THE TOWN OF SARANAC LAKE straddles the line between Franklin and Essex Counties, in the northeastern corner of New York State. For the traveler, it is equidistant from the Canadian border to the north, and Burlington, Vermont, across Lake Champlain to the east. For the serious hiker, it affords a stopover between the Adirondack Mountains that stretch to the southwest, and the Alder Brook Range that reaches up toward the northeast. It is surrounded by hundreds of lakes and ponds with names that only hint at their beauty: Placid, Rainbow, Clear, Silver, Wolf, Buck, Loon, and Fern.

According to an entry in Deke Stanton’s Daily Activity Log, he arrived at State Police Headquarters in Saranac Lake with his “suspect” Jonathan Hamilton at 1225 hours, or twelve twenty-five that Sunday afternoon. There is no mention in the log of Captain Duquesne’s having accompanied them, let alone having driven them. From 1245 to 1350, Stanton processed his suspect. “Processed” is a term usually reserved for what an arresting officer does with a prisoner, not a suspect: taking fingerprints and photographs, and asking “pedigree” questions - the individual’s full name, address, date and place of birth, type of employment, and related information. Processing is an activity that can normally be accomplished in twenty minutes or so.

Although the facilities at Saranac Lake included a state-of-the-art interrogation room, complete with an audio-video recording device hidden behind a two-way mirror, it was not unusual for an investigator to conduct a “pre-interview session” with a subject in a smaller room, without benefit of any recording equipment. In the case of Jonathan Hamilton, Stanton did just that: He sat down and talked with Jonathan for a while in a small room. Because only the two of them were present, no one but Jonathan would ever be able to dispute Stanton’s subsequent recollection of what questions were asked during the session, and what answers were given.

According to Stanton’s account, Jonathan initially admitted killing his grandparents in a “rage,” stabbing first his grandfather, then his grandmother, as the two of them slept together on the bed in their room. Asked why he had killed them, Jonathan replied that his grandparents had been “mean” to him, and had treated him “like a little boy,” something that had made him “so frustrated” that he had finally “lost it” and “couldn’t take any more of them.” As Stanton pressed Jonathan for more details, however, Jonathan “clammed up,” at one point saying that “Mr. Bass” had told him he didn’t have to answer questions until they gave him a lawyer. This last point would serve to drive a wedge between Stanton and McClure that continues to exist to this very day. Publicly McClure insists that he never gave Jonathan such advice, and speculates that if Jonathan indeed said it, he must have misunderstood McClure, and certainly misquoted him. But there can be little doubt that McClure liked Jonathan and felt sorry for him that morning, and, in the minds of some observers, it doesn’t overly strain credulity to believe that Stanton may have been telling the truth here.

In any case, Stanton appears to have concluded processing Jonathan at that point, or shortly thereafter. According to his log, Jonathan was still a suspect, meaning he hadn’t yet been formally arrested. Stanton would later contend that Jonathan wasn’t even in custody, and was, therefore, free to leave had he wanted to. But the notion that Stanton would have let Jonathan get up and walk out the door after admitting a double murder is unthinkable. Far more likely is the conclusion that, in Stanton’s mind, as long as he didn’t formally arrest Jonathan, he could continue to question him without the necessity of giving him his Miranda rights.

Later that afternoon, Stanton brought Jonathan to the interview room and seated him at a table in such a way that Jonathan was facing where the interviewer would be sitting, as well as the mirror that concealed the hidden video camera. Stanton then locked the door from the outside (an act that arguably sheds some light on the issue of whether or not Jonathan was free to leave) while he rounded up a video technician and a second investigator, Phillip Manley, to sit in on the interview.

As the tape begins, Jonathan can be seen sitting at the table in what can only be described as a daze. His hair is uncombed and his face unshaven. The wooden chair in which he sits has arms and has been pulled all the way up to the table, the way court officers seat an incarcerated defendant at trial. But Jonathan’s hands are visible from time to time, and it is obvious that he isn’t handcuffed. On the desk, conspicuously facing the camera, is a large clock. The camera zooms in on the face of the clock, which shows the time to be three-fourteen. The camera pans back, then closes in on Jonathan’s face. Other than a smudge of dried blood across his forehead, there is no sign of injury of any sort.

Stanton begins the interview by identifying himself, Investigator Manley, and Jonathan for the record. He gives the date, time, and place. He states that they are there to discuss “an incident” that happened earlier that morning, down at Flat Lake. He then proceeds to administer the Miranda rights to Jonathan, advising him that he has a right to remain silent, a right to an attorney, and a right to have an attorney appointed free of charge if he can’t afford one. Next he tells Jonathan that anything he says may be used against him in a court of law. After each warning, Stanton asks Jonathan if he understands; Jonathan says the word “yes” four times in response, softly but distinctly. Finally, he asks if Jonathan is willing to answer some questions without a lawyer.

Jonathan’s response is given so softly that one has to turn the volume all the way up to hear it. Even then, it is almost impossible to make out, and the tape may have to be rewound and played several times for the listener to catch it. It is only when one knows the words one is listening for that they become apparent. What Jonathan says is this: “I-I-I still think I want a l-l-lawyer.”

Under the law, these are magic words. By invoking his right to counsel, a suspect effectively ends an interrogation. Stanton, quick to recognize that this is what has happened, terminates the interview immediately, at 1521 hours, or 3:21 p.m., seven minutes after it has begun. The tape goes black.

In retrospect, Jonathan’s response would seem to raise far more questions than it answered. First, given Jonathan’s limited, almost primitive understanding of the questioning process - and his complete lack of familiarity with the legal system, which he had never encountered before - it is highly doubtful that the decision to invoke his right to counsel was his own. During the preliminary questioning regarding the rights, Jonathan replied directly four times, each time in a normal voice, giving no hint that he would suddenly refuse to answer when it came to substantive questions. Second, there is the little matter of the word still: “I still think I want a lawyer.” Had Jonathan told Stanton earlier that he wanted a lawyer, and had Stanton ignored the request? That is certainly one possibility, though those who knew Jonathan Hamilton best have great difficulty accepting that scenario, given Jonathan’s limited resources and his history of compliance. They argue that for Jonathan to have asked for a lawyer at any point, someone must have planted the seed in his mind. Had Bass McClure made the suggestion? McClure vehemently denies it.

There remains yet another possibility. As an investigator, Deke Stanton had earned a reputation as something of a bulldog. He was energetic and tenacious, and certainly wasn’t above cutting a corner or two in order to get a result. Witness, for example, his apparent readiness to violate regulations by driving off alone with Jonathan from the crime scene earlier that day. Yet Stanton’s willingness to terminate the interview the moment Jonathan almost inaudibly asked for a lawyer borders on eagerness.

Could it be that Stanton himself had moments before coached Jonathan into asking for a lawyer? Remember that Stanton already had a confession of sorts from Jonathan, albeit one that wasn’t preserved on tape or witnessed by anyone other than Stanton. Was Stanton for some reason afraid that Jonathan would deny the crime on camera, thereby casting doubt on Stanton’s account of the earlier statement? And if he was afraid, what does that say about the reliability of his account?

FOLLOWING THE TERMINATION of the aborted videotaped interview, the next entry in Deke Stanton’s log is at 1530, or 3:30 p.m., and reads simply: “Subject arrested.” After that there is a one-hour period, from 1530 to 1630, devoted to “further processing of prisoner.” Just what this could have been is unclear. Combined with the earlier “processing of suspect,” it means that Stanton had devoted two hours and five minutes to activities that should have taken no more than twenty minutes. In other words, either Stanton was deliberately misrepresenting his entries, or by four-thirty that afternoon, Jonathan Hamilton had become the most thoroughly processed person in New York State.

Even giving Stanton the benefit of the doubt here, once the processing was completed, it was incumbent upon him to take steps to see that his prisoner was brought before a judge or magistrate “without unreasonable delay,” according to the New York Criminal Procedure Law. Now the term “without unreasonable delay” is more than a little vague, and that is probably not by accident. The legislature has apparently recognized, and wisely so, that what is reasonable in a major metropolitan city may be totally unfeasible in a sparsely populated upstate region. In New York County, for example, one part of the Criminal Court routinely operates until 1:00 a.m. just to conduct initial appearances; on Fridays and Saturdays they work around the clock. For a person arrested in Manhattan, therefore, “reasonable” means within twenty-four hours. For Jonathan Hamilton, who had been arrested either in Flat Lake or Saranac Lake, depending upon how you looked at it, “reasonable” was going to be something altogether different.

The crimes Jonathan was accused of committing had occurred in Flat Lake. But Flat Lake is so small that it doesn’t even have a local town or justice court. That means that, in a case involving felony charges such as murder, the initial appearance has to take place in either the nearest town or justice court in the county, or at the Ottawa County Courthouse. In this particular case, those happened to be one and the same. The only problem was that it was Sunday, and the following day was Labor Day, which was a court holiday, meaning there could be no court appearance at all until Tuesday morning.

But surely a system is unfair if it keeps people who have the misfortune to be arrested Saturday or Sunday (or even Friday evening) locked up all weekend without recourse, particularly if their offense is a relatively minor one. So over time, a process has evolved in such situations whereby the arresting officer notifies whatever county or local prosecutor he can find, by the simple device of calling one at home. Failing that, the officer may call a town or village justice, or a county judge, also at home. The officer proceeds to explain the situation, and the prosecutor or justice makes an on-the-spot determination whether to authorize the outright release of the prisoner pending his appearance Monday morning, or sets an amount of bail that has to be posted first. If the prisoner is affluent and fortunate enough to reach a lawyer, then counsel can get in on the act, too.

Occasionally there are situations where the great likelihood is that bail will be prohibitively high, or the prisoner will be held in remand, meaning he won’t be entitled to bail at all. Jonathan Hamilton’s case certainly fell into that category. But even in such instances, the arresting officer still has an obligation to make the notification. Furthermore, where the crime is a serious felony (and a double murder is that and more), a state police officer is bound by departmental regulations to confer with the county prosecutor as soon as practically possible.

According to Deke Stanton’s next log entry, he did precisely that, reaching the Ottawa County District Attorney by telephone at home at ten minutes before five o’clock Sunday afternoon. Stanton’s next entry purports to contain the results of that conversation:

 1650 Reached D. A. Cavanaugh by phone at his

 residence. Advised to book prisoner on 2 counts

 Murder One and lodge at County pending court

 appearance 0900 9/2/97.

 Status: Remand.

There seems to be little reason why Stanton should have written those words, were they untrue. Certainly, his actions immediately thereafter are consistent in every way with the entry: He and another investigator drove Jonathan Hamilton, who was by that time in handcuffs, to Cedar Falls, and brought him to Ottawa County Jail. According to the Sign-In Book, Jonathan was received at 1817 hours, or 6:17 that evening. His charge was listed as “Murder 1st” and his disposition as “County Ct, 09-02-97, 0900, Part 1.”

On the other hand, if you talk to Gil Cavanaugh, he didn’t hear about the Flat Lake murders and the arrest of Jonathan Hamilton until sometime Monday afternoon.

FRANCIS GILMORE CAVANAUGH JR. is, and has been for close to twenty years, the District Attorney of Ottawa County. Pushing sixty at the time of the Hamilton murders, he is tall, good-looking, and silver-haired. He has a ready smile and a handshake so firm that it borders on the painful. Only the slightly pronounced veins in his nose give away the fact that, in addition to being a career politician and prosecutor, he is also something of a career drinker. He knows everybody there is to know in the county, and in just about all of upstate New York, for that matter. He plays golf with the state senators, representatives, and judges in the summer, hunts with them in autumn, and skis with them in winter. He trades war stories with the best of them, though he has the reputation of being a better talker than he is a listener. He is known as a good friend to have on your side, and a bad enemy to have against you.

Gil Cavanaugh’s insistence that he knew nothing of the charges against Jonathan Hamilton until the day following the arrest takes on special significance in the context of the law. The same statute that brought back the death penalty to New York after a thirty-year moratorium (if that somewhat oxymoronic term can be forgiven) created a Capital Defender’s Office. Included in the Capital Defender’s mandate was the responsibility to maintain a house staff of attorneys to represent defendants accused of capital crimes; to train a small but select group of lawyers from the private sector, public-defender agencies, and legal-aid offices, so that they, too, would be qualified to accept assignments in capital cases; to provide a resource center to assist in all such defenses; and to assist in the education of those judges throughout the state who would be designated to hear the cases.

One of the points of contention during the debate that restored the death penalty involved the issue of just when in the accusatory process a person charged with capital murder should be provided counsel. Prosecutors argued that the traditional method of assigning a lawyer at the first court appearance was adequate; defense attorneys contended that the early stages of the process were often the most critical, and that the accused should be provided counsel at the earliest possible opportunity. After a good degree of haggling in the legislature, a compromise of sorts was hammered out: The district attorney in whose county the charges are being brought has an affirmative obligation to notify the Capital Defender as soon as he authorizes the filing of first-degree murder charges, so that the Capital Defender, acting as a clearing house of sorts, can designate either a member of his staff, or an outside qualified attorney, to immediately begin representing the accused.

The person appointed as New York’s first Capital Defender is a man named Kevin Doyle. Doyle is lean, youthful looking, and clear-eyed. He is bright, well spoken, and absolutely indefatigable. He is no stranger to the arena, having spent most of his career representing death-row inmates in Alabama, where the state pays $10 an hour - ditchdiggers’ rates - to those lawyers willing to devote their lives to the business of trying to save defendants from the electric chair.

As one of Doyle’s first official acts, he sent a letter, by certified mail, to the district attorneys of each of the sixty-two counties in the state, informing them of their statutory obligation to notify him the moment they had authorized the filing of capital charges. The letter included emergency pager numbers, whereby Doyle or a member of his staff could be reached at any time, day or night, no matter where they were, or what the circumstance.

There is some doubt as to whether Gil Cavanaugh (who had personally been one of the sixty-two recipients of Doyle’s letter) neglected through oversight to comply with the notification requirement, or deliberately chose to ignore it. But his version, that he was unaware of the case until Monday afternoon, is simply belied by the facts. In any event, he never notified Doyle’s office.

It wasn’t until late Monday afternoon, a full twenty-four hours after the time of Stanton’s log entry regarding his conversation with Cavanaugh, that Doyle, visiting friends on the south shore of Long Island, received a call from a member of his staff, informing him that the networks were airing reports of a double murder in some place called Flat Lake. Mumbling apologies to his hosts, Doyle rushed out to his car, grabbed a handful of road maps, and tore through them until he found the town. Back inside, he spent the next hour on the phone trying to identify and track down the Ottawa County District Attorney. He finally reached Gil Cavanaugh at the clubhouse of the Green Tree Country Club, outside of Cedar Falls.

Doyle got right to the point. “I’m told your office has authorized the filing of a complaint in what could be a capital murder case,” he said.

“That’s right,” Cavanaugh acknowledged. “Just found out about it myself.”

“When?” Doyle pressed him.

“When what?”

“When did you find out about it?”

“Just now, just now,” Cavanaugh said. “About, ah, a little while ago, more or less.”

UP AND RUNNING for less than two years at the time, the Capital Defender’s Office occupied temporary space in lower Manhattan, and had a single branch office, in Rochester. Back at the road map, Doyle estimated that Flat Lake completed a rough equilateral triangle with the two locations, and was nearly 200 miles from either one. He immediately ruled out assigning the case to one of his own staff attorneys. The next option was the public defender for the county. But Ottawa County was so sparsely populated that it had none. Doyle quickly found himself down to his final option: locating a private attorney in the geographical area who had been trained to take these cases.

As encyclopedic as Kevin Doyle’s mind is, as he studied the road map that afternoon, not even he could think of anyone from the area who had been through the training sessions. He was forced to call one of the office secretaries who lived in Manhattan, prevail upon her to go downtown, unlock the office, pull out the roster books, and phone him back. Then he had her read off the names of every private lawyer who was qualified to handle capital cases in the five counties closest to Flat Lake. Not that it took her very long to do so: There were only six names.

The first five names failed to ring a bell with Doyle, but he jotted down their phone numbers as they were read off. It was only the sixth name that brought a wry smile to his face.

“Bingo,” he said softly.