The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bailey

  “Whatever,” Laurie Ann said. “Sounded to me like you were calling her a whore.” She paused. “And hey, it worked, right? Ninety million dollars. Woo-hoo.” She let her eyes dart around the stairwell. “Seems like you guys could tidy up your digs a little with all that money. Maybe get an elevator, you think?” Without hesitation, she leaned down and petted Lee Roy behind his neck. Tom bent to stop her, but then the dog began wagging his tail.

  For a few seconds there was silence in the dimly lit stairwell as Tom watched the girl pet his dog. “What happened to your mother after the trial?” he finally asked.

  Laurie Ann snorted. “Her life went to hell in a handbasket. We were living in Tuscaloosa when Daddy died. After the accident, we moved to Boone’s Hill, Tennessee, and rented a house from Ms. Yost, one of my grandmother’s old friends. Momma had grown up in Boone’s Hill when she was a kid.” Laurie Ann sighed and took a seat on the top step, continuing to pet Lee Roy under his ears. “It wasn’t so bad at first. Momma took a waitressing gig at the Sands and Jackie and me . . .” She paused. “My sister’s name is Jackie. We started going to school at Ralph Askins Elementary, in Fayetteville, and we were doing OK. It was tough. We missed Daddy a lot. But we were making it. Then . . .” She stopped and looked up at him. “You know the rest, don’t you?”

  Tom shook his head. He didn’t. Once he had cross-examined Wilma Newton, he had barely thought of her again. Gazing down at the broken girl below him, he felt guilt wash over him.

  “Anyway, she started working at the Sundowners Club, that strip joint you crossed her about at trial. She was a dancer and began to do a few other things for money.” Her voice cracked. “She left us with Ms. Yost for almost a week when the case in Henshaw was tried. During that time, Ms. Yost turned us in to DHR.” She glared down at the wooden steps. “That woman told me that Momma was a prostitute and that we would be better off under the state’s protection. For the next five months, we lived at the Lincoln County child protective services facility, with its spotty air-conditioning, moldy floors, and bland, tasteless food. Finally, around Thanksgiving of 2010, Momma’s cousin Tawny said she’d take us in, and so we moved back with her to Tuscaloosa to live with her and her husband, Sam, in their double-wide trailer.” She looked up at Tom. “And Momma went to jail.”

  “Where was she incarcerated?” Tom asked. As pain again rippled down his back, Tom almost started to invite her in the office, but his instincts told him not to interrupt the flow of the conversation. Instead, he squatted and sat next to Laurie Ann on the steps. Lee Roy had placed his chin in the girl’s lap and she continued to rub his ears.

  “The Giles County Jail in Pulaski.”

  Tom thought about it. Since the Sundowners Club was in Giles County, that made sense. “Was there a trial?”

  Laurie Ann shook her head. “No, Momma just pled guilty. She didn’t even put up a fight. She said she couldn’t. That me and Jackie might be hurt if she tried to defend herself.”

  “Did she have a lawyer?”

  “No. She said she didn’t want one.” She paused and looked at Tom. “She said that lawyers had never done anything for her and that she would just take her medicine.”

  Tom gazed back at Laurie Ann Newton. He thought about the cattle call docket he’d attended in front of Judge Poe that morning. So many lawyers, most of whom had been taught by him, wearing their suits and carrying their briefcases and announcing to the court that their case wasn’t ready to be tried. All of them standing before a judge, also a student of Tom’s, who seemed intent on forcing litigants into unwanted settlements instead of doing his job. And here was this girl, all of fourteen years old, who, along with her mother and sister, could have desperately used some sound legal assistance during the nightmare they had endured the last two years, but the mother was so distrustful of lawyers and the system that she chose to go it alone. Do I blame her? Tom thought, feeling sick to his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. Then he added in a soft voice, “Why does your mother need an attorney now?”

  Laurie Ann smiled, but her eyes were sad. “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

  Tom cocked his head at her, not understanding. “No.”

  She sighed and rose to her feet, looking down at him. The smile was gone. “Jack Willistone was murdered two nights ago. The online article I read said his body was found on the banks of the Black Warrior.”

  Tom felt a cold chill run down his spine as he remembered the text he had received from Powell at Jackson’s ball game.

  I really need to talk with you about the suspect we have in custody.

  “Wilma . . . Newton is the suspect,” he said, almost to himself, as he glanced down at the steps, still not quite believing it.

  For several seconds, the only sound in the stairwell was Lee Roy’s panting. Then Laurie Ann cleared her throat and asked the question that Tom knew was coming.

  “Professor McMurtrie, will you please be Momma’s lawyer?”

  9

  The gun that killed Jack Willistone was a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson. It was more than twenty years old and, based on an investigation of the serial number, had last been purchased in a pawn shop in Fayetteville, Tennessee.

  The registered owner of the weapon was Wilma Christine Newton.

  The medical examiner had stated that the bullets found in the victim’s sternum were the type utilized by a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter, as were the shell casings found on Greg Zorn’s dock. She was still waiting on the ballistics report, but Ingrid had no doubts on what the conclusion would be. “This is the murder weapon,” she’d said, pointing at the gun through the clear plastic covering. “I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  Fingerprint analysis showed that the gun had three prints on the handle, all matching samples taken from Wilma Newton. There were no other prints on the weapon.

  Powell Conrad gazed down at the pistol held in an evidence bag at the end of the conference room table. Then he raised his head and looked through the plexiglass window at the suspect.

  Wilma Newton’s clothes had been taken for testing, so she now wore the orange jumpsuit of a Tuscaloosa County Jail inmate. She sat in a plastic chair and leaned her elbows on a small rectangular table made of faux wood. Two empty chairs sat across from her, which Powell and Wade had just abandoned after Wilma again said she wouldn’t talk with them. They were now standing side by side in the adjoining room, watching her through the glass partition.

  Finally, Wade cleared his throat and took a sip of black coffee from a tall Styrofoam cup. He spoke in a low drawl. “It’s almost been forty-eight hours, hoss. We need to fish or cut bait. We can’t hold her here forever.”

  Powell grunted, still gazing through the plexiglass. He had wanted to talk with the Professor before making the arrest, but despite several texts, his mentor had not called him back. He must have a good reason, Powell knew. Still, this would be his first high-profile case as district attorney and he wanted the benefit of the Professor’s advice.

  “Can you think of any reason not to charge her?” Powell asked, as much to himself as Wade.

  “No,” Wade said without hesitation. “I can’t. The murder weapon was registered to her, only has her prints, and was found underneath the dock where Willistone was murdered.”

  Powell turned from the window and began to walk alongside the table, where photographs of the weapon had been organized side by side. He shook his head and grunted.

  “Based on my investigation, no witness can provide her with an alibi for the time of the murder,” Wade continued. “And Willistone’s cell phone records show she was the last person to communicate with him.”

  “What about motive?” Powell asked.

  Wade turned from the window. “Revenge. Her husband was killed driving a Willistone truck. After his death, she moved to Boone’s Hill, Tennessee, became a stripper, and was convicted of prostitution. She lost custody of her girls and had moved back to Tuscaloosa after being released to be closer to them.” He pau
sed. “Add it all up and she blamed Willistone for ruining her life.”

  “That’s weak,” Powell said, continuing to look at the photographs, thinking it through. “She testified for Willistone in the trial. She was on his side. She said that Willistone treated his drivers well.”

  “I thought you said that was all a lie.” Wade pulled on his mustache. “Your first reaction at the river when hearing her name was that she fit for the crime, because you think Willistone either bought her off or blackmailed her during that trial.”

  “I know, and I do think that. But I can’t prove any of it in court. It’s too messy. Do we have anything else?”

  Wade shook his head. “Not right now, but I’m still digging.”

  “I want more.” Powell paused and then he snapped his fingers, remembering something else he’d wanted to ask. “Have there been any breaks at the Riverwalk?” As part of the investigation, Wade had sent a team of deputies to comb the four-mile walking trail that ran parallel to the Black Warrior, focusing special attention on the Park at Manderson Landing, which was directly across the water from Greg Zorn’s dock. Flyers had been strategically placed on trees and at the gazebo where the bathrooms were located asking for any information that anyone had about the murder.

  “We found a pair of panties.”

  Powell raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Women’s underwear,” Wade said. “Pink lace. Nice. We found them lying by one of the benches closest to the railing.”

  Powell couldn’t help but smile. “Now how do you figure that, Detective?”

  “Well . . .” He held out his arms. “Being the hardened crime solver I am, I’d say that a couple of coeds were likely engaged in sexual activity on one of these benches and maybe had to leave sooner than they wanted to leave. One of them forgot her underwear.”

  “You’re good, Richey. Someday you’re gonna make captain.”

  “Bite me,” Wade said, smoothing out his mustache and squinting at his friend from across the room. “Look, I’ll get more on motive and we’ll keep pressing the Riverwalk, but what’s the deal? I’ve seen you charge on a lot less than this and win. Outside of a signed confession, what more do we need, brother?”

  Powell grunted and watched Wilma, who had begun to rub her temples with her thumbs. “Jack Willistone had a lot of enemies. You said it at the river, and it’s true. You remember how we nabbed JimBone Wheeler, don’t you?” Powell glanced at Wade, who nodded.

  “Willistone,” Powell continued, gazing down at his shoes. “When me and the Professor interviewed Willistone at the St. Clair Correctional Facility, we obtained information that led us right to Wheeler.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but JimBone Wheeler is sitting on death row in Nashville. There’s no way on earth that he could’ve killed Jack Willistone on the Black Warrior River three nights ago.”

  Powell nodded. “Still, Jack had enemies, and JimBone was pretty resourceful. And what about Willistone’s family?”

  “What about them?”

  “Is his wife clean?”

  “As a whistle. Kathryn Willistone has an airtight alibi. Was out at Pepito’s with a couple of her girlfriends. Probably on her third margarita when Jack bought the farm.”

  “How much does she stand to gain from his death in life insurance?”

  “Three million dollars.”

  Powell whistled. “Then I’d say she has motive out the yin yang.”

  “She has an alibi and her fingerprints aren’t all over the murder weapon that’s registered to that lady in there, whose prints are on it.” Wade pointed at the window, his frustration palpable.

  “If she’s got an alibi, then what about her father?” Powell crossed his arms and glared at Wade. “What about Bully Calhoun, brother? Does he have an alibi? I’m sure you know who that is.”

  Wade crossed his arms as well, holding Powell’s eye. “I know Bully, and he’s as dirty as a pig in a pen. I don’t know whether Bully has an alibi or not. He wasn’t at the Willistone house when I interviewed Kathryn. He had already gone back to Jasper.”

  “But he had been up here, right? Wasn’t he the one who picked Jack up at the prison?”

  Wade held out his palms and finally smiled. “Look, I get it. Whoever represents Newton will have some avenues to explore, but the bottom line is that the gun that killed Jack Willistone belonged to that lady in there. Her prints are the only ones on it and she was the last person to talk with Jack. She’s guilty of his murder, and it’s time to charge.”

  With his arms still folded, Powell began to pace back and forth along the side of the table. After four trips, he stopped and put both hands on the plexiglass, looking again at Wilma Newton. “Alright,” Powell said. “Let’s charge her.”

  Wade gave a quick nod and headed for the door. “I’ll start drafting up the paperwork.” When he grabbed the knob, he looked over his shoulder. “According to his wife, Jack was supposed to have at least three hundred dollars in his wallet, and it was empty except for his license. His vehicle, which was parked in Zorn’s garage, was looted of everything in the glove compartment, and a briefcase that should have been in the back seat or the trunk has not been located. With robbery as a clear aggravator, are we going to—?”

  “Yes,” Powell interrupted, sighing and still gazing at the soon-to-be defendant. “We’ll have to seek the death penalty.”

  10

  Tom parked in the visitor’s section of the Tuscaloosa County Jail at ten o’clock in the morning. His eyes burned from lack of sleep and his back ached from working through most of the night, but he was alert and on edge. He had promised Laurie Ann Newton that he would talk to her mother. That was all he had promised, and he was going to follow through before he talked himself out of it.

  After Laurie Ann left the office—Tom offered her a lift home, but she said she already had a ride—he’d made a pot of coffee and tried to eat his drive-through meal. But the fix he was hoping for didn’t come; his talk with the young girl had caused him to lose his appetite. He fired up the computer and dug around on the internet for any articles on Wilma, but thus far the only news he’d found was that a suspect was in custody. The name had not been released. Tom then read over the stories regarding the death of Jack Willistone. His body was found on the banks of the Black Warrior River, and the presumed cause of death was a gunshot wound. Most of the articles dealt with Willistone’s rise to stardom as the largest trucking magnate in the Southeast and then his downfall after the trial in Henshaw two years earlier. Tom saw his own name mentioned several times as the lawyer who exposed Willistone’s crimes. There were also several references to the county’s new district attorney, Powell Conrad, who had made the arrest in Henshaw.

  As Tom trudged toward the entrance to the jail, a sense of guilt crept into his veins. He had not called Powell about the “suspect” the state had in custody, despite his former student’s multiple texts. And Powell was more than just a former student. He was Tom’s partner’s best friend. He’s my friend too.

  Since his return to the practice of law, Tom had yet to oppose someone close to him. Conflict was bound to happen; friends litigated against each other in conference rooms and courtrooms all over the state. But this is different, Tom knew. It felt like a betrayal. Why in the hell am I doing this? Tom asked himself as he grabbed the door handle and pulled it open.

  The answer lay in the broken eyes and voice of a fourteen-year-old girl who up until twelve hours ago Tom hadn’t known existed.

  Tom sighed and approached a reception window with steel bars. All I’m going to do is talk with her, he told himself as he noticed a plump woman speaking on a telephone. She held up a finger for him to wait, and Tom glanced around, realizing that in over forty years as a lawyer and law professor he had only been to the Tuscaloosa County Jail a handful of times, the most recent visit over ten years ago during a workshop for the law school. The place hadn’t changed much, offering up a burgundy leather bench with a tear in the middle and s
everal plastic chairs. The floor was a dusty white and black tile. Suffice it to say, the layout and furniture wouldn’t be making any editions of Southern Living.

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was raspy, reminding Tom of Judge Braxton Poe.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to see a suspect you have in custody. Wilma Newton.”

  The woman looked Tom up and down. He was glad that he had taken the time to drive Lee Roy home this morning and clean himself up. “I recognize you,” she finally said. “The professor from the law school, right? McMurray?”

  “McMurtrie,” Tom said, smiling at her and extending his hand through one of the openings in the steel bars. “Tom McMurtrie.”

  Her grip was firm and Tom could feel the callouses of a hard life. “Willie Burgess,” she said. “Are you Newton’s attorney?”

  Tom knew the question was coming, but it still caused his stomach to roll.

  “If you aren’t her lawyer, Professor, then I can’t let you back there. No visitors allowed for a murder suspect.”

  Tom blinked and cleared his throat. “I’m her lawyer.”

  11

  Tom heard a click and the steel door adjacent to the reception window opened. A uniformed officer with the name “Dep. Lusk” embroidered over his shirt pocket ushered him through. “Follow me,” he said in a clipped, almost nasal tone. Tom was led down a short hallway with two rooms. Above one of the doors appeared a black sign with the stenciled words “Holding Cell.” Lusk knocked on the adjacent door and waited. Two seconds later, it opened and Tom saw a familiar face.

  “What is it, Lusk? We’re in the middle of drafting the . . .” The man stopped when he noticed Tom standing behind the deputy. “Well I’ll be dipped in horseshit.”

  “Nice to see you too, Wade,” Tom said, cracking a smile.