To Save the Nation

by Robert E Kass

“What you can see from the outside, yes, I was born like that. I guess it’s ugly, but it never hurt before I fell off that bunk bed. Now I’ve got broken bones and dislocation, constant pain—”

  “I’m going to leave one of my cards for you,” said Winkler, holding the card up so the guard could see it. The guard nodded with approval. “If you can get us a copy of your file, we’ll review it and see if we can take your case. Or maybe we can find you someone who will.”

  “What about those questions you wanted to ask me?” asked the prisoner as the guard approached to take him back to his cell.

  “I think we found out what we needed from you today. Maybe another time. Thanks again.”

  “WHAT KIND OF DETECTIVE WORK WAS THAT?” Winkler asked as they walked out of the prisoner visiting room.

  “I cross-checked the file for height and weight. The guy was a match. Hispanic to boot. How was I to know his body was twisted up like a pretzel? When the records say five-foot-nine, they don’t say if the guy stands straight or is all stooped over.”

  “He may have a case, though, on the bunk design—maybe against both the manufacturer of the bed and the prison system or officials. I can imagine creative plaintiff’s counsel would probably join in the architects or interior design consultants who put together the specs for the bunks—and see how much money the defendants or their insurers would be willing to put on the table to make this go away. I sure wouldn’t want to have this guy strip to his waist in front of a jury!”

  “Funny how you can sympathize with a two-time killer who’s being treated unfairly by the system.”

  “Luke, beyond the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, he’s a guy, just like you and me. But let’s hope the fellow you came up with in prison in Georgia is the guy we’re looking for. Otherwise, I’ll have to send you back to the drawing board.”

  CHAPTER 30

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, the executive jet touched down at the Griffin-Spalding County Airport, in Griffin, Georgia, about half an hour by car from the William Ewen Correctional Facility. Winkler and Rollins picked up a rental car and checked in to separate rooms at the Holiday Inn Express in Griffin for the night.

  Still jet-lagged from his weekend trip to Zurich, and anxious about his next prison visit, Winkler tossed and turned all night long. Just as he was about to fall asleep, his cell phone rang. It was six in the morning and Klaus Wehrli was calling.

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, Mr. Winkler, but it’s noon here, and I have meetings all afternoon. I met your ‘friends’ Monday morning but couldn’t report back to you until our senior management had an opportunity to discuss this situation internally. They, in turn, felt it was necessary to refer the matter to our general counsel. I just heard back, at least with interim advice.”

  “Can you tell me what happened at the meeting?” said Winkler.

  “They presented a Sub-Delegation with what purported to be your signature on it. Since they said they were acting on your behalf, I’m allowed to talk to you about it. To support the authenticity of your signature, they provided a photocopy of your U.S. passport. I must say, it certainly looked like your signature on the Sub-Delegation. They said you hired them as your business agents to deal with our bank.”

  “Did they present the original Power of Attorney?”

  “They certainly did. And as I told you I would, I kept it. They weren’t very happy about that, but I told them I needed the original to process their request. I gave them a photocopy.”

  “And what exactly is their request, if I may ask?”

  “Obviously they wanted to close the account,” replied the banker.

  “I would expect no less. I assume they wanted a wire transfer.”

  “They certainly did. To an account in the Cayman Islands, with your name on it no less.”

  “I suppose from that account, they would transfer it to another. Did you tell them the account balance?” asked Winkler.

  “We couldn’t even acknowledge that they had authority over the account. I didn’t mention that you had contacted us, or that you had withdrawn all Sub-Delegations, but I did point out that the Power of Attorney didn’t include the account number and password. I was perfectly candid with them about that.”

  “How did they react?”

  “They said the fact that no account number was included meant it covered all accounts of the depositor at our bank, which is simply not correct. If someone wanted to grant authority over all accounts—or any accounts—the document would simply say so. That wasn’t done here.”

  “And anyhow, you would still need the password, right?”

  “Absolutely,” said the banker, “and I pointed that out as well.”

  “How did they react?”

  “They seemed surprised, then said they thought you were going to send that information directly to me at the bank. They said you gave them my name.”

  “Very creative! They got your name from a letter written by Ricardo Guttmann. So, how did you leave things?” Winkler needed to know how far the banker would go to prevent the impostors from draining the account. Once the money was gone, it would be impossible to get it back.

  “I took copies of their passports, and wire transfer instructions based on the Sub-Delegation. Since they presented a copy of your U.S. passport, which you said was stolen, I contacted the Zurich Police, who contacted the U.S. Department of State. As it turns out, both their passports were stolen, so we don’t know who they really are. They think we’re holding the Power of Attorney, Sub-Delegation, and wire transfer instructions until they get back to us with the account number and password. At least that’s how I left things with them. I really don’t know what they’re thinking.”

  “Did they say when they expect to get back to you?”

  “Yes, they said it could take up to a week, no more.”

  AS WINKLER ENDED HIS CONVERSATION with the banker, Rollins knocked on his door.

  “Mr. Wehrli, thank you so much for calling. I appreciate your cooperation, and I’ll be back in touch as soon as I know more.” He hung up with the banker, then turned his attention to Rollins. “Luke, why are you up so early?”

  “I’ve been up for a while. Maybe I had a feeling you’d get an early morning call from our new best friend, Mr. Wehrli. Anything worth reporting?”

  Winkler filled Rollins in on the entire conversation.

  “Within a week? They’re going to get him the account number and password within a week? Do you think that’s just talk, or do they know something we don’t?”

  “Hard to tell,” Winkler said. “But from now on, we’d better be doubly careful. If they think we have that information, they could show up at any time. And I’d better tell Emma things are getting very tense and to have our people crank up our office security a couple of notches.

  “We’ve got some time before she’ll be at the office. Let’s grab a bite, then head out to our meeting with Prime Suspect No. 2. I sure hope this isn’t another wild goose chase, Luke.”

  CHAPTER 31

  IT WAS AROUND SEVEN FORTY-FIVE Wednesday morning when Winkler and Rollins pulled up to the main gate of the William Ewen Correctional Facility, about five miles from the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification State Prison. The new facility, named after Georgia’s first governor, was necessary because of overcrowding due to the continuing increase in the prison population.

  Winkler handed his business card and driver’s license to the guard and advised that they were there to see Juan Martinez and were a little early for an eight o’clock conference.

  “Martinez? Sorry, but there’s a note here that says you’re to meet with Warden Potts. He usually comes in at nine, but I guess he’ll be here by eight. Wouldn’t want to keep you big city boys waiting. Why don’t you just park over there in the staff lot? He should be around any time now.”

  “Much obliged,” said Winkler.

  No sooner had he pulled into the space next to the one marked “Reserved for Warden Potts,” than a shiny
black Hummer squealed around the corner, passed the guard gate, and pulled into that space. Decked out with a ten-gallon hat and fancy cowboy boots, the warden stepped out of his vehicle and greeted his visitors with a hearty handshake. At about six-foot-two, in his mid-sixties with a beer belly, he was an impressive specimen. Winkler’s hand felt like it was in a nutcracker.

  Georgia born and raised, the warden spoke with a heavy Southern accent.

  “Billy Joe Potts is my name. Real pleasure to meet you fellows. Don’t often get visitors from Dee-troit. Let’s talk in my office.”

  He led Winkler and Rollins up the stairway, through a reception area, and punched the security code into the door lock.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, motioning to them to be seated on the sofa. “I’ll put some coffee on.” He reached up for a jar of Folger’s instant. “We’re not much for that fancy drip stuff down here. This’ll wake you up just the same as real brew.”

  He took down three mugs from a shelf, blew the dust out of them, put a plastic spoonful of coffee in each, added hot water from an instant hot tap, then gave each man a mug of coffee with a wooden stirring stick.

  “Hope you like it leaded and black, ‘cause we’re out of milk. But I’ve got some sugar if that’s your preference.”

  Both men nodded that black was fine. They were there to meet a prisoner, not enjoy coffee.

  “Well, I guess I’ve got some explaining to do. The prisoner you came to see, Juan Martinez, isn’t available. Here’s here, but he’s basically incommunicado. Since his final appeal was denied, he’s just counting the days.”

  “Counting the days until what?” asked Winkler.

  “His execution,” replied the warden. “It’s been a long haul, maybe one of the longest death sentence incarcerations in this state’s history. All a waste of time and taxpayer’s money, as far as I’m concerned. By next Tuesday evening—in six days, if my math is right—he’ll be no more.

  “When your office called on Monday—day before yesterday—to set up the meeting for today, we didn’t have the final denial on the Application for Clemency. If we had it, we wouldn’t have booked your meeting for today.

  I really apologize. I just realized it last night when I was looking at the prisoner visits scheduled for today. I sure didn’t mean to waste your time, coming all the way down here for nothing.”

  Winkler couldn’t believe it. For all they’d been through, and to be so close to perhaps finding the missing banker, only to have the door slammed in their face. He had to probe. Maybe Martinez wasn’t Guttmann after all.

  “Do you know Martinez?” Winkler asked.

  “Sure do. In fact, I knew him back at the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification State Prison, where we used to house the death row inmates. We call ‘em ‘UDS,’ short for ‘under death sentence.’ We housed ‘em there ‘til we were bursting at the seams and opened up this place a few years ago. I moved over when he did.

  “I was Assistant Warden at Georgia Diagnostic when we took him in, back in 1974. Lived through the break-out in ‘76, when he and four others escaped in a damn laundry truck! We got ‘em all back, one way or the other, ‘cept one. Never could get that guy. But we caught two in the next county, brought ‘em back peacefully, and one put up a fight with a county SWAT team and got his head blown off. You don’t want to mess with those boys.”

  “And what about Martinez? How did you get him back?” Winkler asked.

  “At a routine traffic stop in Memphis, a cop just happened to recognize him. Had no ID and wouldn’t say who he was, but the cop recognized him from an APB photo.

  They had a tip he might be in the area. Just dumb luck. He didn’t even try to run.”

  “Do you have a file on him we could look at? Something that would have his photo and fingerprints?”

  “Actually, we don’t keep paper files anymore. It’s all on computer. Come on over here, and I’ll show you what we’ve got. Our database covers the entire state criminal justice system. It’ll just take a minute for Ol’ Betsy to boot up.”

  A couple of minutes later, they were looking at the record of Juan Velasco Martinez, prisoner number 74-762158.

  “What are we looking at here?” asked Winkler.

  “The photo’s more or less current,” said the warden. “We update them every so often. We figure it wouldn’t do no good if you had a picture from thirty years ago and a prisoner escaped today. This isn’t supposed to be a family photo album.”

  “The photo shows him clean shaven. Do you have a policy on no beards?” asked Rollins.

  “Sure do. Don’t want prisoners hiding blades or whatever inside a beard. We get First Amendment suits on that from time to time, but this guy’s been clean shaven as far back as I can remember.”

  The only photo Winkler had of Guttmann was bearded, and it was decades old. It was impossible to see any similarity between the old photo of Guttmann and the more or less current photo of Martinez.

  “And the prints? When were they taken? I see his date of incarceration was in 1974. Are those the prints that were taken back then?” Rollins was trying to find something to either make or break the argument that Martinez and Guttmann were one and the same.

  “Nope. When we went digital a few years ago, we made a point of getting new prints on everyone. That way, we could be sure we had good quality, not just a scan, or a scan of a photocopy in some cases.”

  “Do you have the original prints from 1974 to compare?” asked Rollins.

  “No need to. A person’s prints don’t change over time, not unless they’re altered. Anyhow, the old paper records were destroyed. But what you see there are the prints of Juan Martinez, prisoner 74-762158. I guarantee it.”

  “Warden, let me get to the point. Is it conceivable that the person who was put back in prison in 1976 as Juan Martinez isn’t the person who was convicted as Juan Martinez in 1974? In other words, is it even remotely possible that this is somehow a case of mistaken identity?” Winkler couldn’t find a way to ask the question diplomatically.

  “Mr. Winkler, I don’t know what you big-city boys smoke on your off-hours, but let me make myself perfectly clear. There was no mistake. The guy they picked up and brought back after Juan Velasco Martinez escaped was Juan Velasco Martinez, the same guy who escaped, no one else. The Memphis cops got a tip he might be in the area, and he ran a red light and was picked up. His prison photo was sufficient to identify him. When he was arrested and brought back here, he didn’t say we got the wrong guy.

  If you were picked up as someone else—even if you had the same name—wouldn’t you be kickin’ and screamin’ all the way to prison? How about flashing your own ID to prove who you were? I sure would! Trust me, we got the right guy.”

  “So, never in all these years,” asked Rollins, “did Juan Velasco Martinez take the position that he was being held wrongfully?”

  “Oh, sure he did, but not immediately. But don’t forget, most of them eventually get educated by a jailhouse lawyer, or get some kid in law school to take their case.

  “They take every imaginable position to try to weasel their way out. Error in the trial. Mistaken identity. This one said he got amnesia, said he didn’t have a clue why he was here and wasn’t who we know he is. And so we give them all their rights—too many rights, if you ask me—until one day they exhaust all their remedies, and that’s where he is now.

  “Gents, I’m really sorry I couldn’t be more helpful...” The warden’s tone was sincere, but defensive at the same time. He was clearly fed up with all the effort that had been expended to dispense justice to someone he firmly believed had abused the legal system.

  Winkler couldn’t leave without probing further. “Warden, if you could just give us another minute of your time. Maybe there’s some background that’ll help confirm that we’re on the wrong track. What was he in for?”

  “It’s a convoluted story. He was divorced, and he abducted his eight-year-old daughter from his ex-wife, who had lega
l custody. The police tracked him down, he took off in his truck with the girl, lost control, crashed into a tree, and the kid died. Under Georgia law, you can get life or the death penalty for kidnapping when there’s bodily injury. A unanimous jury gave him the death penalty. Open and shut case.

  “He’s been up and down the court system for decades, in the middle of the whole death penalty debate. But that’s how it goes. No more appeals. Yesterday at noon, we got word that the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles had denied his request for clemency.”

  “So now what?” asked Winkler.

  “Unless someone pulls a rabbit out of a hat, the play is over. That’s the last act. The final curtain comes down at six o’clock next Tuesday evening. That’s when they’ll inject him and he’ll take his last breath.”

  “So there’s really no way we can see Martinez, not even for a few minutes?”

  “I suppose if he wanted to talk to you, he could, but you’d have to work that through his attorneys. As things stand right now, he’s pretty upset, don’t want no visitors. That’s typical for a death row inmate when all his appeals are exhausted and the execution date is set. In this case, it’s not much of a change for him. In all these years, he’s never had any visitors from outside, except attorneys and the prison shrink. No family, not even a letter or phone call from family. It’s like the fellow doesn’t exist, except for folks who are using his case to fight the death penalty.”

  “What about his attorneys? Could you give us a name?”

  “Sure can—Jeremiah Bean is the main lawyer right now. He’s with the Georgia Capital Defenders office over in Peachtree City. He’s been on the case for a few months. But it won’t do you no good.”

  “Why’s that? Because he’s exhausted all his appeals?”

  “Yep, and also because Bean’s not up to visitors. His car blew up last Friday afternoon on West Highway 16 where it crosses I-75—and from what I hear, he’s in really bad shape. The car was probably wired by the family of one of his criminal defendant clients who wasn’t happy with his services. The doctors aren’t sure if he’s going to make it. Bad news travels fast around here. You can find him at Bi-County General Hospital in Jenkinsburg—but you’ll probably be wasting your time.”