by Ace Collins
“Sorry. I cut my finger September ninth, the day before the killings, when I was opening a box that contained my new laptop.”
“What happened to the box?”
“Threw it away. It would’ve been picked up the next morning, on September tenth.”
“How about the computer?”
“I don’t know what happened to it. I set it up, but didn’t take it on my hiking trip. They probably picked it up after they arrested me.”
“Who picked it up?”
“The FBI.”
McGee leaned back in his chair. As he did, Lije brought his fingers together in front of his chin. Looking over his hands, he asked, “And you didn’t have any idea that the Klassers were killed until you were arrested in October?”
“No, I was away from home a month, hiking the Appalachian Trail. They said I was running away from what I had done.”
“You knew one of the 9/11 terrorists,” McGee said, sounding more like a prosecutor than a friend.
“I found that out a lot later. I met him once, but when the host told him I was a Christian, he just shook his head and walked away. We didn’t speak beyond exchanging something like ‘Nice to meet you.’ That was years before the attacks. I didn’t recognize his picture or name until the FBI reminded me of the meeting. Don’t know how they would even have known that. So no, we weren’t friends, though that’s the way it’s been portrayed in the media.”
“Doesn’t look good,” McGee noted.
“Mr. McGee,” Jones said, “where are your people from? What country did they live in before they came to the United States?”
“Ireland. My grandfather on my mother’s side was born in Dublin.”
“If a member of the IRA blew up a building in New York, would everyone stare at you as if you were guilty? Would your neighbors suddenly think you’re a terrorist?”
Everyone at the table understood what Jones was trying to say. It was a sobering thought. What if this was about race? Ethnicity? What if this was about where you were born and what you looked like, not what you believed?
McGee finally said, “You’re right. Your skin color and ethnic look set you apart. I wouldn’t have been subject to that. Still, no matter what I looked like, if the case against me was as airtight as what they have against you, I’d have been convicted. I know that.”
“I didn’t do it.”
12
THE WORDS WERE SO SIMPLE, SO HAUNTING. “I DIDN’T do it.”
Lije couldn’t read the minds of the other three, or of Jones, but he was now experiencing a combination of doubt and fear. Could Jones be telling the truth? The evidence clearly proved him guilty. But what if he wasn’t? What possible motive could there be to create an elaborate frame like this? Why pick on Omar Jones? Why set him up? And who set him up? The government? Lije didn’t think Jones had the demeanor or personality to become the face of homeland terrorism. So maybe someone else was behind the frame. But who? De la Cruz? Doubtful. Who else would have something to gain?
“You’re a Christian?” Janie asked, breaking the long silence.
“Yes. My parents were very active in the church. I grew up a Methodist. I was the president of the youth group as a teen. I went on mission trips to Mexico, sang solos, helped with vacation Bible school. I did it all. Church was my second home. After my folks died, I didn’t go regularly, but I didn’t secretly convert to radical Islam as the prosecution and newspapers claimed. I’m a Christian. My address may have changed, but not my faith.”
“Anything else you need, Kent?” Lije asked.
McGee shook his head. “No.”
“So that’s it?” Jones demanded, his restraints clanging as his arms waved. “You just walk out and I go back and wait for the needle?”
“We’ll walk out the same way we walked in,” Lije replied, “but we’re going to try to find out how you were framed and why.”
“You…you believe me?”
“Yes. A man on death row in Arkansas assured me you were innocent. You were in his final thoughts. Just before he was executed, he wrote a letter asking me to help you.”
“Really?” Jones was stunned. He couldn’t fathom anyone having any compassion for the other 9/11 terrorist.
“Yes, he believed in you,” Lije explained. “From the letters you two exchanged, he evidently developed a lot of faith in you. He was convinced you are what he would have called a ‘right guy.’ “
The prisoner shook his head. “Did you read the letters?”
“No,” Lije admitted. “I don’t even know what happened to them. Do you still have the letters he wrote to you?”
Jones seemed confused. “What was the man’s name?”
“Jonathon Jennings.”
The prisoner shook his head. “Never heard of him. I’ve not written a single personal letter since I’ve been on death row.”
“What did you say?” Lije stood up, shocked.
“Why would I lie about that? I have everything to gain by telling you I knew Jennings. I didn’t. I don’t even communicate with the men on death row here, much less in other states. The only mail I get is hate mail. I’m the poster boy for politicians who need to scare folks. Nobody wants to hear from me. Your friend never wrote to me and I never wrote to him. That’s the truth.”
Lije slumped back into his seat. What had just happened? Why had Jennings written this kind of lie?
“You still going to try to help me?” Jones asked.
Lije looked across the table. “I’ll let you know.”
13
KENT MCGEE HAD LEARNED A LONG TIME AGO NEVER to be surprised by anything that was said on death row. Yet even he was taken aback by what he had heard. Someone was lying, and if Jones wasn’t lying, then who was?
What a break that information had given them. What an insight he now had into the case. He was ready for the hunt, absorbed in the chase, and fully devoted to the cause of getting what he was now sure was an innocent man off death row. Still, he wasn’t surprised when no one shared his enthusiasm. The others acted as though they had just witnessed a tragic death—their own. When the time was right, he would clear that up, but McGee wanted to be well away from the warden and the prison before he dropped his bombshell. So, like the others, he put on a sad face as he said his goodbyes to Warden Burgess and was processed out of the unit. He kept frowning even after leaving the prison.
As the four rode in silence, it was all McGee could do to keep from using his phone. He had to make a call. Then he would change a few attitudes. Yet he continued to act downhearted until they neared a Dairy Queen. “Let’s grab something here,” he said. “The food’s probably not bad and it’s not crowded.”
No one nixed the motion, so Lije pulled over. As he, Jameson, and Janie moved toward the entrance, McGee hung back. “You go ahead and order me one of those steak baskets. I’ve got a call to make.”
Pulling an iPhone from his coat pocket, the attorney hit a familiar number. As he waited for his call to connect, he noted two robins sitting on a branch of a live oak tree. They were singing their hearts out. He saluted them and wished he had the talent to join them in song. Problem was he couldn’t carry a tune.
“Hello?” A voice popped onto his phone, taking his attention away from the treetop tune-smiths.
“Ivy, it’s Kent.” McGee grinned as he considered the job he was about to give his favorite detective.
“You’ve got something.”
Not bothering with small talk, McGee pushed forward. “Oh, yeah. I need you to find the address and phone number of a Martin de la Cruz. He worked for a Dallas-based company, name of Soft-tech, in 2001 and lived in Waxahachie. I want you to find him. Today.”
If the seasoned detective was annoyed by the tight deadline, he didn’t sound like it. “Want me to talk to him? What am I digging for?”
“No, that’ll be my job. Just find him for me.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, do you remember the story of the other terrorist
from 9/11?”
“Sure, Omar Saddam Jones. The guy who murdered the Jewish family.”
“I need to find out more about the man Jones supposedly killed. His last name was Klasser, and he worked for the FAA in Arlington, Texas.”
“Why? It’s old news.”
“I need to know the whys behind his murder.”
“It was an Arab killing a Jew, a story as old as the Bible,” the detective said. “The conflict goes back to Ishmael and Isaac in Genesis. The huge split is based on who followed one brother and who followed the other. We’re still fighting wars over that family feud.”
“Ivy, on the surface that’s the way this case reads—an ancient biblical feud gone wrong. But there may be something more to it. The story that convicted Jones is too neat, too convenient, and too easy to put together. I’m smelling a setup. So get me everything you can get on Klasser, right down to his family, his work records, and any contacts he had that might have given someone a reason to kill him. I want to know him as well as I know you. But I need de la Cruz’ information first.”
“Okay, boss. How long do I have on the Klasser thing? That’s not just old, it’s very sensitive. When I start poking around, it’ll no doubt make some folks pretty hot.”
“Can you handle the heat?”
“Don’t even ask.”
“Okay, call me as soon as you get the information on de la Cruz. And don’t be afraid to run up a tab getting the dope on Klasser. This thing might be our biggest case yet.”
“Or it might end our careers.”
14
WARDEN JAMES RAY BURGESS SOUNDED LIKE A SCOLDING mother when his call was finally answered. “Barton, why didn’t you answer the first time I called?”
“I was being interviewed by Fox News. Had the phone turned off. I take it Lije Evans came for a visit.”
“Yes, he was here. I wasn’t there during the interview, don’t know the results, but he left about four hours ago.”
A grin crossed the director’s face. It certainly looked like the fish had taken the bait. “So, James Ray, did Evans leave interested?”
“I couldn’t tell. All four were closemouthed when they left. No one said anything about needing more information or scheduling another meeting.”
Four? Hillman had figured this would be a solo trip. His contacts had told him Curtis was on her way to Germany for a mysterious meeting, so who else had Evans taken with him? “Sounds like a gospel group. Who came along for the ride?”
“It’s on the log, let me check. Mmm. Janie Davies.”
“The blind woman. She helps in his office, so that makes sense. Was Heather Jameson there?”
“Yes, her name’s here. She looks way too young to be an attorney. Good-looking gals, both of them.”
“Well, James Ray, Jameson looks young because you and I are getting old.” Hillman was stumped. Who else would go along on the trip? Evans didn’t work with anyone other than those two. Where would he pick up a fourth? “Who was the fourth?”
“Figured you’d know,” Burgess said. “After all, you and I have both run into him in the past. If he was any more familiar to you, he’d come to your family reunions.”
“I don’t have time for riddles,” Hillman shot back. “Just who the devil is the guy?”
“Fine, don’t get your drawers wadded up. It was Kent McGee.”
“McGee?”
“The one and only. I’m betting the suit he wore cost two grand. The women in the office are still talking about him. By now I figure every prisoner in this place knows he was here. Jones just became king of death row.”
Barton straightened up in his chair. McGee? Why McGee? Lije and McGee were college roommates, but they hadn’t traveled in the same circles in years. Except after Evans’ wife died. That must’ve brought them back together. The rules of the game had just changed. The bait he’d used to hook Evans was now no good. McGee was smart enough to catch on to a ruse. He’d probably seen through the setup in ten minutes.
“Hang on a second,” Hillman said. He rolled over to his ABI computer. Propping the phone between his shoulder and neck, he struck a few keys and watched as the American Airlines flight schedule rolled up. A bit more typing and a password got him into the reservations list for the late flight on American from Houston. Three names he was looking for popped up: Jameson, Davies, and Evans. It showed McGee had a booking, but hadn’t checked in. For some reason he had remained in Texas.
“Barton, you there?”
“Yeah, James Ray, I’m here. You see a lot of these. Surely you’ve got a guess if Evans took the case.”
“He didn’t say,” the warden replied. “But if the look on his face was any indication, he was pretty discouraged. I doubt I’ll see him or the others again.”
“Okay. Let me know if you hear from any of them.”
“Why—“
Barton hung up and tossed his phone on the desk in disgust. If he had figured McGee for part of the team, he would’ve at least picked a death-row inmate who had a remote chance of being innocent, not one who was guilty when he wrote the letter. McGee had messed things up. He would’ve talked Evans out of taking the case.
Yet, if he had, why stay in Texas? Alone? It didn’t make any sense.
Hillman was still kicking himself for his carelessness when he heard a soft knock on his office door.
“Yes, come in,” he barked.
The door opened and his secretary, still standing in the doorway, said, “I’m leaving, boss. You need anything?”
“No, Betty, I’m fine.”
“You look a bit disappointed. Something go wrong on the Fox interview?”
Hillman shook his head. “No, that was perfect. Just waiting for a couple calls. Impatient. See you tomorrow.”
“Okay. There’s no one at the switchboard, so I’ll make sure the calls ring through to your office. Can you switch it back to the night operator when you leave?”
“No problem. No, wait, just switch it now. The calls are coming in on my cell.”
“Okay. Good night.”
As the door closed, Hillman walked over to the window and looked at the capitol building. One call could clear this thing up. He didn’t like being in the dark. Not one bit.
He walked back to his desk, unlocked a private file cabinet, and pulled out a personal directory. On the fourth page, he found the phone number for the one source he trusted for information. He dialed the number. A few seconds later his hopes rose as he heard a familiar name.
15
INTERSTATE 35 HAD BEEN UNDERGOING EXTENSIVE repair for more than a decade. It seemed as if construction would never be completed. The highway was crowded and bumpy, with provisional lanes that moved a few feet to the left or right, seemingly put together just so they could take drivers through a series of corridors surrounded by temporary concrete walls three to four feet high. Accidents happened. Daily. In the ninety miles between Austin and Waco, Kent McGee had been forced to slow twice and stop once just to get by three different wrecks.
A trip that should have taken an hour and a half ended up costing him almost three—precious time robbed from a man on death row. For the next thirty days, McGee would have to move quickly, cover lots of ground, and dig through mounds of condemning evidence in the hope of giving Omar Jones the chance for a little more time to breathe.
Thanks to the extensive highway construction, the Waco city limits sneaked up on him. Waco, like a lot of communities dissected by the interstate highway system, could do that. Except for the Texas Ranger Museum and the back side of Baylor University, there wasn’t much of Waco to see along the interstate except typical road-related businesses.
It hadn’t always been this way. More than five decades earlier, downtown had been decimated by a massive tornado. More than a hundred people died that day, and in some ways so did the vitality of the community along the famed Brazos River. Shops rebuilt, but some never reopened. Most moved to the suburbs. The once thriving downtown, crowned by Alico Tower,
never fully recovered.
Exiting the interstate, McGee guided his Impala down a maze of streets—a left and then a right and another left—until he found himself at the address Ivy Beals had given him that morning.
He pulled into the driveway at the side of the house and stepped out into the midday Texas sun. It was just over eighty-five but felt at least ten degrees warmer. Shedding his suit jacket, he studied the red-brick home. Like hundreds of others, the home was nondescript, its most outstanding feature a ten-foot-wide fully covered front porch that ran the length of the front of the house. A fashionable middle-class home when designed many decades before, it was now just another piece of rental property.
According to the information dug up by the investigator, Martin de la Cruz had moved to Waco from Red Oak, Texas, three months before. After he identified Omar Jones as the man he saw coming out of the Klassers’ home the night of the quadruple murders, de la Cruz had moved four times and held five different jobs. Yet in spite of his moves and spotty work history, he had managed to repair his credit problems. Though he was technically unemployed, the three-year-old Corvette parked in front of the home’s separate two-car garage and the chrome-laden Harley-Davidson peeking out the open garage door indicated the man must’ve been able to stash some cash away for the lean years.
The yard was freshly mowed, though the flower bedswere devoid of anything but weeds. That would’ve signaled to even an amateur detective that the most likely resident was a man living alone, adding weight to the information Beals had given McGee. The biggest concern for McGee was whether the man was inside. He didn’t want to lose any more time waiting for him to return home.
McGee took the six steps to the porch in three and rang the antique doorbell. No one responded, so he tried pounding on the door. Finally, after rapping several more times, a sleepy, unshaven man peered through the front door’s glass pane. He studied his visitor, then unlocked the latch and opened the antique door.