Silent Witness (6 page)
The other message had been from Kate. She wanted me to meet her at the home of Arnold Ginsberg for what would be a follow-up interview with the victim's live-in partner, Rodney Plow. She didn't come right out and say it, but I think she wanted me along to provide my impressions of the bereaved partner. Clearly, something about Plow's demeanor during his first interview had made Kate uncomfortable.
Ginsberg lived in an older, but exclusive neighborhood, high on Salt Lake City's east bench off Wasatch Boulevard, between Big and Little Cottonwood Canyons. The directions Kate had provided carried me up the side of the mountain along roads that snaked back-and-forth like switch-back trails. Eventually, I topped out on Ridge View Drive and realized that I could climb no higher. Ginsberg's home had been carved out of the side of the mountain. It was located on the eastside of Ridge View and commanded striking views of the entire Salt Lake valley and the Oquirrh Mountains to the west.
Kate was parked in front of the house when I arrived. According to Kate, Plow had been so emotionally distraught upon learning of Ginsberg's death that she hadn't been able to conduct a particularly thorough interview. She hoped to finish the interview today. From the street, we walked up a steep, narrow asphalt driveway that lead to a triple car garage. Looking back, I said, “Gorgeous views up here, but how would you like to try to get down that driveway in a blizzard?”
“It looks a bit intimidating. If you didn't have a four-wheel drive vehicle, you'd be screwed.”
“You might be screwed even with four-wheel drive. If you slid down the driveway and couldn't get control when you hit the street, you might end up in the living room of that house across the street.”
Rodney Plow wasn't what I expected. He was tall, tanned, slim, and looked twenty years younger than Ginsberg. He walked us through the foyer into the living room where we were introduced to a friend, a guy named Chad Emery, who seemed to be there for moral support. Rodney and Emery sat across from us on a sun flower print couch huddled together holding hands. Each had a partially consumed cup of java sitting on the glass coffee table. A box of tissues sat on the seat cushion next to Plow.
After condolences, Kate began. “Mr. Plow, when we spoke yesterday, I didn't have the opportunity to ask you whether Arnold ever gave you any indication that he might be having problems or be in conflict with someone? Could anyone in your social circle or among his business associates have been threatening him?”
He pondered the question for a moment before answering. “Nothing comes to mind. Arnie never had an enemy in the world. Everybody who knew him loved him. That certainly included our friends as well as his business clients. You probably don't know this but many of Arnie's business clients were also our friends.”
“Tell me about that.”
“Well, several of Arnie's corporate clients are travel agencies. If you know anything about the travel industry, you know that many people who own and work in the travel business come from the gay community. I'll bet Arnie prepared most of the individual tax returns for gay travel agents in Salt Lake City.”
“Interesting,” said Kate. “And aren't you a travel agent? Is that how the two of you met?”
He gave Kate a big toothy grin. “Yes and yes. I was employed at Rocky Mountain Travel, and Arnie handled their corporate taxes. Like a lot of other travel agents, I started having him prepare my individual tax returns, and well, one thing led to another, and pretty soon we were an item.”
“And how long ago was that?” replied Kate, returning the big friendly smile.
Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He reached for a tissue. “I was just thinking about that this morning. It was exactly three years ago this month,” he said, choking back a sob.
Kate gave him a moment to compose himself and then continued. “I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Plow, but just a few more questions and we'll be finished. Back to my previous question, you aren't aware of anyone who might have been a threat to Mr. Ginsberg?”
For the moment, he seemed to have regained control of his emotions. “The one thing Arnie worried about was having to be a witness against that awful man, you know, the guy who robbed and killed those people outside the Target store.”
“And you know this becauseâ¦â¦”
Plow interrupted before Kate could finish the question. “He told me so, several times in fact.”
“Told you what?”
“That he was afraid of having to testify in court against that man, Bradshaw, I think his name is. He said this Bradshaw was a member of a violent group of Mormon fundamentalists who probably hated gays. And I don't think it was much comfort to Arnie that Bradshaw was in jail.”
“And why was that?”
“Because the police never caught the rest of them,” said Plow, a touch of anger and accusation in his voice.
“Then you believe Mr. Ginsberg was killed by members of Bradshaw's gang?”
Plow hesitated. “Well, of course, I don't know who killed him for sure, but yeah, the church freaks would seem like a pretty good bet, don't you think?”
Kate nodded.
“How would you describe your relationship with the victim?”
More tears. Out came another tissue. “It was extremely close and loving. We were committed to each other for life.”
“Did you ever have fights?”
“Almost never. Oh, we'd have the occasional quarrel, but it never amounted to much.”
“One last question,” said Kate, “and please don't be offended. It's a routine question that we have to ask in these kinds of cases. We need to know your whereabouts around the time of the murder?”
Plow momentarily looked shocked but answered without hesitation. “We had planned a quiet dinner at home, just the two of us. He was supposed to be home at five. I stayed around the house that morning but left a little after noon.”
“Where did you go?”
“First, I went to the Cottonwood Athletic Club where I swam and tanned. My tanning appointment was at one so I would have left there at around one-thirty. After that I dropped by the Wild Oats Market on Ft. Union Boulevard for a few groceries, and then I stopped at the Market Street Grill in Cottonwood where I bought the fresh halibut we were supposed to have for dinner.”
“And what time did you arrive home?”
“Three-thirty, maybe three-forty-five.”
“Did you remain at home for the remainder of the day?”
“I never left home after that. I was busy fixing dinner. When Arnie didn't show, I called the police.”
“Would you happen to have the receipts from the purchases you made at Wild Oats and Market Street?”
“Sure do.” He was off the couch and back momentarily with the receipts.
We thanked him and left. Back at our cars, Kate asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“He seemed sincere to me. His responses to your questions didn't sound canned or rehearsed. He's obviously a very emotional guyâseemed like he was turning those tears on-and-off like a faucet. On balance, I didn't see any major red flags. You've got some leg-work to do to confirm his alibi, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary there either.”
“He didn't seem so flaky to me today either. Thanks for coming along and giving me your read on the guy,” said Kate.
“Anytime. Now let's go have some lunch. I'm starving and you're buying. Consider that the price for my having to attend that miserable autopsy for you.”
She laughed. “Where should we go?”
“How about the Lonestar on Ft. Union?âbest fish tacos in town.”
“See you there.”
Over grilled halibut fish tacos I gave Kate the low-down on my impending child custody battle with Sara's mother. She listened attentively until I finished before weighing in. While Kate had developed a fondness for Sara, something nurtured over the past several months of our relationship, I knew that she would bring a level-headed approach to a problem that I was buried in emotionally.
When I finished venting, she said, “Aunt June must be beside herself over this. Have you spoken to Sara about it yet?”
“Aunt June is about as upset as I've ever seen her. And no, I haven't said anything to Sara, but I know I'm going to have to do that soon. I'm worried about how to present it to her. She loves us and she loves her mom. I don't want her caught in the middle feeling like she has to make a choice between living with me or her mother. I'm so pissed at Nicole right now that I can't bring myself to call her, but I know we need to talk, and soon.”
“Look, Sam, as far as Nicole goes, get over it. You do need to talk with her and right away. Maybe there's a chance this can be stopped short of a showdown in court. Everybody involved needs to keep their eye on the ball, and that means looking out for what's best for Sara.”
I knew what Kate said was true. “I can hardly bring myself to say anything to Sara. That little girl has gone through a lot over the past couple of years, first the divorce, and then that nightmare at our home last spring.”
“She's been through a lot for an eight year old, I'll give you that. But she's a smart little girl and I know she'll bounce back. She just needs some time,” said Kate. She reached into her planner and pulled out one of her business cards. She wrote a name and phone number on the back and handed it to me. “I want you to call this guy. His name is Jim Reilly. He's a good friend of Tom's. He used to work at the DA's office in the juvenile court. He went private about a year-and-a-half ago. He specializes in the practice of family law, adoption, child custody, that sort of thing.”
The Tom she referred to was Tom Stoddard, her former boyfriend who worked in the Salt Lake County DA's office. “Thanks for the lead. I'll give him a call right away. Do you really think he can help?”
“You're going to need a lawyer in Atlanta that's for sure. But Jim can certainly answer questions and give us a clear picture of the legal procedures involved.”
I liked hearing the âus
'
part. It felt like we were in this thing togetherâlike I had a partner.
***
We finished lunch and turned our attention back to the murder investigation. Besides the interviews with Rodney Plow, McConnell had also spoken at length with Ginsberg's secretary and the other two CPA's with whom he shared office space.
“Have you found any inconsistencies between what Plow told you and what his business associates had to say?” I asked.
“Only one thing and I'm not sure how much credence to give it.”
“What was it?”
“It has to do with the domestic tranquility bit Plow laid on us this morning. According to the secretary, all was not as rosy on the home front as Rodney would have us believe.”
“Hmm. What do you make of that?” I asked.
“I'm not sure. It's not unusual in murder investigations for the grieving partner to paint a rosier picture of the relationship than really existed. And most of the time, it doesn't mean anything. It's certainly not a valid indication of spousal involvement in the murder, that's for sure.”
“What exactly did the secretary say?”
She glanced down at her notes. “The secretary, her name was Linda Beggs, said that over the past several months the victim had confided to her several times that he was growing increasingly unhappy with the relationship.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“What do couples usually fight over? Fidelity and money. It seems that Ginsberg came to believe that a much younger Rodney might be sowing his oats, so to speak, with someone else.”
“You'd better find out if that's true.”
“I plan to,” said Kate.
“Add to that concern Ginsberg's worry that Plow liked nice things and rarely bothered to look at price tags.”
“So, Ginsberg might have been under some financial strain. Have you had time to figure out who stood to gain from Ginsberg's death?”
“Not yet, but I'm working on it. I'll keep you posted. Tell me about the autopsy.”
I spent the next few minutes updating her on the preliminary findings from the delightful afternoon I'd spent at the medical examiner's office. “You're probably still a day or two out before Chandler-Soames gets you the final report as well as the tox results. I didn't want to get into your chain so you'll need to stop and pick up the physical evidence as well as the vic's personal effects.”
“More work for the lab crew,” said Kate. “That reminds me, I need to call them later today and see how close they are to completing the forensics work.”
I told Kate what I'd overheard during Gordon Dixon's visit with his client earlier in the day. “I think Bradshaw may be directing things through his lawyer.”
“Really. Are you sure you heard one of them whisper, ânot here'?”
“I'm not sure who said it, but I definitely heard it. And Jerry Branch actually observed Dixon give Walter the signal to keep quiet.”
“What do we know about Gordon Dixon?” asked Kate.
“Not much, but I'm about to find out more. You ever run across him?”
“Never heard of him. If he did much criminal defense work, you'd think one of us would have. Keep me posted on this.”
I shifted gears. “What's your take on the missing witness, this Robin Joiner?”
“Hard to say. At the time of the armored car robbery, she gave us a local address and then another one for her mother someplace in Nevada. I think the parents might be divorced, but I'm not sure. It's another detail I just haven't had time to follow up on.”
I told Kate about the comment Bradshaw made during our interview and the project I had Patti working on. “Assuming that she isn't dead or that she hasn't been snatched by the family, it's hard to understand why she hasn't contacted us.”
“Maybe she will. She's young and probably scared half to death. The truth is we don't even know for sure that her disappearance is in any way connected to the Bradshaw clan. And if it is, we can at least take some comfort in knowing that when they broke in and tossed her apartment, they didn't find her.”
“You could be right. Maybe she just decided to take a break from her classes and get away for a few days. Have you had time to look for her at the university?”
Kate looked discouraged. “Not yet,” she sighed.
“Look, Kate, since I'm already snooping into her background, I'll go ahead and follow up with the university and her family. That's one less thing you'll have to do.”
“You're my hero,” said Kate. “I'll e-mail a copy of the information I have on her family to your office. It's not much, but it'll get you started. In the meantime, I'll continue contacting family, friends, and Ginsberg's business associates, and we'll see where that takes us.”
***
After lunch, I had just enough time to make it to the Matheson courthouse before the start of Bradshaw's preliminary hearing.
Transporting dangerous felons to court presented several points of vulnerability. In this case the greatest danger existed with the actual drive from the prison to the courthouse. If the Bradshaw gang had hatched an escape plan for Walter, their best chance for success would be to try to intercept the transportation vehicle while it was traveling to or from court. By the time I got there, the special ops team had already arrived and Walter was sequestered in a holding cell near Judge Wilkinson's court room.
Security in the courtroom was tight. Uniformed sheriff's deputies swarmed the place like flies on a fresh cow pie. Nobody got in without a thorough search. Besides a walk through the metal detector, visitors in significant numbers were being pulled off to one side and treated to a more invasive search.
Walter Bradshaw was led into the courtroom flanked by two burly sheriff's deputies. He sat at the defense table next to his lawyer, Gordon Dixon, and an unknown female who was probably a legal assistant. The low murmur in the court room turned to silence as the assembled guests got their first look at the accused. There wasn't an empty seat in the room.
The ankle and waist chains had been removed. He was out of his orange prison jump suit and dressed in gray slacks and an open-collared blue dress shirt with no tie. The civilian clothes made him look significantly less menacing I thoughtâno doubt a good thing from a defense point of view. He nodded and gave a weak smile to his wife and daughter-in-law who were seated in the audience. Glancing around the room, Walter looked almost amused by the spectacle.
I found two of my investigators, Terry Burnham and Marcy Everest, assisting sheriff's deputies at a checkpoint which allowed news media personnel through security and into the courtroom. Bradshaw's impending trial would have drawn media attention anyway, but the disclosure by Salt Lake P.D. that Arnold Ginsberg's murder might be connected to the case had created a feeding frenzy. It hadn't helped that Rodney Plow was talking to the press and making similar assertions. The judge had wisely decided to ban cameras, but reporters and sketch artists still occupied the entire first two rows of the courtroom.
Burnham glanced up, spotted me, and walked over. “You seem to be enjoying tormenting those media people. I thought you were going to make that last guy drop trou before you let him pass,” I said.
He laughed. “I almost did. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to hassle these self-important SOBs.”
“How was the trip in?” I asked.
“In a word, uneventful. Those special ops guys are about as anal a group as I've ever seen. They wouldn't even tell Everest and me the route until we showed up at their little briefing. And that was ten minutes before we left the prison.”
“And you won't be told the route they plan to take back to the prison until right before you leave. How many personnel did they assign?”
“Try Bradshaw in the backseat of a Suburban surrounded by four special ops guys. I led the procession and Marcy brought up the rear.”
At a preliminary hearing, the prosecutor's job was to put on just enough evidence to convince the judge that probable cause existed to hold the defendant for trial. The trick was not to put on more of the case than was necessary to get a favorable ruling from the judge. In this instance I wasn't sure who the DA intended to call as witnesses. But I knew the names of two witnesses who wouldn't be testifying: Arnold Ginsberg because he was dead, and Robin Joiner because she was hiding, kidnapped, or possibly dead herself.
As much as I wanted to stay and watch the preliminary hearing, I was focused on a more important priorityâbecoming better acquainted with lawyer Gordon Dixon.