Fifty-Five
Memorandum
From: Walter Fager
To: Joseph P. Mascarenas, Dep. Dist. Atty., Violent Crimes Unit
Re: Prosecution of Lilith Aimee Montclaire
Joe,
It has been six months since I made my offer. I understand you must wait upon results of my disciplinary hearing before determining how I may serve your office. My hearing begins tomorrow and will command my attention for two weeks. I wanted to get this memo to you today so it comes from an attorney licensed to practice law in this state. Two weeks from now, that may not be the case.
A prosecution of Ms. Montclaire should be a coordinated state and federal effort to pry open bigger doors in the ongoing investigation of Estevan Gonzalez and Marcy Thornton. To that end, I would recommend “front loading” the case to achieve Montclaire’s cooperation at the earliest stage. Rather than hold back the most damaging evidence for trial, I recommend putting it all before her at once, combined with an offer of leniency conditioned upon an acceptable proffer of the assistance she can provide.
obstruction/tampering
Laura Pasco says Montclaire offered to pay an inexplicable amount of money for a damaged bar table. That evidence, standing alone, seems incredible. Fortunately, her boyfriend, Peter Ney, had removed a table leg when he attempted to effect repairs on site at the Howling Coyote, thus permitting it to escape the fire set by Montclaire (discussed below). Linda Fager’s blood has been found on that table leg. With DNA results from the embalming table Montclaire attempted to destroy matching that of five women buried at Geronimo’s ranch, the government has a powerful case on these third-degree felony-obstruction charges, the sentences for which can run consecutively as they are discrete in time and place. Attachment A provides a more detailed analysis.
aggravated arson
The search of Montclaire’s garbage cans uncovered receipts for approximately one gallon of gasoline, two thermos bottles, and a stainless steel bucket, all purchased separately within an hour at different locations across Santa Fe. My compliments on completing the search before our Supreme Court ruled the state constitution provides citizens an expectation of privacy in the trash they put out for collection. As an employee of the DA’s office, I will do my best to attack that absurd ruling.
I suspect Montclaire obtained these receipts with the intent of charging them against Geronimo’s account (something I require of my investigators). She threw them out when there was no longer a client who might request an expense accounting.
Please note that Montclaire’s BMW requires the highest octane level of gasoline. She purchased but one gallon of the lowest octane level. Clearly, the fuel was intended for a purpose other than powering her automobile.
The red-light camera that caught Montclaire speeding through an intersection near Pasco’s home within minutes of the fire is helpful, as is video showing her filling thermoses at a gas pump, obviously trying to hide from the security camera in the store but ignorant of the camera in the ATM behind her.
Victim impact statements from twenty-three families and firemen injured in battling the conflagration will impress any judge. This is a second-degree felony, with a likely sentence near the maximum of nine years incarceration, which should run consecutively to the obstruction sentences. Restitution will be staggering. See Attachment B.
The memo continued for another five pages, with as many lengthy attachments.
Aragon watched Thornton across the table in the windowless police interview room, scanning Fager’s memo while Montclaire tried to appear disinterested. She caught Montclaire’s eyes drifting to the pages in Thornton’s hands. Montclaire sensed her watching and met her eyes.
“Do you have something to say, Lily?”
“Fuck you,” Montclaire said, but there was nothing behind the words.
Aragon punched Lewis’s shoulder. He dug his wallet from his back pocket.
Thornton stopped reading to watch Lewis sliding a ten-dollar bill into Aragon’s hands.
“I bet we’d get two words out of your client, and what they’d be,” Aragon said. “I won.”
“I don’t have time for games.” Thornton waved the pages in her hand. “Walter wrote this before he lost his hearing. Now it’s a disbarred lawyer’s rantings and bitter resentments. Do you have something more credible to say to me?”
“Nothing to you. To Lily.”
“I am her attorney. You speak through me.”
Aragon opened her own copy of Fager’s memo.
“You didn’t read far enough. The last page. A lawyer has a duty of utmost loyalty to a client. They must protect a client zealously, not disclose anything told them in the course of representation. Those obligations don’t run the other way.”
“We are through here. I echo Lily’s words of wisdom: fuck you.”
“This is your copy.” Aragon pushed the memo to Montclaire.
Thornton intercepted it.
“I’ll take that.”
Lewis handed Aragon another copy, which she again extended across the table to Montclaire.
“Lily, you want to read this for yourself. Your lawyer cannot put her interests above yours. But nothing prohibits a client from giving up their lawyer if that is in their best interest. We want what you know about Estevan Gonzales, how Ms. Thornton was buying his silence to cover for Cody Geronimo, what she was doing to enable Geronimo to continue killing, to conceal his crimes, how she was ripping him off.”
Thornton rose from her chair.
“Come on, Lily. They’re playing with your head.”
Aragon nudged the memo closer to Montclaire.
“You’re looking at three stacked sentences. The feds may take a run at you when we’re done. Your face, that body, may have helped you in this world. Where you’re going, you don’t want to be the prettiest thing in the shower.”
“I’ve heard this pitch a million times. If they had something, they’d have filed charges.” Thornton put her hand on Montclaire’s shoulder, two fingers stroking her neck, making her look up. “You’re not just a pretty face.” She winked. “You’re smart enough to see what they’re doing.”
Montclaire took the memo.
“Okay. I’ll read this. What if I have questions?”
“You want to talk to someone, there’s a number on the last page. Walter Fager won’t charge a dime.”
“He’s got a conflict of interest,” Thornton said, her voice rising. “And he’s prohibited from communicating with a person he knows to be represented by counsel. That’s part of what got him disbarred.”
“He said you might say that. Since he is disbarred, none of those rules apply to him anymore. Funny how that worked out.”
“Marcy, take your hand off me.”
“Lily, don’t do this. You’re out of your league.”
“The more I help you,” Montclaire said as she lifted Thornton’s hand from her shoulder, keeping her eyes on Aragon, “the more you help me. That’s how it works, right?”
Under the table, Aragon and Lewis tapped fists.
Aragon said, “Counselor, you’re no longer needed here.”
“You can’t dismiss me.”
“But I can,” Montclaire said. “Goodbye, Marcy.”
Thornton opened her briefcase to slip the copies of Fager’s memo inside. Pages missed and drifted to the floor. Nobody spoke while she bent to pick them up, jam them into the briefcase, and snap it shut. She went through the door, leaving it open, her heels clacking down the hallway’s hard floor.
Lewis got up and closed the door. Aragon placed a tape recorder on the table, pressed record and said, “The time is 10:49 a.m. With me is Lilith A. Montclaire and Detective Rick Lewis. Ms. Montclaire is not under arrest and has just dismissed her attorney, indicating she is willing to proceed without counsel. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Her name is Andrea, the one Marcy gave the judge,” Montclaire said. “Before I forget again. Now, you were saying?”
acknowledgments
Patricia Anaya, the wife of New Mexico’s great novelist Rudolfo Anaya, took time to read a very early draft of this book and encouraged me to keep going. She saw in Cody Geronimo the kind of very bad guy who could emerge from New Mexico’s strange mix of beauty and charm, corruption, and darkness.
The wonderful folks of the SouthWest Writers Workshop and the Jackson Hole Writers Conference, whether they know it or not, kept me going. Matt Kennicott introduced me to Krav Maga in Santa Fe. His class, led by a fierce, diminutive woman, gave me tons of ideas for Denise Aragon’s character.
Along the way, investigators previously with the New Mexico Attorney General’s Special Investigations Division answered many law enforcement questions. Vern Beachy, who, as a reporter with Albuquerque radio station KKOB AM770, exposed the crimes of Taos artist R. C. Gorman, helped me flesh out my villains, including those in the power structure who profit from (and perhaps enjoy) shielding evil from justice. Wow—radio stations with fearless investigative reporters. We need those days again.
Thank you, Elizabeth Kracht, my agent with Kimberley Cameron and Associates, for believing in me and making the storytelling better. And also thanks to Terri Bischoff, my editor at Midnight Ink, for taking me on board and steering my first book in the Denise Aragon series to publication. And much gratitude also for Kathy Schneider, the Midnight Ink production coordinator, who added the final, important touches. And a big thanks to Barbara Ann Yoder, an old friend and great editor and writing coach, who helped polish the manuscript that landed me an agent.
My wife, Kara Kellogg, has been my most committed and unwavering supporter. When I doubted myself, she urged me forward. She donned her very clear editor glasses and gave my work its most important, first critical read. She put up with me when I emerged from writing still in the character of one of the people in my book, instead of the man she married and wanted to share her life with. More than once—many times more—she suffered through my drifting off as I worked out a plot twist, ignoring everything and everyone around me until my head cleared.
And still she loves me.
Last, I want to acknowledge four remarkable, brave, powerful women. This is most definitely a work of fiction, but the accounts of the female law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty and remembered on the Wall of Honor at the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy in chapter 17 are absolutely true. It is my sincere wish that the character of Denise Aragon always honors them.
© Deja View Photography
about the author
James R. Scarantino (Port Townsend, WA) is a prosecutor, defense attorney, investigative reporter, and award-winning author. His novel Cooney County was named best mystery/crime novel in the SouthWest Writers Workshop International Writing Competition.
The Drum Within Page 30