“I’m your new lawyer,” Mac began. “I’ve been appointed by the judge because Mr. Nelson had a conflict with one of the witnesses.”
“Yeah. He told me.”
Mac looked for a sign that would reveal a young man intelligent enough to work in computer software design and gain the favor of a young woman like Angela Hightower. There was nothing there. Thomason sat slouched in the chair. Mac set a blank legal pad on the table.
“Do you go by Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“I picked up your file, but I’ve not had time to read everything in it. Since there has been a change in lawyers, the judge is postponing your case so I can have time to prepare your defense.”
“What defense?”
“I’m not sure about our strategy at this time. After I’ve reviewed everything, I’ll come back and we can discuss things in more detail.”
The angry eyes looked up. “Are you any good? The men in my cell say I’d be better off representing myself than having an appointed lawyer.”
“I’ve won my share, but every case is different.”
Thomason leaned across the table and brought his face close to Mac’s. His dark eyes became intense. “I’m an innocent man, and I need a lawyer who will fight to prove it.”
“That’s my job,” Mac responded.
“This is not right!” Thomason raised his right hand, and for a split second Mac thought he was going to have to fend off a blow. Instead, the young man slammed his fist onto the table.
“I hear you,” Mac said, inching his chair away from the table.
Pete’s loud voice echoed in the tiny chamber. “Do you? Will you listen to me? Tell me! Who will believe me? Who?”
Trying to bring calm into the room, Mac spoke softly, “Go ahead. I’ll listen to you.”
With less volume, the young man continued, “The other lawyer told me he couldn’t help me unless I remembered what happened.” He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, “I don’t remember. I dream, but I don’t remember.”
“Dream? Dream what?”
“About that night.”
“What do you dream?”
Thomason put his head in his hands. “Last night was the worst ever.”
Mac leaned forward. “Go ahead.”
“It starts out happy. Angela and I are doing something fun. Different things. Eating pizza. Sitting on a bench in her backyard. Walking in a mall. That lasts for a while, then we are driving in her car. Once we are in the car, I have this feeling of dread because I know something horrible is about to happen. Then everything goes into a swirling blackness, and I have trouble breathing. I wake up sweating and can’t go back to sleep for hours. I lie there trying to figure out what happened in the blackness, but I can’t see into it. It’s driving me crazy.”
Mac knew exactly how the young man felt—his own dreams were much the same, but he didn’t know what to say. He drummed his fingers on the table and decided to focus on the known, not the unknown. “When you’re awake, you remember everything about August second until the time you and Angela were eating dinner at the restaurant in Atlanta?”
“That’s right.”
“Anything about the ride in the car back from Atlanta?”
“No.”
“Nothing about what happened on the mountain?”
“No. Just like I told Mr. Nelson. I have a gap from the restaurant until the next day at the hospital. That’s when I found out what happened.”
Mac put his pen in his shirt pocket. “That’s all for now. But I want you to know that your cellmates are wrong about appointed lawyers. I’m going to investigate every aspect of this case that I can. I will work as hard as I can to give you the best possible defense. If you think of anything, let me know—anything that comes to you, either awake or asleep. I’ll track it down.”
“Okay.”
Outside the jail, Mac took an extra deep breath of the crisp fall air and exhaled. Gene Nelson had been right. Pete Thomason could not provide information for his own defense. No alibi. No explanation. No other angles. Mac would have to create a defense without the help of the only living person who knew what happened. It would be a difficult task.
Pete’s dream wasn’t admissible in court, but to Mac it was a clue. The blackness in Mac’s own nightmare came at the point of his responsibility for the death of his family—some things are too horrible to witness, awake or asleep. He’d realized long ago that the darkness in his nightmare was a subconscious way of protecting himself from the horror of the truth—that he was guilty of killing his family. Was the darkness in Peter Thomason’s nightmare any different?
At the office there was a stack of phone messages for Mac on Mindy’s desk.
“The newspaper called,” she said excitedly. “They want to interview you about the murder case.”
“Was it Dennis Martin, the publisher?”
“No, a reporter named Barbara something.”
“I don’t care if it’s Barbara Walters calling; I have no comment at this time. You handle it.”
Mindy’s eyes got bigger. “Me, talk to a reporter?”
“You can do it. All you have to say is that Mr. McClain has no comment at this time.”
Mindy sat up straight in her chair. “Okay. Let me practice. ‘Mr. McClain has no comment at this time.’ How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
Mac took his messages into his office and buzzed Vicki.
When she walked through the door, he said, “I need a psychologist.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled.
“Not me,” Mac said. “Although it might help. I want a psychological evaluation of Pete Thomason. The judge said he would approve funding for experts.”
“Local or national?”
“Better be local, say fifty miles. The judge probably won’t pay airfare or significant travel time.”
“Any other guidelines?”
Mac thought a moment. “Somebody with courtroom experience would be nice. Ask for attorney references we can contact before making a decision.”
“Okay.”
“And I need someone who can act fast. The judge has given me more time, but it’s a rush job.”
“How fast?”
“Someone who can do an evaluation within the next ten days to two weeks.”
Mac leafed through his messages again and laid the stack on his desk.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. Fred, uh, I can’t remember his last name. One of the sergeants at the jail may call with information about a sales contract on some land.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks. That’s it for now.”
“I’ll work on the psychologist ASAP.”
Mac spent the remaining hour before lunch returning phone messages. He talked to Jerry Saylor, who agreed to a continuance in Ketchem v. Trustmark Insurance Co. The last thing Saylor’s client wanted was his day in court against Mac’s clients, a young couple who filed a claim on their homeowner’s policy after their house burned to the ground. The insurance adjuster wrote a letter suggesting that the Ketchems may have burned the house themselves, then he delayed payment for months by hassling them over the value of the house and their personal belongings. Mac mailed a demand letter, and the insurance company sent a check, but there was enough evidence of bad faith to justify suing for punitive damages and attorney fees.
He spent the afternoon carefully going through Gene Nelson’s file. There were a few tidbits from the investigative file. Fingerprint tests of the vehicle showed Pete’s and Angela’s prints all over the vehicle— except for the steering wheel. The report simply said, “No fingerprints were lifted from the steering wheel.”
Fibers taken from the vehicle matched Angela’s dress and Pete’s shirt and slacks. But there were other fibers that did not match. Of course, many people could have been in and out of the car, but Mac wanted to know who those other people were and why they had been in Angela Hightower’s car.
Late in the afternoon, there was a knock on Mac’s door.
Without looking up from the report in his hand, Mac said, “Come in.”
“I think I’ve found your psychologist,” Vicki said. “Her name is Anna Wilkes, Ph.D. She has a practice in Chattanooga. Licensed in Tennessee, Georgia, and Virginia. Twelve years experience. B.A. from William and Mary, M.A. and Ph.D. from the University of Virginia.”
Mac took off his reading glasses. “A woman?”
“Yes. You didn’t say, ‘Men only need apply.’”
“No I didn’t, but Thomason is a big, intimidating guy. I’m not sure about sending a woman into the jail to evaluate him.”
“Here’s the rest of it. Dr. Wilkes has performed evaluations on both sides of the fence, prosecution and defense. I talked with Mike Bender in Rossville, and he said she has a good reputation with their judges and stands her ground in court.”
“How soon is she available?”
“Her office said she had an open time slot this Thursday.”
“That’s good. Her fees?”
“Not out of line. They’re faxing us a schedule of charges.”
Mac mulled over the information for a moment. “Maybe a woman would be good. Show the jury that Thomason isn’t too scary.”
“How scary is he?” Vicki asked.
Mac remembered the reverberating sound of Thomason’s powerful fist hitting the table. “Scary enough.”
“What do you want me to do? Look for a male psychologist?”
“No, let’s give Dr. Wilkes a try. If she doesn’t work out, there’s still time to bring in someone else.”
“I’ll call her office before I leave today.”
“Also, prepare a motion requesting Judge Danielson’s approval for the evaluation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mac popped open his desktop phone directory. “While you’re at it, include a request for Ray Morrison as private investigator.”
“Anything else?”
“Phone Linda at the judge’s office and ask if the judge can hear the motion in the morning.” Mac turned over one of the pleadings filed by Gene Nelson. “It looks like Bert Langley is handling the file for the D.A.’s office. I’ll give him a call.”
District Attorney Langley was cordial. The middle-aged prosecutor had a thick Southern drawl and liked to tell out-of-town lawyers that he grew up in L.A. Then, after enjoying their puzzled expression for a few seconds, explained that L.A. was his abbreviation for “Lower Alabama.” Bert had a sharp legal mind, and Mac respected him as a formidable adversary whose casual savvy carried a lot of weight with Echota County jurors.
“Just let me know what time you want to talk to the judge,” Bert said. “I’ll be in the office all morning.”
“Any opposition to the motions?” Mac asked.
“Not unless you get out of line. I think the judge will approve your request.”
Mac worked until eight o’clock. He rearranged Gene’s file to his satisfaction and dictated the changes for Judy. In the process, he finished reading everything collected thus far. By the time the case came to trial, Mac would commit to memory much of the information in the case— names, dates, technical data, and information about everyone related to the investigation. Unless calculated for dramatic effect, he never stopped questioning a witness to retreat to counsel’s table to shuffle through a stack of papers in search of forgotten details. How could he expect the jury to adopt his theory of the case if he didn’t know it himself? Juries appreciated rhythm, and he wanted them to go with his beat. But first, he had to find a stick and a drum.
6
And they did all eat, and were filled.
MATTHEW 14:20 (KJV)
The next morning, Mac came out of the judge’s chambers into the main courtroom with an order approving payment for Dr. Wilkes and Ray Morrison.
“Mr. McClain!” someone called.
Turning, he saw a short, slender young man with brown hair and angular features walking rapidly toward him.
“Are you Mr. McClain?”
“Yes.”
“I’m David Moreland, a new lawyer in town.”
Mac didn’t keep track of all the additions and subtractions to the local bar. He shook Moreland’s hand. “Mac McClain.”
“I’ve heard about you,” the young lawyer said, “and wondered if we could get together for lunch?”
Mac inspected the earnest-looking young man more closely. David Moreland’s khaki pants and blue sport coat were somewhat faded around the edges. Only his navy-striped tie looked fresh from the department store.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty busy. I’ve recently been appointed to a murder case.”
“I know. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to explain over lunch. Could we make it today?”
Surprised, Mac asked, “Today? Why so urgent?”
“I have an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Like Don Corleone in The Godfather?”
David grinned. “Not exactly.”
“That’s reassuring. Why don’t you come by my office about noon.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”
Moreland retreated across the courtroom and began talking to a man sitting in the area reserved for clients.
Back at his office, Mac called Ray Morrison.
“How are you?” Mac asked when his friend answered the phone. “Sore from chopping wood?”
“No more than you are, I’d guess.”
“It took me awhile to get moving on Sunday morning. Did you hear the latest courthouse news?”
“What?”
“I’ve been appointed to represent Peter Thomason.”
“Whoa. Did you know about this on Saturday?”
“The judge talked to me on Friday and gave me the weekend to consider it. You said I needed a challenge, so I told him I’d do it.”
“Don’t blame me, but this is more up your alley than rock climbing. Let me know if I can help.”
“It’s too late to volunteer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I already have an order from Judge Danielson authorizing me to utilize your services. I hope it’s okay with you.”
Mac heard Ray’s chair squeak through the phone receiver as the big man sat up straight.
“You move fast once you make up your mind. Is there something we can sink our teeth into?”
“Too soon to tell. Can we get together on Wednesday?” Mac answered.
“Wednesday? How about ten o’clock?”
“Okay. Ten o’clock Wednesday morning at my office. Keep track of your minutes and hours. You’re working for the taxpayers.”
“That sounds good. It will be nice getting some of my money back into my own pocket.”
Mac spent the rest of the morning catching up his other cases. Mindy buzzed him at noon.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Moreland to see you.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.” Mac finished dictating a letter, made one more phone call, and walked down the hall to the reception area.
Mindy was laughing with David when Mac rounded the corner.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. If you’re ready to go, I’m parked out front.”
Next to Mindy’s Mustang in front of the office was a faded red 1970s era VW beetle. Mac saw the VW and asked, “Would you like me to drive my car?”
“Sure,” Moreland said.
They got into Mac’s car, a large, comfortable Buick with leather seats. Mac had owned Buicks for years.
“Where are we going?” Mac asked.
“You choose. I’ve not been eating out very much.”
“Do you like homestyle food?” Mac asked as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Yes.”
“Have you eaten at Josie’s yet?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s unique. I think you’ll like it.”
Josie’s Restaurant was four miles from the center of town on a two-lane country road. Josie and her husband, Frank, had transformed an ordinary farmhouse into the height of culinary delight for those who thought the best food on earth originated in the kitchens of the rural South. To Josie, the words fat free were synonymous with tasteless, and most people who frequented the restaurant believed that theories about cholesterol and diet were a left-wing conspiracy designed to deprive Americans of their constitutional right to eat fried chicken, creamed corn, and green beans seasoned with a touch of salted pork.
On the way to the restaurant, Mac and David engaged in another Southern tradition—unearthing any common roots or connections in family line or friends—by asking various permutations of the question, “Who are your people?”
“You’re from Maryville, Tennessee?” Mac asked.
“All my life.”
“Any other lawyers in your family?”
“A great-uncle in Sweetwater.”
“What’s his name? I referred a case to a lawyer there a few years ago.”
“Stephen Bevins. He does a lot of wills and estates.”
“I’ve talked to him on the phone several times,” Mac said. “Seemed like a nice gentleman.”
“He’s one of the reasons I’m a lawyer,” David replied. “He let me hang around his office when I was a kid. I used to pull down his case reports and look for something interesting to read.”
The restaurant parking lot was full of an eclectic assortment of expensive cars and rusty pickup trucks.
“Broad clientele,” David observed as Mac parked his car next to a truck filled with sawhorses and scrap lumber.
“Good food has a way of transcending all economic and social barriers,” Mac replied.
Mac pushed open the front door. The noisy crowd of businessmen and laborers was lined up, waiting to pass down the self-serve buffet line. The interior of the house had been remodeled into two sections— a long kitchen to the rear and a much larger area in the front that served as the dining room. The activity in the back was open to view behind the steam table where the food was served. Josie was frying okra in two big black skillets, and Frank was sitting on a stool by the cash register. They both waved when they saw Mac.
The Trial Page 5