The judge looked at King. “Where are you going with this, Counsel?”
“Bear with me, please, Your Honor.”
“Don’t beat a dead horse.”
“I won’t.”
“Proceed.”
“Was Sergeant Brown on the force at a time when this type of handcuff was standard equipment?” King continued.
“Yes.”
King went back to the prosecution table and took two pieces of paper from Lin Song. He gave one to Gardner and handed the other to the clerk. “Please mark as state’s exhibit thirty-three.”
Gardner scanned the page. It was an outdated police review board complaint form.
“Take a look at this document,” King said.
“Object!” Gardner bounded to his feet.
“What’s wrong now?” Ransome asked wearily.
“This is an atrocity!”
“Approach the bench!”
Gardner was adamant. “Mr. King is attempting to introduce a brutality complaint from twenty years ago. It’s totally irrelevant!”
“Let me see.” Rollie reached for the paper.
King handed it up, and the judge skimmed the contents. “What is this, Kent?”
“What it purports to be. A few years back, a citizen made a complaint against the defendant regarding the use—or misuse, I should say—of a set of handcuffs identical to the ones at issue here. It seems Sergeant Brown left a man chained to a fence for over three hours.”
“You contend this is relevant?” Ransome inquired.
“Yes, I do. It establishes a pattern of unprofessional behavior with respect to handcuffs. The defendant employed them once before to punish and intimidate someone. This prior bad act has a bearing on his motivation here.”
The judge turned to Gardner. “What’s your position?”
“That is absurd!” Gardner pointed to the complaint. “The act of a rookie officer in a difficult situation had nothing to do with punishment or intimidation. There was no disciplinary action taken against the defendant at the time, so the allegation must be regarded as unproven. It’s not relevant in any event.”
The judge looked at King.
“The allegation was confirmed,” King countered. “The department chose not to sanction him, but what is alleged to have happened did happen. And that is the important part. The facts are true. He used handcuffs as a weapon.”
“No!” Gardner’s cheeks reddened. “That’s not what happened.”
Ransome read the complaint form again, then looked down. “It is an old incident, but…”
Gardner’s heart sank.
“I think it does have a bearing on the defendant’s state of mind toward the victim. Objection overruled.”
“But,” Gardner protested, “handcuffing does not equate to killing. It’s an illogical inference!”
“Enough!” Ransome said sternly. “You’ve heard my ruling. The document will be allowed into evidence.”
Gardner and Brownie slowly returned to the defense table. Again, King had hit below the belt. The brutality complaint was garbage. It had nothing to do with this case, but it did paint Brownie as a wild man with a set of cuffs.
King called four more witnesses after Larry Gray and finished filling in the cement. He established that Brownie’s father had died under mysterious circumstances; that Brownie was grief-stricken and Brownie had threatened Ruth; that Brownie was with Ruth within hours of the electrocution; that he had diagrammed the power station before the crime; that a man Brownie’s size was near the scene at the exact moment of death; that Brownie’s handcuffs were on Ruth’s wrists; that Brownie had Ruth’s shoes in his possession; that Brownie had a temper, was reckless with handcuffs, and had no credible alibi.
* * *
By four-thirty in the afternoon, the pace was slowing. “Call your next witness, Mr.King,” Rollie advised.
“The state rests,” King said.
Gardner looked at Brownie with shock. What the hell was this? There were still twelve witnesses on King’s discovery list, enough to keep them busy for another week. The defense was not ready to proceed.
“Something wrong, Mr. Lawson?” the judge asked.
“We were under the impression that the state had more witnesses.”
“I guess they don’t. Are you ready to go forward with your case?”
Gardner glanced at King, who was well aware of the havoc he’d just caused. “No,” Gardner said. “Not at this time.”
“When will you be ready?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“That’s impossible,” Rollie snapped. “The jury’s in the box. I’m not going to make them wait. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning, no later!”
“Your Honor—” Gardner protested.
“Court’s adjourned until nine A.M.!” The gavel sounded, and Rollie left the bench.
Gardner sat silently as the court emptied.
“King did it again, huh?” Brownie said.
“Yeah. And I know why.” Gardner pointed to the prosecution witness list. The next name was Fairborne, and the rest were other members of CAIN. “He didn’t want me to ask them about Ruth’s mental condition. He knows he’s got enough to convictwhy risk it? He just destroyed our chance to establish a suicide case from the inside? “
“So why can’t we call the same witnesses?”
“I considered that, but it won’t work. If we call them as our witnesses they’ll insist Ruth was sane the day he died and every day before that. I’ve got no leverage on direct examination, not like I’d have on cross, even if Rollie let me have leeway. I could have gained some ground by attacking them on cross. King knew it, so he pulled the plug.”
“So now we hustle,” Brownie said.
“Now we hustle,” Gardner echoed. “I’m going down to the VA hospital tonight. You have your assignment from this morning. We’ll meet up at my office later.”
“Good luck.”
Gardner headed for the door. He had a lot of territory to cover by the next morning, and a little luck would certainly help.
Gardner and Jennifer sat in the rear booth at Russel’s. “I can’t believe that fat bastard,” Gardner complained, “allowing the brutality complaint into evidence, then not giving us more time!” He squeezed some mayonnaise out of his BLT.
“He’s screwing you,” Jennifer said.
“No kidding. We are A-number-one screwed.”
“You make it sound hopeless.”
“It is.” Gardner dropped his sandwich on the plate. “We’ve lost the jury. There’s no doubt about it.”
“What about your new evidence, the background leads?”
“They’re a long shot at best. We still haven’t come up with anything firm.”
Jennifer took a sip of her soup. “But you do have a track on Ruth’s identity. That should get you something.”
“What? What can it get me?”
“Psychiatric records. If you get them, you’ll win.”
Gardner shook his head. “They are no doubt destroyed along with every other document relating to his true self. We’re never going to find any records. “
“Then why are you wasting time with it?”
Gardner gave her an exasperated look. “What else can I do?”
“You could go after Paul.”
“Jeez, Jen, that’s out of the question.”
“So you refuse?”
Gardner pushed his plate away. “Of course. I confronted Brownie about it, and he stonewalled, as you’d expect. I cannot look in that direction.”
“Then maybe you need to look within yourself.”
“What?”
“You’re not a defense attorney.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jennifer.”
“I’m not putting you down. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.… Why are you so tormented by what you’re doing? Why is it so hard?”
“It would be a hell of a lot easier if you were back in our bed.”
“I don’t want
to talk about that. This is about the law. Defense attorneys don’t care about the truth. You do. You always have. You are not a defense attorney, not at heart.”
“At least I’m trying. It’s driving me nuts attempting to raise reasonable doubt, generating smoke. But goddamnit, at least I’m trying!”
“Maybe you should consider changing directions.”
“You mean go against my own client?”
“I mean go for the truth. That’s what you really know how to do. That’s what you’ve done all your life. That’s the real you.”
“I can’t, Jennifer. I made a commitment to Brownie to see this through to the end, and that’s what I am going to do. We’ve got one more lead on the Ruth ID. I’m checking it out tonight.”
“At the VA hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Gardner shook his head. “No. I’ve got to do this alone. But it would be nice if you were at the house when I got back.”
Jennifer didn’t reply.
“No deal, huh?”
“Let’s get through this crisis first.”
“Then work on us?”
Jennifer nodded.
“But what if we don’t get through? What if it all blows up?”
Jennifer touched his hand. “You can’t let that happen.”
twenty-five
Gardner flicked his turn signal and moved into the exit lane of the Virginia interstate highway.SOUTHEAST VETERANS HOSPITAL, the sign said. This was it, the last viable lead, a name that had surfaced three times in the Fugitives call-backs. Two people on Brownie’s list and one on Gardner’s identified Ruth as Barton Graves. That had to be more than coincidence. It had to be a match. And of the three, only one had had more than a fleeting contact with the mystery man: Lieutenant Adrian Anders, a Vietnam vet who said he’d known Graves during the war.
Gardner parked beside a red brick building and walked to the door. It was evening, and perimeter lights illuminated the four corners, casting knife-edged shadows across patches of hardened snow. The place looked more like a prisoner compound than a hospital.
Gardner entered the reception area and encountered an elderly nurse at the desk. “Here to see Lieutenant Anders,” he said.
She checked the roster. “Room six-two-five. Take the elevator to the top floor, turn left, and go to the end of the hall. It’s right there.”
Gardner thanked her and went to the elevator. Soon he was in a drab, foul-smelling corridor lined with the rooms of forgotten heroes. He found 625 and knocked.
“Come in,” a voice called.
Gardner entered cautiously. The light was off, and it was dark as a well inside. “Lieutenant Anders? It’s Gardner Lawson. I’m here about Barton Graves.”
“Come in, Mr. Lawson. I’ve been expecting you.”
Gardner fumbled in the murk. “Mind if I turn on the light?”
“Sorry. My eyes are hypersensitive. Prop open the door with a chair. That will let light in from the hall.”
Gardner located a chair and propped open the door. In a moment his vision had adjusted, and he could make out the image of a man in an adjustable bed. He was under the covers, and by the lay of the sheets, body parts were missing.
“Sit over here,” he said, “by me.” Anders retrieved a pair of thick glasses. “I took a hit of white phosphorus in the face. I can see, but the brighter the light, the more painful.”
Gardner focused on the man’s face. An ugly scar roped across his chin and cheek. “You knew Barton Graves,” he began.
“Yes,” Anders said, “I did, but…” He was struggling with a pillow. “Uh, can you help me?”
“Certainly.” Gardner adjusted his pillow. Up close, the man’s face was more grotesque, the odor of medication strong.
“Thank you. I can talk easier now.”
Gardner took out a notepad and moved into the shaft of light from the hall. “Tell me about Graves. What makes you think he was Thomas Ruth?”
“I saw the Interview magazine article, the one about the snake church and the preacher. I can read, you know.… At first I didn’t make the association. Another off-beat cult, I figured, but then I began thinking. Something about Ruth was familiar. The picture was wrong. His face was different when I knew him. But then, when I saw the Fugitives show—I can watch TV, too—anyway, they were asking to identify him, and I began to think that maybe I did know who he was.”
Gardner leaned closer to the bed
“It was in Quang Tri, 1969, the rainy season, when I met him the first time. We were dug in against the NVA, North Vietnamese regulars, who were making assaults against our outpost almost every night. We were fighting two storms: the rain and the attacks. It was a real mess. Graves was a medic, noncombatant. Told me he’d been a conscientious objector for a while, but then decided to sign up to find out what it was all about—”
Anders started coughing. He took several breaths, apologized, and went on. “They sent him to the hottest spot of the war. Our zone was drawing more casualties than anywhere else at the time. They called the road into Quang Tri the ‘highway of no return.’ Most who went up it never came back…. Anyway, we got to know each other up at kill central,’ the northern perimeter where the NVAs came calling after dark. He and I got posted there for different reasons. I was supposed to fight, and he was supposed to clean up the guys who got hurt. We used to talk before the shit started, in the rain, when everything was calm and quiet. He’d go on and on about God and the Bible and the glories of paradise.…
“He knew his Scripture and a lot of other things, like books, literature. He was well educated, very smart. Knew about snakes, too. I think he was raised in a fundamentalist family where they used snakes in their services. He mentioned that once, but never again. I don’know why….Anyway, we got nailed one night. Hardest ever. That was the night I took the white phosphoros grenade. He put me in a chopper, then went back for another wounded grunt. The gooks were firing rockets, shells, rifle-launched grenades, blowing up everything and everybody….I was airborne, in the medevac unit, but he was still on the ground.…” Anders’s voice dropped off.
“What happened?”
“Massacre. Worst of the war. The camp was overrun, two platoons wiped out.”
“What about Graves?”
“Went through hell, but he made it. Him and another guy. Spent five days in the bush, running, hiding, escaping, evading…. Finally rejoined our unit down south. But it messed him up bad.… He wasn’t wounded, but the whole scene screwed his bean something awful.The CO referred him to the mental ward, then section—eighted him and shipped him home. I recommended him for a Silver Star, but he turned it down. I never understood that, why he wouldn’t accept the medal.”
“So you think Barton Graves and Thomas Ruth are the same person.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Anders rolled his head to the side. “I knew the man, what he was like inside. I knew his mind. That’s him. No question about it.”
Gardner opened a file he’d brought and drew out a photograph. It was an autopsy photo of Ruth, showing a view of his back. “You spent a lot of time with Graves?”
“A lot.”
“In intimate circumstances?”
“In a foxhole.”
Gardner concealed the photo from Anders. “Can you tell me if he had any unusual marks on his body?”
“Marks?”
“Yes. Birthmarks, for example?”
Anders closed his eyes, trying to recall. “Yes, there was something…” His eyes opened. “You just reminded me…”
“What?”
“He had one of those Gorbachev blotches on his back, below the shoulder.”
Gardner looked at an ugly purplish outline in the picture. “Graves was Ruth!”
Anders tried to smile.
Gardner leaned over the bed again. “I want you to tell me about the mental problem,” he said. “Detail by detail, if you can.”
/>
Anders was about to speak when the door swung open and the light came on. Anders shielded his eyes as a doctor and two nurses came in.
“Sorry,” the doctor said, “visiting time is over.”
“I made an appointment,” Gardner protested.
“Let him stay,” Anders argued.
“Sorry. For Mr. Anders’s welfare, I have to ask you to leave.” The nurses moved by the bed.
Gardner put his hands on his hips. “I need to talk to him.”
“You can come back tomorrow.”
Gardner noticed a photograph on Anders’s wall and stepped closer for a look. It depicted a grim-faced platoon in the bush. “May I ask a couple more questions?”
The doctor nodded reluctantly. “Hurry up.”
“Was this your unit?”
Anders still had his eyes covered to block the overhead light. He spread his fingers and peeked through. “That was us.”
“Is Graves in the picture?”
“Yes.”
Gardner reached for the frame. “Mind if I take it down?”
“Go ahead.”
Gardner removed the picture and approached the bed.
“Make it fast,” the doctor urged.
Gardner gave the photo to Anders. “Which one is Graves?”
Anders squinted and ran his finger across the men under the glass. At the end of the first row he stopped. “Him.”
Gardner bent down and studied the face. It was grainy and shadowed, but the bone structure looked right. “May I borrow this?”
“If you return it.”
“Of course. I just need it for a little while.”
Anders handed him the picture.
“Time’s up,” the doctor said. “You can come back tomorrow if you like, but this visit is through.”
Gardner thanked Anders and backed out of the room. He began walking down the hall, then broke into a jog, then a run. The defense finally had something concrete to support the suicide theory. Now all they needed was documentation.
Jennifer rang the bell at Kent King’s Tudor residence in the upscale Hunt Meadows development. It was almost nine in the evening, and the lights were on. She rang again, and then the door opened.
“Miss Munday…” Lin Song was dressed in a bathrobe, her eyes dreamy with afterglow.
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