Direct evidence, p.8
Direct Evidence, page 8
After Marguerite left, Tate went back into Rachel’s room. This time, he elected for the chair beside the bed and watched her sleep.
It was barely noon, but he knew based on the way his daughter twitched and sighed in her sleep that tonight was going to be a bad one.
Which meant, once again, Tate wouldn’t be sleeping at all.
Chapter 17
The two lawyers stood and introduced themselves to Stu when he entered the room. The ADA and the detective waited for him to be seated before they did the same.
“My name is Matthew Lombardo and I’m an assistant district attorney for the state of Nevada,” cheap suit man said. “And I believe you’ve met Detective Ben Tolliver.”
The detective scowled at the mention of his name, but Stu paid him no heed. If his business dealings had taught him anything, it was that anger only led to one of two things: indecision or bad decisions.
Clearly, the two men had expected a reaction because when Stu did not oblige there was a hesitation on both their parts. Eventually, the ADA ran a hand through his hair, for which the inspiration had likely been that of a Lego man, and he cleared his throat.
“I’m sure your lawyers have instructed you of your rights, but I think it’s prudent that we repeat them to you now.” Matthew nodded at the detective, who derived far too much pleasure in reciting his lines. When he was done, Detective Tolliver asked if Stu understood.
Stu said he did, and that, on the advice of Will Porter, were the only words that left his mouth while the ADA and detective remained in the room.
For a while after this charade, nobody said anything. Detective Tolliver was too busy setting up his props to worry about speaking. He laid out a series of photographs, taking great care to ensure that they were perfectly spaced. The first was of a man—him, or so they claimed—standing with a gun in hand, aiming it at Jake Hollister who was seated, his palm outstretched in front of his face. The next was a close-up of Jake’s face, post-shooting. There were two clear bullet holes, one almost directly in the center of his forehead, the other closer to the right temple. The man’s tongue hung out of his mouth and his eyes showed his whites, which Stu found to be more obscene and disturbing than the damage from the bullets.
This setup was clearly meant to shock him, and it worked. Stu had never seen a dead body before, not like this.
He’d never seen anything that upset him so viscerally, but he refused to give the detective any satisfaction.
The next photograph featured a list of coordinates and addresses that meant nothing to Stu. Then there was the GSR test result.
Pleased with himself, Detective Tolliver made one final adjustment and then sat down and crossed his arms over his chest.
This collection of images told a story, but just in case Stu had a problem following the narrative, the ADA finally broke the silence.
“Means, and opportunity,” Matthew Lombardo said with the theatrics of addressing a group of jurors during closing arguments. “That’s what we have here. Means,” he indicated the GSR test, “and opportunity.” Matthew brought his thumb down on the GPS data, while at the same time raising the index finger on his other hand. “But, in reality, we don’t need any of these. Because we have these.”
Using the pointer finger of each hand, Matthew Lombardo pointed at the close-up image of Jake’s skull and the image of Stu hovering over him at the exact same time.
“Mr. Barnes,” he continued, still pointing at the photographs, “we know that your car drove to the location of the murder based on the GPS data we obtained from our search warrant. We also know that you fired a gun within the last four or five days—this was confirmed via GSR test. But none of that matters because—because—we have a videotape of you, clear as day, shooting and murdering Jake Hollister.”
This last sentence hung in the air and Stu felt his entire body tense. All of this had been faked, of course, and he’d been set up, but Stu couldn’t help but appreciate the compelling nature of the young ADA’s argument. Deep down, he knew he’d have a hard time convincing his mother, God rest her soul, of his innocence, let alone a group of jurors.
Like before, the ADA and detective expected something from Stu—an outburst? Staunch denial? Admission of guilt?—but he just sat there, staring intently across the table.
Detective Tolliver’s expression, which was always, and perhaps perpetually sour, became positively acerbic.
The ADA was unfazed.
“In spite—in spite—of this overwhelming evidence, we are willing to negotiate a plea deal, Mr. Barnes. The details and specifics are outlined in the document in your representations’ possession. But, quite simply, we are willing to downgrade the charge from first to second-degree murder. Now, in the state of Nevada, a second-degree murder charge typically brings a sentence of 15 to 30 years, with a minimum of 10. But—but—this deal is contingent on you telling us where the murder weapon is.”
I can’t tell you where the gun is, asshole, Stu thought. Because it’s not mine.
“Nothing? You’ve got nothing to say for yourself?” Detective Tolliver barked.
“Where’s your motive, Detective?” Will said, ignoring the man’s questions. “You talk a lot about means and opportunity, but why would my client, who is the majority owner of Happy Valley Gaming as well as nearly a hundred more companies, want to kill an employee? A coder? Hmm?”
Detective Tolliver’s face started to turn red, but the ADA cut in before the man could verbalize his anger.
“Don’t worry about motive. We have the videotape.”
“Right, well, we will discuss your plea deal in private and get back to you.”
“Fucking rich prick,” Tolliver grumbled under his breath as he collapsed back into his chair.
“Mr. Lombardo, please tell the detective to—“
“My apologies,” the ADA said, cutting Will off. “Just so that we’re clear, this deal will be available for three hours, right up until Mr. Barnes’ arraignment in front of Judge Davenport.”
“And afterward?” one of Stu’s other lawyers asked.
The ADA shrugged.
“We’ll see.”
Matthew nudged Detective Tolliver and the latter collected the photographs with far less care than had been used setting them up. Then the two men rose, nodded, and left without further pomp and circumstances. As soon as the door closed behind them, Stu let out a deep breath.
“It’s okay, relax,” Will said, gently rubbing Stu’s back. “They’re posturing. The deal’s not going anywhere.”
“What about the GPSand—“
It was the younger of the two criminal lawyers, the man who had introduced himself as Colin something who spoke up.
“Mike and I have all of these documents in our possession. There will be plenty of time to go through them after the arraignment. But first, we need to discuss the—“
Stu shook his head.
“No deal.”
Colin cocked his head. Clearly, Will had prepped him on Stu’s position regarding a plea deal and was therefore unsurprised by the preemptive reply.
“I understand. As I said, the deal isn’t going anywhere. In three hours, we will stand by you when you state not guilty in front of the judge. However, Mr. Barnes, I—“
“Stu.”
“Right, Stu. I’ve tried dozens of high-profile criminal cases and negotiated pleas for at least three times that many. And while proving guilt is the burden of the prosecution, jurors are human. And humans love stories.” Colin waved a manicured hand over the table where the photographs had been moments ago. “I won’t lie to you—Detective Tolliver and the ADA tell a compelling tale. Now, Mike and I will tear their evidence apart, I guarantee it. Every shred of data or evidence will be second-guessed, interpreted, and questioned. But the story… the story is something that we will have a difficult time dissembling. In my experience, the best way to combat the ADA’s narrative is to come up with an alternative one. One that is equally as compelling as theirs.”
Stu sucked in his bottom lip and nodded.
Innocent until proven guilty was an interesting concept in theory, but the reality was that Stu was going to be on trial. Jurors recognized that this meant not only did the cops think he was guilty, but that the DA or, in this case, the ADA, thought that there was enough evidence for a conviction.
If that didn’t bias the twelve people sitting on hard wooden chairs and taking notes for hours on end, then Stu didn’t know what did.
A silent exchange occurred between Colin, Mike, and Will. The latter stood and helped Stu to his feet.
“But for now, we just need to get you in front of the judge. Get yourself cleaned up and we’ll see you in an hour, okay?”
Stu, who was still somewhat shell-shocked, nodded. He knew that ruminating on all of the evidence that the State had on him was pointless—he hadn’t even been able to look at the so-called email exchanges—but it was hard not to.
GPS, GSR, email, video, photo evidence.
Why? Who?
The guard opened the door and Will said something that Stu didn’t hear. He repeated it, but Stu was already being led away.
Who would do this to me? Who?
And how?
“Hey, Gramps.”
Stu kept walking.
“Gramps!”
He finally looked up. Rodrick was also leaving an interview room and upon seeing Stu’s expression, the man lowered his voice.
“Your arraignment’s set, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said dryly.
“This aft?”
“Three hours.”
Rodrick sucked his teeth.
“I told you, they ain’t givin’ you no time. Who da judge?”
Stu, still in a daze, couldn’t remember.
“I… I dunno.”
“Whatchu mean you don’t know?”
“I mean, I think they said his name was… uhh… Daven… Deven…”
“Davenport?” Rodrick offered.
“Yeah, Davenport.”
“Sheeet, he a tough mothafucka,” Rodrick said, his expression and voice suddenly serious. “A real tough cracka. He like to see you all pouty ‘n shit. Remorseful. Gramps, when you go in front of that judge, you tell him yous sorry.”
“But I didn’t do it,” Stu said softly.
Big Roddy grinned and his gold tooth glinted.
“Ain’t nobody in here did nothin’. You just tell that gray-haired motherfucker yous sorry for taking up erryone time ‘n shit. You do that, Gramps, and you get bail. You don’t—hell, then you better stock up on dem moon pies cuz my co-counsel ain’t goin’ be free forever.”
Chapter 18
Floyd thought that the walk back to Quantico would provide him with some clarity.
It didn’t. If anything, time just served to muddy the waters.
On several occasions, Tate had stretched the rules to get the job done. Everyone’s heard the story of the beat cop who illegally stops someone and searches the car when they knew it’s loaded with drugs by citing a broken taillight. Hell, maybe they even facilitate the smashed plastic.
Drugs were a plague, but plagues take time to work their way through a population. The impact of a serial killer was a little more immediate.
As such, some of their actions as FBI agents were left to their own discretion and even more were justifiable with a positive outcome. Yet, Tate had not overtly or blatantly broken the law, at least not to Floyd’s knowledge.
Until today.
Assault and robbery.
Why?
And, perhaps more importantly, what was Floyd supposed to do about it?
He’d been walking for about ten minutes when he realized that he’d made it back to the location of the first incident, the one that involved Frankie in his ridiculously oversized pants.
Comically large. Obscenely—
It was as if just thinking about these jeans made them appear.
Frankie was standing half in and half out of an alley. The thug spotted Floyd first.
“Naw, I ain’t got nothin’ for you,” he said. “That asshole Tate already took everything.”
Tate already took everything.
Tate.
They knew each other.
Floyd had no idea what this meant. Did this mean that they had a relationship? He could never picture the two as friends, but maybe Frankie was a confidential informant?
Or was this familiarity indicative of something even more sinister?
Did Tate regularly come here and rob people? So often that they knew him by name?
It seemed ridiculous but someone like Frankie couldn’t exactly go to the cops and report that a rogue FBI Agent was stealing his illegal contraband or cash acquired from the sale of said drugs.
Then what?
Floyd felt goosebumps form on the back of his neck and felt his scalp shrivel. The stress was getting to him.
And it was threatening to take over.
No, he scolded himself. Just keep going. Like a freight train, just keep on going. Choo-choo!
Floyd licked his lips and swallowed in an attempt to moisten his suddenly dry throat.
“Every—“ He coughed. “Everything?”
Frankie scowled, and he jammed his hands into his pockets. His pants hung so low that this required him to hunch over a fair amount.
“Don’t lie to me,” Floyd warned.
Frankie tried to look tough, but he was only a kid. And he was scared, too.
“Fuck, I mean, I gave him more than ten percent, that for sure.”
It clicked then.
Ten percent.
What he’d witnessed wasn’t a robbery but some sort of arrangement.
Ten percent… for what?
Floyd wanted to feel relieved that Tate wasn’t just a thug himself. A thug with a badge and a gun and the abilities of a chameleon.
But he wasn’t.
“I ain’t giving you nothing, though. That ain’t the deal.”
The change from Tate took everything to I’m not giving you anything was not lost on Floyd. It was, however, irrelevant. The only thing Floyd wanted was information.
Tate had said that he came out here to teach Floyd some math, but that had been a lie. It hadn’t been about educating Floyd at all.
It was about Tate—Tate and a payday.
A series of fireworks went off inside Floyd’s brain.
Tate’s letting these men deal their drugs for percentage of the take.
That’s why he felt no relief; Floyd wasn’t sure which scenario—Tate the simple robber or Tate the extortionist—was better.
“How long?” he asked, unsure of what else to say.
“What?”
“How long has this been going on?”
Frankie, hands still in his pockets, lifted his pants a little as if preparing to bolt.
“I ain’t saying anything else. You ask Tate if you wanna know more.”
Keep the train moving.
Floyd stepped forward and not so subtly brought his hand to the gun on his hip. Frankie noticed and when Floyd asked the question again, he reluctantly answered.
“Two years. But that’s all I’m saying. If you want—“
“Get lost.”
“What?”
“I’m not as accommodating as my partner. Either you take off now, or I’ll a-arrest you where you stand.”
Frankie took a read of his face, muttered something incomprehensible, then disappeared down the alley.
Staying true to Dr. Matteo’s advice, Floyd kept moving. He kept moving until he was all the way back at his office computer, sweat soaking the back of his shirt in the shape of an inverted Christmas tree.
He knew that Tate had been in the FBI for seven years. At least two years ago, he’d started extorting local thugs for cash.
Two years was a long time.
Two years was more than double the time that Floyd had been with the FBI. At this juncture, he was inclined to just shelf what he knew. After all, Tate wasn’t just his superior, but he was a mentor to him.
So, what if the man broke the law? What difference did it make? It wasn’t like he was hurting good, hard-working people. In fact, with just a little mental gymnastics, leaping a pommel horse of rationality as opposed to performing an entire floor routine of complicated reasoning, Floyd could see a positive to what Tate was doing.
But that was the old him. This was the new Choo-Choo Floyd.
He pressed on.
The first thing Floyd did was perform a brief review of all of Tate’s FBI cases going back two years or so, hoping to find some connection between his partner and Frankie or the other guy or just drugs in general.
He came up empty.
The most notable case was Tate and his then partner Constantine Striker’s arrest of the notorious serial killer dubbed The Sandman, but the impact of this case affected Con much more deeply than Tate.
And for good reason.
Floyd switched his focus, leaning more toward Tate’s personal life rather than professional. This proved slower going, owing to his partner being exceedingly private. So far as Floyd could tell, he had no social media presence at all.
Still, he found it. Eventually, Floyd found what he was looking for.
Near the back of a local newspaper, almost as if written as an afterthought, a filler for empty space, Floyd discovered the inciting incident that indeed, occurred almost exactly two years prior.
A devastating accident that had permanently changed the course of Tate and his family’s lives.
But now that he’d found it, what was he to do with this information?
What would Choo-Choo Floyd do now?
Chapter 19
While Stu Barnes was still dressed in the same CCDC uniform and his hands were still handcuffed in front of him when he entered the courtroom three hours later, he felt like a new man.
He felt ready—he felt ready to put this nightmare behind him.
Two guards led Stu to a table that was already occupied by his cadre of expensive lawyers, including Will. The table across the aisle was occupied by ADA Matthew Lombardo and another man who looked like a clerk of some sort.
