Scott Pratt - Injustice for all

“I heard he was hanged and burned,” Glass said. “That right?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“Been a few times when I would like to have hanged the bastard myself.”

Glass chuckled, obviously amused with himself.

“Yes, well, as far as the standard for probable cause for a warrant goes, I think the affidavit is sufficient,” Anita said. She wasn’t about to indulge Judge Glass in bashing a murder victim.

“He was a fag, too, you know,” Glass said. “Never saw him with a woman, not once. You’d think a man in his position would at least try to fake it. Not Green, though; he was so goddamned arrogant. But you know what? He probably couldn’t have faked it even if he wanted to. It was just too obvious.”

Anita wished she’d brought a tape recorder. Norcross and the rest of the agents in the office would have loved this.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?” Anita asked. “Any more information you’d like to have before you decide?”

“You married, young lady?”

“No, sir. Never been married.”

“Lesbo?”

Anita stood. Enough was enough. She reached out and picked the warrant application up from Glass’s desk.

“Thank you for your time, Judge,” she said.

“Wait just a goddamned minute,” Glass said. He reached out and snatched the papers from Anita’s hand. “I’ll sign your warrant. What’re you getting so goddamned touchy about?”

Late in the afternoon, I receive a telephone call from Roscoe Stinnett. He’s the lawyer defending Rafael Ramirez, the drug dealer and murderer Mooney wants me to set free. Stinnett is from Knoxville, and he and Mooney are close friends. Both of them are Texans. They did their undergraduate work at Texas A amp;M together, and both of them were heavily involved in the ROTC program. Mooney wound up going to law school in Texas and then enlisted in the Marine Corps, where he served as a JAG officer, while Stinnett migrated to the University of Tennessee and stayed in Knoxville. He carves out most of his living defending crack cocaine dealers in federal court, but Ramirez has hired him on the murder case. During each of the few discussions we’ve had, he’s made sure to tell me how close he is to my boss.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stinnett?”

“My client has some important information for you. He wants a face-to-face meeting with you at the jail. I think he wants to make some kind of deal.”

“You think he wants to make a deal? You mean you don’t know?”

“He won’t tell me anything. I don’t think he trusts me.”

“Imagine that. A client not trusting his lawyer. What kind of information does he have?”

“He won’t tell me.”

“So when do you want to set up this meeting?”

“Now.”

“Now? Where are you?”

“At the jail. Waiting for you.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything that demands my immediate attention going on with the investigation into Judge Green’s murder, so I make the short journey to the Washington County Detention Center. On the way over, I ponder how strange it is that Stinnett would call and want to make a deal after Mooney has told me to dismiss the charge against his client. I have no intention of dismissing the charge, however. I’ve decided that if Mooney wants it done, he can go into court and do it himself.

After I walk through the maze of gray hallways and sliding steel doors, I find myself sitting across a table from Stinnett and his client, fifty-three-year-old Rafael Ramirez, known on the streets as “Loco.” Ramirez’s skin is olive colored and leathery. His hair is graying and no more than an eighth of an inch long, his eyes as black as a moonless night, and he has a jagged scar running from his hairline to the tip of his left eyebrow.

Ramirez looks defiant, his eyes hardened with anger and resentment. He smells of perspiration and cigarette smoke. Stinnett is leaning over, whispering forcefully in Ramirez’s ear. The longer I’m away from criminal defense law, the more horrified I become that I once did the same thing Stinnett is doing now. Ramirez is handcuffed, waist chained, and shackled. He shrugs his shoulders violently and pulls away from Stinnett. The scar in his forehead becomes ridged as his forehead crinkles in anger.

“No, motherfucker!” Ramirez snaps. “I walk out of here. Now. I don’t want to spend another minute in this jail. That’s the deal.”

“If he thinks he’s walking out of here, you’re wasting my time, Roscoe,” I say to Stinnett.

“He says he has some information he thinks is worth it.”

“He could tell me who killed JonBenet Ramsey and he wouldn’t walk.”

“This is better,” Ramirez says with a smirk. “I got something you might care about personally.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’ll dismiss your bullshit murder charge against me if I tell you what I know.”

“Not a chance.”

Ramirez smirks at me. “She might still be alive,” he says.

I’m temporarily stunned. Could he be talking about Hannah Mills?

“You’ve figured out by now she’s gone, right?” Ramirez says. “Been gone, what, forty-eight hours or so? Ticktock.”

I fight to keep my composure. I want to rip his throat out.

“Exactly what are you talking about, Mr. Ramirez?”

“I’m talking about a little punta who may work in your office, you know? Something bad may have happened to her, and I might know something about it.”

“Is she alive?”

“Could be. Can’t really say.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Maybe.”

My mind starts racing through the possibilities. He obviously knows something about Hannah, but how? He’s been in jail. Has she been kidnapped? Maybe to get back at us for charging Ramirez with murder? Maybe some of his people are holding her for ransom. We let him go; he lets her go. That’s it. It has to be.

“I’m not going to let your client extort me,” I say to Stinnett. “If he knows something, he needs to tell me now. If the information pans out, I’ll ask the judge to take his assistance into consideration when he’s sentenced for the murder.”

“The deal is I tell you what I know about the girl and you dismiss the murder charge,” Ramirez says. “No negotiation.”

I stand up.

“Not interested. Can I talk to you outside for a minute, Roscoe?”

I push the button on the wall to let the guards know I want to leave. As I’m waiting for them to release the air lock on the door, Ramirez gives me his parting shot.

“Somebody wants her dead real bad,” he says, “and I might know who that somebody is.”

The lock releases, and Stinnett follows me back through the maze, through the lobby, and out into the parking lot. I don’t say a word until we’re clear of everyone else, and then I turn on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Stinnett looks as if he’s seen Satan himself. Sweat is running down the side of his face, and he’s gone pale.

“I swear I didn’t know what he was going to say,” Stinnett says. “He called my cell yesterday and said he wanted me to come up today. Said it was urgent. Given the fee he paid, I drove up. When he said he wanted to meet with you, I advised against it, but he insisted. I didn’t know what kind of information he had. I still don’t.”

“Do you remember Hannah Mills? She worked in the Knoxville DA’s office for a while. Victim-witness coordinator.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember her.” Roscoe is distracted, almost panicked.

“She’s missing. We just found out about it a few hours ago, and your boy is already offering information. I’m sure that’s what he’s talking about. Nobody’s seen her since Friday.”