calls. She pointed to her right, “It’s at the end of the hall to the left…the double doors.”
O’Brien followed her directions and met Rosen’s secretary, a woman with a warm smile. She said, “Right this way, Mr. O’Brien.”
District Attorney Stanley Rosen didn’t bother to stand up behind his massive desk when O’Brien entered his office. O’Brien recognized Rosen. He was in his mid fifties.
His hair, now fully white, parted on the left side in a boyish style. He had a sailor’s deep tan. O’Brien remembered Rosen as one of the state prosecutors in a murder trail involving a woman who shot her husband six times, the final shot hitting him in the groin. She had been the victim of abuse for more than twenty years.
Rosen typed on his computer keyboard, looking up once, offering O’Brien a cursory smile. “Mr. O’Brien, please take a seat. Be with you in just a moment.”
The secretary left, quietly closing the door. O’Brien sat in one of the two chairs in front of the big desk. He looked at the framed pictures of Rosen with Governor Owen, the Mayor of Miami, and one photo with actor Sylvester Stallone at a golf tournament.
Rosen stopped typing. “Ron Hamilton mentioned it was urgent. Said you’d explain. I remember some of the highlights of your career with Miami-Dade P.D. You seemed to have had an excellent arrest and conviction record. I also recall media counts of Internal Affairs investigating some allegations of improper interrogation and arrest techniques you may or may not have used. Is your trip to this office related to that?”
“If you’re asking me whether one of my convictions is suing the county for something, the answer is no.” O’Brien leaned forward in the chair. “There have been two murders in Volusia County in the last thirty-five hours.”
“What’s that have to do with Miami-Dade?”
“The murders are a direct result of an arrest and murder conviction in Dade County eleven years ago. The man convicted, Charlie Williams, is innocent. He was found guilty, after I arrested him of killing his former girlfriend, Alexandria Cole.”
“What would you like this office to do, Mr. O’Brien?”
O’Brien gave Rosen the details of the events, including his meeting with Charlie Williams. He concluded by saying, “The case needs to be reopened and a brand new investigation launched into finding the real perp. I don’t think he’s finished killing. The D.O. C guard hasn’t been found, and he’s the direct link between the killer and what happened to Father Callahan and Sam Spelling.”
“But you can’t prove that.”
“I will.”
“I need more.”
“You’ll get it.”
“When you bring it to me, we’ll talk further.”
“There isn’t time to go on a scavenger hunt. I need you to help get a stay of execution until I can find the perp.”
Rosen sat back in his large leather chair, crossed his fingers, pursed his lips once and said, “Mr. O’Brien, these murders are horrific. I don’t want to come across in a fashion that in any way seems to diminish the gravity of what you are telling me. However, I’m suggesting to you that without something concrete, something I can take to a jury and get a conviction, I’m not in a position to reopen a capital murder case, especially one that’s so high profile. I can’t reopen something predicated on what amounts to a former detective using speculation and deductive reasoning, based on information garnered from witnesses that can’t be corroborated because they’re dead. I apologize if that sounds calloused, but it’s fact. You haven’t told me, or given me something I could take to a grand jury or even a criminal jury in a murder trial.
These events, in and of themselves, are heinous crimes, but are they related to the murder of Alexandria Cole eleven years ago? Maybe. Will they prove that Charlie Williams did not do it and point the way to the person that did? No.”
“This is the prosecuting office of Dade County,” O’Brien said, his voice rising. “Is it because this was such a high profile case that has you gun shy? You have a moral obligation to reopen this case. If you don’t, and if Charlie Williams is executed, this office and you will be held culpable parties to his murder. Because that’s what it will amount to-an innocent man killed when it could have been prevented. Prove to me that doesn’t fit the definition of murder, counselor.”
Rosen stood. “Perhaps that temper of yours was why Internal Affairs flagged your file three times during your career in the homicide division. O’Brien, I’m not opening a closed case and let the media play ball with it. Taxpayers deserve better.”
“Charlie Williams deserves to live!”
“Unfortunately, I’m running behind. Thank you for coming to see me today. If Ron Hamilton and MPD want to crack this open, by all means. When they, or even you, bring me something I can use…we’ll talk. Goodbye, Mr. O’Brien.”
“You want something physical? I’ll bring you the killer…then you can hang his mug shot up on the wall with the rest of your souvenirs.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Driving to the Miami FBI headquarters, O’Brien called Ron Hamilton’s cell phone. Hamilton answered in a whisper. “Sean, I’m in a hall outside a courtroom. Just finished testifying. Let me walk over to a corner window.”
O’Brien said, “Let’s meet.”
“Where?”
“Denny’s on Ocean Drive. Around seven.”
“Okay.”
“Bring a copy of Alexandria Cole’s case file and the package I sent you.”
“How’d it go with Rosen?”
“Not good. I’ll tell you more when I see you later.”
O’Brien picked up the thin file folder and locked the car. From the moment he got out of his rental Jeep in the garage of the federal building, he knew his every move was on camera. The feds did a good job hiding cameras. The ones they wanted you to see, they were decoy cameras, blatantly hanging in visible places like metallic pinatas.
At the reception desk, a uniformed guard told O’Brien to sign in and wait. He also had him roll his right thumb in non-visible ink and make an impression on a portable device with a glass surface. The machine looked like a small photocopier. It made an electronic swipe of O’Brien’s print.
The guard rang through to Lauren Miles. “There’s a Mr. O’Brien in the lobby. Says he has an appointment with you.”
“Be right down.”
A tiny green light flashed once on the machine and the guard mumbled, “Looks like you’re good to go.”
O’Brien half smiled and nodded. He stepped over to the tall vertical glass windows and looked at the traffic zipping by on Second Avenue. He thought about the investigation he conducted eleven years ago. He remembered where he was when he got the call. He had taken his wife, Sherri, to dinner. It was their first anniversary. Before they could order, O’Brien received the call-a homicide in a South Beach condominium-the death of an international supermodel. Sherri said she ‘understood.’ She was that way, flashing that winning smile of hers even when the result of evil raised its ugly head time and time again.
“Hello, Sean O’Brien. Welcome to the FBI.”
O’Brien turned and faced Lauren Miles. She smiled wide, reminding O’Brien of Sandra Bullock-inquisitive brown eyes, dark shoulder-length hair.
“Thanks for seeing me, Lauren.”
“So, what’s the life and death scenario?”
O’Brien opened the file folder and took out the blank piece of paper.
