquarium that bubbled and hummed in the corner of her red brick storefront office.
At twenty-nine, the University of San Diego grad was living her dream as a criminal attorney, operating her one-lawyer practice in what she told her law school friends were “the mystical Rockies.” She recently won back-to-back acquittals for clients in two separate assault cases: a stabbing that was self-defense; a shooting, ruled accidental. Crow smiled at her aquarium. The partners seemed pleased. She was pondering booking a vacation on the luxury train that traveled through the Canadian Rockies between Vancouver and Banff when her call came.
“Maleena? I’m so glad you’re there. It’s Legal Services. We just took a call from the county attorney’s office--”
“Can this wait? I’m expecting a call.”
“I am passing this to you. You’re to call a Ms. Nora Lam from the U.S. Justice Department. It’s urgent.”
“Justice? What is this about?”
“Someone in Glacier National Park needs a lawyer right away and I guess you’ve been designated for the area.”
Glacier? Crow was up on the news. She called Lam, connecting with the first ring on her cell phone.
“Nora Lam.” Very professional. Authoritative.
“Maleena Crow. Criminal defense attorney in Kalispell.
Lam was to the point, underscoring the severity and confidentiality of Doug Baker’s circumstances. Crow agreed to represent him.
She changed to jeans, T-shirt and a blazer, grabbed her Penal Code, brief case, sunglasses. Within a half hour, a Montana Highway Patrol Officer was waving her new silver VW Jetta to park behind the virtual army of TV satellite trucks, scores of news crews and the growing press contingent.
“Press over there, please.”
“Uh-uh. I was summoned.” Crow held out her card.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the officer reached for his radio. “Follow me.”
He trotted, leading Crow to a parking spot among the park, forestry and FBI vehicles at the community center. She was whisked inside to the small paneled room where she met Nora Lam, Frank Zander and Lloyd Turner.
“Doug’s been Mirandized. He’s agreed to be polygraphed to be cleared as a possible suspect in his daughter’s disappearance,” Zander said.
Crow produced a legal pad, noting everyone’s name, their positions and time.
“Is he a suspect? You got a case? You going to charge him?”
Zander listed the domestic call, the school complaint, the argument in the mountains witnessed by a vacationing NYPD detective.
“Circumstantial and hearsay,” Crow said. “Continue.”
The bloodied T-shirt, the bloodied ax, his wounded hand, the opportunity when Doug and Emily were separated.
Crow absorbed it. “You find the little girl, or any part of her?”
“Not yet.”
“This is what you want to polygraph him on?”
Zander nodded. “Right away.”
“What about the mother?”
“She’s not your client,” Zander said. “This is all you get.”
“Where is Mr. Baker? I’d like to speak with him.”
Zander took Crow to the paneled storage room where Doug Baker was standing at the small window, watching a helicopter disappear.
“Doug Baker?” He turned.
“Maleena Crow. I’ve been appointed to be your attorney.”
“Yes, sit down.”
Crow put her briefcase on the small table and sat in one of the chairs.
“You were given your rights and understand them?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you ask for a lawyer?”
“I figured it was best, under the circumstances.”
“You agreed to be polygraphed?”
“Yes, whatever it takes.”
“Doug, you understand that whatever they tell you, the fact is they are trying to build a case against you. They want to charge you.”
“I know from the start. I would do the same thing…because I am guilty.”
“No. You do not determine that. A court determines that.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Doug, they are working to build a case against you, probably against your wife too. In this state, the penalty is death. You are not guilty of anything at this time.”
“No, Maleena. It’s not like that,” Doug said. “I did not harm Paige. God, no. I am guilty of making it look like I did in every way, through my own action, my own selfish stupidity.”
He slammed his back against the wall and slid to the floor, placing his elbows on his knees, and over the next hour, he recounted everything while Crow took notes.
“I am the reason Paige fled. Sure, it was easy for me to blame Emily. We were arguing over her refusal to tell me about the problems of her childhood growing up here.”
“Which are…?”
“She never got over the death of her parents. It destroyed her family. The whole time I’ve known her she refused to talk about it. We came here so she could deal with her ghosts. The night before Paige vanished, Emily told me she has a sister. I never knew this. If we live through this, I’m hoping we can rebuild the remnants of her family.”
“Doug you do not need to take a polygraph--”
“After we realized Paige had disappeared, we searched into the night, just Emily and me. Nothing. Emily withdraws and I decide to hike out for help at daybreak. During my hike, all I can think of is how I caused this, how ashamed I am. Her T-shirt on my hurt hand reminds me. So I toss it. Then my ax banging from my pack reminds me, so I toss it.”
“But Doug, how will a taking a polygraph help? If Paige is lost, the searchers will find her.”
He shook his head.
“I pray for that to happen. But if she doesn’t come back. If they don’t find her. If she’s already dead out there, then I killed her. I am guilty because I forced her out there. And I will have live with it for the rest of my life. Can you understand? I want to take that polygraph to let them know I have nothing to hide. To let them know I am ashamed, to let them know exactly what I am guilty of. Because if my daughter is dead, then I might as well be dead, too. And there is nothing the FBI can do to hurt me anymore than I am already hurting.”
Crow swallowed hard, finishing her notes, touching the back of her hand to her nose and nodding.
/>
“Okay, Doug.”
“Will you help me?”
“Yes.”
FORTY-FOUR
About an hour after his call from David Cohen, Tom Reed arrived in Deer Lodge, pulling into the lot of the Four Bs Restaurant, parking among the pickups, Macks, Peterbilts and Freightliners. Inside he spotted a man in his thirties, alone at a booth with an open briefcase that had erupted with files and papers. He was wearing jeans and a navy shirt. An intelligent-looking man; neat, dark hair, serious face behind rimless glasses.
“David Cohen?”
Cohen lifted his attention from his work, nodding.
“You must be Tom Reed.” They shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”
A waitress freshened Cohen's coffee and poured a cup for Reed. She took his order of a toasted BLT on white. Cohen came to the point.
“Your interview is in one hour. I talked to the prison. Your background check has been cleared. I'll be present.”
"What's the deal here, David?"
"You're obviously familiar with the case of Emily Baker, the mother of the little girl missing in Glacier?"
"Of course."
“Emily is the sister of the girl my client, Isaiah Hood, is accused of killing twenty-two years ago.”
“Yes. I just discovered this myself. A friend, expert on state criminal history, pointed out the similarity with the old news photos."
"Why didn't you report it?"
“I intend to. I just learned about Isaiah's connection to Emily Baker--literally--a few hours ago. It's a compelling story.”
“How much of it do you know?”
“That he killed her sister, Rachel Ross. And now, twenty-two years later, on the eve of his execution, Emily’s daughter is missing in the same remote area. It's an epic tragedy.” Reed sipped his coffee.
“It’s a miscarriage of justice.” Cohen looked out the window. “You have just scratched the surface.”
“I know Emily's name was Natalie Ross. Since then it’s been changed. Likely the reason nobody else has reported the link yet.”
"And why do think her name was changed?"
Reed shrugged.
"You're a reporter. You should be digging into this."
"Don't have to."
"Why's that?"
"Because you're going to tell me."
Cohen liked Reed for being right.
"Her name was changed because she killed her sister. Isaiah is innocent of murder and this state is going to execute him.”
Dawning. It suddenly made more sense to Reed. Sydowski's presence. Emily's aunt telling Molly Wilson that Emily was undergoing counseling for the death of a child years ago.
"You can prove she killed her sister?”
Cohen slid legal-sized pages of court transcripts across the table.
“Look at this.”
It was an excerpt of her testimony of what had happened that day. The girls were on a camping trip with other girls. They had wandered from the campsite collecting butterflies when they had come upon Isaiah Hood.
Q: Did you feel threatened?
A: Yes.
Q: How?
A: He was bigger. Creepy.
Q: Why didn't you run away?
A: I tried. I said we better go back but--
WITNESS: (sobbing)
COURT: Would you like a short recess?
WITNESS: (shakes head)
Q: You have to speak.
A: No.
Q: What prevented you from running away?
A: She let go of my hand and went to him, and then--
Q: Take your time.
A: And then he picked her up and held her over the edge. I begged him and fought with him to stop. “Please stop.” I grabbed at his arms. He was bigger and so strong. He wouldn't stop. He said, “Guess what I'm going to do. I am going to see if she can fly.” And then--
WITNESS: (sobbing)
Q: Go ahead.
WITNESS: (sobbing)
A: He let her drop.
WITNESS: (sobbing)
Reed saw a handwritten notation on the photocopied transcript. The distance of the fall was measured at 540 feet. Cause of death was cranial trauma, massive internal injuries. Her neck was broken. She was five years old. Reed thought of his son, Zach, then chased it from his mind. The transcript was a straightforward accounting of how Hood murdered her, consistent with the old material Chester Murdon dug up for him. He slid the papers back to Cohen.
“This proves nothing, David. There's nothing new there.”
Reed sipped some coffee.
“Bear with me. This testimony essentially convicted him on her say-so. She was not cross-examined effectively.”
“So? That’s the loser’s mantra in every capital case.”
“She later recanted her testimony.”
“What?”
“Her father died about a year after the trial. Her mother sold their ranch and they moved away. When I took on the case a few years ago to work on Isaiah’s appeals, we hired a PI to find her. No luck. He did learn Emily’s mother had changed their names frequently. At one point, we believed they moved to Canada, even sought citizenship there.”
"You said she recanted."
"After the trial, Emily confided to a little girlfriend in Buckhorn that she felt confused, sad and guilty over her sister's death.”
“Seems only natural, if she witnessed it.” Reed nodded at the court transcript.
"Yes but after her father died and her mother took her away, Emily resumed her confidential revelations in a series of letters from Kansas City to the friend in Montana. She discusses her guilt in her letters."
"You got the letters?”
Cohen shook his head.
"How about the friend?"
"Killed five years ago. Car accident in France."
Reed's food arrived. “No proof then?”
"I have proof. When the little girl first told her father about the conversations, he was unconcerned. Later, when he saw Emily's letter to his daughter he had a change of heart and quietly informed the county attorney, who kept copies, producing a summarized report of their contents. At the time, the county attorney did not regard the letters as enough to warrant reopening the case. He categorized them the manifestation of young Emily's shock, trauma and grief at having witnessed her sister's death, which was followed by her father’s death. He considered questioning her, but the state could not locate her. So it faded.”
“Have you talked to the county attorney?" Reed bit into his sandwich.
“Deceased. Last winter. Cancer."
“No letters. No one alive to confirm them. Where's your proof?"
“Last week, I made another routine request to the state for a departmental-wide records search. A piece of the case had fallen through the cracks. This came this morning.”
Cohen slid several pages to Reed.
A fax with a cover page, dated that day, from the state’s legal library research branch in Helena. The attached documents were some twenty years old with the letterhead GOLIATH COUNTY ATTORNEY. Reed flipped through the pages, reading snatches of Emily's words quoted in the report:
I am guilty of her death. She begged me to save her. I don't know what happened. She pleaded and screamed. I had her hand but I don't know what happened that day. I will never forget her eyes staring into mine as she fell. God, please forgive me.
Reed swallowed and stared at Cohen who was returning from the counter after paying the tab.
“Let’s go, Tom. Isaiah will tell you the truth about what happened that day.”
FORTY-FIVE
Special Agent Reese Larson was a small bookish man. Soft-spoken, bespectacled, pale with short blondish hair that resembled an infant’s, Larson looked more like a bank manager or choirmaster in small Midwest town, than one of the FBI’s top polygraphers.
At fifty-one, Larson was a low-key behind-the-scenes wizard. Over a number of decades, he had pointed agents in the right direction in some of the FBI’s biggest in
vestigations. He was also a grand master at chess. He had flown in from the Manhattan Division the previous night.
Larson left his Kalispell motel room, dressed in a summer business suit, and arrived at the command center.
He spent several hours with Zander, Sydowski, and then Bowman, who choppered in from the command post. The investigators revealed every aspect of the case to him in preparation for “examining the subject,” as Larson insisted on putting it.
Then he worked with Doug Baker and his lawyer, Maleena Crow, explaining the process of preparing Doug for “a polygraph examination”.
“As you likely know, in most jurisdictions, the results of the examination are inadmissible in court.” Larson brushed a fly from his face while familiarizing Doug with his machine.
It would use instruments connected near Doug’s heart and fingertips to measure electronically respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, blood, pulse rate, breathing and perspiration. It would record the responses on a moving chart as he answered questions.
“I’ll be the one asking the questions and analyzing the results,” Larson said. “Upon completion, I will give the investigators one of three possible answers: “The subject is truthful, untruthful, or the results are inconclusive.”
Larson had given this prep-talk a thousand times.
“I know you will be very nervous, I am fully aware of that and expect you to be.” Larson, smiled, showing baby-sized teeth. Larson made notes with an elegant fountain pen as he conducted a pretest interview, then discussed pretest questions with Doug.
About an hour later, Larson very expertly seated Doug in the most comfortable chair available, then connected Doug to the instrumentation of his machine. He made a point of sharing how he personally enjoyed the Factfinder model of polygraph.
The examination began casually with routine establishing questions. Zander, Sydowski, Thornton, Crow, and Bowman were present but sat behind Doug. Larson repeatedly went over various areas as the ink needles scratched the graph paper.
“Why have you agreed to the examination, sir?”
“So you will know what I am guilty of.”
