Death Row (7 page)

Ben was so stunned he could barely speak. "You-didn't really see him?"

"I wasn't sure what I saw." Her broken voice seemed part anger, part anguish. "I wasn't sure about anything. The killer wore a ski mask, remember? I couldn't tell what he looked like. I did hear his voice, and when I heard Goldman's voice in the lineup, I thought maybe it was the killer's voice. But I couldn't be certain."

"Then why-"

"The DA." Her lips stiffened as the letters slipped out of her mouth. "He pushed me. Pressured me. He was desperate to win that case. There had been so much publicity, you remember. He couldn't afford to lose. He was certain Goldman was guilty and he was willing to do almost anything to convict him. I was only fifteen years old and barely thinking straight. Easy for him to manipulate."

Ben didn't argue with her. He knew most district attorneys were honest lawyers who played it straight, but some of his subsequent experiences with Jack Bullock proved the man was willing to break rules to convict someone he believed guilty. "So he told you to lie?"

"Oh, he never said it like that. He just pushed. Pushed and pushed and never let up. Told me how important my testimony was. How the jury had to hear it from me. How I had to sound sure of what I was saying. That my whole family was counting on me. That I was the only one left, and it was up to me to make sure the man who committed this atrocity didn't live to do it again. He-" She turned her head, fighting back the tears. "He showed me pictures. Of them, I mean. Of what the killer did to them. So I'd see how important this was."

Ben felt as if someone had slipped a dull knife inside his heart. Small wonder Erin was traumatized-to be put through so much when she was only fifteen.

"So I did what he said," Erin continued, her voice trembling. "I testified. I told them I was certain." She paused. "But I wasn't."

Ben stared dumbly across the desk as Christina tried to comfort Erin. He had no illusions about what had happened at that trial. It was her testimony-the certainty of her testimony-that had convicted Ray Goldman. But for that, they would not have lost. And Ray would not have spent the last seven years on death row.

"You should talk to the DA," Ben said finally. "Tell him what you've told us."

"But-if I do that, won't they charge me with perjury?"

"I think it's unlikely. You were a crime victim, and a juvenile. And the prosecutors encouraged you. But I can't rule it out."

"I don't want to go to prison. And I don't want to see that district attorney. I can't face that man again. He'll try to shut me up."

"Well, Bullock isn't there anymore, but..." But other DAs were. And since her recantation meant they would have no legitimate conviction on one of the worst homicide sprees in Tulsa history, they had plenty of motivation to silence or discredit her.

If this mess was going to be fixed, it would have to be a defense attorney who did it.

"We'll need you to swear out an affidavit," Ben said quietly. "And the judge will want to hear from you in person. You'll be examined-and cross-examined."

"Whatever. Whatever it takes. Just stop this. Don't let it go on any longer." She drew herself up and tried to steady her voice. "I've been tearing myself apart. I've talked to everyone-my preacher, my friends, my boyfriend, my coworkers-everyone I know. But no one can help. When I thought Goldman was going to be executed, I almost died myself. That's when I made up my mind. That I had to talk to you."

Christina wrapped her arms around the young woman. A fresh wave of tears cascaded forth, but Erin continued to speak in the same voice tinged with despair. "I can't bear it any longer. I don't want that man's death on my conscience forever, damning my soul. I want it to be over." She looked up at Ben, her eyes wide and watery. "Please help me, Mr. Kincaid. Please."

"Do you believe her?" Christina asked, after Ben returned from escorting Erin to her car.

"Of course I believe her. Didn't you see her face?"

"I saw... a very disturbed woman."

Ben loosened his tie and flopped down behind his desk. "She's been carrying that guilt around for seven years."

"I agree that she's traumatized by guilt. But that doesn't necessarily mean she's telling the truth."

Ben's forehead creased. If this had come from anyone but Christina, he would find it laughable. But he knew Christina's instincts about people were sound-much better than his own, generally. "What do you mean?"

"She feels responsible for Ray's imminent execution."

"So? She is."

"A lot of people later come to regret the part they played in a case that leads to the death penalty. Witnesses, jurors, judges-even lawyers."

"What's your point?"

"She may be telling us she lied to stop the execution. Regardless of whether she thinks Ray is guilty."

"I don't believe that for a minute."

Christina sat on the edge of Ben's desk. "What if she's been born again? She said she'd been talking to a preacher. She said she worried about her soul being damned."

"I think you're stretching."

"Am I? She could've had a religious conversion experience, come to think of the death penalty as murder, and regretted her part in causing a man's death."

Ben shook his head vigorously. "I saw that woman's eyes, Christina. The only cause of her guilt is the fact that she lied on the witness stand."

"Are you sure about that? Or do you just want to be sure of it?"

"You're losing me."

"I know you consider the Goldman case your greatest failure. And I know you'd grab at anything to get him off death row."

"That's my job. Her word is good enough for me."

"It won't be enough for the judge."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the prosecutors will make all the same arguments I have. And no judge is going to overturn a jury verdict in a high-profile case unless he has something more than a recanting witness."

Ben frowned. "You're probably right about that."

"And there's more to consider. I know why you haven't been able to find anyone to take over Ray's case. The funding for his defense ran out a long time ago."

Ben averted his eyes. That was the problem with Christina-she always knew what was going on. All too well.

"Jones will have a heart attack if you launch a major initiative without someone to pay the bills."

"That much is certain."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know." Ben rose. "Before I make that decision, there's someone else I need to consult. Someone whose opinion is a hell of a lot more important than mine."

"I don't think that's wise," Major Mike Morelli said as two uniforms buckled his bulletproof vest and wired him for sound. "That's a dangerous man in there."

"Tell me something I don't know," Sergeant Hoppes shot back. "We're talking about a nutcase holed up in a fast-food restaurant holding twenty people at gunpoint."

"What I'm saying is, we have to be careful. When the SOT boys show up, keep them out of sight. Behind the perimeter."

"And what
I'm
saying is, let's get them right up in the creep's face. Give him something to worry about."

"He's already on the brink. And he has hostages!"

"All the more reason. We'll show him who's boss. Show him how quickly he'll be dead if he tries anything. He'll back down."

"Maybe. Or maybe he wants to die. Maybe he'll shoot everyone in sight."

"Sorry, Mike, but I disagree. We do it my way."

Mike grabbed his arm. "Excuse me? You're overruling me?"

"I'm the SOT team leader, Mike. This is my field of expertise."

"Nonetheless-"

"Mike, you're a homicide detective."

"I don't care if I'm the goddamn county dogcatcher. I'm a major, you're a sergeant. And that means I call the shots!"

Hoppes's eyes burned like fire. A million retorts must've run through his brain, but in the end, he kept his cool. "You're only here by accident, Mike."

"Consider yourself relieved, Tom."

Hoppes's lips tightened.

"You'll be my number two. But I'm in charge."

Hoppes bit back whatever he was thinking. "As you say,
Major
. We'll be in position behind the perimeter. Just in case you need us."

Mike watched Hoppes back off, his fists tightly clenched. There'd be hell to pay when they all got back to headquarters. But he had to do what he thought best. Hoppes was a superb marksman, and he knew SOT maneuvers better than anyone on earth. But his understanding of human nature was much less sure. And as a tactician, he sucked.

Not that that meant Mike had to take over. When would he learn to stop thrusting himself into these situations? He was too old and too smart to keep volunteering for trouble. But he happened to be in the south Tulsa neighborhood, on his way back from interviewing a potential witness, when the call came in about the hostage situation at the local Burger Bliss. And so he sped to it and offered Hoppes his assistance. And one thing led to another...

He made his way to the front lines, where Hoppes had been broadcasting through an electronic bullhorn, trying to persuade the man inside to give himself up, without luck. He took the bullhorn.

"Listen to me." Mike was startled to hear the electronics give his voice a mechanical, almost eerie, tone. Small wonder no one ever responded well to it. "My name is Mike Morelli. I'm a policeman. I want to negotiate with you. I assume there must be something you want or you wouldn't be doing this. Tell me what it is, and I'll do everything I can to make it happen. All I ask is that you don't hurt anyone. If you don't hurt anyone, no one will hurt you. You have my word on that. May I come in?"

Mike lowered the bullhorn and waited. And waited. Had the wild man with the gun agreed? Had he even heard?

Mike heard a groan of disgust from Hoppes. He tried again. "I am not armed. No gun, no knife, no nothing. You have my word. I'll come in naked, if it will make you more comfortable. I will not harm you. I just want to talk. May I come in? Please?" He waited another few seconds. No response.
"Please."

A moment later, the side entrance to the Burger Bliss opened. An elderly woman who appeared to be absolutely terrified pushed her head through the door. "He says you can come in."

It worked! He was halfway home.

Now all he had to do was get those people out of there safely, Mike told himself. And not get killed in the process.

He slowly approached the side door, talking quietly into the microphone buried under his bulletproof vest.

"I'm going inside. When the SOT team arrives, put them into position, but keep them out of sight. I don't want to agitate the gunman."

"Yes sir,
Major
," Hoppes snapped back.

Mike kept moving. "There doesn't seem to be any resistance. Maybe he's ready to give up."

Hoppes's voice crackled in Mike's earpiece. "Maybe he's going to shoot your sorry butt the second you come through the door."

A cheery thought. Mike heard a squeal of Jeep tires somewhere behind him. The SOT team had arrived, no doubt. In a few minutes, they would be armed with sniper rifles and waiting for a clear shot. If he was going to end this mess without bloodshed, he was going to have to move quickly.

Inside, the decor and layout looked pretty much like any other fast-food restaurant, with the standard bright plastic tabletops and the efficient order counter McDonald's had pioneered years ago. Most of the hostages sat at the tables, but a few of the employees were still behind the counter. As a whole, the hostages were staying admirably calm. A few were crying, trembling, worried that this inexpensive meal would be their last. The kids were the worst. Some of them were toddlers. They couldn't possibly comprehend what was happening or why. They just knew there was a man with a gun. And they were terrified.

He heard Hoppes barking in his ear. "Can you see him? Are you in a position to shoot him?"

"No," Mike murmured. "I don't have a weapon."

"You-what? Why in hell not?"

"Because I gave him my word."

The man with the gun had barricaded himself between two large trash receptacles. His gun was out and his hand was shaking. He was a thin, long-haired man. Couldn't be more than twenty. He was wearing a solid black T-shirt and had a few scruffy hairs on his chin passing for a goatee. He was drenched in sweat. His eyes were red and worried; they never seemed to stay in one place for more than a second.

"My name's Mike." He kept a good ten feet away. "What's yours?"

The young man whipped around, pointing his gun in Mike's direction. "Why do you want to know my name?"

Mike tried to keep his voice even. This guy was worse than on edge. He was already in the midst of a major meltdown. "No reason. Just so I know what to call you."

"You don't need to know my name!"

"All right. Then I'll just make one up. How about... Elmer?"

"That's a stupid name!" the kid shouted, waving his gun around. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Of course not. How about... Bob?"

The young man inhaled deep and long, like a diver with a bad case of the bends. "I can live with that."

Great. They'd made progress. "What is it you want, Bob?"

"I want my goddamn job back, that's what I want."

Mike's lips parted. "You used to work here?"

"Damn straight. For almost two years. Till that son-of-a-bitch manager fired me. He said I was screwing around, not getting my work done. Made other people carry the slack. But he was full of it!" Watching the gun bob and weave in all directions made Mike sick, but there was nothing he could do about it at present. "I worked hard. Every day, hard. Not like some manager who sits on his fat ass and watches other people work. I didn't deserve to lose my job. And I want it back!"