An Innocent Client jd-1

by Scott Pratt

  Diane then turned her attention to Erlene Barlowe. I’d asked her to quietly check into a few things, and I’d paid her out of my own pocket.

  “No criminal record. Her husband was the sheriff of McNairy County from 1970 to 1973. He resigned under some pretty suspicious circumstances and went into the strip club business. She was with him every step of the way until he died of a heart attack last year. She doesn’t seem to have any enemies, at least none I could find. I talked to a couple of her employees. They’re flat-out loyal.”

  “Corvette?”

  “No Corvette. Or I guess I should say no record of a Corvette.”

  “And what about Julie Hayes?”

  “Very naughty girl. Three drug possessions, two misdemeanor thefts, three prostitution convictions. Most of the arrests are in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Nobody had anything good to say about her. She’s a mess.”

  “You talk to her?”

  “I tried. The first time I went out to her place she was so stoned she could barely speak. The second time she told me to piss off, so I pissed off.”

  An hour later, I drove over to meet with the forensic psychiatrist I’d hired to examine Angel. Tom Short was head of the psychiatry department at East Tennessee State University, a short, wiry academic who seemed to spend a lot of time in a world no one else understood. I’d met him at a death penalty seminar in Nashville five years earlier where he taught a class on the role of psychiatric evaluation in mitigation. I’d used him in seven cases since then, and we’d become friends. I’d never placed a lot of faith in psychiatry before I met Tom, but his uncanny ability to diagnose personality disorders and psychotic illnesses made a believer of me. I trusted him completely.

  “PTSD,” he said as soon as I walked into his office. He was sitting behind his desk, chewing on the end of the pipe he kept in his mouth like a pacifier. I’d never seen him without the pipe, and I’d never seen it lit.

  “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

  “Chronic and severe. But she’s being evasive about the stressor. I suspect she was raped by her adopted father.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if the stressor was a car accident or something she witnessed, she’d tell me about it. She became agitated and evasive when I asked her about her father.”

  “Is she a candidate for murder?”

  “Everybody’s a candidate under the right circumstances. Unfortunately, I don’t have a crystal ball.”

  “I don’t see how she could possibly have killed Tester,” I said. “For one thing, he was a 260-pound man. What does she weigh? 110? I just don’t see her being able to overpower a guy like that.”

  “His blood alcohol level was. 27, and he was drugged. A ten-year-old could have killed him.”

  “I know, but she just doesn’t feel like a murderer when I talk to her,” I said.

  “I look at her clinically,” Short said. “You look at her emotionally. Her beauty and vulnerability cloud your perspective.”

  “So you think she killed him?”

  “I didn’t say that, I’m just saying it’s possible. Some PTSD victims go into a dissociative state if the stressor is severe enough, and if it’s repeated. Let’s say her adopted father sexually abused her for years, which I suspect he did. She runs away. Then she finds herself being sexually abused by this Tester man. It’s possible she could have had sort of an out-of-body experience and killed him. It would also explain the extraordinary number of stab wounds and the mutilation.”

  “Would she remember it?”

  “It’d be like a dream, but she’d remember it.”

  “Would she be responsible for her conduct, legally, if that’s what happened?”

  “Probably not. I think I’d be able to testify that under those circumstances she would not be responsible for her conduct. At that point, she wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference between right and wrong.”

  “The problem is that in order for us to assert that defense, she’d have to admit she killed him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She says she didn’t kill him.”

  “I know.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “She didn’t tell me she did it, so as far as I’m concerned, she didn’t do it. Everything I’ve told you is purely theoretical.”

  “Have you made notes on all of this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Shred them.”

  Since I had Tom’s attention, which was sometimes hard to get, I decided to ask him about Junior Tester. I described to him in detail everything that had happened between us, including the look of torment and hatred on Junior’s face the night I went to his house.

  “Was it a mistake?” I said.

  “Actually,” Tom said, “going down there wasn’t as bad an idea as you might think. You may have showed him there could be serious consequences to his actions. Maybe you shocked him back into reality, at least for a little while. Have you seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “You must have frightened him.”

  “He didn’t look scared. Do you think I’ll see him again?”

  “Can’t say for sure.”

  “Is it likely?”

  “I’d say it depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how you portray his father in the courtroom if you go to trial. You might want to give that some serious consideration.”

  June 25

  4:00 p.m.

  After the meetings with Diane and Tom, I was both confused and concerned. I decided it was time to go have a serious conversation with my client. I wanted to discuss some of the more incriminating evidence with her, but more important, I needed to see how well Angel would hold up under cross-examination. If I could catch her in a lie, so could the district attorney.

  She wasn’t shackled or handcuffed when the guards escorted her into the interview room — apparently she was no longer considered a security risk. I’d asked her what she wanted me to call her after I found out her real name. She said she wanted to be called Angel. Mary Ann, she said, was gone.

  “How are you holding up?” I said.

  “I’m okay. The guards are nice to me.”

  Each time I went to visit, I was struck by something different: the smoothness of her skin, the contours of her face, the fullness of her lips. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, a fact that made what I was about to do even more difficult.

  “There are a couple of things I need to ask you about, some things that are bothering me. I want you to tell me the truth.”

  A puzzled look came over her face, but she nodded.

  “First off, I need to know about your relationship with Julie Hayes.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you have any idea why she would tell the police that you and Erlene left the club right after Reverend Tester the night he was killed?”

  “What? Julie said that?”

  I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a copy of Julie’s statement, and set it down in front of Angel.

  “This is a copy of the statement she gave to the TBI. Read it for yourself.”

  Angel looked down at the statement for a few minutes, then back at me.

  “Why would she say something like that?” she said.

  “Good question. Why would she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you and Erlene leave the club right after Reverend Tester?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Julie says you did, and since she signed this statement, I’m sure she’ll testify at the trial. Is she mad at you about something?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is she mad at Erlene about something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was she jealous of the relationship between you and Erlene?”

  “She never said anything to me about it.”

  “Did you ever see Julie an
d Erlene argue or fight about anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did Erlene take you home that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of car was she driving?”

  She hesitated. “What?”

  “What kind of car was Erlene driving that night?”

  “I don’t know anything about cars.”

  “Do you know what a Corvette looks like?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Angel, it’s a sports car. Shiny and fast. It would have been red.”

  “I really don’t know anything about cars.”

  “Was Erlene driving the same car the next day?”

  She hesitated again and asked me to repeat the question.

  “Erlene took you home with her the night Reverend Tester was killed, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “She gave you a ride home in her car, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she have the same car the next day or a different car?”

  “I don’t know. The same car, I guess.” She looked upward when she answered. I thought she might be lying, so I stayed with the subject of the car.

  “Julie told the police Erlene was driving a red Corvette the night Tester was killed. She said Erlene got rid of it and was driving a different car the next day. Is that true?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I sighed. I wanted to believe her, but the vagueness of her answers wasn’t helping. I decided to press harder, so I raised my voice a notch and slammed my palm down on the table.

  “Is that what you’re going to tell the prosecutor when he asks you the same question on the witness stand? Are you going to say ‘I don’t think so?’ If that’s what you’re going to say, he’ll tear you apart. Now give me a straight answer! Was Erlene driving a different car the next day or not?”

  The sound of my hand on the table startled her, and I could tell the tone of my voice was beginning to unnerve her.

  “No. I think she was driving the same car.”

  “You think? You think she was driving the same car? That’s not good enough, Angel. That’s an evasive answer. Juries don’t like evasive answers.”

  “What should I say?”

  “How about the truth? This is just between you and me. If you tell me Erlene was driving a different car the next day, I’m not going to run out and tell the police, and I’m not going to tell Erlene that you told me.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs — the classic defensive position — and started rocking back and forth in her seat. She was obviously struggling with herself, trying to make some kind of decision.

  “Miss Erlene didn’t kill anybody,” she said finally.

  “I didn’t say she did.”

  “That’s what you’re thinking. I can tell.” She was right. I was beginning to believe that Angel was protecting Erlene. If she was, it was a mistake that could cost her her life.

  “Julie says Erlene switched cars the day after Tester was murdered. Julie says you and Erlene left the club right after Tester left. Now either Julie’s lying, or you and Erlene are lying. If Julie’s lying, I need to know why. If you’re lying, I need to know why. Now, who’s lying?”

  “Julie’s lying.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then tell me about Erlene’s car. Did she switch cars the day after Tester was killed or not?”

  “No.”

  I was back to square one. Julie was lying and the only explanation I could offer a jury was that she was a drug addict, perhaps bitter, or perhaps jealous of the relationship between Erlene and Angel. I didn’t know whether a jury would buy it.

  “You can uncross your arms now.”

  “What?”

  “People cross their arms when they feel like they’re being threatened or attacked, Angel. It’s a sign of defensiveness, and I don’t want you to do it if you ever get up on a witness stand. Now tell me about the bruise on your face. The one the police took a picture of.”

  She hesitated again and unconsciously raised her fingers to her cheek. Her eyes began to blink quickly.

  “I got hit by a door,” she said.

  “When?”

  “The day after, I think.”

  “Where?”

  “At the club. I was about to walk through the door and someone opened it from the other side. It hit me in the face.”

  “Erlene told me you didn’t go back to the club after Tester was killed.”

  “Oh, right, well, it must have been the day before, then.”

  “The same day Tester was killed?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Who was on the other side of the door?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You don’t remember who hit you with a door so hard it put a bruise on your face?”

  “It was Heather. I remember now.”

  Small beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead, and I decided to ease off. I wondered whether Heather would confirm that Angel had run into a door, and I made a note to have Diane Frye speak with her. Angel had self-consciously unfolded her arms and placed her hands on the table. I noticed they were discolored — not severely, but they were both slightly pale to about an inch above her wrist. I remembered Erlene telling me to ask Angel about her hands. Very gently, I touched one of them.

  “Did something happen here?” I said.

  “I burned them when I was little.” The words were flat, monotone, and the expression on her face went completely blank.

  “How?”

  “I was making oatmeal for my brothers and sisters.” She paused for a long moment. “And I…I dropped the spoon into the pot…by accident.” She paused again.

  “And?” I said.

  “Mother Betty. She pushed my hands down into the oatmeal and made me get the spoon out.”

  “And your hands look like that from the burns?”

  She nodded.

  “How old were you?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe five. Or six.”

  I shuddered. She’d described the event as if she were describing a walk down an empty hall in a burned out building. She’d become distant, disconnected, as though she’d suddenly been unplugged.

  “What about your adopted father? Did he do bad things to you too?”

  Another nod.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Tears were forming in her eyes. She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t have to.

  “Did it happen a lot?”

  She nodded again as a tear slid down her cheek.

  “Angel, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She started to speak but stopped herself. I suddenly realized I was in a tug of war, and Angel was the rope. Someone else was pulling on the other end, and I suspected it was Erlene. She broke into tears and stood up, leaning against the table. Her shoulders began to shudder and her lips were quivering. The intensity of the sobs increased with each passing second, and before I knew it, she was hysterical.

  “Please,” I said when she paused for breath after a high-pitched wail, “try to stay calm, Angel. All I want is the truth.”

  She gave me a look that told me I’d gone too far and gathered her breath.

  “ Why won’t you believe me? ” she shrieked. “I told you I didn’t kill him! Why are you asking me all these questions? I thought you were on my side! I thought you were my friend!”

  She turned and started to pound on the door with her fist.

  “Wait, please. Please calm down, Angel. I am on your side.” I got up from the table and reached out to touch her arm.

  “Don’t touch me! Stay away from me!”

  The door opened and she nearly fell into one of the two guards’ arms. I started out the door toward her, but the second guard stuck his finger in my chest.

  “Step back,” he said. He meant it, he was armed, and I ha
d a feeling he would do anything to protect this particular prisoner.

  I raised my hands and stepped backward into the interview room as he slammed the door in my face.

  June 28

  1:30 p.m.

  Ronnie came into the back office on Saturday afternoon while Erlene was catching up on her paperwork. She could see right away that something was bothering him. Ronnie had this cute little cleft in his chin, and when he was upset he set his mouth a certain way and the sides of the cleft swelled up like little knots on a birch branch. The cleft reminded Erlene of Gus, which was only natural since Ronnie was Gus’s nephew. He wasn’t as handsome as Gus, but he was still a looker, tall and well built, with dark blond hair and sky blue eyes. Erlene just wished he didn’t have those icky tattoos all over him. They came out of his shirt up his neck and ran clear down his arms to his hands. They made him look like a thug.

  “What’s the matter, sugar?” Erlene said. “You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

  “They shorted us again.”

  Erlene cursed under her breath. She hated that he was bringing up such unpleasantness, especially after the visit she’d had with her sweet Angel down at the jail. Angel was as torn up as Erlene had ever seen her, poor thing. She said Mr. Dillard had come down and asked her all sorts of embarrassing questions. She even asked Erlene if she thought they needed a different lawyer, but Erlene set her straight real quick on that. Mr. Dillard was exactly what they needed. Erlene talked to Angel for as long as they let her stay, and by the time she left, she could tell Angel was feeling a whole lot better. Erlene even managed to make her smile a couple of times. But she still felt so bad for Angel. She’d already been through so much. It hurt Erlene’s heart to see her suffer more.

  “How much did they short us?” Erlene said to Ronnie.