Justice Delayed

by Patricia Bradley

  “A little?” Her friend laughed and set the wooden angel down.

  Pain pinched Andi’s shoulder and she flexed it. “I have an appointment with the producer this morning to talk to him about a couple of things.”

  “Have you decided what story we’re going to work on for our cold case documentary?”

  “I’m rolling one around in my head. Do you have any preference?” She wasn’t quite ready to tell anyone, not even Treece, that she wanted to do a story on Stephanie’s murder.

  “No, you’re good at coming up with the ideas.” Her friend handed her a ponytail band. “Would you . . .” She gestured to her long hair. “I can’t do anything with my left hand.”

  Andi jumped up. “Sure.”

  She smoothed her friend’s curly black hair with her hand. “Do you want it all in the band? Or maybe a strand or two framing—”

  “All of it. I’m too old to be in a beauty contest.”

  “You’re only thirty-two,” Andi retorted.

  “Which is ten years too old. Besides, been there, done that.”

  With her classic looks and creamy brown skin, Treece could still give those young contestants a run for their money.

  “Will seems quiet lately,” Treece said.

  “Yeah.” Andi twisted the band around her friend’s hair, then picked up Tuesday’s edition of the newspaper and slipped it out of the sleeve. “He’s stressed about Jimmy’s execution.”

  She turned to the second page and pointed to the story she’d read in Will’s car Tuesday night. “It’s set for Sunday night at eleven fifty-nine.”

  “How do you feel about that? We never got a chance to talk about what you learned at the prison.”

  Andi stared at the newspaper. “I don’t think Jimmy killed Stephanie.”

  Will looked away from his computer screen and shrugged his shoulders to work out the kinks. He’d arrived at his desk at seven and spent the last hour and a half running down phone numbers for the list of people Jimmy had given him.

  The last hour he’d concentrated on Jillian Bennett, but now that he’d obtained her married name from the alumni office at the university, he was searching Facebook for Jillian Knight. If he didn’t find something this time, he’d give up the search and move on.

  A list of accounts popped up, and he scanned the page for a mention of Dickson, Tennessee. That was the last address the alumni office had for her. They’d given him a phone number, but it had been disconnected.

  None of the names on the page fit the profile. He clicked See More and other Jillian Knights appeared. Halfway down the page, Dickson popped up, and he clicked on the name. No photo, and no posts in three years. He checked for any photos she’d posted. No personal ones, but on the About tab, a list of her past jobs included flight attendant. Maybe he’d hit pay dirt.

  Leaning back in his chair, he took a deep breath and released it. Dickson was fifty miles from Nashville. It wouldn’t take long to run up there. Might even ask Andi to go with him.

  Andi. His heart warmed at the possibility of spending another whole day with her.

  A text dinged on his phone. His aunt. Call me.

  He started to ignore it. He did not want to talk to his mother, and that’s what his aunt wanted. But he knew she would keep texting him until he responded, so he dialed her number. “Good morning, Aunt Mae.”

  “Have you talked to your mother?”

  His shoulders drooped. “Not yet. I’m busy with Jimmy’s case.” Maybe that would divert her.

  “But she only wants five minutes of your time.”

  “You should know better than anyone I don’t have five minutes. After today, there’s only three days—”

  “I know how long it is, but your mother is important too. And five minutes won’t make any difference with the case.”

  “Did her last husband boot her out?”

  “Will, that’s unkind. You need to forgive her, and not just for her sake, but your own.”

  For as long as he could remember, the only time his mom came around was when she had nowhere else to go. Forgiving her wasn’t on his to-do list for today. Or tomorrow. But he needed to get his aunt off his back. “I’ll try to call her when I get home tonight.”

  “Good. Any new evidence on the case?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know if there is.”

  After he disconnected, he stared at the phone a minute. How much does she want this time? Then he shook his head. He didn’t have time to waste thinking about Cass. He had a case to work on. He walked down the hall and around the corner to Brad’s office.

  “Can I get an update on the Lacey Wilson case? And have you pulled the files from eighteen years ago?” He just couldn’t make himself ask if Brad had his sister’s murder case files.

  Tight-lipped, Brad paused writing and nodded to the box on his desk. “Nothing new on the Wilson case. And there’s no connection between these two cases, other than Lacey and Stephanie’s friendship eighteen years ago.”

  When he’d told Brad about Lacey’s letter to Jimmy, Will danced around the rift these two cases had brought to their friendship. But no more. Will planted his feet wide. “Let’s talk about the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your sister’s murder and my cousin’s involvement. And the fact that if this involved any case other than Stephanie’s, you would have already made the connection.”

  “I’m telling you there is no connection. We don’t know that Lacey Wilson didn’t commit suicide.”

  Will braced his hands on the desk. “I think you should turn the case over to someone else.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “You can’t look at it objectively. You’re reshaping the puzzle pieces to make them fit.”

  “And that’s not what you’re doing?”

  “No.” Will rubbed his forehead. “I’d think that you of all people would want to make sure the right person pays for your sister’s death.”

  “I believe Jimmy did it.”

  “I don’t. I looked up the newspaper articles written about the case. He wouldn’t even be on death row if it hadn’t been the new DA’s first case, and if he hadn’t been trying to make a name for himself. He pursued the death penalty because it made him look good.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that your cousin confessed,” Brad said through tight lips. Suddenly he rolled his chair back and lifted his hand. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. You can’t help it if Jimmy is your cousin.”

  “His attorney said the confession was coerced.” Will took a step back. He didn’t have time for this argument. “It’s irrelevant that Jimmy is my cousin. I believe an innocent man was convicted, and I’m doing everything in my power to make sure an innocent man doesn’t die Sunday night.” He crossed his arms. “And the two cases are connected.”

  “You’ve made that plain,” Brad said. “What about the trial and evidence that backed up Jimmy’s confession that he killed Steph? He was convicted and given the maximum penalty.”

  “You don’t have any doubts?”

  “No. He never recanted the confession.”

  “He didn’t take the stand because he didn’t remember what happened.”

  “So he says now.” Brad leaned forward. “It wasn’t your sister who was killed. If the case gets reopened, I have to rip the skin off my scar, and not just mine, but the whole family’s. I haven’t even told Mom and Dad about any of this. I’m not sure they can go through it again.”

  “You’re not giving your parents enough credit. They wouldn’t want the wrong person to be punished for their daughter’s death.”

  “I know, and I don’t either,” Brad said. “But I haven’t seen enough evidence to change my mind. There’s no hard proof there ever was a letter.”

  “So, you’re saying if I find a letter, you’ll come on board?”

  His friend’s shoulders lowered. “Depends. Wilson was bipolar
and depressed. She could have written anything. Now, if evidence surfaces that she was murdered . . . I might change my mind. But given what we know at this point, she most likely committed suicide.”

  “Has the medical examiner given his ruling?”

  “Not yet, but I expect it today.”

  Will didn’t believe it was a suicide, but he wasn’t sure there was enough evidence to prove it was murder, either. He picked up the box with Stephanie’s case in it. “Did you look at the files in here?”

  “Scanned them.” He pressed his lips together. “I talked to Andi this morning. We’re going to tell our folks tomorrow night at dinner that the case might be reopened.”

  Might? Will almost bit his tongue to keep from saying something he’d regret. Brad paper clipped the papers he’d been working on and slid them in a folder, then turned and opened another folder.

  Will took the hint. “If I find anything I think you might want to see, I’ll let you know.”

  11

  ANDI ENTERED ANOTHER NAME INTO HER LAPTOP. She had time to check out one more guard before she had to dress for her eleven o’clock appointment with the producer. Treece’s knock drew her away from the computer screen.

  “It’s open,” she called, and Treece opened the door and came in. Andi’s conscience pinched again when she saw the sling.

  “How about a cup of your own coffee?” she asked, nodding toward the coffeemaker. She’d borrowed enough coffee from her friend until she could get to the store.

  Treece wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you—looks like it can float a spoon and smells even stronger.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to work today?”

  “What, you don’t think grunge will look good on camera?” She hopped up and dragged the barstool over to the table for Treece to sit on.

  “Hardly. What are you doing? I thought you had an appointment.”

  “It’s at eleven,” Andi said and checked her watch. It couldn’t be after nine. She’d have to hurry if she was going to see Maggie Starr before her appointment. She typed one last name in the search engine. Larry Ray Johnson. “I’m researching the corrections officers at Riverbend.”

  “So you do believe Jimmy Shelton?”

  “One minute I do and the next I’m not sure.”

  She glanced up from the computer. Treece pinned Andi with the spit-it-out look she got when she thought Andi was evading a question. She took a deep breath and released it. “It’s that confession he made. I’m having trouble getting past it. That said, I do have enough doubt about it to investigate.”

  “Good. If it’d involved anyone but your sister, I think you would have come to that conclusion earlier. It’s going to be hard opening up those wounds again.”

  Treece was right on both counts. “I hate to think about telling Mom and Dad.”

  “They’ll want to know the truth.”

  “I know.” Andi pushed a sheet of paper toward Treece. “Here’s a list of people we’ll want to interview for the last segment of the documentary on runaways.”

  Treece reached for the paper. “That’d be something, you know. Especially if we broke the case—man spends seventeen years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Andi clicked on a link. “Should bring a lot of attention to the station . . . and us.” She shifted her gaze to Treece and caught her surveying the living room. “What?”

  “We have to do something in here, spread a little of your personality around. What are you doing Saturday? I noticed a big sale at Decorate & More.”

  “Maybe.” She surveyed the room, warming to the idea. There wasn’t much that said “This is Andi Hollister.” At least she hoped she wasn’t as bland as the apartment. “How would you decorate this room to reflect me?”

  Treece laughed. “Lots of red. Maybe a picture of a bull charging a matador.”

  “No. Seriously.”

  “I’d still stick with reds, maybe some other bold colors.” She walked to the mantel and picked up an unfired sculpture of a prancing horse that had darkened with age. “Maybe odd-shaped pottery to replace this.”

  “That stays,” Andi said. She fought a sudden rush of emotion. The horse sculpture held a special place in her heart. “Stephanie was working on it when . . .”

  Her computer dinged, and she turned to the screen, blinking back tears. She didn’t know why she’d gotten so emotional lately. A prescription bottle with two pills in it sat on the table beside the computer. She shook them out and downed them with a gulp of water. They helped with all kinds of pain. She looked up into Treece’s disapproving eyes. “Don’t say anything. You don’t know what it’s like to hurt all the time.”

  “I thought you’d changed to ibuprofen.”

  “The pain is worse this morning.”

  “Really?” Treece raised her eyebrows. “On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level?”

  Andi hesitated. “Sixish.”

  “Less than where mine is, and I haven’t taken anything that strong,” Treece said. “You need to get off of those things.”

  Andi squared her shoulders. “I know what I’m doing. Without them, I couldn’t stand on my feet all day. So give it a rest.”

  She squirmed under her friend’s stare.

  “I’ll trust you on that. For now. Have you heard from the hospital about how Chloe is?”

  “I called earlier, and they said she was awake and talking to them. I plan to go by there sometime today.” Andi frowned at her screen and clicked on a link and scanned the article. “Come look at this.”

  Treece leaned over her shoulder as Andi read the headline from a Nashville online newspaper. “Riverbend prison corrections officer involved in near-fatal I-40 accident.”

  She picked up her cell phone and dialed Will’s number. When he answered, she asked, “Did you see where one of the guards from Riverbend almost died last night in a car wreck?”

  “No. Who was it and when did it happen?”

  “Larry Ray Johnson.” She scanned the article again. “Happened about eleven last night. If you go back to Nashville, I want to go with you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She knew what that meant. “We’ll see, my foot,” she muttered after he thanked her and hung up. Will Kincade better take her along if he wanted to continue receiving information from her.

  “Do you think the accident is significant to Jimmy’s case?” Treece asked.

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s worth checking out—someone at the prison stole Lacey Wilson’s letter.”

  Andi noticed the time again and caught her breath. If she didn’t leave in ten minutes, she wouldn’t have time to stop and see Maggie.

  She raced to her bedroom, throwing on clothes. A new prescription bottle sat on her dresser beside an ibuprofen bottle, and she quickly counted out sixteen pink tablets and dropped them in the ibuprofen bottle, leaving fourteen. She figured four a day would get her through to Monday morning.

  “By the way,” she said from the bedroom, “I’m going to talk to our producer about a story on Laura Delaney’s political race. If she wins, and I believe she will, Laura will be the first woman to serve in Congress from this district.”

  “And?” Treece asked as Andi came out of the bedroom. Then, she did a double take. “How do you get dressed so fast? Oh, never mind. You do everything fast.”

  “No need to waste time.”

  Treece laughed. “No one will ever accuse you of that. I don’t remember you being interested in covering a political campaign before. What’s the real reason you want to do a story on Laura Delaney?”

  “If Jimmy didn’t kill Stephanie, that means someone else did. Laura lived in the house with Stephanie eighteen years ago, and anyone who lived there falls in suspect territory, even Laura Delaney. I thought if I hung around her, I might learn something.”

  “That sounds more like you.”

  Andi gave her friend a grim smile.

  “Just don’t let the case become an obsession,” Tr
eece said. “And leave revenge out of it.”

  “I’m not looking for revenge,” Andi said, thinking of the years she’d spent hating Jimmy Shelton. “But I do want justice.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Will said as Andi hung up. He wished he’d had the information about the wreck when he’d been talking to Brad. Not that it would make any difference. He turned back to the files on Stephanie’s murder case.

  There hadn’t been as many as he’d hoped, and he shuffled through them again, searching for the investigating officer’s reports. He picked out the folder and opened it, looking for a name.

  George Barnes.

  Explained the slim case file. George Barnes had retired from the force not long after Will made detective. What he remembered most about him was his attitude of getting by with a minimum of work as he marked time until his retirement.

  On one case he worked with Barnes, Will suspected the detective planted evidence to “help” the case, but he’d never been able to prove it. The career criminal that Barnes may have framed denied having the cocaine that was found in his car. Even so, a jury found him guilty and put him away for ten years.

  Barnes probably never looked any further than Jimmy’s confession. Pain radiated from Will’s neck, and he massaged the knotted muscles in his shoulder. His cell phone rang, and he answered, barking his name.

  “Uh, Detective Kincade, this is Walter Simmons.”

  He winced. “Mr. Simmons, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to sound so abrupt. How can I help you?”

  “Did you hear about one of the COs at Riverbend being in an accident last night? Larry Ray Johnson.”

  “I heard,” Will said. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “No, just that he had a bad wreck on I-40 about twenty miles this side of Lexington, Tennessee. He’s the one I suspected of taking Jimmy’s letter, and—”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Simmons. I have someone I’d like to hear our conversation. Sergeant Hollister is working on another case that might be tied to this one, and I want to put you on speaker, if you don’t mind.” Just maybe this would be enough to change Brad’s opinion.

  “Fine with me.”