They finally ate cold chicken chow mein, but neither was hungry. Michael’s cell phone rattled at 7:50, and Abbott announced cheerfully, “Got your boy.”
The blood belonged to one Zeke Foreman, a twenty-three-year-old parolee with two drug-related convictions under his belt. His DNA had been in the state’s database for five years, since his first arrest. Abbott had three photos, two of the mug-shot variety and one from the prison archives. He was sending them over by e-mail.
Michael told Abbott he owed him one, and a big one at that, and said thanks.
Lacy was standing by the printer when the three photos rolled off. Michael stopped the second video with a clear shot of both faces. The passenger, even with a bloody nose, looked very similar to Zeke Foreman.
–
Allie Pacheco was more than happy to hustle over to Lacy’s for a late-night drink, though her tone was clearly not romantic. She said it was urgent but offered nothing else. They watched the videos and studied the photos. They read Gritt’s memo and talked about the case until midnight, finishing off a bottle of wine in the process.
31
Zeke Foreman had been living with his mother near the small town of Milton, Florida, not far from Pensacola. The FBI watched his house for two days but saw no sign of him or his 1998 Nissan. His parole officer said he was due for their monthly checkup on October 4, and he had never missed a meeting. To do so could lead to a revocation and a return to prison. Foreman worked odd jobs and had managed to stay out of trouble for the past thirteen months.
Sure enough, on the fourth Foreman walked into the Probation Office in downtown Pensacola and said hello to his parole officer. When asked where he’d been, he offered a well-rehearsed story of driving a truck for a friend down to Miami. Sit tight, the parole officer said, there are a couple of guys who’d like to say hello. He opened the door, and Agents Allie Pacheco and Doug Hahn walked in and introduced themselves. The parole officer left the room.
“What’s this all about?” asked Foreman, already flinching at the sudden appearance of the FBI.
Neither agent sat down. Pacheco said, “Back on August 22, a Monday, you were on the Tappacola Indian reservation around midnight. What were you doing there?”
Foreman tried his best to appear surprised, though he looked like he was about to faint. He shrugged, gave a dumb look, and said, “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what we’re talking about. You were driving a stolen truck and it was involved in an accident. You fled the scene. Recall any of this?”
“You got the wrong guy.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Pacheco nodded to Hahn, who whipped out a set of handcuffs. Pacheco said, “Stand up. You’re under arrest for capital murder.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Oh sure, this is just a comedy routine. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.” They handcuffed him, searched him, took his cell phone, and led him out of the office and through a side exit of the building. They put him in the rear seat of their car and drove four blocks to the offices of the FBI. No one said a word during the drive.
Inside their building, they walked him to an elevator that stopped on the sixth floor. They went through a maze of hallways and entered a small conference room. A young lawyer was waiting, and with a smile she said, “Mr. Foreman, I’m Rebecca Webb, Assistant U.S. Attorney. Please have a seat.”
Agent Hahn removed the handcuffs and said, “You might be here for a while.” He gently pressed Foreman into a chair, and everyone sat down.
“What’s going on?” Foreman asked. Though he was only twenty-three, he did not project the airs of a frightened kid. He’d had time to collect himself and was a tough guy again. He’d been around, had long hair, hard features, and a full collection of cheap prison tattoos.
Pacheco read him his Miranda rights and handed over a form with the same words in writing. Foreman read it slowly, then signed at the bottom acknowledging his understanding of what was happening. He had been through this before.
Pacheco said, “You’re facing federal capital murder charges, the death penalty, lethal injection, and all that jazz.”
“So who’d I kill?”
“Guy named Hugo Hatch, the passenger in the other car, but we’re not going to argue about that. We know you were on the reservation that night, driving a stolen truck, a big Dodge Ram, and we know you deliberately crossed the center line and struck a Toyota Prius. You hung around awhile, you and the driver of your getaway truck, and the two of you removed two cell phones and an iPad from the Prius. We know that for a fact so it’s not debatable.”
Foreman kept his composure and revealed nothing.
Pacheco continued, “Fifteen minutes after you fled the scene, you and your pal stopped at a country store and bought ice, beer, and rubbing alcohol. This ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” From a file, Pacheco removed a photo from Frog’s video and slid it over to Foreman. “I guess that’s not you, with the busted nose.”
Foreman looked at it and shook his head. “I guess I need a lawyer.”
“We’ll get you one, in a minute. First, though, let me explain that this is not what you might call one of our typical interrogations. We’re not here to grill you about your involvement, because we know what happened. Deny all you want to, we don’t care. We’ve got the proof and we’ll be happy to see you at trial. I’ll let Ms. Webb enlighten you as to why we’re really here.”
Foreman refused to look at her. She stared at him and said, “We have a deal for you, Zeke. And a sweet one it is. We know you didn’t steal the truck yourself, and for some reason drive to the back side of the reservation, and cause a wreck, and flee the scene, and leave a man dying, all for the sheer adventure of it. We know you were working for some other people, some serious and sophisticated criminals. They probably paid you with a nice wad of cash, then told you to leave town for a spell. Maybe you’ve done other dirty work for them. Whatever. We’re only concerned with the murder, and the men who planned it. We’re after bigger crooks, here, Zeke, and you’re just a bit player. A murderer, yes, but a small fish as far as we’re concerned.”
“What kind of deal?” he asked, looking at her.
“The deal of, literally, a lifetime. You talk and you walk. You tell us everything you know, you name names, give us phone numbers, histories, everything, and we’ll eventually dismiss the charges. We’ll place you in witness protection, set you up in a nice apartment far away, some place like California, give you a new name, new papers, new job, new life. Your past will be forgotten and you’ll be as free as a bird. Otherwise, you’re headed for death row, where you’ll rot away for ten, maybe fifteen years until your appeals run out and you get the needle.”
His shoulders finally sagged as his chin dropped.
Webb continued, “And the deal is good for now, and now only. If you say no and leave this room, you’ll never take another breath as a free man.”
“I think I need a lawyer.”