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

by Robert Bailey

  Powell smiled at his friend. “You know that’s not how a capital murder case gets decided. We don’t win on technical knockouts. It’s got to be a true, no-questions-left knockout.”

  There were three loud knocks on the door.

  “Come in,” Powell said, rising from his chair. He opened the door and saw Samuel Moody. “You get the jury instructions done, Sam?”

  The older lawyer nodded, his eyes wide. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

  “Sam, I’m kinda in the middle of trying to decide whether to call a rebuttal witness or not. What’s this about?”

  When the assistant DA spoke again, his voice was nearly breathless. “There’s a lady out in the waiting area that says she saw the murder.”

  Less than a minute later, Sam escorted a woman in her twenties into the conference room. “Gentlemen”—he looked at Powell and then Wade before gesturing to the woman—“this is Ms. Raina Farrell.”

  Hearing the echo of his heart racing in his chest, Powell swallowed and pointed to one of the chairs. “Please sit down, Ms. Farrell.”

  Once she was seated, Powell skipped the preliminaries. “Is it true? Did you see the murder of Jack Willistone?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. I was at the Riverwalk and I had a clear view.”

  “Could you see who did it?”

  Raina nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why now, Ms. Farrell?” Powell asked.

  “I’ve been watching the trial all week. I thought I could sit by . . . but I can’t anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you say something beforehand?”

  Raina held her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Because I didn’t want to lose my golf scholarship. I’m a junior and I play number two on the team.”

  “I don’t get it,” Powell said. “How could witnessing a murder cost you your golf scholarship?”

  Raina swallowed hard. “Because at the time I saw the shooting, I was having sex with astronomy professor Sean Newell on one of the benches at the Park at Manderson Landing. I was sitting in his lap, facing the river, and he was . . .” She closed her eyes. “Behind me.”

  “That’s a distance of almost three hundred yards, ma’am. I can understand how you saw the shooting, but how could you see the shooter?”

  Raina opened her eyes. Despite her anxiety, she managed a tight grin. “Because I looked through a telescope.”

  Powell cut a glance at Wade, whose face had quickly become wan.

  “Ma’am,” the detective asked, “who did you see?”

  83

  At 1:30 p.m., Judge Poe called the case back to order. “Mr. Conrad, will the prosecution be offering any rebuttal witnesses?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. May we approach?”

  When all of the attorneys were before the bench, Powell, looking at Tom, spoke. “During the break, it has come to our attention that there is an eyewitness to this murder. The witness’s name is Raina Farrell, and for reasons that I will explain, she has not come forward until now.”

  After Powell had relayed everything that Raina had explained in the lobby of his office, Judge Poe looked to Tom. “McMurtrie, I’m inclined to allow it. What do you say?”

  Tom was flabbergasted. “Judge, we invoked the rule when we started the trial, which means that no witness should have been allowed to listen to other witnesses’ testimony, and Mr. Conrad wants to call someone who has sat in here the entire week, heard everything that has been said, and now wants to testify. That is extremely prejudicial to my client.”

  “You’ll have an opportunity to cross the witness on all of that, McMurtrie. I’m going to allow it.”

  84

  Tom walked back to the defense table in a daze and exchanged a worried look with Rick. When he sat down, Wilma was in his ear. “What’s happened?”

  “They have an eyewitness,” Tom said, looking her directly in the eyes.

  “State calls Raina Farrell,” Powell said, his voice booming to the back of the courtroom. For twenty minutes, Powell took Raina through her background, her scholarship with the university golf team, her struggles in astronomy, and the affair that began with Dr. Sean Newell in April 2012. After laying all the groundwork and establishing her and Dr. Newell’s presence at the Riverwalk at the Park at Manderson Landing on May 8, 2012 at approximately 10:15 p.m., he got to the nitty-gritty.

  “Ms. Farrell, at the time that you and Dr. Newell were engaged in sexual intercourse on the bench by the railing, did you have a clear view across the river?”

  “Yes, I did. My . . . eyes were closed at first, but then I opened them when I heard the gunshots.”

  “Tell the jury what you saw.”

  “A man was standing at the edge of a dock. Initially, he was facing me, but then he turned when a person approached him from the other end of the dock. The man was shot three times by a woman with what looked like a small handgun.”

  “You say a woman?” Powell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get a good look at her?”

  “It was three hundred yards across, so I could tell that she was an athletic-looking woman, but I couldn’t see her that well until I looked in the viewer of the telescope.”

  A collective gasp rose from the jury box and the gallery, followed by murmurs. Judge Poe banged his gavel and asked for silence.

  “When you looked in the viewer of the telescope, Ms. Farrell, could you see the shooter?”

  “Yes, for a split second I saw her in profile.”

  “What do you mean in profile?”

  “I had a side view of her. I could see the side of her face. She wore a white cap, pink windbreaker, khaki shorts, and white Nike tennis shoes with a red swoosh.”

  Powell let out a deep breath and spoke in a voice that echoed off the walls of the courtroom. “Ms. Farrell, do you see the shooter in this courtroom?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Could you please point her out.”

  Raina Farrell stood from the witness stand and pointed directly at Wilma Newton.

  Powell waited a full five seconds and then, in a slightly lower voice, he announced, “Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant.”

  85

  For the second time in three hours, the courtroom erupted in a sea of murmurs, and reporters all tried to beat each other to the exit doors to report on the latest news. Judge Poe banged his gavel on the bench and, after a full minute, finally restored order.

  “Cross-examination, McMurtrie?”

  Tom started to say yes, but then he felt his client pulling on his arm. “What?” Tom whispered.

  “I want to plead guilty,” Wilma said, her eyes wide with fear. “Right now. I want to plead guilty.”

  “Why?” Tom asked.

  “McMurtrie, are you going to cross-examine this witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Just one second.”

  “No,” Wilma said. She was now standing. “I don’t want this to go any further. I want to plead guilty.”

  Tom looked at his client in utter bewilderment. “Why?”

  Wilma’s jaw stuck out and she glared at him with fire in her eyes. “Because I killed the son of a bitch.”

  86

  At 3:00 p.m., Judge Poe entered Wilma Newton’s plea of guilty on the record to all charges brought by the prosecution. He then banged his gavel and excused the jury until Monday, when the sentencing phase of the trial would begin.

  For a long time, Tom and Rick sat at the defense table, alone with their thoughts. As he finally packed his briefcase to go, Tom gazed behind him at the front row and something clicked in his brain. He went over Raina Farrell’s testimony again and then whispered it out loud. “I had a side view of her. I could see the side of her face. She wore a white cap, pink windbreaker, khaki shorts, and white Nike tennis shoes with a red swoosh.”

  Nike tennis shoes with a red swoosh.

  Tom shot to his feet as if he had been fired out of a cannon. He forgot about his back and walked briskly
to the exit doors.

  He called her three times on the drive back to the office, but there was no answer. Then he drove to the trailer in Northport, but Tawny hadn’t seen her, and Jackie wouldn’t respond to his questions. He drove past Tuscaloosa High, and there was no sign of her.

  Finally, he received a text.

  Thanks for everything, Professor. Please tell my momma I’m sorry.

  Tom replied—Where are you?—but his text wasn’t answered.

  Where the hell can she be? he asked himself over and over. He thought of everything she had told him over the past six months. How she had memorized the trial transcript. How the accident had ruined her life.

  When it came to him, Tom knew he was probably already too late. He called Rick, knowing his partner was his only hope, and then he prayed.

  87

  Tom ignored the speed limit as he hurtled south down Highway 82. When they reached the Henshaw city limits sign, it was dusk, and Tom blinked against the coming darkness. When the light at Limestone Bottom Road came into view, he saw her. She was standing in the grass. “There!”

  A split second later, he saw the eighteen-wheeler. It was coming in the opposite direction and hauling ass by the look of it. When the rig got within a hundred yards of the light, Laurie Ann Newton stepped into the middle of the highway.

  We’re too late, Tom knew, not sure whether he should speed up or slow down.

  “Oh my God!” Rick screamed from the passenger seat as he saw what was about to happen.

  The driver of the rig laid down his horn, but Laurie Ann stood stock still. To his right, Tom saw a figure moving across the gas station toward Laurie Ann. Just as the truck was about to plow into Wilma Newton’s daughter, the figure tackled Laurie Ann to the side of the road.

  88

  When Keewin Brown made the save, he was able to twist his body so that he didn’t land on Laurie Ann but rather his left shoulder. Though the big man had probably broken his arm, he seemed ecstatic that Laurie Ann was alive. While Rose Batson tended to him inside the Texaco and waited for the paramedics, Tom, Rick, and Laurie Ann sat on the bench outside the gas station.

  “You figured it out, didn’t you?” she finally asked.

  Tom nodded.

  “How?”

  “The shoes,” Tom said. “Wade did an inventory of your mother’s whole apartment, and there were no white Nikes with a red swoosh. I remembered the night I drove you home when you came to the office after practice. You were wearing those shoes. The rest wasn’t all that hard to decipher. You come over to your mother’s house the night of May 8 and find her drunk as a skunk. She tells you that Jack Willistone propositioned her for sex, and she refused. Then she passes out. How am I doing?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “I lost my grip when I saw how drunk and weak Mom was. I took the last belt off the vodka bottle and then I noticed the gun. It was lying on top of her dresser. Like maybe she had retrieved it and thought about killing him but then chickened out and was too drunk to put the gun back in its hiding place.” She let out a soft sob. “I dug around the apartment for a pair of gloves, and when I found them, I took her phone and sent Jack the texts. Then I slipped on Mom’s windbreaker and cap and drove her car over to Zorn’s subdivision.”

  “Had you ever driven a car before?” Tom asked.

  Laurie Ann snorted. “Are you kidding? I drive Tawny’s piece of crap to the grocery store all the time, and I don’t look like I’m fourteen.” She licked her lips. “Anyway, when I got to the lake house, I saw the son of a bitch just standing there on the dock. I approached with caution, holding the gun behind my back. When I got within ten feet, he realized it wasn’t Mom and asked me who I was. I told him and . . . he started laughing. Said he’d hoped for my momma since she was a professional but that popping the cherry on a virgin one more time was a gift from above.” Laurie Ann stopped, and her expression turned cold. “When I pulled the gun from around my back, the grin didn’t even leave his face. I don’t think he ever thought I’d do it.”

  “But you did?”

  Laurie Ann gave a swift nod. “I shot him in the chest twice. Boom. Boom. Then when he had dropped to his knees, I walked over to him and I put the gun to his head. I didn’t want to shoot him again, but he lunged for me, and it was just a reaction. Blood splattered everywhere, and I dropped the pistol.” She hung her head. “Then I just panicked. I looked under the dock for the gun, but it was too dark and I knew I needed to get out of there. I drove back to Mom’s apartment. On the way, I stopped at a gas station and threw the gloves in a dumpster. When I got to her place, she was still passed out. I washed all my clothes and spent the rest of the night looking out her blinds and thinking it through. Since I wore gloves and left the gun under the dock, I knew the cops would eventually come.” She continued to cry as she gazed out at Highway 82. “When Mom woke up, she didn’t seem to remember much of anything. I was mad at her. I’ve been mad at her ever since DHR took us away. I should have said something sooner, but once she was arrested I didn’t know what to do.” Laurie Ann turned toward Tom. “I had read that trial transcript so many times, I knew that you’d be the one to help us. You’d be able to figure it all out. I’m sorry.”

  For a long minute, Tom processed everything that Laurie Ann had said. “What happens now?” she asked, her voice desperate and scared.

  Tom sighed and looked up into the cloudless sky. “Well, that depends a lot on two people.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom . . . and the district attorney.”

  89

  Once Wilma was seated in front of him in the consultation room, Tom got right to it. “How long have you known that your daughter killed Jack Willistone?”

  Wilma sucked in a ragged breath and let it out. “Since the preliminary hearing. When the detective held up the evidence bag with my gun inside . . . I knew.”

  “And that’s why you wouldn’t talk. You were afraid that if you did I might figure it out. Or worse, that the Sheriff’s Office would learn the truth.”

  “That’s right,” Wilma said.

  “I could have helped you, Wilma. Powell Conrad is my friend. So is Detective Richey. These were extenuating circumstances. Laurie Ann might have been charged as a youthful offender.”

  “No. I would never have allowed my baby to be charged for something I should have done years ago. This is my fault and I’m going to pay for it. I’ve already pled guilty, and I forbid you to do anything that suggests that my daughter was the true killer. Do you understand, Professor?”

  “You’re willing to die or, best case, go to prison for a crime you didn’t commit?”

  Despite the tears that now streamed down her cheeks, Wilma Newton managed a weary smile. “Haven’t you learned anything about me in the last two years, Professor McMurtrie? I’d die a thousand deaths for Laurie Ann or Jackie.” She stopped and took both of his hands in her own. “Nothing for me. Everything for them.”

  90

  They decided to meet at Jackie’s Lounge. Tom found Powell sitting at a corner booth sipping whiskey from a glass with a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s Black, the top conveniently off, in the middle of the table. Tom grabbed the bottle, not bothering with the glass, and took a long pull, hoping the whiskey would ease the throbbing in his back. The opening bars of Willie Nelson’s “Whiskey River” blared over the jukebox.

  Before he could say a word, Powell spoke, his voice just above a whisper. “Look, before you say anything, I need to tell you something.”

  “OK.”

  “After the judge entered the plea, Wade and I interrogated Barbara Willistone.”

  “And?”

  “And she talked. Said she went to Zorn’s lake house that night about one o’clock in the morning intending to kill Jack. She didn’t want to take any chances on him changing his mind on the beneficiary form that she thought he had sent in.” He smacked his lips. “She parked at the Cypress Inn and walked
through the woods to Zorn’s house, but when she got there, she saw Jack lying faceup on the dock with a dark-complected woman hovering over him. The woman was carrying a briefcase in her hand that looked exactly like Jack’s. Barbara had seen Jack put the copy of the change of beneficiary form in his briefcase a few hours earlier. She saw the woman dig around in Jack’s pants and, after taking something out—presumably his wallet, though Barbara couldn’t be sure—the woman kicked his body into the river. When Jack didn’t surface, Barbara knew he was dead.”

  “Good grief,” Tom said. “Then what?”

  “The woman walked toward the boathouse and a few seconds later emerged behind the wheel of a bass boat. Barbara didn’t know what to do, so she ran back to the restaurant, and that’s when she bumped into Shuman and Caldwell and sold them the pot.”

  Tom could barely believe his ears. The river, he thought. The truth, like he had suspected from the beginning, had always been on the river. “Whose boat?”

  “Zorn’s,” Powell said. “When we interviewed the prick, we never asked him about how many vessels he owned. The boathouse had a pontoon party boat in it and a couple of Jet Skis, so nothing seemed out of place. We didn’t know he had another one.”

  “There was no way you could have known that.”

  Powell grunted but didn’t say anything.

  “Did Barbara say which direction the boat was going?”

  “North,” Powell said. “Toward Jasper.”

  “Bully Calhoun.”

  Powell nodded. “Has to be. We know all about the Filipino hit woman who’s supposed to be in Bully’s employ, and Barbara’s description of the woman matches the ones that Bo and Rel Jennings gave Wade.”

  “Have y’all had any luck tracking down the boat?”

  Powell took another sip of whiskey. “We’ve sent out feelers, but you and I both know that we’ll never see that ship again. My guess is that around May 9, 2012 it was the primary source of a nice-sized bonfire on the edge of the Sipsey Wilderness.”