The Mystery Texter

The Mystery Texter - Chapter 5 (of 8)

Sunday morning I awake to the blended aromas of coffee and bacon, completely distorting my sense of place and time. It takes a minute to regain my bearings as I fumble for my phone and find that it's 6:45. Wow. I'd forgotten what real sleep feels like. Having my sons here with me chased the demons away better than any prescription sleep aid could. Better even than a Monty Python movie.

I stumble into the kitchen and find both of them dressed for a workout. I'm still in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. They see the confused expression on my face.

"A quick breakfast before our run?" Todd smiles.

"We meet Matthew in fifteen minutes, right?" asks Kyle.

Todd turns to Kyle, "It's a good thing we're here to keep him on track."

"Yeah, really," Kyle deadpans. "How does he make it to work every day?"

I sigh, "Remember when you two clowns were teenagers? How many times I had to physically drag each of you out of bed?"

They look at each other, shaking their heads, "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

"Funny."

~~

The Morton Arboretum was always one of Laura's favorite places. We scattered most of her ashes here last summer. Today, we luck out with nice weather for mid-February and we hit up all of Laura's favorite trails and views. We follow that with a perfect lunch at Chama Gaucha Brazilian Steakhouse where they put on an elaborate show with tableside-carved Brazilian meats.

At 3:00, after twenty-four fantastic and much needed hours with my kids, it's time for them to go back to their lives. Todd says that Jessica wants me to join them for dinner, but I politely decline.

"This time with the two of you has meant the world to me." I clear my throat. "Neither of you have mentioned it, but I know what today is. You both need to get out of here. Go have Valentine's Day dinner with your partners. Kyle, drive carefully and thank Sammy for me for letting you borrow his car. Todd, thank Jessica for the invite, but you need to be alone with your fiancée for Valentine's Day. Without your dad hanging around."

For the first time in our twenty-four hours together, worry crosses their faces.

I plaster on my most reassuring smile, "Mission accomplished. I'm good. It's Valentine's Day! You have important people to celebrate with. Go do that."

I can see how they're both torn. They have significant others. I don't.

"What will you do?" Kyle asks.

"I have a menu full of options. First of all, I'm still stuffed from that lunch. I couldn't eat another bite today anyway. Second of all, there's a game on tonight. Maybe I'll check in with Matthew. But even if he has a date, I'm fine."

They still look skeptical.

I snap my fingers, "I've got it. I'll go spend some time with Brenda and Jimmy and give your aunt and uncle a chance at a kid-free night out. Brenda wants to show me her mad guitar skills and Jimmy probably can't wait to kick my butt in Mario Kart again. Now go be with your better halves."

Still, hesitation.

I sigh, "You have to know that I wouldn't want to get in the way of Valentine's Day. Don't put me in the position of being the spoiler. I love you both and I love Jessica and Sammy. Are you going to make me kick you out of here? Go!"

Once I finally convince them that I really am okay, they practically run out of my apartment.

Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 14

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at 10:26pm:

I already hate The McLaughlin Group on your behalf. Seeing them tomorrow is a shitty way to spend your extra day off.

Two Truths and a Lie (I'm beginning to scrape the bottom of the barrel):

I once actually slipped on a banana peel

I hate chocolate

I can do a cartwheel

Why do bananas keep coming up? At least when I fell, my fall was broken by one of my rubber duckies. Bananas and rubber duckies are both yellow. I don't know where I'm going with this so I'll just stop here.

Serious:

I have never been romantically in love. Not passionately. Not properly. Not ever.

Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 14

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at 10:37pm:

I appreciate you talking about you. It helps more than you know.

Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 14

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at 11:59pm:

I've been back and forth all day on whether or not to say this. Here's me throwing caution to the wind. Happy Valentine's Day.

~~

"And now the real fun begins."

That modulated voice jars me. With socks gone, my underwear is all that's left. Otherwise, I'm stark naked. I have no idea what comes next on the menu and I am left untouched for a long minute to suffer in anticipation. By the time the next move is made, my ultra-sensitive body is quivering in expectation.

One finger gently pokes at my sternum and glides down my chest. Eventually, the bone ends and softer skin begins. The finger maintains its slow crawl. It makes a pitstop in the shallow cave of my belly button and it swirls around. I laugh, but it's a soundless laugh as I still have no voice. Satisfied that my innie hole has been sufficiently explored, the finger resumes its journey. It is now taking the treasure trail. The treasure trail is a short voyage of just a few inches that ends when the waistband of my underwear presents a roadblock.

The finger snap doesn't come. My underwear remains in place. For now. I don't think the toying with me is over yet.

But for the moment it is. I'm awake again.

~~

Leya has been insisting that I protect myself with proper legal representation. She's right. I finally called the first name on her list, so here I am, in the lobby of the law offices of McGreal & Nichols.

I had explained my situation to a kind and efficient young man named Dustin who put me at immediate ease and set wheels quickly in motion. He had me scan and email him a copy of the evil letter and he took things from there. He told me that Brianna DeBerry would be my official legal counsel and he set up a meeting for this morning. They will be accompanying me to The McLaughlin Group offices a little later, but first, I'm here for a thorough debriefing.

The office itself is sleek and modern in every way. Even the people seem to be in uniform as they all are wearing black, grey, white or some combination of the three. They're trying, perhaps a little too obviously, to make a statement.

The receptionist leads me back to a small conference room and within a couple of minutes, two people whom I presume to be Brianna and Dustin, enter. The conference room matches the running theme, and so do my two new friends. Dustin makes the official introductions and I shake hands with each of them. Brianna DeBerry is what they call an "associate," but she has the air of someone who owns the place. Her confidence gives me comfort. She is a black woman who doesn't seem to be any older than Leya - early thirties if that. Her straight jet-black hair is pulled taught in a severe pony tail and her brown eyes are like lasers focused through her designer glasses. The way she walks, the way she holds herself, she exudes competence and authority. My shoulders relax a little and I'm glad it's my side that she's on. I like her immediately.

Dustin is younger, early twenties - maybe just in between Todd and Kyle's ages - neatly put together, blond haired, bright eyed and eager for whatever might come his way.

I know from Leya that she and Brianna do not personally know each other; they had met at some conference last fall and exchanged business cards. Leya was impressed with her and that's good enough for me.

Brianna says, "I've read the letter you received, considered what you told Dustin on the phone and conducted some online research into the case. First, I need to know, what are your goals?"

I wasn't expecting that.

"My goals?"

I let out a slow breath. Am I being interviewed? Is there a right or wrong answer here? Am I about to fail some sort of test? Is the answer: Justice? To discover if Warren Lewis is truly the guilty party? To potentially right a wrong? To find out who actually is responsible? No. Honestly, I'm not here for any of that.

I think of Leya and say, "To protect my interests."

Brianna smiles at me. "Good. That's why you're paying us. Whatever happens with Warren Lewis isn't our concern. You are. If your testimony comes into question, we're here to protect you. I'm not saying that will happen, but taking precautions is always advisable. You were only a kid and you were attacked. A head wound, right? You lost consciousness? You were in the hospital with a serious concussion. Like I said, no matter what happens with Warren Lewis, we will protect you."

Dustin is ready with his legal pad and an audio recorder.

Brianna continues, "We will cooperate wherever we are legally required, but any participation beyond those legal requirements will be completely up to you. If there is a new trial, surely you will be subpoenaed and we will prepare you for that, but right now, it's your help that they want. They might try to make their case for a reversal sound stronger than it is. A reversal is their first goal but it would take a lot."

"Like an eyewitness recanting?" I ask.

"Exactly."

"And when I don't do that?"

She shrugs, "An outright reversal is pretty much a Hail Mary attempt anyway. They'll seamlessly transition to a request for a new trial. They'll claim lack of evidence, false eyewitness testimony and insufficient counsel for the defense."

I consider this for a moment. "It was suggested to me that since the crime, the arrest and the trial all happened so long ago - more than three decades ago - and since there has been complete turnover on the police force and in the State's Attorney's Office, that they might not feel like it's their case to retry. That maybe, if challenged, they would go with 'time served' and let that bastard go free."

She shakes her head, "A new regime or not, generally speaking prosecutors don't like to admit that their office got it wrong. I...we...did some poking around and there is no history, no evidence and no examples of prosecutorial misconduct. All accounts point to an honest prosecutor's office backed by a responsible police department. They all seem to have been people of integrity. I think they'll fight to uphold Warren Lewis's conviction."

I exhale, "That's a relief."

"Hopefully The McLaughlin Group tips their hand today. Hopefully they share with us what they have and what their strategy is."

"Why would they do that?"

"They're trying to free Warren Lewis. They want to take the path of least resistance. Look at it this way: They're trying to recruit you. We're going to walk in there and they're going to make it seem like he's the victim. Like he was set-up and he didn't do this. They want to win you over to their side, along with whomever else they can recruit. The former chief, the former prosecutor, the other eyewitness... In order to convince you, they'll have to give you some information."

I won't hold it against her that she said "whomever."

Every minute I spend here it becomes more and more evident that I need Brianna. I owe Leya bigtime for making me set this up.

I say, "I don't know anything about the former prosecutor, but I can assure you, the former police chief is not budging an inch. And the other eyewitness, the police chief's son, isn't inclined to change his story either."

She cocks an eyebrow at me. "Why do you say that?"

"I met with both of them two days ago. I know where their heads are on this."

"I think it's time for you to tell me everything. Take me back to November, of 1989 and include every detail you can remember. Dustin will be recording and taking notes. He's quick. Don't feel like you have to wait for him to catch up, just tell us the whole story at your own pace."

So, I tell them everything. All but one tiny detail that is irrelevant, and frankly nobody's business.

~~

The McLaughlin offices are similarly sleek, modern and color-free. Defense attorneys are constantly hoping to reveal shades of grey. Expose the doubt. Maybe it's all a subtle marketing technique.

Maybe I'm just nervous and thinking too much.

We don't have to wait long before we're led to my second conference room of the day. Robert Gordon and Marissa Harris are the two McLaughlin lawyers handling the Warren Lewis case. I introduce myself and Brianna DeBerry as my attorney along with her assistant, Dustin. Marissa is the one I finally spoke with on the phone last week. She seems more than a little surprised that I brought company with me.

I already didn't like Marissa and she validates my early assessment when she says, in a singsong tone that I take as condescension, "I didn't realize that you felt you needed representation."

Brianna answers before I can, "That is not your concern, is it?"

I can tell that Marissa has rubbed Brianna the wrong way too.

She continues, "As Mr. Sanderson's attorney, when you deal with him, you deal with me."

Brianna's tone is firm and she leaves no room for debate. There is some definite posturing going on here. Now I like Brianna even more.

Marissa clears her throat. "As our letter has informed you, we believe that our client was not properly defended in 1990. There is no conclusive evidence that Warren Lewis was even at the scene, let alone that he committed any crime. A new look with fresh eyes raises questions regarding the accuracy and reliability of the eyewitness testimony. Mr. Sanderson, have your memories changed with the passing of years? Have you come to realize that your testimony was inaccurate?"

Brianna holds up a hand in my direction. She instructs me, "Don't say anything yet." Then she turns her attention to her counterparts, "Ms. Harris, Mr. Gordon. We are here today as a courtesy to you. Is it your best strategy to come out of the gate with an accusation that my client, who was a eighteen-year-old victim of a violent attack, was lying on the stand?"

Marissa backs up a bit. "You're right." She looks from Brianna to me. "Mr. Sanderson, you were a victim that night. It was probably the worst night of your life."

Well, a close second.

"We are suggesting no intentional wrongdoing or misconduct on your part but if Mr. Lewis is in fact innocent--"

"He in fact is not," I cut in.

"--Then someone made some mistakes somewhere along the line."

She indicates the chairs around the oblong table. "Please, let's all have a seat." She, of course, takes the head of the table. "Sometimes memories of events change or clarify over time. Have yours changed?"

Brianna places her hand on my forearm, letting me know it's still not my time. "Ms. Harris, again, we do not need to be here. Nothing would make my client happier right now than if I advised him that we should get up and walk right out. This is your final warning before I do just that. Perhaps you should begin by giving a little before taking. How long have you been representing Mr. Lewis? What compelled you to take this case? What evidence have you uncovered? Have you made any filings?"

I'm not sure if this is a good cop, bad cop routine but at this point, Robert Gordon takes over. His calm, friendly and gentle tone is in stark contrast to Ms. Harris' shrill, sharp and pointed timbre.

"We've been on the case for about six months. Warren Lewis was twenty at the time of his trial. He did not have the support of family or friends and he did not have the resources to pay for a proper defense. He was assigned a public defender who, for all intents and purposes, didn't defend him at all. Maybe there was an assumption that his client was guilty. Maybe there was another reason. We don't know. We do know that his defense was inadequate and we have grounds to get a new trial based on that alone. The casefile reveals evidence that was never presented and avenues that were never explored. Additionally, there is nothing physical linking Warren Lewis to that crime scene. It's true that Mr. Lewis lived alone in November of 1989 so there was no witness to verify his claim that he was at home asleep at the time of the incident. However, and more significantly, there is no proof that he wasn't."

He leans back a little in his chair. "We are compelled to represent Warren Lewis to correct a miscarriage of justice."

Robert leans forward again and says in an almost conspiratorial whisper, "We know that Mr. Lewis wasn't a saint. We know what 'business' he was in back in 1989. We don't deny that, but he has paid a way harsher price than what was appropriate for his actual crimes."

This time, Brianna is not fast enough to stop me. "Right. He wasn't a saint. Okay. Good to know you feel that way. Mr. Gordon, do you have kids? Or any young nieces or nephews?"

He nods slowly.

"Warren Lewis wasn't simply dealing pot - which was also illegal back then - he was pushing cocaine. I would say that targeting kids with cocaine is a little more than 'wasn't a saint'." I sarcastically make exaggerated air quotes with my fingers. "This is someone who should not be released from prison. Especially, since on at least one occasion, his cocaine was dangerously cut with fentanyl and could have actually killed someone."

Brianna's hand is still on my arm and she gives me a squeeze, telling me to stop.

Marissa Harris' eyes widen. "Mr. Sanderson. Would you care to expound on that statement?"

Brianna answers for me, "No, he would not."

But I speak up again, "I think they need to know. On November 10

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, 1989 Warren Lewis gave dangerous drugs to William Jones, a eighteen-year-old kid. Whatever else happened from there is William's story to tell, not mine, but that also makes what was assumed to be the randomness of Warren Lewis picking my house that night a lot less random. Lewis targeted and followed William Jones all day."

Marissa asks, "Where is all of this coming from? It wasn't part of your original testimony. As a matter of fact, it wasn't anywhere in the trial transcripts."

I can tell Brianna doesn't want me to answer that, but I'm on a roll. "Robert said a lot of stuff never came up at the trial. You need to know that goes for both sides."

"Mr. Sanderson, that almost sounds like a threat."

"Call it a forewarning."

Brianna tries to shift the focus, "Have you been assigned a judge?"

Robert answers, "Yes."

"Do you have a trial date?"

"We're hoping to not need one, but if we do, probably sometime in June."

"Are you going with a bench trial?"

"Yes. Now, back to Mr. Sanderson's testimony. Has anything changed? Have you gained new memories about that night since you took the stand?"

Brianna begins to say something, but I stop her. "No. Nothing has changed. I saw Warren Lewis. He was there. The guilty man is in prison."

It's Marissa's turn again, "The evidence tells a different story. Would you be willing to go through the police file with us? Perhaps reading through the police report and looking at the crime scene photos will trigger a buried memory."

She sees the look of horror on my face.

"We can leave out those involving..." she pauses, searching for the appropriate words and settles for, "...the body."

She spreads her hands out, palms up. "It seems that you never stepped foot inside that house again after that night, which is completely understandable. But maybe looking at the file and some general photos of the scene, certainly prescreened and preapproved by your attorney, might jog your memory."

"Since your letter arrived ten days ago, I've been remembering and reliving that night in my mind over and over again." Laying on the sarcasm, I add, "And thanks for that." I lean forward, "Despite the passing of years, my recollection of that time is clear. I don't need photos to jog my memory."