“Of course, while fearing for your safety, we had to reconnoiter and formulate a new plan of attack. As the localized activity accelerated, with first your captor and then your abductor popping in and out, we decided to act, whether precipitously or not.”
“Your timing was impeccable. As was your valor, your skill, and your luck. An outstanding operation, men.” I still sat wedged into the comer in the wooden chair.
Blaine Demarcos’s face turned shades of dark red tinged with purple as his captor’s chest swelled with pride and the deadlock tightened.
“Perhaps, sir, you could let Dr. Demarcos have a breath there,” I said.
Demarcos gulped air, but that was the only freedom his guardian would allow.
I’d left my cell phone in the car, so I chose the most public route to the lobby and a pay phone. My guys were a valiant lot, but likely no match for some thug from Atlanta or the two thugs from the swamp or whoever else might lurk about the fringes of this peculiar operation. I regretted that no local news team happened to be cruising the hospital as we emerged onto the side street and marched around the comer to the front entrance of the hospital. That footage would’ve made the evening news for sure—maybe even wider coverage than Mom at the Burger Hut.
Not one soul acted as though they even noticed us. Not one person acted as though a parade led by a man wearing an upturned horn of plenty and brought up in the rear by a gun-wielding lady lawyer was the least bit extraordinary.
Within minutes of my call, cop cars jammed the circular drive at the hospital entrance. They drew a bit more notice than our parade had, even though sirens and flashing lights aren’t anomalies around a busy hospital.
Just to make sure the story drew the kind of attention I knew it deserved, I called the area TV stations and local paper as soon as I got off the phone with Cas Kirkland. The first news crew arrived in time for some footage of the two prominent physicians being driven off to the station to be booked. Shots of the officers putting a hand on each head to keep them from banging the door frame would be particularly nice. Rob—the hom-of-plenty man—was well-spoken on camera. He’d probably been a sales gum in another life.
“Don’t suppose,” Cas said, appearing beside me as I finished my last phone call, “it ever occurred to you to drop a dime for me. You know, fill me in. Bring me up to speed.”
“Believe me, if I could have called you instead of Rob and the gang, I would have.” If I’d known the extent of Demarcos’s involvement, I’d certainly never have wandered into his office.
He loomed, his hand on the wall beside the telephone and his armpit at my eye level. “Regardless of what you might think, Miss Hotshot, we’ve been busy, too—with a tip and a court order for Blaine Demarcos’s cellular phone records. We found two calls made to one Hemp Simpson, a convicted felon we picked up on a probation violation. He kept his mouth shut; we couldn’t get him to tell us what time showed on his watch dial. But his cousin sang like a canary. A word of advice, Avery. Don’t have dumb friends. It’s worse than being dumb yourself.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Both those cell phone calls were made prior to a couple of traffic accidents—one off a marsh road on James Island, the other near Cooper Road in Mt. Pleasant.” He paused to make sure I was with him.
“The cousin tumbled to both of them. Said Hemp—the doofus with the cell phone—was the neck breaker who’s afraid of snakes. His cousin was your whiner. Of course, I’d like to try you on a voice lineup, see if you can ID them.”
I nodded. Knowing they’d found the two guys from the swamp somehow made all this nonsense more real. Knowing they had killed Mark Tilman made it intimately more frightening.
“The whole thing is odd, though,” Cas said. “Before, those two had been strictly small-time.”
“Demarcos dropped some hints. Something about a sister—probably Hemp’s—needing to be enrolled in a breast cancer study. Demarcos helped her get in, in exchange for a couple of little favors.”
“You gotta be kidding.” He stared down at me. “Damnedest payoff for a hit I’ve ever heard. Hemp mentioned his sister was in the hospital. She raised him, you know.”
“Demarcos took blackmail photos of Hemp with Tunisia’s body. To keep him in line down the road.”
“You going to tell me how you tumbled to this?” Cas and I stood at the far side of the lobby, away from the gentle but endless tide of people washing in and out of the front doors of the hospital.
“Stumbled is a more accurate description. Mark sending his research journal hinted that something was wrong. He was worried about Tunisia. Of course, she’d died before I first talked to Mark. Then Mark died that night.”
Cas graciously didn’t jump on me about not giving him the research notebook earlier, and I graciously didn’t point out he’d ignored me when I’d mentioned it. “The cousin who’s singing about what happened in the swamp is laying it all on Hemp, who’s keeping quiet. But it squares with what Dauber Dothan saw that night.”
I nodded, feeling sad. “The next link was Rabb & Company. They delayed signing a contract with Hilliard. Belatedly, what Tunisia’s grandmother said about her headaches and how puny she felt clicked with me. I thought Hilliard was in it alone.” Or that’s what I’d wanted to believe.
My stomach heaved, as if trying to chum off the unpleasant taste of truth. “Demarcos did a good job covering his tracks, shifting blame to Hilliard, and Howard was involved deeply enough that the blame was plausible. Demarcos stumbled when he admitted seeing Tunisia at her last appointment with Hilliard. Until then, I didn’t suspect him.” I guess that’s why psychologists warn about the halo effect: we really do endow handsome people with handsome characteristics.
Cas stared at me a moment, waiting to see if I’d gotten it all out. “Come on, counselor. I’ll take you to your car or wherever.”
Wherever was a thought. Where had I left my car? De-marcos’s office, across the street. I sure didn’t want to leave my Mustang there.
30
EARLY THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Jake’s voice through the phone sounded tired. “The jury’s coining back.”
“Not this soon?” I checked my watch. It was almost noon. Surely the jury hadn’t finished its deliberations this quickly. “They’ve probably got a question or want the court transcriber to reread a portion of testimony.”
“Who knows?”
That morning, I’d left the hospital and scooted into the courtroom soon after Jake had begun his closing argument. Jake was in top form and delivered a doozie. Passionate and to the point, he had woven the strands of evidence together into a narrative that could persuade a jury. I watched them, but like most juries this one remained inscrutable. Vendue’s closing had also been stylish and well-presented, though it lacked the fire and die dramatic drawl Jake had used so well.
I’d offered Jake a couple of points to emphasize on his rebuttal to Arthur Vendue’s closing—Jake had reserved part of the time allotted to his closing so he could have the final word before the jury retired to deliberate his clients’ fate.
I hurried back from my stroll down King Street. A few minutes after noon, I eased open the courtroom door and peeked through the crack. Folks were inside, but I couldn’t see whether the judge was on the bench. The door swung wider, pushing me back a step. Wendell, one of the bailiffs, motioned me inside with a grin. “We hadn’t got started yet. The jury’s fixing to come back.”
I padded quietly down the center aisle, struck again by how churchlike it was—hushed voices, subdued lighting, life and death. Jake nodded in my direction as I took a seat, but the judge entered behind the bench and his order to bring in the jury cut off any conversation.
Not much to say, at these times. You’ve done all you could do. No, that’s not true. There’s always more you could’ve done, given the time, the money, the brains. But now, all that’s left is waiting to see if you did enough.
I carefully watched each juror’s face as they
filed in. Not one looked in Jake’s direction, not one looked behind him, where the plaintiffs sat. Bad sign. Jurors always look at the plaintiffs, if they’re bringing them good news. They look at the ground or the defense table if they’re bringing in a defense verdict.
Jake’s back was rigid, his arms resting on the table as the judge went through the preliminaries.
“Madam Foreperson, do you have a verdict?”
“Yes, sir, we do.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes unreadable behind her glasses. She handed the paper to the clerk.
“The jury finds for the defendant, Perforce Pharmaceuticals.”
I didn’t hear anything else. All the “Is this your verdict?” questions, all the “Thank you for your service, this is what makes America great” speeches. Finds for the defendant. I used to love hearing those words. Now that meant we’d lost. I couldn’t bring myself to look around for Ada Jones.
Up until those words, I’d thought of this as Jake’s case. Now, suddenly, it felt personal. I had wanted to fight for Ada Jones. I’d wanted to humiliate Langley Hilliard. What must Jake be feeling? How much money had he sunk into this case?
If I’d unmasked Langley Hilliard sooner, would that have changed things? Doubtful. Would it have mattered to the jury that Perforce, through Rabb, was involved with yet another questionable drug, a drug that killed Tunisia? The tougher question: should it matter? Did Tunisia’s death and the problems with Tixtill, did any of that have anything to do with Uplift?
The objective part of me said no. Too many variables. But if they’d known about Tunisia, about the lies and the conflicts of interest, would they have blamed Perforce for what went wrong in Ray Vincent Wilma’s brain? Maybe not. Drugs help, drugs hurt. Sometimes drugs do nothing—or don’t do enough.
I still didn’t believe Uplift had made Ray Vincent crazy enough to kill people. He’d been crazy enough already. But Perforce cut comers, looked the other way when physicians fudged test results, manipulated test rosters to get the results they wanted—and that made me doubt everything they did.
If the jurors had known the whole story, would they have written a different ending? That’s what troubled me—should they have known?
It didn’t matter now. It was over. Luc was packing the laptop and files. Jake’s clients were sitting frozen in their seats, looking lost. The jury had filed out, the courtroom was mostly ours, a place of stunned mourning.
Jake wisely disappeared through the back door, going somewhere to collect his thoughts and lick his wounds in private for a while. He couldn’t offer any consolation at the moment. Lila took on that role. She whispered quietly, to first one group, then another, that Jake would talk to them in about half an hour, after the courtroom had emptied of others.
I wanted to throw up. Jake might enjoy knowing about Hilliard’s arrest, but I decided Lila could best decide the timing. I gave her a nutshell of the morning’s events and left.
The sunlight had faded behind thick clouds, leaving only wan winter light. Everyone else in Charleston’s lunch hour rush appeared surprisingly oblivious to what had just happened inside the fourth-floor courtroom.
My voice mail announced three new messages. The first call reminded me I was overdue for a dental appointment. The call after that was a real surprise.
“Avery Andrews. This is Rowly Edward, your friendly and accommodating’ Atlanta cabbie. Just tumbled across an inter-resting piece of news you might see in the papers in the next few days. Picked up an airport fare—fellow said he was in town doing a little legwork on a case against Rabb & Company for a big California plaintiff’s lawyer. About some new contraceptive they’re testing. He claimed their research was coercive and highly suspect, several women had gotten sick or died. He positively smacked his lips on the word ‘cover-up.’ They expect lots of media attention, he said, hot on the heels of those stories about how the government experimented on human guinea pigs. Thought you’d be inter-rested.”
I liked the idea of a high-profile California lawyer sharking the waters around Pendleton Rabb. What connection did that have with Howard’s contraceptive? Did Rabb have more than one in the works? I jotted a note to call Rowly later and fill him in, find out what else he’d picked up and how the country music or PI careers were going.
I wandered up Meeting Street and turned into Washington Park. It felt even gloomier under the trees, but I needed to sit and think. Maybe I ought to walk over to the Aquarium, watch the fish glide by. This jury hadn’t believed Uplift made Ray Vincent Wilma crazy. But a jury would have a much easier time believing Hilliard and De-marcos killed Tunisia. Even though the police held them on criminal charges, those might be mild compared to what Jake Baker could do to them in a malpractice suit. The money Jake could win would help Tabbi.
For the first time since the trial had begun, I felt optimistic. We’d have time to do a thorough investigation, see what Rabb knew and when, catch the company in the net, maybe collaborate with the California lawyer. Dear Lord, maybe I was turning into a plaintiff’s lawyer after all.
I scribbled a note to call Tunisia’s grandmother and fill her in on what had happened—or as much as would make her memories easier. I’d tell her to keep my phone number, just in case Tabbi ever needed anything. Maybe see how she felt about suing bad guys.
My phone buzzed and a reedy voice asked, “Is this Avery Andrews?”
“Yes, it is.” Who the heck was this with my cell phone number?
“This is William Wink. You aren’t in the Yeller Pages. I had to get your number from this guy. He said you could help me.”
He didn’t give me time to ask what guy.
“I hear you’re a lawyer, and I think a lady lawyer would be a good thing on this case. Can’t see any of these other Dacus fancy-pants taking this serious enough.”
Dacus. That narrowed it down, as if his upstate accent hadn’t been hint enough.
“You know Miller’s Dry Goods? On Main Street?”
“Yessir.” Everyone just called it Miller’s, but its old sign and old name now had a renewed cachet, as craft and “June” stores replaced the businesses moving out to strip centers.
“You know it’s supposed to be haunted?”
“Uh—no, sir. I’m not sure—”
“Just let me finish. I’m paying for the call, aren’t I? Jabe Miller opened that store after dubya-dubya-two, but it didn’t take off like he hoped it would. Folks had cars and gas by then, so they could drive other places, if need be, get better stuff and not pay three prices like Jabe charged. So Jabe hit on an idea to boost business. The old sumbitch started telling everybody his store was haunted. Big tales about spooky sightings and noise and things flyin’ around. ‘Course, folks aren’t stupid. They started askin’ Jabe who’d want to haunt his store, so he researched it,” pronounced as if it was a dirty word, “and come up with my daddy.”
Mr. Wink gave a dramatic pause, letting the revelation sink in. “Ever since, the sumbitch has been telling people my daddy’s hauntin’ his store.”
I’d grown up in Dacus, walked past Miller’s untold times. This was the first I’d heard of a ghost. What do you say to the irate son of a purported haint?
“I want it stopped. Now his son’s taken over. Apparently thinks all that rusty, dusty junk they’ve never been able to sell is now in fashion. They’ve added ice cream and a candy counter. His idiot son’s gone out and contacted Southern Living magazine and who knows who else to tell them the tale. Claims folks can get a whiff of my daddy’s pipe tobacco. Even had some kinda crackpot psychic come in and go all tithery at the manifestations. Bullshit. My daddy didn’t smoke a gahdam pipe and he ain’t manifestin’ nothing, and he sure as hell hadn’t decided to spend eternity entertaining tourists in Miller’s Dry Goods.”
He paused finally to catch a reedy breath. “I-want-it-stopped. You got any idea how that makes me feel, him touting that nonsense about my own daddy? My mother, God rest her, was mortified enough when ol’ Jabe started up on it. She had a come-to-J
esus meeting with him about it, and he toned it down. But Sonny Boy, having a word with him just got him wound up that much tighter. I-want-it-stopped.”
“That’s a very—interesting situation, Mr. Wink. What—um—would you like to do?”
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? I thought for sure you lawyers would have some useful something you could do. I-want-it-stopped.” His breath whistled over the phone line. Then his voice was quieter. “My daddy was a good and decent man. He deserves better than to be turned into a sideshow freak by the likes of Jabe Miller and his idiot son. I owe him that much before I pass on.”
I was turning possibilities over in my head. A dead person can’t have his character defamed. But what about false-light invasion of privacy? An interesting puzzle.
“Mr. Wink, I’ve never heard of a situation quite like yours, but just because I don’t know the solution right off the top of my head, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” My family had never done business at Miller’s. I bet Aunt Letha could give me a few reasons why. “Could we meet at Maylene’s tomorrow morning? Talk over some options?”
“Don’t know what good more talking will do. I-want-it-stopped. But sure, I can meet you. Seven not too early for you, is it?” He offered it as a challenge.
“No, sir. Seven would be great.” I’d have time to drive home, do a little research, mull on some things. I also needed to see Melvin, talk over where we stood with the office plans—or if there would be any office or any plans.
Mr. Wink said good-bye and I opened my last voice mail. The message began midsentence. “—used to talking to these things. I wish you were home more often. I worry about you out at such odd hours. I need to talk to you.” No mention of the Burger Hut. “Glad you’ll be home soon. Would you look over some paperwork? For a local group providing residential care for the mentally challenged. There is some neighborhood opposition. Well, actually, it’s Nellie Norris who’s opposed it most loudly. So naturally that means Aunt Letha is solidly behind it.”
DONE GONE WRONG Page 25