An Innocent Client jd-1

by Scott Pratt

  Baker flushed. It apparently hadn’t entered his feeble mind that Watterson might take his testimony to the defense attorney, and Landers obviously hadn’t said anything about our conversation at the courthouse.

  “That testimony has no credibility,” he said. “All the witness saw was a woman on a bridge in the middle of the night. He can’t make a positive ID and he wasn’t even sure about the color of the vehicle.”

  “You know as well as I do that if anyone from that club killed Tester, it was most likely Erlene Barlowe.” I felt a twinge of guilt as I said it. After all, Erlene had paid me a handsome sum of cash, but my job was to represent Angel. I couldn’t concern myself with Erlene.

  “I can’t prove that,” Baker said.

  “You can’t prove Angel killed him either.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Baker looked like he was ready to say “uncle.”

  “We’re willing to roll the dice at trial.”

  “What would it take to resolve this case without a trial? Make some kind of reasonable counter-offer.”

  This was the tricky part. If Angel was innocent, I wanted her to walk away without any strings, but the only way to do that was to win in front of a jury, and winning murder cases in front of juries was easier said than done. I also knew Deacon. Like most prosecutors, he wasn’t going to admit that he’d made a mistake and dismiss the case outright. I knew I’d have to give him something in order to make a deal and remove the risk that Angel might be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison or death.

  “She might be willing to enter a no contest plea to some offense so long as you agree to probation,” I said. “She’s already served more jail time than she should have.”

  “You don’t really think she’s innocent, do you?” Frankie said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. She has no history of criminal behavior, no drug or alcohol use, no history of psychological problems” — a white lie — “and she seems very gentle. I don’t think she did it. And I’ll tell you something else. She’s going to be a strong witness. You know how pretty she is, and she comes across as sincere.”

  “Probation is impossible,” Baker said. “I can’t reduce a death penalty case to a probatable offense. I’d look like a fool.”

  “You can sell it, Deacon,” I said. “Think about it. You announce to the court that an important witness has passed away and that the investigation has revealed some things you can’t divulge, but those things convince you that the plea agreement best serves the interests of justice. You tell the press your job as district attorney is to see that justice is done, not just to try to win at all costs. Then you build a case on Erlene Barlowe and get it right. You could come out of it looking like a hero, and believe me, you won’t hear a bit of criticism out of me. I’ll tell the press the district attorney has done the right thing and that you acted in good faith throughout the entire course of this tragic situation. I’ll publicly sing your praises a couple of weeks before the election.”

  Baker sat back and removed the cigar from his lips. He looked at Martin, then at me. A crooked smile began to form on his lips.

  “You’re devious,” he said.

  “I’m just trying to grease the wheel,” I said. “Win-win. My girl goes home, and you look like a good guy. We’ll take three years of probation on aggravated assault. You’ll have her under your thumb for three years. If she screws up, she serves the sentence.”

  “I have to think about it,” Baker said.

  “What are you going to do about Tester’s son?” I said.

  “I’m not going to do anything. From what I hear, he got fired from his job at the sheriff’s department. Besides, he’s not a registered voter in this county. I’m not even going to tell him about this.”

  I stood to leave. “I don’t want to sound arrogant, Deacon, but if you take this to trial, you’re going to lose. She didn’t kill him.”

  Baker was silent, apparently lost in thought.

  “We’ll see about that,” Martin said.

  “Call me and let me know what you decide,” I said. “I’ll be getting ready for trial.”

  The call came two hours later.

  “She can plead to aggravated assault as Range I and take the minimum, three years,” Frankie Martin said.

  “It will have to be a no contest plea, and you’ll have to agree to probation,” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “Deacon is going to sell it?”

  “He’s already working the phones,” Martin said. “He’ll hold a press conference after the plea and explain why we agreed to this.”

  I hung up the phone and went down to talk to my client.

  July 14

  9:00 a.m.

  As Judge Green made his entrance and sat down beneath the portrait of the dead judge, I glanced around the courtroom. The jury box was once again filled with members of the media who’d been called by Deacon Baker. I was edgy and tired. I’d spent most of Sunday night troubled by Angel’s willingness to take this deal. I told myself that the plea took nearly all of the risk off the table, guaranteed her release from custody, and spared her the ordeal of a trial. But I also knew that if I’d been accused of a crime I hadn’t committed, nothing would persuade me to stand up and accept a three-year sentence, probation or no probation. Angel hadn’t needed much persuasion.

  “I understand we have a plea in case number 35666, State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian,” Judge Green said. “Bring the defendant in.”

  Angel appeared through the doorway to my right, and I smiled at her as I walked to the podium. She looked away. I thought she’d forgiven me for being so hard on her the day I questioned her about Erlene, but maybe not.

  “Let me see the forms,” Judge Green said.

  I’d taken plea-agreement forms along with me when I explained the deal to Angel and she’d signed them. I now handed them to the bailiff, who in turn handed them to Judge Green. The judge didn’t allow lawyers to approach the bench to hand him forms or other evidence. He insisted that everything be passed forward through the bailiff, as though he was repulsed by the idea of having to deal directly with a lowly lawyer.

  Judge Green studied the documents for a few minutes. His brow furrowed. When he was finished, he looked over at Frankie Martin and Deacon Baker, both of whom were staring straight ahead.

  “Would you care to explain this to me, Mr. Baker?”

  “Explain what, your honor?”

  “The state is reducing a first-degree murder charge to an aggravated assault. You’re agreeing to probation. Did your victim somehow miraculously come back to life?”

  “No, your honor. He’s still dead.” The reporters laughed. I thought about Junior Tester, and for a moment, I actually felt sorry for him.

  “Then why are you allowing this woman to plead as though the victim were still alive?” Green said.

  “I think it’s clear we have some problems with the case, your honor. This is a compromise plea agreement. An important witness has passed away. There are also some things that have come up in the investigation, things I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time, that convince me that this plea agreement is in everyone’s best interests.”

  “Why don’t you just dismiss the case?” Judge Green said. “You can always re-file it if another witness pops up or if your other problems are resolved. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “We think this is a better way to resolve it. Mr. Dillard’s client is willing to enter a no contest plea to aggravated assault.”

  “No, I’m not.” The soft voice came directly from my right.

  Judge Green turned his attention to me.

  “Did your client say something, Mr. Dillard?”

  “I think so.” I looked at Angel. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t want to do this. I changed my mind.”

  Baker stood. “But we had a deal-”

  “Be quiet,” Judge Green said. “Mr. Dillard, what’s going on?”


  “I’d be happy to explain it if I knew,” I said. “When I spoke to Ms. Christian on Friday afternoon, she seemed pleased. She’s apparently changed her mind.”

  “You’re wasting my time,” the judge said. “I don’t like it when people waste my time.”

  “This is a complete surprise,” I said. “If you’ll give me a few minutes to talk to her, maybe we can straighten this out.”

  “Don’t bother,” Judge Green said.

  “Your honor,” Baker said, “Mr. Dillard and I reached a compromise agreement that brings what I believe to be a fair and satisfactory end to this very difficult case.”

  “It sounds like Mr. Dillard’s client has other ideas.”

  “But she signed the forms,” Deacon said. “She- ”

  “It’s not a contract, Mr. Baker. She can change her mind if she wants to. Her plea has to be willing and voluntary, and she obviously is no longer willing. I might have rejected it anyway, but it appears she’s saved me the trouble. Looks like we’re going to trial after all, gentlemen. Court’s in recess.”

  Green was almost jaunty as he stepped off the bench. He had to know that Deacon wouldn’t have made such a lousy deal if his case was strong, and if Deacon’s case wasn’t strong, that meant he might lose just before the election. If he lost the case, he’d probably lose the election, and Judge Green would be rid of him.

  I went back to the jury room and asked the bailiff to give Angel and me some privacy. She sat down at the table and wouldn’t look at me.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “I thought you were happy with this.”

  “I changed my mind,” she said.

  “Have you talked to Erlene?” She didn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes. So Erlene told you not to take this plea?”

  “She thinks you’re going to win.”

  “I appreciate the confidence, but you’re taking a big risk.”

  “You will win, won’t you? I’m innocent. Promise me you’ll win.”

  I didn’t say anything. I wished I could promise, but I’d been through enough trials to know that I could never predict the outcome.

  “We go to trial two weeks from today,” I said. “I’ll be ready. I’ll come to the jail and we’ll go over everything again. Are you sure about this?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  I had to admire her courage, even though I thought it might be a bit on the reckless side. But what was more important was that I’d heard the magic words again: “I’m innocent.” Once again, I believed her.

  July 14

  11:45 a.m.

  Landers quickly found out what Frankie Martin had meant when he said he and Deacon would need Landers’s help if Dillard didn’t accept the “offer he can’t refuse.” Less than an hour after the plea bargain fell apart, Deacon had called Landers and asked him to come down to the D.A.’s office. When Landers walked into Deacon’s office and sat down, they told him they’d decided to go to Plan B, which was to try to get Dillard’s sister to help them by snitching on Angel.

  “I thought of that a month ago,” Landers said. “I already took a run at her. She turned me down, but I was planning to go back. Her attitude might be different now that Judge Glass threw the book at her.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Baker said. He’d thought of approaching Dillard’s sister as soon as he heard about the six-year sentence. “Have they shipped her off to the penitentiary yet?”

  “Nah. It’s so crowded they don’t have a bed for her yet. She’s on a waiting list. The jail administrator told me she’d probably be around another month or so.”

  “I don’t like using jailhouse snitches, but in this case, it looks like we don’t have much choice,” Baker said. “All the polls my people have taken say the election is going to be close. I can’t afford to lose this trial.”

  “What if she won’t go for it?”

  “She’ll go for it. We’ll offer to let her out as soon as the trial’s over.”

  “What about Judge Green? He’ll never agree.”

  “I’ll go around him. I’ll get Judge Glass to sign the agreement. He’s the one who put her in jail, he hates Dillard, and he despises Judge Green. He’d love the idea of Dillard’s sister getting on the stand and frying one of Dillard’s clients. He’ll probably come to court and watch.”

  Landers smiled. “Not bad,” he said.

  “I didn’t get elected to this position by being stupid.”

  Landers thought of a couple of sarcastic responses to the comment, but chose to keep his mouth shut. He rose to leave.

  “Wait just a second, Phil,” Baker said. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

  Baker didn’t come right out and say it, but over the next few minutes, he made it clear to Landers that he didn’t care whether Dillard’s sister told the truth in court or not. He said he needed “direct testimony that Angel Christian confessed to Sarah Dillard that Angel killed John Paul Tester.” Landers was authorized to offer Sarah a get-out-of-jail free card in return for her “truthful” testimony.

  The more Landers thought about the idea of Dillard’s sister as the star witness against Dillard’s client, the more he liked it. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Dillard’s face when his sister stepped up on the witness stand and helped the state convict Angel Christian of murder. And Dillard would have to go after her hard on cross-examination. What a show that would be.

  Since Baker gave Landers the impression he wasn’t going to be too particular about the truth, Landers figured he’d make the process a little easier. Before they brought Dillard’s sister into the interview room at the jail, he sat down and wrote out a statement, wording it the way Landers thought would help the most. If Sarah Dillard signed the statement, Landers would leave her a copy and she could use her time in the cell to memorize it. Then, when she took the witness stand at the trial, all she’d have to do was repeat what she’d memorized. It would be perfect.

  Landers looked up and smiled when the guard brought Sarah in. She nodded in return, a good sign. She looked pretty hot.

  “I thought it might be you,” she said.

  “I hear you’re about to be shipped off to the pen. Bet you’re looking forward to that.”

  “About as much as I’m looking forward to my next mammogram.”

  “I heard what your brother did to you. It’s a shame, a pity. I don’t see how anybody could send their own flesh and blood to a place like the women’s prison in Nashville. Doesn’t he know how bad it is down there?”

  “He doesn’t seem to care.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Angry.”

  “Angry enough to help us?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “In exchange for your testimony, your sentence will be reduced to time served, plus you get to make your brother look bad.”

  She sat back and thought about it, but it didn’t take her long. She took a deep breath and looked Landers in the eye.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” she said.

  Landers slid the statement across the table, and she started to read.

  July 16

  9:20 a.m.

  Maynard Bush’s arraignment on the new charges of killing Bonnie Tate and the Bowers twins in Mountain City had taken only fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen of the most intense minutes of my life. The courtroom was packed with relatives and friends of Darren and David Bowers. Judge Glass was at his most belligerent, Maynard at his most flippant. He wouldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to crawl under the defense table and hide until it was over.

  The people of Johnson County didn’t understand that I’d been appointed to represent Maynard Bush by a heartless judge who dumped terrible cases on me for his private amusement. What they understood was that I was dressed in a suit, standing beside and speaking on behalf of a sociopath who’d killed two of their own. If they’d known that Maynard had manipulated me into helping him, they’d have strung me up right then and there. />
  I’d parked my truck a block from the courthouse in an alley. As soon as the arraignment was over, I grabbed my briefcase and headed straight for the back stairs. Once I got to the bottom, I jogged across the spot where David Bowers was shot, got to my truck as quickly as I could, and sped out of Johnson County.

  Judge Glass’s plan was to arraign Maynard in Mountain City in the morning and in Elizabethton — for the murder of his mother in Carter County — in the afternoon. The two towns were forty-five minutes apart. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve enjoyed the drive. The road wound through the Cherokee National Forest and along Watauga Lake, which acted as a gigantic mirror for the surrounding mountains. The views were breathtaking. There were times in the past when I might have stopped along the way to take in the scenery, but I didn’t even notice.

  I drove all the way back home and went through the mail. There was an opinion from the Supreme Court on Randall Finch’s case. The opinion said Randall had a right to plead guilty at arraignment, and if the state hadn’t bothered to file their death notice in a timely manner, too bad. I couldn’t believe it. I’d won. For once, they put the sophistry aside and used a little common sense. I was pleased until I thought about what I’d really done — helped a baby killer escape a penalty he deserved.

  I returned a few phone calls and drove over to Elizabethton. I tried to eat lunch at at a coffee shop on Main Street, but I only picked at the food. Ever since Maynard had killed the Bowers twins, I’d lost my appetite. Food made me nauseous. And I was having trouble making myself work out. Exercise had always been an important part of my daily life. Exercise produced endorphins, and endorphins made me feel good. But I didn’t seem to care about feeling good. I was having more trouble sleeping than ever, and when I looked at myself in the mirror in the mornings, I noticed circles under my eyes that seemed to be getting darker with each passing day.

  After I paid the check at the coffee shop, I headed for the Carter County Courthouse, a truly unique structure. I don’t know who the architect was, but the taxpayers should have taken him out and shot him the day he decided it would be a good idea to build the jail directly above the courthouse. It may have seemed like a grand idea at the time, but the reality soon set in. The inmates quickly realized that they could flood the jail by stuffing rolls of toilet paper into the commodes. They also realized that the raw sewage overflowing and spilling onto the floors soon seeped into the courtrooms and clerks’ offices below. I could imagine some inmate having just been sentenced to ten years heading back to his cell and dropping a little dung of his own onto the judge below. It happened often enough that the place smelled like an outhouse.