by Scott Pratt
dressing room. There was a small lounge for the girls with a television back there, one of those televisions that had a video player built into it. The tape Erlene wanted to show Virgil was already in the machine.
She pulled a chair up for him in front of the television.
”Now you just sit your cute little self down right here,” Erlene said. ”I’ve got something special I want to show you.”
Virgil sat down and Erlene sat down next to him.
She put one hand hand on his knee and pointed the remote at the television with the other.
The screen lit up and there was Virgil, naked, sucking his thumb and talking dirty to a couple of the girls. Erlene kept patting Virgil’s knee as they watched him do some things he probably found a tad embarrassing. After a couple of minutes, he asked her to turn it off. Then he turned to her with the most pitiful look on his face Erlene had ever seen.
”I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Erlene,” Virgil said. ”After all these years and all the money I’ve put in your pocket, I just can’t believe it.”
”Do what, honey?” Erlene said. ”I’m not doing a thing to you.”
”Then what was the purpose of showing that to me?”
”I just need a little favor, sweetie. That’s all. And if you’ll do me just this one little favor, I swear on Gus’s grave I’ll give you every tape Gus ever made of you.”
Erlene watched Virgil carefully as she laid out the proposal. He was reluctant at first, but the more Erlene talked, and the more she rubbed the inside of Virgil’s thigh, the more he seemed to relax. Finally, he agreed to do what Erlene needed done.
He was such a sweetie.
June 15
6:00 a.m.
On the morning my daughter’s last dance recital was scheduled, I was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper when Caroline wandered into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.
”I need to tell you about something,” she said. I put the paper down.
”Sounds bad.”
”I’m not sure. I saw a silver truck yesterday afternoon, like the one you said almost ran over you. It drove by the house twice. Then when I went to the grocery store later, I came outside and it was parked right beside me in the lot, but I couldn’t see the driver through the tint.”
”Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
”I was getting ready for the recital, remember? I was busy all day, and then last night when I came in you were already asleep. I thought about waking you up, but I didn’t think it would hurt to wait until this morning. I’m sorry.”
”Tester’s son—the one I was telling you about who made that scene at Angel’s arraignment—owns a silver Dodge truck. It has to be him.”
”But why, Joe? Why would he want to bother us?
You’re just a lawyer doing your job.”
”You didn’t hear him in court that day. Something very strange is going on in that man’s head.”
”What should we do?”
”There isn’t much we can do. If you see him again, call the cops and tell them what’s going on. Maybe they’ll check him out. And make sure you tell Lilly to be watching for him. Show her a picture of a Dodge truck or something so she’ll know what to look for.”
After I finished the paper, I drove to the gym in Johnson City and worked out for an hour. Then I drove over to Unicoi County to represent Randall Finch, one of my two remaining appointed death penalty cases. Randall was a twenty-five-yearold uneducated redneck who’d killed his girlfriend’s thirteen-month-old son in a drug-induced haze. Randall and his girlfriend had been bingeing on crystal meth and hydrocodone for two days and had finally run out of drugs, so the girlfriend went out to find some more, leaving the child with Randall. While she was gone, the little boy apparently started to cry.
Randall first dealt with him by using him for an ashtray, putting cigarettes out on the bottoms of his feet.
Then, for some reason only Randall could understand, he laid the child on the metal protective rack of a hot kerosene heater, producing a sun-shaped burn that covered his back. Finally, when the baby still wouldn’t stop crying, Randall shook him so violently his brain hemorrhaged.
Randall’s girlfriend returned to find the carnage and called the police. They arrested her, too.
Randall didn’t deny killing the baby; he just said he didn’t remember killing the baby. The only defense I could attempt was reduced mental capacity based on intoxication so severe that Randall didn’t realize what he was doing, but I knew it wouldn’t work.
Once the jury saw the photographs of the cigarette burns and the burn on the tiny boy’s back, Randall would be lucky to get out of the courtroom without being lynched. When I looked at the photos the first time, I wanted to lynch Randall myself. All I’d have needed was a rope and some privacy.
The preliminary hearing had been held two months earlier in a lower court in Erwin, and the evidence was gruesome. Since then, Deacon Baker had spent a great deal of time and energy proclaiming to the local media the fate he had in mind for Randall Finch. It was to be the death penalty, swift and certain.
Deacon, however, hadn’t bothered to file his death notice, an absolute requirement in any death penalty case, so I decided to try something sneaky. I told Randall that since the case against him was so strong and since Deacon hadn’t filed the notice, Randall should plead guilty at arraignment, his first appearance in the higher criminal court. Nobody had ever tried to pull a stunt like that to my knowledge, and I had no idea what the judge would say. But I knew it would, at the very least, set up an extremely interesting appellate issue. Randall agreed.
The judge was Ivan Glass. I wasn’t expecting any warm greetings. Glass had recently developed some kind of infection in his leg and was spending a lot of his time on the bench high on the same kind of painkillers Randall had been taking when he murdered the baby. If Glass was high during the Finch arraignment, I knew I’d probably be in for trouble.
The judge called our case around ten. The bailiffs brought Randall to the podium, and Glass glared down at him from the bench.
”So this is the man accused of killing the baby?”
He wasn’t slurring his words, and his eyes appeared to be clear.
”Yes, Your Honor,” Deacon Baker said. He’d made yet another appearance for the cameras.
”Let the record show that I’ve appointed Mr. Dillard to represent him and that Mr. Dillard is present with his client today.” I’d told Glass after he appointed me that I was planning on retiring and would appreciate it if he wouldn’t appoint me to any more cases. He’d snorted and said he looked forward to not having me around. The feeling was mutual.
”I’m handing Mr. Dillard a copy of the indictment,” Glass said. ”Do you waive the formal reading?”
”We do, Judge,” I said.
”How does your client plead?”
”He pleads guilty.”
”Very well, as far as scheduling … Wait a minute.
What did you say, Mr. Dillard?”
”I said Mr. Finch wants to enter a plea of guilty this morning. He doesn’t want to contest the charges.”
”I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Judge Glass said. ”A guilty plea at arraignment in a death penalty case?”
”This isn’t a death penalty case, Judge,” I said.
”No notice has been filed.”
I saw the lightbulb come on as Judge Glass realized what I was trying to do. To my relief, he seemed amused rather than angry. He turned to the prosecution.
”What do you think about that, Mr. Baker?”
Baker stood, red-faced.
”This is unprecedented, Your Honor. He can’t do it.”
”There’s nothing in the rules to prohibit it,” I said.
”The rules say a criminal defendant can enter a plea of guilty or not guilty at arraignment. We want to enter a plea of guilty. Mr. Baker hasn’t filed his death notice. He’s had plenty of time; he’s certainly let everyone in the
media know his intentions.”
”I was going to file it today,” Deacon said, his voice even whinier than usual.
Glass snickered and looked at Randall. ”Mr. Finch, do you understand what your attorney is attempting to do here today?”
”Yes.”
”Have you and your attorney discussed this thoroughly?”
”Yes.”
”Do you understand that if I decide to accept this plea, you’ll be giving up your constitutional right to a trial by jury?”
”Yes.”
Judge Glass sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his snow white hair. I could see the rusty wheels in his brain grinding. After a couple of minutes, he leaned forward.
”Mr. Dillard, if I refuse to accept this plea, I assume you’re going to file an appeal immediately?”
”That’s right, Judge.”
”And if I accept the plea, I assume you’ll do the same, Mr. Baker?”
”Absolutely.”
”Well, if I’m going to make a mistake, I prefer to err on the side of caution. I’m going to refuse to accept Mr. Finch’s guilty plea. Go ahead and file your appeal, Mr. Dillard. We’ll deal with scheduling after we find out what the wise men at the Supreme Court have to say about this.”
”Thank you, Judge,” I said. There wasn’t any point in arguing with him. I didn’t really expect Judge Glass to let a baby killer escape the possibility of a death sentence, but it was worth doing just to see the look on Deacon Baker’s face. I told Randall I’d file the appeal immediately and watched the bailiffs lead him back toward his isolation cell. The other inmates in the jail had let the sheriff know that if Randall got into the general population, he wouldn’t last an hour.
Since Lilly would be graduating soon and moving out, I knew her recital that night might be my last opportunity to watch her dance. Caroline told me she’d choreographed a solo for Lilly that was set to a song about sexual abuse. How ironic, I thought, given my situation with Sarah and some of the things Erlene had told me about Angel.
The dance was a lyrical, the song ”I’m OK” by Christina Aguilera. Lilly had been dancing since she could walk. She was strong in acrobatics, tap, ballet, and jazz, but the lyrical dance was my favorite. I loved the smooth movements, the athletic jumps, the graceful turns.
My daughter was costumed in a long-sleeved, high-necked, solid white dress. There were puffs at each shoulder, and the chiffon skirt gave the illusion of a full circle when she turned. Rhinestones that had been glued onto the costume sparkled under the blue and gold spotlights. Her long auburn hair had been pulled back from her face, and she floated back and forth across the stage as if she were riding on her very own cloud. I was amazed at the changes in both her body and her ability in the six months since I’d last experienced the pleasure of watching her dance.
She was no longer a girl; she’d turned into a young woman, a beautiful and talented young woman.
I felt my heart soar as I watched Lilly turn her body into a powerful form of expression. Her long arms and slender hands caught the subtle accents of the music perfectly, and the flexibility and strength in her legs reflected the hard work and dedication required of a dancer. As the music built, a smile took over my face. She was so lovely, so pure. My day-to-day world was filled with cruelty and evil and ugliness. I experienced this kind of thing so rarely that at one point I realized I was light-headed, apparently too moved to breathe. As I listened to the lyrics, I understood what Caroline had meant. The song was about a young woman who carried the guilt and shame of sexual abuse at the hands of her father.
When the dance was over, I quickly made my way
around to the back of the stage and asked another dancer to retrieve Lilly from the dressing room.
When she emerged, I kissed her on the cheek.
”Thanks, honey,” I said. ”That was incredibly beautiful.”
”Are you all right, Daddy?”
”I’m great,” I said. ”I’m absolutely fine.”
”Are you sure?”
She stood on her tiptoes, kissed me on the cheek, and pulled me towards her so she could whisper in my ear.
”This is the first time I’ve ever seen you cry.”
June 16
8:00 p.m.
I would’ve preferred concentrating on Angel’s case, but I had to deal with Maynard Bush. Besides Angel and possibly Randall Finch, he was my last death penalty client.
I’d been appointed to represent Maynard by the criminal court judge in Sullivan County, and the trial was quickly approaching. The judge had also appointed a young lawyer from Carter County named Timothy Walker II to help me, but Walker had quickly learned he didn’t have the stomach for dealing with Maynard up close and personal. I couldn’t blame him, but that left the jail visits to me.
Maynard was one of the most intimidating, dangerous men I’d ever had the displeasure of defending. He had a long, violent criminal history and had spent most of his adult life in prison. He was pure predator, always looking for a weakness, always trying to gain an advantage. Dealing with him was a constant game of cat and mouse. The problem was that both Maynard and I wanted to be the cat. As a result, we weren’t getting along.
During a change-of-venue hearing three weeks earlier, Maynard had suddenly told the judge I wasn’t doing my job. He said he wanted a new lawyer. The judge knew better—Maynard was just trying to delay his trial—so he told Maynard he was stuck with me.
The judge also granted our motion to change venue.
The trial was to be held in Mountain City in July. I had only four weeks to finish preparing, and Maynard wasn’t cooperating. I’d arranged for a forensic psychiatrist to evaluate him. Maynard wouldn’t speak to the doctor. I’d hired an investigator to interview witnesses and check facts. When I sent him to the jail, Maynard told the investigator to fuck off. He did the same thing with the mitigation expert.
I’d stayed away from Maynard for three weeks, in part because I was busy, in part to make him think the stunt he pulled in court had genuinely offended me, but primarily because being around him made my skin crawl. Three guards brought him into the interview room at the Sullivan County jail a little after eight in the evening. It had been a long day, but I didn’t want to put off talking with Maynard any longer.
Maynard was about six feet tall, and years of methamphetamine and cocaine abuse had left him as thin as an anorexic. He had shoulder-length black hair he parted in the middle and a dark, smooth complexion.
His eyes were almost as dark as his hair. I’d never asked him, but I assumed some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee or Chickasaw. Both of his arms and his upper torso were covered with tattoos. Their intricate design announced to those who knew about such things that he was a member of the Aryan brotherhood. Most of the white inmates belonged to the brotherhood. It helped them stay alive. The tattoos on Maynard’s chest and back were religious symbols. There was a large dove on his chest and an even larger cross on his back. I’d seen them when a guard brought him in shirtless one day.
Maynard was wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit that was much too large for him. He sat down and folded his long, thin fingers across his stomach. It looked as though he could easily slide his wrists through the handcuffs, which were attached to a chain around his waist. The guards had secured the shackles around his ankles to the legs of his chair, which was bolted into the concrete floor. He didn’t look at me.
”Hello, Maynard,” I said. ”How have you been since you tried to ambush me in court?”
Silence.
”There are a couple of things we need to discuss today if you’re feeling up to it. Are you feeling up to it?”
Nothing.
”I’ll take that as a yes. First of all, I need to know why you won’t submit to a psychological evaluation.
I’m not insinuating that you have mental problems, Maynard. I just need to have you evaluated to see whether the doctor can find something that might help us.”
&nb
sp; Maynard sat there like a stone. I wasn’t even sure he was breathing.
”I’d also like to know why you won’t talk to the investigator or the mitigation expert. They’re trying to help you. Don’t you get that?”
Silence.
”I’ve been through all of the evidence, including your background, Maynard. How about you and I get real with each other? You’ve spent most of your life in prison. Killed your first wife and got the charge reduced. Murdered some dude who was screwing around with your girlfriend and got convicted, served fifteen years. Killed at least two men in prison and got away with both of those murders.
As soon as you got out, you started hauling cocaine and meth. While you were at it, you sold and smoked and snorted practically anything you could get your hands on. Now you’ve killed and cut up a couple of teenagers. They can prove you tied the girl up and had sex with her before you shot her. They’ve got semen from her vagina; the DNA matches yours.
They’ve got both victims’ blood all over that little house you rented. Got your signature on the lease at the storage place where you stashed the bodies. That was bright. Didn’t you think they’d start to smell after a few days? They’ve got the kids’ blood and your fingerprints on the chainsaw you used to cut them up. And they’ve got a lot more.”
”I don’t care.”
”Really? Why not?”
” ‘Cause I know I done wrong and I deserve to die.”
I nearly fell out of the chair. I’d defended people who had decided to accept their fate and their punishment, but in a death penalty case, it wasn’t so easy to do. There was no way the prosecution was going to offer Maynard anything. He had raped, shot, and dismembered a young girl and shot and dismembered her boyfriend, and he was a career criminal. The only thing they’d accept would be Maynard’s pleading guilty to two murders and agreeing to the death penalty, and there was simply no way I was going to let him do that. If the state was going to kill him, it was my duty to make sure they could prove their case. I couldn’t just walk him into court and say, ”Okay, we quit. Go ahead and kill my client.” We were going to trial whether Maynard wanted to or not.