Cold Fear (33 page)

SIXTY

Isaiah Hood’s
execution would take
place in sixteen hours.

The press was searching for his lawyer, David Cohen, but
Cohen had switched off his cell phone; even his concerned Chicago law firm
could not reach him.

Newspaper, radio and wire service reporters, as well as
TV network news bureaus from across the nation, were calling every hotel and
motel near West Glacier, Montana, frantically trying to find him. Magazine and
tabloid reporters, and three Hollywood scouts wanting to discuss buying Hood’s
rights, joined the hunt.

Cohen did not want to be found.

Not yet, he thought after finishing his breakfast and
checking out of his tiny motel near Flathead Lake, a few miles south of Glacier
National Park.

Watching the TV behind the manager, he saw another
report of the case. It showed a three-year-old still photo of himself that one
of the Chicago stations had fed the network. Fortunately, Cohen was traveling
to Glacier wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.

Nearing the park, he knew Hood was sitting in the death
cell under a death watch as the clock ticked down. The way things stood, there
were no tomorrows for him. Only hours.

Cohen passed a news satellite truck lumbering
northbound. He picked up a cell phone and switched it on to retrieve messages.
Listening only for the caller, then skipping through the message. “Francis Lord
with the
L.A.
Times.
” Next. “Chuck Ryker, ABC News, New
York.” Next. “Nancy Womack,
Great Falls
Tribune
.” Next. “Mr.
Cohen, this is Phil Braddock with the
Washington Post
.” Next. “Hi David,
it’s Dianna Strauss at the
New York Times
.” Next. “Anna Barrow,
Newsweek
.”
Next. “This is Larry Dow,
USA Today
.” Next. “David, it’s Lane. Please
call me. Please!” Next. “Abe Gold at the firm. We’ve seen the news reports.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t you make another move without
informing us. Is that understood? Call me on my personal cell phone number….”

The old man himself. Pissed off. The senior partner.
Cohen glanced at the stack of photocopies on the passenger seat next to him.
Copies of the county attorney’s old summary of Emily confessional letters.

He switched off his phone. No, he was not calling back.

Tom Reed’s news story was effective beyond his
expectations, accomplishing exactly what Hood needed: attention to the
questions that needed to be raised, to the injustice that was about to be
committed at midnight. Cohen would embark on the next stage of his struggle,
one that may cost him everything. He had to halt the execution.

Cohen reflected on his days at Harvard, brooding along
the Charles River, or hopping a train downtown to Fenway while grappling with
philosophy or ethics problems.
If a good man does nothing when confronted
with a moral wrong, what is lost?
It was just theory. Academic posturing.
He had expected the only time he would face such a question was during a law
exam.

Not in reality.

In his heart, he knew Hood should not be executed. Lane
knew that, too. The principal that had guided Cohen was now a legal certainty
that compelled him. If he was a moral man, he must take action. Or he could
never face himself again.

A Montana Highway Patrol Officer was now directing Cohen
to turn away from the main gate to Glacier National Park.

“We’re limiting traffic at this entrance, sir. What is
your business here?”

Cohen identified himself. The officer sent him to park
with the press vehicles. Precisely where he wanted to go. The press camp was in
full force.

Cohen grabbed his stack of photocopies and searched for
the podium that had become familiar to the nation and the world following the
story of Paige Baker. She was still missing, according to the latest update
from the rangers. While weaving his way to the microphones, Cohen handed out
his sheets to every newsperson he saw. Word spread at the speed of sound.
Network field producers, reporters, photographers, encircled Cohen, advising
him to hold off starting his news conference for fifteen minutes for technical
reasons, peppering him with prep questions, talking at once. Cohen did not see
who was asking what.

“You Hood’s lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Spell your first and last name.”

“You’re giving a press conference?”

“Why did you come?”

“Well, I--”

“Hold it--” Someone was shouting on his cell phone to New
York, “Well, get them out of the meeting. We found him! He’s right here--”

“What are you going to say, David?”

“I think that’s clear by what’s already come out. We’re
talking life and death here.”

“Good, OK,” a bearded man with a southern accent
shouted. “Everyone, we’re going with the lawyer in ten.”

Radios and cell phones became intense with staccato conversations
as more people gathered around Cohen. A helicopter passed overhead.

Soon dozens of TV news and newspaper cameras were
trained on Cohen as he stood at the microphones, licking his dried lips,
realizing he had no choice.
This has to be done. There’s no turning back.

“Go ahead,” someone said.

“No, wait!” Someone was on a radio phone. “OK.”

Cohen nodded, hand on hips. He was wearing a faded denim
shirt and khakis; his tanned face was stubbled with a day’s growth; his hair,
just the right amount out of place, made him look like the idealistic,
anguished attorney he was. Eyes staring honestly into the cameras. The networks
loved it. Cohen cleared his throat and explained who he was, answering
rapid-fire questions.

“I am calling on the governor to reconsider his position
on the fate of my client, Isaiah Hood, whose execution is set to go ahead at
midnight tonight.”

The questions started at once. Still cameras clicked.

“Why?”

“On what basis, Mr. Cohen?”

“What’s your reason for…”

“In light of evidence that has surfaced showing the
connection of Emily Baker to my client, showing the documents that never
surfaced at trial or in subsequent appeals--”

“You’re referring to her so-called confessional
letters?”

“Yes, and given the circumstance we’re seeing played out
before us--”

“Sir, are you are implying that Emily Baker murdered her
sister?”

“No. What I am saying is look at this profoundly
disturbing evidence. We have always maintained reasonable doubt permeated this
case, that his conviction was based on circumstantial evidence. Now we have
only hours before my client is executed. I am pleading for relief here so we
can sort things…”

Some seventy floors above downtown Chicago, Abe Gold and
other senior partners of Cohen’s law firm were watching, with apprehension, the
boardroom’s large television.

“What the hell is he doing?” said one of the partners.
“Did we know this was coming, Abe? Did we know any of this crap was coming?”

Gold shook his head. The intercom on the boardroom phone
buzzed.

“Mr. Gold, a Mr. Jackson, for the Montana attorney
general’s office.”

“Yes,” Gold said, eyes fastened to the news conference.

“Abe, what is this shit?” Jackson said from Helena. “Call in your kid now. Phone him right now! We’re contemplating filing a complaint
with Washington, charging him with obstruction.”

Gold said nothing, weighing the situation. While he was
upset that David had not advised the firm, he admired Cohen’s spine, recalling
his own days of youthful fire.

“Mr. Jackson, am I to understand Governor Nye will grant
our client relief until these serious issues raised by Mr. Cohen are
addressed?”

Jackson
hung up.

Gold almost smiled.

“I think the other guy blinked,” he said.

The boardroom phone rang again.

“The U.S. attorney general’s office in Washington, Mr.
Gold.”

In Montana, Maleena Crow slammed her palms on the
steering wheel of her Jetta. Traffic had halted her progress near Glacier
National Park’s main gate. En route to see the FBI, Crow had tuned in her VW’s
radio and, to her surprise, caught the start of David Cohen’s news conference.
Immediately, she was outraged.

“How dare he do this!”

The previous night, Nora Lam had advised her Emily Baker
would be Mirandized before being questioned this morning. No other attorneys
were available. Lam alerted Crow to return in case something developed with
Emily. Did they know this Cohen character was going to pull this stunt? she
asked herself as she abandoned her car on the side of a road and stormed toward
Cohen’s press conference.

A patrol officer chased her. ‘Miss, you can’t leave your
car…”

Crow hurried to the conference, elbowing her way through
the throng of reporters, until she was standing next to Cohen, startling the
news people. No one knew the striking woman in the jeans, T-shirt and pastel
blazer holding a briefcase. She had the intelligent air of an official. Cohen
was answering a question.

“I think there is more than sufficient evidence and
reason to re-open--”

“Excuse me,” Crow said. “I think you’ve all been duped
by some legal sleight of hand here.”

“Identify yourself, please, miss!

“I am Maleena Crow, attorney for Doug Baker. It is
unethical and immoral for Mr. Cohen to direct this accusation at the Baker
family at this time and in this manner.”

“I disagree--”

“Just let me finish, please, sir. You’ve had
your
say.” Tension and the cameras tightened on her pretty face. The networks were
eating up the drama. “Your accusations, innuendo and implications are all
hypothetical and circumstantial, and it is unconscionable for an attorney, even
one of your caliber, to do this--”

“There is disturbing and overwhelming evidence.”

“Mr. Cohen, it is circumstantial at best and you are not
privy to all the facts concerning the search for Paige Baker.”

“Nor are you, apparently, Ms. Crow.”

“I think you’ve crossed a line. There is a missing child
and your accusations do not warrant a trial, not in court and not in the
press--”

A chopper was approaching, drowning out the news
conference.

As was the ritual with each approaching landing
helicopter, the news cameras zoomed in to see who was aboard.

This time they were rewarded.

All the crews kept the audio rolling as Cohen and Crow
argued.

As if cued, FBI agents Tracy Bowman and Frank Zander
stepped from the chopper, crouching as they each took an arm, escorting Emily
Baker to the command center.

The pictures told the story.

Emily Baker was a suspect in her daughter’s
disappearance and now her sister’s murder twenty-two years ago; meanwhile the
clock ticked down on the life of a man who claimed to be innocent.

SIXTY-ONE

On her previous
trip to the center,
Emily regarded the news media as an ally. Now they had swollen into a ravenous
force. She closed her eyes, gripping her knees as the chopper touched down.

Oh Paige. Please come back to me.

Agents Zander and Bowman escorted her to the center as
dozens of cameras and press questions were aimed at her; the wind from the
rotating blades thumped a sobering score. Above it all, Emily swore she heard
someone shouting, “Did you kill your sister and daughter?”

Inside the center, conversations stopped and heads
turned as Emily and the agents, their steps echoing on the maple floor, swept
by the search operations people. Everyone knew. Bowman signaled to another
female agent and they entered the washroom with Emily. She was asked to leave
the stall door open; later, they scrutinized her in silence as she washed her
face.

Zander entered the task force room where the others were
waiting. Mugs of fresh black coffee, thick closed file folders and clear
notepads sat before them at a large table. The tension was suffocating. He
paced, stopping to stare at the large TV, taking in the soft sounds of the
latest on the case from CNN. He tapped the corner of the monitor, then switched
it to 00, the special channel Agent Clovis had set up. The screen was still black.
He switched the set off as Maleena Crow arrived.

“Have a seat.” Zander’s tone was neutral.

Her chair scraped the floor. No one spoke. A search
helicopter flew overhead. No one spoke of the surreal twists of the case. Even
having Crow present before they went at Emily was unusual.

The young lawyer reasoned that the FBI was striving to
see that every aspect of their investigation, no matter how wrong-headed it
was, went by the book and then some.

Emily arrived with Bowman, who helped her to the same
position she had taken before.

“Would you like coffee or anything?” Bowman asked.

“Just some water, please.” Emily cleared her throat.

Bowman set a small plastic cup before her. Zander,
folded his arms and began.

“Emily Baker, you have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law….”

She bowed her head and wept softly.

This was not real. What is happening? Is Paige dead?
Where is Doug? Oh God.

“You have the right to consult an attorney and have them
present with you while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a
lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning. Do you
understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

Emily nodded slowly. Tears streamed down her face.

“Please answer.”

“Yes, I understand my rights.”

“Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer our
questions without an attorney present?”

Emily stared at her cup, blinking through her tears,
looking toward the window, the mountains, rubbing her nose and nodding.

“Yes.”

“Emily, no!” Crow was startled. “Emily, no! I advise
you--”

Emily was puzzled.

“That’s enough, Ms. Crow, please leave us,” Zander said.

“Who are you?” Emily asked. “Who is she?”

Standing, Crow scowled at Zander, “I am Doug’s lawyer.”

“What!” Emily glared at Bowman.
This is a betrayal
.
“You never…no one told me Doug has a lawyer. Has he been charged?”

“Emily, do you want an attorney present?” Zander
thundered.

“No.”

“No?” Crow was incredulous. “Emily I advise you--”

“Get out now, Ms. Crow. You are interfering.”

Emily slammed her palms on the table, her cup jumped
without spilling.

“Please. I just want to find Paige. I do not need a
lawyer for that. I don’t care what they think or suspect. I do not care.” Eyes
wide, she looked into her empty hands. “All I want to know is if I will ever
hold my daughter in my arms again. I’ll answer any questions for that. Oh,
please, I--” Emily covered her face with her hands. “Why does Doug have a…oh
God…let me talk to my husband. Can I please talk to Doug?”

No one answered her.

“Emily, this is a mistake,” Crow called as she was
escorted from the room. Zander closed the door behind her.

Bowman passed Emily a tissue.

The only sound to be heard in the room was Emily’s
sobbing.

Zander let several long tension-filled moments pass
before he asked his first question.

“Emily, it’s been five days since Paige disappeared. The
rangers know that region. They have been scouring it relentlessly, even risking
injury. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Canadian officials are doing the
same on the Canadian side of the park. Now, why do you suppose we have not
found any trace of Paige or her dog? Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now, why is it we did not find out about your
connection to your sister’s death in the same region of the park, twenty-two
years ago, and your connection to Isaiah Hood?”

“It was a very painful part of my life. Very painful.”

“So you admit keeping that from us when we asked you to
tell us everything about your history, anything that might help us understand what
happened to Paige?”

“I did not even tell my husband. It was very painful.
Doug will tell you. Has he told you?”

“He has told us things.”

“What things?” Where is he? There’s something you’re not
telling me.”

“What is the real reason you came to Montana with your
family, Emily?”

“To deal with my sister’s death, the deaths of my
parents. My counselor told me if I was here when Isaiah Hood was executed, I
could use his ending as a turning point, as a way to put it all behind me.”

“Or try to get away with it again.”

“What?” Emily began weeping. “I cannot understand…why--”

Suddenly, a radio crackled.

“This is Clovis to Zander. Over.”

Zander reached for his radio, quietly acknowledging Clovis’s call from the crevasse.

Clovis
then reported: “All set
to broadcast here. Over.”

Zander moved closer to Emily.

“You and Doug have been evasive and deceptive from the
beginning. But here are the facts.” Zander was leaning on the table, his face
inches from Emily. “We found Paige’s T-shirt. Bloodstained.” Zander thumped the
table with his forefinger, causing Emily to flinch. “We found Doug’s ax.
Bloodstained.” Zander thumped the table again. Emily raised her hands to her
ears. “You and Doug tell us either one of you could have been alone with Paige
for hours, unseen by anyone. What you’ve done is given each other convenient
alibis that are difficult to challenge. Then we find disturbing questions have
been raised about your involvement in your sister’s death in the
very same
area
and in the
very same fashion
as Paige’s case.”

“No.”

“Only a few days before you came here, the San Francisco
Police Department was called to your house. A neighbor reported Doug was
violent.”

“No, that was a misunderstanding.”

“We also learned that a student at Doug’s school has
accused him of a violent outburst, of striking her, in the days before you came
here.”

“No. I didn’t know that--”

Striking a student? Doug? No.

“Twenty-four hours before Paige vanishes, your family is
witnessed having a heated argument on the trail.”

“That was about me. It had nothing to do with--”

“And we found some blood, tiny drops of blood, and some
of Paige’s hair near the mouth of a remote crevasse, just under two miles from
your campsite. Soon we’ll put it all together and you can tell us what went
wrong and how.”

“Oh God.” Emily began shrieking. “She’s not d-d--”

Zander switched on the room’s large TV, turning to 00,
nodding to Bowman, who raised her radio to her mouth. “Go ahead, Clovis.”

A blurring image began swimming on the screen, filled
with static.

“Can you hear us, task force? Over.” Clovis’s voice was
tinny but clear.

“We hear you fine. Go ahead, Rob. Over.”

“OK, we’ve just set up and we’ll start lowering the
camera. It’s going to take time. Over.”

“Can you tell us anything at this point? Over,” Zander
said.

“Roger. We dropped a vapor probe. Early indications are
there is definitely a body mass down there. Confirmed.”

Zander’s eyes burned into Emily’s.

Her face went white.