Majewski paused and frowned. “Hadn’t thought about that. The way you put it, I guess you could argue for it, but it sounds like a bit of a stretch. You thinking along those lines?”
“Just throwing it out there for your opinion,” Scott said. “You’ve been in this business much longer than I have.”
“Been doing this twenty-seven years next month. And I can count on the fingers of one hand the cases I’ve had involving silencers. In all but one, the silencer was registered, and in that one, we just discovered the silencer during a search and never found the owner. Nothing like the facts in this case. You DAs can figure that out.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks for the update. Moose Mosley, the new felony chief, says this is going to be my case, so how about you give me a call when you get a break in it.”
“Will do. You say Mosley is the new felony chief?”
“Yes, he replaced Nick Cox last Monday when Nick went on the bench.”
“I present a lot of evidence to Mosley’s grand juries, so I see him often—kind of grungy at times for someone who works at the DA’s office. But way smart. He could figure out that felony murder question you have. Ask him.”
Scott smiled. “Yeah, sure. See you later, John. Good luck with the investigation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
October 13, 2007
Jennifer smiled as she opened the door for Scott and heard him exclaim, “Wow!” Despite the fact that “Wow!” was always his response when she opened her apartment door for a night out, it always brought a broad smile to her face. But tonight, Scott’s response was not just automatic, it was pure and genuine—she was radiantly beautiful, dressed in a black skin-tight sheath with her golden blond, bob-cut hair framing the most beautiful face Scott had ever seen.
He stepped toward her and pulled her into him with a firm embrace. “We are not going anywhere. We’re staying right here. I’m not about to share this beautiful sight with anyone tonight.”
Jennifer would have liked nothing better than just that—stay right there with Scott—all night. But it was a line he often used, and she knew he was joking.
“Oh, we can’t miss the party. You would surely be missed; Nick is expecting you.”
Nick Cox, now Judge Nick Cox was hosting the event—his investiture party to celebrate his appointment to the bench three weeks earlier. It would be huge. All the judges and court personnel, attorneys and staff of the District Attorney’s office, many other Savannah attorneys, and all of Nick’s family, relatives, and friends would be there.
“I don’t want to expose you to such a boring evening. You won’t know anyone. Let’s just send out for a pizza and stay right here.”
Jennifer knew this was just patter. She was tempted to call his bluff, but instead she answered, “Well, I’ll know at least one person—Jessica.”
“Jessica? Jessica Valdez? She’ll be there?”
“Yes. You know she’s in my seminar. We chat often. She asked if I was going to Judge Cox’s party. She said she was going with her supervisor, whose name I believe she said was … Moose … or Mosley … yes, Moose Mosley. I’ve heard you mention that name. Isn’t he the new felony chief, who took over when Nick left?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“That surprised me because I thought you were her supervising attorney.”
Scott had never thought it necessary—or prudent—to tell Jennifer about the night Jessica asked him to supervise her Advanced Research Project, or that she had requested that he be relieved as her clinic supervisor because of a “personal conflict.” Where would he start and what purpose would it serve? He no longer had any responsibility for her, the semester would end, and Jessica would be gone—end of story. Now he had some explaining to do. But he needed a few moments to absorb all this: Moose had invited his intern to the party. Not really my business, thought Scott. Still it seemed irregular. There was no written rule prohibiting such “after work” social connections between supervisors and clinic students, but still ….
Scott reached for Jennifer’s hand, and said, “I’ll explain in the car. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?”
“Sure—lock the door for me, please.”
Scott began his explanation as they walked to the car. He would make it brief and short on details. “The powers that be decided that Moose would be Jessica’s supervisor. I thought it was to be temporary. Apparently they get along well, so he may be supervising her for the rest of the semester. I supervised her for one trial. She did fairly well, I thought. I’m a bit surprised that Moose asked her to the party. Remember the big office party we went to last March—Saint Patrick’s Day? He wasn’t there, and I’ve never seen him at any social event. He keeps pretty much to himself.” He hoped Jennifer would have no further questions concerning Moose replacing him, and she didn’t.
It was a twenty-minute drive to the party at the Savannah Winery, which was neither a winery nor located in Savannah, but rather a large tin roofed pavilion jutting out on tall wooden pilings over Bezt Creek on Wilmington Island. The Winery, as it was called, was a favorite place for weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs, family reunions, and other large, special events. It was a unique building with sliding, overhead hanger-style doors that could be closed for heating in the winter or cooling in the summer. But the preference for most who rented the huge building was to have the doors completely open on all sides, providing a clear panoramic view of salt marshes and beautiful sunsets. And the weather this day was perfect for opening it up.
Guests were already starting to fill the pavilion when Scott and Jennifer arrived. As they walked up the tall steps, Scott was surprised to be greeted by Bill Baldwin, who was standing at the entry with a camera around his neck.
“Hi, Scott. And I believe the beautiful lady is Jennifer Stone, correct?”
“You’ve met?”
“Well, like I told you many times, Scott, my job is to know all the what, where, when, how and who around Savannah. So why shouldn’t I know this lovely lady? Hello, Jennifer, I’m Bill Baldwin.”
“Hello, Bill.”
“I see you have a camera with you—on duty tonight?” Scott asked.
“Both work and pleasure. Nick is an old friend. I’ve covered many of his trials. I want to make sure his big bash is appropriately covered. And yes, he told me I could take pictures. So, let’s start with you two.” Bill pointed to the twenty foot wide, uncovered wooden porch that surrounded the pavilion on three sides. “Over there, by the railing,” Bill said.
They walked outside, and Bill placed them for his photo op. “I’ll make sure you get a copy, Jennifer. But you, Scott, will have to wait. There’s a cost—quid pro quo, or something like that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Scott was not in the mood to be pumped for info, so he changed the subject. “Let’s go inside for a look. This is my first visit to the Winery.”
“It’s new, isn’t it?” Jennifer asked.
“Couple years old.” Bill motioned to the far end. “They put that stage in a few months ago. Nick said he would have a band tonight, but I haven’t seen any sign of them.”
Scott looked across the huge room at the stage. It was empty except for three metal stands topped with microphones, a few armless chairs, and a black upright piano.
“Let’s find a friendly bartender,” Bill said.
The pavilion was filling fast. The three bars were already busy. There were four tables of food covered with Savannah specialties: steamed shrimp, whole baked salmon, shrimp and Andouille gumbo, carved roast beef, red rice, fried okra, and salads of every variety and for every taste. It was a banquet feast long to be remembered.
Bill had stopped to speak with an acquaintance, and Scott led Jennifer to some tables where a crowd from his office had gathered. Nick was also there, and both Scott and Jennifer extended their congratulations and thanks for such a wonderful party.
Jessica sat with Moose, and Jennifer went over to speak to her while Scott made his way to a bar. There were no
extra seats at the table when Scott returned with drinks; he and Jennifer took a seat at a nearby table, which quickly filled with friends from the DA’s office. Bill Anderson arrived with his fiancée, Kira Courtman, a longtime friend of Jennifer’s, and they were soon engrossed in conversation. More friends arrived, and soon all the tables in the area were occupied with attorneys, office staff, and their dates or spouses. It was a lively, happy, noisy group, telling tales of old trials lost and won, or recent worldly adventures—genuinely enjoying the comradery of an evening together. There were many trips to the bars and the food tables, and the time passed quickly.
At 8:00 p.m., Nick appeared on stage with microphone in hand. He thanked everyone for coming to help him celebrate this special occasion in his life. He introduced his family, named and thanked his many mentors over the years who had been so helpful in his career, and introduced a few of the more distinguished guests who were roundly applauded. He made the customary remarks of looking forward to his new job on the court, promising to humbly serve the community to the best of his ability. Then he paused, looked back at the empty bandstand, and said he had an apology.
“I had booked the Smashtones, a little band from Charleston, for tonight. I heard them play last summer at Hilton Head. They were good. I’m not sure what happened, but they just didn’t show. And unfortunately, I haven’t been able to contact them. So, I apologize for the lack of entertainment, but I plan to keep the bars open late and the food coming—and just maybe the band will show. I know they planned to be here. They requested that a piano be available, and I had one brought in this afternoon.” He turned and pointed to the large black upright at the back of the stage. “But it looks like it may just sit there, mute, for the rest of the evening.”
From a table about forty feet away came a loud voice. “Moose can make that piano talk. How about it, Moose?”
It was Bill Baldwin. And yes, Nick remembered; Moose Mosley can make a piano talk.
“Moose, I think that’s a great idea. I haven’t heard you since our college days. Some of you may not know it, but Moose Mosley took over my job at the DA’s office. Moose earned his nickname on the football field, but in off-season, and sometimes even in-season, Moose was the life of any party, playing either rock and roll on the piano or blues on his sax. So, how about it, Moose—would you come up and make this old piano talk?”
And with that, the entire pavilion resonated in unison: “Moose! Moose! Moose!” Apparently there were many others who knew Moose’s talent.
“Moose! Moose! Moose!” It’s an easy chant, especially for a crowd that has enjoyed a couple hours with three open bars. Moose! Moose! Moose!
Scott looked over at Moose’s table as Moose stood and looked down at Jessica. She nodded as if to encourage him, but Moose did not move. Then she stood, and he leaned down as she whispered in his ear. He smiled, and she gave him a kiss on his cheek. Then Moose moved toward the stage where Nick was still standing and holding the microphone.
As Moose approached the stage, Bill Baldwin summoned a couple of friends to help push the piano to the front. They set two microphones on either side of the piano and placed the bench in front.
Moose took a seat on the bench, looked for a moment at the keyboard, but his hands remained in his lap. By now the crowd had hushed. They watched Moose, but Moose just stared at the keys. It had been a long, long time since his fingers had even touched a keyboard.
Eventually, he placed his left hand above the keyboard and let his fingers lightly test a few keys. Then his right. He lifted both hands, intertwining his fingers, and stretching and flexing his wrists. Then, back to the keyboard where he gently tickled it with a few chords. Then a few more. And then he began.
He was now the old Moose, reliving those student years when he could display his physical power by day and musical talent by night. All the bands in the area knew him and would invite him to join in with his sax—or a piano if one was available. He could read music but usually did not. He could pick up on any song, and if he booted a few notes, which he occasionally did, he was quickly forgiven because he was, after all, Moose. Or as he would sometimes say, “Once is a mistake, twice is jazz.”
It had been a long time, but it was all coming back now. He was hearing his fans of so many years ago when his fingers danced and raced across a keyboard and his body moved in animated rhythm to the rock n’ roll. He was now recalling the stillness of those audiences, so hushed and silent, as he played “Stranger on the Shore” on his sax—the distant, longing feeling that sometimes brought tears to the eyes of his listeners—and sometimes to his own. In fact, he felt more comfortable with his sax than the piano and wished he had it now.
But it was time now to make the piano talk, as Bill had urged. He would do more—he would make it sing and shout. So he began. Jambalaya. Not Hank Williams style, but Cajun style, rock n’ roll à la Fats Domino. He followed with Roll Over Beethoven. Pure Chuck Berry. By now the crowd in the pavilion was standing and rocking with the music. When he cut into Hound Dog, the audience joined in with a rousing chorus that could be heard all across the saltwater flats.
After fifteen minutes with his body bouncing on the piano bench and his fingers pounding on the keyboard as if they were on fire, Moose was breaking into a sweat. He wasn’t in shape to demonstrate the talent he’d bottled up for so many years. And after twenty minutes he stood, the sweat pouring down his reddened face. He smiled, waved to the crowd, and jumped down from the stage. He was finished.
The crowd broke into a sustained applause. Moments later, seemingly on cue, in walked the Smashtones. Soon the pavilion was again rocking, but the party and the night would be long remembered—not for the main attraction, but for the opening act.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
October 19, 2007
Scott had been in a three-day jury trial that ended Friday afternoon. When he returned to his office, the light was blinking on his answering machine. He hit the play button. It was Moose. “I know you are in trial, but call me as soon as you get a chance.” Scott returned the call immediately.
“I have the indictment for you, Scott. Come on down, and pick up the paperwork so you can get started.”
Scott had not spoken with Moose since Nick’s party the previous week. He had no idea what indictment Moose was referring to, but he didn’t question him. He went directly to Moose’s office.
“The grand jury returned a true bill yesterday morning,” said Moose. “He was arrested that afternoon. He’d already retained an attorney—Samarkos—and Samarkos got Judge Vesely to grant him bail. Arraignment’s scheduled for next Thursday.”
“Who was indicted, Moose?”
“Donaway,” Moose said.
“Troy Donaway?”
“Yeah, you know, the guy with the silencer at Toussaint’s.”
“You sent that to the grand jury? I didn’t know you even had the investigation report. You told me that was my case.”
“It is your case. For trial.”
“Moose, you told me you would let me know when you got the investigation report. I recall the conversation. I told you I wasn’t sure of the steps for processing the police report from intake to the grand jury, and you said you would let me know when you got it—and we would go from there.”
“Exactly. I’m letting you know I got it, and we’ll go from there. It was a pretty simple case for the grand jury. Only needed John Majewski’s testimony. Of course, you’ll need a bit more for trial, but I don’t see a big problem. Here’s the paperwork. And as I promised, it’s all yours.” Moose handed Scott a file.
Scott removed the indictment and began to read. The first charge was a violation of Georgia Statute, Section 16-11-123, possession of the silencer. Scott had not seen the investigative report, but from his conversation with Detective Majewski, it seemed appropriate. Then he read the second charge.
And the jurors aforesaid, in the name and behalf of the citizens of Georgia, further charge and accuse Troy M. Donaway, of t
he county and state aforesaid, with the offense of felony murder, in violation of Section 16-5-1, Georgia Statutes, in that the said Troy M. Donaway, on the 29th day of September, 2007, at Toussaint’s restaurant, located at 1401 Benson Street, in the city of Savannah, Chatham County, while committing a felony offense, to wit, possession of a silencer, did unlawfully cause the death of Angela Ann Voss, a human being, contrary to the laws of said state, the good order, peace, and dignity thereof.
Scott was shocked. Stunned. And angry. “You charged Donaway with felony murder?” Scott’s voice was loud. His eyed narrowed, and his jaw clenched.
“The grand jury charged him, not me. You have a problem with that?”
“The grand jury didn’t write that indictment. You did. I don’t know much about processing police reports and preparing charges, but I know that wasn’t the work of any grand jury. That was your work.”
“In part, but Jessica actually prepared those charges. Damn good job, don’t you think?”
Scott did not answer, and Moose continued. “I presented the evidence to the grand jury, and they indicted. It’s the grand jury—at least twelve of them—that makes the call on a true bill, not me.”
Scott was by now fully steamed, and he was aware that he was fully steamed. He knew he had to calm down if he had any hope of reasoning with Moose. And he was now beginning to see that Moose had an accomplice in what, to Scott, was a clear travesty of justice. This simply was not a felony murder case. Sure, the silencer charge may be valid, but the felony murder charge was beyond the pale. He breathed deeply before continuing.
“Moose, you are a very smart and persuasive person. I have no question that you could convince a grand jury to indict a park bench. We’ve discussed this charge previously. OK, so a felony murder occurs when the death occurs while committing a felony. But you are missing causation. Surely there needs to be some connection between the felony and the cause of death.”
“Scott, you may not remember the statute, but I do, Subparagraph (c)—‘A person also commits the offense of murder when, in the commission of a felony, he causes the death of another human being irrespective of malice.’ Pretty clear statute. And the cases are clear, too. Jessica researched them. There’s Scott v. Georgia, 250 Georgia 195, a 1982 Georgia Supreme Court case where the trial judge instructed the jury … now let me make sure I get this right—and I should, I read it just this past Monday.”
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