Last Witness

by Unknown

  Everything had spiraled out of control once again. She honestly didn’t know if her own judgment was so severely impaired that she was seeing ghosts where none existed. She was jaded by what she knew, what she had done, her perspective clouded, to a certain degree, by guilt. But to others who did not know of her lies, the facts pointed in another direction: There were other comfortable, plausible explanations that did not come back to her or William Bantling. Maybe what she needed was distance, to get herself out of the acidic environment of law enforcement, where she knew too many sordid, inside details about crimes and criminals and an imperfect legal system that could be compromised, the checks and balances department bypassed. Maybe there was no relation between the cop killings and Bantling, after all. She was sure Bantling had heard about the Black Jacket murders in prison. Maybe just to freak her out, he’d had someone send a monkey statue to her office. A sick forget-me-not. The prison now blocked the mail he still wrote her, his seething, hate-filled letters. Every once in a while, one still slipped through, stamped From a Correctional Institution across the front, and she would rip it into a thousand pieces, her hands wrapped in her jacket or the tail of her shirt, so that her fingers would not even touch the envelope he had written on and licked. A surprise package would be something she should expect from him, but it didn’t necessarily mean that he knew she had lied with those cops. It could all be weird timing. Coincidence.

  She knew she was rationalizing, avoiding, burying her head in the warm, California sand and hoping it would all just go away. But she relished the fantasy. She had even begun to look at long-term apartments and want ads in the paper, and had gotten some information on taking the California Bar. She missed Dominick intensely, but could not bring herself to pick up the phone, letting his calls go to voicemail, lest he update her on the Black Jacket investigation, or even worse, succeed in persuading her to come back. If she heard his voice, she knew it would make everything more difficult. She wanted to stay here and hide. Bantling’s letters didn’t reach her now. Her beeper didn’t sound out here. There were no more bodies to discover in the middle of the night, to go home and dream about.

  But even from the moment she had stepped off the plane at LAX, she had known it wouldn’t last.

  Now she sat in a worn, plastic lawn chair on her second-floor balcony, sipping another glass of wine, enjoying her cigarette and watching the boardwalk with the amazing, foamy dark-blue sea crashing in the distance. The sun was setting and the sky had erupted in glorious colors of orange and purple, descending for its slow and final kiss with the horizon. The Ferris wheel lit up the pier across the beach, and the sounds of laughter and screaming and carousel music floated onto her balcony like a symphony. And for a nice long minute, she had no other thoughts in her troubled head besides the crisp taste of the wine in the back of her throat, the smell of the ocean, and the sound of the night’s music.

  It was then that she made the unfortunate mistake of checking her voicemail. She had three messages – two from Jerry Tigler, and one from Rose Harris, her colleague in Major Crimes and Bantling’s prosecutor in his subsequent trial on the murders of the other ten Cupid victims. Both said to call them as soon as possible. Both sounded upset.

  She knew in her heart what it was about, who it was about. She should have ignored them. Made her decision right then and there to make a new life out here in California, whatever the cost.

  But as she dialed Tigler’s home number, she knew that her time out here was up. The fantasy escape from reality was over.

  Miami was calling her back home.

  48

  Jerry Tigler’s breathy, anxious voice answered the phone on the first ring. It was ten o’clock at night in Florida. Past his usual bedtime. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jerry?’

  ‘C.J. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Busy. I got your message. What’s up?’

  ‘Where are you? Everyone’s been trying to reach you all day.’

  ‘It sounded important.’

  ‘Have you spoken with Rose yet?’

  ‘No, I called you first.’

  ‘C.J., we need you to cut short your vacation. I know you’re going through a, um, rough time and I hate to do this to you, but we need you back.’

  ‘Jerry, I’m not sure if I’m even coming back,’ she replied slowly.

  ‘You are now. He’s filed a Rule Three, C.J. William Bantling. Cupid. It came in this morning. Rose has it.’

  Her heart began to pound and she slugged down the last sip of wine, careful to cover the phone with her hand so he wouldn’t hear her. A Rule Three. Shop talk for a post-conviction motion pursuant to Rules 3.850 and 3.851 of the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. The only legal mechanism at this point, at least through the state courts, that would allow Bantling to ever see day-light again. She began counting months and days off in her head, just to be sure her numbers were correct. ‘A Rule Three? He’s already had his shot, Jerry. His judgment and sentence were final in 2001. His time’s up. He’s too late under 3.851 – on that the case law’s clear.’

  ‘Do you think I’d call you in the middle of the night if it was that simple, C.J.? Rose knows appellate procedure like the back of her hand. She says we’ve got a problem on this one.’

  ‘What the hell is the problem? I know appellate procedure, too, Jerry. Procedurally, he’s barred—’

  ‘He says you withheld evidence. He’s collaterally attacking the judgment and sentence.’

  She felt her stomach flip-flop suddenly. She tried a voice that sounded normal. ‘They all say that, Jerry. It’s boilerplate language. And he tried that in his motion for a new trial and his last Rule Three, and it didn’t fly. This doesn’t sound like new facts to me, facts that couldn’t have been discovered before with the exercise of due diligence by his attorney of record.’ Right out of the statute.

  ‘Neil Mann is handling his appeal. He attached an affidavit to the motion from Lourdes Rubio, attesting that she withheld evidence from her own client. That she was in collusion with you. He alleges there’s an audiotape of some kind. A 911 tape. There’s your newly discovered evidence.’

  There was nothing she could say. Nothing. She wanted to drop the phone and run, but her legs just wouldn’t move.

  ‘You need to answer this, C.J. And Judge Chaskel wants it this week. He has it set down on his motion calendar to determine if he needs a full-blown evidentiary hearing.’

  ‘Can’t Rose handle—’

  ‘Don’t go there. If this is done right, this guy will walk right out of Florida State. Rose’s convictions were all predicated on your Williams Rule evidence. Everything is riding on your conviction. If it’s overturned, her convictions will be tossed.’ Not to mention, of course, that this was an election year, and if William Bantling – the most prolific serial killer in Florida history since Ted Bundy – walked out of those prison gates, Tigler could kiss his job and his political future goodbye.

  Williams Rule. Normally speaking, a person’s prior unrelated crimes and bad acts could not be used against them in trial, so as to avoid the ‘he did it once, he must’ve done it again!’ line of thinking in the jury room. And while it was frustrating to keep silent about a three-page-long rap sheet at the guy’s fourteenth trial for burglary, C.J. understood the law’s purpose. But there was an exception to that general rule of evidence, and it was known as Williams Rule. In Florida, prior convictions and evidence of prior crimes and bad acts will be deemed admissible if they go to show a defendant’s identity, intent, knowledge, modus operandi, motive, opportunity or pattern of criminality in the new case.

  Bantling’s conviction in Anna Prado’s murder, and the facts surrounding her homicide, were admitted as Williams Rule evidence in Rose Harris’ trial late that summer on the ten other murder counts. The method of death, the mutilation of the hearts, the manner of abduction, the targeted type of victim were all the same in each of the eleven murders, and were admitted at trial to show modus operandi – method of operatio
n – and identity. This time it was okay to jump to the conclusion that if he did it then, he must’ve done it now. In fact, it was welcomed by the law.

  But that little bonus in the law also now caused a big problem. If Bantling’s conviction in the Prado murder was overturned because evidence had been obtained illegally, then the use of that evidence and his conviction in the subsequent trials would also be barred. And his convictions in the other ten murders would then be overturned as well. He would be entitled to a new trial on all of the murders, and it would all go back again to the illegal stop.

  ‘Jerry, I…’ she stammered, her head down and in her hands. The lights from the Ferris wheel reflected off the cars in the parking lot below, and she watched them spin around and around on the windshields. ‘I was going to stay here. I wasn’t coming back.’

  ‘Get your ass on a plane, C.J., wherever you are,’ Jerry Tigler finished in a firm and unsympathetic voice. ‘You tried this case, and you of all people should be scared if this guy ever gets out of prison. From what the world saw in that courtroom three years ago, there is no place you can go on this green earth where he won’t find you then.’

  49

  Dominick wasn’t surprised when RD Black called him into his office for a chat a week after his visit to Raiford. He had been expecting it sooner. Black told him that EI was starting an investigation regarding Bantling’s charges of battery and police brutality, standard procedure in excessive use of force complaints. It would take anywhere from days to weeks to months to finally complete. ‘Keep your chin up,’ was all Black had said as Dominick headed back into the hall. ‘And next time, take a good, long look at your surroundings before you let some asshole get inside your head.’ A reference to the infamous video that had now been played a dozen times over for the big and the brassy up in FDLE’s Tallahassee Headquarters.

  He was pissed off at himself for losing control. He could be suspended, maybe even lose his job over this. All for what? He had gained nothing. No information, nothing that could help either C.J. or the Black Jacket investigation. Now he had nothing except a big, dark cloud hanging over his head, a pissed-off administration, four unsolved murders, an anxious public breathing down his neck, and a fiancée who wasn’t anymore. Not to mention a pounding headache that had gone on for days straight.

  He was surprised, however, two days after he had walked out of Black’s office, to be greeted by Mark Gracker and two carloads of FBI agents in the parking lot of MROC. When they flashed their badges at him, as if Dominick didn’t know who they were, he almost laughed. Then Gracker stepped to the front of the pack.

  ‘Agent Dominick Falconetti.’

  ‘What the fuck is this, Mark?’

  ‘I need you to come with me,’ Gracker said.

  ‘What kind of stupid-assed game are you playing?’ Dominick said, looking around, his voice rising.

  Gracker just gestured with his hand to the black fed mobile behind him. The door was open.

  Dominick figured it would be best to just ignore him. After all, his temper had gotten him in enough trouble lately and if he stayed here just one minute longer, he was going to rearrange Pudgy’s face. Although it would probably be an improvement, it would also be a bad idea. He moved to walk past him, but Gracker grabbed his elbow, and with a sneer in his voice, he said, ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, Dom. I need you to come with us. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.’

  Dominick shrugged him off. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. You come to my building and tell me to get in your fucking car? Piss off, Mark. I’m having a shitty enough day without you in it.’

  Dominick tried to walk away again, and two FBI agents blocked his path. One of them was Chuck Donofrio, an old friend Dominick had worked with years back on a joint cargo task force when the guy was with MDPD. He looked at Dominick, as if he were disappointed in him, then shook his head. ‘Dom, man, let’s not make this too hard.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Chuck? What is this?’ He looked around at the faces of men he once worked with, who once respected him. He saw the positions they had taken up around him, the open car door that led to the back seat, the defensive stand and brace that cops take when someone is about to be taken into custody. He knew the steely and unfriendly look in their eyes. The tables had turned. He was a subject.

  ‘What is this, asshole?’ Gracker said with a smirk, as if this was exactly the reaction he wanted, ‘This is payback. As for your already shitty day, I’m about to make it worse. Give me your firearm and get in the car, Agent Falconetti, because I have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent. I think you know the rest.’

  50

  C.J. sat in the high-back burgundy chair in her office – the same one she’d thought she might never sit in again – and stared at the black and white truth of Bantling’s Motion for Post-conviction Relief.

  It was not paranoia. It was not overreaction. It was not a guilty conscience. It was real and it was fact and it was right here in front of her. And the judge. And now the world. This was just the sort of motion that a bored clerk lives for. The Tom and Nicole divorce petition. The Carmen Electra and Dennis Rodman marriage license application. The Prosecutor In The Biggest Criminal Case Miami Has Ever Seen Has Just Fucked Up motion. They can smell media attention the moment the glass doors swing open and the legal assistant/messenger drops the file on their desk with a wink and a, ‘Take good care of this one. It’s special.’

  When the motion was filed by Neil Mann, the tip to the press had probably come out of the clerk’s office before the ink was dry on the courthouse stamp. The phone calls and messages from local media had started before her plane even set down on the tarmac at MIA, and were now a slow-growing mound of pink message slips, piled on her desk. An exasperated Marisol had threatened a disability claim due to either exhaustion or carpal tunnel.

  It didn’t take a genius to make the same connections that just days ago her stressed-out brain on a sandy beach had justified as simple coincidence. Defense Alleges Prosecutor in Cupid Trial Withheld Evidence – Miami Beach Cop Said to Have Lied Is Black Jacket Victim! the headline ran in the local section of the Sun-Sentinel, right above an anxious picture of herself three years ago coming out of the courthouse. She should be thankful, she supposed, that it wasn’t the front page, but she didn’t need to read the rest. In fact, she threw the whole paper in the garbage on her way out of the 7-Eleven, before the clerk had even put her fifty cents in the drawer.

  It was clear from Mann’s motion that Lourdes had indeed suffered a change of heart and position. In her three-page affidavit she stated that she ‘intentionally did not represent her own client to the best of her ability’ and was ‘derelict in her duties as defense counsel in a death penalty case.’ She said she had ‘failed to diligently cross-examine witnesses and did not present testimony or evidence that she knew would lead to a suppression of the evidence gathered against her client’ and, in fact, ‘purposely withheld exculpatory evidence from the court and from her own client’s knowledge.’ She also stated that she had lied on the record in the penalty phase when asked by the court if there was truth to the defendant’s allegations that he had raped the prosecutor. For the grand finale, she dropped the bomb that she was in possession of a 911 tape that detailed the real reason Bantling’s Jaguar was pulled over. She explained that Officer Victor Chavez had lied about the circumstances surrounding his stop of the vehicle, because it was based on an unverified anonymous tip and was therefore devoid of probable cause. For good measure, she had thrown in an allegation that C.J. had known about the tape’s existence as well, and purposely had failed to disclose it to the defense as exculpatory evidence, thus committing what was known as a Brady violation.

  It looked bad. But, as her father had said on more than one occasion, ‘You can’t unring a bell.’ There was nothing C.J. could say to defend herself that wasn’t a lie itself. A house of cards built on a false foundation. How long would it last b
efore it all fell down?

  The knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts, and she ran her hands through her hair before rising to answer. The last thing in the world she needed was to see Jerry Tigler again, who had come into her office three times already to make the same angry and anxious observations.

  ‘C.J.? Counselor? You in there?’ It was Manny Alvarez. ‘If you are, you better let me in before she sees me or no more café con leches for you.’

  She opened the door and Manny entered, looking exhausted and stinking of cigarettes. In his hand he held two small styrofoam cups. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting one at her. ‘I figured you’d need a shot of something. Given the day I’m having, I’m sure yours must be worse.’

  ‘You read the paper?’

  ‘Who hasn’t? Welcome back, I think. Sucks, doesn’t it?’

  She just nodded.

  ‘So, is it a problem?’ he said, plopping into one of the chairs in front of her desk. ‘I mean these fucking mopes will say all sorts of shit to get off. And I never liked that attorney of his, Rubio. Too uptight and serious. Just a growl, never a smile, like she hadn’t had any in a while.’

  ‘Manny…’ C.J. said, shaking her head.

  ‘No offense, Counselor, but it does make a difference.’ He stroked his mustache thoughtfully and popped off the top of his coffee. ‘I read in the Herald what she says happened. That’s such bullshit. Chavez was a crummy cop, but anyone stuck in a room with him for five minutes would never give him credit for finding the bathroom, much less orchestrating a departmental conspiracy. I was at the scene that night, and I talked to that kid – big balls, but nothing upstairs to match. Rubio picked the wrong cop to call smart. And to pull you into it, too. What is she trying to do with that?’ He sucked down his coffee in two gulps, then let out a happy, Aahh! ‘Goes to show you, Counselor, damn defense attorneys will say anything to get their clients off. I’ve learned that in my eighteen years in this business.’