Tom turned his head back to the witness stand, knowing he couldn’t ask the judge for a halt in the action right now. As subtly as he could, he grabbed the notepad and wrote his response. “Five minutes?”
He slid the pad back over and stole another glance at Wilma, who was biting her lower lip. Her face was ashen. When she saw what he had written, she looked at Tom and gave a quick nod.
Tom forced his focus back to the witness stand, where Powell had slipped another clear plastic evidence pouch in front of Wade.
“Detective Richey, could you please identify the evidence in this container?”
“These are two shell casings that were found a few feet to the right of Greg Zorn’s dock.”
“Was a firearms analysis performed on the gun and shell casings?”
“Yes, we received the ballistics report back yesterday.”
“What was the conclusion?”
“Based on the retractor marks left on the used shell casings and a comparison study of sample shells fired from the gun, it was the conclusion of the firearms and tool markings specialist that the shell casings found on the side of the dock came from this gun.” Wade held up the evidence bag with the weapon for emphasis.
“Detective Richey, going back to Dr. Barnett’s autopsy, what did the medical examiner determine to be the cause of death?”
Wade again pulled out Barnett’s report, flipping pages until he reached the end. “The cause of death was two bullet wounds to the decedent’s sternum and another bullet entry above the right temple of the victim’s forehead. The combination of these shots led to the victim’s immediate demise.”
“Was she able to determine the type of bullet?”
“Yes.” Wade flipped the page of the report over. “A portion of a nine-millimeter slug remained in the victim’s thoracic cavity as well as one fully intact bullet.”
“Were these also tested by ballistics?”
“Yes. The damaged slug could not be tested, but the intact bullet was put through a ballistics analysis.”
“And what was the final deduction of that testing?”
Wade again lifted the bag with the pistol, but this time his eyes strayed toward the defense table. Tom remembered his old friend’s warning back at the jail. “You want me to tell you how many cases I’ve lost in thirty years in the Sheriff’s Office when we have the murder weapon and it belongs to the defendant?”
Tom tried not to wince as Wade rammed home the final nail in the state’s murder case.
“Ballistics traced the bullet directly to this gun.”
Wilma almost didn’t make it to the bathroom. After Judge Combs granted Tom’s request for a short recess, a uniformed guard escorted her down the middle of the courtroom and into the hallway. During the trek, Wilma’s stomach clenched several times and she thought for sure that the vomit she was holding in her mouth would spew out. Mercifully, she made it to the stall and the bile flooded the inside of the toilet bowl. As the smell hit her nostrils, she hurled again, eventually losing count of how many times her stomach heaved.
“Everything alright in there, Wilma?” the guard’s voice came from behind the stall door.
“Fine,” Wilma managed. “My stomach is just in a knot. Must have been something I ate.”
The guard’s snicker might have made her mad if she didn’t feel so awful. Finally, she wiped her mouth and flushed the remnants of the vomit down the toilet. Then she sat on the commode seat and leaned against the metal pipes.
Images of the pistol she had bought at the pawn shop in Fayetteville flashed through her mind like an old black-and-white projector film. She had kept it in her purse when she’d made the deal with Jack at the Sundowners, and she’d left it there during the torture she’d endured from JimBone in those dark days before the trial in Henshaw. Hell, up until May 8, 2012, the only thing that gun had ever shot was the mirror in Ms. Yost’s rental house.
I am so stupid, she thought as her mind’s projector flashed new images. These were snowy and unfocused, like a television channel having a hard time picking up the signal. Jack Willistone, sneering at her from the across the gravel parking lot of the Oasis. Toby Dothard pouring Gentleman Jack over ice in a glass and telling her that things couldn’t be that bad. That if she waited until nine, when his shift ended, he’d take her to his place and they could split a pizza and watch a movie. His mouth had formed those friendly words, but despite her inebriated state, Wilma knew that the bartender’s lustful gaze telegraphed what he really wanted.
Then as she squeezed her eyes tight and swallowed the sour taste of bile, the images became smaller and even less focused. The drive-through of Taco Casa. A checkout guy with yellow teeth. Stumbling through her apartment after wolfing down half a burrito. Digging through her bottom drawer until she found the gun.
Wrapping her hands around its steel handle . . .
Three loud knocks on the stall door caused Wilma’s eyes to fly open.
“Wilma, what are you doing in there? The judge said she wanted everyone back in the courtroom in ten minutes, and we’re almost late.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be right out.”
“Whatever. You’ve got sixty seconds, or I’m going to take the door off its hinges.”
“I’m coming,” Wilma said. She ripped some toilet paper off the roll beside her and blew her nose. When she was finished, she threw the tissue into the bowl and, using the walls of the closely confined stall for leverage, raised herself to her feet. Her legs were shaky and she kept a hand on one of the sidewalls as she pushed down on the flush handle. As she watched the shriveled paper do three turns before sucking through the bottom, she knew that her future was less promising than the tissue’s destination.
I am so stupid . . .
32
Eight hours later, at just after 7:30 p.m., Tom sat at a table on the bottom deck of the Cypress Inn Restaurant. He gazed out over the water of the Black Warrior and gulped from an ice-cold bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager, his third. The sun was setting over the Hugh Thomas Bridge, which connected the towns of Tuscaloosa and Northport, but Tom’s eyes were focused on a dock a half mile closer—the place where Jack Daniel Willistone was murdered. Based on the evidence submitted by the prosecution earlier today, he could barely imagine anyone at the other end of that gun barrel besides Wilma Newton. “She killed him, Professor.” Throughout the hearing, Tom’s thoughts were pounded by Powell’s words, loud and intense, like a train rolling down the tracks. “She killed him.”
That vibe only increased after seeing his client’s reaction to the gun introduced by the prosecution as the murder weapon. As an experienced trial lawyer and teacher of courtroom advocacy, Tom knew that juries responded to nonverbal communication and body language as much or more so than to actual testimony. It didn’t take Clarence Darrow to understand how a jury would have interpreted Wilma’s pale skin and nervous fidgeting during Wade’s breakdown of the ballistics analysis. And though she said she was fine after the recess, Tom caught a sour smell on her breath and person, deducing that her break had included a round of nausea. Adding it all up, Tom was grateful that today’s proceeding had been the prelim and not the actual trial.
Tom stretched his back, which was mercifully beginning to loosen up due to the alcohol. Unfortunately, his head still throbbed from the stress of the day. He rubbed his temples and took another long sip of beer.
“You OK, Professor?”
Tom looked across the table at Bo, who had picked him up from the courthouse after the obligatory press interviews were completed.
“You ever taken a case you didn’t think you could win?” Tom asked, turning his eyes back to the river.
“No,” Bo said, but there was warmth in his tone. “But I’ve gotten into a few cases and wanted to pull out for that reason.”
“Did you?”
“No,” Bo said, any hint of humor gone. “I learned the game of life from the same man you did. Guy that stadium over there is named after.” Bo pointe
d across the river. Though Tom couldn’t see it, he knew that just beyond the lights of Jack Warner Parkway was the campus of the university and, beyond that, Bryant-Denny Stadium. Named in part for their football coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant. “We don’t quit,” Bo continued. “Ever. It’s OK to lose. It ain’t OK to quit.”
Tom nodded. “Damn right.” He stood and leaned over the railing of the deck. At this time on a Monday night, no other patrons were on the bottom floor of the restaurant, and Tom was grateful for the privacy. “So, since we both agree that quitting isn’t an option, how the hell can we win this thing?”
Bo, who had watched the preliminary hearing from the back row and who had had no communication with Tom during the proceeding—Tom didn’t want there to be any implication that Bo was practicing law, in violation of the terms of his suspension—put his feet up on one of the empty chairs and stretched his arms over his head. He yawned, but then he spoke with the quiet resolve of a seasoned criminal defense attorney. “They’re weak on the aggravators.”
Tom tended to agree but wanted the benefit of his friend’s analysis. “How so?”
Bo set his feet back on the ground and leaned forward in his chair, slowly rocking back and forth and thinking the problem through. “Our boys are trying to make it a capital case by saying that Wilma Newton intentionally murdered Jack Willistone during a robbery. So robbery is the aggravator, correct?”
“Correct,” Tom said, still gazing at the river. After the recess, Powell had completed his presentation by taking Wade through the physical evidence demonstrating that the victim had been robbed either just before or just after his murder. “And today, Powell showed that Jack Willistone’s wallet was pilfered of at least three hundred dollars, the glove compartment of his 4Runner was looted, and a briefcase was stolen from the back seat.” He paused and took a sip of beer. “I’m not seeing the weakness.”
“Bear with me and let’s play this thing out.”
“Play it out.”
“They got Wilma’s fingerprints on the murder weapon and no one else’s, right?”
“Yep.”
“They got her saliva on Jack’s cap and shirt collar.” Bo paused and stood from his chair, gesturing with his beer bottle. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she spat on the victim!” Bo mimicked Powell’s high-arching voice.
“OK.”
Bo walked over to Tom and leaned his back against the railing, nudging Tom’s elbow. “Where are the prints on the wallet?”
Tom looked at him. “When I asked Wade about that on cross, he said there was a smudge on the billfold, but it wasn’t clear enough to do a definitive test.”
“Doesn’t matter what the detective says. It’s a seed of doubt, and that’s not all. Where are the prints on the 4Runner? If our girl was digging all through that vehicle searching for money, why aren’t any of her prints on the back seat where the briefcase was located? Or on any of the door handles? Or on the latch of the glove compartment? Or any damn where?” Bo took a quick gulp of beer. He again nudged Tom’s elbow. “And how come there’s none of her DNA anywhere in Jack’s vehicle, Zorn’s house, his boathouse, or even the dock? None of Ms. Wilma’s blood, saliva, or hair was found anywhere on Zorn’s property.”
“The saliva—”
“On Jack’s person,” Bo interrupted. “Not Zorn’s property.”
“That’s not enough, Bo, and you know it.”
“I agree, but it is something. And something is better than nothing.” He took another sip from his bottle. “Little seeds of doubt can grow into fruit if we have a story to attach them to.”
Tom drained the rest of his bottle in one long gulp. “So what’s our story then?”
Bo set his beer on the railing. “What does our client say?”
Tom sighed. “I don’t know.”
Bo wrinkled up his face. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean I haven’t gone over all of the state’s evidence with her. I wanted her to see it all today.”
Bo grabbed his nearly empty bottle and took one last swig. He rubbed his chin and looked out at the river. “That’s not a bad strategy. I’ve actually used that myself a few times.” He peered at Tom. “Especially when I thought my client might have committed the crime. Is that what you think?”
Tom rubbed his eyes, which burned with fatigue. He had cross-examined Wade for nearly four hours on the stand, confirming that the state had produced all witness statements and expert reports and meticulously going over each piece of physical evidence. By the time he told Judge Combs he had nothing further, he was literally leaning against the podium by the defense table to keep himself upright. If a day in court took this much out of him, he wondered how in the world he’d be able to handle a full week of trial with the pressure of the death penalty hanging over his client’s head. “I don’t know what I think yet, Bo. But my gut feeling was that I needed to hear the prosecution’s story before I heard Wilma’s.”
Bo leaned his forearms on the railing. “A trial lawyer has to trust his gut. That was one of your mantras, Professor. When are you going to have your come-to-Jesus with her?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Good.” Bo stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked back toward the table, but Tom remained by the railing, his eyes back on the Black Warrior. “Professor, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Are you OK? You seem to be wincing a lot and you were limping pretty bad on the way in here.”
Tom rubbed his neck and looked at his friend. “I think I’ve got a bulging disc or something. I hurt it walking with Lee Roy a couple months ago. Damn dog lunged for a squirrel.”
“Have you gotten it x-rayed?”
Tom shook his head. “Not yet. Haven’t had time. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to do any type of extensive back surgery at my age. All those lead to is more surgeries.”
“Have you spoken with Dr. Davis about it?” Bo had taken Tom to some of his scans and treatment after he’d been diagnosed with bladder cancer two years ago, and he was familiar with Bill Davis.
“Yeah, a little. He just scanned my bladder in April and it was clean. He also said it was incredibly rare for bladder cancer to spread to the back.” Tom sighed, tiring of talk of his health. “He did say he wanted to do an X-ray, but I haven’t called to schedule one yet.”
“Does he know you’ve taken this case?”
Tom scoffed. “Yeah, and he’s not happy about it. Neither is my son or my daughter-in-law. Hell, even my grandson told me to be careful after his last ball game.”
Bo stifled a laugh before asking, “How old is Jackson now?”
“Twelve.” Tom shook his head. “Nobody thinks the old man should have taken this case.”
“And what does the General say?” Bo raised his eyebrows and his smile turned into a wide grin.
Tom glared at Bo. “I took her to dinner. One damn dinner. We aren’t dating or anything.” He sighed. “But I think that she probably thinks I’ve lost my marbles too.”
Bo’s smile faded and he took a few steps toward Tom. The last light of the sun was now gone and the water was only illuminated by the cars going down Jack Warner Parkway and across the Hugh Thomas Bridge. “None of that matters. The only thing that matters . . . is what you think.”
Tom moved his eyes back to the river but didn’t say anything.
“So . . . what do you think, Professor?” Bo finally asked. “You’ve had something on your mind ever since we got out here. Spit it out.”
“I think I’ve got one more trial left in me,” Tom said, still looking at the river. “And I don’t plan on losing it.”
“That’s good to hear. And even though we need an explanation for a lot of things, I don’t see Wilma for this crime. What did JimBone Wheeler call her?”
“A doe.”
“Well, I agree with the crazy bastard. We’ve got to know the whole story, but no prints or DNA at Zorn’s property or in Jac
k’s vehicle doesn’t fit. It’s a head-scratcher, and I’m betting the answer to the riddle lies in Walker County.”
“You’re thinking that Bully Calhoun wanted Jack dead so that his daughter could collect the insurance proceeds, that Bully was probably following Jack, and that Wilma Newton gave him an opportunity to do the deed and leave her as the patsy.”
“Something like that,” Bo said. “I think Bully has someone on his payroll doing the dirty work for him. Didn’t JimBone say he had found someone for his old boss who had similar talents? And didn’t he also insinuate that this hit man is the one who ran my believer’s father off the road?”
When Tom didn’t answer, Bo continued, his voice soft and low. “You told him, didn’t you?”
Tom closed his eyes, a sense of guilt and dread creeping over him. “When I got back from Nashville, I called Jimmy Ballard, the sheriff of Henshaw County, and relayed what JimBone had told me.”
“What about Rick?”
“I called him too.”
“And?”
“I told him that Wheeler had implied that he had something to do with the hit-and-run and to make sure he took extra precautions.”
“Did you say anything about Bully Calhoun’s new enforcer?”
Tom’s eyes flicked open. “I didn’t get into the details. Rick’s been through hell the past few months, and I don’t want to send him over the edge. The kid’s always been volatile. You know about him punching me after that trial competition in law school?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen the YouTube video. It was a good lick.”
Tom rubbed his jaw and looked at Bo. “It was. He’s come a long way since then. I mean, you saw how effective he was in the courtroom in Pulaski.”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better legal team than you and Rick.”
“Well, he’s gotten even better. Up until the hit-and-run, Rick had really taken over the office and was transitioning into more of a first-chair role.” Tom stopped and turned back to the river. “I just don’t want to hurt him or his mother any more than they’ve already been hurt.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 18