True Crime Fiction

by Michael Lister

  “The only explanation I can come up with,” Merrill says, “is . . . that’s around the time Justice Witney was released from prison for the little hand slap he received for helping Qwon destroy Angel’s body, aiding and abetting a felon, and obstructing justice.”

  “He was the anonymous tipster?” Anna says, her voice rising several steps.

  “I think so.”

  “It fits,” I say. “Makes a certain sense.”

  “That’s the problem with giving cash rewards for anonymous tips,” Anna says. “I see the need for it, but it almost causes more trouble than it’s worth. It’s supposed to protect witnesses from retaliation, which is needed—especially in areas with gangs and organized crime—but it’s abused all the time. Used by cops to pay their informants. Used by other criminals to direct suspicion at an enemy or just make a little blood money. There have been multiple cases where not only was the tipster lying but the cops actually got him to falsely confess to being part of the crime. Innocent people, including the tipsters themselves, have done decades in prison only to be later exonerated by DNA.”

  “It can be extremely helpful in an investigation,” I say, “but it’s a system rife with abuse.”

  “If it’s true Justice was the tipster,” Anna says, “then Qwon will almost certainly get a new trial.”

  “Why’s that?” Merrill says.

  “The defense and court and jury never knew about it,” she says. “You can’t have a witness benefiting financially like that and not disclose it to the court. They got around it by not having him claim the reward until a year and a half later. It’s possible the cops didn’t even tell the prosecution who the tipster was so he could get away with not disclosing it, keep him from committing a Brady violation.”

  “What’s a Brady violation?” Merrill asks.

  “The Brady doctrine deals with pretrial discovery,” she says. “Comes from Brady v. Maryland back in . . . 1963 I believe. Supreme Court ruled that the prosecution is required to turn over all exculpatory evidence, anything impeachable, to the defendant in a criminal case before the trial starts.”

  “Exculpatory?” Merrill says.

  “Evidence that might exonerate the defendant,” she says. “Such as your star witness is getting a reward for his testimony, or DNA or fingerprints not belonging to the defendant was found at the crime scene, or a witness came forward and claimed the defendant was with him. Evidence that might exonerate a defendant or be used to impeach other witnesses or evidence. It all has to be turned over pretrial. If it’s not, it’s grounds for a new trial.”

  “But finding proof it was him . . .” Merrill says.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Will be next to impossible.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to,” I say. “Maybe we just prove he did it and lied about Qwon being involved . . . which more and more is what it’s looking like.”

  178

  When Zaire Bell, Merrill’s M.D. main squeeze, arrives, Merrill and I are on the back patio grilling steaks and Anna is making a salad in the kitchen.

  She’s a tall, fit but thick in all the right places, forty-something African-American woman with smooth skin the color of caramelized sugar, intelligent, dark eyes that shimmer as if she’s seeing things no one else is, large, luscious brown lips, and wavy, natural hair that extends some six inches from her head.

  After talking to Anna for a moment, she steps out onto the patio.

  She is brilliant and beautiful and seems perfect for Merrill. I’m grateful for Sacred Heart Hospital bringing her up here from Miami and couldn’t be happier for them.

  “Smells so good,” she says. “Times like these I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian.”

  I spin around to look at her, my eyes wide, but she has a huge smile on her face.

  She and Merrill start laughing.

  “She’s just fuckin’ with you,” he says. “This girl loves meat—and lots of it.”

  I can tell he’s talking about her actual eating habits—I’ve never heard him make a comment like that about anyone he’s dating—but she thinks he means it as a double entendre and turns and punches him.

  “Damn,” he says. “All that red meat in her diet makes her hostile and aggressive.”

  “I’m gonna take this hostility and aggression into the kitchen and channel it toward helping Anna.”

  She and Merrill kiss again and she is gone.

  I lift the lid on the grill and flip the steaks.

  “You worried about the bullshit the State’s attorney’s gonna do?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Don’t look forward to it, but . . . it’s nothing compared to us having to deal with Chris.”

  “Can’t believe that bastard’s gettin’ out.”

  I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

  Eventually I say, “Did you come across the name Zelda Sager in any of the Angel Diaz case notes?”

  He shakes his head. “Who’s she?”

  “Qwon’s ex-girlfriend. Darius said she was crazy and crazy obsessed. Just wondered if the police ever even talked to her.”

  I pull the steaks off the grill and we head inside.

  “Cops didn’t talk to much of anybody,” he says as he closes the door behind us. Not PCPD or Bay County Sheriff. Early on—I mean very early on they liked Qwon for it and . . .”

  “What’s not to like?” Za says. “Black guy. Dating a white girl. Only thing surprising is he’s not on death row.”

  A small wood fire in the fire place crackles and hisses, and the room is warm. Sam opens her eyes drowsily. Merrill smiles at her and touches her hand.

  Everything else is waiting on the table. I place the steaks down in the center and the four of us sit down to eat.

  Sam is back asleep. She had another surgery recently and is sleeping a lot more these days. A small stereo on the table next to her bed plays soothing music with nature sounds that helps calm and comfort her. The volume is very low and barely audible in the dining area.

  Next to the stereo on the bedside table is a picture of Daniel. We hesitated to put it there. We’re still not sure if he was abducted or chose to leave and stay gone on his own. But Sam’s not aware of any of that—or even that he’s missing—so we decided the comfort she’d receive from having it there outweighed any damage or eventual undoing of anything if Daniel is found dead or decides never to return.

  “This is so good,” Za says. “Thanks for having us over—and for cooking this great food.” She glances at Sam. “I don’t see how you do it all. We should be havin’ y’all over.”

  “I’ll tell you how she does it all,” I say. “And with such grace. She’s a truly extraordinary woman.”

  “She is that,” Za says.

  “That’s very sweet,” Anna says, “but let’s change the subject.” She looks at Merrill. “After reading the case file, do you still think Qwon’s guilty?”

  He shrugs. “More I see . . . more I think he might be . . . innocent. It was a sloppy, narrowly focused investigation, a weak defense at trial, and . . . this guy Justice . . . By my count he’s told six different stories, changes his statement six different times.”

  Anna and I nod.

  Za says, “But doesn’t that usually mean someone is telling the truth? I thought if a statement was exactly the same every time it was because it was memorized and not true.”

  “You might expect some things to be mentioned one time and not another—like memory issues,” Merrill says, “or maybe for him to be willing to reveal more as he went along, but his story actually changes. The statements actually contradict each other. And not only on little shit either.”

  “I’ve read them too,” Anna says. “And I agree. He’s lying. Some experts think the first statement is generally the most true, but he says next to nothing the first time.”

  “And the investigators are leading him every time,” I say.

  Merrill says, “You notice the times he was logged at the station versus when they started recording the interv
iews?”

  I nod.

  “What?” Za asks.

  “Each time he was there a couple of hours or more before they started recording the interview,” Merrill says.

  “Coaching him on what to say,” Anna adds.

  “Oh.”

  “In the interviews you can tell when he forgets to say something they told him to be sure to include,” Merrill says. “They’ll remind him, say some shit like ‘I thought you said previously . . .’ then he apologizes and adds it in.”

  “It’s like it took them six times to get the statement they wanted,” Anna says. “Kept massaging it, editing, rehearsing, coaching, leading.”

  Merrill nods. “That’s the single biggest reason I think Qwon might be innocent. That and the witness statements that say he was downtown with them the whole time.”

  “Yeah,” Anna says, “you’d expect his sister and best friend to lie for him, but not the entire group and not for eighteen years.”

  “And didn’t you say they all passed polygraphs?” Za says.

  Merrill nods. “Just like Qwon.”

  “All that together is pretty compelling and convincing,” Anna says.

  “We need to talk to Justice,” I say.

  “I’ve been lookin’ for him,” Merrill says. “Motherfucker vanished off the face of the planet.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing that needs a closer look and that’s the cellphone evidence,” Anna says. “There are serious questions about it in general. I think a lot of courts have concluded it’s just not reliable for determining exactly where someone is. I’ll keep working on that.”

  “What can I do?” Za asks. “I want to be a member of the Scooby gang.”

  We all laugh.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You could read the case file Merrill has,” I say. “See what stands out to you that we’ve missed. And you could try to locate Qwon’s crazy ex-girlfriend Zelda Sager.”

  179

  The next morning I search for Qwon in confinement, but he’s not there. When I can’t find him in his dorm or work assignment, I grow concerned.

  Eventually I find him in the infirmary.

  His face is bruised and swollen, his eyes bloodshot, and his head is wrapped in a large white bandage.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He shrugs slowly and moans a little as he does. “Got jumped. Couple of guys with a lock in a sock.”

  Nearly all weapons in prison are improvised weapons—and among them, a combination lock inside a long sock is among the most popular. Easier to make, use, and hide than a shiv, a lock in a sock delivers fast and furious blunt force trauma using two items nearly every inmate has.

  “Any idea who?” I ask.

  He frowns and shakes his head. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. Everybody—COs and the other inmates—seem to like me. I never do anything to anyone. Never get mixed up in any bullshit. Keep my nose clean. I’m friendly to everyone.”

  “No idea why it happened, what the motive could be?”

  “No, sir. I’ll be honest with you, even if I knew who did it, I wouldn’t tell you. All that’d do is get me killed, but if I had any idea why, I’d tell you. I just genuinely have no idea.”

  “Where’d it happen?” I ask. “How?”

  “I’d just been released from confinement,” he says. “This was last night about seven, I guess. I was on my way back to my dorm, had all my property in a big garbage bag. I had only taken a few steps out of the confinement building when they jumped me. Just . . . one of them tackled me and the other started beating me with the lock in the sock. When the one who had tackled me was on his feet again he started kicking me. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. Eventually, I just got in a sort of fetal position and tried to protect my head and midsection.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  He shakes his head and winces. “No, sir. No message or anything. Just put a whoopin’ on me and took off.”

  “Which officer was on duty when you were released?” I ask.

  He glances at the glassed wall of the officers’ station at the other end of the infirmary.

  “Not sure,” he says. “Can’t remember. Don’t think I had seen them before.”

  “Really?” I ask in surprise.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So if I check the log I won’t see that it was Troy Payne?”

  His eyes widen an almost imperceptible amount.

  I nod. “Any idea why he has such a yen for you?”

  “No, sir. Wish I did. I’d do my best to make it right. Far as I know . . . he’s the only one here who has anything against me. I’ve tried to talk to him, but . . . he . . . I can’t get anywhere.”

  “Do you want me to have you placed in protective management?” I say.

  “No, sir. If . . . an—someone other than an inmate—is behind it they can get to me anywhere.”

  I nod. “I’ll see what I can do about keeping you safe and gettin’ to the bottom of this before anything else happens.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for coming to see me. How’d you hear I was in here so fast?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. “I went to confinement, your dorm, and your work assignment looking for you first.”

  “How come? Has something happened?”

  “Just had a few more questions for you,” I say.

  “About Angel?”

  “About the case,” I say, nodding.

  “I’ll tell you anything I can.”

  “Do you think Zelda could’ve done it?” I ask. “And set you up?”

  “Zelda? Wow. That’s a . . . Haven’t heard that name in a lifetime or so. I’ll be honest with you . . . I can’t imagine anyone I know doing it—including Zelda. Nobody I know would want to hurt Angel—let alone kill her.”

  “Yet, somebody did,” I say.

  “Maybe not. Maybe she did just take off. That’s what I like to think. She’s happy somewhere.”

  “Even with you in here?”

  He looks at me like it’s obvious. “Of course. This is nothing compared to being brutally murdered.”

  “What makes you think it was brutal?”

  He freezes for a moment, then shrugs. “Just an expression. The . . . just the thought of it is brutal to me, so . . .”

  “You don’t think Zelda could be violent?”

  “I know firsthand she can be violent and vindictive,” he says. “Turns out she was not a nice person, but . . . murder, actually ending someone’s life . . . I don’t see it.”

  “Any idea where she is now?” I ask.

  “Absolutely none. Pretty much lost track of everybody when I was thrown into the belly of the beast.”

  “Same go for Justice Witney?” I say. “He’s vanished too.”

  He nods. “Yes, sir. Haven’t seen him since he testified against me at my trial.”

  “And you still haven’t come up with any reasons why he did that?”

  “No, sir. Sorry.”

  “Could he have done it for the money?” I ask.

  “Money? What money?”

  “Reward money.”

  “He got all the reward money Angel’s family and friends raised?” he says, his voice rising. “Please tell me he didn’t.” He lets out a harsh little laugh. “Wanna hear something tragic and ironic? I donated to it. Please tell me I didn’t contribute to my own demise.”

  180

  That night Merrill and I ride to Apalach to follow up on a new lead relating to Randa and Daniel’s disappearance.

  As with every lead we’ve looked into so far nothing came of it. Someone thought they saw something—a woman who might be Randa, a man who might be Daniel, but it was neither, another dead end. Not a waste of time exactly—both because no time with Merrill is ever wasted and every dead end street we go down gets us closer to finding the street that Daniel is actually on.

  The trip down to Apalach and our time there was uneventful, but what happens on the way back is the most
eventful thing to happen in the case so far.

  My phone rings and the readout on the screen says the number is blocked.

  I answer.

  “Hey John,” Randa Raffield says.

  I hesitate a second before saying, “Hey.”

  My mind races. What can I do? How can I trace the call? Track her down?

  I reach over and punch Merrill on the arm repeatedly. When he looks at me I mouth to him who it is.

  His eyes widen and he pulls out his phone and starts punching in numbers.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “I’m good,” I say. “But I miss my friend Daniel a lot.”

  “Not me?” she says. “Just Daniel?”

  “No, I’d like to see you again too,” I say.

  “I hope you’re not wasting even a second of your time trying to figure out a way to trace this call,” she says. “If you don’t give me more credit than that by now I’m not sure I can continue our association.”

  “All I’m doing is talking to you,” I say.

  “Good. ’Cause I’m on a burner phone, prepaid piece of shit I’ll destroy after this call and I’ve routed it through several countries into yours, none of which are the one I’m in, so . . .”

  Merrill pulls off the road onto the shoulder and quietly gets out of the car.

  “Can’t help but notice you said the country you’re in, not we’re in,” I say. “Is Daniel no longer with you?”

  “Thought we had a deal, John,” she says. “You weren’t going to look for me and I was going to take good care of Daniel.”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “What? Taking good care of Daniel? Are you looking for me?”

  “Are you calling because you think I am?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “I’m callin’ because I know you are.”

  “Don’t punish Daniel for what you think I’m doing,” I say.

  Merrill is standing in front of the car talking on the phone, his large frame in the headlights casting a long shadow on the damp shoulder of the road. I’m fairly certain he’s talking to Reggie or someone about trying to trace the call to my phone. I’m completely certain it will do no good.