“Maybe, but the prosecutor asked for the death penalty, and they got it.”
Another shake of his head, and something like a shiver. “Yeah, but I don’t think anybody thought the jury would do it. I didn’t.”
“Just bad luck then.”
He let out a brief laugh that was more of a grunt. “Yeah, the worst.” His chin tilted up, and he gave me a stare that was almost a challenge. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
“You testified at Sunny’s trial,” I said.
“Yes?” The word, as he said it, was a question.
“And you said Todd Betts told you he killed Gregory Ferrante.”
He nodded. “Right.”
“And that he said Sunny Ferrante paid him to do it.”
This time he didn’t nod. “That was a long time ago.”
We sat in silence for a long moment, while he thought something through.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Did that fucking cop a favor, and ended up here.”
“You mean in prison?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“They set me up, is what happened.”
“What did they do?”
“Shit, what didn’t they do? I did my time, got out on parole. Moved to Fresno, ’cause I wasn’t exactly welcome in Beanhollow after what I said about Todd. That was okay, I got along in Fresno, not much trouble. Picked up a beef or two, managed to get out with just jail time. Then I got charged with robbery and assault with a deadly weapon, of all the fucking travesties; that’s what I’m in here for. And they put me in a module in the jail with some guy who knew that punk Braden Ferrante. He figures out who I am. Stupid blabbermouth tells some buddy of his that I’m the guy who got Ferrante’s stepmother put away for killing his father. Next thing you know, I’m attacked by three guys— stabbed, almost thrown over the tier rail. I almost died, they nicked my liver, collapsed one lung. Just missed my heart, doctors said. And after I get out of the hospital, they put me on the PC yard. Protective custody,” he said, his tone of voice turning the phrase into an expletive. “First in the jail, now here. It was a setup; I know it.”
“Aren’t you safer here?” Natasha asked.
He glared in her direction. “Are you kidding? This is a death sentence. I’m looking over my shoulder every day. Some guy out to make his bones could rush me, guards wouldn’t give a fuck. I almost didn’t come out today, except that I was curious to find out who wanted to see me.”
“Why do you think you were set up?” I asked.
“Hansen,” Eason said. “Detective Joe Hansen. He was pissed off at me.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I wrote him a letter. I kept trying to call him after I picked up this last charge, trying to get a little help, but he was never around. So I wrote to him. Reminded him how I’d helped him put away your Mrs. Ferrante, and maybe he could lift a fucking finger and help me get a deal in the case I had. It was after that I was moved to the high-security module with Braden’s old buddy. It had to be Hansen behind it.”
His theory didn’t hold together, but I decided not to probe him about it. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Yeah, you and me both. So what are you here for about Mrs. Ferrante?”
“We’re trying to get her a new trial.”
“Really.” His tone was skeptical, but interested. “It’s been a long time; I thought her case would be over and done with by now.”
“No, still going on.”
“Huh. Okay.” Eason had been a con long enough that he didn’t need an explanation.
While waiting for our clearance, I’d reread the police reports and the transcript of his statement to the detectives, as well as his testimony at Sunny’s trial. I was about to begin questioning him about details, probing for inconsistencies and any evidence we could find that he had been lying, when he said, suddenly, “You know, that shit I told the cops wasn’t true.” The words came out quickly, as if he’d made the decision to speak after some kind of inward struggle. He stopped and watched me for a reaction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Natasha start writing on her legal pad.
“What part of it?” I asked, conscious of trying to do so lightly and gently. Just the facts, ma’am, no judgment.
He seemed to understand that I knew what was in the police reports and his testimony. “Most of it was,” he said. “Just not the part about Todd and Mrs. Ferrante.”
“Okay,” I said. “What was and wasn’t true?” I was speaking quietly, trying to keep my voice neutral and encouraging, trying to channel what I’d seen cops in videos do with a suspect on the brink of confessing. You’re safe here, we’re all friends, I’m so glad you’re ready to tell the truth, it will set your conscience free.
Eason seemed to relax a little, and his voice became more conversational, even confiding. “Well, some of it Todd told me, and some I guessed at. The part about us smoking weed together and talking about what he did, that’s true. More or less—he never actually said who he killed. But I put two and two together. I mean, who else could it have been? That guy Ferrante had just been shot dead, and Todd worked for the family and was banging his daughter.”
“What got him talking about it?”
“He came over to my place. I’m his uncle, I guess you know that; I’ve known him since he was a little kid. Anyhow, he came over to my place one night and said he was feeling really shitty about something. And I asked him if he wanted to talk about it, and he said no, he just wanted to get high. I had some beer in the fridge and some weed, so I said, why don’t we have a beer and a toke; maybe you’ll feel better. So we drank some beers, smoked some, and then he began crying, and saying stuff about how he’d killed someone he knew and was having nightmares and feeling all this guilt.”
“Can you remember what exactly he said?”
“You know, it’s been a long time; I don’t remember his exact words. I was kind of high myself. But I was feeling, like, real uncomfortable with what he was saying. I remember telling him he shouldn’t be talking about it, and he said he wasn’t, just to me ’cause I was family. He was crying and going on about the guy may not have been great, but he didn’t deserve to die, and how there wasn’t anyone he could tell how bad he felt.”
“Just that, nothing more?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing about anyone else being involved?”
“No.” Eason looked a little ashamed of himself, like a kid caught in a lie.
“And you didn’t ask why he killed the guy?”
He shook his head. “No. I really didn’t want to know about it.”
“But you guessed that he was talking about Greg Ferrante?”
“Yeah, like I said. I figured it out. I seen it on the news about that Ferrante guy. And I didn’t know of anyone else who’d been killed around then. It just seemed logical.”
“Did you tell anyone what Todd had told you?”
“Well, the cops.”
“Anyone before then?”
“No. No way.”
“Why did you decide to tell the police the story you did?”
He took a breath and blew out a sigh that held a whiff of decaying teeth. “Shit,” he said. “Desperation; fear. I’d picked up a beef. Got in a fight with my girlfriend, and they wanted to charge me with assault with intent to commit rape. It would have been a second strike, a lot of prison time. I knew by then the police thought Ferrante’s wife was behind the murder.”
“How did you know?”
“It was in the papers, on the TV. I guess I paid attention because of Todd. Someone interviewed Hansen on TV, and he said he suspected her, but he couldn’t prove anything. So I went to the sergeant on my tier in the jail and said I had information about the murder. By that time Todd had already passed, so I couldn’t hurt him by talking about it. Hansen came to talk to me, and I told him I needed some help with my case. And he said he’d see what they could do, talk with the DA.
He came back later and said they couldn’t make any promises, but the DA would see what he could do if I had information that was useful to them. So I told them what Todd told me—plus a few other things.”
“You told them Mrs. Ferrante had paid Todd five thousand dollars, but Todd never told you that, right?”
“Yeah. I got that from the TV news, too.”
“And what happened to your case?”
“Well, they kept saying they couldn’t promise me anything. But the DA in my case let me plead guilty to simple assault. They held off sentencing me until after my testimony, and then they recommended dropping the strike. I served a year in county jail, no prison time, because of my cooperation.” He said the last phrase with a hint of sarcasm.
“Not a bad deal.”
“Yeah, it was sweet. But now I’m here.”
“And you think it was Hansen’s fault?”
“Damn straight.”
“Is that why you’re telling us you lied to him? Because he let you down?”
“Yeah,” he said, sullenly. “And because it’s the truth. I don’t care what they do. I don’t owe those s.o.b.s anything.”
Now for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “Would you be willing to sign a declaration about what you told us?”
He thought for a second or two, brows knitted, then said, “Yeah. Shit, what are they going to do? Charge me with perjury? You know, I’m serving twenty-five to life. Third strike, no deals. That’s what you get for helping the cops. No good deed goes unpunished.” His face was tense, and he was absently bouncing one knee and tapping the forefinger of one hand on the table. “I wish there was some water here,” he said.
“We’ll try to finish up soon,” I said. “Would you mind waiting a little while we write out the declaration for you to sign?”
Eason shrugged. “Yeah, I guess; I got all the time in the world.”
He had apparently said all he wanted to say, because he sat silent, staring at the wall or tapping his finger on the table, while Natasha and I talked in low voices about what to say in the declaration, and she printed it on her legal pad in a small, clear hand. When she was finished, I gave it to Eason. “Read it carefully, and make sure we haven’t gotten something wrong.” He read through it slowly, sometimes silently forming the words with his lips. Natasha asked him to initial each page, and he did. At the end, he signed it firmly and handed it to her. “Are we done?” he asked.
“One more thing,” Natasha said. “Would you mind signing a release for your prison file?”
I waited for Eason to bristle, but to my surprise, he took the form from Natasha.
“Can’t see why not,” he said. He signed it with a flourish and slid it back to her. “Is that it?” He was shifting a little in his chair; I wondered if he needed to pee.
“Just about,” I said. “I have just one more question.”
“Sure.”
“I’m curious. If you didn’t know Sunny hired Todd, why did you tell the police she did? You knew she’d get charged with murder, didn’t you?”
“Like I told you, I had a serious beef, and I needed something to get me out from under it.” He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin, before answering without meeting my eyes. “I guess I figured she probably did do it, so it didn’t really matter. I mean, she did, didn’t she?” He met my eyes for a second, as if hoping to find his answer in my reaction, then turned his gaze toward the door, with longing, I thought.
“I’ll call the guard,” I said. “Thanks for talking with us.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he said abstractedly.
I opened the conference room door, and the guard, who was sitting on a straight-backed chair a discreet distance away, glanced over and stood up. It occurred to me how much boredom there was in the job of guarding prisoners. “Ready?” he said.
I nodded.
“You’ll need an escort, then.” He pulled out his radio and spoke into it. “It’ll be five or ten minutes.” I moved aside so he could come into the room. “You ready, Eason?” he asked.
“Sure am,” Eason said.
“Let’s do it.” Eason stood and, with the guard behind him, walked out of the room.
17
Natasha and I said almost nothing to each other—I felt afraid to reveal what had just happened in anyone else’s hearing—until we were in the parking lot. As we walked toward our cars, she was clutching her manila folder as if it were a briefcase full of cash.
“Well!” I said. “That was a surprise.”
“It’s huge. I mean, this guy was the star witness against her.”
“True,” I said, bringing my misgivings into the open. “But I don’t trust him.”
“Yeah.” Natasha was a little deflated by that. “You’re probably right. But we have a declaration.”
“Right. I’m amazed he signed it.”
She nodded agreement. “Jeez, it’s cold out here,” she said, shivering.
Suddenly, it seemed, the good-cop façade I’d held up during the interview with Eason fell apart around me. As the evangelicals say in their Bible quoting, it was as if the scales fell from my eyes. “God damn it,” I said, to no one in particular. “Fifteen fucking years.” Without meaning to, I found I’d made a fist of the hand that wasn’t holding my plastic prison visit bag. Fifteen years in which Steve Eason had swanned around town beating up his girlfriends, stealing from his family, and putting other men in jail with lies. While Sunny counted out the days between gray walls, watching herself grow old, waiting uncomplaining through the legal process that would decide whether she lived or died, knowing that her family and the world outside were moving on without her. And she was the person labeled by society as the worst of the worst. “Fifteen years,” I said again. “He left her there all that time. God fucking damn it.”
Natasha was silent as we hurried to the cars. Once in mine, I realized that I was shivering, too. I was grateful when the heat in my old Subaru kicked in.
18
I knew Eason’s declaration wasn’t the rock-solid evidence it seemed. Snitches are notorious for moving with the prevailing breeze, and changing their stories under pressure. I’d known of cases where informants tried to repudiate declarations they’d signed, claiming they’d been pressured or even that the signature wasn’t theirs. Eason was pissed off at the system right now, but that was likely to last only until some detective or DA came to see him and tell him the error of his ways.
In our favor, we had Eason’s signature on not just the declaration but the records release, making it that much harder for him to deny. And the evidence that he’d told a different story in a sworn declaration from the one he’d testified to at Sunny’s trial would badly damage him as a witness if the prosecution tried to use him again. Old and cynical as I normally felt, I had to admit this was a breakthrough.
We had another appointment that afternoon, to see Braden at the California Men’s Colony state prison, a couple of hours’ drive away. There was just enough time to meet in the nearest town to grab coffee and premade sandwiches before we flew down the freeway, eating lunch as we drove.
As with Steve Eason, I hadn’t written Braden Ferrante beforehand to let him know we were coming, because I didn’t want to make it easy for him to refuse to see us. Instead, I relied on the likelihood that natural curiosity and the tedium of prison life would make him interested in the prospect of a visit, even without knowing who his visitor was. Braden didn’t disappoint me; he walked almost jauntily into the attorney visiting room and took a seat across from Natasha and me. I offered to get him something to eat or drink before the guard locked the door on us, but he shook his head, saying, “I’m good.”
Braden was tall, slim, and handsome, and clearly well aware of that fact, with dark brown hair slicked back from his forehead. His thin face, with its somewhat sharp features, reminded me a little of my son Gavin’s, though Braden’s eyes were brown, rather than blue-gray. But where Gavin’s expression was open and candid, Braden’s w
as coolly speculative. He appraised each of us in a second: I was an old woman who would have been invisible but for the fact that I was a possible authority figure of some sort. Natasha, his contemporary, wasn’t hot, his passing glance said, and was therefore of no interest.
I introduced us and told him we were representing Sunny in her habeas corpus case. On hearing that Natasha was an investigator, he regarded her with a bit more respect, but then sat back in his chair and stared at both of us through narrowed eyes. “I don’t think I can help you,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with my father’s death.”
“I understand that,” I lied. “We’re interested in speaking to you as someone who was close to Todd Betts around the time your father was killed—”
“I wasn’t close to Todd Betts,” he broke in. “We worked at the ranch at the same time, that’s all. Maybe socialized a little. And I didn’t know my stepmother at all. We saw each other rarely, at family get-togethers; that was it. I’m telling you, the police asked me all this stuff, and they cleared me. I don’t want to get into it again, okay?” While talking, he moved until he was sitting up in his chair, and his tone was irritated and defensive.
“We really don’t have much to ask.”
He shook his head. “I have an appeal going from the case I’m in here for. I don’t want to get hauled back into this stuff about my father.” He got up, walked over to the door and pushed the button next to it that summoned the guard. “Sorry,” he said. Clearly he wasn’t. He stood in silence, looking out the reinforced glass window, until the guard appeared and opened the door.
We got up too. “I want to go back now,” Braden told the guard.
“Right,” the guard said. He glanced at us apologetically as he put handcuffs on Braden and followed him out of the cell.
“Well,” Natasha said. “Short, but not sweet. What a creep!”
Win some, lose some, I thought. “It’s been a pretty good day, all things considered.”
* * *
The next leg of our epic journey was from the Men’s Colony to Wofford Heights, where Brittany lived.
Janet Moodie--Next of Kin Page 15