by Eddy Rogers
I had mixed feelings. To me a death sentence is more merciful than life without parole. Besides, at a cost of sixty or seventy thousand a year to incarcerate each prisoner, sentencing the most severe criminals to death makes more economic sense, but for the appeals process. Lawyers can delay a death sentence for twenty years. Something’s wrong with the way the entire system works.
15
“I’d like to know what’s upsetting you,” Carla said more than a little irritably when I came home that Wednesday night. She always knew when I was brooding.
“I’m sorry. This has all taken a lot out of me. We’re going to meet with Bruto tomorrow and finally, I hope, get the real details behind Betty’s murder.” I’d given Carla the detail of Chad’s long hypothetical, indicating that others were involved. “I’m in favor of letting Bruto save his ass if we can get the others. I sure wouldn’t want to be him in prison, however. Bob should be able to see if the State can do an exchange with another prisoner in another state, change his name and get him anonymity that way. Otherwise the MS-13 guys’ll make sure he pays for squealing. I just can’t wait to hear the whole story. Thinking through the story Chad told us, they got in only because someone — Blaise, Johnson, Harold, Gus, or even one of the girls — gave Bruto and his pal the information needed to get into the ranch and then go up to Betty’s bedroom, telling them that there was a pile of gold to be found in the closet.”
“I’d vote for it being the smarmy minister, the guy who reminds me of Elmer Gantry.” Carla never liked Blaise, even though she’d only met him once, but of course she’d heard a lot from me, including my opinions of him.
“Blaise, you mean.”
“Yes. I think he torched his own church and then burned our garage to keep you from finding out about the murder and the fire,” she said with no hesitation.
“Could be. Plenty of other suspects. Ya never know. Remember the radio sleuth that your dad always quoted? ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man? The Shadow knows.’ No one we interviewed can be excluded, not Blaise or Carroll, not Scranton, not even Gus or Harold.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Carla said. She always said that when she planned an abrupt change of subject. “I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll buy into naming a boy after you, we can call him Marshall or Mars after his middle name rather than Chip or Junior. And if it’s a girl, I know you like Carlotta, and I do too, but I don’t want people calling her Carl. People did that to me when I was young, so we have to call her by her full name. Deal?”
I love Carla, and the past months have brought us closer than I ever thought we would be. But arguing with a very pregnant wife being inadvisable, I said, “Sure. Either name would make me very happy. Actually, all I want is for our child to be healthy and normal. I’ve even said a few prayers.” Our new arrival would get me back to the Baptist church. Carla and I had been remiss and needed to get back to Sunday services. I’d slacked off not only from simple laziness but also from a malaise generated by my negative opinions regarding the future of mankind. Terror, mass murders, rampant drug abuse, terrible educations for many, and national and world debt levels that eventually could create a major world-wide crisis. Going to church could give me much-needed comfort and peace. I’d need that when the baby came. I wondered what kind of life the new one and my grandson would have. Maybe God would help me with that.
•••
The next day couldn’t come soon enough. When I arrived at the court house ten minutes before ten, the appointed hour, Bob’s Suburban was already parked in front of the courtroom area, emblazoned not only with “Sheriff Blanco County” on each side in large letters, but also in smaller script on the driver’s door, “Robert Hauffler, Sheriff”. Bob must have brought Bruto to the courtroom by himself from the jail. As I walked in, I noticed that everyone — Bob, Jane, Chad, Bruto in chains and a court reporter — had already assembled in the jury room. When I worked in Houston, meetings always started late, lawyers being the prima donnas they are. In the hill country, for reasons I’ve never understood, meetings start before the appointed time more often than not.
Bruto and Chad were poring over a document. Jane handed me a copy. In big, bold letters at the top of the first page, it said “Plea Agreement”. The three-page document amazed me. Unlike most legal documents, Jane had composed a short agreement, written in understandable, simple English. The document even had bullet points reminding Bruto that he had to tell all, that he had to testify if needed and agreed that a plea on the murder charge didn’t absolve him of any other crimes unrelated to the murder, or for that matter the murder itself if he turned out to be the actual trigger man.
“I wish all the legal documents I have to read were this clear and concise,” I said, trying to add a bit of levity to this very serious meeting.
“I want to make sure that Bruto understands the deal,” Jane said.
Chad piped up. “I want to make sure the judge accepts this if we agree to it.”
“I’m way ahead of you on that already, Chad,” Jane said. “I talked to Judge Woodard on a hypothetical basis, and he said firmly that if I recommended a plea deal, he’d accept it.”
“Good.” Chad turned toward Rivera. “Bruto, I want to make sure you understand what we’re doing, so let’s go over the agreement.” Chad then recited each bullet point. I wondered whether Chad was just being careful or had a concern that Bruto couldn’t read. In any event, his going over the deal paragraph by paragraph would cement the effectiveness of the agreement.
After that process and after Bruto shrugged his shoulders and indicated he was okay with the plea agreement, Jane said, “While the testimony Bruto’s to give us now is confidential, I’ve taken the liberty of getting a court reporter to record the testimony and set up a video recording of the session. That way, if he reneges on our deal or if something happens to Mister Rivera before the trials, such as a car accident, the recording can be used as testimony to back up our case. Any objection, Chad?”
“No, we’ve gone this far. Proceed.”
“Mister Rivera, just so you know, the uniformed gentleman is Robert Hauffler, the Blanco County sheriff. He’ll be following up on any information you provide us today. The man next to me is John Mariner. He’s a lawyer and represents Mrs. Longstreet’s family and her estate. He’s gotten permission from Mrs. Longstreet’s husband and son to agree to the plea deal and will keep the family informed and help make sure that our deal isn’t challenged by the family. Comprende?”
“Sure. I’ve met Mr. Mariner, unfortunately. And you can talk to me in English. I was born here and graduated from Blanco High School.” Bruto had a chip on his shoulder.
Jane stopped the proceeding to get the court reporter in the room. The court reporter came in, and she took almost ten minutes to set up the audio and visual recording equipment, including a screen that we could look at as if Bruto was on a TV screen. As she tested the equipment, I saw at the bottom of the screen that words were instantly translated into a streaming transcription of what was being said. Great technology. We could watch the stream of words and tell when Bruto was mumbling or not understood by the transcription.
Jane’s authoritative voice pierced the meeting room. “All right, Mister Rivera,” Jane said to start things off.
“Call me Bruto,” he grumbled.
“Okay, Bruto. Let’s go through the preliminaries. Bob, please read Bruto his Miranda rights. Bob did that, saying, “Bruto, do you understand all that?” Bruto glanced at Chad, who nodded, and said “Yes.”
“Here’s your intake sheet with your personal information, residence, driver’s license, social and prior record. Is every item correct?”
Bruto looked it over, then said, “Yes.”
“And here’s your rap sheet. I got it from Sheriff Hauffler. Looks like you’ve spent a good deal of time in local jails and in prison. Correct?” Jane looked him over as he reviewed the pa
pers.
“Yes,” Bruto said sullenly. I’m sure Bruto just wanted to get the interrogation over with.
“Let’s start with who was with you on the night of the murder.”
“A guy named Orlando Pena. From Houston. I met him when I was in the prison in Sugarland. We’re friends. He helps me in my business.”
“And what business would that be?”
“I buy wrecked cars in Houston and Austin at insurance auctions and take them to Nuevo Laredo. The repair shops in Nuevo Laredo fix up the cars, and then we bring them back to San Antonio, where we re-sell them. Since I’ve been arrested, I haven’t been able to do anything, and I’ve got five cars waiting to be shipped back for sale. The sheriff can tell you that he won’t let me run my business from the jail.”
“How does Pena fit into this?” Jane pressed.
“He buys the cars at auction in Houston for me. I buy the Austin ones.” Rivera seemed small in his chair, rightly uncomfortable with the process.
“So tell us how you and Pena came to Betty Longstreet’s.”
“Orlando called me two months ago and told me that he had a job, that a friend had told him about a bunch of gold in a big house in a ranch not far from Blanco. He said he needed a local to help him with the job. He said he had all the information on the house and how to get in. He needed me to get a ladder and drive for him since it would be a night job. He said he’d split the proceeds with me sixty-forty. Told me it’d be fifty thousand total. Twenty grand for me for one night’s work. He also said the gold would be easy to get rid of after things cooled off. He didn’t tell me that there’d be anybody in the house.”
“Go on.”
“Orlando told me where the house was and asked me to cut the game fence near the gate so people would think we got into the place on four-wheelers through the hole in the fence. I did that two days before we did the job.”
“And then what?”
Suddenly Rivera opened up and talked at length.
“Orlando came up from Houston that day, and we had dinner together and had a little weed. We talked about our time together in prison and what we were doing these days to make ends meet, casual partners in auto repairs from time to time. Then we watched television at my house until we were ready to move. At two in the morning, we drove out to this ranch. When we got to the big gate, Orlando told me the gate code, and we drove through. We went up a crooked road for a quarter mile or so, and when we could see the house, Orlando told me to drive slowly and quietly. When we were a football field away from the house, he told me to stop and kill the motor. We walked the rest of the way, Orlando holding the top of the ladder and guiding me in the back. We walked on the grass around the back of the house, and then Orlando stopped where there was a porch. We put the ladder against the porch rail and climbed up and onto the porch. Orlando opened the door and seemed to know where the light switch was, turned it on, and a woman in the bed sleepily turned over and said ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my room?’ Orlando pulled out his pistol — a Glock thirty-eight — and ordered her to turn over and lay face down on the bed. Then he turned to me and told me to fill the back packs with the gold hidden in the special room inside the closet. I took his backpack and went into the little room, took my backpack off, and loaded the gold bars and coins into the back packs, three each to him and two to me. Then I heard the pistol go off. I ran into the bedroom and Orlando was standing over the lady.”
“Did you hear any talking or shouting between Betty and Orlando right before the pistol was fired?” Jane asked.
“No, ma’am. Orlando didn’t tell me nothing about shooting anybody. The job was just for the gold. When I walked back into the bedroom, Orlando turned and looked at me. ‘I didn’t want any witness to be able to finger us,’ he said. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, but I’ve never killed anybody. I didn’t know what to do. I was angry. Then Orlando and I went back into the closet for the gold, and he took one of the gold coins out of his backpack, handed it to me, and told me to put the coin where the gold had been sorta as a joke. That part was weird.”
“Did Orlando ever tell you where he got the information to get into the house?”
“No, that part bugs me. We left with the gold on our backs and retraced our steps to the truck. I turned my truck around and we left. On the way back to Blanco, I asked him again who told him, and he just said it was a friend. I told him he shouldn’t have killed her, that we could have gotten away without her identifying us. Orlando said that his friend didn’t like the lady, and if she was snuffed, the friend would pay us sixty grand minus whatever gold we found. No witness besides. He said he’d send me my share of the bonus when he got it from his friend.”
Jane leaned back in her chair. We now had what we needed on Orlando, but the instigator of the killing was still unsolved. “All right, Bruto, that’s it for now. If you’ve been honest with us and will testify against Orlando, our deal is firm.” Bob, please take him back to the jail.
Bob said to me, “John, I need to get him back in his cell. Would you stop by headquarters for a post-interview chat? Jane, I’ll call you after I talk to John. Chad, thanks for orchestrating this.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Please keep me in the loop,” Chad said.
“We will. Thanks, gentlemen. Off to my next hearing,” Jane said with finality.
16
I followed Bob and Bruto back to headquarters and its jail. While Bob got Bruto back in his cell, I lounged in Bob’s office. Bob returned scratching his head.
“We’ve now got the goods on Orlando, but I’ve gotta figure out whether the mastermind in this is Johnson, Blaise or someone else.”
I had the same questions swirling in my head too. “I keep going back to the fire at my house and the church. Whoever torched my garage has to be connected with the murder, don’t you think?”
“Yep, but first off we need to get Orlando arrested.” Bob, frustrated, took a seat.
“Wouldn’t the fastest way be to set things up with Jim Peterson and get him to arrest Pena?”
“That’s a good shortcut. Otherwise I’d have to go through channels and it would take a couple of days, and, who knows, create a leak that would give Pena time to run to Mexico.
I gave Bob Larry’s number, and the two of them set up a conference call with Peterson. Peterson was affable. “What’s up with our boy Rivera?” he asked. Bob and I brought Larry and Jim up to date on our arrest of Bruto and his interview, along with the plea deal.
“Rivera’s statements, along with the other stuff we now know, are enough to arrest Pena on a murder first charge. I’ll get that going. I hope our street intelligence can tell us where he is. If he gets wind of Bruto’s arrest, he’ll disappear. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll call you, Bob, with an update.”
“Sounds good.” All we could do was wait, I thought.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Bob.
“What’s that?”
“Going back to the fires, if we subpoenaed the cell tower records of Rivera, Johnson, Blaise, Scranton and that Harold guy, we might find out who was around both the church and your house.”
“Great idea,” I exclaimed.
“The records won’t prove up any more details of the murder itself, but if we find the arsonist, we may have a better idea of who’s involved in the murder, unless it was Bruto. Should’ve asked him where he was when the fires were started. I’ll order up the records.”
“Do you think Pena will talk once you get your hands on him?”
“Doubtful. He’s tough. He’ll look for a plea deal, life without parole instead of death row, but then again, he may count on the system to keep him alive and find a flaw in the process of bringing him to justice. You know that most of the inmates on death row have been there for a long time, some for over twenty years. Let’s get lunch. All this thinking is making
me hungry.”
“Let’s do Ken’s barbeque again.” And with that we adjourned. The lunch of beef brisket with ordinary conversation —football, hunting season preparations, local politics —dissolved the tension of the morning.
•••
Friday was supposed to be busy pursuing Pena’s arrest and obtaining the cellphone records, but the day remained uneventful. No records. No Pena. Nothing ever happens fast in the hill country.
Bob called that afternoon. “I got an audience with Tilton Woodard, the District Judge. Fortunately, he was in Johnson City today. I filled him in on the murder and the suspects, as well as the fires, and he granted a subpoena of the cell records of Johnson, Scranton and Blaise. He said he’d issue one for Harold Metzger later if nothing turned up on the records of those three. I notified the carriers in the Blanco and Houston areas and scanned a copy of the subpoena to each of them. A pain in the ass, took most of the day. I should get results late next week but will have a deputy call around mid-week to get a status report. I called Jim Peterson, and the only word he has at this point is that Pena’s in Houston and not on a run. Jim’s hopeful he can pick him up before the weekend’s over.”
“Thanks for the update,” I said. After finishing my call with Bob, I talked to Larry. He’d already been updated by Peterson. Not having anything pressing, I decided to leave the office early. When I was in a law firm in Houston, I could claim I was leaving early to beat the rush hour traffic, but that excuse didn’t work in Blanco. There is no rush hour. But then again, I didn’t have to account to anybody in a law firm anymore. I’m the only employee.