The Price of Justice (4 page)

C
HAPTER

8

T
ommy 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. Maybe 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.

He walked deeper into the woods, along a pebbled trail flanked by shrubbery, looking for a specific tree described by Sanders. Within five minutes, he spotted it—a Southern live oak. Of course, Sanders hadn’t known the type of tree. But Tommy could name most trees, plants, and flowers. Instead, Sanders had described something tall, with a stout, twisted trunk and large, low-hanging branches. Carved into the trunk of the tree were the initials “ES + PG.” It was the tree where he claimed he had raped and murdered Carly Sobol. Tommy whipped out his cell phone and took several pictures.

When finished, he walked back to his car and dialed Dani’s cell phone. “You home yet?” he asked when she answered.

“On my way. The plane circled LaGuardia for an hour before it finally landed. How’s it going there? Did you find anything?”

“Yeah. The Tip-Top Inn has him staying there when it went down.”

“Okay. We now know he had opportunity. Did you go to the high school?”

“I’m there now. I found the tree. It’s just like Sanders described.”

“How about that,” Dani said. “We may just have an innocent client, after all.”

C
HAPTER

9

D
ani had spent the last four hours searching the trial transcript for any description of a tattoo on the victim, or any mention of an oak tree with those initials carved in it. There was none. The testimony was replete with descriptions of the location of the body—in the woods behind the high school, about fifty feet in, at the base of a large oak tree. But no one testified about the initials. Sanders couldn’t have known unless he’d been there.

Before she called Ed Whiting again, she needed to touch base with Frank Lesco, the attorney who’d originally approached the state attorney with news of Sanders’s confession. She dialed his number and was put through to him right away.

“I assume you’re calling about young Winston,” he said when he answered the phone.

Dani was surprised to hear him referred to as young. After all, he’d been in prison for seven years and was now twenty-six, hardly a child. Still, she supposed, in the Melton hierarchy, he was young—and, most important, the only heir to his father’s fortune.

“I am. I wanted to speak to you directly about your dealings with Ed Whiting on this matter.”

“Frankly, I was flummoxed by his refusal to reopen the case. I know the family has donated heavily to the governor’s campaigns, and we gave Whiting the perfect reason to set aside the verdict without it seeming to be favoritism.”

Maybe that was it, Dani thought. Maybe because the governor received donations from the Melton family, he wanted Whiting to take a harder line to prove he wasn’t being bought by them. Still, their wealth shouldn’t deprive them of justice. “What can you tell me about Whiting?”

“A political hack. That’s why it surprised me he didn’t want to bow down to the Meltons.”

“Do you think he has anything personal going on with the family? Any reason why he’d want to hurt them?”

“Nope. Just wanted to take the easy way out. And that’s to let sleeping dogs lie.” He paused for a moment. “Or play dead,” he continued, then chuckled.

Dani thanked him, then hung up. She considered phoning Whiting to discuss the new evidence, but after speaking to Lesco, she decided to hold off. Tommy had corroborated two facts Sanders gave to demonstrate he’d been truthful with them. Assuming Sanders was right about the tattoo, that made three. With most state attorneys, that would be enough to take another look at the case. But she figured she had one more shot with Whiting, and she wanted to make sure she had enough ammunition to be persuasive.

She pulled out her notes from the interview with Sanders. He claimed to have murdered nine other women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two in Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. He’d given them the names of the victims and described his attacks. It was time to provide the families of those women the answers they’d been seeking for years, and at the same time, lock up the veracity of Sanders’s story.

As usual, Tommy called on his resources cultivated during his ten years as an FBI agent. Although he’d left the service many years ago, in order to spend more time with his wife and five children, there remained a strong bond of loyalty among the agents who had worked together. Some were still active; others retired. Those who had retired, like him, often took jobs elsewhere. They were scattered across the United States. It was rare that Tommy didn’t have someone to call on when he needed information.

He checked his black book, filled with names and numbers, then picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hector, you old son of a gun, it’s Tommy Noorland.”

“Well, well, a voice from the past. How the hell are you? What’s it been, ten years, maybe more, since we last talked?”

“About that.”

“You must need something. How can I help?”

“You got it backward. I have something to help you.”

“Spill.”

“You still with the Bibb County Sheriff’s Office?”

“Yep. Going on twelve years now.”

Tommy glanced at the list in front of him. The first two of Sanders’s victims were in Georgia—one in Macon, the other in Knoxville. “Do you have an unsolved murder of a seventeen-year-old female, Dorrie Mathers?”

“Worked on the case myself. What do you know about it?”

“I have a confession from a guy who says he did it.”

Tommy heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence on the other end. He didn’t envy his friend. If Sanders’s recitation matched up with the facts of this case, if it included facts that hadn’t been made public, Hector would make a trek to the victim’s family. He would sit down with them and inform them that the man who had murdered their daughter had gone on to murder ten others. At first, they would be relieved to have an answer. And then, after Ed left them alone, the memories would flood over them, and once more they would grieve over the child they’d loved, as though their wound were freshly cut. Tommy had been the bearer of such news too many times, had witnessed the grief it brought to the surface again and again.

“Who is it?”

Tommy told Hector about Sanders’s confession. “He says he first spotted her at a mall, then followed her for a few days, got to know her routine. She always took a shortcut from school through a forest path. Most of the way, her friends were with her, but they peeled off before she reached her own home. That’s when he grabbed her. He had a knife, a Smith & Wesson automatic opener. He held the knife to her throat, threw her to the ground, then choked her. After she lost consciousness, he raped her. When he finished, he slit her throat, left to right. He left her in the forest, where she was found a few hours later by her parents. Does that jibe with the details of Mathers’s death?”

“To a tee.”

“What do you think the county DA will do? Extradite and try him? Or let Georgia execute him? It’s only a few weeks away.”

Again, there was a pause. “I honestly don’t know. You said there were nine others. If every jurisdiction wants to try him, it could prolong his execution for years. My guess is the parents wouldn’t want that. And the DA won’t go against their wishes.”

That’s what Tommy expected. So far, everything Sanders told them had borne out. He suspected when he contacted the remaining authorities, it would be the same. And he believed they, too, wouldn’t want to delay his execution. He hung up, then one by one, he went down his list. The details of the rapes and murders of the other victims differed in small respects, but each time, Sanders’s tale was confirmed. Each time, the authority thought the prosecuting attorney would want the execution to go forward. And each time, Tommy knew, another set of loved ones, whether parents or husbands or siblings, would begin their grieving anew.

C
HAPTER

10

“
W
hat planet are you on?” Dani shouted into the phone. On the other end was Ed Whiting, who had just informed her that he had no intention of helping in any way to halt Melton’s execution. There was legal recourse. She would bring a motion in the circuit court to stay Melton’s execution based on newly discovered evidence. But it was worth squat without Sanders’s confession, and he was scheduled to be executed in less than three weeks. She had asked Whiting to join her at his deposition and cross-examine him, so that the transcript of his testimony would be accepted at a hearing for a new trial. Without the prosecutor’s presence at the deposition, she’d have a legal fight to get his testimony admitted.

“Just because he confirmed details of other murders doesn’t mean he committed this one. People lie all the time. Maybe he’s getting a kick out of throwing a monkey wrench in this case. Maybe he was paid off to lie. Maybe a million other possibilities. Bottom line, I don’t believe he’s telling the truth.”

“So you’d rather take a chance on killing an innocent man than come to Georgia and hear Sanders out?”

“Melton’s not an innocent man. A jury said he’s guilty. In any event, my hands are tied. The governor has signed his death warrant, and so he has no further appeals. By law, his execution has to take place within a hundred eighty days from the signing.”

“Look, I’ve read the law. It doesn’t say that there’s no recourse if proof of innocence presents during those one hundred eighty days.”

“Nor does it say that recourse is available.”

Dani wanted to scream at him again, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She’d run across his kind before. Some genuinely believed in the guilt of the person convicted of the crime; some stuck by their guns for political reasons. Some, hopefully just a few, were complicit in assuring the jury found guilt by withholding exculpatory evidence, and threw roadblocks in the paths of appeals attorneys to ensure their duplicity wasn’t discovered. Dani wished the number of corrupt prosecutors was too small to count. But she knew of a study that had found, over a thirty-five-year period, almost four hundred homicide convictions were overturned because prosecutors either kept evidence of innocence from defense attorneys, or even worse, presented evidence in court they knew was false. In those instances, the deck was stacked against the defendant before he even got into court. Eleven corrupted cases for each year. Eleven persons sent to prison who shouldn’t have been convicted. And for those sentenced to death, an innocent person would have died if the corruption wasn’t uncovered before the date of execution. It sickened her. It sickened her even more that not one offending prosecutor had been convicted of a crime or disbarred over his or her actions.

With her voice as controlled as she could manage, she said, “I guess I’ll see you in court,” and hung up.

Dani bit her lip nervously as she drove up the Sprain Brook Parkway toward the Westchester Philharmonic in White Plains. Jonah had begun composing simple melodies since he was barely eight years old, and over the next years, his work had become more complex. When, one day, his teacher had caught him doodling some notes in class instead of solving problems in his math workbook, she took his composition away, only to return it at the end of the day with an A-plus written on the top, and a note that said, “I’d like to see more.” After Jonah brought in his symphony, his teacher had been so impressed that she urged her husband, who played first violin at the Westchester Philharmonic, to share it with the conductor.

Now, four months later, Jonah had been invited to attend a rehearsal of his symphony. Katie, Jonah’s babysitter, had driven him to White Plains earlier from their home in Bronxville, but Dani was picking him up. And she was late. She should have left the office earlier, but she’d been delayed by her phone call with Whiting. It was at times like this that she felt the familiar sense of guilt. She loved working, yet that meant she wasn’t always home when Jonah returned from school. She wondered if she’d be as worried if Jonah didn’t have Williams syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that caused mild retardation along with a bunch of other issues. Jonah usually had an outgoing personality, but being left alone would make him anxious. Would the conductor do that? Jonah wasn’t like other children his age. Of course, those children wouldn’t have composed a symphony so accomplished that it was to be performed by a professional orchestra. That, too, was a symptom of Williams syndrome. Many children afflicted with it displayed extraordinary musical ability. Since the age of ten, Jonah’s had taken the form of musical composition.

Dani finally pulled off the parkway onto Main Street and within a few minutes reached the music hall. She jumped out of the car and ran inside. Jonah was sitting on a bench in the lobby, along with the conductor of the orchestra.

“Mr. Winkler, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Not a problem. Jonah and I have just been chatting.”

“Mommy, Mr. Winkler says my symphony is very capable.”

“Actually, I said it was very polished. Exceptionally so.”

Dani smiled. It was common for children with Jonah’s condition to use complex words that just missed their mark.

“Thank you. We’re so looking forward to its performance.”

“You’ll see. It’ll be the highlight of the evening.”

Dani hoped that were true. She couldn’t bear it if Jonah were disappointed. But she supposed that would be true for any mother.

“I’ve put it off too long. It’s time I went to Florida to meet with Winston.” Dani was entwined in Doug’s arms as they lay on their living-room couch. It was “honeymoon hour,” the time each evening, after Jonah was asleep, that they put all work aside and focused on each other. Dani often used this time to bounce ideas off her husband. As a professor at Columbia Law School, he often had invaluable insights for her.

“I’m surprised you’ve waited this long. It’s usually the first step for you.”

Dani sighed. She knew Doug was right. It had been almost a week since she’d been handed this case. She’d been hesitant to meet Winston but hadn’t wanted to think about why. Now, with an obstructionist prosecutor and a ticking clock on their essential witness, she needed to face her reluctance.

“I suppose it’s because I resented him being foisted on me. The whole thing about his grandmother buying our representation still rankles me. At least, that’s why I initially held back. Now, something Whiting said brought up another concern, one I think has always rumbled around somewhere in my subconscious.”

“What’s that?”

“He raised the possibility that Sanders was paid to confess to the crime. I mean, if Mrs. Melton was willing to buy my representation, it would probably be nothing to her to pay someone else to take the blame for Carly Sobol. Especially someone who was going to die anyway.”

“You’ve met with Sanders. Do you think that’s what happened?”

Dani wanted to say no. After all, Sanders had admitted to nine other murders, all confirmed by Tommy. Only the real murderer could know the circumstances of those deaths.

Sanders had to be telling the truth about the others. Therefore, it made sense that he’d told the truth about Carly Sobol. Or so Dani hoped.

“I guess I’m afraid that when I meet Winston, I won’t believe him. Even with Sanders’s confession. And I hate the thought of representing someone whose innocence I doubt.”

“Then don’t doubt it. Another man confessed. Someone who’s a serial killer. Those are the facts you know. Those are the facts that matter.”

“Even if I believe he’s innocent, I dread meeting someone I expect I’ll dislike. His trial attorney admitted he wouldn’t put him on the stand because of his arrogance. You know me. I hate dealing with people who feel they’re better than everyone else and are quick to let you know that.”

“You’re a professional. Ignore the personal reaction, and just deal with the facts.”

Dani smiled. Doug was always so logical. No emotional overlay interfered with his analysis of a case. Not so with her. Although her analytical skills matched Doug’s, she’d never been successful at stripping away her feelings. Often, that was useful. Her gut instincts propelled her to fight for some clients when the facts were still unknown. And, in those cases, when the truth was discovered, it inevitably confirmed her belief in the prisoner’s innocence.

“Well, innocent or guilty, he’s my client. And it’s time I got to know him.”

Two days later, Dani, Melanie, and Tommy sat in an attorney interview room, waiting for Winston Melton to be brought in to them. They’d flown into Jacksonville International Airport, retrieved a rental car, and driven the sixty miles to Florida State Prison, in Raiford, without a hitch. The room was like the interview rooms in every prison in every state. The sounds of metal doors clanging and loud voices shouting were the same in every prison she’d visited. And the acrid odor that filled her nostrils when she walked down the corridors to this room were all the same. Only the inmates she represented were different. Some were career criminals, convicted more for their past crimes than because of the State’s flimsy evidence that had landed them in jail. Some had never been convicted of more than a traffic violation before they became Dani’s clients. They ran the gamut from her oldest client, at age sixty-one, to her youngest, at age nineteen, on death row since he was fifteen. The one thing they had in common—all were destitute. Too poor to hire their own attorneys. Those who had some means before their convictions lost it all paying for an attorney at trial. All except Winston Melton.

After ten minutes, Melton was brought into the room, dressed in the blue pants worn by every inmate, and the orange T-shirt reserved for those on death row. His pitch-black hair, cut short, contrasted sharply with his pale skin. Dani thought others might be drawn first to his deep-blue eyes, but what struck her immediately were his hands. Their smoothness bespoke someone who’d never engaged in manual labor. No washing dishes or vacuuming floors or mowing lawns. Winston had grown up in a home where a hired person performed those chores. Even now, his nails, in contrast to her own chewed tips, were perfectly rounded. Unlike other prisoners, death-row inmates don’t work in the prison. Instead, they are confined to their cells at all times, let out only for a shower every other day, two hours twice a week in the exercise yard, and for visitors or medical reasons. Dani suspected he would have gladly traded the isolation of death row for calluses on his hands from jailhouse work.

He sat down in the chair opposite Dani and smiled warmly. “Thanks for coming. I know you didn’t want to take my case, and I really appreciate that you did.”

Dani was taken aback by his gratitude. The young man sitting opposite her didn’t seem like the arrogant rich kid described by Jack Donahue, his trial lawyer. “You’re not what I expected.”

Winston chuckled. “Oh, you probably thought I’d be like my grandmother. I know she can be overbearing at times, but really, she’s just worried about me.” His face turned somber. “And, I am, too. I’m terrified.”

“It wasn’t just your grandmother. Another picture was painted of you at your trial.”