by Ed Gaffney
No matter what he said, or how he said it, this thing still felt very bad. But Vera smiled, despite herself. “You did fine.” She sighed. If only that were the end of it. “In case it wasn’t already ridiculously obvious, I haven’t done this before…I mean, questioned another cop…and…well, I guess—”
“How about this?” Morrison offered. “I’ll tell you what happened, and you jump in anytime you want and ask me anything you want. You know: ‘How many times did you shoot him? What weapon did you use? Where did you learn those neat ways to torture suspects?’ Whatever.”
The best she could muster was a weak smile.
“Okay. Bad joke. Sorry. But is that all right? I’ll just tell the story, and then you take it from there? Wherever you want to take it.”
That couldn’t have been a line, could it? He was just sitting there, waiting for her to give him the go-ahead. He was doing everything he could to make her feel like she was in charge. There was no hidden meaning there—no flirting, no innuendo.
“All right,” Vera said, exhaling a little too forcefully. Had she been holding her breath? “I really am sorry about this. I just…I’m just…” She shrugged, and laughed. This was so awkward. “That’s fine. Go ahead. Just tell me what happened so I can make a report and be done with it. And if I haven’t died of embarrassment by the next time you see me, can you please remind me to get off this committee as soon as I possibly can?”
Morrison nodded. “Fair enough. So, Androchok.” He gestured to the pad and pen before her on the table. “Ready to take notes?”
Vera opened her pad and said, “Ready.”
“Okay.” He sat back in his chair. “To tell you the truth, there wasn’t too much about this arrest that was out of the ordinary, I mean except how I learned that there was a warrant out on this guy. I mean Vincent—the guy who owns the garage—is a pretty good guy. He’s done some work for my father. But it sounded like he was friends with this ‘Ulfie’ he was talking to on the phone, so I didn’t say anything about coming back. All I needed was for Vincent to jump into the middle of things and make a mess. And of course Androchok had no idea I was coming after him.”
Vera took notes, but she knew this was a waste of time. She had a terrific ear for the truth. It was obvious that Morrison was being honest with her.
“So I pulled up to the place. The overhead garage door was open, and before I even park the cruiser, I can see from the mug shot I’d gotten that the guy sitting there, eating a sandwich at the front of the garage, was Androchok. So I get out of the cruiser and walk toward him.”
One of the few things in Androchok’s story that was slightly worrying was his charge that Morrison didn’t identify himself as a police detective before taking him into custody. It was normal procedure to make sure that suspects who were being arrested knew that they were dealing with police, so that they understood the fact that there was authority behind their actions. Otherwise, a suspect would be justified in acting like he was getting grabbed up by some stranger.
“So I waited until I was close enough so that if the guy bolted, I’d be able to catch him,” Morrison continued. “I don’t know—I was probably about ten feet away—and I said, ‘Ulf, my name is John Morrison. I’m a detective with the Springfield Police, and I’m here to take you into custody. Please remain seated and put your hands behind your back so I can cuff you.’”
Hello. That didn’t sound right. Vera had arrested plenty of people, and been around plenty of cops that had placed plenty of other people under arrest, and she couldn’t remember one of them sounding anything like what Morrison just described. I’m here to take you into custody. That sounded more like a doctor talking to a child in the hospital. I’m here to take a quick look at that infection.
Morrison must have picked up on her expression, because he added, “I know it sounds a little formal, but sometimes I go that way. It’s just a gut feeling, I guess. I try to figure the way that’s going to lead to the lowest chance of resistance.”
Vera nodded and tried to smile. She didn’t know exactly what was going on here, but Morrison was starting to sound less credible. Normal police procedure was to intimidate and dominate in arrest situations to minimize the chance of physical confrontation. Even if Morrison remembered the tone he used as he approached Androchok, would he have remembered the exact words? Sure, Morrison had a good memory, but something wasn’t right here.
“Anyway, turns out it was a bad call, because sure enough, he jumps up out of his chair and tries to run. But like I said, I was so close I had him in custody in about—oh, I don’t know—five seconds. Maybe ten.”
Vera made a few more notes. At least that sounded believable. Now to get to the physical stuff. “So, when you actually laid hands on him, do you remember exactly what happened?”
Morrison hesitated for a second, as if trying to remember something. Shoot. How was it that Morrison could remember the exact words he said, and not remember what he did when Androchok ran?
“I’m just trying to get the sequence right in my mind,” Morrison told her.
That didn’t ring true, either. Morrison knew they were going to do this interview, and it was about a charge of excessive force. He must have thought about this before now. Why the big show of remembering?
“Okay. When he got up, he shoved his chair back and then sort of pushed it in my direction, kind of as a barrier between us. I mean, it was quick—I’m not even sure he meant to do it. But it sort of worked a little, except that I was already so close that even though the chair was in the way, I still could reach him by leaning over it. The thing was, when I actually got him, I was jackknifed over the chair, and all I grabbed hold of was the sleeve of his shirt with one hand, and his hair with the other.”
And suddenly, Morrison was back to telling the truth. So what was with all of the dancing around about what he said as he approached, and pretending to try to remember something that he had obviously been thinking about long before this discussion?
“I kept hold of him and told him to get down on the floor,” Morrison said. “And that was it. He laid down, like I told him, and put his hands behind his back. I cuffed him, picked him up, put him in the cruiser, and came back to the house.”
“Do you remember how you picked him up after he was cuffed?” Vera asked. “Was there any problem getting him into the car?” Thank God this was almost over.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Morrison smiled again. “Sorry about that. I forgot you’ve got to follow this all the way to the end. But no. No problems. After he was cuffed it was pretty much SOP. I put my hand on his arm at his elbow, lifted him a little, he got up to his knees and then he stood up. I walked him to the car, opened the back door, and he got in. No banging his head on the roof of the car, nothing. Peace and quiet all the way to the station. Except for me giving him his rights on the way.”
Vera closed her notebook. Hallelujah. This thing was over. “Thanks, John,” she said, standing. “And again, I’m really sorry—”
“Hey, don’t even say it.” Morrison was smiling again, and shaking his head. “I can’t believe they gave you this detail right off the bat. Seems like somebody in command doesn’t like you. I know I’d never—”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. A temp who was covering for one of the usual secretaries came into the room and handed Vera a phone message.
They had a possible ID on goatee man, the mysterious companion of fugitive Davy Zwaggert.
NINE
Dear Sharon,
How’s Bernie? I was so sorry to hear about the infection, but it sounds like the doctors did a good job with it. It must be so hard watching Bernie fight his way through these things. I’m thinking about you all the time.
It’s really different out here in Massachusetts. I knew that Springfield was bigger than Fairbanks, but it’s still hard to get used to how many people there are out here. You know how you drive five minutes outside of Fairbanks and all you can see are forests, mountains, and
a moose or two, clean and clear as a bell?
Let’s just say that the area around Springfield is a little more hazy—almost like the city atmosphere is invading the countryside.
It’s a little weird.
Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I met a nice guy out here. He’s a detective named John Morrison, and just like Bernie, he’s got this huge reputation for being able to do anything.
I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, too. And I think he’s single. Hello.
Of course, none of that matters, because thanks to some crazy assignment, I had to question him about an arrest that happened recently. It went okay, but I could have done without that.
Anyway, I’d better get going. You’ll see another e-mail I wrote to Bernie right after this one. Thank you so much for reading them to him for me.
Say hi to the girls.
Love, Vera
(E-mail sent 07/15/04 from Vera Demopolous [[email protected]] to Sharon Washman [[email protected]], Exhibit 16, Commonwealth v. Morrison)
On June 18, 2004, investigators interrogated staff and management at The Burger Barn, in Norton, Massachusetts. Follow-up interviews occurred on July 7, 2004, with those not working on date of original interviews. Individuals questioned included the following: Roberta Ewing, Habib Muhammed, Steven Shey, Dory Kinder…
All interviewed were shown a photograph of Babe Gardiner, and none recognized the photo. Subjects interviewed were not made aware of the legal context of the inquiries. Although no subjects identified Gardiner, impression of investigators was that all were genuine responses.
Possible conclusions:
—One or more subjects lying—unlikely.
—One or more subjects mistaken—possible. The Burger Barn was busy and crowded on both days investigators visited, which were a Friday and a Wednesday. Gardiner states that he was there on a Friday.
—Gardiner was there but not remembered, or Gardiner was never there—likely.
(Investigator’s report dated July 9, 2004, Commonwealth v. Gardiner, prepared for defense counsel by Maria Gallegos)
July 19, 2004
TERRY TALLACH LOOKED UP AS THE CORRECTIONS officer opened the door to the attorney/client visiting room, stuck his head in, and said, “Your guy should be here in a few minutes. We were locked down for a little while after lunch, and that’s slowing things down.” He backed out of the room and shut the door.
“Locked down?” Terry’s twenty-year-old nephew, Sean, sounded terrified. “Wasn’t everybody already locked down?”
Sean might have been the skinniest kid Terry had ever seen in his life. He didn’t look unhealthy. Just bony. His light, painfully thin hair swooped down over his forehead as if he had time-traveled straight out of the 1970s. And in case anyone doubted that he was the Grand Duke of Geekistan, he was wearing his ridiculously out-of-date teardrop-shaped aviator glasses, a button-down short-sleeve shirt, and pants that were about an inch and a half too short, revealing white socks and, naturally, black shoes. Jesus Christ.
The last Terry had heard, Sean was acting in school plays. And trying out for the track team. Then, out of the blue, his sister called to report that the kid was interested in becoming a lawyer. Evidently, insanity ran in the family.
Sean was the latest in a recent series of things that Terry couldn’t believe. He couldn’t believe that his sister had asked if Sean could work for Zack and him as an intern this summer. He couldn’t believe that Zack had said it was up to him. He couldn’t believe that he’d said yes.
And now he couldn’t believe that the three of them were here, in a state prison, waiting to share another spellbinding hour with Babe Gardiner, the person most likely to fatally injure himself while putting on a pair of socks. While Sean got the shit scared out of him every time that somebody said boo.
Not that he could blame the poor kid. Terry’s maiden voyage into a state prison to visit a client had left a very serious impression. The first time that big metal door clanged shut behind him, trapping him inside a building filled with hundreds of violent and angry people, he almost crapped his pants.
“‘Locked down’ just means that, inside the prison, the inmates are locked into whatever room or area they are in at the time, and they can’t move from place to place.” Zack was the one who should have been Sean’s uncle. He was the one with the abnormally large amounts of patience. “Usually they have some freedom of movement, as long as they have passes, or permission from the COs.”
“Kind of like a college campus for sociopaths,” Terry said. “Liberally decorated with razor wire.”
They sat for a few moments in silence. Prison was a lot about waiting.
“So, what do you think Babe will say when he finds out that the grand jury indicted him for the murder of that convenience store clerk?” Sean asked.
“Well,” Zack replied, “it may take a little while to explain it to him. It’s hard to know exactly what’s going on in Babe’s head. Sometimes communication can be—well, challenging.”
Sean looked confused. Welcome to the world of Babe. “Let me make it easy for you,” Terry said. “Babe is an idiot savant without the savant part. Talk to him for more than sixty seconds and I guarantee your IQ will drop ten points. It will be a miracle if we get out of this meeting today without brain damage.”
Just then, the door opened, and Babe shuffled into the room. Somehow, he managed to look both older and younger than the last time they had seen him. His hair was longer and stringier than before and still needed a good washing, but now there were a few strands of gray plainly visible. Babe was evolving from a sorry-assed fool to an aging, sorry-assed fool. It was pretty damn pathetic.
In contrast, their client’s body language was headed in the opposite direction, and had regressed from high school back a few years to elementary school. Instead of his normally endearing shifty-eyed, surly slouch, Babe had adopted a more cowering pose, clutching to his chest his omnipresent, raggedy-ass manila file folder as if it were his favorite teddy bear. God only knew what was in there. Every time Terry saw the thing it got bigger, and now it must have been an inch and a half thick. Zack and Terry had only sent Babe a few letters, updating him on the case. The dozens of dog-eared papers threatening at any moment to spill all over the floor were undoubtedly the results of some intensive research that Babe had undertaken. Going through them all would take hours.
They were so screwed.
Babe sat down, Zack introduced Sean, and finally they got down to business.
“So, Babe, we wanted to come out to see you because there’s been a change in the case,” Zack began.
Babe had prepared himself for the meeting by opening his folder on the table, taking out a pencil, and starting to doodle in the margin of what looked like a copy of the Massachusetts criminal code.
“As you know,” Zack continued, “the police found the body of Steve Hirsch, the convenience store clerk who had been robbed, in the trunk of a car a couple of weeks ago. He had been beaten to death.”
Zack paused to let Babe respond. But apparently, Babe had not yet composed his thoughts. His work on what appeared to be a rendering of the rings of Saturn continued, unabated.
“Anyway,” Zack continued, “the police did some more investigating, and then the Commonwealth went back to the grand jury with the evidence that the police found, and they have indicted you for the murder of the clerk.”
Babe kept cruising along at full doodle ahead. If you hadn’t heard the conversation, you might have guessed that Zack was giving him yesterday’s baseball scores, for all it seemed to matter. Sean was looking at their client like he was a rare animal at the zoo.
“Hey, Babe, you getting all this?” Terry asked. “Zack’s talking about some very important shit. They aren’t just saying you robbed this guy. They’re saying you killed him, too. Is there anything you can help us with? Here? On earth?”
The doodling slowed, and then stopped. Babe took a breath and then said, to no one i
n particular, “But the grand jury is wrong. I didn’t kill that man.”
Well, that was something. Of course, it wasn’t a particularly useful something, but hey. This was Babe. Utility was a little much to ask for. It was, however, a start.
“Okay. You didn’t kill him,” Terry said. “But did something else happen with him that night? Did you go to the store at all? Do you know anything about the robbery, or how he might have gotten killed? Do you have any idea why they would be saying you did these things?”
This particular horse was already quite thoroughly beaten, dead, and buried, but shit—if Babe was going down for first-degree murder, it wasn’t going to be because Terry didn’t push a little. At least he was keeping his voice down.
But then, instead of answering any of the questions, Babe started to flip through the papers in the folder. Swell. Why deliver a simple answer, when you could pull some obscure document out of your ass and confuse the only people in the world trying to help you?
Sean sat back, as if Babe were on the verge of producing some frightening weapon. Zack simply asked, “What are you looking for in there, Babe?”
But Babe just kept digging until he finally, triumphantly, extracted a small group of papers. “There,” he said, thrusting them at Zack. “This is an important case you can use.”
Legal research was a favorite pastime of inmates. No matter what their level of education, all criminal defendants seemed moronically fixated on spending countless hours in the prison library, poring over the endless number of criminal cases decided over the past two centuries, looking for that one undiscovered detail that would unlock the door to their cell.
Zack took the papers, glanced at them, and then spread them out on the table so that Sean and Terry could see them, too. It was a photocopy of a three-page opinion, written by the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals, entitled United States v. Wayne Rinaldi.