The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  Mac tapped a legal pad on his desk with his pen. “I’m as sorry as anyone that the Hightower girl is dead. I wish she were still alive. I know what it’s like to lose a child. Unless someone has been through something like this . . .” He paused. “But no lawyer in this town wants to be within a hundred miles of this case because of the taint that associating with the defendant is no doubt going to bring.”

  “And you’re already tainted?” Vicki asked.

  “Yes,” Mac shrugged. “I took on the Hightowers many years ago, and even though I lost the case, it’s never been forgotten.”

  “But your focus will be on representing the defendant, not defaming the Hightower family,” Vicki said.

  “Of course. But you can’t underestimate the feelings of a parent who has lost a child. I wouldn’t expect them to react rationally, and they won’t. Alex Hightower may tell a newspaper reporter that the family wants justice, but I can assure you that he and his wife want revenge. And I can’t blame them. My job is to provide justice—justice for Peter Thomason—and beginning today, my job puts me at war with their desire for revenge. I stand in the way of all the vengeance their money can buy, and the Hightower family will take my role in the process personally, very personally.”

  The three women were silent. Mindy’s mouth was half-open.

  “That was awesome,” she said. “Did you think that up on the spur of the moment? I mean, the revenge and justice thing.”

  “Keep encouraging me, Mindy.” Mac smiled. “I’ll need it before this is over.”

  “Anything for me to do at this point?” Vicki asked.

  “Not on the practical side, but I’ve not been involved in a major criminal trial since you and Mindy came to work here. Until this case is over, I may not be my usual, easygoing self.”

  “Which means?”

  “I may act like a demanding jerk.”

  “I doubt you can be as bad as the lawyer I worked for in Birmingham.” Vicki shrugged. “On a good day he made a grizzly bear look even-tempered.”

  “Perhaps. But I want to apologize in advance.”

  “In advance?”

  “Yes. That way you can apply my apology to any problems or misunderstandings that come up later.”

  Vicki nodded slowly. “Interesting. Can I borrow your approach and use it with my husband?”

  “Sure. I hope it works for you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mac sat down in Gene Nelson’s simply furnished office. The public defender slid an expandable folder across his desk toward Mac. “I wish there were more to pass along. All the lab reports, coroner’s report, Georgia Bureau of Investigation investigation, pictures, and local sheriff info is in here.”

  “Did Thomason give any kind of a statement?” Mac asked.

  “Not really. He passed out in the patrol car at the time of his arrest.” Gene picked up the folder and leafed through it. “Here’s a copy of the incident report. I’ve flagged it in the file.” He handed a single sheet of paper to Mac.

  Slipping on his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, Mac read the document:

  12:39 a.m. - August 2 - Norton Mountain Road - White male - 6’2” - 220 pounds, red hair, found in woods at mile marker 46, approximately 200 yards from the overlook, the site of the fatality involving Angela Hightower. Identified by GA driver’s license no. 657398247 as Peter L. Thomason, 316B Oakwood Apts., Dennison Springs. Subject unable or unwilling to provide his name or any information about his conduct. He was placed in the patrol car and lay down on the seat. He appeared unconscious while we transported him to the ER at Gregory Memorial Hospital.

  Prepared by Kenneth Mason,

  Detective, Echota County Sheriff ’s Department

  “Did they interview him later?”

  “He spent the night passed out in the hospital. The next day Detective Mason read him his Miranda rights and asked him some questions. All Thomason said was that he couldn’t remember anything.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mac picked up the folder. “Give me your rundown on the case as it stands now.”

  “Okay, and I’m sorry this has been dumped on you.”

  “I know, I know.” Mac waved off Gene’s remark.

  “You know the basic facts from the newspaper. Angela Hightower was staying with her parents at their big place on Summit Street. She had a few more weeks of summer vacation before going back to school at Hollins University in Virginia. Peter ‘Pete’ Thomason, a recent Auburn graduate, was working as a computer software design engineer for Aeromart Industries, a Hightower and Company research and development subsidiary. Boy meets girl at a cookout for employees at the Hightower residence, and they go to dinner a couple of times—once here and once in Chattanooga. Everything sweet and nice. I think the Hightowers liked young Thomason. August second was a Saturday, and the two youngsters left in the early afternoon to go to Atlanta. According to the Hightowers’ statements, Angela wanted to take Pete to eat at an Italian place in north Atlanta, Buckhead area, I think. They left Dennison Springs in Angela’s yellow Porsche. At 8:00 P.M. Angela called home from her car phone. Nobody answered the phone, but she left a message that something had come up, and it would be after midnight before they would get back to Dennison Springs. Her last words: ‘I love you. Don’t worry.’”

  “I expect we’ll hear that played for the jury.”

  “Several times. Sometime after midnight a guy from Morganton was driving his pickup on Norton Mountain Road and met a yellow Porsche traveling at a high rate of speed with its bright lights on. The Porsche swerved into his lane, and he hit the ditch.”

  “Was the Porsche going up the mountain?”

  “Yeah. The pickup was on the way down. Otherwise, the man in the truck might have gone over the edge. Some of those curves have no guardrails.”

  “Did you interview this fellow?”

  “Not yet, but it needs to be done. His name is McFarland.” Gene pulled a list of witnesses from the file. “Rodney McFarland, age seventy-three, Route one, Box seventy-two, Morganton, no phone.”

  “Okay.”

  Gene continued. “Apparently, Mr. McFarland was hot. His truck was scratched, and he drove to the bottom of the mountain and called the sheriff ’s department from a convenience store. The dispatcher sent a patrol car to investigate and radioed another car coming from the opposite direction. One of the cars, let me see”—Gene flipped through some papers—“Yeah, Deputies Jefferson and Logan were in the car coming over the mountain. They spotted a damaged guardrail at the overlook and pulled over. Jefferson shone a light over the edge of the cliff, and they saw the Porsche at the bottom of the ravine. Logan scrambled down the rocks and found the girl in the vehicle, dead. Her purse was still in the car, and they identified her by her driver’s license—Angela Hightower.”

  “It looked like an accident.”

  “Yeah, but Jefferson was suspicious because there was no sign of the driver and Angela was in the passenger seat.”

  “Where was Thomason?”

  “That’s where the other car comes in. Jefferson radioed Detective Mason and Officer Gordon and told them to be on the lookout for anyone leaving the area. On their way up the mountain, they spotted Thomason at the edge of the woods down the road.”

  “Running away?”

  “I’m sure the State will argue that because he was a couple hundred yards from the overlook, but Pete was in no condition to make a serious effort at escape.”

  “Why was Detective Mason riding with a regular duty officer at the time of the call?” Mac asked.

  “Just riding around. No specific reason.”

  “When they took Thomason to the patrol car, did Mason and Gordon know the Porsche had gone over the edge?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mac ran his fingers through his hair. “If the girl died when the car went over the cliff, it wouldn’t be murder. Vehicular homicide maybe, or reckless driving, but not murder.”

  “That’s r
ight. And I intended to argue a lesser-included offense to judge and jury. But there’s a problem with that theory of the case. The autopsy shows she died of strangulation.”

  “The paper said her neck was broken.”

  “Correct. The broken neck may or may not have occurred when the car went over the edge, but according to the pathologist’s report, asphxyiation was the cause of death.”

  “How was she strangled? What marks were left?”

  “Bare hands or blunt object to the windpipe. Just a couple of small bruises.”

  Mac shook his head and looked past Gene’s face at a spot on the wall behind him.

  After a few moments of silence, Gene said, “I know what you’re thinking. This one gets you in the gut. You know, I have a twelve-year-old daughter.”

  Still looking at the wall, Mac said, “Bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it.”

  “And there aren’t any answers.”

  “I haven’t found any,” Mac said, bringing his focus back to the public defender. “What was in Thomason’s system?”

  “He was a walking drugstore. He tested positive for barbiturates and amphetamines. Minimal alcohol.”

  “Any prior arrests?”

  “No arrests. He’s never jaywalked or chewed tobacco. One speeding ticket when he was in college three years ago.”

  “Any circumstantial evidence of recreational drug usage?”

  “Negative. He claims he hasn’t used anything since a little experimentation with pot in high school.”

  “How does Thomason explain the drugs in his system on August second?”

  “That’s hard to figure. You and I have both interviewed clients who were swimming in alcohol or saturated with dope but only admit to drinking a couple of beers or taking a few puffs from a joint. Not Pete. He claims he hasn’t used any illegal drugs since high school and doesn’t remember taking any drugs that day.”

  “Doesn’t remember? That’s pretty lame considering the lab report and the fact that he passed out in the police car.”

  “That’s his story, and it looks like he’s sticking with it.”

  “Family?”

  “Mother dead. Father departed to parts unknown.”

  “What else?” Mac asked.

  “Two things. Neither of which is good news.”

  Mac grimaced. “Go ahead.”

  “First, it’s not come out in the papers—yet,” Gene said grimly, “but the bloodwork on the girl was also positive.”

  “For what?”

  “Rohypnol, known on the street as ‘roofies.’”

  “The date-rape drug?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she?”

  “No. Nothing. But the drug was in her system.”

  “That’s bad. What’s number two?”

  “There’s an incident from Thomason’s past that may come back to haunt him in the present.”

  Gene thumbed through a stack of papers until he found the sheet he was looking for. “I want to get this right because it is a bizarre tale. Thomason joined the Marine Corps as soon as he graduated from high school. My guess is that having grown up without a father he was looking for authority figures and male bonding. Anyway, he went through basic training at Parris Island, South Carolina. The night before graduation, he and two boot-camp buddies went out to celebrate and met two girls at a bar. Someone slipped a potent dose of Rohypnol in the girls’ drinks.”

  “Was it Thomason?”

  “He denies he knew anything about it until the next day.”

  “Sounds similar.”

  “Yeah. Thomason says he thought the girls were drunk when they left the bar with his two buddies. He returned to the base by himself. The next day he’s ordered into the camp commandant’s office and gets grilled by this old Marine general and a couple of his officers on his staff.”

  “What happened?”

  “Thomason finds out that the girls woke up in their car near the beach and went to the ER at a local hospital, where a blood test showed the presence of the drug. They had not been assaulted, but one girl’s father, a rich businessman, called the camp commandant. Pete’s so-called friends had already been interviewed and blamed the whole thing on him. It was two against one, and Pete was given the choice of a dishonorable discharge on general, unspecified grounds or face a formal court martial. He decided to bail out of the military. Because the girls didn’t really remember what happened and to avoid embarrassment to their families, no criminal charges were filed in South Carolina.”

  “Anybody able to back up Thomason’s story?”

  Gene shook his head. “Of course not. One of the guys involved is on Okinawa. The other is no longer in the Marine Corps and dropped out of sight. My guess is that they would hurt the defense more than help if this comes to light.”

  “The D.A.’s office doesn’t know about this yet?” Mac asked.

  “No. There is no criminal conviction, so it doesn’t show up on any database. But if the State finds out about it and learns that Rohypnol was involved, they will parade this incident in front of the jury box and argue it as prior similar conduct that proves Thomason’s criminal proclivity.”

  “That’s what I’d do if I were the D.A.” Mac ran his finger along the edge of Gene’s desk. “Is Thomason any help at all?”

  “If you don’t mind listening to him deny doing anything wrong. He remembers everything about the Marine Corps incident that makes him seem innocent and draws a blank about this case, claiming total amnesia on the night of the murder until he came back to earth in the hospital with a sheriff ’s deputy standing over his bed. I talked to him the next day after he’d been transferred to the jail.”

  “What about his relationship with Angela?”

  “According to Thomason, nothing beyond friendship at the time of her death.”

  Mac nodded. “So the State says in a drug-induced craze Thomason spiked Angela’s drink and drove her someplace to take advantage of her. When she tried to fight him off, he killed her, took the body in the Porsche up the mountain, and rolled the car off the cliff to make it look like an accident.”

  Gene closed his folder. “And Joe Whetstone rests his case.”

  5

  I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.

  TIMON OF ATHENS, ACT 1, SCENE 2

  The Echota County Jail was the same 1930s vintage as the courthouse. The ground floor of the red-brick building was occupied by offices for the sheriff ’s department and the county tax appraiser, and the second floor contained the cellblocks. A modern annex added in the 1980s housed the women’s cellblock, two holding cells—a euphemism for drunk tanks—and three disciplinary lockup units for especially troublesome prisoners.

  Most male prisoners were kept upstairs in six large cellblocks with eight prisoners in each cell. There was no need for surveillance cameras because everything occurred in full view of the four guards on duty in a central, open area called the “bull pen.”

  The county commissioners and the correctional system bureaucrats in Atlanta wanted to tear down the old jail and build a thoroughly modern facility with no natural lighting and solid steel doors, but the inmates opposed the plan and, in an odd attempt to exert influence on the correctional process, wrote crudely worded letters to prison officials in Atlanta and the local paper in an effort to save the old facility. The prisoners liked the fact that each cell had a barred window that gave them a constant view of the outside world. A man who can see freedom is not an absolute prisoner.

  In good weather, the guards would open the windows a few inches for an hour or two in the late afternoon, and the prisoners could yell to wives, mothers, children, girlfriends, and relatives who congregated in small groups on the ground below. There were no secrets, and everyone’s gossip was everyone’s news.

  For years Sheriff Leonard Bomar had successfully opposed efforts to demolish the old jail. Some accused him of being cheap and medieval in his ideas about incarceration, but the sheriff recognized that the
inmates’ limited contact with the outside world from the second-floor windows served as an incentive for some men to mend their ways.

  “Can I help you?” a young deputy asked when Mac walked up.

  The sergeant on duty looked up and growled, “Babcock, that’s Mr. McClain. Who do you need to see this morning?”

  “Peter Thomason.”

  Mac signed the registry sheet for attorneys visiting their clients.

  The sergeant checked his list of inmates. “He’s upstairs in four.” Picking up a walkie-talkie from his desk, he said, “Attorney here to see Thomason. Bring him down.”

  “How’ve you been, Fred?” Mac asked the sergeant while they waited. Mac had represented the officer several years before in a land purchase.

  “Busy.”

  “Are you still living south of town?”

  “Yeah, I’ve fixed the place up and surveyed out a lot, which I’m planning to sell to pay off the balance of my mortgage. A neighbor called yesterday and made an offer. If I decide to accept it, do you have time to help with the sale?”

  “Sure. Call Vicki at my office with the details, and I’ll dictate a contract. The buyer will need to get his own attorney if he wants a title search.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mac heard the clang of a heavy metal door and saw a deputy escorting a prisoner dressed in an orange jailhouse jumpsuit down the freshly scrubbed hallway.

  The tall young man had lost at least twenty pounds since he started eating jailhouse food and faced the stress of a murder charge. His red hair was cut short, and he shuffled along with his eyes on the floor until he was about ten feet from Mac.

  “I’m Mac McClain.”

  Thomason’s dark brown eyes narrowed, and he halfheartedly shook Mac’s hand.

  “Room one is open, Mr. McClain,” Fred said.

  Mac led the way down the hall and opened the solid steel door to the interview room, a ten-by-ten-foot cubicle devoid of furnishing except for a small metal table and three metal chairs. Thomason pulled out a chair and slouched down. Mac closed the door and sat opposite his new client. The young man’s face was covered in freckles, and as a result he looked even younger than twenty-two. His nose and mouth were well proportioned, but his ears stuck out a little too far from his almost hairless head. He had broad shoulders and long arms; Mac guessed he played defensive end on his high school football team.