The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  Pete shifted in his seat. “I don’t have a watch. He wasn’t here too long. He left a long time before supper.”

  “When did you get high?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?” Mac’s face started turning red.

  “I didn’t get high.”

  It was Mac’s turn to slam his fist on the table. The sound echoed in the tiny room.

  “You were hauled off to the hospital with your bloodstream full of amphetamines!”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “I don’t want any ‘I don’t know’ answers either! What are you trying to prove?”

  Pete looked up for a second and then dropped his head without answering.

  “Were you trying to kill yourself? Was it an intentional overdose?”

  Pete didn’t move.

  Mac leaned forward. A judge might not let him yell at a witness, but there was no judge in this tiny room. “Answer me! Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t do anything. I felt rotten. It was not a good time.”

  “That’s interesting.” Mac’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You got stoned but didn’t have a good time? I’m glad you’re beginning to recognize that amphetamines are not good for you.”

  “It wasn’t like with Angela.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t remember anything about the night Angela died. I remember everything that happened tonight. I just don’t remember taking any drugs.”

  Mac’s face flushed and he looked at David. “You try.”

  “You said you felt bad?” David began.

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “My heart was beating fast and everything was jumping around. I started talking in a loud voice and felt very shaky on the inside. One of the deputies tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t make him understand. I thought I was making sense, but they took me to the hospital.”

  “What happened at the hospital?”

  “They strapped me down on a gurney and drew some blood out of my arm. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but they brought me back to the jail and put me in the drunk tank. I fell asleep for a while then woke up before you got here.”

  “You didn’t take any pills?”

  “I don’t remember taking any.” Pete looked sideways at Mac who made no move to come across the table and grab him.

  “And you don’t know why you had speed in your system?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Pete,” David said slowly. “Mr. McClain and I are working as hard as we can to save your life, but we need your help. The best way you can help us is to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “That’s what I’ve done.”

  David held Pete’s gaze across the table for a few seconds. “Okay. I don’t have anything else to ask you.”

  “That’s all,” Mac said. “I’ll ask the guards to take you back to your regular cell.”

  Watching their client shuffle down the hall, Mac said to David, “The more I’m around our client, the more confused and messed up I think he is.”

  Ray Morrison sat in his truck and yawned. He’d been waiting outside the Club Now, a high-class singles’ bar in north Atlanta, for almost four hours. The previous day, he’d stopped by the Echota Express and located a back issue of the newspaper that contained a photo of Spencer Hightower standing in front of the County Mental Health Center after he and Alex had donated the money to build a drug treatment facility. The quality of the black-and-white picture was poor, but Ray hoped it was sufficient to ensure a positive identification. Nothing was worse than spending hours following the wrong person.

  He had arrived outside the gated neighborhood where Spencer lived at about eight o’clock in the morning. A high brick wall decorated with fancy ironwork ran parallel to the roadway. Two guards in a small building kept unwanted intruders away from the residents. Ray parked around the corner from the entrance and took an orange measuring wheel from the bed of his truck. Putting on a white hard-hat, he held the measuring wheel in one hand, a clipboard in the other and started down the sidewalk. When he came within view of the guardhouse, he stopped, pretended to write something important on the sheet of paper, and continued in the direction of the entrance. One of the men came to the door of the guardhouse.

  “I need to do some work in the neighborhood,” Ray called out.

  The guard waved him through. Ray turned a corner and walked past several large stucco-and-stone houses that overpowered the small parcels of land on which they were built. The homes were jammed so close together that it reminded Ray of a mobile home park on the outskirts of Dennison Springs, although, of course, on a much grander scale. In a few minutes, he found Castlewood Lane, the short street where Spencer Hightower lived.

  Spencer’s house was at the end of the street. The garage door was open and Ray saw two cars: a dark green Jaguar and a red Corvette convertible. Ray slipped a camera out of his pocket and quickly snapped several pictures. Unless he was out for an early morning drive, Spencer Hightower did not own a midnight purple Lincoln. The morning paper was still on the front steps. Ray walked slowly past the house and retraced his steps to the entrance. He waved to the guards, put his diversion devices back in his truck, parked at a deli across from the entrance to the neighborhood, and waited. And waited. And waited.

  At 6:00 P.M, the green Jaguar nosed through the gate and turned left. Spencer was driving. Ray quickly fell in behind him and followed him to a bar, where Ray continued his vigil. At 10:00 P.M., Ray went inside to look around and saw Spencer having a drink in a corner with two girls. It was 1:00 A.M. before Spencer strolled out of the bar alone and headed home. Ray drove to a Motel 6 and went to sleep.

  At 8:30 the next morning, he resumed surveillance. Five minutes later, the Jaguar zipped through the gate and sped through the lightly traveled Saturday morning streets. Ray followed in hot pursuit and almost lost his prey at a traffic light. Spencer pulled into a bagel shop, and Ray watched him through a pair of small, powerful binoculars. Spencer ate a bagel with cream cheese and drank a cappuccino. “No grits,” Ray wrote on his summary sheet. Next, he followed the young man to an office tower near a local hospital. Spencer went inside, and Ray followed him into the building. There was a bank of three elevators and Spencer entered one and disappeared before Ray could slip in behind him to see which floor he selected. Ray took a high-resolution picture of the building directory with a compact camera and waited in his truck. Two hours later, Spencer emerged and drove to Phipps Plaza, an upscale shopping mall. Ray tailed him on foot inside. Spencer went into Saks Fifth Avenue, bought a shirt, and left.

  It was past lunchtime, and Ray’s stomach was growling so loudly that he could hear it over the sound of the truck’s motor. Spencer didn’t stop for lunch. He turned onto West Paces Ferry Road and drove a mile or so before pulling into his brother’s long driveway. Ray parked along the street. An hour later, Spencer drove back to the same office tower where he stayed a few minutes before driving home. Ray waited until 9:00 P.M. before breaking off the surveillance.

  The private detective stopped by KFC, bought an eight-piece meal for himself, and returned to his motel room. After he finished eating, he licked his fingers and called Mac at home.

  “If Spencer Hightower’s weekends are typical for the rich and famous, there is more going on in Dennison Springs than Atlanta.”

  “Any sign of the Lincoln?”

  “Negative, he has a green Jag and a red Corvette ragtop.”

  “How does he spend his time?”

  “I can’t tell you much. He went to a bar for several hours last night, made two trips to an office tower today, and went by his brother’s house.”

  “What did he do at the office tower?”

  “I don’t know. It’s near Piedmont Hospital. Most of the tenants are doctors with a few other businesses thrown
in. There wasn’t a listing for anything with the Hightower name in it on the building directory.”

  “Okay. Hang around Sunday and unless something interesting happens, come home in the afternoon. The Lincoln was my primary question. We’ve had some bad news on our end.” Mac told him about the latest incident with Pete.

  Ray listened, then said, “That guy can get in more trouble in jail than most people can out on the street.”

  “He’s strange and very frustrating to talk to. I don’t know what to make of him.”

  “Oh, you had another question about Spencer,” Ray said.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t eats grits for breakfast. He’s a bagel and cream cheese guy.”

  “That figures. Did you eat one?”

  “Mac, there are limits to what I will do, even for you.”

  The next day Ray once again drove to Spencer’s neighborhood and waited until noon without seeing the younger Hightower venture forth.

  Several hours later, he was sitting in Mac’s office.

  “Not much here,” he handed Mac his notes. “Sorry it was a bust. I wish the Lincoln had been in his driveway.”

  “Me, too. But it’s out there somewhere. We just need to find it.”

  20

  The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.

  MATTHEW 4:16 (NIV)

  Late Monday morning, Bert Langley faxed Mac a copy of Dr. Louis Newburn’s psychiatric evaluation of Peter Thomason. It was worse than Mac expected.

  After reciting a couple of pages of background information, Dr. Newburn stated his summary and conclusions:

  Mr. Thomason presented as an alert, twenty-two-year-old male who understands his present situation and can provide competent assistance to legal counsel acting on his behalf. The subject is depressed, but he denied any suicidal ideations, plans, or intent. Rapport for purposes of this evaluation was easily established, and this report reflects an objective assessment of his current level of functioning and mental status. Based upon the diagnostic assessment and utilization of cross-verifying interview techniques, it is my opinion that Mr. Thomason is suffering from episodes of violent sociopathic behavior based upon significant underlying antisocial tendencies. These antisocial tendencies are directed against authority figures and in Mr. Thomason’s mind justify violent action against such figures and those within their sphere.

  This individual’s conduct is not outside the realm of conscious control so as to render him incapable of differentiating between right and wrong as defined by recognized standards of criminal conduct, and he chooses to follow antisocial impulses as his means of response to authority. His attempt to deny recollection of the events forming the basis for the charges against him is a diagnostic indicator of the deception which buttresses his sociopathic behavior. For example, on a surface level, he adamantly maintains that he has never used illegal drugs or committed violent acts against other persons; however, a review of his past conduct would, in my opinion, reveal episodic binges of drug use coupled with violent, antisocial behavior. The success rate of treatment for individuals with Mr. Thomason’s level of sociopathic tendencies is very low, and it is virtually certain that he will engage in drug abuse and violent acts in the future. Documented case studies of individuals with similar profiles would include Theodore “Ted” Bundy and David Berkowitz.

  For his own safety and that of other prisoners, it is my recommendation that Mr. Thomason be isolated from other inmates as long as he is incarcerated. Guards and prison officials should exercise extreme caution in personal contact with him. Should he be convicted of any criminal offense, the sentencing authorities should be aware of his potential for violent acts against authority figures within the governmental structure.

  I hope this information is sufficient. If I can be of further assistance, please contact me.

  Respectfully submitted,

  Louis Newburn, M.D.

  Diplomate, American Board

  of Neurology and Psychiatry

  Mac felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Within hours of the psychiatrist’s prediction of future drug abuse, Pete Thomason had been stoned out of his mind on amphetamines. If the drug incident had been coupled with an assault against the deputies or medical personnel, the psychiatrist could have added “clairvoyant” to his professional qualifications.

  One of the guards in the bull pen of the Echota County Jail called out, “Church meeting in fifteen minutes!”

  Jailhouse church services in Dennison Springs weren’t held on Sunday mornings. The meetings were scheduled to accommodate the jail administration and the volunteers who came in from the community. After all, the prisoners weren’t going anywhere. Behind bars, the days of the week lost significance, so Monday morning at 10:30 had been church time at the Echota County Jail for many years.

  One of Pete’s cellmates, a man named Leroy, tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Why don’t you come? It beats sitting in here.”

  Pete had never gone to the church services, but the events of the weekend had left him open to anything.

  “Okay.”

  Grabbing a Bible from a stack of books in the corner of the cell, Leroy said, “Here’s a Bible. Can you read?”

  “Yes, I can read.”

  “They might ask you to read a verse.”

  Twenty of the inmates followed a guard downstairs to the indoor basketball court that served as the general assembly area for the prisoners. The men sat in three rows on the concrete floor. Metal chairs weren’t allowed since they could be used as weapons.

  Charles Gallegly, a short, slightly overweight man with thick dark hair, a wrinkled face, and a compassionate smile, coordinated the activities of the volunteers. Twenty years before, Mr. Gallegly had convinced jail officials to allow Christians from the community inside the jail to encourage the prisoners. He’d been coming ever since.

  Today, six volunteers joined him, and after Mr. Gallegly said a brief prayer one of them strummed a guitar and led the men in a couple of halfhearted songs. When the sound of the last note faded, a Baptist minister in his thirties named Mitchell Kane walked to the front of the group and opened his Bible.

  “If you want to follow along, I’m going to read from John 4 about a woman who met Jesus at the well of Samaria.” His voice rising and falling, Reverend Kane read with deep emotion. To an outsider his style might have seemed overdramatized at first, but within a few seconds, the flow of the story drew the prisoners into the events of a hot noontime two thousand years before.

  Kane read, “ ‘And Jesus told the woman to go call her husband and come back to the well.’ ‘I have no husband,’ she replied. ‘You’re right,’ Jesus said. ‘You’ve had five husbands, and the man you’re living with now is not your husband.’ ‘Uh-oh,’ she thought, ‘They’ve had surveillance on me and I’m busted.’” A few men chuckled.

  “But she was honest; she didn’t try to deny what Jesus said. ‘Sir, I see you are a prophet.’ You see, Jesus knew her past without her saying a word to him about it.

  Kane looked over his congregation. The men were sitting much as the crowds who first heard Jesus. “Men, it’s the same today. Jesus knows everything you’ve done. The D.A. doesn’t know everything you’ve done. The sheriff ’s department doesn’t know everything you’ve done. Your mama doesn’t know everything you’ve done. Most of you have tried to forget a lot of what you’ve done. But you can be sure of one thing—Jesus knows everything about you. Every hidden, secret thought. Every act of violence. Every lie. Every lustful thought. Every selfish, evil thing.”

  Kane paused for a few seconds. “Some of you know my past. When I was a kid I spent time in juvenile detention. In my early twenties I spent a couple of nights in this place. I was as rotten on the inside as a man could be. I lived for myself in rebellion against a God who loved me. I thumbed my nose at Jesus. And you know what I deserved?”

 
“Jail,” one man spoke out.

  “Hell,” said another.

  “Right on both counts. All of us are sinners. No one is righteous in the sight of a holy God. But you’re not a sinner because you’re in this jail. There are a lot of people in big houses driving expensive cars who may be further from the kingdom of God than you are. At least you know you need God.

  “You see, it’s not a matter of money. It’s not a matter of where you grew up. It’s not a matter of how smart you are. It’s a matter of something twisted and wrong in each and every one of us. We sin because we’re sinners. It’s our nature, as natural as the sun coming up in the east. And we need a Savior from sin who will forgive us and change us on the inside so we can live a different life.”

  The room was quiet. Men in jail have no self-righteous illusions.

  “Jesus didn’t die for your excuses. He died for your sins. Do you want to be forgiven; do you want to change? I’ve asked the Holy Spirit to make all of you convicts today—not in the way you think, but to convict you of your sin so that you might be saved and born again. What did Jesus say to the woman at the well? He knew her life inside and out. But he didn’t tell her to get away from him and not come near his holy presence. Did he shake his head and say, ‘There is no hope for you; get your act together and come back later’?”

  “No,” a voice said from the back of the room. Pete looked at the speaker. It was Leroy.

  “That’s right.” Kane’s voice took on a softer tone. “Jesus offered the woman the waters of eternal life right there by the side of the road. He said, ‘If you knew who I am, you would ask me for waters which would well up in you to eternal life.’ How many of you need a drink of living water from the Holy Spirit? How many of you are willing to be honest before God? How many of you would like to have your sins washed away? How many of you are ready to yield control of your life to the Lord Jesus Christ? How many of you know that the voice of God is calling you this moment to come to Jesus and be transformed by the power of his death on the cross and his resurrection from the grave?”