Chapter Eight Margo Angelhart
Chapter Eight
Margo Angelhart
I arrived at my mom’s house early, bringing coffee. I hadn’t been able to sleep much, and Cal left before dawn for an interagency
meeting in Yuma, so I couldn’t even use him as a morning distraction. Judging by Mom’s wrinkled skirt and heavy concealer,
she hadn’t slept much either.
“Would you mind driving my car?” she asked, handing me the keys to her Escalade. “It’s more comfortable.”
“You’re letting me drive? Sure.” I wouldn’t complain about using Mom’s luxury SUV because, while I loved my old Jeep Wrangler,
it was basic.
We left just before eight, braving commuter traffic through downtown Phoenix. After we passed the airport, it was smooth sailing
toward Eyman Prison.
Mostly in silence.
Now and then, Mom would ask me something.
“How’s Cal?”
“Good. He cooked for me the other night.”
“That’s nice.”
Silence again.
Eventually, I said, “You know, if you just tell me what you know, this would be a lot easier.”
“Your father has to be the one to speak,” she said.
More silence.
Then Mom: “Did you get fitted for your maid-of-honor dress? Tess was worried that you’d miss your appointment.”
“I didn’t miss it. The dress is beautiful.”
“It’ll be a lovely wedding.”
“Mom—”
“Please, Margo. I can’t talk about this. I just can’t.” She paused, then added, “Cooper called me last night. From a cell
phone.”
That stopped me cold.
“And?”
“The warden was arguing with someone on a call yesterday about your father. A guard overheard it but didn’t know any details.
I’m worried.”
My heart flipped. Had I put Dad in danger? He was trapped and vulnerable. But how could my visit have prompted scrutiny? I
drove down nearly every week. Our conversation had been semiprivate—no one was close enough to hear, not the guards or the
other prisoners.
“No one overheard us,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“Liz, whatever she saw or said, maybe someone thought . . . maybe they did something.”
“That’s not a full thought, Mom.”
“I don’t have a full thought in my head!” Her voice cracked. “I’m sick with worry. About your father, about you, about holding
this family together.”
I glanced at her. “We’re okay. Except for Dad being in prison.”
She was hiding something. The secrets and half-truths were making me mad.
I bit back the angry words running through my mind when I saw the pain in her eyes.
What the hell was going on?
Ten minutes from the prison, she asked, “Are you bringing Cal to the wedding?”
As calm as anything, as if we didn’t just argue.
“If we’re still together when I get the invite, sure.”
“I thought you liked him.”
Clearly, Mom wasn’t completely listening, because my tone should have told her I was joking. “I do. I already told him to
save the date.”
“Oh. Good. I like Cal. You deserve someone who appreciates you. Jack’s lucky to have Laura. She’s been so good for him.”
“She’s great,” I said, hating this conversation. This was Mom’s coping strategy: focus on the future to avoid the present.
When we arrived at Eyman, we showed our IDs at the guard gate and I parked as close as I could get to the visitor entrance.
I checked my firearm with the guard because Mom didn’t have a lockbox in her car, and I wasn’t about to leave it unsecured
under the seat.
“Morning, Mrs. Angelhart. Margo,” he said. “Visiting hours haven’t started yet, but I’ll see if we can get you in early.”
“Thank you, Bob,” Mom said with a tight smile.
The guards all knew Mom used to be a prosecutor, and my dad was a model prisoner. Generally, if you followed the rules and
were polite, the guards were happy to bend the rules a bit. We were always nice to the guards—even the ones who were jerks.
We moved through a set of locked doors into the sterile waiting area.
Metal chairs lined the walls. A corner held toys and worn children’s books.
Two very young boys played quietly, their mother watching with hollow eyes.
A man sat alone, staring blankly ahead. A couple sat near each other, holding hands like lifelines.
Weekends were busier. On a weekday morning, the quiet usually relaxed me. But not today.
The door opened. Everyone turned.
“Visiting starts in ten minutes,” a tall, broad-shouldered guard I recognized said. Tony Zanutti. He was almost always here
when I came to visit. To us, he said, “Mrs. Angelhart? The warden would like to speak with you.”
Mom froze. She was shaking.
“Mom?” I touched her elbow, urging her to stand.
“Tony?” Her voice cracked. “What happened? Is Cooper okay?”
She rose, but looked like she might collapse, so I held her arm.
“Let’s talk to the warden,” I said gently, guiding her toward the door, even though every muscle in my body was tense and
ready to snap. I tried to assess Tony’s expression. He looked . . . concerned. Worried. Or maybe I was projecting.
We followed Tony through a long corridor, each locked door opening ahead of us, then closing with a sharp click before the next door opened. At the final hallway, Tony used a key to unlock a door into the administrative wing where he
led us straight into Warden Alvarez’s office. Past the admin’s desk. She gave us a somber look. Or maybe I imagined it. Then
Tony knocked once and opened the door after a curt “Enter” from inside.
The warden’s office was modest in size with sparse but comfortable furnishings, a state-of-the-art computer system, and a
window that looked out to a green field beyond the fence. Eyman had been built in the middle of a vast agricultural area.
David Alvarez was in his early fifties with neatly trimmed gray hair and steely eyes. He was physically fit and wore a suit,
though the jacket hung on a coatrack inside the door. I’d met Alvarez a few times.
“Dave, what happened?” Mom asked.
“Ava, please sit.” He gestured toward one of two chairs. “Margo.”
Mom didn’t move. I gently nudged her forward and she sat on the edge of the seat. I stood behind her, suddenly protective.
If this was bad news . . .
I couldn’t think that way. Dad was fine. This was something else. I hoped. I prayed.
I braced myself. Military posture. I hadn’t worn a uniform in years, but the habit was hardwired.
“Ava, there’s no easy way to say this,” Alvarez said. “Cooper was transferred early this morning to a federal penitentiary.
It happened before I even got in.”
Mom sat stiff as a board, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Silent.
“Impossible,” I said automatically. “There was no hearing. No warning. His lawyer wasn’t contacted. I saw him yesterday—he
didn’t know anything about this!”
“I’m just as surprised,” Alvarez said. “I got a call just before six last night. A federal judge signed an emergency order.
It’s sealed, but I confirmed it was filed as an order of protection. I thought the transport would be Friday, because that’s
what the clerk verbally told me. But this morning, he was gone before I arrived at eight.”
“Where is he?” I asked. “We need the order, the judge’s name, who asked for the transfer, everything you have.”
“The order is sealed,” Alvarez said. “But it was signed by US District Judge Emilio Hernandez. Two US Marshals picked Cooper
up at two a.m. He’s been flown to the administrative facility in Florence, Colorado.”
“Administrative?” I asked. “That’s good, right?” I thought that anything with administrative in the title was maybe for white-collar criminals, or minimum security.
Mom answered quietly. “Supermax.”
“What?” I stared at her. “Supermax? That’s for terrorists and cartel bosses and serial killers. Why the hell would Dad be there?”
“It has to be a mistake,” Alvarez said. “Cooper’s lawyer might be able to get more answers. I’m trying, but so far . . .”
He shook his head, looked from Mom to me.
“We need to see that order,” I said. Even if it was sealed, we should be able to glean some information from it. A name, someone
to call.
He nodded and picked up his phone.
I couldn’t stop my brain from spinning. This wasn’t random. It had to connect to Liz Swanson. Someone knew she was looking for a file they didn’t want her to see. And that someone got her killed the next morning.
Maybe Dad knew something too. And whoever was covering up Dr. Klein’s murder didn’t want Dad to talk.
But he hadn’t talked three years ago, why would he talk now?
“Did my father say anything?” I asked when he put the phone down. “To you? A guard? Did he have any visitors yesterday other
than me?”
“That will be in the logs.”
“Then we want the logs,” I said. “Every visitor, call, letter. The personal effects from his cell.”
“I’ll gather what we have. Cooper was a model prisoner. Well liked by both staff and inmates.”
“Don’t talk about him in the past tense,” I snapped, then took a breath, trying to rein in my temper.
Mom reached over and touched my arm. “Dave,” she said, voice steady. “May we please speak with Cooper’s cellmate? Ken Nelson?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll have Tony bring him to the visitors’ room while I pull the records.”
“Thank you,” Mom said.
I’d met Ken a few times. Sketchy as hell, but Dad seemed to like him. Said he was a good guy. I wasn’t convinced. He was in
for fraud and money laundering. But probably a good idea to talk to him.
Alvarez walked us out. Tony was already waiting.
“Tony, please escort the Angelharts to the visiting area. Then ask Mr. Nelson if he’s willing to speak with them.”
“Yes, sir.”
I followed, still trying to make sense of what had happened since Monday night.
Liz Swanson saw something in the medical records that she shouldn’t have. And now she was dead.
And now my father was locked away in one of the most secure prisons in the country.
Whatever the connection was between Liz, Dr. Klein, and my father, I would find it.
No matter what.