A Specter of Justice

by Mark de Castrique

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. We tried. Margaret did a lot of volunteer work with the children’s hospital in Denver. I guess you could say she had a lot of children.” His voice caught. “Many came to her funeral.” He took a long drink of beer and then set the bottle on the floor beside him. “But you didn’t come here to talk about me.”

  Actually I did, I thought. “No, but I hope perhaps you can help. The prosecutor has circumstantial evidence that points at Hewitt. I believe someone has gone to great lengths to create that evidence.”

  “Why? Is someone else in line for top suspect?”

  “We have no motive. Makes it hard to find suspects.”

  Wofford leaned his chair back on two legs. He wore blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, and it struck me all we needed was a potbelly stove to make this a true mountain conversation.

  “Well, I’m too new here,” he said. “I don’t know the ins and outs of the local feuds.”

  “Sometimes new folks see things the rest of us blur over.”

  Wofford rocked forward. “Sorry. Other than our meetings, I wasn’t around Hewitt, Molly, or Lenore. I told the police that.”

  “Do you mind sharing what else they asked?”

  “Did I see Hewitt last Friday. I told them no. I was here.”

  “Here? I thought you were at Pack Square.”

  Wofford bent down and held up his bottle. “Here’s where the beer is. If any of our vendors ran short. I could resupply them. And they could reach me by phone. I didn’t need Armitage’s radio gear.”

  “How’d you learn about Molly?”

  “Armitage called. I drove immediately to Pack Square to find out what was going on.”

  I was running out of questions so I made a pretense of admiring the scenic photographs on the wall. “You miss Colorado?”

  He turned and followed my gaze. “I miss the Rockies. The Appalachians are pretty but out West we’d call them foothills.”

  “I went there a long time ago to see a friend in Golden.”

  His face brightened. “That’s where I worked. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Sandra Pendleton,” I lied.

  If Wofford recognized the murder victim’s name, he did a hell of a job masking it. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I finished the beer and stood. “Thanks for your time. Sounds like you were out of the loop last Friday.”

  He rose and offered his hand. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “No problem. I enjoyed talking. And I’m very sorry about your wife.” I motioned to the back of the double-framed pictures on his desk. “I noticed those photographs while I was waiting. She was a beautiful woman.”

  He swallowed hard. “We’d have been married thirty-five years last June.”

  “And the young man and woman?”

  “Her sister’s children. Our only niece and nephew. We went on a little outing. Margaret had ALS and could no longer speak. But she smiled the whole day.” He took a deep breath. “No disrespect to your sacrifice, Sam, but I would rather have lost my leg.”

  “I understand.” The insight suddenly hit me. If I hadn’t lost my leg, I would never have found Nakayla.

  I walked back to my office, the ache of each step a reminder of my good fortune.

  And I had a second realization. Jerry Wofford had no alibi.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At five that evening, we crowded around the cellar bar at the Thirsty Monk. The pub had three floors: the cellar that specialized in Belgian beers and where we gathered because of Hewitt’s fondness for the wheaty brews, the ground floor that offered a wide range of craft beers, and a second-floor bar patterned after a Jazz Age speakeasy flowing with whiskey and gin.

  The two beer floors were each manned by a bartender who took everyone’s order. Our bartender pulled a Snowplow Wit for Hewitt as he saw us walking toward him.

  “Your usual, Mr. Donaldson.” He turned his attention to the rest of us. “And Mr. Peterson, would you like to try a Belgian or will you want your Bells Amber Ale from upstairs?”

  Cory laughed and punched her boyfriend’s arm. “Wow, you waste no time getting known.”

  “I’m a lawyer who has trouble passing any bar.” He nudged Hewitt. “I’ll try what my friend’s having.”

  The bartender took our orders without writing anything down. Hewitt told him we’d be ready for a second round in a few minutes. I was sure his excellent memory for names and faces increased his tips. How could you stiff a guy who remembers you?

  We carried glasses and bottles to a table at the front and sat down.

  “So,” Hewitt said, “what did we learn today?”

  Shirley reported first on the credit card check and said nothing seemed unusual over the past months. She reviewed all charges since the Atwood shooting because we figured that must have been the catalyst that set the killer in motion.

  Cory had spent the day keeping Hewitt’s other clients on track and negotiating with the prosecution on discovery procedures.

  We were all anxious to hear from Tom Peterson since he had been reading through the trial transcripts.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have a particularly productive day,” he said. “The trial came down to a battle of stories.” He looked across Cory to Hewitt. “Your emphasis on the wound obviously carried the day with Lenore. The prosecutor had no witnesses other than Duncan’s co-worker who claimed Duncan had stolen the silver dish. No one else saw those men in the victim’s house so it was one man’s word against another’s that their confrontation even occurred. Personally, I think the prosecution had a stronger case with the weapon and fingerprints, and the D.A should have made more of the possibility of a backhanded blow like the case in Colorado. The blood splatter supported that interpretation.”

  “And he could have gone for a re-trial if the evidence hadn’t been screwed up,” Hewitt said. “Because it was a mistrial, there wasn’t the same hue and cry as an outright acquittal. I think the public assumed the prosecutor would take another shot at it and change his strategy.”

  “So, any anger was mitigated?” Peterson asked.

  “Nobody shot us on the street.” Hewitt spun his beer glass between his palms. “I just don’t get it. The Duncan trial was so long ago, and if it’s the Atwood case, why Molly and Lenore?”

  “I don’t know,” Peterson said. “I’m at a dead end. But I’m more inclined to an Atwood connection. At least Molly and Lenore were both involved in the fundraiser.”

  Hewitt looked to Nakayla. “Give me some good news.”

  “When we learned about the Colorado murder, I looked for any links. Jerry Wofford is the only one in our planning circle with a Colorado connection.”

  “That we know of,” Peterson interjected. He swept his gaze around the table. “Anyone else?”

  No one responded.

  “It’s probably just coincidence,” Nakayla continued. “He did work for Coors and experienced beer people have been flocking to Asheville.” She swiveled to me. “But Sam made a call on him.”

  Before I could answer, the waiter returned with another round of beers. Without fail, he placed the proper brand before each of us.

  Hewitt raised his glass. “To justice.”

  We repeated the word like an oath of allegiance.

  I took a swallow and cleared my throat. “Nakayla learned Wofford was in Golden at the time of the Durango trial. He and his wife moved to Denver in 2004. I made up a story about having a friend in Colorado named Sandra Pendleton. He didn’t bite.”

  “So, he’s out,” Hewitt said.

  “Not necessarily. We know Sandra’s children went into foster care in Denver. They could have overlapped. Wofford’s wife was active in children’s causes.”

  “Did they have children?” Shirley asked.

 
“No. But I saw a picture of his wife with a young couple matching the age the Pendleton kids should have been. Wofford says it was taken when his wife’s ALS was far along. He claimed they were a niece and nephew. And I learned he was supposedly by himself at the brewery when Molly’s body appeared.”

  Hewitt leaned forward in his chair to see around Cory. “Tom, weren’t you checking on those kids?”

  Peterson lowered his glass from his mouth. A mustache of foam coated his clean-shaven upper lip. “Sorry. I forgot to mention it. No luck. As I feared, the foster care records are sealed. I said the information was for a criminal proceeding, and all I wanted was a current address. I even took it to the departmental supervisor, but it’s a no go. Evidently, there was some kind of scandal involving pedophiles who got into the foster care program. The agency’s super-sensitive about revealing the children’s names.”

  “Any pictures of the kids?” Nakayla asked.

  “Not that I can find online,” Peterson said. “You’re welcome to look. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “We need to focus, people,” Hewitt said. “Put Colorado on the back burner for now. Cory and I are pushing for discovery materials. I want to see the casts made from the wheelchair impressions, the analysis of my garage padlock, and anything else Carter is throwing at us. Are there any other angles we can pursue?”

  I gave a quick glance around the bar to make sure no one was paying us close attention. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I spoke with Collin McPhillips today. He’s the only one who caught the blur of that shirt on top of the bridge. He said he was just lucky to be framing vertically rather than horizontally.”

  “So?” Peterson asked.

  “He knew Molly was supposed to walk out from behind the bridge’s footing. Seems to me he would have shot to highlight that area.”

  “Have we done a background on him?” Hewitt asked.

  “No,” Shirley said. “Since he was clearly at the scene, the police ruled him out.”

  Hewitt frowned. “I don’t care what the police are doing. Nakayla, you and Sam run him tomorrow.” He paused a second. “See if he’s got any ties to Colorado.” The lawyer drained his beer and brought the glass down on the table like a gavel. “Shirley will cover the drinks. Anything else before I go?”

  “You mentioned the Atwoods,” I said. “Nakayla and I are talking with Cletus’ brother Junior tomorrow evening.”

  “Good.” Hewitt stood. “Then this court’s adjourned until tomorrow morning.”

  Shirley and Cory left soon after, both headed back to the office for a few more hours. Tom Peterson stayed and offered to buy another round. I wanted to pass, but Nakayla accepted before I could speak. I guessed she was interested to learn a little more about Cory’s new boyfriend.

  “Is helping Hewitt causing a time crunch with your other clients?” Nakayla asked Peterson.

  He laughed. “What other clients? I call myself just to make sure my phone’s still working.”

  “So, this case helps with your visibility,” I said.

  “I took it because this has got to be one of the biggest and most controversial trials in Asheville’s history. I want to be part of it.”

  “You mind if I ask what you’re doing for money?”

  Peterson lifted his beer. “Afraid I can’t pay the bar tab?”

  “No, just curious. Professional hazard.”

  “I didn’t spend much in the Army. What are you going to buy in Afghanistan? I came here straight from discharge with enough to set up shop.” He paused. “I guess you’re right if I’m honest. The case isn’t only a great challenge but it will definitely raise my profile. For good or bad.”

  Nakayla took a drink of pale ale and then stared into the glass. “Right now it doesn’t look too good.”

  Peterson shrugged. “We’ll see. He has a lot of confidence in you two.”

  Neither Nakayla nor I said anything.

  After a few awkward seconds, Nakayla asked, “How do you like working the other side?”

  “You mean working with Hewitt?”

  “No. Working defense. I take it you were a JAG prosecutor.”

  Peterson shook his head. “I worked some defense on second tour, but I was primarily a TC. That’s trial counsel, Army speak for prosecutor. I enjoyed working with investigators like Sam.” He bounced the question to me. “You’re the one who exclusively worked the prosecutorial side. How do you fit with someone like Hewitt?”

  The question carried the distinct tone of disapproval. “I don’t know what you mean by fit,” I said. “My job’s always been to find the facts and present them objectively.”

  “Oh, come on,” Peterson pressed. “You’ve got to admit Hewitt distorts the facts any way he can to get his client off. I just don’t understand how he can be indifferent to that murder in Durango.”

  I understood where Peterson was coming from, but in my military experience, Hewitt’s histrionics wouldn’t have happened at a court-martial. “What can I say? He plays within the system and stretches it as far as he can.”

  “And damn the consequences.” Peterson finished his beer with a series of quick swallows and pushed the glass away. “Sorry to have talked myself into a bad mood. I might be more comfortable as a prosecutor, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe Hewitt’s innocent.” He patted me on the back. “Find the facts and I’ll distort away.” He looked at Nakayla. “And I really care for Cory and she adores Hewitt. So, I know he can’t be the devil.” He turned and walked off.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Nakayla said. “What do you think was really going on?”

  “I don’t know. Could be several things.”

  “He might be concerned about your respect. All he knows is you were a military investigator and you testified at the Atwood trial for the prosecution. He didn’t want to be tainted with any unfavorable opinion you have of Hewitt.”

  I mulled that point. I hadn’t considered Peterson wanting my approval. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s preparatory posturing.”

  “For what?”

  “For if the trial starts to go south. A victory tags him as the man who contributed to Hewitt’s acquittal. If that looks impossible, he can bail, citing a disagreement over tactics. He shouldn’t say anything more because of attorney-client confidentiality.”

  Nakayla frowned. “You think he’s that calculating?”

  “You asked me what I thought was going on. It’s a possibility.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But you’re overlooking one important factor.”

  As she could tell from my expression, I was clueless.

  “His statement about Cory, dummy. If he bails on Hewitt, Cory turns into the ice queen.”

  Nakayla had a point, and as a typical guy, I missed it. “Exactly what I was about to say.”

  “Yeah. Tell me another one and feel the temperature drop.”

  I wasn’t an idiot. “Treat you to dinner?”

  She stood. “And I choose. Let’s go vegan at The Laughing Seed. Maybe no meat will make you a little more sensitive to affairs of the heart.”

  I downed the rest of my beer and started to get up when I remembered where I was. “Wait. Sit down a moment.” I pulled my cell phone free. “I want to record the room. Hewitt supposedly made the call to our office from here, and I want a sound comparison.”

  Nakayla slid back in the chair. “Good idea. Won’t it make a difference where he was seated?”

  She was right. I got up and walked to the bar.

  “Mr. Peterson settled the bill,” the bartender said. “Would you like something else?”

  “No. You’ve got such a great memory, I’m embarrassed to ask your name.”

  “It’s Hank. Hank Ingalls.”

  “Hank, do you remember when Hewitt Donaldson was in here late last Friday night?”

  His smile di
sappeared. “I sure do. The night that woman was killed. He and Mr. Armitage closed the place.”

  “Are we at his regular table or did he sit someplace else?”

  “They sat there to start because he thought some others would join them. I noticed he made a call, and then he told me it would just be Mr. Armitage and him. They moved farther back to a smaller table.”

  “Was Mr. Armitage with him when he made the call?”

  “I’m pretty sure. Later, Mr. Armitage ordered another round when Mr. Donaldson was in the restroom.”

  “Did Mr. Armitage go to the men’s room?”

  Hank gave me a look that told me I was moving into the weird category.

  “Like you said, Mr. Donaldson was very upset. I just want to know if he seemed all right when he was alone.”

  If Hank thought the explanation was lame, he didn’t show it. “Probably he did. They were here for three hours, but I can’t say when.”

  “At two? Right before closing?”

  “I don’t know. I was busy ringing out.”

  I pulled a ten from my wallet.

  Hank waved it away. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not. That’s why I’m giving it to you.”

  The smile returned and he took the bill. “Thank you, Mr. Blackman. Ms. Robertson. Sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “We’re fine,” Nakayla said. “But we’ll be back.”

  When he’d turned away, Nakayla said, “So, you need to record from the rear of the bar and in the restroom.”

  “Yeah. Just to be sure.”

  Fortunately, the men’s room was empty and I stood inside the door until I had a good minute of ambience recorded. An elderly couple sat at the rear small table Hank had indicated. I stood near them and pretended to be listening to a cell phone call.

  “Mission accomplished?” Nakayla asked when I returned.

  “Yeah. Let’s go graze.”

  She started to rise and then stopped. “Shouldn’t we stop upstairs?”

  “Hank didn’t say Hewitt went upstairs.”

  “I think you ought to check it out as well,” she said. “Someone else could have placed the call from there, and Hewitt and Nathan wouldn’t have seen them.”