The Morelville Mysteries Collection

Chapter 18 – Dana: Attorneys and Gangbangers

Chapter 18 – Dana: Attorneys and GangbangersTraveling was really starting to wear on me. I had spent more than six hours yesterday on the road between Cleveland, Zanesville and the Crane farm way out in BFE, Ohio. During the drive from the farm to Cleveland, I had a long telephone conversation with agent Webb about the Dawes brothers and the Gangster Demons and our two cases.

I didn’t get back into Cleveland until late and I didn’t sleep well. I was whipped and now I was on an early AM plane to Chicago – again! A desk job like my roommate Cheryl had was starting to look better and better.

I still hadn’t had any luck reaching the criminal attorney, Jonathan Joseph. I was just going to have to pay him a visit. Meanwhile, Gene in the Cleveland Port Office was going to try to work his magic to get me into Stateville to see DeShawn Dawes this afternoon. I was hoping for some breadcrumbs there but holding my breath wasn’t in my plans.

Once my flight landed, I was off and running. No rest for the weary! I picked up a rental car and sped off. I needed to get to Joseph before he went to court or made up some other such excuse not to talk with me. I did do him the courtesy of leaving a message saying I was on my way.

Joseph’s office was a couple of blocks from Douglas Park, west of downtown. It wasn’t in a swanky neighborhood but it certainly wasn’t in the ghetto either. It was close to the Cook County Criminal Court building and that’s probably why he chose that location for his offices. He wouldn’t have far to go to defend his clients involved in preliminary criminal proceedings. It was also close to the freeway and an hour drive to Stateville Correctional, in good traffic – if there was such a thing in Chicago. Anyway, if he picked his prison visit times carefully, he could avoid most of the rush hour crush either way.

I circled his block and then the next before I finally found a parking spot. I got out and hoofed it back to the law office on foot.

Jonathan Joseph’s space wasn’t large or even particularly impressive. His was a one man show. Really, since he wasn’t dealing with high profile, white collar crime, these offices probably fit just fine with his clientele.

I’d done a little research on Joseph when I first got the visitor logs from Stateville. I knew that he was 53 and I had a basic idea of what he looked like if he or anyone else tried to play dumb with me. The photos on his website and in the bar review showed him to be about 6 feet tall, thin, with thinning gray or silver hair and glasses. He wasn’t a snazzy dresser, judging by his photos. He’d blend into any crowd in the city and be invisible to most people. He seemed to be alone in the world; no spouse, no children, no siblings and both his parents had passed away.

I have no idea what this guy’s story is! He isn’t living “high” but he’s visiting known gangbangers in jail that were not ones he defended in court. There’s something awfully fishy here.

I let myself into his outer office. The lights were on but there were no other signs of life in the tiny area. A copy machine stood silent, not even turned on. There was a reception desk but no one was sitting there and, judging by the layer of dust, it looked as if no one had used it in quite some time. The offices were eerily quiet.

“Hello?” I called out. There was no immediate response. I peeked around but there wasn’t much to see up front. After waiting a couple of minutes, I called out again, “Is anyone here?”

After several seconds had passed with no response, I took out my badge and I ventured down the tiny hallway that opened off to one side of the reception desk. The first room I came to was a dark, very empty conference room. There was a table and several chairs and a single wall of law books but not much else. Across the hallway was a small restroom, also dark. A few more steps down and I was standing at a door that stood just slightly ajar. Behind it was presumably Jonathan Joseph’s office.

“Mr. Joseph? Are you here?” Again, there was no response. I put my badge away and put my hand on my gun as I moved against the door frame. Slowly I pushed open the door with my foot and I peered around the frame into the room. The lights were on but there was no movement from inside. I drew my pistol and stepped around the door frame, gun at the ready, and quickly found myself facing into a room that was not only empty of its usual occupant, but one that had been left in a hurry.

The room wasn’t tossed but it was in serious disarray. File drawers were open and files were missing in chunks. Storage boxes were scattered on the floor, some full, some still flat, ready to be put together for use. A small coat closet door stood open to one side of the room. I crossed to the closet and peered in. It was empty except for an old umbrella and a pair of men’s dress shoes that had seen better days. There were a few bookshelves in the room. The held some books but little else. The office was completely devoid of personal items.

I suspected Jonathan Joseph had left his office in quite a hurry – he hadn’t turned off lights or locked the front door. I thought though that he left voluntarily given the obvious signs that he’d been packing and that he’d already taken anything of sentimental or personal value.

I crossed to his desk. His phone answering system was flashing bright red digits. The attorney had multiple messages he hadn’t listened to. I’m sure that my call from this morning was among them and possibly some others I’d made too. On a whim, I took out my cell phone and dialed his office number, hoping to get his answering service. No such luck. It rang right back to his office. Wherever he was, he hadn’t let them know to service his calls.

I left the office without touching anything other than the front door handle that I’d touched when I came in. The place might be a crime scene, but I doubted it. It was more likely that Joseph was running to keep from being a gang hit statistic.

I walked back to my car and, once safely inside, I called Gene in the Cleveland Port Office.

“Gene it’s Dana.”

“Hey Rossi, I was about to call you. You’re a go for Stateville.”

“I’ll head that way now. I just left Jonathan Joseph’s office.”

“What did you find out there?”

“It’s unlocked but deserted Gene. Someone’s been packing. It doesn’t look like there was any sort of a struggle but it sure doesn’t look like Joseph intends to return either.”

Gene let out a low whistle. “We just can’t catch a break on this case!”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, can you start some of the team working on finding him? Check his home, his bank accounts, properties he might own, whether he’s bought airline tickets...” I trailed off.

“We’ll get on it Dana. If he’s not at home, do you want a missing persons report filed?”

“Not yet. He has no family that I could find when I did my initial screen. This may be a somewhat voluntary disappearance. If he’s running, we don’t want to tip anyone.”

“Gotcha. You be careful Rossi!”

“Always.” I hung up and clipped my cell back to my side. My mind skipped ahead to the meeting with DeShawn Dawes at Stateville. I never noticed the blinking message light on the phone indicating I had a voicemail.

###

Stateville Correctional Center is a maximum security facility about an hour west of Chicago. It houses some of Illinois’ worst male offenders; the majority of whom are locked up gangbangers from multiple, rival gangs that run rampant in Chicago and environs.

It seems that it’s only slightly easier to process into the facility as a visitor than it is as a prisoner. At least, since I’m a Federal Agent, I was afforded professional courtesies. Still, it isn’t a place I wanted to visit often.

As a law enforcement officer, I was shown into a private conference area where I could meet with Dawes like other law enforcement officials, lawyers and prosecutors would. I cooled my heels for about a half hour before he was led in, in cuffs, and placed in a chair opposite me by a corrections officer who then went and stood by the door but didn’t leave the room. That practice has to make the process of passing gang information difficult if it’s coming through a lawyer... bet it didn’t happen that way!

I looked DeShawn Dawes over. Really, he was just a boy. I knew from my talk with Agent Webb that he was 20 years old and a convicted rapist and batterer, but he still had a baby face without even a hint of a sign that he’d ever had to shave it. He was thin and wiry and not all beefed up like so many males with nothing to do in prison but work out. Life inside had to be tough for a guy like him, even with gang protection. I wondered if he even had protection. No gang tattoos were visible in areas left uncovered by his prison issue.

“Mr. Dawes, I’m Agent Rossi with Customs and Border Protection.” He just stared at me. “I’m here to ask you some questions. I think we can help each other out.”

“I don’t need no help agent.” He spat the word out as if it were distasteful for him to even talk to me and then he sunk low in his chair and looked at the floor.

I decided to lay my cards on the table early. I leaned across the surface toward him and added a little concern to my voice. “Ok, maybe you don’t, but your brother DeWayne needs all the help he can get right now and you might be able to provide that.”

His head shot up. “What’ Wayne got to do with this?”

“DeWayne was picked up on Federal charges in Ohio a couple of days ago.” I didn’t tell him why because I wanted to see what he would give up. “In the process, he took a couple of shots at a police officer. He’ll be charged in Ohio with attempted murder of a law enforcement officer for that, as well. He’s looking at a lot of time unless we can get some answers.” I sat back and let that sink in.

Dawes stared through me for what seemed like several minutes. While I waited, I thought about how to frame my next questions. I hadn’t dealt with a lot of gang members in my line of work. I didn’t know if he’d cooperate and, if he was willing, what he’d actually say with the C.O. standing there by the door, pretending to look bored but, in reality, listening in. I looked at Dawes and then, when I caught his eyes, I shifted mine quickly to the C.O. and back without moving my head.

DeShawn shifted his gaze down and nodded almost imperceptibly. He sat back up in his chair, looked straight at me and asked, “Do I need a lawyer?”

Sensing where he was going, I responded, “That’s up to you. Time’s short for me and my colleagues. We can chat and you can decide how much you want to say, off the record. If you want to go ‘on record’, we’ll have to wait until we can get your lawyer in here.”

Dawes turned his gaze to the C.O. and cleared his throat. I stepped in.

“Officer, I need to speak with Mr. Dawes privately about a matter unrelated to the crimes he’s serving time for.”

The officer stepped forward. “Give me a moment ma’am.” He keyed his radio mike and gave a coded request involving our interview room. Minutes later, two additional officers entered the room. Dawes was forced to stand while he was placed in leg irons and then shackled to a ring cemented into the floor. He was then allowed to reseat himself. He remained handcuffed. Once he was secured in place, all three officers retreated from the room. One remained visible just outside the door.

I decided to take a more familiar approach with him for now. He was an already hardened criminal at his young age but, he was really young. A friendly tone would go further than an authoritative one. I clasped my hands on the table and leaned forward a bit. “Who did you work for on the outside, DeShawn?”

“I was a truck driver.”

“Did you do that long?”

“I did a training school and then drove maybe 6 months.”

“All for the same company?”

“Yeah.”

“What company?”

“Just a freight company that hired new drivers.”

“How’d you hear about the job?”

“Wayne set it up. He paid for me to go to the school and I started as soon as I finished school.”

I smiled. “He was trying to help you out...”

“I guess.”

“Who was your boss at the freight company?”

“It was a company man. We had a dispatcher. He’d assign the loads. I’d just drive it where it needed to go.”

“Did you help to load the trucks?”

“Nah. It was just a terminal. Trailer would come in, get dropped. I’d hook up and take it, like I said.”

“Where were the trailers that were getting dropped coming from?”

“All over man. Local, Michigan, Canada, Mexico.” He shrugged.

“Did you have any regular runs?”

“A couple.”

“Where did you go on your regular runs?”

He was getting restless. He started trying to shift around in his seat. “What’ this got to do with Wayne?”

“Honestly? I don’t know for sure. You might know something that could help him out, you might not. I’m just trying to figure out what all you know.”

“What was your question again?”

“Where did you go on your regular runs?”

“Atlanta, mostly.”

“What did you haul to Atlanta?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t unload or stand by while it’s unloaded either? You don’t get a manifest for your load?”

“Look lady...”

“It’s ‘Agent’ Mr. Dawes.” I was being formal now. He was stonewalling and I needed answers.

“Agent, I don’t know! I pick up a sealed trailer. The seal don’t get broke till I get it where it’s going. Sometimes they don’t unload me right away. I drop the trailer, hook onto another empty one or a full one and haul it somewhere else or back to Chicago. That’s all I know.”

“Ever been stopped by the highway patrol anywhere while you’re driving a load Mr. Dawes?”

He laughed. “Oh yeah.”

“Don’t you have to show them your logs and manifest?” I had him!

“Yeah...” He knows I have him!

“So what does the manifest say you’re hauling?”

“To Atlanta?”

“That’s what we’re talking about right now, yes.”

“Mostly clothes. It’s boxes stacked on pallets that are all wrapped up usually. No labels on the boxes.”

I changed gears. “Do you know Bryant Quinn?” His eyes flashed. He was at least familiar with the name.

“He’ a driver too.”

“You ever run with him?”

“Nah, he mostly run’ to Ohio and back, short haul. Sometimes picks up a load in Detroit and runs it to Ohio.”

Interesting! I tried not to show that anything he was telling me had wheels turning in my head. “Where in Ohio?”

“East of Columbus.”

“Zanesville?”

“Nah, near some little town. Don’t remember the name.”

“You’ve been there yourself?”

“Only four, five times, with a load. Not my route.”

“Do you drop your trailer at a terminal?”

“Nah, some big farm.”

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Depends on the load agent and I don’t ask no kinda questions. Stuff’s usually in crates strapped on pallets.”

“So the manifest is different for those loads?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Usually says ‘machinery’ or ‘equipment’ but sometimes ‘clothes’.”

“Does it show what company it’s coming from?” I knew it did but, of course it could be falsified. Still, there would at least be a fake paper trail to follow somewhere!

“Different companies.”

“When you get to the farm with these loads, what happens? Who’s in charge?

“They got some big ass barns out there. One’s got a bay. I back into that and drop the trailer. The foreman starts unloading it with a skid loader. I pick up an empty if there is one or I wait for them to unload me and then I head back to Chicago.”

“Do you know the foreman’s name?”

“Hell no!”

I couldn’t tell if he was being truthful or protective. “What about the name of the farm?”

“No clue.”

“Isn’t it on the manifest?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember it.” Okay, he’s definitely being evasive.

“Where’s it located?”

“Off 44.”

“State Route 44 or Interstate 44?”

“Back road, it’s a state route, I think. Are we done here agent?”

“Almost. Just a few more questions.” I’ll take a shot, “Have you ever heard the name Relic?”

DeShawn Dawes hadn’t been around the block as many times as a guy like his brother ‘Wayne’, as he called him, had been. His face gave him away when I said the name Relic. He’d not just heard it before, but judging by the way he swallowed hard, he wasn’t too fond of him.

He shook his head ‘no’ but his eyes and his shaking hands said yes. Whoever Relic is, he has the power to scare men locked up behind prison walls.

“You’re sure you haven’t heard of him?”

“I’m done answering questions agent. Call the C. O. back in here.”

I went back to being his friend. “DeShawn, do you want to help Wayne?”