Silent Witness (17 page)
By the time we left Kate's place, it was after midnight. We drove in relative silence to the Lucky Gent on 300 West in South Salt Lake City. There were still a handful of cars in the lot despite the lateness of the hour. The bar had to be close to last call. We spotted Anthony Barnes' black Honda CRV parked in the rear near the back door. We parked across the street in the parking lot of a plumbing supply business. I dialed Sammy Roybal's cell number but he didn't answer.
“Don't know about you, but I feel pretty good right now.”
Kate smiled. “Took the edge off, didn't it? It did for me, too.”
“I wish we'd hear something from Sammy,” I said. “I neglected to ask him what kind of wheels he'd be driving. He could be inside right now and we wouldn't know it.
“I can tell you one thing. I'm sure as hell not going to walk in there looking for him. If I did, it would be like wearing a flashing neon sign that read, âHey, catch the straight cop.' If I know Sammy, we'll hear from him before long.”
“What makes you so sure?” asked Kate.
“Cool, hard cash. Sammy'll want a down payment for this evening's work. He's a pay-as-you-go kind of guy.”
“Assuming he's inside, I wonder what he's learned?” said Kate.
“Hard to know. I can tell you that Sammy is a prolific talker with a line of bullshit a mile long. If there's anything to learn, Sammy will get it.”
We sat for nearly an hour. Customers drifted out of the bar, and the parking lot slowly emptied. The down time gave us a chance to compare notes. I went over what I'd learned in my interview with Steven Ambrose. Kate listened attentively. When I finished, she said, “What do you make of his alibi?”
“On one hand, he was real fuzzy when it came to time linesâcouldn't remember when he checked in or what time he went to dinner. On the other hand, I've got a credit card receipt in my pocket for the room.”
“It doesn't necessarily mean he used the room. It only proves that he or someone using his credit card checked in.”
“True. It occurred to me that if he was involved in the murder, the Snowbird Lodge would be a good choice for an alibi. It's out of town, but close enough that you could check in, drive to Salt Lake City, commit a murder, and haul your ass back with your alibi still in tact. I'll go up their tomorrow. I'll bring along a photograph of him and we'll see if the front desk and restaurant staff can identify him. Maybe I can also pin down some times.”
Kate had about the same level of success with Rodney Plow as I had had with Ambrose. After significant prodding, Plow admitted the affair, but chose to cast it as an inconsequential fling that occurred because of Arnold's growing inattentiveness. Rodney had not only denied any involvement in the murder, but he vociferously expressed shock and outrage that Kate had dared ask. Like me, Kate hadn't said anything about Anthony Barnes or the Lucky Gent in her interview with Plow.
“I'm glad we opted not to play the Anthony Barnes and Lucky Gent card with those two,” said Kate. “We will have hit the mother lode if either of our interviews spooked these guys into an emergency strategy session with Barnes.”
I nodded. “That would be the connection we're after, that's for sure.”
Just before closing, Sammy walked out of the Lucky Gent. He was alone. I redialed his cell number, and this time, he answered.
“When you get into your car, look right across the street. We're parked in the plumbing supply lot.”
He pulled up next to us, shut the engine off, and rolled down his window. “Think you guys could have parked in a more obvious placeâmight as well have parked under a spot light.”
“Yeah, well, you didn't exactly make us now, did you? Learn anything useful in there tonight?”
“Not much. It's gonna take Sammy a while. I chatted up this guy, Tony, like you asked. He was workin behind the bar. After a few drinks, and me complimenting the shit out of his bar, he mentioned that he was buying the joint. I'll go back tomorrow night and keep working on him. You got some cash for Sammy?”
I looked at Kate. “What'd I tell you?” Kate and I had pooled our available cash. Between us, we'd managed to come up with $90.00. When Sammy reached for the dough, I asked, “Did you get me a receipt?”
He looked at me like I'd just kicked him in the nuts. “Are you crazy, man? You think Sammy's going into a place like that and asking for a receipt?”
I was laughing at him. “Hey, relax, Sammy. I'm just teasing you, man.” I reached across and handed him the money. He counted it quickly before looking up with a scowl.
“This all you got? This'll barely pay my bar bill.” He was working me now.
“What did you expect? You didn't exactly come back with a boat-load of good information tonight, ya know.”
“Hey, man, Sammy's just gettin started. Sammy'll be all over that faggot tomorrow like a wet blanket.”
“You do that, and I'll get you more cash tomorrow. In the meantime, don't bust my chops.”
He ignored me. “Yeah, well tomorrow, bring Sammy something besides pocket change. I can get this kind of cash out of a coke machine.” With that, he drove off.
“That guy's a piece of work,” said Kate.
“You're telling me.”
A little after two, Barnes came out the front door of the bar, locked it, and walked to his Honda. We followed him a short distance to an all-night Denny's restaurant where he ate a meal by himself while we sipped burnt coffee purchased from a nearby convenience store.
By three, he was back in the Honda, but he wasn't headed home, at least not to Ogden. We followed him again, this time to an old house on ninth east near downtown. He parked on the street and walked to the front door. We weren't close enough to tell if he had a key or just walked in. The house was dark.
“He's staying with somebody down here,” I said. “Let's give it a minute and then cruise by the house slowly. I'll get the address.”
We drove back to Kate's condo so that I could pickup my car. “Want to stay over? I hate having you drive all the way back to Park City this late.”
“Thanks, but I'm feeling the need to spend some time with Sara and Aunt June. I've been working a lot of hours lately. Besides, I think I'm on duty later this morning with Bob the Bassett Hound. He's due for round one of his new weight loss training program. I'll be marching his sorry butt all over Park Meadows come morning.”
“I hate to tell you, but it's already morning.”
“Don't remind me.”
Forty minutes later, I was home. Bob the Bassett Hound must have heard me tiptoe in through the garage. I heard a couple muffled woofs coming from Sara's bedroom. The lazy mutt didn't even come out to see who was in the house. Some watch dog.
I woke to a wet tongue caressing my cheek, and I knew instantly that it wasn't Kate's. It was Bob the Bassett Hound probably hoping that a little early morning schmoozing might save him from a vigorous round of exercise with me. Not likely.
Sara was sitting on the bed, witness to the spectacle, giggling her head off. “I'll give you something to giggle about.” I grabbed her, held her down on the bed, and gave her a major tickle. While it might be too early to tell, it seemed like Bob was having a positive effect on her. Since his arrival in our home, the problem of getting Sara to bed at night had abated.
I got up to the aroma of fresh coffee and the sound of Aunt June milling about the kitchen. She was in the midst of fixing breakfast.
“Good morning, Sam. I didn't hear you come in last night. I hope that I didn't let Sara into your bedroom to early.”
“Not a problem. There's nothing quite like waking up to a big wet one from Bob the Bassett Hound.”
Aunt June chuckled. “I hope you don't mind, but Baxter will be here shortly. I invited him to breakfast, and then he and I are off to a couple of garage sales. I warned him that we were getting a late startâearly bird catches the worm, you know. If you go to these things late, the best stuff is already gone.”
“What's he looking for?”
Before she could answer, Sara interrupted, “When's breakfast? I'm starving.”
“Sara, don't interrupt. You're doing that a lot lately. Aunt June and I were talking. Since you're here, you can help me set the table. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. We're waiting for Uncle Baxter.”
I turned back to Aunt June. “Sorry, you were saying.”
“Beats me, I'm not really sure whether Baxter is looking for anything in particular. Frankly, I think he enjoys going out and rummaging through other people's stuff. And then if something strikes his fancy, he goes into negotiating mode. It seems like a waste of time, if you ask me.”
I hadn't asked her, and I'll make you a bet that Uncle Baxter hadn't either. By the time Sara and I had finished setting the table, Baxter had arrived. We all sat down to a great breakfast. There's nothing better then Aunt June's pecan waffles, homemade, hot cinnamon applesauce, hickory smoked bacon, and fresh orange juice. After Sara had left the table, the adult conversation turned to the child custody lawsuit.
“Is anything going on, Sam?” Baxter asked. “How are you getting along with Allison Kittridge?”
“She's just fineâseems like a straight shooter. I think she thinks our chances are pretty good, but she made it clear that there are no guarantees. She anticipates that the court is about to set some kind of pretrial conference and that I'll need to fly to Atlanta.”
“Have you spoken with Sara about this?” said Baxter.
“Not a word and I don't intend to, unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”
“I think that's wise,” he replied.
Aunt June chimed in. “Frankly, I'm worried that if we don't tell Sara, she might hear it from Nicole, or from her parents. They call once or twice a week, Nicole more often.”
“I've asked Nicole not to say anything, but we can only hope.”
I debated about whether I should tell Baxter and Aunt June about what I'd learned from Susan Fleming, but I decided against it. I didn't see the point. The fact that some sleaze-bag PI would probably be snooping around in my private life would only worry Aunt June and there was nothing that she, or for that matter, I, could do about it anyway.
After breakfast, Sara and I cleaned up while Aunt June and Baxter made a dash for the garage sales. While we loaded the dishwasher, Sara asked about her mom. “Daddy, when do I get to see mom again?”
“Well, honey, we'll have to check on that. Why don't we call your mom today and ask her when she'll be coming to Salt Lake City. You know it's only a few weeks until Thanksgiving. It's your mom's turn to get to have you. Isn't she lucky?”
“Yeah. Can Bob come with me on the plane?”
I hadn't thought of that one. This would probably be a question I'd be hearing for a while. “Honey, I think that's going to be kind of hard to do. The airline won't let Bob on the plane with you. He's too big. Do you know where he'd have to ride?”'
“Where?”
“Down below where they put the luggage. I think that might really scare him, and we don't want that, do we?”
She looked sad. “No. Maybe Bob could ride with the pilot. Mom works for the airline.”
“Well, that's true, she does. But I think they have rules that prevent pets from riding with the pilots. The other passengers might get a little nervous if they saw a dog sitting up front with the pilot. But we can see what your mom thinks. How does that sound?”
“Okay. When can we call her?”
“Let's call her right now. I don't know if she's home, but we can always leave her a message. And even if she's not home, she always calls you back.”
I found it impossible to keep track of Nicole's flight schedule. We always tried her at home first. If we didn't get an answer, we assumed that she was traveling. We would then try her cell phone.
This time Nicole didn't answer her home or cell numbers, so Sara left a message. We spent the next little while watching television together. I asked her if she wanted to go with Bob and me on his fitness walk. No big surprise. Television won out. I was beginning to worry that television watching was on the increase, while reading and playtime outside was in decline. I didn't like that. I made a note to talk with Aunt June about it later.
I took Bob on a vigorous three mile walk through the neighborhood in Park Meadows. When we got back, he flopped in front of the fireplace like a guy who'd just run the Boston Marathon. We definitely had some work to do in the weight and physical stamina department. That much was clear.
I took Sara and a neighbor friend, Jennifer, to their noon soccer game at a city park. Sara had lots of saves in goal and her team won. I dropped the girls at Jennifer's house afterward and then went to work.
***
Gordon Dixon maneuvered the Ford Taurus into the right lane and turned on his blinker to exit the freeway. The massive Utah State Prison compound loomed immediately to the west, visible to anyone traveling in either direction along I-15. The palms of his hands were damp with perspiration and his arm pits were soaked. Smuggling contraband into the state prison was not a matter to be taken lightly. It was a felony offense virtually everywhere. Utah was no exception.
He approached the guard shack at the main gate of the prison. A uniformed officer approached carrying a clip board. Dixon lowered the driver's side window. “Good afternoon, officer,” he said with a smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. I'll need to see your driver's license. What brings you to the prison today?”
Dixon handed over his license. “I'm an attorneyâhere to see my client.” The officer looked at the driver's license and then at Dixon. He wished that he'd been able to convince the Bradshaws to implement the plan on a weekday instead of the weekend. Lawyer visits to inmate clients were common on weekdays, less so on weekends.
The officer jotted down Dixon's information and handed the license back. He walked deliberately around the car looking through the windows. When he finished, he returned to the guard shack and raised the gate, motioning Dixon through.
He parked in the visitor's lot under the watchful eye of the guard tower. He took a deep breath and gathered himself. This was the moment of truth. Once he entered the visitor's processing area, there would be no turning back.
He checked his leather briefcase. He had intentionally filled it with a variety of client files including that of Walter Bradshaw. He'd learned from past experience that the fuller the briefcase the less thorough the search. The prison staff was acutely aware of the lawyer-client privilege. Unless they had some specific information to the contrary, they weren't allowed to read the legal correspondence. That didn't mean that they wouldn't open the envelope and inspect the contents before allowing Bradshaw to return to his cell. In all likelihood, they would do that.
Dixon had carefully packaged the drug into a small white envelope, and then carefully taped the envelope to the back of a stapled, twenty page batch of pretrial motions that he'd recently filed with the trial court. He had intentionally taped the drug halfway into the document and up near the staple where there was less chance that it would be noticed. If it was discovered, he would probably be arrested before he ever made it out of the prison.
Dixon got out of his car, locked it, and walked to the visitor's entrance. There was a short line in front of him and he had to wait. Several additional visitors came in and lined up behind him. In his experience lines were a good thing. The longer the line, the more harried the prison staff. The officer, a mostly bald guy who had to be packing an extra fifty pounds on a short, plump frame, spoke first.
“Sir, I'll need your picture identification and the name of the inmate you're here to visit.”
Dixon again produced his driver's license and handed it to the officer. “My name is Gordon Dixon and I'm an attorney. I'm here to visit my client, Walter Bradshaw.”
The officer hardly glanced at him and didn't say a word. He logged the driver's license information into his computer, handed the license back, and asked Dixon to sign the visitor's log. The visitor's log carried a written warning to anyone entering the prison that smuggling contraband was a felony offense.
Dixon signed in and moved through the line until a female corrections officer, who looked fresh out of the academy, stepped forward and said, “Sir, I'll need that briefcase you're carrying. And then if you'll empty your pockets, take off all jewelry, your belt and shoes, and your sports coat, I'll have you walk slowly through the metal detector.”
Doing his best not to betray the apprehension that he was feeling, Dixon walked slowly through the metal detector without setting off the alarm. He glanced at the young corrections officer. The nametag on her uniform shirt read Officer Claudia O'Brien. She had opened his briefcase and emptied the contents on to a folding table. She did a cursory search of the files and then picked up the sealed manila envelope containing the drug.
This was the moment of truth and Dixon decided to take a chance. He gave her his best smile and said, “Officer O'Brien, would it be helpful if I opened the envelope for you? It contains court documents intended for my client.”
O'Brien momentarily appeared to consider the offer. She shook and squeezed the envelope to see if anything seemed out of the ordinary. Finally, she said, “Thanks, but I don't think that'll be necessary.”
Dixon took a deep breath and choked down the sense of panic he felt clear to his toes. Officer O'Brien reloaded the briefcase and handed it back to him. “If you'll take a seat in the waiting room, somebody will call you as soon as Bradshaw has been brought over from max.”
Twenty minutes later, a squat but muscular looking corrections officer stepped into the room and called his name. To Dixon, the officer looked menacing. His head was shaved and he looked like he'd spent half his life in a gym pumping free weights. He was so large through the chest and shoulders that it looked like he was about to pop the buttons off his uniform shirt. Maybe this was the kind of employee you had to have to control a maximum security prison Dixon thought.
The officer led him into the visitor area designated for inmates like Bradshaw who weren't allowed contact visits. That was basically anybody in max or administrative segregation. Bradshaw was already seated when Dixon entered the room. They looked at each other, smiled through the shatterproof glass and reached for the phones.
Dixon had always been cautious during these encounters. It was safer to assume that somebody was listening in despite the legal constraints. He'd reflected this to his client many times. He had rehearsed this conversation with Bradshaw during his last court appearance.
The meeting was brief. Small talk quickly gave way to a discussion of the legal issues confronting Bradshaw as well as impending trial strategy. Bradshaw was scheduled to go to trial in nine weeks. After that, he would have a date with the state parole board.
“Is it your view, Gordon, that all necessary preparations have been made for my trial?” The two men stared at each other.
“Yes, Walter, I think we're about ready.” Bradshaw nodded.
It was Dixon's turn to ask the prearranged question. “And how have you been feeling, Walter? Getting enough exercise, are you?”
“No, never enough exercise. I haven't been feeling particularly well today.”
“Did you notify the staff?”
“I did. They told me if I wasn't feeling better by tomorrow, they'd put me on sick call.”
Glancing down at the manila envelope, Bradshaw said, “What have you brought for me today? It looks like another stack of boring legal documents.”
“A variety of things, but mostly copies of various pretrial motions I filed with the court. I finally received the DA's list of trial witnesses. That's in the envelope as well.”
“I'll be sure to look them over, and if I have any questions, I'll have them ready for you at our next meeting.”
With that, the visit ended. Dixon placed Bradshaw's case file back into his briefcase leaving the manila envelope out. He handed the envelope to a corrections officer who would give it to Bradshaw once it had been appropriately scrutinized. If they were going to find the drug, it would happen here. Normal protocol required that the envelope be opened in Bradshaw's presence and the contents examined.
Dixon turned to leave, knowing that if the drug was discovered now, he would never make it out of the prison. He'd be arrested for smuggling contraband and turned over to the county sheriff. He felt an exhilarating sense of relief when the last steel door clanged shut behind him and he cleared the final prison checkpoint without being detained. Freedom never felt better. This part of the ordeal was over.