“Warden, would it be too much trouble for you to give me a print of the screen we just looked at, for my file?’
“Sorry, Mr. Winkler, but I’m afraid our printer hasn’t worked for a while. Got an order in to have it fixed, but it’s not high priority. Don’t normally have a need to print.”
“Oh, then would you mind if I just take a photo of the screen with the camera in my phone?”
“Help yourself, Mr. Winkler. We’ve got no secrets. Everything’s by the book.”
CHAPTER 32
WINKLER AND ROLLINS THANKED THE WARDEN FOR HIS TIME and made their way down to their rental car. As Winkler reached for the door handle, he spotted a piece of paper tightly folded up and jammed into the window molding. He pulled it out and slipped it into his shirt pocket. The warden’s Hummer blocked the view from his second floor office.
Once they’d passed through the gate, he handed the note over to Rollins. “What’s this about?” he asked.
Rollins unrolled the note and read the message aloud:
“We must talk. Sugar Daddy’s Getaway. Main Street. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Seems somebody knows we’re here,” said Rollins. “They must suspect someone is watching them and don’t want to leave the prison at the same time as us. Didn’t we pass that bar on the way here, right at the center of town?”
“Could there be anything more bizarre? Someone knows we’re here and is watching us as we leave,” said Winkler. “And the fact that the attorney’s car blows up at a time like this, it can’t be a coincidence.”
When they pulled into the parking lot at Sugar Daddy’s, they were surprised to see over a dozen cars so early in the morning. But the day was already hot, the place was air conditioned, and they also served breakfast.
They sat down in a booth in the back and ordered coffee. After their second cups were poured, a grey-haired woman wearing a navy blue skirt and blazer, toting a heavy purse, entered through the back door, just about half an hour after they’d left the prison. She walked over to their table and introduced herself.
“Gentlemen, I’m Alice Hanover, psychologist over at the prison you just visited. I’ve got something to share with you, and I don’t know what you’re going to do with it, but you didn’t hear it from me. Understood?”
Her voice was soft, and the din of the busy restaurant provided some assurance that their conversation would be relatively private.
“Sure, no problem. I’m attorney David Winkler, and this is Luke Rollins, who’s working with me on this case. We were here to meet with Juan Martinez, but I guess you know that. Unfortunately, he’s apparently not taking visitors.”
“I know all about it,” said the psychologist, “and I may be the only one around here who believes his story. Always have. He seemed very credible to me. But he had a string of pro bono lawyers over the years, some good, some not so good, some who just plain dropped the ball. His trial counsel had never handled a capital case. He did no investigation, filed no pre-trial motions, gave no opening statement, didn’t raise any mitigating circumstances, and failed to file an appeal.”
“Mitigating circumstances?” retorted Winkler. “The warden made it seem like an open-and-shut case. He kidnapped his child, and she died in the process. Seems like the jury could have given him the death penalty on that basis.”
The psychologist clearly knew the whole story and wanted to share it. “I’m not surprised he forgot to mention some important facts: The child was dying of leukemia; the mother refused to let her have treatment; the police fired on the truck and caused Martinez to crash; and the mother was the daughter of the local chief of police, who was opposed to his lily white daughter marrying a Mexican.
“Seems to me like a jury might have found mitigating circumstances and given him life instead of the death penalty if they’d been aware of even some of those factors. But the attorney said nothing about them during the trial, not even in his closing statement. Even if the attorney was overburdened by his case load, or just out of his league, he could have argued that Martinez’ sentence should be overturned because of inadequate or incompetent counsel. But he didn’t even file an appeal!”
“Interesting argument,” said Winkler. “But I understand that at this point Martinez is officially at the end of the line.”
“It would seem so, unless you’re some kind of magician. This case has dragged on for years because of various challenges to the death penalty. His most recent attorney—Jeremiah Bean—was talking about a last-minute plea for a stay. He told me that the fact that the prison destroyed the original paper files with fingerprints on first entry into the system was exceptional and could constitute prosecutorial misconduct. But with what happened to Bean last Friday afternoon—I assume you know someone tried to kill him by blowing up his car—as far as I know, there’s nothing in the works. Martinez is just counting the days.”
“The warden mentioned the explosion,” said Winkler, “but he didn’t link it to Martinez. He suspected another of Bean’s clients was unhappy about his representation and didn’t want to take the trouble to file a malpractice suit—just thought he’d get even by having his attorney vaporized. Do you think there could be some connection to Martinez?”
“If you’re asking if Martinez was behind the car bombing, I’d say there isn’t a chance in hell. Martinez’ only hope at this point was to have Bean make a last-minute appeal to some authority that would see the holes in his incarceration. Bean was talking publicly about how he was getting ready to file a ream of paperwork in the hope of getting a stay.”
“Funny, the warden didn’t mention anything about that,” said Rollins.
“Doesn’t surprise me at all. He’s not about to point you in any direction that would lead to a stay for Martinez.” The psychologist almost seemed to be an advocate for Martinez and had her own ideas about what was going on. “I’ve got a theory, that he now wants Martinez executed as soon as possible, just to avoid any further digging into his incarceration. If, as I believe, his incarceration—after the escape—was a case of mistaken identity, then it was Warden Potts who was responsible for it. He was the assistant warden at the time and made a big deal of his success in getting four of the five escapees back, though one was in pieces in a box. No one focused on the absolutely ridiculous escape in the laundry truck, or the failure of Potts and his team to take new fingerprints when Martinez was brought back in. So, when the then warden died of a heart attack, Billy Joe Potts was promoted to that position.
“It’s a cushy job, but do you know his pay grade? I can’t tell you for sure, but he makes somewhere around $100,000 a year. Yet he lives like a king, his wife doesn’t work, and neither of them got an inheritance or won the lottery. Did you see that big Hummer he drives? He gets a new one every year and has a tiled barn with a half-dozen exotic cars. We don’t see many Lamborghinis and Ferraris around here, Mr. Winkler, but he has them and more.
“Did you notice the new security fencing around the facility? That’s only the visible part. There’s a complex electronic security system behind it, including a telecommunication system to monitor the phone services. If a prisoner makes an outgoing call which is re-routed to a third party, the call is cut off. All good stuff, but do you know who gets these contracts? A series of companies owned by the warden’s brother-in-law. My guess is that either the warden owns a percentage of these companies—and that information isn’t public—or he gets some sort of ‘consulting fee.’ Even the annual facility painting contracts are handled by this group of companies, and they have only a couple of employees. Everything is subcontracted.
“I’ve got a far-fetched idea the warden has somehow been ‘encouraged’ over the years to keep Martinez here. It’s just a gut feeling, but he’s been absolutely unwilling to even admit the slightest possibility of mistaken identity. And it was on his orders that the prior paper records were destroyed. Not scanned and archived, mind you, but destroyed. I’ve asked around about this. Sometimes they
don’t destroy them, particularly in a case where questions have been raised.”
“What about the records from his original arrest and conviction? Couldn’t his lawyers get any of that?” Rollins was reluctant to buy into a conspiracy theory right away.
“Similar story. The stuff was stored in a warehouse in an old building in Jenkinsburg. There was a roof leak that went undiscovered for many months. Hundreds of bankers boxes of court records literally rotted and were converted to pulp. There was no budget to resurrect them by freeze drying, and no perceived need to do so.
The criminal defendants had no say in the matter. They were just told the records had been destroyed. I can’t say there’s no record of a pre-1976 fingerprint of Juan Velasco Martinez, but his string of pro bono lawyers couldn’t find it. And it looks like we’re about out of time.”
“So why do you believe Martinez, Ms. Hanover?” asked Rollins. “Like the warden told us, most convicts eventually come up with an argument as to why they shouldn’t be there. Why do you believe this one? Even if the warden is getting rich off the contracts you mention, why would that necessarily mean someone has been encouraging him—I believe you used that word—to keep Martinez behind bars?”
“Look, Mr. Rollins, I met Martinez just after his recapture in 1976. I started my job as prison psychologist a few weeks before he re-entered the system. That was over at Georgia Diagnostic and Classification State Prison. He was quiet, very quiet. He acted like he’d never been there before. He didn’t know the day-to-day routine. He was very intelligent, and worldly. Manicured. Dressed in high-end clothing, Italian designer, as I recall. If anything, he would have been a white collar criminal, but not who they said he was. He just didn’t fit what they said he’d done. He assured me there was a mistake, but he didn’t want to talk about it and certainly didn’t want to file a formal protest.
“Then he asked me for newspapers. The New York Times. The Wall Street Journal. They don’t sell many of those in this town. Martinez was a rough carpenter. How many Mexican rough carpenters do you know who read those newspapers? He asked for an Argentine newspaper, La Opinion, but I couldn’t get it. Juan Martinez was supposedly Mexican. Why would he want an Argentine newspaper?
“So I got him The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, and he read something in them that upset him very much. He asked me for some paper and a pen, and if I would mail a letter for him and make sure no one knew about it. I agreed. He trusted me, and for some reason I was willing to break the rules for him. So, I did it. He addressed the envelope and asked for a second envelope so it would be double wrapped. I mailed it for him. I saw only the outer envelope.”
“Do you remember when all that happened, and who the letter was addressed to?” asked Winkler.
“He wrote that letter about three weeks after he re-entered the system—or entered it, whichever you believe. Shortly after that, he was in a terrible fight. An attempted gang rape. He was very good looking and probably considered easy prey. He got beaten very badly and took some heavy blows to the head with a chair. After that beating, he seemed to have lost his memory. He just kept saying he didn’t know who he was, or why he was here. Couldn’t give me the names of any of his family members—not even his parents or his ex-wife.
“Remember, Martinez was divorced, yet he was wearing a wedding band when he was brought back. Made no sense. I happened to mention this to the prison authorities, who brushed it off as just a ruse; maybe, maybe not. And he never had any visits, letters, or phone calls from family—only from attorneys. His ex-wife probably could have identified him or testified to the misidentification, but she never got involved.
“I think it’s a case of true amnesia. It’s the only one I’ve ever seen. Frankly, I think a suit should have been brought for allowing that attack to happen. The guards were too slow to react, and it wouldn’t surprise me if somehow the attack was part of a coordinated plan to deal with Martinez cooked up by Billy Joe Potts—or maybe his handler.
“But Martinez’ lawyers seemed more interested in getting him out based on problems with the conviction than in getting damages. And his court-appointed Guardian Ad Litem definitely took a back seat. That didn’t surprise me. He was appointed by the local Probate Court Judge, who just happens to be the warden’s cousin. Need I say more? The Georgia court system is incestuous. Maybe it’s the same everywhere—”
“You’re not worried about talking so openly about all this?” asked Rollins, looking at the full tables all around them.
“Don’t worry about those guys. They’re knee-deep yakking about yesterday’s sports scores. I guess I’m a little concerned, but I don’t think anyone around here considers me a threat.
“Anyhow, I’m retiring at the end of the month. My husband owns this place, or should I say used to own it. It’s sold, and the buyers take over this weekend. He sold it to his staff, and we’re pulling up roots and retiring to Costa Rica. We can live well—very, very well—with my pension and his sale proceeds. The kids and grandkids have all moved away, so we got a place big enough for all of them to come visit. It’s a really beautiful, lush country. And we hope to do volunteer work, helping school kids with their English.”
“I guess we were very fortunate to come down here when we did. A week later, and you’d be gone,” said Winkler.
“But if you hadn’t met me, your life would be much simpler. I really don’t know what you can do with all this information, especially with just a few days to go.”
“We need some time to digest it, that’s for sure. Two more questions: Where does the warden think you are right now? And do you recall who Martinez’ letter was addressed to? I don’t know how you would remember details that far back, but if you knew, it might help put the pieces of the puzzle together.”
“As for the warden, I’m checked out to review cases with an independent clinical psychologist, Dr. Rees Hibblewhite, whose office is located right next door. My car is parked in front of his door. His receptionist, Molly, saw me enter and go into a meeting with Dr. Hibblewhite, with a stack of files under my arm. We gave instructions that we weren’t to be disturbed.
“I then quietly left the office through the back door and entered this place through the back door as well, and I’ll return the same way. Rees Hibblewhite is an old college friend and will support me 100%. He’s the only clinical psychologist for hundreds of miles and doesn’t see his flow of second-opinion work from the prison slowing down any time soon, no matter what the warden does. Confidentially, he’s been treating the warden’s wife for years, and if this got nasty, he could probably make the warden’s life unbearable. You’ll have to rely on your imagination there. God—this place really is incestuous!”
“No kidding!” exclaimed Winkler. “I hope it never comes to that. Any recollection of the address on that envelope? I know it’s a long shot, but I just had to ask—”
“Mr. Winkler, do you know why some ladies’ handbags are so heavy? We tend to keep things that just maybe, someday could be important. For example, I believe somewhere down here at the bottom of my bag—”
She stuck her arm down into a large handbag she’d left on the chair next to her and started pulling out things. A wallet. Keys. Cell phone. Hand cream. Perfume. Pens. A transparent accordion folder with store discount coupons.
A legal pad in a black leather folio. Even a laptop computer.
With all of that piled on the table, she could finally see the bottom of the bag, where she spotted what she was looking for: A small notepad, about two by four inches, with stitched binding and a black and white speckled cardboard cover.
“Here it is,” she said, victoriously, flipping the pages to the end of the notepad. “I must have known someone would ask about this one day.”
She read the entry. “J. Weinman, 84 West 119th Street, Forest Hills, New York. Does this mean anything to you gentlemen?”
“Sure does,” Winkler said. “Would you mind signing an affidavit confirming what you told us today
?”
“Look, Mr. Winkler, I have my own ideas about Warden Potts and his motives. I may be right, but I also may be wrong. I want to help you, but I have no interest in hanging Warden Potts.”
“What if I limited it to your comments on Martinez’ behavior before and after the beating, the request for the Argentine newspaper, and mailing of the letter? I believe we’ve actually seen that letter, and that could create a reasonable doubt about who he really is.”
“You write it up and e-mail it to me. If I can sign it, I will. And if I have a problem with something in it, I’ll let you know.”
She pulled out a business card from her wallet, scratched out her office e-mail address and wrote in her personal e-mail address, and passed the card to Winkler. “Don’t send anything through the prison’s e-mail system—I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“Sure. We’ll need to act quickly. If we get it to you by the end of the day, can you get it back to us by tomorrow?” Winkler looked down at his watch. “Would you have a few minutes to stop by the hospital with us to see Jeremiah Bean? I don’t know if he can talk, but I’d like to give it a shot.”
“Pull your car around back. I’ll drive with you. But let’s make it quick. I’ve got to make it back to the prison.”
CHAPTER 33
BI-COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL was only a short drive from Sugar Daddy’s Getaway.
The white-haired volunteer in a red blazer at the information desk told them Jeremiah Bean was in Room 403, in the Burn Unit. Visitors were allowed any time, nine to five, but they should stay no more than fifteen minutes.
A uniformed officer from the County Sheriff’s office sat at a desk outside Room 403, playing solitaire to pass the time. In his sixties, balding, around five-foot-seven, what he lacked in height, he made up for in girth, weighing in at over 250 pounds.
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