by Scott Pratt
“I think his clothing may have smelled bad. His shirt, his pants, his shoes.”
I sit back and let this sink in. We’re back in dangerous territory. I should change the subject, keep silent, break into song, anything but continue this line of questioning. But I have to keep going. If she’s done something she shouldn’t have done, I have to protect her, and I can’t protect her unless I know the truth. I’m reminded of the days I was practicing criminal defense. I push my salad away and lean forward on the table.
“And what might his clothes have smelled like?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Maybe gasoline?”
Shit. My stomach churns. I can feel my mouth going dry. I gulp down a few swallows of the beer.
“Okay, now let’s be sure to stay in the hypothetical. Far, far in the hypothetical, all right? So if Tommy goes to this other friend’s house and this other friend’s mother notices that his clothing smells like some kind of fuel, do you think she might have asked him why?”
“She might have asked him what happened. He might have said he thought he must have stopped for gas somewhere when he was drunk and spilled some on his clothes, but he doesn’t remember.”
“So what else do you think might have been said?”
Caroline’s eyes lock on to mine. She seems to relax completely, as though she’s experienced some kind of spiritual awakening. Her voice is steady.
“First of all, I think this woman might believe him. Then she might ask him to take the clothing off and borrow some from her son. She might just intend to clean the shirt and shoes for him, since he and his mother have so much grief in their lives right now. She might have just been trying to be nice. She might have just been trying to help.”
“And what would she have done with his clothes?”
Caroline lifts the beer bottle to her lips, then sets it back down without drinking.
“She might have put everything in a garbage bag and taken it to the laundry room in the basement.”
I relax a little. This isn’t as bad as I thought. Even if Tommy’s clothes are in our house, she would have taken them before she knew anything about Judge Green’s murder. That doesn’t make her guilty of any crime. The question is whether she now has a legal obligation to make the police aware that she has the clothing and turn it over to them. And now that she’s told me, even hypothetically, I’m wondering whether I, too, have a legal obligation to tell the police.
“So this hypothetical clothing in this hypothetical laundry room,” I say. “Do you think it might still be there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the woman might have put the clothing in the washing machine right after the boy left. Then maybe she started fixing breakfast for her son. Her husband shows up unexpectedly and starts making wild accusations about Tommy. So after her husband leaves, maybe she does something she knows she probably shouldn’t do, but maybe she loves this boy like a son and believes with all of her heart that he didn’t commit a crime. Maybe she wants to make sure that clothing can never be used against him in any way.”
I hold up my hand to stop her. I can see it in her eyes. I know what she’s done.
“Don’t say anything else,” I say.
“After her husband leaves, maybe she makes a decision that she knows she might regret someday, but she relies on her heart. She doesn’t want to do anything to hurt her husband, but she knows, she absolutely knows, that this boy she loves so much simply couldn’t have done this terrible thing. So maybe she goes to the laundry room-”
“Please, Caroline, stop right now.”
“And she puts the clothes in the dryer. Later, she goes back to the laundry room, takes the clothes out to the burn barrel by the barn, and sets them on fire.”
28
Three days after Katie Dean visited the DEA agent, Aunt Mary called her into the den from the kitchen.
“They just did a teaser for the news about a big drug bust,” Aunt Mary said. “I think this might be it.”
Katie sat on the edge of Luke’s bed. A male reporter appeared on the TV screen. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and holding a microphone. He was outdoors. Behind him was a wall of gray smoke.
“Local law enforcement authorities are saying this marijuana field is the biggest ever discovered in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park,” the reporter said. “Agents from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, and the Sevier County Sheriff’s Department descended from helicopters into this five-acre field early this morning after receiving a tip from an anonymous informant. More than twenty- five hundred plants have been cut and burned. Police estimate the marijuana’s wholesale value at more than three and a half million dollars. The street value is estimated at close to ten million dollars. Sevier County Sheriff Hobart Brackens says the marijuana was most likely meant for out-of-state buyers.”
A heavy man with jowls like a bulldog came onto the screen. He was wearing a cowboy hat with a silver star on it. Beneath his face were the words “Sheriff Hobart Brackens.”
“An operation like this has to be a wholesaler,” the sheriff said. “We’ve had information in the past that marijuana growers were operating in these mountains, but until now, we’ve never been able to find any of the patches.”
Aunt Mary turned off the television set.
“There,” she said matter-of-factly. “What’s done is done. I don’t want anyone in this house to speak of it ever again.”
The firebomb came through Katie’s bedroom window the next week. It was two in the morning on a Thursday. Katie had watched an Atlanta Braves baseball game with Luke before straggling off to bed around eleven. She was dreaming of swimming at the base of a massive waterfall in the bright sunshine, surrounded by brightly colored fish, when the sound of breaking glass and igniting fuel jolted her awake.
It took several seconds for her to realize the bedroom was on fire. The Molotov cocktail had landed against the wall near the door and exploded. The flames were already raging by the time Katie ripped the covers back and jumped to her feet. She heard men shouting outside her window, then heard more windows crash downstairs. She screamed. The flames were racing up from the foot of the bed, gobbling the purple quilt Aunt Mary had made and given to her for Christmas three years earlier. Smoke was already causing her to choke, the heat searing her skin and throat.
Luke. I have to get to Luke.
She couldn’t go toward the door that led to the steps. It was too hot. The flames would consume her, but she had to get out. She unlatched the lock on the broken window and pushed it up. The roof above the front porch was less than ten feet below her. She crawled up into the window frame, cutting her left foot on a piece of broken glass in the process, and jumped. The steep pitch of the roof below sent her skidding toward the edge. Her elbows and knees hit the rough shingles, and she rolled onto her side, once, twice, three times… and then she was falling. She landed on her right side in the grass of the front yard. Her elbow jammed into her rib cage, and she heard the sickening sound of bones breaking. She tried to stand, but found she couldn’t even breathe.
Katie looked up toward the front of the house. Dark smoke was billowing from beneath the soffit, and she could see flames climbing the curtains and reaching out like the devil’s fingers through the windows. Katie willed herself to her knees. The heat was so intense she felt her eyebrows beginning to singe. She lay down on her back and used her feet to push herself away from the inferno.
29
A tongue lapping across her face awakened Katie, and she opened her eyes. It was night, but the sky was full of light.
“Maggie,” she whispered. “Good girl.”
The sound that filled Katie’s ears was that of a locomotive, or maybe a tornado, close by. She tried to sit up, but the pain in her side was so excruciating, it took her breath again. She suddenly realized where she was. She turned her head and looked toward the house. Orange flames were shooting th
rough the roof, reaching at least fifty feet into the air and throwing sparkling embers another thirty feet higher. Katie had managed to push herself a good hundred feet from the house before she passed out, but the heat was so intense, she felt as though she were slowly roasting.
Maggie bolted toward the side of the house and disappeared.
She must be going to check on the others. They must have gotten out.
Katie planted the soles of her feet firmly against the ground and began to push again, dragging herself farther away from the heat. She took shallow breaths in an effort to alleviate some of the pain. She wondered how many of her ribs had been broken in the fall, because every time she took a breath, no matter how shallow, and every time she moved her upper body in the least, it felt as if a butcher knife were being plunged into her side.
She thought briefly of the cowards who did this. It had to be the druggers. Someone had told someone about her visit to the DEA office. She thought of the eyes that watched her as she was leaving, and she wondered whether one of those pairs of eyes was responsible for what was happening now.
Aunt Mary. Lottie. Did they get out? Did they get Luke out? Are they hurt? Dead? No, please God, not dead. Not again.
She shouldn’t have gone off the trail in the park. She shouldn’t have let the druggers see her. She shouldn’t have told Aunt Mary. At the very least, their house was burning because of her.
Katie became aware of headlights coming down the driveway. They drew nearer. She heard a door slam, then heavy footsteps approaching. Someone was kneeling beside her. She looked at the face. It was Mr. Torbett, the nearest neighbor, a friendly, white-haired farmer with the longest fingers Katie had ever seen. Kneeling on the other side of Katie was Mr. Torbett’s wife, Rose.
“Katie!” Mr. Torbett cried. “Dear God, Katie. Are you all right? What happened?”
He reached behind her neck and lifted her head.
No! No! Don’t move me!
Razor-sharp pain shot through Katie’s body.
“The others,” she whispered, and the blackness enveloped her again.
The next time Katie opened her eyes, the woman standing above her was a stranger. She was pretty, middle-aged, with sharp features and hazel eyes. Her black hair was pulled tightly into a bun, and she was wearing white. Katie thought she might be an angel. She was fiddling with a bag of liquid that hung from a stand next to the bed.
“Where am I?” Katie said. Her mouth was dry, her tongue like sandpaper, but she felt as relaxed as she’d ever felt in her life. “Am I in heaven?”
“You’re in the hospital, sweetie,” the nurse said. She moved next to the bed and took Katie’s hand. “But you’re going to be fine.”
Katie smiled at the nurse and looked at her name tag. It said her name was June.
“Am I sick?” Katie said. “How did I get here?”
“You don’t remember?”
Katie thought for a moment, but she couldn’t remember. Truth be known, she didn’t care. She felt as if she were floating. She shook her head slowly.
“You had a little accident,” Nurse June said. “Just go on back to sleep now. We’re going to take good care of you.”
“Do you know Aunt Mary?” Katie said. “She works at the hospital.”
The angel turned away for several seconds. When she turned back, Katie thought she saw a tear slip from her right eye and run down her cheek. She wondered why the woman was crying.
“Yes, honey, I know her.”
“Is she here?”
“You just rest now,” the nurse said. “Your aunt Mary will always be there for you.”
30
It’s after midnight. I’ve already told Caroline that Hannah is missing. She was so upset that I decided not to tell her about the information I’ve learned from Bates, and I didn’t say anything about Ramirez. She’s gone to bed, but I doubt she’s sleeping. Both of us are in a state of semishock, punch-drunk from the emotional and psychological battering we’ve taken over the past week. Ray’s suicide, the news about Judge Green and the possibility that Tommy may have been involved, Hannah’s disappearance, and Caroline’s continuing battle with cancer have left us wondering whether we’ve been infected with some sort of contagious, cosmic disease that we’ve unwittingly passed on to our closest friends.
I’m sitting in my study, flipping through the Tennessee Criminal Justice Handbook. I find the section of the Tennessee Code Annotated I’m looking for:* Section 39-16-503. Tampering with or fabricating evidence. It is unlawful for any person, knowing that an official investigation or official proceeding is pending or in progress, to: (1) Alter, destroy, or conceal any record, document, or thing with intent to impair its verity, legibility, or availability as evidence in the investigation or official proceeding. A violation of this section is a class C felony.
The statute is clear. By burning Tommy Miller’s clothing and shoes after knowing that he was a suspect in a murder investigation, Caroline has committed a crime. She doesn’t realize how serious it is. The penalty for a class C felony in Tennessee for a first-time offender is a minimum of three and a maximum of six years in prison. If Caroline is caught, there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll wind up in jail. She’ll receive the minimum sentence because she’s never been in any kind of trouble, but there isn’t a judge in the state who will grant her probation for destroying evidence in the investigation of a murdered colleague. Even if she gets the minimum sentence and makes parole as soon as she’s eligible, she’ll serve nearly a year in the Tennessee State Prison for Women.
I think about the sentence Caroline is still serving, the one imposed upon her by breast cancer. She’s survived, but she’s been through six months of chemotherapy, nearly two months of radiation therapy, and half a dozen surgeries stretched out over twenty-two months. I’m confident she’ll beat the cancer, but now she’s up against the laws of man and the people who enforce them. If she’s found out, she won’t get any sympathy.
I know she didn’t intend to do anything illegal when she collected Tommy’s clothes and loaned him some of Jack’s, and I’m sure she rationalizes burning the clothing later by telling herself she was merely eliminating the possibility that the clothing could somehow be used to frame Tommy. She believes he didn’t kill the judge. In fact, she’s so firm in her conviction that I wonder whether something else is at play here, perhaps intuition. Caroline has always been intuitive, and her judgments about people have always been spot-on. But even if she’s right about Tommy, it doesn’t change her having made herself vulnerable to the system. If the wrong person finds out what she’s done and can prove it, they’ll steamroll her.
The other problem I have, of course, is my own criminal liability. Now that Caroline’s told me about burning the clothes, because of my position as an assistant district attorney, I could be charged with official misconduct if I don’t report it. Official misconduct is also a felony, although not as serious as tampering with evidence. Then again, perhaps I enjoy the protection of spousal privilege. She’s my wife. They can’t force me to tell them anything she’s said to me, and I didn’t actually see the clothing.
As I sit in the lamplight, I commit to a decision. Right or wrong, legal or illegal, I’ll do whatever I have to do.
There’s no way in hell my wife is going to prison, and neither am I.
I walk up the stairs and lie down on the couch in the den. I keep an old blanket folded over the back of the couch because I sleep there-or just lie there-quite often. On nights when I know I won’t be able to sleep or if something has happened that I think might trigger a nightmare, I head for the couch. There’s no point in keeping Caroline awake while I toss and turn, and there’s no point in scaring her with my dream- induced cries and ramblings in the middle of the night.
Rio crawls onto the other end of the couch and curls up. I turn the television on to Sports Center and listen as the talking heads drone on mindlessly, for the millionth time, about the long-term effects that the use of steroids by
cheaters like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens will have on the game of baseball. I think of Jack and how hard he’s worked over the years, drug free, and hope that the pressure of competition at the highest level never leads him down that path.
Thoughts of Jack cause me to consider the predicament he’s in. My conversations with Caroline have led me to believe that Jack had no idea what was going on with Tommy this morning. Tommy woke up before Jack did. By the time Jack saw Tommy, Caroline had already collected Tommy’s clothes and shoes and provided him with replacements that belonged to Jack.
Still, I’m sure Anita White will want to talk to Jack. She’ll want to know if he saw Tommy or talked to him after the funeral, and if he did, she’ll want to know exactly what Tommy said and did. She’ll want to know whether Jack noticed anything unusual about him. She’ll ask Jack the same questions I asked him, and if he lies, he’ll be in the same boat as Caroline. Making a false statement to a police officer about a material fact in an investigation is a class C felony in Tennessee.
The key to all this, of course, is Tommy Miller. Will he go against everything he’s learned from his father and what I’m sure his mother has told him and talk to the police? Will the TBI agents-who are experts at getting people to talk to them-be able to coerce him or pressure him or simply outsmart him? Will they be able to bring enough pressure or guilt to bear to loosen his tongue? If they do, what will he say? Will he tell them he was at our house during the time of the murder, hoping to use us as an alibi? Will he confess and tell them he gave his clothes to Caroline? Is there evidence the police can use against him in his car? If there is, will he be shrewd enough to get rid of the car in a way the police can’t trace? What would I do in his position? Would I burn the car and report it stolen? Disable the engine, tow it to a junkyard, and have it crushed for scrap metal?
My God, what a mess.