Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  Rebecca Crawford arrived at the Armistead estate in Woodard’s Mill clad in jeans and an old button-down shirt she had thrown over top of her workout clothes. She parked right behind the two Chesapeake police cars in the driveway—one marked and one unmarked. She entered without knocking. From the front foyer she could see Sean in his study, slumped on the couch and zoned out, his puffy red eyes staring straight ahead. The Barracuda resisted the urge to go in and comfort him, take him in her arms and reassure him that it would be okay. She introduced herself to Inspector Giovanni, the Chesapeake cop who was very obviously in charge.

  The Barracuda flashed her commonwealth’s attorney credentials, explained that she was a friend of the Armisteads, and asked for a status report. The inspector glanced over his shoulder at Armistead, then took Crawford by the elbow down the hallway and into the kitchen. In hushed tones, he explained what they knew about the apparent suicide of Erica Armistead and summarized the statement he had taken from Sean Armistead.

  “He’s been very cooperative,” Giovanni said. “He let us look around the house. Even let us check a few things on the computer.”

  “Is his story checking out?” the Barracuda asked with as much detachment as she could muster.

  The inspector made a clucking sound and silently nodded his head for a few seconds. “Pretty much,” he said. “Pretty much.”

  His hesitation was not lost on the Barracuda.

  “Mind if I have a word with him?”

  “Knock yourself out.” He shrugged.

  Crawford walked slowly back to the study and softly took a seat in a wing-backed chair next to the small couch where Armistead stared into space. Sean did not acknowledge her. As she glanced around and gathered her thoughts, she noticed how dark the study seemed, even on a morning when the sun was shining brightly. Sean had closed the plantation shutters to block the sunlight, and the dark mahogany bookshelves and maroon leather furniture seemed to absorb what little light filtered in from the foyer. There was one dim reading light illuminating a corner of the room, keeping the two occupants from being in total darkness.

  She sat there silently for a few minutes, torn between reaching out and touching him or just plain slapping him for his stupidity. The emotions in the room were raw, just below the surface, waiting to explode. She could understand his sorrow, but this was no time for zoning out. They both had to be thinking sharp. Why in the world did he let the police look at a “few things” on his computer? The husband is always a suspect when the wife dies “accidentally,” even in the best of marriages.

  Before speaking, the Barracuda got up and closed the French doors separating the study from the foyer.

  “How’re you doing, Sean?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Not so good,” he replied without looking up. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  The Barracuda nodded grimly and sat back down next to Sean. She leaned toward him, her elbows on her knees, getting as close as she could without actually touching him. She knew the cops could look through the windowpanes on the French doors at any minute, and she was not taking any chances.

  “I know it’s hard,” she whispered, “but you’ve got to pull yourself together. I’m here for you.” At this, she reached out and took both of Sean’s hands in hers, squeezing them strongly before she let go and checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking in. No one was, so she also reached out and gently rubbed his back.

  This show of affection drew no response from the doctor other than a slight increase in the stream of tears trickling down both cheeks. Crawford withdrew her hands and checked again for the police. No on lookers. She leaned forward again, her mouth inches from Sean’s ear.

  Enough solemnities. The Barracuda decided to get right down to business. “What did they look at on the computer?”

  It was as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she hadn’t penetrated the trance.

  She grabbed his knee and shook it, firmly but gently. “Sean,” she insisted, “what did they look at on the computer?”

  “Oh, they were just looking at the documents file to see if she had written anything with more details than the suicide note they found. . . . They were just . . . um . . . I really don’t know.”

  “Did you watch them the entire time they were on the computer?”

  “Yeah, of course.” He now turned to look at Crawford. His voice took on an edge. “I’m not an idiot.”

  The sharpness of the response and the gauntness of his eyes shocked the Barracuda. But she was enough of a pro not to show it. Without the least hint of flinching or wavering, she returned his gaze and sharpened her own tone.

  “It’s not a good idea to let them snoop around on that computer. You’ve got financial dealings to protect.”

  “They’ll never figure that out,” Sean said wearily. “I’ve got that protected in so many different ways—”

  “Sean . . .” The Barracuda’s interruption was intense, stopping his ramblings midsentence. “Listen to me. You cannot, you must not, ever let them look on your computer again. And when they leave, I want you to get a hard drive, just like your current one, pay cash for it, and reload every program, every document, and every transaction that’s on your present computer into your new one over the next few days except—”

  Sean’s stare had returned to the floor. “Listen to me, Sean.”

  He nodded.

  “Except for any transactions showing money going to me. I don’t even want it on your hard drive, okay?”

  Sean nodded, still looking down.

  The Barracuda paused and took a deep breath. It was time to deliver the bombshell.

  She softened her voice, speaking barely above a whisper, knowing that the words themselves would have enough sting without a blunt delivery increasing their impact.

  “Sean, they know that you were having an affair, and they know that Erica discovered it just a few days before she died.”

  Sean’s head jerked up and he rocked back in his seat, rubbing his face in disbelief. “How?”

  “I don’t know how,” Crawford replied ever so quietly, “but they know. They told me about it. They obviously don’t know your affair was with me.”

  “They didn’t say anything to me,” Sean replied.

  “Shh,” the Barracuda cautioned. She glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s the oldest police trick in the book. They withhold some vital information to see if you ’fess up, see if you try to hide anything. If you don’t come clean, they figure there are hidden motives.”

  Sean cursed bitterly. The Barracuda could see the sadness turning to fear.

  “Here’s what we do, Sean. I call the police back in here like I’ve just cajoled a confession out of you about this affair. You tell them that you were sleeping around with somebody. Make up a name that’s as believable as possible, but make it somebody with a Virginia Beach address. I’ll tell Inspector Giovanni that I’ll check her out myself, or if he won’t buy that, I’ll get one of my detectives at the beach to check it out. Either way, we’ll confirm the affair. Are you with me on this?”

  Sean nodded.

  “But, Sean, you’ve got to be so incredibly careful. Don’t give them anymore than you absolutely have to. I’ll sit in here with you during the interview. And, Sean . . .”

  Their eyes locked intently on each other.

  “If my name ever, ever, slips out in connection with this affair, then I can’t help you with this mess and you’re on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Though Sean nodded his head, his blank stare revealed that he wasn’t understanding much of anything. He was in shock, on autopilot, marching to the orders of the one person thinking clearly.

  “I love you, Sean,” Crawford said. Then she touched him gently on the shoulder and rose from her seat to retrieve the lieutenant.

  She found Giovanni in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking in hushed tones to the uniformed cops.

  “Thanks for giving me a few minute
s alone,” the Barracuda said. “I think it did some good. There are a few things Dr. Armistead neglected to tell you.”

  36

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, as Sean Armistead made funeral arrangements, the Virginia Beach inmates were baking in waves of heat from the late morning sun as they picked up trash along Interstate 264. It was a thankless job and a humiliating one. If the orange jumpsuits weren’t enough to put the whole world on notice that these men were convicts, the dregs of society, then certainly the guards with their rifles held loosely by their side would do the trick. At least the guards had the decency not to require the men to wear leg irons or to be chained together like slaves.

  The men moved slowly and methodically, bending occasionally to pick up some trash only if the guards were looking, determined not to expend too much energy on such a meaningless task. Buster was one of the most lethargic and sullen. He took pride in the fact that he only bent to scoop up large items, like pieces of cardboard or empty boxes. It would sometimes take him nearly an hour to fill a single bag.

  Thomas Hammond, on the other hand, was a workhorse. He would always bring up the rear of the work crew, picking up all the little pieces of trash that the other men missed. The first day out he constantly told the others to slow down and be more careful—they were missing a lot of junk. He eventually realized that this was the whole point of what they were doing, cherry-picking the easy stuff, leaving the small and nasty items—half-eaten hamburgers, disposable diapers, used snot-rags—for suckers like Thomas. He didn’t mind. And he still filled up nearly as many bags as two or three of the others put together.

  Thomas had just tied a bag, topped off with a couple of beer cans and an apple core, when he saw Buster walking back toward him. It was not unusual for Buster to come back and hang out next to Thomas, griping and sulking while Thomas worked. Buster dragged his empty bag behind him while Thomas filled his own. Then, without breaking stride, the men would switch trash bags and continue on until Thomas filled the second bag as well.

  “What up, Pops?” Buster asked.

  “Nothin’. Gonna be a hot one.”

  “What’re you smokin’? Already is.”

  An SUV stuffed with teenage boys drove by. They had their windows down and hooted at the inmates. A Hardee’s bag flew from the vehicle and landed about fifty feet in front of Buster and Thomas.

  Buster cursed the boys, causing Thomas to wince.

  “Punks,” Buster snarled. “I’ll waste ’em when I get out of this joint.”

  “How you gonna find ’em?” Thomas asked, heading for the Hardee’s bag.

  “I’ll find ’em,” Buster promised.

  The two men worked on in silence, Thomas waiting for the bellyaching to begin again in earnest. But for some reason Buster was strangely quiet this morning, and it worried Thomas a little.

  “You all right?” Thomas asked.

  “Been thinkin’,” the big man replied.

  “’Bout?”

  “’Bout what the rev said. You really buy that stuff, Pops?” Buster, staring ahead at the shoulder of the road and the other inmates, didn’t even look at Thomas as he asked the question.

  Thomas stopped stuffing his bag so he could concentrate on his answer. He didn’t want to push too hard, but this was the first time Buster had ever asked about spiritual things. Thomas didn’t want to blow this opportunity, couldn’t live with himself if he did, but he really didn’t know quite how to respond. He had never been to seminary, didn’t have any formal education at all, as a matter of fact. Where was Pastor Charles Arnold when you really needed him?

  “’Course I believe it,” Thomas said.

  Buster walked a few steps and kicked a soda can. “If it’s true, why’d God let your kid die?”

  It felt like Buster had punched Thomas in the gut all over again. It was the same question that had haunted Thomas every second since Armistead pronounced Joshie dead. “Why’d God let your kid die?” He wouldn’t blame it on God. Couldn’t. How could he serve a God like that? It had to be his own lack of faith, his own failure to believe. God wanted Joshua healed, and Thomas just harbored too much doubt. It had to be that way, didn’t it?

  How could he ever explain this to Buster?

  “Can’t say as I know why,” Thomas said softly. He walked a few more steps and picked up a foil wrapper. He had blown it. He didn’t have a clue what else to say.

  Wisdom, he prayed. Just give me wisdom!

  He scoured the ground and took a few more steps in silence before a new thought hit him. “Maybe,” Thomas said haltingly, “one reason’s so we could meet. So I could save your neck and tell you ’bout Christ.”

  Buster gave him a skeptical look, his hard face twisting into a frown. “Since you brought it up, Pops, I’ve been meaning to ax you, why did you keep me from gettin’ shanked?” Buster’s deep voice sounded a little thick with emotion. He had never uttered a word about the stabbing incident since the day he and Thomas had dinner together.

  Thomas shrugged. “Don’t reckon I really thought about it. Just did it.”

  Thomas waited for a response, but Buster just kept shuffling along, squinting off into the distance again.

  What do I say now? “But don’t focus on me,” Thomas continued. “Pete’s sake, I just risked my life. Focus on Jesus; that man actually gave His life—died’so you could be forgiven.”

  This time Thomas decided to wait for a response even if it took all day.

  Buster took his eyes from the horizon and glued them on the ground. “For me,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “Then God must be dumber’n I thought. Must not know what I’ve done.”

  Thomas was ready for this. “What you’ve done don’t matter,” he insisted. “I risked my life for you when you was showin’ me nothin’ but hate. And the Bible says that Christ died for us while we were yet sinners. It don’t matter what you’ve done.”

  “You don’t know, Pops. This black man’s done some things.”

  “It don’t matter.”Thomas dropped his trash bag on the ground and turned toward Buster. He was getting animated now, forgetting about his insecurities. “Don’t you remember what Pastor Charles told us about the thief on the cross? That man was prob’ly a murderer. Least you never kilt nobody.”

  The silence from Buster caused the coil of tension in Thomas’s neck to tighten a few more turns. His cellmate—a killer. Could God really save Buster?

  “Even if you had—” Thomas watched Buster’s face for a reaction, saw nothing—“it just don’t matter. God loves you, warts and all.”

  “Warts and all”—that was a dumb thing to say,Thomas thought. It always sounded good when his pastor said it from the pulpit, but Thomas was speaking to a murderer. Warts seemed a little tame for this guy.

  The silence lingered for what seemed like an eternity. But what else was there to say? Thomas had done his duty and stuck up for his God even as his mind swirled with unanswered questions. He’d done the best he could, though he’d said a few stupid things. But what more could God possibly expect of him?

  “What does matter?” Buster asked. He stopped walking and studied the ground between himself and Thomas.

  The question made Thomas tingle with nervousness and excitement. He looked around, half-expecting God to just send Pastor Charles driving down the highway to stop by and help Buster sort this out. But there was no pastor, no angel. It was all up to Thomas.

  “Just kneel down and pray to God,” Thomas said with a shaky voice. “Just admit you’re a sinner, tell God you’re sorry for your sins, accept Christ as your Savior, and ask Him into your heart. He’ll change everything.”

  Just then a car buzzed by and swerved toward the shoulder. The driver blew his horn, and the passenger flipped off the prisoners. The guards, still fifty yards back, just laughed. Buster didn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s easy for you, Pops. But I’ve never talked to the Big Man in my life.”

  Thomas took a step toward him. “Tell y
ou what. If you’re ready to do this, if you’re ready to git saved right now and git things right with God, you just kneel down next to me right here, and I’ll tell you what to pray.”

  For the first time Buster looked up at Thomas. His eyes were red and wet, and now they widened with the realization of what Thomas was asking. “We gotta kneel?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Buster looked around and nodded at the guards behind him and the other inmates ahead. “What ’bout them?” He said it in a near whisper, though they were still fifty feet away. “What’re they gonna think?”

  “If that’s all you care about, what others think, then you’ll just go to hell,” Thomas stated, authority and conviction deep in his voice. He surprised himself with this boldness.

  Buster jerked his head back and gave Thomas an astonished look. The comment seemed to rattle him. In all their time together, Thomas had never uttered even one curse word.

  “Says who?”

  “Says the Bible, that’s who. If you’re ashamed of Christ before men, He’ll be ashamed of you before the heavenly Father.” Thomas paused to gather his thoughts. “It takes a real man to believe in Christ, Buster, no matter what others think.”

  Buster looked front and back, then at Thomas again. His eyes were still red. “God can change me—Buster Jackson—shot caller for the ES?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then let’s do this thing.”

  Without another word, right there on the shoulder of the interstate, with cars buzzing by and the prison guards glaring at them from fifty feet away, the two huge men in their orange jumpsuits sank to their knees, folded their hands like little children, and got ready to pray.

  “Make it quick,” Buster mumbled.

  37

  CHARLES THOUGHT about what to say and how he would say it the entire two-hour drive to Richmond. He could have called Denita but decided that something this important really needed to be done in person. He owed her that much.

  He tried to judge his motivations and gain a clear picture of his turbulent heart. He had moved beyond resenting Denita for the opportunity she had. Some serious prayer time had helped. And while he didn’t share her views on many legal issues, that was really none of his business. The senators would have to plumb those depths. His role, his only role, was to decide whether he should disclose the fact that his wife had an illegal abortion four years ago, using a drug that had not been approved in the United States at the time and was even now the object of great controversy.