Kidnapped by a Client Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Sharon R. Muse

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover photo courtesy of Kevin Bryan with Visual Poet Studios

  ISBN: 978-1-5107-3594-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3595-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my heavenly father, God, for rescuing me time and time again. To my warrior of a dad, Richard R. Muse and my lifelong playmate, best friend and world’s greatest brother Richard (Rick) Jesse Muse who both passed before this book was printed. I would have never survived without your influence. And to my Mom, Bonnie L. Muse, who showed me what it looks like to walk in faith—especially when it is hard. My sister Lisa, for being a constant support. I’m blessed beyond measure.

  Honorable Robert G. Johnson, Circuit Judge for the 14th JC and later a Court of Appeals Judge, and to my jury. Combined you gave me my life back. There are no words to adequately thank you. Codell and Vickie Gibson and David Roe. Your willingness to intervene in an act of violence quite literally saved my life. Jeff Ballard, your intelligence and strength helped me navigate the most terrifying moments of my life and may have saved my trial. Steve Schroering, your expertise and friendship carried me through. Amy Lusk, you stood in the gap when I couldn’t do it myself. God sent each of you to protect me. Thank you for doing it.

  Everything good that comes from this story is because of you.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART ONE: THE ATTACK

  CHAPTER 1: No?

  CHAPTER 2: Ma’am, I Don’t Know Anything

  CHAPTER 3: A Big Scene

  CHAPTER 4: A Dogfight

  CHAPTER 5: On TV They Always Stop

  CHAPTER 6: A Harmless Guy, a Bloody Woman, and a Long Knife

  CHAPTER 7: The Green Duffle

  CHAPTER 8: You Picked the Wrong Woman!

  CHAPTER 9: Whirling Dervish

  CHAPTER 10: The Aftermath

  PART TWO: THE CRIMINAL’S JUSTICE SYSTEM

  CHAPTER 11: Circling the Drain

  CHAPTER 12: Conspicuously Absent

  CHAPTER 13: The Stairwell

  CHAPTER 14: Freedom

  CHAPTER 15: Trial Wear

  CHAPTER 16: The Plea Offer

  CHAPTER 17: That’s Just What We Do

  CHAPTER 18: Great is thy Faithfulness

  PART THREE: THE TRIAL

  CHAPTER 19: The Juice Isn’t Worth the Squeeze

  CHAPTER 20: Trial Part I—The Jury’s Dilemma

  CHAPTER 21: Trial Part II—Who Was in Charge?

  CHAPTER 22: Trial Part III—The Five-Year Wait

  CHAPTER 23: Trial Part IV—The Doggone Knife

  CHAPTER 24: Is He Single?

  CHAPTER 25: Malingering

  CHAPTER 26: Thirteen Calls

  EPILOGUE: The Campaign

  APPENDICES

  A Conversation with Sharon R. Muse

  Topics For Discussion

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  911 CALL

  DATE: April 7, 2006

  BOURBON COUNTY

  TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT

  DISPATCHER: Okay. What’s going on?

  MALE CALLER: I’m not sure. I just pulled up. There’s a woman here—she ran into the road [with her shirt down]. She was screaming and asked for help, said she didn’t know where she was. Said she’s a lawyer and this guy was a criminal or something. I just pulled up on this.

  DISPATCHER: Okay. What’s going on out there now?

  MALE CALLER: Let her tell you.

  MS. MUSE: This is Sharon Muse. Is this . . .

  DISPATCHER: This is State Police, honey. [Are you injured?] Do you need an ambulance?

  MS. MUSE: I don’t know, I don’t know.

  DISPATCHER: Okay, Sharon. Just take a deep breath for me, okay, honey?

  MS. MUSE: I’m so scared—he’s going to kill me.

  DISPATCHER: I know, honey. You’ve got other people that are there with you right now, right?

  MS. MUSE: Yes. But he is still here, please hurry.

  DISPATCHER: Okay. We’ve got a trooper on his way to you, okay?

  MS. MUSE: Do you know how close they are? Please hurry. He keeps trying to get around these people to get to me. I want him away from me. I can’t fight him off anymore; he’ll kill me if he can get to me. Please hurry! He is getting close to me—

  [Muse to Morrison] You need to stay away from me!

  DISPATCHER: [in background operator to trooper on radio: “You got an ETA?”] Okay Sharon. We’ve got them on their way, okay, honey? There’s a trooper who’s coming out there to you who’s going to take care of all of it. Are there other people there with you still? Sharon? Sharon? Honey, are you there? Sharon?

  “It doesn’t matter if you get away,” he said. “I’m going to kill you. It may be tomorrow, it may be next year, but I’m going to kill you.”

  I believed him then. I believe him now.

  I barely survived the first time he came for me.

  Why did he come for me?

  I don’t know. It isn’t possible for the mind of the rational to understand the mind of the obsessed. At no point in this story will you say, “Oh, of course. That’s why he planned to kill her. That makes sense.”

  Crime can be random. Mine wasn’t. This crime was born, nurtured, and fed in the depths of the mind of an evil and twisted predator.

  I never saw it coming.

  I first met Larry Morrison1 years ago when I successfully helped him navigate a legal matter. Once the case ended, I did not think of him again. He eventually landed in prison for the same charge with a different lawyer. He went in disturbed and came out evil two and half years later. He inexplicably fixated on me, plotting my rape and murder as he obsessed in his prison cell. Which brings me to this case, my case, The Commonwealth of Kentucky v. Larry Morrison in which I was not his lawyer. I was his victim.

  I take umbrage when I’m labeled a “victim.” I will not allow it to become my moniker, though it is my title in this legal drama. But it makes me feel as if I’m weak. My strength is one of many things this man has taken from me, along with my dignity and pride. But I’ll take it back.

  I’ve made it my job to make sure he doesn’t see the light of day again. No one else is keeping watch. Each day of incarceration for him is a day of life for me. Despite multiple witnesses, plenty of physical evidence, and a terrifying crime scene, Morrison was not charged with a number of crimes that would have added to his potential sentence. He tried to rape me, yet he was never charged with attempted rape. He told me he was going to kill me and did his best to slit my throat, yet he was never charged with attempted murder. After he was arrested, he was almost released due to a clerical error.

  Procedural errors, data entry errors, and apathy are just as dangerous as murderous p
sychopaths, it turns out. If I weren’t a lawyer savvy in the institution of law and if I hadn’t been relentless in advocating for myself, I’d probably be dead right now. Or he would be, since I embraced something I called proactive self-protection. But we’ll get to that later.

  I was shocked by the reality of how the system works, the system I’ve spent my life serving. I came to realize the criminal justice system is, in actuality, the criminal’s justice system.

  My story is a crash course in safety, forgiveness, and criminal law.

  I had to learn these things the hard way. It almost cost me my life.

  Don’t dismiss this. Learn from it.

  I, too, said, “This can’t be happening to me.” I was wrong.

  1 Larry Morrison is not the criminal’s real name. I choose not to give him further notoriety.

  PART ONE

  THE ATTACK

  CHAPTER 1

  NO?

  COMMONWEALTH OF KENTUCKY

  v.

  LARRY MORRISON

  DIRECT EXAMINATION OF SHARON MUSE

  [BY ASSISTANT COMMONWEALTH’S ATTORNEY, MR. EARLY]

  Q: For the record, would you state your name?

  A: Sharon Muse.

  Q: Are you okay, Ms. Muse?

  A: It’s hard to be here.

  Q: Okay. If you need a break—

  A: No—

  [Bailiff brings water]

  A: [To bailiff] Thank you.

  Q: Just a few questions so the jury will know who you are, okay? Can you tell us where you’re from?

  A: Georgetown, Kentucky.

  Q: What do you do for a living, Sharon?

  A: I’m an attorney there. I have my own office.

  Q: Who was at the office that day? Do you have a secretary working for you?

  A: I have an assistant, Judy. She was there that day.

  Q: That was Friday. Did you have plans for that night or for the weekend?

  A: I did. One of my best friends who lives in Louisville had had a lot of difficult things going on in her life and was upset. I promised her I would meet her at her house with another friend at 6:00 so that we could spend some time together.

  Q: Sharon, I’m going to have to ask you to speak up a little bit. It’s—

  A: I’m sorry.

  Q: Now, did someone come to visit you in the office earlier that day, before 5:00?

  A: Yes. My mom came in between 3:00 and 3:30. She had been having health problems, some things we couldn’t get figured out. And that day, she had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and she wasn’t sure of treatment. It was a very upsetting afternoon.

  Q: Now, Sharon, take your time, but tell me—what happened as you left your office that day?

  I’ll tell you what happened.

  I was unprepared, so I resorted to what I knew: good manners, logic, and words. I acted exactly the way I’d been trained to act since Sunday school. I was uncomfortable, but I was polite. And then I was kidnapped.

  * * *

  Awkwardly carrying a box of files and my briefcase, I pressed a cell phone between my shoulder and cheek and listened to my boyfriend, Jeff, on the other end as I mouthed goodbye to my assistant, Judy. I stepped out of the office into the hall and caught a glimpse of someone’s arm disappearing around a corner.

  I turned and pushed the office door shut with my foot, struggled to grip my phone between my shoulder and ear, balance my box of files and tried not to sigh. Jeff was my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. He was a nice guy, but we weren’t in the best place. I didn’t really want to talk to him, or anyone, right then. It’d been a tough day. I was still upset about my mom’s cancer diagnosis and was on my way to a friend’s house to discuss what to do about her treatments and what to do with the men in our lives.

  Turning to walk down the hall, I abruptly stepped back to avoid bumping into a man in his forties who looked vaguely familiar. A former client? Yes, that was it, but I had no recollection of who, when, or why.

  Built like a fireplug, he was your average Southern redneck with a yellow mullet and muddy green eyes. I squinted, trying to place him. What kind of case was it? Regardless, I was pretty sure it was the same guy who had ducked around the corner a second ago. He was squarely in front of me, eyes locked with mine, filling up the hallway.

  I was annoyed. I wanted to leave. Why was he waiting for me out here? What was wrong with my waiting room?

  “Hello? Hello?” Jeff’s voice sounded far away.

  “Hey, let me call you back. Someone’s here waiting for me,” I told Jeff, not breaking eye contact with the man in front of me. His intense stare made me squirm.

  I closed my flip phone, opened my mouth to ask questions, but before I could speak . . .

  “Sharon,” he said, as though we had known each other for years. He leaned into my space, vibrating with urgency. At first glance, he looked like an innocuous blue-collar guy, yet something about him disturbed me. I kept my composure, staying professional and calm and asserting authority—or so I thought. Instinctively, I took a step or two back to create space between us.

  His voice was desperate, pleading.

  “My grandmother wanted me to come see you since you did such a great job for us before. We need your help.”

  He blocked my exit. I didn’t like it. “I . . .”

  “My wife just died. We’re scared.”

  That explained his appearance, his odd behavior. He was in crisis mode. His eyes drilled into mine, then darted around. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, as if his life depended on this conversation.

  “We don’t know what to do. Her bank accounts are frozen. We don’t have any money and need help now.” He continued, “You are the only one who can help us.”

  I deal with people from all walks of life, but this was an unusual experience even for me.

  “I am very sorry for your loss.” I suppressed a tinge of guilt at the realization that I didn’t have the energy to help this man. Normally empathetic, I was too drained by the long, difficult day. My head and heart were still reeling after the intense conversation with my mother. “I can help your family, but it’s 5:00 p.m. on a Friday. The courts are closed. I can’t get you in front of a judge until Monday morning. There is nothing I can do for you now.”

  “There will be a lot of money in this for you,” he said in a rush, talking over me, not seeming to register a word I’d said.

  What was going on?

  Something was off—with him and his story. I knew he was telling the truth about my working with him in the past, yet the circumstances eluded me. I saw hundreds of people a year. The way he kept referencing his grandma made me think I must have done an adoption for him since that was the only time I interacted with extended family.

  I moved again to create distance, but he moved with me. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife.” I peered around, trying to plot a course to maneuver past him. “But that’s not how it works. You’d pay me hourly, like any other case. I don’t get more money because your wife had money. I’ll do a good job for you, regardless. But I can’t help you right now. As I said, the courts are closed. Go in my office and make an appointment with Judy. Then come back Monday, and I’ll see how quickly we can get you in front of a district judge.”

  I started walking toward the exit, but he stood in the middle of the hallway blocking my way. He wasn’t much taller than I, but he was bulkier.

  “You did such a good job last time. We’ll pay you really well.” Syrup dripped from his words. His cheek twitched.

  The guy was under a lot of pressure. But I wanted out of there. I wanted to sit down with my friends and decompress.

  Staying between the exit and me, he fidgeted, talking fast, speaking in repetitive phrases. “I miss my wife so much. I know you can help us.” His face sagged. “We really need your help.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a giant roll of cash wrapped with a yellow rubber band. The edges of his mouth curled.

  Was there something white tu
cked into the bundle? I tilted my head to see, but he jabbed the bills toward my hand that held the briefcase, trying to get me to grab the wad. Instead, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the briefcase handle, refusing to take the money. I wondered why this man insisted on giving me a thick roll of cash if he was so scared of not having access to money.

  “My family really appreciates you,” he said, jarring me out of my thoughts. His flinty stare was devoid of the emotion lacing his voice. Maybe he was trying not to cry? He thrust the money toward me again.

  I excused his erratic behavior as a result of grief and fear. As his former attorney, a sense of obligation flitted around my conscience, even if I couldn’t remember him. My Southern manners told me I should at least take some time to talk with him. My Christian upbringing told me I should serve this man and help an individual in need. Yet I had an inkling I needed to get away from him. I hesitated, unsure what to do.

  As I stepped to one side, he edged in front of me. I stepped to the other side, he sidled that way. Whichever direction I moved, he moved, as if we were locked in some kind of bizarre dance. My armload of files made it impossible to angle past him in the hallway.

  “We need you. I can pay!” He waved the cash in front of me.

  “No, no,” I told him, sliding along the wall, trying to move past him. “That’s not how it works. Make an appointment with Judy. She’ll draft a contract, and you can pay a retainer. You don’t hand me cash.”

  “There’s a lot in it for you.” His face was panicked, worry wafting off him like sweat. “She was worth a lot of money.”

  “This isn’t a contingency case,” I said. “I’ll be glad to help you. I’ll get you in front of a judge next week. But I can’t do anything now. The courts are closed.”

  He did not respond to me, only repeated, “You did a great job for us before. There’s a lot of money in this for you.”

  I still could not place him. Yes, it had to be an adoption case. Clients can become very attached to their adoption attorneys, and the man clearly had an emotional attachment to me—in a desperate, clingy way. I didn’t even know his name, but I did not want to admit to a former client that I couldn’t remember him. Especially not this guy.