Page 41 of Broken
“Mr. Chubb?” I knock again.
No response. Not that I expected one.
“Chubb,” Jarvis yells. “Open up!”
Again, no response.
I knock one last time, this time pounding my fist on the wooden door as hard as I can. “FBI, Mr. Chubb. Open up, or we’re coming in!”
We have no warrant, but we have probable cause to believe a felon is inside. I nod to Jarvis, and we both draw our weapons.
I try the doorknob, and to my surprise, it turns. I open the door slowly, taking stock of the situation. “Mr. Chubb?” I call.
With Jarvis at my back, I enter. Once we’re both inside, we stay back-to-back as we creep through the small home. It’s in pretty good shape, decent beige carpeting and basic furniture that could have come straight out of the IKEA catalog. I inhale. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air. Someone is here or was here recently.
“Come on out, Chubb,” Jarvis calls.
We walk through the living area to the kitchen. A few dishes sit in the stainless steel sink. Nothing of note, until I shift my gaze to the sliding glass door to the back. The blinds are drawn, and I open them.
On the concrete deck sits a balding man smoking a cigarette. I slide the door open, my gun drawn.
“Mr. Chubb?”
The man raises his head and then gasps when he sees my weapon. “What the fuck?”
“Special Agent Marsh, FBI. Get those hands up. You’re under arrest for the murder of Joseph Hopkins.”
“I want a lawyer,”Chubb says for the umpteenth time. It’s all he’s said to us since we picked him up.
Jarvis and I are at the FBI office in Billings, sitting across from Eugene Chubb in one of the questioning rooms. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to the man.
“Someone from the Federal Public Defender’s Office is on the way,” I say, “but we’ve got you dead to rights on murder. Your DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails. There’s not much a lawyer can do for you now. You’re going down.”
“I’m not confessing,” he replies. “I’m waiting for my lawyer, but I can tell you I don’t even know the guy.”
“Then don’t confess,” Jarvis says. “We already know you did it. Your DNA under the guy’s fingernails at death? A grand jury will see it the same way. Your best bet is to talk to us.”
He says nothing.
I draw in a breath. Time to bring out the big gun. “You may find it interesting, Mr. Chubb, that although it’s used rarely, wecanask for the federal death penalty in this case.”
Chubb’s sunken eyes go wide.
“Agent Marsh is right.” Jarvis looks down at his laptop screen. “Murder of a state or local law enforcement officer—”
“Joey Hopkins was no cop,” Chubb grits out.
I raise my eyebrows. “So youdidknow him.”
Chubb pins his lips shut. Yeah, he’s stepped in it.
“You should have let Agent Jarvis finish,” I say. “The federal government can seek the death penalty in the murder of a state or local law enforcement official or other person aiding in a federal investigation.”
Though we’ve yet to determine whether Joseph Hopkins was aiding in an investigation, my gut tells me he was ready to turn evidence. It won’t hurt to let Chubb think he could face capital punishment—even though it’s unlikely.
A guard knocks and then opens the door. “Public defender’s here,” he says.
A young woman dressed in black pants and a white shirt enters carrying a laptop. “I’m Joycelyn Akers.”
