Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“Yeah, but using your mother’s name…”

Without saying a word to Cassano, who was yelling expletives, Dupree asked the on-duty policeman to unlock the jail cell and cuff the suspect. Dupree tightly gripped Cassano’s arm and hustled him to an interview room. When they entered the room, Cassano and T.J. sat down at the table, but Dupree paced the floor with her arms folded.

“I talked to a public defender,” Cassano yelled, “and you two assholes have violated my rights. You haven’t arrested me, haven’t read me my rights—”

“Let’s take care of business right now,” Dupree said. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Dr. Lauren Crawford and Ivan Tesler. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights I have just read to you?”

“The only thing I understand is that you two pigs are in deep shit. You got nothing on me, and I ain’t saying anything without my attorney.”

“Not a problem,” Dupree said. “I still have to know if you understand your rights.”

“All right, already, I do understand,” Cassano yelled. “Now get me a fucking lawyer! And not some snotty-nosed kid right out of college.”

“T.J., would you mind contacting Shawn Williamson and asking him to get down here right away?”

T.J. looked puzzled, but left the room without comment.

“Who the hell is Shawn Williamson?” Cassano asked.

“He’s a public defender.”

“Is he any good?”

“I guess you’ll find out when you’re standing in front of a judge and jury.”

Cassano and Dupree engaged in a staring contest.

“You don’t mind if I wait here with you until your attorney arrives, do you?” Dupree said.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, but I ain’t answering no questions.”

Dupree found it difficult to maintain her composure but forced herself to remain polite. “Mind if I sit down? It’s been a long day.”

“Do you think it’s been a party for me, locked up in a rat trap like an animal?

“It must be a real drag pacing the floor of a twelve by twelve jail cell, knowing you’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars. But there’s something even worse than life in prison.”

“And what might that be?”

“Dying by lethal injection.”

“Are you trying to scare me, cuz my knees are shaking.”

“I wouldn’t try to scare you, Oscar. You’re a real tough guy.”

“You’re not supposed to be questioning me.”

“I thought we were just having a conversation.”

Cassano focused his eyes on the handcuffs.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of Al Fiorino, former New York State senator,” Dupree said. “Well, his daughter, Isabella, is the District Attorney. She’s really made a name for herself. Has more murder one convictions than any DA in the country. And she also holds the record for most executions.”

“Gee, thanks for the little history lesson. Do you offer math classes too?”

Oh, how she wanted to yank him by the shirt collar and smack him. “One thing interesting about Fiorino is that she refuses to prosecute for the death penalty without rock solid evidence because she hates to lose. Got an ego as big as the Goodyear blimp. You know what I mean, don’t you Mr. Cassano? She looks for evidence like a DNA match of blood samples, a sworn testimony from a reliable witness, a videotape of the actual crime scene showing a unique birthmark, or fingerprints at the scene of the crime.”

Suddenly, Cassano didn’t look so smug.

“But Fiorino likes to play the game, too. She’s a born deal-maker and enjoys negotiating with criminals who cooperate and finger their accomplices. But here’s the best part: She can take a poor sap facing two murder one counts and life in prison, or execution by lethal injection, and cut a plea bargain deal that gets them out of prison on good behavior in twenty-five years. Twenty-five years for two murders ! Now, for a guy under thirty-five, a deal like that is a hell of a bargain, don’t you think?”

It seemed to Dupree that Cassano had run out of smart-ass remarks. Either that or she’d gotten his attention. Clearly, he was deep in thought. It was time to drop the hammer.

“I read a fascinating article in Newsweek magazine a few months ago. It was titled, “Execution by Injection far from Painless.” Apparently, a group of researchers from Florida conducted a thorough investigation into lethal injection. After extensive research, they concluded that since the Supreme Court approved capital punishment in 1976, 788 people have been put to death by injection in the United States, and as many as 90% felt pain, and 40% were conscious throughout the procedure. Now I have no idea how much you know about lethal injection, but it’s a three step process. First, a technician injects a solution that induces anesthesia. Then, a second injection is introduced that paralyzes the body. Third, an injection of potassium chloride stops the heart. It takes several minutes before the anesthesia numbs the entire body, so when the technician injects the paralytic solution, parts of the body are still very much awake. Sadly, the paralytic solution they use is like injecting lava into your veins. So, any body part that hasn’t yet been anesthetized, feels like it’s literally on fire. Here’s the thing. The subject, no matter how much in pain, can’t move, can’t even twitch a finger. So, no one knows how much agony the convict endures, but by all accounts, it’s likely excruciating. I would guess that it’s even more painful than slicing someone’s body and pouring salt and vinegar in their wounds.”

Dupree saw his eye twitch. “Oh, and one more thing: We know that you drive a Chevy pickup truck, license plate number QZZ-6851.”

“So, what if I do?”

“We also know that your truck was parked in front of Ivan Tesler’s house the night he was brutally murdered.”

“Who says so?”

“Ivan’s neighbor. He saw you leaving the scene about thirty minutes before Ivan called 911. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

T.J. walked in the interview room and closed the door. “Williamson should be here in about an hour.”

“You can wait here or in your cell,” Dupree said. “It’s up to you.”

Cassano wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He nervously drummed his fingers on the table. “Fuck the public defender. I wanna make a deal.”

Dupree and T.J. left Cassano in the interview room for a few minutes. At his request, they went to the staff break room and got him a soda. Before they headed back to face what they both thought would be an illuminating interview, they carefully examined Maggie Hansen’s bank statement and cell phone records. Dupree figured that the longer they let Cassano stew, the looser his tongue might be.

“Let’s see,” Dupree said. She ran her index finger slowly down the page. “Three calls to Albany, New York. And check this out. Four calls to international area code 345 in the Grand Cayman Islands.”

“Now that sparks my curiosity,” T.J. said.

Normally, Dupree would take the time to make calls herself to determine who a suspect was communicating with, like she’d done with Lentz’s phone records. But at this time, she had more important issues to deal with. “Let’s have Brenda run all the numbers and see what comes up.”

T.J. studied the bank statement. “Nothing unusual here. No deposits, four ATM withdrawals, and seven checks issued to various payees. Last balance was nine-thousand-twenty dollars.”