“I’m here with a young man who hopes to follow in your footsteps.” Booger rose and gestured for Steve to do the same. “Steve Hanson, meet James Ferguson.” He turned to Mr. Ferguson. “I’m working with Steve on a capital habeas case. So far, it looks like he cares as much about finding justice as you and some of the other true heroes in your profession.”
Steve stood and extended his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Ferguson.”
Steve had recognized the man as soon as he had walked up behind Booger. Jim Ferguson was known throughout the Tulsa legal community as an incredible trial attorney. Everyone knew that if you ever got into trouble, and Ackerman couldn’t take your case for some reason, you hired Ferguson. Although some less-informed people might put one above the other, no one doubted they were the top two attorneys in their field.
Ferguson shook Steve’s hand firmly. “Well, kid, if Booger here thinks that highly of you, then you are top-notch in my book. Here’s my card. If I can ever help you with something, don’t hesitate to call. Us good guys have to stick together.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. “I just might take you up on that someday.”
“I heard you are taking on the Southern Hills Slasher pro bono,” Booger said.
“That’s a fact. His wife just so happens to be my cleaning lady. We have him, his wife, and his kids over for dinner every year at Christmas. I know these people.” Ferguson’s jovial tone turned grim. “It is the perfect example of racist cops going after the little guy. Four golfers are found dead on the course, all hacked up with a garden tool, and they go after the Mexican immigrant who works at the course. I’ve known that man for many years, and there is no way he is a murderer, but those lazy cops are trying to pin it on him rather than do a thorough investigation to find the real killer. You know—with all the anti-immigrant sentiment brewing—going after a Mexican on a criminal charge is like picking the low-hanging fruit.”
“You really don’t think he did it?” Steve asked. “From everything I have read in the paper, it looks like they have a lot of evidence against him.”
Ferguson shook his head. “I obviously can’t get into all the details, but let’s just say I think the police have failed to do a thorough investigation. I plan on putting a lot of time and money into the case to get to the bottom of it. Anyway, I have an important motion hearing this afternoon on the matter, so I need to get a quick bite and get out of here. Great seeing you Booger! Take care.” Ferguson walked back to the table where he had left his jacket.
Steve turned to Booger. “That brings something to mind that I have been meaning to ask you. Why does everyone call you Booger?”
Booger settled back into his chair with a grin. “Young man, the best way for me to explain it to you is with a joke I heard awhile back.”
“Over a hundred years ago, there was a traveler who made his way into a wee Scottish village on the western coast of Scotland. As the traveler enters the town, he sees a wee sign that says, ‘Welcome to Sheamustoun.’ He doesn’t think much of the sign and eventually works his way down to the docks where he finds a small pub. The traveler goes into the pub, sits down at the bar, and orders a pint.”
“As he is drinking his pint, he notices the bar is a beautifully handcrafted piece of wood with ornate carvings running up and down it. The traveler gets the bartender’s attention and asks who made the bar. The bartender responds by saying”—Booger switched to the most perfect Scottish accent, which he continued to use for every Scottish character in the story— “‘Aye, a made this bar wi’ ma ain hans, that’s why am known as Sheamus the Barmaker aboot toon.’
Booger continued, “the traveler thinks that is nice and settles into drinking his pint. He then looks out the window and sees the most majestic, well-built pier he has ever seen in his life. He turns to the gentleman next to him and asks if he knows who made the pier. The gentleman responds, ‘Aye, a made that pier wi’ ma ain hans, that’s why am known as Sheamus the Pier Builder aboot toon.’ The traveler next notices an amazingly crafted ship docked at the end of the pier, and he asks who built the ship. A gentleman sitting at the end of bar says, ‘Aye, a made that ship wi’ ma ain hans, that’s why am known as Sheamus the Shipbuilder aboot toon.’
“At this point, the traveler asks why they all have the same first name. Sheamus the Barmaker responds, ‘This toon is known as Sheamustoun, an’ aw through history aw wee boys wur named Sheamus. Then, at a point in the wean’s life he gits a title based on whit he did to be known aboot toon so we dinnae get mixed up speakin’ aboot him.’
“The traveler then notices a man sitting in the back corner of the pub, keeping to himself and clearly trying to avoid the conversation. The traveler yells to this gentleman, ‘Sheamus, what are you known for?’ The man angrily finishes his beer, slams the glass down on the table, storms over to the traveler, and shakes one finger in his face”—which Booger acted out as well— “while saying, ‘Ye shag wan sheep!’ and stomps out of the pub.”
Steve began to laugh, as did the group of young professionals seated near them who couldn’t help but here the joke. Once he regained his composure, Steve asked, “That was hilarious, but what does it have to do with why they call you Booger?”
“Well, one day in the second grade, I ate a booger that I had just picked out of my nose. Anthony Anderson saw me and told everyone in my class about it. Before long, all the kids were calling me Booger, and the name has stuck ever since. At this point, to be honest, I kind of like it,” he said with a shrug. “No one else I have ever met is called ‘Booger.’ Since we are now friends, you should call me Booger, too.”
“Okay, Booger,” Steve responded with a mix of awkwardness and joviality. “I’m glad you’ve changed your diet from boogers to burgers. Let’s finish lunch and get on with our investigation.”
After lunch, Booger and Steve spent a few hours back at Steve’s office, going through reports and discussing what they had learned on Saturday. On the drive to Claremore, both men agreed there was something Walters seemed to be trying to hide from them. The question to be answered was whether it was the affair with Scottie or something more. They also made a game plan for their meeting with Deputy Blackburn.
They arrived at the Rogers County Sheriff’s Office a little before 4:00 p.m. Steve approached the receptionist who sat behind a bulletproof glass wall with a two-way intercom system in the middle of it. Steve pushed the button and said, “Hello, we have a meeting with Deputy Blackburn at four.”
The receptionist led them back to Deputy Blackburn’s office.
Blackburn stood and approached them with an outstretched hand as they entered. “Nice to see you both again. Please, come in.” “Thank you for taking the time to see us,” Steve said.
Steve looked around the deputy’s office as he sat down. Deputy Blackburn showcased several awards on the walls from his service in the Rogers County Sheriff’s Office, and a degree from the University of Oklahoma hung on the wall behind his desk. The bookshelf to Steve’s left contained various knickknacks and a few photos. Steve noticed there were no pictures of a wife or family. He also noticed the desk was clean, and everything seemed to be in its place. Another section of the bookshelf was devoted to University of Oklahoma football memorabilia; there were a few team pictures and a game ball on the shelf.
Steve asked, “Did you play for OU?”
“Yes, I was a walk-on for Coach Stoops. I played my way into a scholarship and was eventually voted a captain by my teammates.” The deputy picked up a picture from the shelf and handed it over. “This one was from one of the greatest days of my life—six receptions for eighty-seven yards and a touchdown against Texas. I’m there, in the center of the team, wearing the Golden Hat; that’s the trophy for winning the Red River shootout. Whenever we won the game, everyone on the team took turns getting a picture with the trophy on their head.”
“But enough about my football days,” Deputy Blackburn said abruptly, taking the framed photo back and shifting the conversation to more serious matters. “I would love to hear what evidence you have found that exonerates your murdering client.” He said with a smirk.
“Well, Deputy Blackburn,” Steve said as he pulled the photos out of his briefcase. “If you take a close look here, I think the evidence will speak for itself.”
Steve stood and spread the photos out on the desk in front of Deputy Blackburn. “This one shows it best. You can see here, here, and here. The bedroom door in the Scottie home was not broken on the day in question. That means Ashley Pinkerton lied on the 911 call, and if she lied about that, then maybe there is more to this story than meets the eye.”
Deputy Blackburn began to chuckle under his breath. “And?” he asked loudly.
“What do you mean ‘and?’” asked Steve, somewhat flustered.
“These pictures—”
“I know you aren’t about to disparage the victim in this case and start calling her a liar to save your murdering client from the needle, are you?” the deputy interrupted him sharply. “We saw those pictures in our original investigation. Hell! I took the damn things. In every crime scene investigation, there is something that doesn’t fit, but when you take all the parts that fit and they all point to one thing, you disregard the outlying evidence as germane. Whether or not he broke the door doesn’t matter. Maybe he just opened it and barged through. Maybe she said ‘broke in’ on the call because she was scared, he was about to kill her. Either way, it doesn’t matter when you look at all of the other evidence that points to your client as the one who did it.”
Blackburn scowled at both men in turn. “If this is all you have, then you really need to go back to arguing about some bullshit constitutional loophole you damn defense lawyers are so good at and quit trying to be an investigator. If there isn’t anything else you have discovered, then this meeting is over, and I am going home. It’s been a long day.”
Steve was troubled by this response. He thought everyone would see the case his way, that this evidence created doubt in the state’s version of the story. He hadn’t considered the possibility that others had figured out the same thing and disregarded it as immaterial. Steve internally gathered himself. “Then, can I see your notes from the investigation?”
“As a matter of fact, I told First Assistant District Attorney Battel you were snooping around the case and planned to meet me today. He told me to let you know that if you want to see the police investigative files, you will have to get a court order. He told me not to turn them over without one. He actually didn’t even want me talking to you at all. I told him that, with my experience in interrogation, I could get out of you whatever information I needed without telling you a damn thing, which I think I just did,” Deputy Blackburn finished smugly.
“I see. Thank you for your time, Deputy Blackburn,” Steve said as calmly as he could, considering the anger that now surged through him. The two men quickly exited the deputy’s office.
As Steve and Booger walked back to their car, Steve said, “I was a bit surprised about how quickly he rejected our theory.”
“I wasn’t,” Booger said with a snort. “Did you honestly think he would admit a mistake? Remember, a lot of the time the police do an investigation, they already have a perpetrator in mind. Then, as they investigate, they gather evidence that points to that person and ignore evidence that doesn’t. There was a good podcast recently called Serial that discusses what I call the ‘police blinder’s mentality’ pretty well. You should listen to it.”
Steve drove away from the sheriff’s office, still thinking over the less-than-pleasant exchange.
