Dead to Rights Page 7

  “Just a minute, Mr. Murphy,” the clerk said. “Let me see if I can find this for you.”

  A few moments later, she returned with a file. She put a clipboard into a drawer.

  “I need you to sign this form before I can give these to you,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  Cal signed the papers and returned the drawer. The clerk then placed the file in the drawer and pushed it back to him. He grabbed the folder and started to read it as he walked away toward Kelly.

  “Sir,” the clerk called. “Sir!”

  Cal spun around and walked back toward her. “Yes?”

  “There are eight more folders. Please don’t walk away.”

  Cal’s eyes widened as he stared at the files stacked by the clerk’s work station.

  “Those are all for the Isaiah Drake trial?” he asked.

  She nodded. “That’s what the request was for.”

  “Okay. Load me up.”

  After Cal collected all the folders, he and Kelly retreated to the archives and began thumbing through the files.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Kelly asked.

  “Anything that seems out of the ordinary, but let’s write down all the names of everyone we come across. People on the witness stand, people mentioned by the witnesses. We need all the leads we can to create a picture of what was going on back then. The newspaper reports only reveal so much.”

  Cal flipped open his file folder that had copies of documents for all the legal proceedings, including the prosecution’s witnesses. He scanned the list of names, recalling everyone until he landed on the final name: Devontae Ray.

  “Skim through these reports and see if you can find the name Devontae Ray,” Cal said as he handed half the remaining folders to Kelly.

  “Isn’t that the guy in the wheelchair?” she asked.

  “That’s the one. I don’t remember hearing his name until we got here, so I don’t think he was ever called.”

  “That’s curious.”

  Cal took a deep breath. “Yeah. Why didn’t they call him?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t necessary. Not everybody on the witness list gets called. He could’ve been more of a liability at the end of the trial if the prosecution felt like they had it. And they could always call him again if they appealed the ruling.”

  “Good point. But it still seems odd to me. To peg Drake with a first degree murder charge, they needed to prove his guilt several times over without any doubt.”

  Kelly nodded. “Like I said, maybe they already proved that during the trial and felt like his testimony wasn’t necessary.”

  “You could be right, but I think this is a question we need to pitch to Hal Golden, Esquire, not to mention a dozen other burning questions I have for him.”

  “Hal Golden—was that the prosecutor in the case?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And how exactly are we going to do that? He doesn’t live around here, does he?”

  Cal shook his head and smiled. “How do you feel about a road trip to historic Savannah?”

  CHAPTER 11

  AFTER A COUPLE MORE HOURS of research, Cal and Kelly drove two hours northeast to Savannah for their scheduled meeting with Hal Golden. During Cal’s initial research on Drake’s case, he’d contacted Golden to see if he would be open to talking about the trial. Golden, who’d since transitioned from his position as a state prosecutor to a partner with Williams & Anderson law firm, readily agreed to answer a few more questions over dinner.

  Five minutes before 6:00 p.m., Cal parked and headed toward the restaurant with Kelly. An iconic fine dining establishment, Elizabeth on 37th embraced the city’s historic past, much like the rest of Savannah. Golden recommended they meet at the popular restaurant, which was housed inside an early-1900s mansion that had been restored. He told Cal that it was pricey and would break The Seattle Times’ meager travel budget, but that he’d love to treat them.

  After his initial phone conversation with Golden, Cal tried to resist forming any preconceived ideas about the former prosecutor and fought the urge to tell Kelly about his dinner offer. Cal wanted to determine from their conversation if Golden was serious about justice and believed Drake was guilty—or if it was just an easy victory in a big case that could propel him on to other things. Such determinations couldn’t be made by simply looking at a person’s resume and timeline of employment or a short conversation over the phone, Cal had long since concluded.

  “Swanky,” Kelly said as she walked toward the restaurant, taking a moment to run her hand down the smooth Tuscan column flanking both sides of the steps. “This is going to blow our dining allowance for today, isn’t it?”

  Cal shook his head. “Golden’s treating us tonight.”

  “Already trying to buy us off, is he?”

  With his hand on the doorknob, Cal stopped and turned to Kelly. “Keep an open mind, okay?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You and your open mind.”

  “Be nice. Put away your pit bull—at least until we get a few questions answered.”

  “Don’t be worried, honey. I promise not to say anything to rile him up.”

  A hostess led them to a table in one of the back rooms where Golden was already waiting. He stood up as they approached and offered his hand to both of them.

  “Please,” Cal said. “No need to get up. Good to meet you, Hal.”

  “This is Savannah, Mr. Murphy. We always stand up when there’s a lady in our presence, especially a beautiful one like your wife here.”

  Kelly forced a smile. “Such flattery—a common trait among slippery lawyers.”

  Cal cleared his throat to get Kelly’s attention. She quickly sat down as a brief moment of awkward silence fell on the trio.

  “So, you wanted to talk about the Isaiah Drake case?” Golden finally asked.

  “Yes, I’m working on a story about Drake, chronicling the case as well as his time in prison for my paper in Seattle. He was incredibly popular among Seahawks fans, and with his appeals running out, my editor thought it would make a compelling read to recount what happened to him, from the murder to the trial to the prison time.”

  “I can only tell you about the trial. I’ve always been into sailing and never had the time to follow football,” Golden said while fidgeting with the band on his Rolex.

  “You live in the Deep South and don’t follow football?” Kelly asked before dropping into her fake southern accent. “Well, I never.”

  Golden furrowed his brow. “Not everyone sees the draw in such a barbaric sport. In fact, my ignorance of the sport was why I was chosen to handle Drake’s case. Too many football fans might have been sympathetic toward him due to his popularity in the south. I confessed that I’d never heard of him and that’s how I ended up drawing the assignment.”

  “No lawyer from the judicial district office where Susannah Sloan worked wanted to take the case?” Cal asked.

  “Oh, several wanted to, but the DA for the state thought it would be best to let a prosecutor from the Savannah district take the case. Too many emotional people as Susannah was supposedly beloved by all who knew her. So, that’s how the case wound up on my desk.”

  “As I’ve been sifting through the case, it seems like there were other possible suspects that went ignored during the investigation. Did you question Sheriff Sloan?”

  “Remember, Mr. Murphy, I’m a prosecutor, not an investigator. I take what I’ve been given, and if it looks like a case we can win, we go with it. This case obviously had plenty of special attention publicly, so I was careful about proceeding.”

  “So, for instance, if the investigator buried evidence or never brought it up, you’d have no way of considering it when it came to determining whether or not you’d prosecute the suspect?”

  Golden nodded. They paused their conversation to place their orders before resuming.

  “That’s how it always works. You have to trust law enforcement and the information they give you.
Sometimes we get surprised with sloppy work, but Sheriff Sloan seemed forthright with me about everything. I had no reason to distrust him.”

  “What if I told you he hid some evidence, certainly the kind that would raise reasonable doubt?”

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, that’s something you can print in your article, but it’s not anything I’m willing to discuss. As any good prosecutor will tell you, conjecture won’t get you a conviction.”

  Kelly shifted in her chair and asked, “But you’re no longer a prosecutor, are you?”

  Golden shook his head. “I left that gig behind a long time ago.”

  “I hear the money is much better,” she said.

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” Golden said with a soft laugh. “I have far more time to spend sailing, not to mention I can afford a nicer boat.”

  “More time at a larger law firm?” Kelly asked.

  “I work in tort law, Mrs. Murphy. And while it may be looked down upon by some, everyone needs a lawyer at some point in their lives. I just so happen to enjoy taking on large corporations who are taking advantage of people.”

  Cal scribbled down a few more notes.

  “So, one of the specific questions I had about the trial centered around a potential witness in Devontae Ray. Does that name ring a bell?”

  Golden nodded. “Oh, yes. I remember that name very well.”

  “Was there a reason why he never made it to the witness stand?”

  “My team debated for several days about calling him to testify but ultimately decided against it. We found out that the defense had a witness who claimed he was smoking weed with Ray that evening before the time of the murder. Ray’s testimony could’ve been held as suspect if the defense’s witness testified.”

  “And that was that?” Cal asked.

  “Ultimately, I thought we had a strong enough case that we didn’t need to have him testify . . . and I was right.”

  “Interesting.”

  Golden placed his napkin in his lap as the waiter put salad plates in front of each person at the table.

  “How much longer are you going to be in Pickett County?” Golden asked.

  “Three or four more days, a week maybe. However long it takes to get my story.”

  “Doesn’t seem like there’s much to get. It was an easy open and shut case, which is probably why we got such a quick verdict. And believe you me, if I never have to go back to that godforsaken place again, I’ll be a happy man. A bunch of backwoods rednecks running scared from the Marsh Monster.”

  “I find Pickett quite a charming little town,” Kelly said.

  “You may not find it that way the longer you stay there,” Golden said. “Just beware down there. You never know who might be watching you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  DESPITE ARRIVING LATE back in Pickett, Cal didn’t want to waste any time jumping back into his investigation Thursday morning. He and Kelly scarfed down a continental breakfast in the hotel lobby before leaving the Okefenokee Inn just before 9:00 a.m. Cal planned on interviewing Devontae Ray at his place of work, Stumpy’s BBQ.

  “Think we should’ve called before heading out so early to Stumpy’s?” Kelly asked.

  “If they’re serious about their barbecue, I promise you they’ve been open for a couple of hours now at least.”

  Several minutes later, Cal rolled to a stop in Stumpy’s gravel parking lot. Plumes of smoke swirled skyward. The hickory wood chips mixed with seasoning created an intoxicating aroma for Cal. Though he’d eaten just a few minutes before, he felt his stomach rumble.

  “I’m hungry all of a sudden,” Cal said as he and Kelly walked toward the entrance.

  “You just ate.”

  “I know. It’s my barbecue stomach though. It’s craving something.”

  Kelly rolled her eyes and sighed. “I think you missed your calling in life, Cal.”

  “You do realize my retirement plan consists of us getting an RV, driving across the country, and writing about barbecue.”

  “I’ll be taking pictures, I assume.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll be a team, an unstoppable one.”

  “Yeah, because once you get all that extra weight going from the pounds you’re going to pack on eating barbecue, you’ll just keep rolling forever. Not sure I’m down with this retirement plan of yours.”

  “We’ve got time to think of something else . . . that has to do with barbecue, of course,” Cal said, winking at Kelly as he held the door open for her.

  “Sorry, folks, but we’re not open for business yet,” bellowed a man from the back.

  Cal looked around and didn’t see anyone. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  A short portly man hobbled out from the back. He picked up his cane off the counter and leaned on it. “I said we’re not open yet.”

  Cal tried to hide his surprise at the man’s short stature. “We’re not looking for food, not yet anyway,” Cal said. “We were trying to find Devontae Ray. Does he work here?”

  The man grunted. “Who’s askin’?”

  Cal offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, from The Seattle Times. And this is my wife, Kelly. We’re working on a story about Isaiah Drake and wanted to speak with Devontae, if he’s available.”

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, Isaiah Drake isn’t exactly a favorite topic of conversation in Pickett. And if you’ve been here for longer than five minutes, you’ve probably already figured that out.”

  “What about the Marsh Monster? You like talking about him?” Cal asked, gesturing toward a large framed photo of a shadowy figure in the Okefenokee.

  “We’ll talk about him all day long,” the man said, cracking into a wide grin.

  He then offered his hand to Cal.

  “Stumpy Jefferson,” the man said. “I’m the owner of this barbecue joint here as well as Devontae Ray’s boss. Sorry for the hard time. I have to keep up appearances.”

  “That you’re a battle axe?” Kelly asked.

  Stumpy chuckled and pointed at Kelly. “I like you already. I would’ve never bet the first few words out of your mouth would’ve been battle axe.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Cal quipped. “She’s a feisty one.”

  Stumpy, who was wearing a pair of overalls and a green Florida A&M baseball cap, gnawed on a toothpick.

  “Devontae is on the back porch keepin’ an eye on the smoker for me. I’ll take you to him.”

  Cal and Kelly followed Stumpy, who moved methodically toward the back door. He put his shoulder into the door and shoved it open. Immediately, Cal noticed the large black smoker puffing the hunger-inducing aroma into the air. He looked off to the side and saw Devontae Ray hunched over in his wheelchair.

  “Got some people here to see you,” Stumpy said.

  “Never seen ‘em before in my life,” Ray said.

  “Hi, Devontae. My name is Cal Murphy and this is my wife, Kelly. We’re with The Seattle Times. And I believe we bumped into you earlier this week.”

  Ray eyed them closely. “Whatcha want with me?”

  “We’re here because I’m writing a story about Isaiah Drake,” Cal said.

  “I’m gonna leave you to your business,” Stumpy said before hobbling back inside.

  Ray put his hands on the wheels of his chair, moving himself forward and backward.

  “Isaiah Drake? What makes you think I wanna talk about that murderer?”

  Cal shrugged. “I think you know more of the story than anyone else does. Am I right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to tell your story?”

  Ray closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s not easy to think about those things. A woman died that night, and a hero disgraced himself. People ‘round here still hate him and wish the state would’ve executed him a long time ago.”

  “Would you be willing to talk, just for a few minutes?”

  Ray finally relented. “I guess so.”

  They went back inside, trading with Stumpy so he could continue minding th
e smoker.

  Ray wheeled himself to the table next to a large grainy picture of the Marsh Monster.

  Cal glanced at the picture and decided it might be best to loosen up Ray by talking about some Pickett County folklore.

  “You ever see the Marsh Monster?” Cal asked.

  Ray smiled. “Maybe once.” He cocked his head. “You’ve only been here a few days and you already know all about Pickett County’s second most famous resident behind Isaiah Drake?”

  Cal nodded. “It’s kinda hard not to. I even heard some story about him murdering two girls in the swamp.”

  “Now that’s some scary stuff, right there,” Ray said. “Those two girls’ bodies have never been found.”

  “Did you know the girls?”

  “Yeah,” he said before letting out a long breath. “They were friends of mine from school.”

  “So you knew them well?”

  “I dated one of them once. I was pretty torn up about it when it happened.”

  Kelly jumped into the conversation. “Does anyone know what happened?”

  “Naw, ain’t nobody figured out nothin’. They were just goin’ home from school, and that’s the last time anybody saw them. The bus dropped them off, and they were just walkin’ down a dirt road before they vanished. Poof. Gone into thin air.”

  A screen door slammed shut, and Stumpy shuffled back inside.

  “Y’all want some sweet tea?” he asked.

  Cal and Kelly nodded enthusiastically.

  “Devontae?”

  Ray shook his head. “I’m good.”

  Cal turned his attention back toward Ray. “So, I know that you were on the witness list, but you were never called according to the court reports. Would you mind telling me why the prosecution had you on their list? What did you see?”

  Ray took a deep breath. “Here’s what happened. That night—”

  “May 7, 2004?” Kelly asked.

  Ray nodded. “That’s the one. I was drivin’ around and happened to roll by Susannah Sloan’s house.”

  “You knew where she lived?” Cal asked.

  “It’s Pickett, man. Everybody knows where everybody lives.”