Unintended Witness

by D. L. Wood

  “So he gets a public defender.”

  “True, but they’re all overloaded with cases and probably wouldn’t have the same time and resources to devote to a murder case that a private firm like ours would. Maybe someone is hoping for that.”

  “But the box on the porch happened before the murder.”

  “But not before we were involved with representing Sims in his criminal matters. Remember the assault charge from when Sims hit Donner with that sign? And the box happened after the explosion. We were down there with Sims at the construction site that night, remember? Whoever this is could have easily seen us there, helping him with the cops. Maybe this someone wants him hanged for all of it.” He rocked his head from shoulder to shoulder, as if considering something. “And there’s always another possibility. It’s pretty far-fetched but one the prosecution might latch onto.”

  “What?”

  “That this is being done by someone in league with Sims, to cast suspicion in another direction. That someone is helping him make it look like he’s been framed.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “I guess.”

  For a moment they were quiet, each of them staring off into a different part of the room. A gurney rolled by outside the door, clattering obnoxiously, and Chloe exhaled, running a hand along the windowsill absentmindedly.

  “You gonna be okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

  She sighed. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “He left,” she said, her face dropping away from him.

  “What? Already?”

  “He couldn’t stay. Had to be back on set.”

  Holt folded his hands together and hinged forward slightly, turning his face so he could see hers, which was downcast towards the floor. “What happened?”

  She cut her eyes at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If I said something last night that—”

  “You didn’t do anything. Really. I just…don’t want to talk about it. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  He watched her skeptically. “Maybe you should skip this today. I can go by myself.”

  She turned towards him. “What? No. I’m going.”

  He sighed. “Chloe, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Chloe, if I could, if it didn’t feel so wrong, I would get off the case myself. Just to keep everybody out of harm’s way. But I’ve been thinking about it and I can’t. I know I said I was planning on just staying on through the hearing on Monday, but if Sims is innocent, I can’t just leave him hanging out there in the wind. I may not be a huge Kurt Sims fan, but it wouldn’t be right—”

  “No. I get that.”

  “—and I couldn’t do that to Jacob. That kid has already suffered enough. First his mother dies, and now his father is going to be tried for murder and probably arson. If Sims ends up going to prison, Jacob will have no one. If Sims isn’t guilty and that happens because I didn’t see this through…I couldn’t forgive myself.”

  “No. I get it. I’m not asking you to drop it,” she replied emphatically. “We have to see this through.”

  “No. I have to see this through. We don’t have to do anything. I might not be able to walk away, but you can.”

  “If you’re still doing this, then the kids and Reese are still in danger. So I’m helping. Period. The more help you have, the sooner you can figure this out, and the sooner everybody will be safe.”

  “You do realize that you’re one of Reese’s kids, right? So technically you’re at risk too.”

  “And you’re at risk as Sims’s attorney,” she countered, stiffening.

  His shoulders dropped as he ran a hand across his forehead and sighed. “But you don’t have to be as connected to this thing as you are. The more space we put between you and anything the firm is doing, the safer you’re going to be. I don’t want something to happen to you.” A quiet determination brewed beneath his features. “Look, don’t be so stubborn about this. Take care of the kids. You can stay with them all the time and make sure they’re okay. Take care of Reese. Write your article. This isn’t your problem.”

  She shot up off her chair, swiveling to face him. “It is my problem. It’s my family being hurt here. I’m not going to just sit back and hope you figure this thing out. I know I’m not much help, but I’m free labor at least, right? I can look through documents, I can talk to people—look, Banyon approached me—”

  His voice grew steely. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I do have to do this!” Her eyes widened as she yelled it, her volume surprising even her. They locked eyes for several moments before Chloe spoke again.

  “I do have to do this,” she said, keeping her voice soft but firm as she regained her composure.

  Holt’s dark gaze traced her face. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, killing seconds, until finally speaking again. “Why?”

  She sniffed, then turned away from him towards the window, leaning against the windowsill and focusing on a flock of starlings just before they disappeared over the roof. “I have my reasons.”

  Holt made a sound like a game show buzzer. “Eeeeep. Wrong answer. Try again.”

  Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘wrong answer’?”

  “I mean you just started yelling at me like a crazy person because I suggested you ought to bow out of participating in an investigation that’s gotten your father attacked and left in a coma, a bloody—albeit fake—box on his doorstop, your sister’s arm broken, and—oh yeah—last but not least, quite possibly a building blown up. So, yeah, while I appreciate the help, it’s probably gone far enough, and ‘I have my reasons’ just isn’t gonna cut it.”

  She sucked a breath in, releasing it slowly. “How much do you know about Tate? About what happened with him in Miami?”

  Holt shrugged. “I know what Reese told me. And,” he admitted, looking a bit chagrined, “maybe what I Googled about the case.”

  She was quiet for several moments, breathing in deeply and rhythmically, trying to still her internal storm. He waited silently. She pressed a hand against the cool glass of the window, staring out at nothing in particular.

  “Did Reese tell you that after he abandoned us, and our mom died, all Tate and I had in this whole world was each other? Tate was my family. My only family.” Her unfocused gaze drifted to the traffic outside and lingered. “And in the end there wasn’t a thing I could do to save him from the people who were after him. Not one thing. By the time I figured out what he was mixed up in, it was too late. He was already dead. Gone. I would have given anything for the chance to make a difference. So if I can do something, anything, to make a difference for Emma and Tyler,” she caught herself, “for Reese even—then I’m going to do it.”

  The words felt wrenched from her, as if each syllable was torn from that part of her still grieving the loss of her brother. The ache of it changed the air in the room, the air between them, and Holt stayed quiet as the words settled over them.

  When he didn’t respond, she tilted her head up at him and blinked, her eyes glistening. “Okay?”

  The fight seemed to leave him as he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Yeah,” he said, also turning to gaze out the window at nothing in particular. “I guess I’m okay with that.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Camry trailed right behind Emma McConnaughey’s bright red Hyundai as she pulled into the William Nelson Elementary School parking lot. Rather than follow her in, since he didn’t have a student to drop off, he pulled onto the shoulder of the road and watched.

  The boy, the younger brother, hopped out and waved, swinging a navy blue and green backpack up and over one shoulder. Just like he had the last three times he had followed the boy to school. It was routine. Predictable. Which was a good thing.

  He would know soon if his plan had worked. Fortunately, Reese McConnaughey was still out of it and certainly wasn’t go
ing to be causing problems anytime soon. But that other lawyer…Adams…he would have to see if he had finally gotten the message. If not, he would have no choice but to move into Phase Two. That was when the school schedules would come in handy.

  The little red car pulled forward, rolling towards the exit. As he watched, he took a long drag on the cheap cigarette that was his second of the day. When he chased it too quickly with a gulp of bitter, fast-food coffee, he started coughing, spluttering drops of the dark liquid all over the dash. Cursing, he smeared the wet drops with the sleeve of his shirt, his weak attempt at cleanup leaving the dashboard worse than before.

  Growling, he hunched down in his seat. McConnaughey better hope that Adams backs off, he thought. Otherwise, when he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’s gonna find he’s lost a whole lot more than a couple of days.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The address Banyon had given them was just a few blocks southwest of Five Points, in an area populated with houses built during the latter part of the nineteenth century. In keeping with Franklin’s reverence for all things historical, the majority had been renovated, restored, and updated, both preserving the past and increasing their value.

  “Wow,” Chloe said, peering out the passenger window as they parked on the curb in front of 1004 West Main Street, an enormous French blue Victorian boasting a two-story tower on the front right corner, topped by a spectacular spire. This flanked the asymmetrical front porch, lined with arches painted a sharp contrasting cream, and backed by an expanse of rectangular windows. Gray stonework lined the foundation, at least three feet high, and continued up the chimney on the side of the house opposite the tower. A historical sign mounted in the front yard read “McKinley House, 1892.”

  “Yeah. Not bad,” Holt echoed. “Wonder if Donner bought it like this or renovated it.”

  “Either way he spared no expense.”

  They walked up the concrete path to the front door and rang the bell, setting off a chime version of Clare de Lune.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Holt quipped. “I have to hear that again.” He reached forward to depress the ornate button again, when the latch clicked, and the front door swung open to reveal a blonde dressed in a gray, silk jumpsuit and four-inch high, open-toe heels. Chunky gold bracelets capped the long sleeves on each arm, mirrored by an equally stunning gold-link necklace hanging almost as low as her wavy tresses.

  “Holt Adams?” she asked, glaring coldly at him.

  “Guilty. And you must be Claire Donner. My condolences for your—”

  “Save it,” she snapped, her red lipstick forming an angry line. Her eyes shot to Chloe. “Who’s she?”

  “My assistant. We were told—”

  She huffed and spun around, walking back into the foyer before Holt could finish.

  ‘Wow,’ he mouthed silently to Chloe as he ushered her inside and pushed the door closed.

  Claire Donner’s heels clacked gaudily on the marble floor as she led them through the foyer, then turned right into a dining room painted a merlot shade of red, with clean white wainscoting skirting the lower third of the walls. A Colonial-style mahogany table surrounded by twelve gold and gray damask chairs occupied the center of the space. The wall to their left was nearly completely obscured by an imposing cabinet showcasing elegant bone china and numerous crystal pieces, while an aged fireplace sat idle on the wall opposite them.

  “Hello, Mr. Adams,” said a barrel-chested man dressed in a gray suit and red tie that almost matched the walls. His hair was far too dark for his skin tone and unnaturally thick at the front in a manner highly suggestive of surgical assistance. He stood directly behind the chair at the head of the table, where a small stack of papers rested.

  “Come on in,” he called, waving them further inside, the chunky ring on his pinky flashing obnoxiously, competing with the rainbows reflecting off the four-tiered, crystal chandelier suspended imposingly over the table’s center. Chloe and Holt moved to stand beside the table, while Claire Donner planted herself several feet away, leaning disinterestedly against the china cabinet.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m Trevor Jernigan. I am…was…Phillip’s accountant. Personal and business,” he clarified quickly. “And you are Holt Adams. And Chloe McConnaughey.” He extended a hand towards Holt, who considered it, then shook it reluctantly. Jernigan nodded at Chloe.

  “You’re not Mr. Donner’s attorney?” Holt asked, mild intrigue creasing his brow.

  “No. No, I’m not. We saw no need to involve attorneys in this small exchange. I apologize for the odd meeting place, but there really wasn’t another suitable location. There’s a trailer on the job site, but well…this seemed better.”

  “I have to admit, we’re a bit surprised to be here. Given how reluctant Mrs. Donner was to talk to me yesterday.”

  Claire sucked in a breath, as if readying to shoot back, but Jernigan waved an admonishing hand at her. “She had a change of heart,” Jernigan offered. “With Mr. Donner’s passing, Mrs. Donner is now the sole owner of Donner Enterprises. After reconsideration, she sees the benefit of working with you to reach an understanding, rather than jumping through expensive legal hoops only to arrive at the same destination.”

  “Of course I didn’t want to talk to you,” Claire interjected scathingly. “Your client killed my husband.”

  Jernigan shot her a look. “Claire, please.”

  Holt eyed her confidently. “Mrs. Donner, my client maintains he is innocent. And we plan to prove that. But,” Holt said, turning his attention to Jernigan and placing a hand on the back of the chair in front of him, “if she didn’t want to talk to us, I’d love to know how Vettner-Drake convinced you to take this meeting?”

  “It’s simply a matter of convenience,” Jernigan assured him. “Donner Enterprises maintains a business relationship with Vettner-Drake, though,” he added, “not in connection with the Franklin Project. As you know Vettner-Drake elected not to invest in that particular project.”

  “So we’ve been told. Repeatedly.”

  “Yes, well, as a favor to Vettner-Drake, Donner Enterprises has offered to disclose to you certain documents that will make that fact readily apparent.”

  “That was awfully nice of you.”

  “As I said, we have a business relationship that we would like to maintain for future potential projects. So if we can help Vettner-Drake avoid unnecessary expense and trouble by answering a few questions—”

  “You know what’s not so nice?” Holt interjected, slicing through Jernigan’s spiel.

  Claire Donner looked up from her nails. Chloe, who had been intently watching Jernigan’s face, zeroed back on Holt.

  “I’m…I’m sorry?” Jernigan stumbled.

  “Do you know what’s not so nice?” Holt repeated, giving it a few moments to sink in. “Throwing my associate here in the back of a car.”

  “Wait, now, I’m not sure—”

  “Yeah, well I’m very sure that’s exactly what happened.” An uncomfortable silence curdled the space between the two men. “In the future, if you or Vettner-Drake have something to say, you say it to me? Got it?”

  “Mr. Adams, I don’t know—”

  “And just so we’re clear, if anything like that happens again, ‘unnecessary expense and trouble’ won’t begin to describe the pain Vettner-Drake will be feeling.” As he spoke, a brooding, protective strength replaced Holt’s typically easy-going persona. Subconsciously, or maybe consciously, he had angled himself so that he created a barrier between Chloe and Jernigan. Before Jernigan could react, Holt plunged on. “So,” he said, pointing to the documents, “let’s see what you got.”

  Jernigan cleared his throat and gestured to the chair at the head of the table, apparently happy to pretend the intense exchange had not occurred. “Have a seat,” he said, and moved to sit on Holt’s right.

  “No, she’ll sit there,” Holt countered, nodding at Chloe.

  “All right, fine,” Jernigan said, annoyance finally bleeding t
hrough his tone as he switched to the opposite side of the table.

  Chloe took the seat, unable to stop herself from a quick glance at Claire, who was glaring daggers at Holt. Chloe fought the corner of her mouth that ached to turn up. Holt was clearly more than enjoying himself.

  “All right, then,” Holt said, sitting and pulling the stack of papers to him. “Walk me through this.”

  * * * * *

  “So,” Jernigan said, leaning back from the table, “hopefully that makes things clear for you.”

  Holt sat with the stack of papers still opened before him, casually thumbing through the last of them for the second time. As promised, Jernigan’s guided tour through the documents had demonstrated that the Franklin Project had been funded by investments by Donner Enterprises, Phillip Donner personally, two individual investors—Mark Vellum and Lynn Hope, out of Nashville—and a loan from First Capital Bank, also out of Nashville. Donner Enterprises was named as sole owner of the project, with all other funding being treated as loans to be repaid. Various financial documents outlined the specific amounts loaned and outlined the terms for repayment over time.

  There were only about twenty sheets of paper in the stack and it had taken about that many minutes to go through it. Chloe had watched quietly, shifting her attention between Holt, as he perused intently, and Claire, who only left her spot against the cabinet long enough to retrieve what looked like a Bloody Mary. She was back in her spot now, sipping and scowling.

  Holt flipped over the last page and sat back. Jernigan took that as his cue. “Well, I trust that satisfies you as to Vettner-Drake’s lack of involvement.”

  “That certainly appears to be the case.”

  “So you’ll agree there’s no further reason to approach Vettner-Drake regarding this matter.”

  Holt’s eyes flicked to him. “That certainly appears to be the case.”

  “Mr. Adams—”

  “Mr. Jernigan. Based on what you’ve shown me, I see no reason to bother Vettner-Drake any further. I will, however, need to contact the individuals listed in here.” He tapped the stack and stood. Following his lead, Chloe rose as Holt reached for the papers, when Jernigan’s hand flew to the top.