Vindication

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Vindication Page 19

by H. Terrell Griffin


  “Maybe.”

  “How will I know it’s you I’m talking to?”

  “I’ll remind you of where we met.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I ain’t never met nobody else here.”

  “How did your brother find me this morning?”

  “He followed you in that woman’s golf cart.”

  “How did he know that I’d be in that house?”

  “The man on the phone.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It was just a man who called yesterday and told us that our grandma would be arrested for the murder of that writer woman if your client didn’t get convicted. He wanted us to help get rid of you.”

  “Kill me?”

  “No, sir.” He spoke emphatically, as if he wanted to make sure I believed him. “He just said to run you off.”

  “And he told your brother I’d be in that house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Biggun didn’t get his name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you were going to run me off on his say-so?”

  “Well, yeah. I didn’t want my grandma to get in trouble.”

  “Did you ever think the man on the phone might be lying to you?”

  He looked at me like I was the idiot. “Yeah, but so what? Even if he was lying, you’d be gone, and Grandma wouldn’t be any worse off.”

  “How did you find me here?”

  “I went back to the house where you’re staying and parked down the street and saw you come back in the cart and get your car. I just followed you here. No big deal.”

  A Sumter County sheriff’s cruiser sped into the parking lot, siren and lights screaming urgency. It screeched to a stop near where we stood and a uniformed deputy climbed out of the car. He was young, probably early twenties, and most likely fairly new to law enforcement. “You guys okay?” he asked as he approached us.

  “Sure, Deputy,” I said. “No problems here.”

  “We got a call that there was a fight involving three men.”

  Chunk piped up. “These guys assaulted me,” he said. “Suckerpunched me.”

  “Okay, gentlemen, I’d better see some ID.”

  Each of us gave him our driver’s licenses. “You from Georgia?” he asked Chunk.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where the hell is Camilla, Mr. Steerman?” the deputy asked.

  “Uh, near Albany,” Chunk said.

  “That’s not anywhere near Homerville,” I said.

  Chunk glanced at me, a sheepish look on his face, and shrugged, as if saying, “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  The deputy looked at Jock. “You’re Jonathon Simpson?” He apparently had a Texas license in the name of one of his many aliases.

  “I am.”

  “From Houston?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brings you to Florida?”

  “Just visiting my friend here, Matt Royal.”

  The deputy looked at my license. “Are you the lawyer, Mr. Royal?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the one representing the woman accused of killing that writer in The Villages?”

  “I am.”

  “May I speak to you privately?” the deputy asked.

  I nodded and we walked off a few yards. Here it comes, I thought. The word had probably been put out quietly by the sheriff that his deputies were to harass me every chance they had. A night in jail for engaging in fisticuffs in a public parking lot would be more than harassment, but I wouldn’t put anything past this sheriff.

  The deputy stopped walking and turned to me. “Mr. Royal, all the deputies who patrol this part of the county have verbal orders directly from the sheriff to lend you any assistance necessary if you ever needed anything. Are you sure everything’s okay here?”

  I was shocked, even more so than I’d been when I’d first met with the sheriff in his office on the day of Esther’s arrest. I couldn’t figure out his game, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt anything to take advantage of whatever was going on. Chunk had lied to me about his home being near Homerville. Camilla was at least a hundred miles from there. I would have looked at that license before I’d have let him go home, and would not have honored our agreement once I’d seen that he lied to me. I wouldn’t have even considered letting the little weasel loose if I’d had anyplace to keep him. Maybe I did have a place now.

  “To tell the truth, Deputy, Mr. Steerman attacked me with a sock full of quarters. My friend Jonathon Simpson intervened and took him to the ground and retrieved the sock. He’ll vouch for my story, and I think he stuck the sock in his pocket.”

  “You want me to arrest this guy?”

  “He told me his intent was to run me off so I couldn’t represent Ms. Higgins. I think his intention was to bash me in the head with that homemade sap. Put all that together and you have a felony. I think you’d be within your rights to arrest him on that information.”

  The deputy grinned. “I think you’re exactly right, Counselor.”

  “Is there any way some of your paperwork could get lost and you could keep him there for a few days?”

  “I’ll have to check with the sheriff, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  As we walked back toward Jock and Steerman, the deputy pulled his handcuffs from the holder on his equipment belt. “Turn around, Mr. Steerman. You’re under arrest.”

  “What for? What did I do?”

  “You’re under arrest for assault. Now, turn around. Don’t make me tase you.”

  Chunk turned around reluctantly and was handcuffed by the deputy.

  “You have the right . . .” he began and read Steerman his rights. He walked Steerman to the cruiser and put him in the backseat and turned to me. “I’ll have his truck towed to impoundment.”

  “Thanks, Deputy. Here’s my business card. The phone number is my cell. Give me a call if you need anything. I’d also like a heads-up if you’re going to release him, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that, Mr. Royal.”

  CHAPTER 30

  JOCK AND I found J.D. in the restaurant and crowded into her booth. We filled her in on what had happened in the parking lot and what we’d learned. “He really thought you were going to kill him?” she asked. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Look at Jock,” I said. “He’s certainly ugly enough to scare the bejesus out of a South Georgia chicken farmer.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Watch out.”

  “I think Jock’s kind of cute,” J.D. said. “Of course, it’s well known that I don’t have very good taste in men.”

  “This is a rough crowd today,” Jock said.

  “She’s kidding, I think,” I said. “J.D., did you ever hear the name Sally Steerman?”

  “No. Don’t think I have. Who is she?”

  “Supposedly the grandmother of the dirtbag Jock beat up in the parking lot. She lives in The Villages, and he said he was trying to get rid of me so he could protect her.”

  “And you’re wondering if the grandmother might be involved,” J.D. said.

  “Right.”

  “I’ll look into it. See if anybody knows her. I can check the property tax records in the three counties and see if she owns a house. She could be renting. What did you do with the grandson?”

  I told her about the deputy and the sheriff’s directive and that Mr. Steerman was on his way to jail. “What do you think is going on with the sheriff?” she asked.

  “Beats me,” I said, “but I thought I ought to take advantage of the situation.”

  “I don’t trust him,” J.D. said. “You made mincemeat out of him in a courtroom a few years back and now he’s doing everything he can to help you out. That order to the deputies is over the top. I’ve never heard of a cop doing something like that.”

  “I understand. I’m keeping my distance from him, but I didn’t know anything else to do with Steerman but take advantage of the sheriff’s good
nature.”

  “Be very careful,” J.D. said. “I wonder if it might be worthwhile for me to go see the sheriff and introduce myself, my real self, a cop and the niece of the accused. See if I can give him some new avenues of investigation and maybe convince him that Esther is not guilty.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think you have enough evidence right now. Let’s give ourselves a little more time.”

  The waitress came and took our orders. Hamburgers and fries all around. When she left, Jock asked, “Did you learn anything in Georgia, Matt?”

  “A lot, I think. I don’t know how much good it will do me.” I related my trip to Georgia and South Carolina using all the detail that Jock thrived on. I knew if I didn’t give it to him chapter and verse, he’d drive me crazy with questions.

  When I had finished, Jock said, “Lots of avenues.”

  “Jock,” I said, “can you run the name Olivia Travers through your system? That was the name she was using when she got married. The sheriff in Georgia couldn’t find any trace of such a person, but you probably have a better system.”

  “I’ll call my geeks when we get through here. We’ll see, but I wonder if Josh Hanna might be the best shot.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He’s got a white van and he’s been in Florida during the critical time.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but according to his mother, he doesn’t know anything about his father marrying Olivia. I don’t see any connection between Josh and Lathom.”

  “Suppose he found out and thinks Olivia killed his father?”

  “How would he have found out? That’s a big stretch.”

  “You said he was in Army intelligence. Those guys have access to a lot of information and they’re pretty much whizzes on computers. It’d be pretty easy for Josh to find out just about anything from the databases he had access to, and if necessary, hack into computers that he didn’t have access to. Maybe he stumbled onto something about Olivia while trolling the Internet, something that was connected to his father.”

  “It’d be pretty tough growing up without a father,” J.D. said. “Maybe when he figured out who Olivia was, he decided to kill her.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Danny’s death was written off as being from natural causes. What would make him think his dad was murdered?”

  “Suppose there was a data trail,” Jock said. “It wouldn’t have to be a big thing. Maybe just a note stuck away in a law enforcement computer somewhere. If Josh knew what he was looking for, he might have found it.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Let me check on something.” I pulled Sheriff Phyllis Black’s card from my wallet and dialed her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Sheriff Black, this is Matt Royal. I apologize for calling you on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “It’s not a problem, Mr. Royal. What can I do for you?”

  “I know you told me you were working on the Danny Lathom matter off the books, as it were. I wonder if your office had a computer system back then.”

  “We did. We were pretty tech savvy, even in Coffee County.”

  “Would you have ever filed any reports or notes about your investigation in the computer system?”

  “Sure. My investigation wasn’t a big secret. Remember, we’re a small town, after all. I didn’t want to challenge the sheriff on his decision that the death was from natural causes, but I wasn’t really hiding it from him. I think we had a kind of tacit agreement that I could undertake the investigation as long as I didn’t bother him with it.”

  “Would those files still be in your system?”

  “Yep. Once in, never out. Would you like a copy?”

  “I sure would. Can you email it to me tomorrow?”

  “I can do it now. I’m in the office working on my budget. The fiscal year starts on June first. Give me your email address, and I’ll have it on the way in a few minutes.”

  “One more question, Sheriff. Do you have any way of knowing if your computer system has been hacked?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question. I’d have to ask our information technology people tomorrow. Can I get back to you?”

  I gave her my cell number, thanked her, and hung up. Our meals had been delivered while I talked, and we dug in. “Jock,” I said, “you might be on to something. The sheriff I told you about who did some investigating into Danny’s death did it off the books back when she was a young deputy, but she put all her notes and investigation files into the sheriff’s computer system.”

  “And,” Jock said, “I bet they don’t have a great deal of security on that system.”

  “We’re going to have to look into Josh Hanna,” J.D. said.

  “I know,” I said. “I hope he’s not involved. His mother doesn’t need this. Jock, did you get a chance to look into the financials on Ruth Bergstrom?”

  “Yes. I’m sure we got all the accounts she and her husband have. Remember, his name is James McNeil. I guess Ruth kept her first married name for some reason. There were no big deposits made in accounts held in either name over the past three years. The only money coming into the accounts was in amounts that matched her and her husband’s pension and social security payments. They’re not poverty stricken, but they’re living near the edge.”

  “Any big purchases?” J.D. asked. “Something that they might have paid cash for. Money that never went into a bank.”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Jock continued. “They’re driving a seven-year-old Honda plus a golf cart they got as part of the deal they made on their house in The Villages. The money they used to pay for the house came from the sale of their home outside Atlanta. I don’t think we’re going to find anything useful there.

  “They did buy some living room furniture last weekend, but it looks like they bought it at one of those places that sells whole rooms and you only have to make a small down payment and pay the rest off over two or three years, interest free.”

  “How about the financials on Olivia Lathom?” I asked

  “Oh, yeah. She got a huge advance on the book. Low seven figures. She already had a couple hundred thousand dollars in the bank, apparently from her marriage to Danny Lathom. She’s been spending it regularly, and the principal is getting low.”

  “That could be a motive for her stealing Esther’s book,” J.D. said.

  “It could be,” Jock said. “The amount of the advance was deposited into Olivia’s account about a year ago. It was a wire transfer from the publisher.”

  “And Ruth didn’t get any of it?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Jock said. “And revenge would be a pretty good motive for murder.”

  “What happens to the money now?” J.D. asked.

  “The state of Georgia will probably move to probate the estate, and when they prove there is neither a will nor any natural heirs, the money will go to the state.”

  “That’s kind of funny in a macabre way,” J.D. said. “All the scheming to get the money and it ends up in the state coffers.”

  “And the government will figure out a way to waste it,” I said.

  “If Olivia knew Ruth was mad at her about the money,” J.D. asked, “why would she agree to have dinner with her?”

  “Maybe Ruth never expected to get anything out of the book deal,” I said.

  “I don’t see it,” J.D. said. “The financials show that Ruth and her husband could use the money. It doesn’t make sense that Ruth would commit a felony including theft and fraud by stealing the book and not expect some payment.”

  “Do you think you can get close enough to Ruth to see if you can figure out if she’s the bad guy here?”

  “I’ll give it a try, Matt, but I think I’d better talk to some of the other book club ladies about her first. They may have picked up on some gossip that might be helpful.”

  My phone dinged. An email from Sheriff Black with a rather large attachment. I’d wait until I got back to Esther’s to download and print it. “It’s the stuff from Sheriff Black. I’ll print it wh
en I get home. Do either of you want a copy?”

  “Not me,” said Jock. “Since I managed to pull your ass out of one more fire, I’m headed back to Longboat. I’ve got some more relaxing to do on your patio.”

  “My ass thanks you, old buddy. Sure you don’t want to stick around a few days?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got a feeling my boss is going to put me back to work and I’ve got some more golf to play before he calls.”

  “Forward the email to me, Matt,” J.D. said. “If I spot anything, I’ll call.”

  CHAPTER 31

  J.D. HAD SPENT the night with me again and left before daybreak on Monday. I slept in until almost seven, brushed my teeth, put on my jogging clothes, and left to get some exercise. The air was cool, bracing, and fresh. The scent of newly mown grass rode the slight breeze wafting over the Sweetgum golf course. The sun was up, but still low on the eastern horizon. The sky was clear, not a cloud to mar the canopy of deep blue. Other joggers and walkers were out enjoying the morning and golfers were already on the course teeing off.

  I was jogging along the sidewalk that runs beside Hendry Drive. I had passed the Collier Neighborhood Recreation Center and was nearing the gate at Buena Vista Boulevard when my telephone pinged, alerting me to the receipt of an email. I looked at the tiny screen and saw that it was from Meredith Evans and included two attachments. Her email said, “Both reports were put on my desk on Friday while I was in court all day in Tavares. I saw them for the first time when I got in this morning. Sorry for the delay.”

  I hadn’t heard from her in almost a week and I guessed that one of the attachments was the report on the bail issue the judge had ordered. The other was probably the police report.

  I had only covered about a mile and my joints were a bit creaky. I tried to jog daily on the beach at Longboat Key, but the past week had been so busy I hadn’t found time to engage in any of my usual routines. It was telling on my body. I was breathing harder than I should have been and my legs were tiring. That was my excuse anyway. Mostly, I wanted to see the documents and I’d rather print them from my laptop and read the hard copies. I know. I’m a Luddite. The printer and laptop were at Esther’s house.

 

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