Swope's Ridge

by Ace Collins

  Burgess chuckled. “I missed King’s try at imitating you, but let me give it my best: ‘They shot first and they shouldn’t have missed.’ “

  The press had loved that line. They had run with it from the moment it had pushed from his lips. It had legs too. At this rate it would probably be chiseled on his tombstone.

  “So, Barton,” the warden continued, “I can’t believe they got the drop on you. That’s a first.”

  Hillman laughed. “All a matter of luck, good and bad. And their luck was bad.” In truth, he had been in no real danger. He’d known the two dealers were there, and he’d gotten the drop on them. But the press would never know that. Dead men don’t talk.

  Burgess sighed. “You were always a lot smoother than I was.”

  Hillman noted a hint of envy in the response. “Not at all,” the ABI director said. “I just always looked for the angle. You saw everything in black and white.”

  “Guess that’s true. My job calls for me to see things that way. Barton, we may be friends, but I know you well enough to know you didn’t call me just to gab. What can I do for you?”

  “Yeah. You know me too well.” The small talk was behind them. “James Ray, what can you tell me about Omar Saddam Jones?”

  “Ah, the man the press tagged as the other 9/11 terrorist.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Nothing special. He goes to the chamber in little over a month. His lawyer’s state-appointed. I doubt there’ll be any delays. Besides, the FBI nailed him. Strong evidence. He’s a model prisoner, always polite, doesn’t talk to anyone outside the unit, avoids the other prisoners, and has no family. Seems to be a gentle soul. I can’t picture him doing what he did, but sometimes folks just snap.”

  “True,” Hillman said. “I’ve seen kind folks lose their minds and wake up to find they murdered someone. At least the evidence in the Jones case is solid. You won’t be sending an innocent man to the gallows.” Then he added what he knew was a lie. “I can honestly say that since I’ve been at the ABI, Arkansas has not executed anyone who didn’t do the deed.”

  Burgess fired back with, “Why do you want to know about Jones?”

  “Oh, I have no interest in the case, but a lawyer from Salem will probably be jumping on board to try to help the guy. His name is Elijah Evans. One of my former agents is working with him. A friend asked Evans to speak to Jones.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” Burgess asked.

  “Give him whatever he wants. Bend the rules a little. Provide him with as much access to Jones as he asks for and any records he needs to see.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the law-and-order man I know.”

  “You’re right. But this is a sad case. Evans lost his wife earlier this year. Now he feels a need to help people. After what happened to my Beth, I identify with him. I think working with Jones might help him work through his grief.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you, Barton.”

  “Well, you know what happened to me. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me know when Evans contacts you. And whenever he comes down to the prison. Call me on my cell, not my office line. I want to keep this unofficial. And, whatever you do, don’t mention my name. I don’t want Evans to know I interceded. You take the credit for being the good guy.”

  “No problem,” came the quick reply. “I understand. Hey, I’ve got a meeting so I need to wrap this up.”

  “Thanks for your help. Remember, call me when you hear from Evans.”

  As Hillman slipped his phone back into his pocket, he smiled.

  11

  DEATH ROW.

  Lije had made a trip to death row before and had been unable to help an innocent man. Jonathon Jennings. The memory haunted him. So if he was going to make the trip to Texas to visit another death row, Lije wanted his most trusted friends with him. He needed their company as well as their insight to bolster his confidence.

  On the day set for the initial meeting with Omar Saddam Jones, Lije shut down his office in Salem and had his partner and his legal assistant accompany him on the trip to Texas, adding McGee in Little Rock.

  Once on the ground in Houston, they rented a car and headed into the Piney Woods of the southeastern part of the Lone Star state. Except for the intense humidity, it wasn’t a bad day to travel. The temperature was in the lower nineties. But overcast skies provided relief from what would’ve been an unrelenting summer sun.

  With Lije at the wheel, they were halfway to their destination when a confused Heather Jameson pointed out what to her seemed to be a problem. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?” Lije asked. “Avis logged the information when we rented the car. I gave them the address. I’m sure we’re fine.”

  “But I distinctly remember Curtis mentioning Huntsville,” Jameson explained.

  “She did,” McGee said, “but I saw no reason to correct her. Huntsville is where death row used to be. After a number of escapes from what is the nation’s largest death row population, the prisoners were moved to a prison a few miles outside the small town of Livingston. They still perform the executions in Huntsville, but the state houses the men at the more secure Polun-sky Unit.”

  “So Curtis doesn’t know everything,” Jameson said with a grin. “What’s it like?”

  “Pretty much like every other prison that houses those doomed to die,” McGee said. “Depressing, confined, and not a place to visit if you have claustrophobia. I’ve been to a bunch of these units, and I always leave feeling as if I need a long, hot shower. The only way I can describe the experience is numbing. Numbs your mind, your body, your spirit. As I drive off, I never look back.”

  The image painted by McGee cast a pall that stifled conversation for the remainder of the trip. A gloomy environment permeated the place as they were processed and then, as a group, were escorted to the administrative wing. A gray-haired woman, whose nametag designated her as the warden’s administrative assistant, ushered them into a large private office.

  A balding man smiled as he stood up behind his modern walnut-veneer desk. “I’m James Ray Burgess. Please, come in. Would any of you like something to drink?”

  They all shook their heads. “No, we’re fine,” Lije said.

  Smiling, the warden extended his hand. “You must be Mr. Evans.”

  “That’s right,” Lije said as he shook hands with the shorter man. He wondered how a man could work in this place, be the warden to these men facing death. Did his mind constantly flashback to those he’d seen die? To the faces of those about to die?

  “Let me introduce my partner Heather Jameson, my assistant, Janie Davies, and—”

  “No need to tell me who this is,” Burgess said. “Mr. McGee and I met here on another case—Alvin Vaughan. You were called in to help Jeff Brayton back when we were still at Huntsville. You and Jeff managed to get Vaughan’s sentence reversed using DNA. Glad you came along when you did. Or we would have executed an innocent man.”

  McGee smiled.

  “Mr. Evans, I hope the information we gathered and sent your way on Omar Jones was adequate.”

  “Very thorough,” Lije replied. “Much more than I expected either you or the organizations to give us. I learned things about this case it would’ve taken us months to dig up on our own. And we don’t have months.”

  “I’m sure you can see this is not a circumstantial-evidence case, like many others I see. The FBI and the Texas Rangers covered all the bases. They proved their case. My job is to provide these prisoners a bit of peace before the end. This may surprise you, but I like Mr. Jones. He is a model inmate. I’d like his exit to be as painless as possible. That’s what I wish for all these men.”

  Lije nodded. Burgess was right on one count: the case file presented evidence that not even McGee, who knew more tricks than any other defense attorney in the nation, could contest. After reading everything on the case, it seemed clear that Jones was the
one who had committed the murders. Yes, the man had been given poor legal representation, but even if he had hired the best, he was doomed from the start. Lije considered this a waste of time. And cruel. Giving Jones any hope of getting off was like tearing the wings off flies. Maybe it was better just to leave him alone.

  Yet, because of a debt he felt he owed, for the innocent death he hadn’t been able to stop, he couldn’t walk away.

  Jennings believed Jones had been framed. If this was a frame, it was the best one Lije had ever seen in all his years as a lawyer—the corners were square, the glue was strong, and the picture the frame held was detailed and clear.

  After glancing at his watch, Lije said, “Mr. Burgess, could we see the prisoner?”

  “Of course. As we’ve been visiting, I’ve had him taken to a large holding room. You’ll have a table, chairs for each of you, glasses and a pitcher of ice water, and as much time as you need. He’ll be chained, that’s the law, but I don’t view Jones as a threat of any kind, so there will be no guards in the room. And I guarantee there are no bugs. You can talk freely.”

  “We appreciate your efforts,” Lije said as he got up. Slipping his arm around Janie’s, he and the others followed Burgess out of the room, into a hallway, through two security doors, and down another hall. After going through a door that required both a code and a fingerprint scan, they were escorted into a room where a small, thin, dark-headed man sat in a chair behind an old oak table. He looked more like a beaten dog than a human being.

  “Mr. Jones,” the warden announced, “these are the people I told you were coming to see you. They can have as much time with you as they need.” Burgess looked back to the legal quartet. “If you want anything, just pick up the phone on the table. My office extension is 942. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No,” Lije said, “we have what we need. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “The guard outside the door will lead you back to the office. When you’re finished, just knock.”

  The overhead fluorescent lighting was bright, but the dark furniture, windowless walls, and tile floor gave the room a cold, hard feel. The air conditioning made it feel like winter, not the middle of a hot Texas summer.

  The door closed and Lije first led Janie to a chair. Jameson pulled out a chair at the far end of the table and sat down. She retrieved a legal pad from her briefcase and a pen from her purse. McGee grabbed a place beside Jones. Finally Lije slid a chair out directly across from the prisoner in order to carefully observe the man’s expression as he answered their questions.

  “Mr. Jones, my name is Lije Evans. I’m an attorney from Salem, Arkansas.”

  Lije stuck out his hand. Jones stared at him for a moment, then nodded and hesitantly brought his manacled hands out of his lap, extending a hand in an almost apologetic way to gently grasp Lije’s. It was a strange shake, unsure and soft. The jingling of the metal restraints reminded the small-town lawyer of the ghost from the movie The Christmas Carol. Trying to quell the eerie feelings created by that association, Lije introduced the team.

  “To your right is Kent McGee. McGee is one of the best defense attorneys in the nation.”

  This time Jones’ hand extended even before McGee could lift his arm off the table. As the two shook hands, a sudden air of hope entered the room, and Lije thought he saw a tiny smile push its way onto the man’s tightly drawn face. Maybe there was a hole in the wall of evidence. Maybe Jennings’ belief in this man’s innocence would be proven right.

  “On the far end of the table,” Lije continued, “is my law partner, Heather Jameson. She looks young, but she’s sharp.” He waited for Heather’s eyes to connect with the prisoner’s before he continued. “Finally, the last but certainly not the least member of the group is Janie Davies. She’s my legal assistant, has a lot of experience in working with lawyers on criminal cases, and has even been a part of a team that won acquittals for two people who had been accused of murder.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones,” Janie said, cocking her right ear in the man’s direction.

  Dressed in his orange jumpsuit, the inmate carefully observed Janie, then spent the same amount of time studying the other three. He was obviously confused.

  “Why are you here?” His first words were delivered in a whispered tone.

  Jones was direct. He wasted no words. He wanted answers.

  “I can appreciate your question,” Lije replied. “In fact, we all can. To put it simply, we’re here as a legal team examining your case. We’ve studied the files, the transcripts from your trial, and all the records, from the moment the Rangers and FBI arrested you until the last appeal filed by your court-appointed attorney—the man you fired last week. We’ve tried to review every bit of the evidence. We came to Texas to speak to you and get your thoughts and see if perhaps you would like us to represent you in the appeal process.”

  “If you’ve done all that,” Jones began, “you have to believe what everyone else does: that I’m guilty.”

  Lije glanced over to McGee. The experienced defense attorney understood what his friend wanted. It was his turn to pick up the questioning.

  “Mr. Jones, Lije and I wouldn’t be honest if we told you that the case the state laid out wasn’t strong. But we wouldn’t have gotten on a plane to Texas and driven up to see you here in prison if we were going to judge you strictly on the evidence. We came to hear your story. We came to see if you can present your case in a way that will enable us to believe in your innocence.”

  “I didn’t do it.” Jones was blunt.

  “So you’ve said,” McGee replied. “Then I need for you to begin our discussion by answering two questions. The first concerns the man who claims he spoke to you in front of the Klassers’ home the night of the murders.”

  “Marty.”

  “Yes. Martin de la Cruz.”

  “I’ve thought about that a lot. Marty is not a liar. He was a good friend—as good a friend as I had in this world. I don’t know why he said what he did. But I have a theory. The Klassers’ bodies were discovered on the evening of September 11, the same day of the terrorist strike on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. The men who hijacked those planes were Arabs. Look at me. I look like them. On that day, everyone who looks like they’re from the Middle East suddenly became the enemy. Maybe what happened when the towers fell ended my friendship with Marty. Maybe I scared him.”

  “Are you saying he lied?” McGee asked.

  “I wasn’t there that night,” Jones said. “He must have lied. In the years since that day it’s about all I’ve thought about. Why did he say that? The other evidence could’ve been planted, but I still can’t believe Marty would turn on me. He knew me better than that. Maybe Marty was bought off. Judas turned against Jesus for a pretty cheap price. I know Marty was having a lot of financial problems. He was in debt.”

  McGee had warned the others that death row was filled with the greatest con artists. Jones seemed sincere, but of course he’d had years to perfect his act. Behind those dark eyes and seemingly frustrated demeanor might be an actor capable of playing an audience. Maybe they were being played, but it sure didn’t seem like it.

  “Can I call you Omar?” Lije asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You knew Mr. de la Cruz very well, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, we were about the same age. We hung out together.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “As I said, Marty was in over his head with credit card companies. He just had to have stuff. He bought big TVs and expensive cars and took vacations all over the place. He liked to gamble. Was so good at it casinos in Vegas and Shreveport banned him. In 1999, after he couldn’t play poker at the tables, his luck gave out. He wasn’t nearly as good at picking the horses. He worked at Soft-tech, mid-management level. Started to have problems paying for his lifestyle. He told me collection agencies were hounding him. He was close to losing his home. He sold his pride and joy, a 1957 Chevy convertible, and lost
big on that deal. I think he was about to lose his Hummer. He never hit me up for a loan, but I offered a few times. He was a nice guy. I can’t believe he would turn on me, but financial pressure can change people. It was a lesson my dad preached all the time.”

  Lije remembered something he had read in the prisoner’s file. His parents had died in a car wreck during Jones’ first year of college. He wondered how the man dealt with the loss. Could it have caused a mental breakdown? Perhaps he had killed the Klassers but didn’t realize it. But the battery of tests Jones had been put through back in 2002 before the trial showed no hint of mental illness. Nothing there could save him.

  McGee took over. “Omar, your DNA, hair samples, and fingerprints were found in the Klassers’ home. Your blood was found on the box cutter used to slit the family’s throats. You had a cut on your left index finger that matched the box cutter’s blade perfectly. And a box cutter just like the one used in the crime and found at the Klasser home was missing from your tool kit. That’s pretty solid evidence. I need you to explain how this could’ve happened if you were not in the house that night.”

  They waited for an answer. Above, the ceiling fan methodically sliced the air in the stark cubical. Jones was now as stiff and unmoving as a prison wall. It was as if the life had been sucked from his being. How could he answer this and prove his innocence?

  Finally he whispered, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “You’d been in the house many times,” McGee noted.

  “Three or four times a week at least.”

  “That means your DNA and fingerprints would’ve been in the house. Had you ever injured yourself in their home? Been cut in any way while there?”

  Jones paused, then shook his head. “No, not that I can remember.”

  “When was the last time you used your box cutter?”

  “I told the police several times. It’s probably in your report.”

  McGee leaned toward the convict. “I want you to tell me. I need to hear it from your lips. So do the other three people at this table.”