by Pascal Marco
Barclay’s whining this time had been the result of his losing a pretrial hearing to Stan. For weeks prior to that hearing, the tenacious black prosecutor deprived his now full-time law clerk staff of sleep as they tirelessly researched the case. Acting like the proverbial slave driver—his clerks teasingly called him “Massa Kobe,” at which he beamed when chided with the name—Stan drove them until they found a legal loophole in their favor.
“Do your homework better next time, John, when you come up against me. Especially when you’re trying to put filth back on the street,” Stan told Barclay.
Stan’s determination to win every case gave reason for his meteoric rise in the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office and would pave the way for his biggest accomplishment. The year was 1992 and the Arizona legislature had reinstated the state’s death penalty. The Maricopa County Attorney’s Office had changed its stance since Stan Kobe had been hired. Plea bargains for life sentences with the possibility of parole were no longer on the table as a bargaining chip. Stan Kobe had made this a thing of the past for those perpetrating the most heinous crimes.
“Stan, you’re my go-to guy, aren’t you?” Rick Romley, the chief county attorney at the time, had asked one day as Stan sat in his boss’s pristine, corner office in downtown Phoenix. “I want a conviction on the first case we get with the death penalty on the table. You up to it?”
Without flinching, Stan replied, “I’m your man, sir.”
“Good, because I want to send a message that on my watch any-one who commits a felony crime in Maricopa County and kills someone while doing it will get the maximum sentence allowable by law. Even if it is the death penalty. You make sure that message gets delivered, Stan, and the first animal to get our little telegram is Tisdale.”
Romley referred to one Jon Patrick Tisdale, the man who had set fire to his own home in an attempt to cover up his crime after bludgeoning to death his wife and three small children. The forty-four-year-old chemical engineer at a Chandler, Arizona, Intel plant had piled up huge gambling debts at an Indian gaming resort. Despondent over his inability to pay his bills, Tisdale became an abusive and drunken husband and father. His wife had the court issue a restraining order against him to stay away from their Chandler home and five hundred yards away from her and their children.
Enraged over the ruling and after again losing large sums of money at another local casino, on the night of November 16, 1992, Tisdale drove his Chevy Tahoe through the garage door of his adobe-style home and proceeded to massacre his family as they attempted to flee the house. He then torched the structure with his children inside and took his wife’s blood-drenched, lifeless body with him. From there he proceeded to butcher her corpse and painstakingly dispose of the woman’s body parts in Dumpsters all across the City of Chandler. When authorities sighted him, Tisdale fled. A two-hour car chase ensued, involving five police agencies, until he was finally apprehended in the desolate outskirts of southern Maricopa County.
The case seemed to weigh particularly heavy on Stan. For weeks he barely ate and would bicker with Maxine over the smallest things. He refused to leave the house for nearly the entire trial, hiding, he had told his wife, from the press. For six months, he stayed holed up in his home office, and only once left the house with Maxine when they attended a late-night movie.
The Tisdale jury had needed only four hours of deliberation to reach their unanimous verdict. Stan’s prosecutorial effort—after-ward described as “flawless” and “with testimony beyond reproach from his superbly prepared witnesses” by reporters’ coverage in the Arizona Republic newspaper—came from reams upon reams of evidence garnered by Chandler Homicide Detective Brian Hanley. Tisdale was found guilty on three counts of first-degree murder and one count of second-degree murder.
During the subsequent sentencing hearing, the judge would hand down the death penalty to a sobbing Tisdale. Just after he did, the Maricopa County prosecutor rose and asked the bench for permission to address the court in the matter of setting the execution date. Stan’s statement to the judge, jury, and family members of both the victims and the convicted would be displayed on the front page of the next day’s Arizona Republic newspaper. A portion of it read:
… and what more fitting day, your honor, could be chosen than this day I am requesting, sir, as the very day to put to death such a heinous felon as sits before you here today. It is on this very same day we celebrate our freedom, our freedom to rid ourselves of scum such as him from society. A day we must cherish without fear just like the 364 other days of the year. We cannot—we will not—allow a vicious murderer, a man who callously and selfishly slaughtered his entire family, to dare think that he can take away from us our God given right to be free from fear by his brutal acts or to attempt to shatter our dream to live our lives peacefully upon God’s earth in the greatest country in the world.
The judge agreed with the Maricopa County Attorney’s Office unique request—death by lethal injection on the Fourth of July.
On that day in attendance at Tisdale’s Independence Day execution—a first in the history of the United States—besides the required state penitentiary personnel in Florence, Arizona: Stan Kobe, Rick Romley, and lead homicide detective on the case from the City of Chandler Police Department, Brian Hanley. An editorial in another edition of the Arizona Republic would herald the event, in part, thusly—
… in a return, finally, to how justice should be done in one of the last remaining places of our true, Western tradition—THE GREAT STATE OF ARIZONA. Every Arizonan, we believe, owes their respect, admiration, and thanks, as we do, to Stan Kobe. This man has rightfully earned the title we give him here today as Maricopa County’s Most Ruthless Prosecutor.
As they walked together out of the prison that day after Tisdale’s execution through a secure back gate away from the media’s view, Stan spoke to the detective. “Great police work, Hanley. With-out your work I could have never gotten this result. County Attorney’s office needs more cops like you.”
“I was just doing my job. And, by the way, after all we’ve been through I think you can call me Brian.”
Stan nodded to him.
“Just the same, I admire you. Makes a prosecutor’s job easy.” Stan held the gate for him to walk through.
“I can’t take all the credit. I had a great teacher. My old man was a cop.”
“So, your father was police, too, huh?”
“Yep. Ed Hanley. He was one of the last of the old school. A cop’s cop. Worked homicide on the South Side of Chicago. I’m fifth generation blue. Love my job. I want to put the bad guys behind bars just as much as you do and put them to death, if necessary. I do it the only way I know how. Just like my old man.”
Stan stopped dead in his tracks. Brian looked at him. They stared at each other for a moment.
“Something wrong?” Brian asked him. “You okay?”
Stan gave his head a few quick nods. “Me? Oh, yeah. Sure. Fine. Just thinking about what you said.”
“What part? The part about me loving to put bad guys in jail or about my dad?”
“Yeah. I mean, no.” Stan stumbled over his words. “I mean, the part about you loving to put the bad guys behind bars. That part. It’s rare to meet law enforcement people who truly love to do that. Who relish those three little words from the jury foreman—’guilty as charged.’”
“Hey. Why don’t me and you get together for a beer?” Brian suggested. “I’m sure we have a lot more in common.”
“Oh, we do have a lot more in common. More than you know. Especially when it comes to good police work. In that regard, you and I are like two peas in a pod, my friend. Two peas in a pod. But I gotta run. I’d love to have that beer, though. Give me a call sometime.” Stan rushed off, but before he got too far away, he turned back to Brian and asked, “You like baseball by any chance?”
CHAPTER 5
It had been nearly five days since Stan had spoken to Maxine. He wasn’t sure what had kept him from apologiz
ing to her. More than likely it was his bruised ego: she had accused him of having no feelings. Still unsure of how to deal with the situation, he had decided to keep his distance during the past week. This was his method of handling these stalemates.
Her biting words that he never shared his feelings were nothing new to him. But it still hurt him deeply, mostly because he knew she was right. He had kept his feelings hidden and bottled up inside since he was a boy, never sharing them with anyone—not even with his momma and daddy—since that day his life changed forever.
Who would listen anyway? And what would I tell them? What good could it possibly do to be honest with Maxine now? What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
But obviously, it had and still did hurt, since he felt her anger permeate their home, invoking an uncomfortable silence the entire week.
When Stan arrived at work Friday morning, Brian had already called and left a voice mail message for him. He listened to it.
Stan. Hey, it’s me, pardner. Call me pronto, would-ja? I need to talk to you about a big bust we made last night. We collared some pretty bad hombres and we want to bring charges against them right away. And, hey, this one might make some more headlines for you, buddy.
Stan immediately tapped the switch hook down on his phone, got a dial tone, and called Brian at Chandler PD.
“Homicide. Hanley.”
“Hey, it’s me. I got your message. What’s up? What you got?”
“Hey, pardner. We got a big one, that’s what we got. The multiagency task force I’ve been working on the last three months may have hit the mother lode last night. We caught a couple of desperados from up north, Chicago way. Seems like scum from that part of the world’s moved down to a warmer climate.”
“That’s all this county needs,” Stan scoffed.
“Ain’t that the truth. Well, anyway, we think these guys are working for a major connection up there, doing their bidding for them down here. You know, the usual happy shit—drugs, guns, money, and blowing the other guy’s brains out over one or the other.”
“So what do you have on them? Anything that will stick?”
“We ran a system-wide check and it seems they both have out-standing warrants back in Chi-town. Before our task force leader from the U.S. marshal’s office contacts the local Chicago PD, Department of Homeland Security wants them kept under wraps here. Some political thing from what I’ve heard. But DHS wants to stay in the background, out of sight on this one, ’cause the feds are investigating some type of organized activity that could be tied in to some politicians up north. Word is they’re looking at some people pretty high up. Scuttlebutt going around the unit here says even Chicago PD may be dirty on this.”
“Infiltrated the police, too, huh? Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that’s not true,” Stan replied.
“You got that right. Last thing we need in this fucked-up world right now is finding more dirty cops. Anyway, that’s why they want your boss, Andy Thomas, to step in. Our task force chief says he wants Thomas to charge them under the pretense of how the governor wants to make an example of them, show the voters how much her office is doing to protect our borders, spin it so the governor can use it for her next election. You know, like, ‘Don’t think you can come to Arizona and fuck up our state like the snowbirds,’ that kind of PR bullshit.
“Personally, I don’t care which way they slice it. These two we arrested were planning to do some very bad stuff. We’re pretty sure they’re running machine guns down to the Sinaloan cartel. We need to lock these two pieces of shit up and throw away the key.”
Stan had been around the block and knew how to read between the lines of Brian’s story, namely, if the feds were involved, somebody’s political ass was being greased for some future election. But he also knew if they wanted to send this one to the county attorney’s charging unit, then Stan would need to have something solid from Brian to charge them with. “Well, what are we holding them for right now besides the warrants. Did they break any laws here or not?”
“We don’t have a local crime to hold them on, but I talked to some of the feds I’m working with and they’re looking into the possibility of having them brought up on conspiracy charges,” Brian replied.
“Federal conspiracy charges?”
“You got it. Besides what I just mentioned, we also busted them on tribal land last night. Since it was on a reservation, any bust made there gets the feds involved. But that’s a plus. There’s a lot more leeway since nine-eleven in bringing charges against these mothers, especially federal conspiracy charges of any kind. The feds can even treat the fuckers like terrorists if they want, especially since they suspect them of planning on bringing heavy weapons down and moving them across the border. They can make their life a waking nightmare. Hell, if these two Chicago ass wipes are Cubs fans, that would be even sweeter,” Brian snorted.
“That would be too lucky. Where are you holding these guys now?”
“They’re over at the Fourth Avenue Jail,” Brian said.
“Have they lawyered-up yet?” Stan asked.
“Not yet. We’re keeping a tight lid on this, but you better get on this right away before some bleeding-heart federal PD gets wind of it ’cause they’ll have to start defending these suckers the moment they find out they got arrested on the rez.”
“Send the paperwork over STAT, and I’ll get on it right away. I might have to call someone over at the federal DA’s office for some direction on this conspiracy stuff though. I don’t want to tread on any of those thin toes over there, and besides, conspiracy law isn’t my forte.”
“Hey, the Stan Kobe I know has no weaknesses,” Brian poked at him. “Do whatever it is you need to do to do that thing you do best—bringing the hammer down on these cocksuckers.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Stan boasted.
“And another thing,” Brian added. “Just make sure when the Arizona Republic interviews you this time, you get my name in there some how, wouldja?”
“Don’t worry, Bri. I’ll make sure you’re mentioned. I’ll even give them your home address.”
Not one to be outdone, Brian replied, “You do that, my friend, and I’ll give The Phoenix New Times the address to that little fishing cabin of yours up in Payson, your personal cell phone number, and the titles of the DVDs you rented for that rookie Ramirez’s bachelor party last week!”
CHAPTER 6
After Brian explained more details on the particulars of last night’s arrest, Stan called an old ASU law school classmate working in the U.S. District Attorney’s office in Phoenix. The two graduates had parted ways after law school but had reconnected a few years ago at a state bar association dinner where Stan had received an award.
“U.S Attorney’s Office. Zadnik.”
“Jake. Stan Kobe.”
“Hey, Stan. Good to hear from you. How’s that beautiful wife of yours and the—twins—right?”
“They’re fine, Jake. Just fine. I’ll make sure to tell Maxine you asked about them.”
“Great. So, what can I do for you?”
“Jake, I need some help. Seems a local multiagency task force rounded up some guys last night on the Gila Indian Reservation. We’re holding them right now at Fourth Avenue.”
“Yes. I heard about that when I got in this morning. Anytime there’s an arrest on the rez we get a ping. How are you involved?”
“Well, I don’t know yet. Depends on what we can charge them with. A sting went down last night at the Comfort Inn off Interstate Ten in Ahwatukee. The perps fled the scene, ended up on the rez, and got in a smashup out there with their rental car. They also got some outstanding warrants from Chicago, so we really should notify the local PD there and start extradition proceedings. But the scuttlebutt here is that you feds want to keep these jokers in our local jurisdiction. Try them here and make an example of them. You got any inside info on that?”
“None that I’ve heard yet. But you probably know our office has been doi
ng a press release a week about how serious we are about vigorous prosecution of gunrunners.”
“Got any idea how we can hold them and stall the federal defender’s office until I can take a look at their files and get over there and see them? I’m worried a federal P.D. could be appointed before we get to these two. I’m sure he’ll advise them to clam up. “
“I could take a look at the Patriot Act. That thing gives us a lot of leeway now,” Zadnik replied. “Also, if you had any federal officers, like Border Patrol, in your task force during the pursuit, we could probably talk to the folks over at Homeland Security. If we can get them onboard, we can bring them in on your behalf.”
“I just spoke to a cop buddy who was there last night, and he mentioned a U.S. marshal is heading up their group. My buddy tells me these two Chicago bad guys were in town to meet with a Mexican drug cartel connection coming up from Sinaloa in Sonora. They have them on tape, discussing their plan to smuggle in some illegals and cash as well as move a large shipment of crystal meth north to their base of ops in Chicago. In return, they were planning to send some pretty heavy firepower back down across the border.”
“If that information is solid and it will hold, then I’d say you got probable cause to charge them with trafficking the methamphetamines, the aliens, the cash, and the guns and, of course, probably a conspiracy charge to commit all of the above.”
“I’ll have to brush up on my understanding of federal conspiracy law.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll help you on that from here. Anyway, you should be able to hold them for a little while without any problem on a state level in regard to their flight from pursuit. If you can do that, I can find out more about these guys and exactly what is going on around here with them. That would give me time to check it all out and see how high up this goes.”
