J. Jance - Justice Denied

“Grandma died last year,” DeAnn said. “Daddy was her only son, just like I’m my father’s only child. That’s the other reason I’m glad we kept my name. Grandma made me promise that I’d keep her ashes so that if they ever found my father, he and she could be buried together. She’s out in the garage,” she added. “Up in the rafters.”

When I stood up to go, DeAnn expertly eased the two sleeping kiddos off her lap without disturbing either one of them. Then she rose from the floor with an easy grace that my gimpy knees could never have tolerated.

“Thanks,” she said as she showed me to the door. “And please tell your boss thank you for me, too. It means a lot to know that someone still cares about my father after all this time-that someone’s still looking for him. It means more than you know.”

The last thing I did before I left was to hand her a business card. “This is how you can reach me,” I said, jotting my cell number on the back. “That way, if you happen to think of something you may have forgotten…”

“Okay,” she said, stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans. “Thanks.”

As I walked back to the Mercedes parked just outside the small front yard with its plastic Big Wheels and swings, I had a whole new idea about that daunting list of missing persons. Every single one of them had left behind family members for whom life had gone on. There were children and grandchildren who had never seen those missing people. There were parents who had died with their child still lost to them. And there were spouses who had been forced to move forward on their own, making the best of the hand they’d been dealt.

Everybody at SHIT had sneered when Ross had announced his missing persons directive, but having met DeAnn Cosgrove and witnessed her pain, I could see that this was a situation where the attorney general was right and everybody else was wrong.

After leaving DeAnn Cosgrove’s place in Redmond I started back to Seattle and then thought better of it. Since I was going to be approaching the LaShawn Tompkins situation pretty much without portfolio, I needed to track down whatever information was out in public-as in the news media. Since Mel and I had been gone all weekend, whatever had been on local television or radio news had passed me by. As for newspapers? That’s another story.

In the old days, I never subscribed to one. I bummed them, used, in restaurants and coffee shops so I could work the crossword puzzles, but as far as having one show up outside my door on a regular basis? Never. Until Mel Soames turned up in my life, that is.

She’s a news junkie. She listens, watches, and reads. I finally got tired of her griping about not having a morning paper. When I said fine, let’s have one, then, she went ahead and ordered two-both the Seattle Post-Intelligencer and the Seattle Times. (Give the girl an inch and she thinks she’s a ruler.)

We are, however, newspaper-compatible and divide our consumption into two separate but unequal parts. I own the crosswords; she reads everything else. If she came home and discovered I had been scrounging through her dead newspaper collection for actual news, she would know at once that something was up. Instead, I stopped off at the Starbucks on Rose Hill, bought myself a latte, settled into one of the easy chairs, and logged on to the Internet to read the weekend newspapers online.

LaShawn Tompkins’s murder had indeed been big news over the weekend. Not so much on Saturday when the victim’s name had yet to be released and the death had been reported simply as a shooting in Rainier Valley. No biggie there. But by Sunday, word was out. In the Sunday paper, which is still supposedly a joint endeavor by the staffs of both the Times and the P-I, there were three separate stories, all viewable on the virtual front page-one about the murder itself, one rehashing the flawed case that had sent LaShawn to prison years earlier, and a third under the byline of my old nemesis, columnist Maxwell Cole.

Max and I have never been friends. A very long time ago, however, we were fraternity brothers when we were both students at the University of Washington, known locally as the U. Dub. Everything was fine until he showed up at a mixer with a cute blond girl named Karen Moffitt. Much to Max’s dismay, Karen and I hit it off immediately, and eventually we ended up getting married. Years passed. Karen and I eventually divorced and she subsequently died, but Max has never gotten over the fact that I stole her away from him in the first place. I think his long-running feud with anyone and everyone at Seattle PD is symptomatic of his long-running feud with me. But then maybe I’m suffering from delusions of grandeur on that score.

Naturally, I harbor no ill will at all about any of this. Right. Of course not. Which is why I read Max’s piece first. It was prominently placed, right there below the virtual fold.

LaShawn Tompkins: 1975–2005

A life transformed; a life destroyed

by MAXWELL COLE

Special to the Times

LaShawn Tompkins was nineteen years old when he was arrested and charged with the brutal rape and murder of a fifteen-year-old prostitute named Aleta Princess Jones. He was twenty-one when he was convicted of aggravated first-degree homicide and sentenced to death. He was twenty-eight when DNA analysis of the evidence in that flawed case caused him to be released from his cell on death row with no new charges filed against him. Now, at age thirty, he’s dead, gunned down execution-style in the doorway of his mother’s Rainier Valley home.

I’ve always been amazed how Max can dredge up yesterday’s news and turn it into fodder for one of his bleeding-heart columns for which someone actually pays him money. I could tell from the opening paragraph this one would be no exception.

As a child, LaShawn was a bright student who got good grades and a series of Sunday school perfect-attendance records from his neighborhood church, the African Bible Baptist Church. By junior high, though, Sunday school was a thing of the past. He was running with the wrong crowd-a much older crowd-that automatically put him on the wrong side of the law. By fifteen, he had dropped out of school, had several juvenile offenses on his record, and was on the fast track as an up-and-coming lieutenant in the local Crips organization. From there it was only a short hop and a skip to death row.

Yes, Sunday school kiddo goes bad. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Had I been reading a hard copy of the story, I would have been tempted to wad up the newspaper and pitch it across the room. There was no way, however, I was going to throw my laptop, so I gritted my teeth and kept reading.

“Despite being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, LaShawn used the time in prison to turn his life around completely,” says Mark Granger, executive director and pastor of the King Street Mission where Tompkins had worked as a counselor since his release from Walla Walla two years ago.

“After being wrongly convicted, he could easily have become hardened and bitter. Prison, especially a death row existence, tends to do that. Instead, LaShawn devoted his life to Christ and to helping those he considered less fortunate than himself.”

Yes, and the crippled shall walk and the blind shall see, I thought. So which one of those “less fortunates” plugged him full of lead?

It was his wrongful conviction in the death of fifteen-year-old murder victim Aleta Jones that put LaShawn Tompkins on death row. According to Philippa Jones, Aleta’s mother, LaShawn had, in the years since his release, gone out of his way to befriend her and other members of Aleta’s family.