Authors: Etienne
“I’ll get with Gregg and David. Between the three of us we can decide who’s best to interrogate this guy.”
“There you go.”
Just before lunch on Friday, I sensed a presence in my doorway and looked up from my computer screen. “What’s this?” I said. “A delegation?”
All three of my lieutenants were standing in the doorway.
“We need to talk to you,” David said. The others merely nodded in agreement.
“Come in and have a seat.”
They did so. After a moment of silence, I said, “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Gregg and David looked at Janet. “It’s about the gay burglary/murder cases,” Janet said.
“What about them? You’ve got the guy, right?”
“We’ve got him,” she said. “His fingerprints match those at the murder scene, those on the stolen car, and those on the item I purchased on eBay.”
“So what seems to be the problem?”
“He’s lawyered up—and clammed up.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said. “He was arraigned this morning, and a public defender was appointed.”
“Who?”
“Patrick Trovillo.”
“He’s pretty sharp. In any case, it’s pretty much out of our hands now.”
“The lawyer wants a meeting with one or more of us and the prosecutor.”
“Why? What does he want?”
“His client wants the death penalty taken off the table and the murder charge reduced to manslaughter.”
“Well, good luck to him.”
“Boss, it isn’t quite that simple,” she said.
I made a “give it to me” motion with my hand.
“Mr. Trovillo says his client can give us access to something really big.”
“Big enough to make those concessions worthwhile?”
“So he says.”
“Then arrange a meeting.”
“We haven’t been able to do that.”
“Whyever not?”
“The prosecutor isn’t interested and says they have the guy dead to rights and they intend to go for broke.”
“Don’t tell me… let me guess. One of the clowns is in charge.”
“Bingo,” she said.
There were three assistant prosecutors who we referred to, collectively, as “the clowns.” We did so because they were notorious for being “by the book” clowns. While the law enforcement community was, generally speaking, in favor of prosecutors being rigid and inflexible, we also realized that once in a while it was necessary to give something up to get something.
“Let me see if I can get his lawyer on the phone.”
I looked in my Rolodex, selected a number, and dialed. “Is he in?” I said when I had worked my way through to his secretary.
“Captain Martin of the Sheriff’s Office. … I’ll hold. … Hello, Patrick. George Martin here. … Yes, it’s about the Mayhew case. Can you give me at least a hint at what your client has to offer? … Because I need some leverage if I’m going to have to go to the top of the food chain in the prosecutor’s office. … Yes, I agree, that sounds pretty big—provided it checks out. … Thanks, Patrick, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Three faces were looking at me expectantly as I hung up the phone.
“Well?” Janet said.
“He says his client may have something that both we and the FBI would dearly love to know.”
“And that would be?” David said.
“Attorney/client privilege prevented him from saying anything more than that.”
“What are you going to do?” Gregg said.
“Just what I told him—climb the ladder in the state’s attorney’s office—starting at the top. That may take a while, so I’ll have to keep you posted.”
Emulating what I hoped was Chief Bridges’s dismissal style, I turned back to my computer monitor. I finished what I had been doing when they arrived and then called the chief.
“Got a minute?” I said when he answered.
“As always,” he said.
“I’ll be right up.”
Once in his side chair, I wasted no time. “Chief, how well do you know Katharine Odum?”
“Quite well, why?”
“Good. I’m hoping that you can get through to her more quickly than I could.”
“Again, why?”
I outlined the problem.
“And you want to ask her to lean on this ‘clown’?”
“Something like that.”
He picked up his phone and dialed a number. After a minute or two of working his way through subordinates, he put his hand on the mouthpiece of his telephone and said, “We’re in luck, she’s in the office and free to talk.
“Hello, Katharine,” he said. “Henry Bridges. … Yeah, it’s been a while, but you know how it is when you’re serving the public. … Too true. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but one of my people has a small problem with one of your people. … Captain George Martin. Have you met him? … His reputation is well-deserved, I can assure you. He’s sitting in my office, so I’m going to push the phone’s speaker button and let him explain his problem.”
He pushed the button and gave me a go-ahead motion. “Hello, Mrs. Odum,” I said. “George Martin here.”
We exchanged pleasantries, and I outlined the problem with the assistant prosecutor.
“Henry,” she said, “do you know this particular public defender?”
“Only slightly, but Captain Martin assures me that Mr. Trovillo is not given to exaggeration.”
“That’s good enough for me. I’ll give my ‘clown’ a call and encourage him to be flexible in this case.”
“Your ‘clown’?”
“Oh come on, Henry. I know what you folks call three of my most inflexible assistant prosecutors behind their backs.”
“You’re very well informed, Katharine.”
“That’s what the taxpayers pay me for, Henry. Want me to get back to you—or Captain Martin?”
“I don’t need to be the middle man here. Just give the captain a heads-up.”
“That I will do. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Chief,” I said.
“My door is always open, George.”
He turned back to his paperwork, and I went back to my office, where I sent e-mails to all three of my lieutenants to give them a heads-up. After that, I dialed a number.
“Lunch?” I said into the phone when my party answered.
“Absolutely,” Mike said. “Where?”
“I’m in a Camel Rider kind of mood.”
“See you there in a few.”
•
17 •
T
HE
majority of the sandwich shops in Jacksonville are owned by people from the Middle East. Mostly of Lebanese or Syrian origins, and mostly Christian, many of them had been in the city for several generations. All of the sandwich shops offered a variety of sandwiches, many of them served in pockets of pita bread. The Camel Rider was a favorite of ours, and Richard’s at Five Points made what was, for our money, the best one in town. Mike and I had a nice, if somewhat hasty, lunch at Richard’s, and I returned to the office.
At my Monday afternoon meeting with my lieutenants, I learned that a meeting had been scheduled in an interrogation room the next morning with the gay burglar/murder suspect, his public defender, and the prosecutor. The four of us decided to attend as observers.
“Who will be doing the questioning?” I said.
“We’ve decided on Sergeant Johnson,” David said.
“I admit Carl’s good, but he’s hardly the best we have available,” I said.
“Yeah, but he’s only a few years older than the prisoner, and they have something in common,” David said.
“No argument there,” I said.
At nine the next morning, David, Gregg, Janet, and I entered the observation room downstairs. I was surprised to find a well-dressed, very trim, middle-aged woman present whom I instantly recognized.
“Mrs. Odum,” I said to the State’s Attorney for the Fourth Judicial Circuit, “I’m George Martin. What brings you to our little domain?”
“Captain Martin,” she said, “pleased to meet you. You’re even better-looking in person than you are on television, and to answer your question—curiosity.”
We shook hands, and I introduced her to my three lieutenants. We chatted for a minute but were interrupted when Carl entered the room, trailed by Patrick Trovillo and a man whom I did not recognize. Carl and Trovillo were introduced to Mrs. Odum, who in turn introduced Assistant Prosecutor Arnold Baldwin to the rest of us. Then Carl took charge.
“Now that we’re all here,” he said, “let’s get the show on the road.”
Carl, Trovillo, and Baldwin entered the interrogation room, and we watched through the one-way glass. When they were seated at the table, Carl began.
“We are here to interview Wallis Mayhew, who has been charged with one count of murder and several counts of burglary,” Carl said.
He went through the standard procedure of Mirandizing the prisoner before he continued.
“Present in the room are Patrick Trovillo, public defender, Arnold Baldwin, assistant state’s attorney, Sergeant Carl Johnson, and the defendant, Wallis Mayhew. Mr. Mayhew is represented by Mr. Trovillo.”
Trovillo took his cue and stated that Mr. Mayhew was willing to plead guilty to several counts of burglary and an included offense of manslaughter, subject to the death penalty being taken off of the table. Mr. Baldwin agreed, subject to the sufficiency of the information provided by the defendant.
“Okay, Wallis,” Trovillo said, “it’s up to you.” He nodded in Carl’s direction.
“Your name is Wallis Mayhew?” Carl said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“What, if anything, can you tell us about a series of burglaries of older gay men that took place in Jacksonville between these dates?” Carl gave a range of dates.
“I did them, and several in St. Petersburg that you might not know about.”
“Which ones?”
“Give me some names and addresses.”
Carl did so, and one by one, the prisoner admitted to each of the burglaries.
“Mr. Mayhew,” Carl said, “what happened when you entered the residence of Sterling Jordan?”
“The stupid old fuck came home early. He usually goes out to the bars at the same time on certain nights, so the minute he backed his car out of the garage, I slipped under the door as it was closing.”
“You had been in Mr. Jordan’s house before?”
“I spent nearly two weeks in the old fuck’s house.”
“Why?”
“Why the fuck do you think? I let him suck my cock and slobber over me in exchange for a place to stay and an occasional twenty for pocket money. Man, his house was loaded with expensive junk. Junk I knew I could easily sell.”
“Mr. Jordan lives in a gated community. How did you get onto the property?”
“Are you kidding me? They don’t watch the walls. There’s lots of places where there are trees and cover. It’s easy to climb over a wall after dark. How do you think those rich kids slip in and out to have fun without their families knowing about it?”
“So, you climbed a wall to gain entry to the subdivision and made your way to Mr. Jordan’s house?”
“Yeah. Like I said, he leaves at the same time two or three nights a week. All I had to do was hide in the shrubbery and wait for the garage door to open.”
“Then what?”
“The garage door opened. While he was backing out of the driveway, I waited for the door to start to close, and then I ran over and rolled under it. The stupid old fuck was too busy heading out to even notice.”
“So, you gained entry to the residence?”
“You bet your ass. That place is loaded with collectible shit. I grabbed some towels and stuff from the bathroom and started filling my bags with goodies, using the towels to protect them from breakage.”
“And?”
“I had almost two bags of stuff when I heard the garage door opening. I had left the kitchen door open—it leads directly to the garage. So I grabbed something heavy and hid behind the door. The minute the old fart walked through the door, I clobbered him.”
“That’s it?”
“Of course that’s it. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him out cold for a couple of hours. I finished grabbing what I could, loaded his car, and left the development.”
“So far, Mr. Mayhew, you haven’t told us anything we don’t already know,” Baldwin said.
“Yeah, but there’s one more burglary that you don’t know about.”
“Why is that?” Carl said.
“Because it was never reported.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t actually steal anything, and the guy never knew I entered his house.”
“Please explain that.”
He walked them through his visit to the house in question and his discovery of data on the computer.
“Mr. Mayhew, what did those files contain?”
“Documents and spreadsheets. Most of the documents were written in a foreign language—probably Russian, because that’s where the owner of the house is from. There was enough stuff in English to let me know that the Russian documents weren’t letters back home to his grandma. I think the guy has something to do with the Russian mob. The numbers in the spreadsheets had lots of zeroes after them.”
“Where are those files now?”
“Still on my thumb drive and in a very safe place.”
“You’ll need to be more specific than that.”
“It’s in a safe deposit box in a bank, okay?”
“Which bank?”
“First Guaranty.”
“Which location?”
“The main branch on King Street.”
“Where’s the key?”
“Lost it when I moved. For a fee they’ll drill the box.”
I had been making notes, and when I heard this, I turned to Janet. “Janet,” I said, “call First Guaranty. Find out if there is a box, what it costs to have it drilled, and how much notice they need.”
“David,” I said, “as soon as Janet confirms the existence of a box, make plans to transport Mr. Mayhew to the bank.”
“Gregg,” I said, “someone in this building has a list of translators to whom we have access. Ask about Russian.”
The three of them left the room. Five minutes later, my cell phone rang. “There is a box,” Janet said. She went on to tell me the cost and timing.
“There is a box,” I told Mrs. Odum after I closed my phone.
I left the observation room and went into the hallway. Then I opened the door of the interrogation room, went inside, and said, “We have confirmation that such a box exists. We could get a court order to have it opened, but it might be easier to transport Mr. Mayhew over there, and it would certainly be quicker.”