by D. L. Wood
“I’m sorry, but you can’t take these with you. We allowed you to see them, but you may not take them from here. Here’s the contact information for the names listed there,” Jernigan said, handing Holt a small folded sheet. “That should be all you need.”
“I’ll just get a subpoena.”
Jernigan’s expression hardened. “Then you do that. But until then, they stay here.”
The two men faced off silently for several moments. Claire sidled up behind Jernigan, whether for support or to get a closer look at what came next was unclear, but her haughty smirk said she was relishing Jernigan’s refusal to give Holt what he wanted.
Finally, Holt relented. His posture relaxed, an ill-fitted smile appearing on his face as he stood. “All right then. See ya around, Trevor,” he said flippantly. “Mrs. Donner,” he added, tossing a little nod in Claire’s direction before turning his back to them and striding into the hallway. Chloe stepped quickly to follow him out.
“And don’t bother getting up, Jernigan,” Holt called jauntily over his shoulder. “We’ll show ourselves out.”
FORTY
“Was that a good idea?” Chloe asked as Holt navigated the A6 towards his office.
“What?”
“Provoking him like that? And what about her? I thought she was going to burn a hole in you with her eyes.”
“Yeah, but it was fun.” He grinned. “And productive.” He turned down a side road to avoid the heavy noontime traffic on Main Street. “Did you see his face when I wanted to leave with the documents? I thought his hair plugs were gonna stand on end.”
Chloe snorted, then said, “I don’t get it. Why would they care if you took the papers? You saw everything on there.”
“Showing me is one thing. But I can’t memorize it all in twenty minutes. So letting me leave with all that information would have taken their cooperation to a whole new level. They weren’t willing to do that. I think they still want us to get the message that we’re supposed to walk away from this, not keep looking.”
“But wouldn’t they have produced the same documents to Sims? I mean, I know they would probably be buried somewhere in those boxes, but still, don’t we already have them?”
Holt shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. It all depends on the wording of Sims’s requests. If Cecilia didn’t ask the right questions, they might not have had to share them. Or they may have found a loophole. Donner’s lawyers would’ve found a way to keep back anything they really didn’t want out there. We need to look, though, just in case. But I doubt we’ll find them in there.”
“It was just a bunch of financial information, names of investors—why would they care if that got out? What difference would that make in Sims’s suit?”
“It’s not about the documents. I can get them with a subpoena in the murder case if I need them. Investors make great potential suspects. We’re entitled to that information, and they know it. That’s why they handed us the names and contact info. Almost as if they wanted us to contact those folks. Like they were redirecting us. Whatever they are scared of, I can guarantee you that me talking to Mark Vellum and Lynn Hope isn’t it.”
“So why not just hand them over instead of being all weird about it and creating more suspicion?”
“Because today was about control. About controlling whether we do any more looking in their direction. Because for some reason, that really unnerves them. And Vettner-Drake. First, they go out of their way to intimidate us by accosting you. To send a subtle message that we really don’t want to poke this particular bear. Then they follow that with getting all helpful, offering to show us who their investors are, just to prove they’re telling the truth and drive home the point that we don’t need to dig any further. I think it’s their way of giving us an out. A way that I can say I’ve done my due diligence—I reviewed their documentation, offered by their accountant—and I’ve seen that Vettner-Drake isn’t involved. I can drop it now and not be accused of failing to do my job. And that’s what they want.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“Part of me says it’s not worth it. That I should just track down those two individual investors, confirm that they had no reason to want Donner dead—after all, they’d be less likely to make their money back if Donner’s gone—and move on.”
“But?”
“But,” he smirked, “if I keep at it, there’s a pretty decent chance I can get Jernigan’s plugs to actually shoot straight out of his head.”
“Come on, be serious.”
“I am serious—who wouldn’t want to see that?”
She raised her eyebrows impatiently.
“Look, I’ve got a pretty good sense of curiosity, and they’ve piqued it. They’re hiding something, and for some reason, Donner’s people are playing along. That whole show today? Innocent people don’t act like that. People only act like that when they have something to hide.”
“But what if that something has nothing to do with the reason Donner’s dead?”
“That’s possible. Heck, I’d even say it’s likely. But what if it is relevant? What if this is the thread that unravels the case against Sims. What if it leads to the guy that attacked Reese? I think it’s worth the risk. But listen, anytime you want to walk away, that’s okay by me. I would prefer it actually. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”
“Nope,” she answered, cutting her eyes at him. “I don’t scare easy, either.”
* * * * *
They arrived at the office with a couple of hours to go before Holt’s afternoon court cases, one of which was Sims’s preliminary hearing. While Holt prepared, Chloe pulled out the next discovery box and spent an hour sorting more of the documents Donner had produced in the lawsuit. When Holt came to check on her, she had only gotten halfway through it.
“How’s it going?” he asked, leaning in the doorframe, a can of Coke in his hand. He held it up. “Want one?”
“Thanks, but I’ll stick with water. That much sugar would have me bouncing off the walls.” She leaned back in her chair. “This is going to take forever just to sort. But, I did find a couple more names we might want to check out.” She tapped the yellow legal pad beside her. “I’m adding them to the list.”
“Okay, great,” Holt said. “Let me see.” He moved to lean over her, bracing himself against the table with one hand. “So, did you Google those yet?”
A tingle of alarm rippled through her. He smelled like leather and something woodsy that Gucci or Prada probably had bottled. And he was too close.
“Umm, yeah. They’re local businesses. Contractors of some sort.”
“Okay, just keep adding the names as you come across them. Then we’ll do another round of checking.”
She nodded, but he kept staring at her, a curious expression on his face.
“What?” she asked.
He eyed her impishly. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I asked you first.”
“You’ve just got this look. I don’t know…you look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I’m bored.”
“Hmm,” he replied, pivoting away from the table and heading back to the doorway. “Well, sorry about that. Discovery can be like that sometimes. You sure I can’t bring you a Coke? Caffeine might do you good. Coffee maybe?”
“Go. Keep getting ready. I’m fine.” She waved him off, and he turned back to the lobby where Karen’s desk was.
Chloe continued working, sliding one piece of paper after the other out of the stack and forcing herself to read it. But after only a couple minutes, the task couldn’t hold her attention and she looked up, watching Holt in the next room, standing near Karen while reviewing papers and giving her instructions.
She was being silly. Her radar was way off. Holt was simply befriending the daughter of his friend and partner. Making sure that she was okay under these strange circumstances that had left her in such a bizarre position. Reese had been good to him, and he was just repaying the kindness. H
e was a flirt and a charmer and that was all there was to it.
Right?
Was there any chance Jack was right? Was Holt harboring some sort of…attraction to her?
No, she thought dismissively. Jack’s just feeling insecure. And he has no reason to.
Just then, Holt looked up from the stack of papers Karen had given him to study, running a hand through several dark locks that were threatening to fall across his face. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Chloe watching him. An amused smile slid onto his face as he turned his attention back to the documents.
Chloe straightened up, forced her eyes down, and started reading the same sentence for the fourth time.
FORTY-ONE
Judge Bricker’s courtroom was packed when the afternoon criminal session began at 1:00 p.m. on the dot. The judge was graying, in his late sixties by Chloe’s estimation, with a Brooks Brothers bow tie resting just above the collar of his black robe. He wasn’t a large man, but something about his presence was imposing, and Chloe was glad she wasn’t in the position of having to go before him.
Holt had three cases set for hearing. The first was called early in the lineup, an aggravated assault in which the defendant was accused of getting into a bar fight and sending the other guy to the hospital with multiple knife wounds. Holt’s client towered over him, and most definitely looked like someone who could pull that off. The victim was still in the hospital recovering, but from the sound of the grumblings coming from the back of the courtroom, he had a few friends who had shown up to make sure the wheels of justice were spinning. The prosecution called two of them to the stand to testify, and both claimed the defendant had laid into the victim after the victim had beat him in a round of pool and demanded the defendant pay up on their bet. Their friends got a little noisy when Holt cross-examined each of the witnesses, suggesting that the victim was actually the one that had thrown the first punch when the defendant had refused to fork over the money to settle the bet. After a stern warning to the peanut gallery, Judge Bricker found probable cause and bound the defendant over to the grand jury.
Holt’s second case was a civil matter set for hearing upstairs in Family Court. After letting Judge Bricker’s clerk know where he would be, they headed to the second floor. In this case, Holt represented a mother against a dead-beat dad who had failed to pay child support for the last two years. Even so, he still insisted on sporadically visiting his elementary-aged boys with no warning and not in keeping with the visitation agreement, even threatening their mother when she protested. The mother had finally had enough and filed a civil petition for collection and contempt as well as seeking a restraining order. The mother, a thirty-year-old with wispy hair and no makeup, wore a flowered sundress much too lightweight for the last part of October, which made her look even more fragile. She sat next to Holt on the first row behind the plaintiff’s table, folded in on herself, as if trying to disappear completely.
After about ten minutes, the case was called, and Holt escorted the mother past the divider to the plaintiff’s table in the main area of the courtroom. The defendant father was not present. The court noted the defendant’s absence from this hearing, as well as his absence from earlier attempts to hear the motions at issue, and his failure to secure counsel of record or respond to any of the motions. After taking minimal testimony from the mother to establish the arrearage and the father’s failure to abide by the terms of the visitation order, as well as his harassment of her and their boys, the judge granted her petition and ordered payment of the arrearage.
“I’m setting another hearing one month out to revisit this. If payment on the arrearage has not been made by that time, I will be inclined to order the defendant to serve an appropriate jail sentence due to his repeated and willful refusal to comply with the prior support orders. I’m also revoking visitation and granting an order of protection with respect to both the plaintiff and minor children.” With that pronouncement, the judge called the next case and Holt guided the mother back to the gallery. After a few whispered comments between them, the mother slipped out into the hall and Holt returned to Chloe.
“Time to head back for Sims’s case,” he said, nodding at the exit. They left the courtroom quietly, maneuvering through the people grouped along the hallway.
“That whole situation in there is really sad. Your client looked scared to death,” said Chloe, as they took the stairs again.
“She is. But she’ll be better when this is over. I doubt she’ll ever see any money, but at least the protection order will get her help from the police if he does come around again.” He shook his head as they took the staircase back to the first floor. “I hate these cases. I hate seeing what people can do to their own families.”
“You’re helping,” Chloe urged. “That’s something.”
“Yeah, I guess. So,” he said, as they reached Judge Bricker’s courtroom again and he opened the door for her. “Sims’s case will likely be called last since it’s such a serious one. Could be a while, so settle in.”
He was wrong, though, and just twenty minutes later a side door at the front of the courtroom opened and a bailiff escorted Kurt Sims inside, handcuffed and still adorned in his jail-issued jumpsuit. This time it seemed he had at least made an effort to look somewhat presentable. His hair was slightly damp and combed back, and his beard looked less grizzly-ish. But there was still something defeated about his posture, and his dark eyes looked more annoyed than anything else. After wrapping up the case in front of him, the judge called out, “State of Tennessee vs. Kurt Sims.” Holt moved toward the defense table, where Kurt was being deposited by the bailiff, and they sat down together.
The Tri-County District Attorney was a tall woman, probably in her early sixties. She was dressed in a tailored, charcoal pin-striped jacket and matching skirt, ecru blouse, and flats. Her curly white hair was tightly cut against her crown, a striking contrast against the bronze brown of her skin. She moved quickly, calling several witnesses to establish the basis of the murder charges against Sims. Within thirty minutes, the testimony of one police detective and a forensics specialist established that Sims’s gun, a Smith and Wesson M&P semi-automatic pistol, was still missing, but that the 9mm bullets recovered from the murder scene matched bullets that had been previously fired from Sims’s pistol. It turned out Sims had a bad habit of having shooting practice in his own backyard, which was not only illegal, but had provided the police with several bullets to compare with the bullets extracted from Donner’s body. Also, the fingerprints found on the shells recovered from the murder scene belonged to Sims. On top of that, police recovered multiple threatening messages from Sims on Donner’s voicemail, two of which had been left on the day of the murder. Additionally, Donner’s cell records showed a one-minute call placed to him from Sims’s phone at 10:30 p.m. on the night of Donner’s murder. Forensic testimony put Donner’s time of death between 11:00 p.m. and midnight. The final blow was testimony that the shoe prints at the scene matched a pair of hiking boots recovered from Sims’s bedroom closet.
If any of this fazed Holt, he didn’t show it. Instead he took it all in, making notes throughout the testimony, and noticeably not speaking to Sims at all, even when he tried to get Holt’s attention. Holt had no questions for the witnesses, and when the D.A. finally rested, Judge Bricker announced he found there was probable cause, and bound Sims’s case over to the grand jury.
“Your honor, if I may?” the district attorney asked in follow-up.
“Yes, Ms. Linden?”
“The State has secured an arrest warrant for the defendant on the charge of first degree arson arising out of the detonation of explosives at the Donner Properties construction site located at Five Points in Franklin. The State—”
“What?” Sims bellowed, his handcuffs clattering against the table as he shot out of his chair.
“Shh, Kurt!” Holt hissed, squeezing Sims’s arm and pulling him back to the table. Sims exhaled in disgust.
“Mr. Ada
ms?”
“Sorry, your honor,” Holt apologized. “Won’t happen again.”
The district attorney eyed Sims before continuing. “Although the events of the alleged arson are distinct from the specific events of Phillip Donner’s murder, the State intends to seek joinder of the two cases. It is the State’s position that the arson was part of an escalating series of events that ultimately became the motive for and led to Mr. Donner’s murder.”
“Mr. Adams, any objection to my setting bond on the arson charge at this time?”
“No, your honor.”
“Fine. Bail is set at five hundred thousand on the charge of arson. The prior bail amount of five hundred thousand on the murder charge shall remain intact, for a combined bail amount of one million.” Judge Bricker proceeded to set the preliminary hearing on the charge of first degree arson for the following Monday, then called a ten-minute recess before moving on to the next case.
“Holt, you got a minute?” District Attorney Linden had sidled up to the defense table. Holt rose to meet her, standing at least a full foot taller than she did.
“Sure, Annabelle. Just a second.” Holt leaned over to the bailiff, who had returned to collect Sims. “Keep him in the interview room for a minute, will you?” Holt asked, and the bailiff nodded.
“Hallway?” he said, turning back to D.A. Linden.
Her head bobbed in affirmation, and she headed for the exit doors with Holt following.
He had handled dozens of cases against Annabelle. She was competent, thorough, and passionate about her job. And like Cecilia Tucker, she had a tell. A Cheshire-cat smirk that split the corners of her mouth whenever she had information that positioned her to send one of Holt’s clients to jail.
It was that smile she had flashed at Holt, just briefly, when bobbing her head. Just long enough for him to glimpse it before she turned.
And that wasn’t good. It was never good.