High Country Fall dk-10

by Margaret Maron

  I was congratulating myself on probably getting through before three o’clock, when I noticed that the courtroom was starting to fill back up again.

  I leaned over and got Mary Kay’s attention. “Are there add-ons I don’t know about?”

  She frowned and hastily rechecked the calendar. “Oh, gosh, yes! A probable cause hearing’s scheduled for this morning. I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I could have left that off. Oh, gosh!”

  “It’s okay,” I soothed and turned my attention back to the DA, who said, “Call Dava Edwards Triplett.”

  An elderly attorney stood up and gestured to someone at the back of the courtroom. “Come on up, Dava.”

  A rabbity-looking white woman with lank blond hair and a gray pallor to her skin came forward and stood beside the attorney at the defense table, and that’s when I finally realized that not a single person in this court today was black. Nor did I remember seeing any people of color on Cedar Gap’s crowded sidewalks yesterday.

  I’d heard that there were very few African-Americans in this part of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and here was confirmation. Although Latinos and Asians are filtering in, the population is still mostly white, still mostly Protestant, and the perception, deserved or not, is that bigotry is alive and well up in the hollows. The mountains have a history of harboring white supremacists and paramilitary separatists—look how bomber Eric Rudolph hid himself from FBI agents and bounty hunters alike for five years down in Cherokee County. More than one fundamentalist, conservative cult flourishes throughout Appalachia, although up in Watauga County there’s a seven-thousand-acre transcendental meditation center founded by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, so maybe that particular stereotype is breaking down?

  “Your Honor,” said the DA, “Mrs. Triplett is charged with carrying a concealed weapon.”

  “How do you plead?” I asked the woman.

  “Not guilty, ma’am.”

  “Proceed,” I told the DA.

  “Call Detective Fletcher.”

  The detective was of medium height and weight. Sandy brown hair thinning at the temples; neatly dressed in dark sports jacket, khaki pants, shirt, and blue tie. He came to the witness stand, placed his hand on the Bible, and swore to tell the truth.

  “State your name and occupation.”

  “Glenn Fletcher. I’ve been a detective with the Lafayette Sheriff’s Department for eight years now.”

  “And where were you on the afternoon of September twenty-fourth?”

  “At the home of Mrs. Dava Triplett up near the end of Little Carlton Road.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “We had been told that Mrs. Triplett was running a meth lab and we went up to ask her about it.”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay,” said defense counsel.

  Evidently, he was one of those who thought that every repeated conversation needed an objection, whether or not it pertained to the charges.

  “Overruled,” I said.

  “Did anyone else go there with you?” asked the DA.

  “Yes, sir. Sheriff Horton, Officers McKinley and Adams, and Agent Forrester of the SBI.”

  “Describe what happened when you got there.”

  “We knocked on the door, but the house appeared to be empty and there were no cars in the yard. While we were deciding how to proceed, we saw Mrs. Triplett’s car slow down like she was going to turn in and then she must’ve seen us and changed her mind—”

  “Objection,” said defense counsel. “Calls for an unwarranted conclusion by the witness.”

  “Sustained,” I said.

  “What did you see Mrs. Triplett do?” the DA asked.

  “I observed her as she drove past her driveway, up to the end of the road, where she turned around and started back down, so I went out and waved to her to stop.”

  “And did she?”

  “Yes, sir. I identified myself and asked her if she was Dava Triplett. She replied that she was and asked if I wanted to see her driver’s license. She started to reach over for her purse—”

  “Objection. Conclusion.”

  “Overruled.”

  “—and I told her to keep her hands on the steering wheel.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I asked her if she had any weapons in the car?”

  “What was her response?”

  “She said she had a handgun, so I asked her to step out of the car and put her hands on the roof.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I asked her where the gun was and she said it was on the seat. I found it down in the crack between the seat and the back, completely covered by her purse. It was a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol with a fully loaded magazine.”

  “You then placed her under arrest?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No further questions.”

  Defense counsel stood. His hair was white, his shoulders slightly stooped, but his voice was strong and confident. “Detective Fletcher, you said that the sheriff’s department had been told that Mrs. Triplett was running a meth lab. Was it her ex-boyfriend that told y’all that?”

  “I wasn’t the one who spoke to the informant, sir, so I don’t know.”

  “You do know, do you not, that he was arrested for possession of drug paraphernalia the day before you went out to Mrs. Triplett’s house?”

  “Objection,” said the DA. “Irrelevant.”

  “Sustained,” I said.

  “What was Mrs. Triplett’s behavior when you stopped her car? Was she defiant? Uncooperative?”

  “No, sir. She was very cooperative.”

  “You said you went up there to search her house. Did you in fact carry out that search?”

  “We did.”

  “What did you find?”

  “We found four one-gallon jugs of antifreeze and three cans of lantern fuel in the garage and two brand-new Igloo coolers in the trunk of her car.”

  “Those are items you might find in any garage in Lafayette County. What about all the essential items that go into furnishing a meth lab, Detective? Did you find a case of over-the-counter cold remedies in the house?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Plastic tubing? Clear glass containers? Excessive amounts of drain cleaners? Coffee filters stained red?”

  “No, sir.”

  “In short, all you found were jugs of antifreeze my client bought for her car because it has a leaky radiator and lantern fuel she keeps on hand for when the power goes out. Is that correct?”

  “And the two new coolers,” the detective said doggedly.

  We’re all educated these days on what it takes to cook up a batch of methamphetamine, and this woman might well have planned to start her own kitchen lab, a serious problem out here in these hills; but if she’d been at it before, the house would have smelled like the worst litterbox in the world and fumes would have so permeated curtains, carpets, and furniture that air fresheners and window fans would barely dent it. The point was moot though since Mrs. Triplett had not been charged with making meth. She was charged with concealing a weapon.

  “Is it not a fact, Detective Fletcher, that when you first stopped Mrs. Triplett and looked through the open window, you actually saw her gun on the seat beside her in plain sight?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t the so-called concealment occur when she tried to extract her driver’s license from her pocketbook and inadvertently covered the gun with her pocketbook at that point?”

  “No, sir. It was over the gun and the gun was pushed down in the crack of the seat so that only the edge of the handle was visible when I lifted the purse.”

  “Sheriff Horton, two other officers of your department and an SBI agent were standing in Mrs. Triplett’s yard. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were any of them with you at the car when you found the gun?”

  “Sheriff Horton came over when he saw her step out of the car, but I had already found the gun by the time he
got there.”

  “So none of your colleagues can corroborate your story?”

  “No, sir, not really.”

  “When did you officially place my client under arrest? As soon as you found the gun or after you didn’t find a meth lab?”

  “Objection,” said the DA. “Irrelevant.”

  “Overruled,” I said. “The witness will answer.”

  “My colleagues were still searching the premises,” he said, which was probably technically truthful.

  “And just for the record, was Mrs. Triplett’s gun properly registered and licensed?”

  “Yessir.”

  “No further questions.”

  When Mrs. Triplett took the stand, she naturally testified to the same scenario her attorney had laid out: the gun was in plain view on the seat of the car until she unwittingly covered it with her pocketbook. “I never tried to hide it and I told him soon as he asked that I had it.” She looked up at me. “It’s a real rough neighborhood up there, ma’am. That’s why I keep my gun close at hand, right there beside me where anybody can see it and know I’m not afraid to use it if I have to.”

  In the end, despite the physical signs on her body that she was a likely user, I was left with her word against that of a detective who was probably frustrated that they hadn’t found enough evidence to arrest her for the more serious charge.

  Unfortunately for Detective Fletcher, wishing doesn’t make it so and there wasn’t enough evidence nor even simple corroboration. Had I heard this case two weeks ago, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt, but now that I’m engaged to a sheriff’s deputy, I know I’m going to have to lean over backward to keep my judgments fair and unbiased.

  I nodded to the defense attorney and he and Mrs. Triplett stood to hear my decision.

  “I find the defendant not guilty.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, finally smiling.

  “But in the future, Mrs. Triplett, I’d suggest that you keep your purse on the floor and your gun on the dashboard.”

  “I surely will, ma’am.”

  “At this time,” I said, “the court will recess for fifteen minutes.”

  “All rise,” said the bailiff.

  CHAPTER 6

  I finished drying my hands and had just stepped out of Judge Rawlings’s lavatory when Mary Kay stuck her head in the doorway and said, “Could you speak to Mr. Burke and Ms. Delorey?”

  “Sure,” I said, clueless as to who they might be.

  “Judge Knott? I’m Gail Delorey,” said the woman, who entered first. She was small and olive-skinned with dark brown hair that she had pulled back and tied with a maroon scarf that matched the thin maroon lines running through her black trouser suit. Her crisp white shirt was man-tailored and her hand was firm when she shook mine. I guessed her age to be mid-forties.

  “Lucius Burke,” said the man, who followed. “District Attorney here.”

  A slender man in a charcoal suit and a blue-and-green tie, Burke’s hair was now more salt than pepper, prematurely so, no doubt, since his face was almost wrinkle-free except for nice laugh lines at the corners of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. His handshake was utterly professional, yet I saw those eyes flicker up and down in quick, discreet assessment and I was glad I’d worn my favorite dark red knit dress.

  “Welcome to Lafayette County.”

  “Thank you,” I said, automatically noticing that his ring finger was bare.

  (“Yours isn’t,” the preacher reminded me sternly.)

  I sat down behind the desk and laid my hands on its shining top, as if Dwight’s ring were a shield against speculations and possibilities that were now off-limits to me.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked Ms. Delorey.

  (“No ring on her finger either,” the pragmatist said innocently.) (“Oh please,” said the preacher, who has a built-in shit detector.) Ms. Delorey exchanged a glance with the DA, then said, “When you go back into court, Mr. Burke will be asking you to find probable cause against my client, who’s accused of voluntary manslaughter.”

  “And?”

  “Ms. Delorey thought we ought to warn you that this is a rather high-profile case for this area,” said Mr. Burke. (Really, his eyes were the most astonishing green.) “Lots of local interest. There will definitely be reporters and the station down in Howards Ford has sent a cameraman up to cover today’s hearing.”

  I frowned at that.

  “You don’t allow cameras in your courtrooms?”

  “Under no circumstances,” I said firmly. I’d allowed it once and watched everyone immediately start playing to the cameras despite my instructions to ignore them. After that, I swore never again.

  “What about tape recorders?” asked Ms. Delorey, showing me a tiny voice-activated model.

  “Tape recorders are fine,” I said, “as long as you don’t delay us if the tape runs out or the batteries die.”

  After instructing the bailiff to announce that I would hold in contempt anyone who tried to use a camera of any description, I returned to the courtroom. As had been predicted, almost every bench was filled.

  I took my seat and Mr. Burke rose to state that Daniel Wayne Freeman had been charged with voluntary manslaughter in the death of Dr. Carlyle Grayson Ledwig and that he was asking me to find probable cause to bind Mr. Freeman over for trial in superior court.

  Maybe I’m just slow, but until that moment I hadn’t connected “high profile” to Dr. Ledwig, yet here was the same young man whose picture I’d seen in the High Country Courier.

  I opened the folder on the case and read through the rulings made last week at Daniel Freeman’s first appearance. An accused’s first appearance is the first court day after his arrest on charges that will carry serious prison time or worse if he’s convicted. It’s when the judge, in this case Judge Rawlings, reviews the warrant for arrest; determines what bond, if any, is appropriate; assures the defendant of his right to counsel if he can’t afford to hire one; and sets a date for a probable cause hearing five to fifteen days later so that both the State and the defense will have enough time to prepare.

  A probable cause hearing is more formal and more adversarial than the first appearance hearing because it’s the proceeding that transfers a case to superior court unless district court—me—finds that there is insufficient cause to continue with the prosecution.

  All the paperwork seemed to be in order. I nodded to Ms. Delorey and she and the defendant rose.

  “Defense is ready to proceed, Your Honor,” she said.

  “How is your client pleading?” I asked.

  “Not guilty,” the young man said firmly, looking me straight in the eye.

  He reminded me of some of my younger nephews. A lanky kid barely out of his teens, he had sandy brown hair that curled around his ears, a thin nose between wide-spaced hazel eyes, a deep summer tan, and a teenager’s build that hadn’t yet thickened into a man’s frame. He was well-scrubbed and neatly dressed in a coat and tie, but then he would be, wouldn’t he? Even for something as minor as a DWI, very few attorneys let their clients come to court looking like a mud turtle fished out of a drunk tank. First impressions are too important and you don’t want to make a judge automatically unsympathetic to your client because he’s wearing a kiss-my-ass T-shirt. On the other hand, his clean-cut Mom-and-apple-pie appearance probably wasn’t a total sham because his short hair had not been cut short for this occasion. For some reason, that’s something I always notice, especially in summer and fall. I can usually tell when a neck hasn’t seen sunshine in months, and this kid’s tan went right up under his hairline all around.

  His eyes fell as I continued to study him. He might be a killer, but I doubt if he was much of a con artist. Consummate liars can look you straight in the eye till hell freezes over.

  I motioned for him to be seated and told Mr. Burke to proceed.

  “Call Officer Brian McKinley to the stand.”

  Officer McKinley came forward, placed his h
and on the Bible, and assured Mary Kay he intended to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  Both the DA and Ms. Delorey placed their tape recorders on the chest-level rail in front of the witness seat.

  In his own words and referring occasionally to his notes, McKinley described how he’d been on regular patrol Thursday afternoon when a call came in at 4:35 that assistance was needed at 7482 Old Needham Road. He was only a mile from that location and he and the ambulance made it at approximately the same time.

  Upon arrival, they were met by the defendant, who told them that the owner, Dr. Carlyle Ledwig, had fallen from the deck he was rebuilding. Freeman then led them around the house to a large, multilevel deck that was built out from the rockface to overlook Pritchard Cove. They could see a gap in the deck’s temporary railing and Dr. Ledwig’s body some thirty feet below, but to get to him, they had to wait another fifteen minutes for the fire and rescue truck to come with ropes and ladders.

  “Was there anyone else there? Any family members? Neighbors?”

  “No, sir, not on the deck itself. The houses aren’t close together up there, but two men who lived next door did come to see what was happening. We advised them to stay clear of the deck. Dr. Ledwig’s wife and daughters came home just as they were bringing him up.”

  “Where was the defendant through all this?” asked Burke.

  “He was there on the deck with us.”

  “Did you observe anything unusual about him?”

  “Objection,” murmured Ms. Delorey. “Leading.”

  “Sustained,” I said.

  “Describe his appearance, please,” Burke said.

  “He seemed agitated and upset and he kept saying, ‘Oh God, what’s Carla going to think?’”

  “Did you ascertain who Carla was?”

  “His girlfriend—Dr. Ledwig’s daughter.”

  “What else did you observe?”