by Scott Pratt
I’d gotten up and was leaning against the block wall, contemplating my fingernails. Sarah had long ago perfected the art of the addict’s vitriolic tirade. The words floated past me like tiny ghosts. I didn’t allow them to linger.
“I came up here for a couple of reasons,” I said. “The first is to tell you what you’ve done, in case you don’t fully understand the situation. Stealing the car was a C felony, minimum three years, maximum six in your range. Stealing the necklace was another C felony, same sentence. With your priors and my connections at the district attorney’s office, I think I can convince them to push for consecutive sentences at the top of the range. No more six months in the county jail and you’re out to do it again, Sarah. You’re going to the penitentiary for twelve years. You’ll be at least fifty when you get out, if you live that long. I’m going to see to it personally.”
I’d represented her five times in the past, each time telling myself I’d never do it again. I’d always managed to get her sentences reduced, to get them to go as easy on her as possible. But this time was different. I felt genuinely betrayed, and although I wasn’t proud of it, I wanted a little retribution. The words I’d spoken seemed to sink slowly into her addled brain. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked against the wall. Then she began to whimper.
“You can’t do that to me, Joey. You can’t. I won’t survive.”
“Sure you will. You always have.”
“I’m sick, Joey. You know I’m sick. Tell Lilly and Caroline I’m sorry. I’ll get a job and pay you back.”
“Too late. Last straw, Sarah. I’m through with you.”
“You’ve said that before. You don’t mean it. You’re the one person who’s never given up on me. You can’t give up on me, Joey.”
“My name is Joe,” I said. “I stopped being Joey a long time ago, when I grew up. You should give it a try.”
The crying turned into a mournful wailing. Tears were streaming down her face and she was banging her head against the wall. The guard came to the doorway.
“Everything all right in here?”
“Yeah, I was just leaving. Mind letting me out?”
He unlocked the steel door and I stepped through. Sarah’s sobs were almost unbearable. I quickened my pace as I walked down the hall to the stairwell and pushed the door open. Just before it closed, I heard her yell.
“Joey! You’re supposed to protect me!”
June 12
2:15 p.m.
News travels fast in the law enforcement community, both good and bad. The word was that Joe Dillard’s sister had been popped again, only this time Dillard and his family were the victims.
Agent Landers regarded Dillard as a self-righteous jerkoff who spent his life defending the scumbags Landers was trying to put away. As far as Landers was concerned, Dillard was as bad as the people he represented. When Landers heard Dillard had been hired to represent Angel Christian, he almost puked. He hated the thought of having to deal with Dillard through discovery and through a trial. But when Landers heard Dillard’s sister had been arrested, it cheered him up. He immediately called the jail and found out she hadn’t made bond. Then he called the jail administrator and asked her to move Dillard’s sister into the same cell block as Angel Christian. The administrator said it would be no problem, so Landers waited a couple of days and then went down to pay Miss Dillard a little visit.
He had the guards bring her to an interrogation room. Her shoulders were rounded and slumped and her eyes were blank. Still, she was definitely good-looking. Maybe, if everything went right, he might seduce her when this was over. And wouldn’t that be sweet? Laying the wood to Dillard’s sister.
She sat there like a stone, not looking at Landers. He thought he’d wait her out and let her talk first, but after a few minutes it was obvious she wasn’t going to say a word.
“You’re Joe Dillard’s sister,” Landers finally said.
“What about it?” she said without looking up.
“I hear he had you locked up.”
She didn’t respond. Landers watched her closely, trying to see whether she was silently agreeing with him.
“You haven’t asked who I am, Miss Dillard.”
“I don’t care who you are.”
“You should. I’m the man who could get you out of here.”
She looked up for the first time. “And why would you do that?”
“I need some help. You need some help. You help me, I’ll help you. Simple as that. I can offer you two things: a ticket out of jail and a chance to get back at your brother. Should I keep talking?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust lawyers.”
“I’m not a lawyer. I’m an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
“I trust cops even less than I trust lawyers.”
“Suit yourself. I’m sure I can find somebody else up there in the cell block who wants to get out of here. I just thought you might like a shot at your brother.” Landers got up from the chair, walked to the door, and acted like he was about to push the button to call the guard.
“Wait,” she said. “What do you want from me?”
“Like I said, I need a little help.”
“What kind of help?”
Landers sat back down at the table. “Information. I need information. Your brother is defending a murderer named Angel Christian. She’s in your cell block. Have you met her?”
“I keep to myself.”
“Here’s my problem. I don’t know anything about her. I need to be able to check her out, you know what I mean? For starters, Angel Christian isn’t her real name. I need to know what her name is. I need to know where she’s from. I need to know where she went to school, whether she’s ever had a driver’s license in another name, whether she’s ever been in trouble before, who her parents are, that kind of thing, and if she happens to bring up the murder, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it. Do you think you might be willing to help me out with that?”
It was as though the Christian girl didn’t exist. The only person who knew anything about her was Julie Hayes, and all Hayes knew was that she’d picked her up at the Greyhound bus terminal in Dallas back in February. Hayes said the girl wouldn’t tell her what her name was, so she gave her the name Angel Christian on the bus. She thought the name was funny and ironic since Angel would be working in a strip club. Landers desperately needed to come up with something. For all he knew, Angel might be a serial killer. But she wouldn’t talk to him, the Barlowe woman wouldn’t talk to him, and the people they’d interviewed at the strip club hadn’t helped at all.
“So you want me to snitch for you?” Dillard’s sister said.
“You can call it whatever you want. What I call it is providing substantial assistance to a law enforcement officer in a murder investigation.”
“And what do I get in return?”
“People who provide substantial assistance in murder investigations often receive substantial reductions in their sentences. Like time served.”
“What’s your name?” she said. Landers didn’t like the tone or the look on her face.
“My name is Landers. Special Agent Phillip Landers.”
She started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Landers said.
“I heard my brother talking to his wife about you after he got hired on his big murder case. He said you’re the biggest liar on the planet. He said you’ll lie on the witness stand, plant evidence, frame people. He said you’re one of those cops who’ll do anything to win a case.”
“You’re brother’s an ass.”
“My brother may be an ass, but he’s an honest ass,” she said. “I don’t think I care to get involved with someone like you. Besides, I’m not a snitch.”
Stupid little slut. Landers was offering her a way out, and she had to go all sanctimonious. He wanted to ask her if being a drug-addicted, thieving whore was better than being a snitch, but he didn’t want to kill the possibility that she might be willing to help h
im later. He swallowed his pride and smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “It was nice to meet you. If you change your mind, just give me a call.”
Landers handed her a card and walked out the door. He’d wait and come back in a few weeks, maybe a month. If he was lucky she’d be sentenced by then, looking at a trip to the women’s penitentiary in Nashville. Landers had been down there a couple of times. It was a miserable place. Maybe when the prospect of going to the penitentiary turned into a reality, Dillard’s sister would change her mind.
June 13
1:00 p.m.
Erlene Barlowe hated to do it to Virgil because he was such a sweetie. But Erlene had made an uncharacteristic mistake the night the preacher was killed — she’d let her emotions overcome her good sense and she’d put her beloved Angel in an impossible position. Erlene’s mistake had ultimately resulted in Angel’s arrest, and now she was determined to do something that might begin to set things right.
Erlene had called Virgil and asked him to come out and meet her at the club at one o’clock in the afternoon. She could tell by his voice that he was a little apprehensive, but she assured him she just needed a teeny little favor.
He showed up right on time. Virgil Watterson was a homely sort of man, kind of short and the hair in his gray wig stuck up in different directions. Erlene had never asked him why, but he always wore a bow tie and suspenders when he came to the club, at least until one of the girls took them off. Erlene had a collection of the bow ties Virgil had left behind.
Virgil was real well off — Gus told Erlene that Virgil owned six McDonald’s restaurants and a whole bunch of real estate. He’d been coming to the club for years, but since he was married and a deacon in his church and a high-class businessman and all, Erlene and Gus had always made the VIP room available for him and let him come and go through the back door. Sometimes he brought a friend or business associate with him, but usually he just came by himself. He always wanted at least two girls to keep him company and he always paid in cash. He was a good customer and a sweet little old man. Wouldn’t hurt a flea, though he did have some sexual tendencies that ran a little to the strange side.
The VIP lounge was a fairly large room with its own bar and dance floor. Off to one side were three small rooms Erlene called bullpens. If a gentleman wanted even more privacy, he was welcome to take a lady, or two or three, off into one of the bullpens and conduct whatever business he needed to conduct.
Gus always called the video recording system he installed in the VIP bullpens his insurance policy. He didn’t tape everything that went on in there, but he taped enough to be able do a little trading if the need ever arose. He had tapes of judges and lawyers and doctors and police chiefs and preachers and businessmen and politicians. All the tapes were arranged in alphabetical order and kept in a fireproof safe in a mini-warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Virgil just happened to be one of the people Gus had taped several times, and Virgil was such a meek little man that Erlene thought he was perfect for what she needed done.
It was just the two of them in the club, and Erlene led Virgil down the hallway in the back to the girl’s dressing room. There was a small lounge for the girls with a television back there, one of those televisions that had a video cassette player built into it. The tape Erlene wanted to show Virgil was already in the machine. She pulled a chair up for him in front of the television.
“Now you just sit your cute self down right here,” Erlene said. “I’ve got something special I want to show you.”
Virgil sat down and Erlene sat down next to him. She put one hand on his knee and pointed the remote at the television with the other.
The screen lit up and there was Virgil, naked, sucking his thumb and talking dirty to a couple of the girls. Erlene kept patting Virgil’s knee as they watched him do some things he probably found a tad embarrassing. After a couple of minutes, he asked her to turn it off. Then he turned to her with the most pitiful look on his face Erlene had ever seen.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Erlene,” Virgil said. “After all these years and all the money I’ve put in your pocket, I just can’t believe it.”
“Do what, honey?” Erlene said. “I’m not doing a thing to you.”
“Then what was the purpose of showing that to me?”
“I just need a little favor, sweetie. That’s all. And if you’ll do me just this one teeny favor, I swear on Gus’s grave I’ll give you every tape Gus ever made of you.”
Erlene watched Virgil carefully as she laid out the proposal. He was reluctant at first, but the more Erlene talked, and the more she rubbed the inside of Virgil’s thigh, the more he seemed to relax. Finally, he agreed to do what Erlene needed done.
He was such a sweetie.
June 15
6:00 a.m.
On the morning my daughter’s last dance recital was scheduled, I was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper when Caroline wandered into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.
“I need to tell you about something,” she said. I put the paper down.
“Sounds bad.”
“I’m not sure. I saw a silver truck yesterday afternoon, like the one you said almost ran over you. It drove by the house twice. Then when I went to the grocery store later, I came outside and it was parked right beside me, but I couldn’t see the driver through the tint.”
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”
“I was getting ready for the recital, remember? I was busy all day, and then last night when I came in you were already asleep. I thought about waking you up, but I didn’t think it would hurt to wait until this morning.”
“Tester’s son — the one I was telling you about who made that scene at Angel’s arraignment — owns a silver Dodge truck. It has to be him.”
“But why, Joe? Why would he want to bother us? You’re just a lawyer doing your job.”
“You didn’t hear him in court. Something very strange is going on in that man’s head.”
“What should we do?”
“There isn’t much we can do. If you see him again, call the cops and tell them what’s going on. Maybe they’ll check him out. And make sure you tell Lilly to be watching for him. Show her a picture of a Dodge truck or something so she’ll know what to look for.”
After I finished the paper, I drove to the gym in Johnson City and worked out for an hour. Then I drove over to Unicoi County to represent Randall Finch, one of my two remaining appointed death penalty cases. Randall was a twenty-five-year-old, uneducated redneck who’d killed his girlfriend’s thirteen-month-old son in a drug-induced haze. Randall and his girlfriend had been binging on crystal meth and hydrocodone for two days and had finally run out of drugs, so the girlfriend went out to find some more, leaving the child with Randall. While she was gone, the little boy apparently started to cry. Randall first dealt with him by using him for an ashtray, putting cigarettes out on the bottoms of his feet. Then, for some reason only Randall could understand, he laid the child on the metal protective rack of a hot kerosene heater, producing a sun-shaped burn that covered his back. Finally, when the baby still wouldn’t stop crying, Randall shook him so violently his brain hemorrhaged.
Randall’s girlfriend returned to find the carnage and called the police. They arrested her, too.
Randall didn’t deny killing the baby. He just said he didn’t remember killing the baby. The only defense I could attempt was reduced mental capacity based on intoxication so severe that Randall didn’t realize what he was doing, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Once the jury saw the photographs of the cigarette burns and the burn on the tiny boy’s back, Randall would be lucky to get out of the courtroom without being lynched. When I looked at the photos the first time I wanted to lynch Randall myself. All I’d have needed was a rope and some privacy.
The preliminary hearing had been held two months earlier in a lower court in Erwin, and the evidence was gruesome. Since then, Deacon Baker had spent a great deal of time and energy
proclaiming to the local media the fate he had in mind for Randall Finch. It was to be the death penalty, swift and certain.
Deacon, however, hadn’t bothered to file his death notice, an absolute requirement in any death penalty case, so I decided to try something sneaky. I told Randall that since the case against him was so strong and since Deacon hadn’t filed the notice, Randall should plead guilty at arraignment, his first appearance in the higher criminal court. Nobody had ever tried to pull a stunt like that to my knowledge, and I had no idea what the judge would say. But I knew it would, at the very least, set up an extremely interesting appellate issue. Randall agreed.
The judge was Ivan Glass. I wasn’t expecting any warm greetings. Glass had recently developed some kind of infection in his leg and was spending a lot of his time on the bench high on the same kind of painkillers Randall had been taking when he murdered the baby. If Glass was high during the Finch arraignment, I knew I’d probably be in for trouble.
The judge called our case around 10:00 a.m. The bailiffs brought Randall to the podium, and Glass glared down at him from the bench.
“So this is the man accused of killing the baby?” He wasn’t slurring his words, and his eyes appeared to be clear.
“Yes, your honor,” Deacon Baker said. He’d made yet another appearance for the cameras.
“Let the record show that I’ve appointed Mr. Dillard to represent him and that Mr. Dillard is present with his client today.” I’d told Glass after he appointed me that I was planning on retiring and would appreciate it if he wouldn’t appoint me to any more cases. He’d snorted and said he looked forward to not having me around. The feeling was mutual.
“I’m handing Mr. Dillard a copy of the indictment,” Glass said. “Do you waive the formal reading?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How does your client plead?”
“He pleads guilty.”
“Very well, as far as scheduling…wait a minute. What did you say, Mr. Dillard?”
“I said Mr. Finch wants to enter a plea of guilty this morning. He doesn’t want to contest the charges.”