Five Stories

"The defense calls Chase Kramner," Charles says. I stand up and walk along the railing to the door, and step into the well of the court. I proceed straight to the stand and remain standing to swear in, then sit when told. A laptop with my presentation is already plugged in and ready to be shown on a screen facing the jury, the judge, and the audience.

"Good morning Mr. Kramner."

"Morning counsel," I reply.

"What is your occupation?" Charles asks.

"I am currently a private investigator licensed by the state of Ohio."

"What form of investigation do you specialize in?"

"I have only been a private investigator for almost a year. Hard to say where my specialty lies, but I have seen the resolution of missing person cases and criminal defense."

"What did you do before you were a private investigator?" he asks. This is the primary flaw in my testimony; I don't have an extensive history as an investigator in this manner. The cross will focus on this, but now Charles will buttress my credibility.

"I was a police officer for almost twelve years before a career ending injury, hence the leg. I was a detective for four years, homicide for two and Special Investigations Division for another two."

"For today's testimony, you are being called specifically for your expertise on cell phone towers. Could you take a moment to explain your expertise?"

"Certainly," I say. "In Special Investigations besides being a case auditor and working with Federal Agencies in multiple joint investigations, I often interpreted cell towers as they relate to criminal court proceedings." They're called Cell Sites, but the jury will be more familiar with the term tower. "I would submit warrants or requests for the cell tower information from the respective service providers and compile the information to determine their use in criminal investigations and prosecution."

"So, you have more experience on the prosecution table?" he asks.

"Yes, but the information is the same, the application of it is merely different."

"How do cell towers work exactly?"

"When you make a phone call from a cellular device, it doesn't just shoot into space to a satellite and come back down to the other device you are attempting to contact. It connects to a tower. The signal range of a tower extends 360 degrees from center, encompassing anywhere from .1-miles to a 20-mile radius. In rural areas you'll see even higher ranges."

"Okay. What does it mean when your phone is pinging on a tower."

"It merely means that tower is the one relaying your signal," I explain.

"Is that broad?"

"Extremely. It means you are anywhere within that radius."

"Anywhere within a 360-degree, up to a 20-mile radius. In theory, you could very well be 20-miles away from a crime scene if the crime took place in the same radius as the tower?"

"That's the radius, center to edge. If you're on the other side of the tower, you could be 40-miles," I say, just like we planned. "This is where sectors come into play. That is obviously a large range of ground to cover, so the towers themselves are divided into what the industry calls sectors. Often split into four sectors for the cardinal directions of North, South, East, and West. For instance, you could ping on tower A, in sector 3, which is East."

"What tower and sector did Mr. Vickers phone ping on?"

"If I may," I say, and ask the court to begin the presentation. It starts, and I request they move forward a few slides. This slide shows the cell sites around the city, and there are many.

"Mr. Vickers made a phone call at 1033 pm on the fifth of May this year. To my knowledge, that is twenty minutes before the assumed time of death for Mr. Spencer. This call lasted two minutes. The tower his call connected to was this tower here, circled in red. This tower is about a quarter mile from the scene of the crime and covers a radius of about twice that distance, so a half mile."

"You're saying Mr. Vickers was within a half mile from the crime, twenty minutes before it occurred?" Charles asks.

"No. Cell connection has more variables than just distance and proximity to towers. The tower you ping on, is not necessarily the tower you were closest to."

"What are some of the other variables?"

"Call volume. Weather. Signal strength of the phone or tower. Structures. Natural geography. Any number of things."

"It's more than possible Mr. Vickers made a phone call from his home, six miles away, but due to any number of factors, his call pings on that cell tower?"

"Not just possible, it's probable," I say.

"How so?"

"Mr. Vickers's phone regularly connected to that tower, rather than the one closest to his residence. It connected to this tower on that day, seven times the month before, and several more times in the weeks after the crime. Times where the fact he was at home is not in question," I explain.

DeShawn Vickers is taking online courses in a Zoom classroom. We know he's at home and I have records of him taking phone calls, and then returning to course work. The cell site those calls connected to was the one near the bar. It takes me several more minutes to explain that in detail.

"Thank you," Charles says, and returns to his seat. "Your witness."

"Mr. Kramner," the prosecutor says on the approach. "You've only been a private investigator for a year?"

"A few months shy, but yes."

"Correction, less than a year. You were a police officer before?"

"As I already stated, yes."

"For twelve years?"

"Correct."

"A detective for four."

"Yes."

"Would you say that's an extensive work history in that field?"

Lois was correct to drill me this way. It was the logical attack. They can't attack my facts, so they attack me.

"Does that make you qualified to testify as an expert witness?" he asks.

"Objection your honor," Charles says while standing. "Mr. Kramner has already been vetted and approved as an expert witness by the court. This line of questioning is outside of the scope."

"Sustained."

"Mr. Kramner, you stated this tower is not necessarily the tower DeShawn Vickers phone linked to?"

"That's not what I said," I say, and he freezes, trying to think where that went wrong.

"You said his phone would not always connect to the nearest tower?"

"That is correct. Various factors can cause a phone to ping on a different tower."

"But the closest tower could have been connected purely because of proximity?"

"Yes, it still could have."

"No more questions," he says, and has a seat with a satisfied look on his face. That's cute. Charles returns to his feet and steps toward me.

"Mr. Kramner, what kind of information do cell towers collect?"

"Sector and tower. Azimuth. GPS coordinates if within a certain time frame."

"GPS coordinates? It is possible to have more exact information on where a call was placed?"

"Sometimes within ten feet," I say.

"Was this information available?"

"No, the time window had already expired." Charles looks at the jury for a moment. That intrigued some of them.

"What do you mean by expired?"

"Service providers, like Verizon, AT&T, collect this information for their own uses. Federal law passed in 2010 required them to collect GPS as well, but they only retain that data for a short time."

"How short?" Get ready for this one.

"Mr. Vickers's service provider is Verizon. They retain GPS in this part of their network for 52 days." One member of the jury writes that down. She knows math.

"52 days? So, hypothetically, if an arrest warrant was executed, 54 days after a call was made, that information is just gone?"

"Objection. Leading question."

"I'll rephrase. If a call is made 54 days ago, can the GPS data be acquired?"

"It is no longer acquirable," I state. This is why they waited 54 days. They didn't have confidence the evidence would work for them, so they wanted it as vague as possible to confuse a jury. If that GPS data showed the call was made from his home, they had nothing. Or they did receive the data and withheld it during discovery. Regardless, it's underhanded.

"Were you able to acquire this data during the course of your investigation? GPS data I mean."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the arrest of Mr. Vickers occurred two days after it expired."

"Why would the authorities wait so long?"

"Objection, Mr. Kramner could not possibly know the plans or intentions of the police," the prosecutor says.

"Mr. Kramner was a police officer for a decade, I'm sure he has some experience and insight into that topic."

"He's not testifying as an expert on police procedure, it's outside of the scope of this examination."

"Sustained," the judge says after their back and forth.

"No further questions."

The recross is weak. He tries to play it as if my own ineptitude was the reason the GPS information couldn't be acquired. I remind him Verizon keeps the information for that time period, and the date of the arrest was two days later, and I wasn't hired for another month. It's literally impossible. He has no further questions and neither does Charles. I leave the stand and retake my seat behind him.

--

Monday - September 14, 2020

The verdict is read to the court. "Not Guilty."

The only other witness we put up was our firearm expert who destroyed what remained of the prosecution's case. The grain count of the ammunition found at the crime scene wasn't compatible with Deshawn's pistol. Not to mention his right hand was severely swollen because he broke it when he punched Oliver. It's a little difficult to hold a gun with a hand so fat you couldn't make a fist. The idea he was able to shoot Oliver accurately at that distance with his non-dominant hand wasn't something the jury could believe.

The jury was released to get a verdict on Friday and came back this morning. All in all, they only spent five hours debating Deshawn's fate. Handshakes and hugs, and I start planning my route home. DeShawn hugs his lawyer and shakes my hand. Leia hugs him as well, and we all leave the courtroom together. They decide to get drinks, at a different bar of course, but I let them know I need to get home. C & H Investigations has a waiting list now. They understand, and we split up in the parking lot. I'm digging for my car keys when I hear my name.

"Mr. Kramner?" I hear. I turn over my shoulder and see a man approaching me.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Saw your performance in there last week," he says, his hands stuffed into his pockets. The man appears early fifties with a thinning widows peak. His response to the windy fall is a dark coat that hangs to this lower calves. I'm not layered that way, so I know he's not from this climate.

"How can I help you?" I ask. The man extends his hand out for a shake.

"Justin Fontaine. Father of Meg Fontaine," he says. That name is familiar.

"Meg Fontaine?" I ask and shake his hand. "The actress who died a few months ago?"

Meg Fontaine died in an on-set accident while filming a television show in LA. She was known for doing her own stunts and did just that. In this soon-to-be-released, now indefinitely postponed crime series, Meg's character was to make her epic escape via repelling off a building. Her harness snapped, and she fell to her death. There was an inflated mat to catch her in case the harness failed, but she missed it by a few feet.

"Sorry to hear about your daughter, but why are you looking to talk to me?" I ask. Why is this guy in Ohio to talk to me? He didn't just stumble on me by chance.

"The police ruled it an accident, and the studio is offering me a settlement, but I don't want their money. I want answers," Justin says.

"There are plenty of PIs working in LA. Why me? Hell, how'd you even hear about me?"

"You've made the news, more than once, so I did my own research. As per LA investigators, I've hired them already. Two in fact. I get the same answer. The LA answer; shit happens," he says.

What does he expect me to find that three other PIs and the police couldn't? Perhaps he believes they merely wouldn't find out what happened.

"I'm not that kind of investigator."

"You yourself said you don't know what kind you are yet," he says. I can't help but smirk a little.

"Fair enough," I say, and lean against the car to think. "This is not me saying yes, but what makes you think it wasn't an accident?"

"This voicemail was left on my daughter's phone two days before the stunt," he says, and pulls out his phone. He touches the screen a few times and plays the message.

"You had your chance," a digitally distorted voice begins. "People will tell five stories about you. Which one is true? Mind the gap." The call cuts out a moment later.

"Two days before?" I ask.

"Blocked number, cops couldn't find out who. Two days later my daughter falls five stories and misses the mat. They can't trace calls that have already occurred, and it populated on her bill as an unknown number."

It's an interesting addition to the entire event. The accident is tragic enough but add the voicemail and it becomes sinister. Five stories. Mind the gap. Dies from a five-story fall. My interest in the case must have presented itself on my expression.

"Even you think there's something else there."

"There always is."

"I got money. You can expense anything you need. Flights, equipment, a car, name it," he says. Tempting offer. Full expense paid trip to LA for what is likely a crap shoot. Part of me wants the money, the other part of me wants to take the time I'd be wasting to work on a case that will actually help someone.

"I need to talk with my partners before I agree to anything," I say. That's a better way of saying I need to talk to my wife. "Tell you what. Send me what the other PIs and the police managed to get if you can get it. I'll dig up what I can. In a couple of days, I'll let you know if I can take the case."

"Of course. Take my card. Let me know," he says while extending a card out to me. "I have other investigators I'll be talking to as well," he adds, just to put some pressure on me to take the case fast. You don't come all the way out to Ohio from LA to talk to other investigators, but I understand what he's going for.

I sit in my car and watch him leave in my sideview mirror and then transition my gaze to the rearview mirror. When I know he's gone, I look at the card.

Justin Fontaine. One in the Chamber Productions

I put his card under the mirror of my visor and start the car. I pause for a second and remove the card to look at it again.

"Five stories," I say to myself. "Which one is true?"

I make up my mind before I even put the car in reverse to back up from my parking space. I want this case.

--

Thursday - September 17, 2020

I rested up from the trial and held my daughter all day Monday. I had been gone for a month and she is only two months old, so I had been away for half of her life. Like her mother, she already has a head of black hair that is seems to grow longer by the hour. Jenn needed the break, so I'm on diaper and feeding duty. Tuesday, I held her all day as well. Wednesday, Nathan and I went back to yardwork. Nathan follows me in the little buggy as I mow the grass on the riding mower. When the grass is mowed, we start work on the garden.

I've been on a weird sustainable living kick recently. We've started to grow our own vegetables with limited success. First thing was the raised bed, which I screwed up more times than I care to admit. I was raised in an elitist east coast family. As much as I enjoy working with my hands, the image in my mind hardly ever matches the outcome. I may have gotten frustrated and threw the lumber across the yard when I'd hammer my own thumb. Or the board split on the attempts when I didn't hit my own hand. Or the wire I set up around the crops would suddenly roll back into itself and scratch my arms. Nathan might have increased his vocabulary around me. When he falls over, he now screams motherfucker, cocksucker, sonofabitch, or fuck nugget. Jenn is not happy about that. She knows where it came from, so she slaps the back of my head instead of his rear.

I look over my soil, inspecting for seedlings. Not a thing. No green in this garden. Cabbage, squash, onions, and cucumbers. All the research in the world can't help me not suck at this. I still water it as if I can grow something and move to the garage for the next chore.

I drive my car up on the ramps and then crawl under the bottom. I balance my phone on the tire with a video playing. It's an instructional video on how to change your own oil. It looks simple enough, but so did gardening. I drag the toolbox under with me, looking for the oil plug. I find it and start measuring wrenches on it. Once found, I adjust to make sure the oil pan is in position. I loosen the oil plug and see that I'm completely off target with the pan.

"Fuck, fuck," I grumble, and slid the pan under. I finish loosening the plug and discover I was on target as the old oil begins to stream out. "Oh fuck you!"

I spill a good amount of oil on myself scrambling to catch it. Footsteps echo in the garage, and I spit the little bit of oil to landed too close to my mouth.

"Bud, mind grabbing me a rag?" I ask, assuming it was Nathan. A hand extends a rag down to me, but I notice it's much bigger than a child's. It also has an expensive watch on its wrist and hairy knuckles. I wipe the oil off my face and shimmy my way out from under the car to see who is here.

"Not what I was expecting," Justin Fontaine says from above me. I crawl out from under the car, and he assists me upright. I hop on one foot over to the workbench to help with balance. "Ivy League educated and lives in the middle of nowhere, grows crops, and changes his own oil."

"How'd you get my address?" I ask and look at my shirt to assess the damage. Got myself pretty good, and I see oil starting to pool out from under the car. "Shit."

"Didn't imagine someone in the Kramner family needs to pinch pennies."

"How'd you find me?" I ask again.

"You'd be amazed what you can Google. Didn't need to be a cop to find it," he explains. I'll have to find which information broker site I need to email. "Have you talked to your partners about it?"

"Not yet. Need a few days to clear my head before I jump into that. You get me what I asked for?"

Justin unlocks his phone and shows all the information saved digitally and sends it to our official email in front of me.

"Both of the PIs full write ups, and what I could scrounge together from RHD. That's Robbery..."

"...Homicide Division. LAPD's finest. RHD couldn't crack that nut? You expect a guy living in the middle of nowhere to do a better job than a billion-dollar department?"

"You don't have politics or red tape to get in your way. You're not bogged down or too concerned with caseloads. You have the reputation of not letting police culture or close rates get in your way. You care about one thing; the truth. It made you a lot of enemies I was told."

I laugh a little. "Who the hell told you that?"

"William Kaiser. Midge Appletree. Dahlia Eastland. I did my due diligence before I asked you. I wanted the man who doesn't accept the easy answer because it's easy. I want the man who digs. Who doesn't care who someone is and how uncomfortable they get around questions like that."

That did make me a lot of enemies. Some police officers see the blue wall as something sacred that needs to be protected at all costs. I never did. To many cops, that made me a traitor. To them, there are three kinds of people: cops, criminals, and everyone else. The problem is, cops are people too, and cops and criminals are not mutually exclusive. I was never popular in the department, but I was never hated either. Not until I arrested a cop.