Winslow told them that he was at home sleeping and his “moms”—Wanda Sessums—could vouch for him. He continually denied any knowledge of Denise Babbit, repeatedly rejected knowing her or anything about her abduction and murder. He held up like a rock, but then on page 305 the detectives started lying to him and setting traps.
WALKER: That’s not going to work, Alonzo. You gotta give us something here. You can’t just sit there and say no, no, no, I don’t know anything, and expect to walk out of here. We know you know something. I mean, we know it, son.
WINSLOW: You don’t know shit. I ain’t ever seen that girl you been talking about.
WALKER: Really? Then how come we got you on tape dropping her car in that parking lot by the beach?
WINSLOW: What tape you got?
WALKER: The one of the parking lot. We got you getting out of that car and nobody else goes near it until they find the body in it. That puts this whole thing on you, man.
WINSLOW: Nah, it ain’t me. I didn’t do this.
As far as I knew from the discovery documents the defense lawyer had given me, there was no video that showed the victim’s Mazda being left in the parking lot. But I also knew that the U.S. Supreme Court had upheld the legality of the police’s lying to a suspect if the lie would reasonably be seen as such by an innocent person. By spinning everything off the one piece of evidence they did have—Winslow’s fingerprint on the rearview mirror—they were within bounds of this guideline and they were leading Winslow down the path.
I once wrote a story about an interrogation where the detectives showed the suspect an evidence bag containing the gun used in the murder. It wasn’t the real murder weapon. It was an exact duplicate. But when the suspect saw it, he copped to the crime because he figured the police had found all the evidence. A murderer was caught but I didn’t feel too good about it. It never seemed right or fair to me that the representatives of our government were allowed to employ lies and tricks—just like the bad guys—with full approval of the Supreme Court.
I read on, skimming another hundred or so pages, until my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and realized I had read right through my coffee meeting with Angela.
“Angela? Sorry, I got tied up. I’m coming right down.”
“Please hurry. I need to finish today’s story.”
I hustled down the steps to the first-floor cafeteria and joined her at a table without getting any coffee. I was twenty minutes late and I saw her cup was empty. On the table next to it was a stack of paper turned print-side down.
“You want another latte?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
I looked around. It was midafternoon and the cafeteria was almost empty.
“Jack, what’s up? I need to get back upstairs.”
I looked directly at her.
“I just wanted to tell you face-to-face that I didn’t appreciate you guzzling today’s story. The beat is technically still mine, and I told you I wanted this story because it set up the bigger one I’m working on.”
“I’m sorry. I got excited when you asked all the right questions in the press conference and I got back to the newsroom and sort of exaggerated things. I said we were working on it together. Prendo told me to start writing.”
“Is that when you suggested to Prendo that we work together on my other story, too?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When I got back, he told me we were on it together. I take the killer and you take the victim. He also told me it was your idea.”
Her face colored red and she shook her head in embarrassment. I had now outted two liars. Angela I could deal with because there was something honest about her lying. She was boldly going for what she wanted. Prendo was the one that hurt. We had worked together for a long time and I had never seen him as a liar or manipulator. I guessed he was just choosing sides. I was out the door soon and Angela was staying. It didn’t take a genius to see that he was picking her over me. The future was with Angela.
“I can’t believe he ratted me out,” Angela said.
“Yeah, well, I guess you have to be careful who you trust in a news-room,” I said. “Even your own editor.”
“I guess so.”
She picked up her cup and looked to see if there was anything left, even though she knew there wasn’t. Anything to avoid looking at me.
“Look, Angela, I don’t like how you did this but I admire how you just go after what you want. All the best reporters I have known are that way. And I have to say your idea of doing the double-profile of both killer and victim is the better way to go.”
Now she looked at me. Her face brightened.
“Jack, I’m really looking forward to working with you on it.”
“The one thing I want to get straight right now is that this started with me and it ends with me. When the reporting is all done, I’m the one who is going to write this. Okay?”
“Oh, absolutely. After you told me what you were working on, I just wanted to be a part of it. So I came up with the victim angle. But it’s your story, Jack. You get to write it and your name goes first on the byline.”
I studied her closely for any sign that she was dissembling. But she’d looked me sincerely in the eye as she had spoken.
“All right. Well, that’s all I had to say.”
“Good.”
“You need any help with today’s story?”
“No, I think I’m all set. And I’m getting great stuff from the community off that angle you brought up at the press conference. Reverend Treacher called it one more symptom of racism in the department. They create a task force when a white woman who takes her clothes off for a living and puts drugs in her body gets killed, but do nothing whenever one of the eight hundred innocent residents in those projects gets killed by the gangbangers.”
It sounded like a good quote but it came from the wrong voice. The reality was that Treacher was an opportunistic weasel. I never bought that he was standing up for the community. I thought he was usually just standing up for himself, getting on TV and in the papers to further serve his celebrity and the benefits it brought. I had once suggested to an editor that we do an investigation of Treacher but was immediately shot down. The editor said, “No, Jack, we need him.”
And that was true. The paper needed people like Treacher to voice the contrarian view, to give the incendiary remark and get the fire burning.
“Sounds good,” I said to Angela. “I’ll let you get back to it and I’ll go up and write up a budget line for the other story.”
“Here,” she said.
She slid the short stack of papers across the table to me.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing, really, but it might save you some time. Last night before I went home I was thinking about the story after you told me what you were working on. I almost called you to talk more about it and suggest we work together. But I chickened out and went on Google instead. I checked out ‘trunk murder’ and found there is a long history of people ending up in the trunks of cars. A lot of women, Jack. And a lot of mob guys, too.”
I turned the pages over and looked at the top sheet. It was a printout of a Las Vegas Review-Journal story from almost a year earlier. The first paragraph told me it was about the conviction of a man charged with murdering his ex-wife, putting her body into the trunk of his car, and then parking it in his own garage.