Flat Lake in Winter Page 3
But before Stanton could do whatever it was he was about to do, the relative silence was broken by the sound of sirens approaching in the distance. Within a minute or so, an entourage of four vehicles pulled up the driveway, two with roof lights flashing, one with the wail of its siren winding down. The first three were state police cruisers: two of them similar in appearance to the one in which Stanton and Carlson had arrived, the third one unmarked. The fourth vehicle was a sport-utility model of some sort, either a Ford Explorer or a Toyota 4-Runner.
A beefy, red-faced man in civilian clothes stepped out of the lead car and looked around. After a moment, he spotted Deke Stanton and ambled over to him. McClure could hear Stanton greet him as “Captain” before they huddled; he couldn’t pick up their conversation. After a few minutes, they stepped apart, and it became apparent to McClure that the captain (who was most certainly Roger Duquesne, although later reports referred to him only as “the responding supervising officer”) had drawn up a plan of sorts. He would lead the way in his cruiser, with Stanton, Carlson, and the prisoner (McClure distinctly heard him refer to Jonathan Hamilton as “the prisoner”) following him in a second car. But rather than driving south back to the Troop J barracks, they would head over to Northeast Regional Headquarters in Saranac Lake, where the facilities were larger, and where the interrogation room was fitted with a recording device and a two-way mirror. The four other investigators, who had arrived in the remaining two cruisers, would stay behind and complete the crime-scene investigation.
As for the remaining car, the sport-utility vehicle, it turned out that it belonged to a newspaper reporter. She’d picked up the radio traffic on her police scanner and had been heading to the scene when the convoy of cruisers had sped past. She fell in line, matching their speed, figuring correctly that, under the circumstances, they had better things to do than pull her over and ticket her. The name of the reporter was Stefanie Grovesner, and she worked for the Daily Record, up in Plattsburgh.
By that afternoon, news of the double murder and the arrest of Jonathan Hamilton would begin to spread across the state and into neighboring Vermont and Canada. By evening, local affiliates would have picked up the story. To most of the viewers who caught it on the ten o’clock news, it was just another grisly crime, made a bit more interesting because of the remote rustic setting, and the fact that the suspect was the grandson of the victims. Only Chuck Scarborough of NBC’s Channel 4 News down in New York City, would point out the true significance of the story: Because it was a double murder, it meant that the perpetrator would be eligible for the death sentence under New York’s recently revived capital-punishment murder statute.
THE TOWN OF SARANAC LAKE straddles the line between Franklin and Essex Counties, in the northeastern corner of New York State. For the traveler, it is equidistant from the Canadian border to the north, and Burlington, Vermont, across Lake Champlain to the east. For the serious hiker, it affords a stopover between the Adirondack Mountains that stretch to the southwest, and the Alder Brook Range that reaches up toward the northeast. It is surrounded by hundreds of lakes and ponds with names that only hint at their beauty: Placid, Rainbow, Clear, Silver, Wolf, Buck, Loon, and Fern.
According to an entry in Deke Stanton’s Daily Activity Log, he arrived at State Police Headquarters in Saranac Lake with his “suspect” Jonathan Hamilton at 1225 hours, or twelve twenty-five that Sunday afternoon. There is no mention in the log of Captain Duquesne’s having accompanied them, let alone having driven them. From 1245 to 1350, Stanton processed his suspect. “Processed” is a term usually reserved for what an arresting officer does with a prisoner, not a suspect: taking fingerprints and photographs, and asking “pedigree” questions - the individual’s full name, address, date and place of birth, type of employment, and related information. Processing is an activity that can normally be accomplished in twenty minutes or so.
Although the facilities at Saranac Lake included a state-of-the-art interrogation room, complete with an audio-video recording device hidden behind a two-way mirror, it was not unusual for an investigator to conduct a “pre-interview session” with a subject in a smaller room, without benefit of any recording equipment. In the case of Jonathan Hamilton, Stanton did just that: He sat down and talked with Jonathan for a while in a small room. Because only the two of them were present, no one but Jonathan would ever be able to dispute Stanton’s subsequent recollection of what questions were asked during the session, and what answers were given.
According to Stanton’s account, Jonathan initially admitted killing his grandparents in a “rage,” stabbing first his grandfather, then his grandmother, as the two of them slept together on the bed in their room. Asked why he had killed them, Jonathan replied that his grandparents had been “mean” to him, and had treated him “like a little boy,” something that had made him “so frustrated” that he had finally “lost it” and “couldn’t take any more of them.” As Stanton pressed Jonathan for more details, however, Jonathan “clammed up,” at one point saying that “Mr. Bass” had told him he didn’t have to answer questions until they gave him a lawyer. This last point would serve to drive a wedge between Stanton and McClure that continues to exist to this very day. Publicly McClure insists that he never gave Jonathan such advice, and speculates that if Jonathan indeed said it, he must have misunderstood McClure, and certainly misquoted him. But there can be little doubt that McClure liked Jonathan and felt sorry for him that morning, and, in the minds of some observers, it doesn’t overly strain credulity to believe that Stanton may have been telling the truth here.
In any case, Stanton appears to have concluded processing Jonathan at that point, or shortly thereafter. According to his log, Jonathan was still a suspect, meaning he hadn’t yet been formally arrested. Stanton would later contend that Jonathan wasn’t even in custody, and was, therefore, free to leave had he wanted to. But the notion that Stanton would have let Jonathan get up and walk out the door after admitting a double murder is unthinkable. Far more likely is the conclusion that, in Stanton’s mind, as long as he didn’t formally arrest Jonathan, he could continue to question him without the necessity of giving him his Miranda rights.
Later that afternoon, Stanton brought Jonathan to the interview room and seated him at a table in such a way that Jonathan was facing where the interviewer would be sitting, as well as the mirror that concealed the hidden video camera. Stanton then locked the door from the outside (an act that arguably sheds some light on the issue of whether or not Jonathan was free to leave) while he rounded up a video technician and a second investigator, Phillip Manley, to sit in on the interview.
As the tape begins, Jonathan can be seen sitting at the table in what can only be described as a daze. His hair is uncombed and his face unshaven. The wooden chair in which he sits has arms and has been pulled all the way up to the table, the way court officers seat an incarcerated defendant at trial. But Jonathan’s hands are visible from time to time, and it is obvious that he isn’t handcuffed. On the desk, conspicuously facing the camera, is a large clock. The camera zooms in on the face of the clock, which shows the time to be three-fourteen. The camera pans back, then closes in on Jonathan’s face. Other than a smudge of dried blood across his forehead, there is no sign of injury of any sort.
Stanton begins the interview by identifying himself, Investigator Manley, and Jonathan for the record. He gives the date, time, and place. He states that they are there to discuss “an incident” that happened earlier that morning, down at Flat Lake. He then proceeds to administer the Miranda rights to Jonathan, advising him that he has a right to remain silent, a right to an attorney, and a right to have an attorney appointed free of charge if he can’t afford one. Next he tells Jonathan that anything he says may be used against him in a court of law. After each warning, Stanton asks Jonathan if he understands; Jonathan says the word “yes” four times in response, softly but distinctly. Finally, he asks if Jonathan is willing to answer some questions without a lawyer.
Jonathan’s response is given so softly that one has to turn the volume all the way up to hear it. Even then, it is almost impossible to make out, and the tape may have to be rewound and played several times for the listener to catch it. It is only when one knows the words one is listening for that they become apparent. What Jonathan says is this: “I-I-I still think I want a l-l-lawyer.”
Under the law, these are magic words. By invoking his right to counsel, a suspect effectively ends an interrogation. Stanton, quick to recognize that this is what has happened, terminates the interview immediately, at 1521 hours, or 3:21 p.m., seven minutes after it has begun. The tape goes black.
In retrospect, Jonathan’s response would seem to raise far more questions than it answered. First, given Jonathan’s limited, almost primitive understanding of the questioning process - and his complete lack of familiarity with the legal system, which he had never encountered before - it is highly doubtful that the decision to invoke his right to counsel was his own. During the preliminary questioning regarding the rights, Jonathan replied directly four times, each time in a normal voice, giving no hint that he would suddenly refuse to answer when it came to substantive questions. Second, there is the little matter of the word still: “I still think I want a lawyer.” Had Jonathan told Stanton earlier that he wanted a lawyer, and had Stanton ignored the request? That is certainly one possibility, though those who knew Jonathan Hamilton best have great difficulty accepting that scenario, given Jonathan’s limited resources and his history of compliance. They argue that for Jonathan to have asked for a lawyer at any point, someone must have planted the seed in his mind. Had Bass McClure made the suggestion? McClure vehemently denies it.
There remains yet another possibility. As an investigator, Deke Stanton had earned a reputation as something of a bulldog. He was energetic and tenacious, and certainly wasn’t above cutting a corner or two in order to get a result. Witness, for example, his apparent readiness to violate regulations by driving off alone with Jonathan from the crime scene earlier that day. Yet Stanton’s willingness to terminate the interview the moment Jonathan almost inaudibly asked for a lawyer borders on eagerness.
Could it be that Stanton himself had moments before coached Jonathan into asking for a lawyer? Remember that Stanton already had a confession of sorts from Jonathan, albeit one that wasn’t preserved on tape or witnessed by anyone other than Stanton. Was Stanton for some reason afraid that Jonathan would deny the crime on camera, thereby casting doubt on Stanton’s account of the earlier statement? And if he was afraid, what does that say about the reliability of his account?
FOLLOWING THE TERMINATION of the aborted videotaped interview, the next entry in Deke Stanton’s log is at 1530, or 3:30 p.m., and reads simply: “Subject arrested.” After that there is a one-hour period, from 1530 to 1630, devoted to “further processing of prisoner.” Just what this could have been is unclear. Combined with the earlier “processing of suspect,” it means that Stanton had devoted two hours and five minutes to activities that should have taken no more than twenty minutes. In other words, either Stanton was deliberately misrepresenting his entries, or by four-thirty that afternoon, Jonathan Hamilton had become the most thoroughly processed person in New York State.
Even giving Stanton the benefit of the doubt here, once the processing was completed, it was incumbent upon him to take steps to see that his prisoner was brought before a judge or magistrate “without unreasonable delay,” according to the New York Criminal Procedure Law. Now the term “without unreasonable delay” is more than a little vague, and that is probably not by accident. The legislature has apparently recognized, and wisely so, that what is reasonable in a major metropolitan city may be totally unfeasible in a sparsely populated upstate region. In New York County, for example, one part of the Criminal Court routinely operates until 1:00 a.m. just to conduct initial appearances; on Fridays and Saturdays they work around the clock. For a person arrested in Manhattan, therefore, “reasonable” means within twenty-four hours. For Jonathan Hamilton, who had been arrested either in Flat Lake or Saranac Lake, depending upon how you looked at it, “reasonable” was going to be something altogether different.
The crimes Jonathan was accused of committing had occurred in Flat Lake. But Flat Lake is so small that it doesn’t even have a local town or justice court. That means that, in a case involving felony charges such as murder, the initial appearance has to take place in either the nearest town or justice court in the county, or at the Ottawa County Courthouse. In this particular case, those happened to be one and the same. The only problem was that it was Sunday, and the following day was Labor Day, which was a court holiday, meaning there could be no court appearance at all until Tuesday morning.
But surely a system is unfair if it keeps people who have the misfortune to be arrested Saturday or Sunday (or even Friday evening) locked up all weekend without recourse, particularly if their offense is a relatively minor one. So over time, a process has evolved in such situations whereby the arresting officer notifies whatever county or local prosecutor he can find, by the simple device of calling one at home. Failing that, the officer may call a town or village justice, or a county judge, also at home. The officer proceeds to explain the situation, and the prosecutor or justice makes an on-the-spot determination whether to authorize the outright release of the prisoner pending his appearance Monday morning, or sets an amount of bail that has to be posted first. If the prisoner is affluent and fortunate enough to reach a lawyer, then counsel can get in on the act, too.
Occasionally there are situations where the great likelihood is that bail will be prohibitively high, or the prisoner will be held in remand, meaning he won’t be entitled to bail at all. Jonathan Hamilton’s case certainly fell into that category. But even in such instances, the arresting officer still has an obligation to make the notification. Furthermore, where the crime is a serious felony (and a double murder is that and more), a state police officer is bound by departmental regulations to confer with the county prosecutor as soon as practically possible.
According to Deke Stanton’s next log entry, he did precisely that, reaching the Ottawa County District Attorney by telephone at home at ten minutes before five o’clock Sunday afternoon. Stanton’s next entry purports to contain the results of that conversation:
1650 Reached D. A. Cavanaugh by phone at his
residence. Advised to book prisoner on 2 counts
Murder One and lodge at County pending court
appearance 0900 9/2/97.
Status: Remand.
There seems to be little reason why Stanton should have written those words, were they untrue. Certainly, his actions immediately thereafter are consistent in every way with the entry: He and another investigator drove Jonathan Hamilton, who was by that time in handcuffs, to Cedar Falls, and brought him to Ottawa County Jail. According to the Sign-In Book, Jonathan was received at 1817 hours, or 6:17 that evening. His charge was listed as “Murder 1st” and his disposition as “County Ct, 09-02-97, 0900, Part 1.”
On the other hand, if you talk to Gil Cavanaugh, he didn’t hear about the Flat Lake murders and the arrest of Jonathan Hamilton until sometime Monday afternoon.
FRANCIS GILMORE CAVANAUGH JR. is, and has been for close to twenty years, the District Attorney of Ottawa County. Pushing sixty at the time of the Hamilton murders, he is tall, good-looking, and silver-haired. He has a ready smile and a handshake so firm that it borders on the painful. Only the slightly pronounced veins in his nose give away the fact that, in addition to being a career politician and prosecutor, he is also something of a career drinker. He knows everybody there is to know in the county, and in just about all of upstate New York, for that matter. He plays golf with the state senators, representatives, and judges in the summer, hunts with them in autumn, and skis with them in winter. He trades war stories with the best of them, though he has the reputation of being a better talker than he is a listener. He is known as a good friend to have on y
our side, and a bad enemy to have against you.
Gil Cavanaugh’s insistence that he knew nothing of the charges against Jonathan Hamilton until the day following the arrest takes on special significance in the context of the law. The same statute that brought back the death penalty to New York after a thirty-year moratorium (if that somewhat oxymoronic term can be forgiven) created a Capital Defender’s Office. Included in the Capital Defender’s mandate was the responsibility to maintain a house staff of attorneys to represent defendants accused of capital crimes; to train a small but select group of lawyers from the private sector, public-defender agencies, and legal-aid offices, so that they, too, would be qualified to accept assignments in capital cases; to provide a resource center to assist in all such defenses; and to assist in the education of those judges throughout the state who would be designated to hear the cases.
One of the points of contention during the debate that restored the death penalty involved the issue of just when in the accusatory process a person charged with capital murder should be provided counsel. Prosecutors argued that the traditional method of assigning a lawyer at the first court appearance was adequate; defense attorneys contended that the early stages of the process were often the most critical, and that the accused should be provided counsel at the earliest possible opportunity. After a good degree of haggling in the legislature, a compromise of sorts was hammered out: The district attorney in whose county the charges are being brought has an affirmative obligation to notify the Capital Defender as soon as he authorizes the filing of first-degree murder charges, so that the Capital Defender, acting as a clearing house of sorts, can designate either a member of his staff, or an outside qualified attorney, to immediately begin representing the accused.