The Price of Justice

by Marti Green

  They brought their food and drinks over to the table and sat down on the deeply cushioned burgundy chairs. As they ate, Dani and Jack engaged in small talk, designed to help them get to know each other. Jack was easygoing and likable, with a seemingly limitless supply of lawyer jokes that he shared with her over lunch. These traits no doubt served him well with a jury.

  When they’d finished lunch and an assistant had removed their plates, Dani asked, “Do you think Winston is guilty?”

  Jack chuckled. “I suppose that matters for a HIPP attorney. Not with us. When an important client asks us to handle a personal criminal matter, we don’t ask that question. It would hamstring us too much. I can tell you this, though. His parents and grandmother believe he’s innocent.”

  Well, that’s a start, Dani thought.

  “I have a copy of the files boxed for you, and I’ll messenger them over to your office, but I kept them here for our meeting, in case you want to refer to any of them.”

  Thoughtful, too. But of course, the Meltons pay him well to be accommodating. Probably at the rate of $1,500 an hour. Maybe even more.

  “The evidence seemed flimsy to me. Why do you think Winston was convicted?” Dani asked.

  “I hate to say it, but I think it was his wealth. The prosecutor painted him as a spoiled rich kid who was used to getting his way. And, of course, Carly was a local girl. The jurors wanted to make sure the murder of one of their own didn’t go unpunished. And Winston was the only suspect.”

  “And then to impose the death penalty with so little evidence? It seems so extreme.”

  “We put on a number of witnesses to attest to his character, his lack of prior criminal activity, even his academic successes. Of course, our biggest obstacle was Florida law. It’s the only state in which only seven of twelve jurors need to agree to impose the death penalty.”

  Dani shook her head. “I have to admit, I was shocked when I read that. In every other state, it has to be unanimous.”

  “Well, I think you’ll find Florida is interesting in many respects.”

  “I’m learning that.”

  Dani rummaged through the files Jack had brought to the room and pulled out the transcript of the trial. “What do you think was the most damaging testimony?” she asked.

  “Palm Beach County is made up of the very wealthy, mostly seasonal residents; seniors who’ve moved from other parts of the country to live in a warm, sunny climate for their retirement; the middle class who work hard to support their families; and a smattering of the poor. Seasonal residents aren’t on the voter rolls in Palm Beach County, so they don’t get called for jury duty. Much as I tried to get Winston to tone down his clothing and wipe off the smirk that kept appearing on his face, he came off as an arrogant rich kid. I think that hurt him more than any specific testimony.”

  “Is that why you didn’t put him on the stand?”

  “God, he would have been awful if I did. The kid had no humility at all. The jurors would have hated him.”

  “Did he tell you anything about that night, or his relationship with Carly, that I won’t find in the transcript?”

  Jack picked up his glass and took a sip of Perrier. When he put it down, he tapped his fingers on the table a few moments before answering. “He’ll probably tell you this when you meet with him. He was with Carly that night. Princeton was on semester break, and his family was at their winter home. He hadn’t spoken to Carly since they’d broken up when he’d left for college. The high school’s holiday ball was Saturday night, and he decided to go to catch up with some old friends. Carly was there, with her date. When her date left her alone for a minute, she strolled over to him to say hello. She asked him to walk outside with her. He followed her into the woods behind the school, and when they reached a clearing, she threw her arms around him and began kissing him. He says he pushed her away, that he didn’t want to get started with her again. She got angry and pulled at his hair—he thinks that’s how some was found at the murder site. According to Win, he left her alone in the woods, went back to his car to wait for his friend, and then drove home.”

  “Win? Is that what his friends call him?”

  Jack nodded. “Everyone but his grandmother calls him Win.”

  “Why do you think the state attorney won’t reopen the case based on the new confession?”

  “Did Mrs. Melton tell you we didn’t handle that aspect?”

  Dani was taken aback. Jackson’s firm had handled the trial and all the appeals. There seemed to be no reason not to handle this new information. “No. Why didn’t you?”

  “We knew the death warrant had already been signed by the governor. We thought it best to let a local attorney, one politically connected, handle it. We gave Mrs. Melton a few names to choose from, and she selected the attorney. His name is Frank Lesco. He can answer any questions you have about that.”

  “Didn’t he keep you in the loop, though?”

  “Afraid not. Although my understanding from Mrs. Melton is that he just made some phone calls. Before he had a chance to file anything, she decided she wanted you to handle Win’s case.”

  There were many occasions when HIPP brought in local counsel. In fact, because most of the HIPP attorneys were only admitted to practice law in New York State, local counsel was needed to make a motion to the out-of-state court to admit them for the purpose of representing a specific defendant. Sometimes, they asked the local attorney to do more, but they always were in charge. Why wasn’t Jack aware of every detail of Lesco’s dealings with the state attorney? Something was wrong with this picture, and she needed to find out what.

  CHAPTER

  7

  After reviewing the files from Donahue, Dani gathered her team together for a call to Edward Whiting, the Florida state attorney for the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit. She wanted them to hear firsthand his reasons for refusing to reopen Winston Melton’s case. She had prearranged a time to speak to Whiting and now, with Tommy and Melanie in her office, and the phone on speaker, she dialed his private number. He picked it up on the first ring.

  “Ed Whiting.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Whiting. It’s Dani Trumball, and I have with me Melanie Quinn, an attorney in our office, and Tom Noorland, our investigator.”

  A gruff “hello” was uttered on the other end.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to speak to us. As I told your assistant, my office has been retained to represent Winston Melton.”

  “It’s a little late for new representation, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s why we’re calling. I understand another man has confessed to the crime, but your office is not following up on it.”

  “That’s right. The death warrant’s already been signed.”

  “But surely, the State doesn’t want to put to death an innocent man?”

  “Of course not. But last-minute confessions are mighty convenient, don’t you think? What we’re not interested in doing is starting legal wrangling all over again when the time for that has passed. If you came to me and said, ‘Hey, this guy has confessed, and his DNA matches that found on the girl,’ maybe it’d be another story. Then there’d be some proof. The only DNA on the body, or nearby, matched Melton’s. So, a confession alone? It’s worth squat, as far as I’m concerned.”

  It was clear to Dani that she wouldn’t change his mind on this phone call. She thanked him, hung up, and turned to her colleagues. “We’ve got to talk to the man who confessed.”

  The team from HIPP landed at Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport and made their way to the rental counter. Once in their car, they headed southeast to Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison, known throughout the state as GDCP. It housed Georgia prisoners on death row. In three weeks, it was where Earl Sanders would be executed. They’d arranged to meet Patrick Dowling, who’d insisted on being present for their interview with hi
s client.

  They pulled up shortly before two p.m. and headed inside. Once their credentials were checked, a guard led them to a small interview room. Dowling was already seated, and they made introductions. Ten minutes later, Sanders was led into the room. The prison garb hugged his husky frame, and his face had the ghostly pallor of someone who’d seen daylight only a few hours each week for the past six years. His dark-brown eyes were almost slits in his pockmarked face. He nodded at Dowling, then said to Tommy, “You here about Melton?”

  “We are,” Dani answered.

  Sanders settled his gaze on her. His thin lips turned up in a snarl. “You a lawyer?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t seem to be a job for a lady.”

  “Times have changed. Long ago, actually.” Dani wondered how he’d acquired such provincial views. He looked to be in his early thirties, young enough to have grown up with women working in every profession.

  He turned toward Melanie. “You a lawyer, too?”

  “I am.”

  He smiled at her with a leering grin. “You seem too pretty to be a lawyer.” He turned toward Tommy. “And how about you?”

  “I’m an investigator.”

  “You let a woman run the show? You a pansy or something?”

  Dani watched Sanders throughout this exchange. His shackled hands were clutched tightly, and his shackled legs bounced up and down, like a wind-up toy whose battery showed no sign of wearing out. Every now and then, his eye twitched. Each time it did, he’d bite his lip, as though that would make it stop.

  “Mr. Sanders,” Dani said, “my office represents Winston Melton.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “We’re here to talk about your confession to the murder of Carly Sobol, a crime Mr. Melton was convicted for.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “The state attorney is not convinced your confession is genuine, so I’d like to ask you some questions about that crime.”

  “Sure, sure, go ahead.”

  Dani looked down at her notes, then asked, “Where were you living before your arrest?”

  “All around. Here and there. I didn’t like to stay in one place too long.”

  “When Carly was raped and murdered, where were you living?”

  “Some fleabag motel, I forget the name. They all seem the same.”

  “It would really help if you knew the name of it, and where it was, so we could prove you were living nearby.”

  Sanders scratched his head and narrowed his eyes, as though trying to dredge up a name. “I think it was called the Tip-Top Inn, off of 95, just south of Palm Beach.” He laughed. “Sure as hell wasn’t in tip-top shape. I remember thinking that at the time.”

  “How long had you been there before the murder?”

  “A week, maybe less.”

  Dani looked over at Tommy to make sure he was taking notes. He would need to track down the motel and check its records to confirm Sanders’s statement.

  “Tell me what happened with Carly.”

  “I raped and murdered her, that’s what happened.”

  Dani strained to hold back her look of disgust. This excuse for a man sitting before her represented all she hated about criminal-defense work. She didn’t care what circumstances had led him to take another’s life. It didn’t matter if his childhood had been marred by abusive parents, or poverty, or defective genes. Maybe those factors would weigh against putting him to death, but she fervently believed he should never become a free man. Thankfully, she didn’t need to argue to a jury on his behalf. She only needed to prove that Carly Sobol had been his victim.

  “You need to be more specific. Tell me how you chose her, what you said, what she said. Where you took her. Every detail will help clear Winston Melton.”

  Sanders leaned back in his chair and grinned, revealing two missing bottom teeth. “What’s in it for me?”

  Dani stood up and gathered her papers. “We’re wasting our time here. I thought you wanted to clear your conscience. I’m not interested in playing games.” She turned to Tommy and Melanie. “Let’s go.” Dani wasn’t planning to actually leave, but she wanted to make sure Sanders took this interview seriously.

  Sanders’s grin disappeared, and he sat up straighter. “Hold on. I’m just messing with ya. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Dani sat down again. “Go ahead.”

  During the next half hour, he described in detail every step leading up to the rape and murder of Carly Sobol. When he finished, he said, “Is that enough for you?”

  “Did Carly have any birthmarks, or tattoos, or something distinguishing on her body that wasn’t visible with her clothes on?” Dani asked, hoping that the repulsion she felt didn’t come through in her voice.

  “Let me think on that.” With his elbows on the table, Sanders bent his head down into his hands. After a few minutes, he looked up and said, “She had a tattoo, a little butterfly, on her right hip. Purple and turquoise. Really girly looking.”

  “Good. That’ll help.” She turned to Tommy and Melanie. “Do you guys have any questions?”

  “Just one,” Tommy said. “Why now? Why didn’t you come forward earlier? Your appeals have been final for more than a year.”

  “Like she said, I needed to clear my conscience. It kept gnawing at me that someone else was gonna get the needle for what I did.”

  Dani still wasn’t sure he was telling them the truth. His answer didn’t really explain why he’d waited so long. Sometimes she needed to let an interview settle, maybe sleep on it, before she’d decide whether she’d been fed a line. With Sanders, she knew it would take more. At the very least, they’d need to corroborate the facts he’d given them.

  As Dani, Tommy, and Melanie stood up to leave, Sanders said, “Uh, there’s something else.”

  They turned back to look at him.

  “I haven’t even told my lawyer this.”

  “Yes?”

  “Carly wasn’t the only other one.”

  The HIPP team retook their seats and opened up their notepads.

  “There were nine others. In four different states. All unsolved. I never left anything behind.”

  Dani sat in silence, stunned by his admission. At times like this, she wanted to run home and jump in a shower to wash away the stench of depravity. At times like this, she wished she were an accountant, holed up in a cubicle crunching numbers, something dry and steady and devoid of ugliness. Instead, she stayed in her seat and took notes as Sanders recounted the details of nine other lives he’d destroyed.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Tommy boarded a plane to West Palm Beach, Florida. He needed to visit the Tip-Top Inn and verify Sanders’s story. He’d already done an Internet search of that name and had come up with a motel on Belvedere Road, just off Interstate 95 and south of Palm Beach. He figured it had to be the right one, if Sanders had been truthful.

  Thirty minutes after his plane landed, he pulled up to the motel. Sanders was right about one thing—it was as run-down a place as he’d described. The paint was peeling from the one-story row of rooms, three lights were out on its sign, and the parking lot was full of potholes. Tommy entered the office. An emaciated man, no more than thirty, with sallow skin and stringy hair that flopped over his dark-brown eyeglasses, sat behind the desk. Tommy caught a glance of the girlie magazine he’d been perusing before he quickly stashed it under the counter.

  “Need a room?”

  “Nope. Just some answers. Have a minute?”

  The man looked at him warily, pushed back the glasses that had slipped lower on his nose, and said, “I have a room. I don’t ask questions, and I don’t give answers.”

  Tommy sized him up. He guessed the man tried to be a big shot but probably went through life scared. Scared of the guests, of his neighbors, of the people he worked for. M
aybe his parents owned this fleabag, or maybe he took the job because he could escape the rest of the world holed up inside the grubby office. Either way, Tommy knew he would crumble.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy.”

  “Well, Billy, I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me some answers. We can do it here, or I can drag you down to the FBI’s office. Which will it be?”

  Billy shrugged and just stared at him. Tommy took out his cell phone, flipped through the pictures, and came to one he’d taken earlier that day of Earl Sanders. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Barely looking, Billy shook his head.

  “Look again.”

  “Hey, I don’t pay attention to faces. They pay their bill and go on their way, and I never think about them again. Unless they’re regulars. And he wasn’t.”

  “Okay. You keep a record of your guests?”

  “Sure. It goes into the computer.”

  “How far back?”

  “Ever since we put in the computers. ’Bout ten, maybe twelve years ago.”

  “I want you to look up the name Earl Sanders.” Tommy spelled it for him.

  The man sighed deeply, as though he’d been asked to undertake a Herculean task. He turned to the computer and punched in several keys. After a few minutes, he turned back to Tommy. “Yeah. He was here. You happy now?”

  “Exactly when?”

  “Checked in December 9, 2007, and left seven days later.”

  Tommy held back a smile. The dates lined up with Carly’s murder. This was just the first step. They still had a long way to go. “Okay, Billy. Print it out for me, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  With the confirmation in hand, Tommy headed north on Interstate 95. He wanted to take a look at the woods behind Palm Beach High School, where the body of Carly Sobol had been found. By the time he arrived, classes had long since let out, and he was able to walk behind the school without attracting any attention. The trees began about two hundred feet from the back of the high school. He scanned the building and noted floodlights at each corner and two more in the center. Enough to illuminate a path to the woods and provide a dim light, even when inside the forested area.