by Ken Casper
The county prosecutor’s offices were in a brick municipal building across the street from the courthouse. The suite was small, shabby and cramped, not at all what Gwyn had expected, though her only knowledge of such places was from movies and television. When she informed the woman at the reception desk that she’d like to see the D.A., she was told he was in a meeting. She asked to see Jed Louis and received the same bland response.
“I’ll wait,” Gwyn announced as she took one of two hard wooden chairs in front of a wall of leather-bound books. There was a stack of out-of-date magazines on a small table nearby. She casually paged through one, totally unaware of its contents.
Thorny showed up within twenty minutes, carrying a thin attaché case and wearing a lightweight suit of pale beige and a power tie of red-and-blue stripes. Gwyn suspected he might have violated the speed limit on his way, but by his easy, almost nonchalant gait one would never know he was in a hurry. His air of confidence was infectious.
He came immediately to her, his hands outstretched. “This shouldn’t take too long.”
“Can you tell me what’s going to happen?” she asked, the feeling of panic she’d managed to suppress again reasserting itself when she pictured Jed behind the closed doors.
“Probably nothing. They’re on a fishing trip and the weather is about to close in on them.” He grinned.
She managed to return a smile, but it didn’t fool either of them.
“Keep the faith,” he whispered in her ear as he gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. “I’ll have your man sprung in no time.”
Was it bravado, or did he really mean it? She chose to believe him. “I’ll be waiting.”
The high-powered attorney went up to the reception desk. “I’m Dexter Thorndyke, representing Mr. Louis.”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Philpott said you’d be coming.” She rose from her chair and led him to a door behind her.
Chapter Thirty-One
JED SAT in a room that was too small for the long, polished conference table that dominated it. Milky daylight streamed in from the row of unwashed wood sash windows that lined one long wall. Overhead, lights burned, but their weak yellow glow did nothing to alleviate the gloom that seemed to pervade the room. Except for a framed lithograph of the first president of the United States, the walls were bare.
Daniel Philpott, fiftyish but fit looking, in white shirtsleeves, his blue tie askew, sat at the head of the veneered table. By his side was a younger woman, whom he’d introduced as Tracy Simms, an assistant district attorney. Logan Fielder, taciturn and scowling, sat across from her.
They’d offered Jed coffee, which he’d declined. They’d tried asking him questions about Frannie and him, which he’d politely but pointedly refused to answer until his lawyer arrived. There was a quick tap on the door, it opened, and the D.A.’s secretary held it for Dexter Thorndyke. He came first to Jed and shook his hand.
“Gwyn called me. You all right?” he asked quietly.
“Fine.” Jed didn’t feel fine. He’d done his best not to show discomfort, but he doubted he’d succeeded. These people were experts at applying pressure and reading reactions.
Thorndyke did an about-face and went up to the man at the head of the table. “Mr. Philpott. I’m Dexter Thorndyke. We’ve never met, but I know you by reputation. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Probably without realizing it, Philpott beamed, if only for a second. “Call me Dan.” He extended his hand.
Jed wondered if Thorny had actually heard anything about the country attorney, or if the statement was a routine disarming tactic. The rest of the introductions were made, though Thorny already knew Fielder.
“Now, perhaps you will tell me why Mr. Louis has been asked to come here.” He removed a yellow legal pad from his attaché case, placed it on the table and took the seat beside Jed.
“There are some facts pertaining to the disappearance and murder of Frannie Granger,” Philpott announced, “about which we would like to ask your client. Since he has been unwilling to cooperate with the police—”
“That’s not true,” Jed objected.
Thorny raised a hand to silence him, his eyes never leaving the other attorney’s. “Why do you say he’s been unwilling to cooperate?”
“He’s refused to answer the sheriff’s questions,” Philpott declared.
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Mr. Philpott . . . Dan. Mr. Louis has answered all the questions put to him by Sheriff Fielder.”
Philpott said nothing, but his glance at the sheriff begged for an explanation.
Fielder clearly wasn’t pleased at being put on the spot, but he answered evenly. “The day after the skeletal remains uncovered by archaeologist Tessa Lang were positively identified as those of Mrs. Frances Granger, I approached Mr. Louis and asked him to recount the events surrounding her disappearance on May 4, 1982. He refused.”
“That’s not true,” Jed said again.
“What Mr. Louis did,” Thorny enlightened the D.A., “was tell the sheriff his recollection of the circumstances surrounding his foster mother’s last days were already a matter of record and that he had no reason to change them. After nineteen years, Dan, I’m sure you’ll agree memory of such a traumatic event can be hazy, incomplete and subject to time’s distortion.”
“Time can also provide deeper insight,” Philpott pointed out in a weak attempt to rescue the sheriff.
Thorny easily agreed. “But,” he added, “the sheriff didn’t offer Mr. Louis a copy of his previous statement to review in order to ascertain if there were any inaccuracies in it or if he had more information to impart.” He addressed the sheriff. “Did you even research the record of statements taken at that time?”
Taking obvious umbrage at the counselor’s insulting tone, Fielder flexed his jaw before he answered. “Of course I did.”
“Were Mr. Louis’s statements incomplete or unclear in some way?”
“They were clear as far as they went,” Fielder grudgingly acknowledged. He was about to add something, but Thorny didn’t give him a chance.
“However, you didn’t recount a specific event or fact in Mr. Louis’s statement that you needed clarification on. Is that correct? You simply wanted him to repeat to you what he’d already told you at the time of his foster mother’s disappearance.”
Fielder sucked air through his nose. He was smart enough to know where the defense attorney was going with this. “I wanted to find out if Louis had thought of anything since then that might be relevant to my investigation.”
“But you didn’t tell Mr. Louis that, did you?” Thorndyke reminded him in a tone that was so easygoing it was deceptive. He picked up the uncapped fountain pen he’d laid beside the pad and held it by its ends between his hands. “I don’t think that’s what you were really after, Sheriff. Since you didn’t ask any specific questions or elicit clarification or elaboration of any of his previous statements, I think you were hoping he would say something that varied in some small detail with what he’d said previously, so you could call him a liar.”
Fielder’s large hands gripped the edge of the table. “That’s not—”
“You were on a fishing expedition.”
“You’ve no call—” Philpott started to interrupt.
Thorndyke turned directly to him and fixed him with a hard glare. “You still are.”
Philpott stiffened in his chair. “Now, just a minute, Thorndyke—”
Thorny ignored him. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was enough force in it to prevail. “For the record, we are willing to concede that Jed Louis, then seventeen years old, had an argument with his foster mother, Frances Granger, at their residence on the morning of May 4, 1982. That sometime after this verbal altercation, Mrs. Granger disappeared and was never seen again until her remains were recently uncovered by Ms. Lang
.”
“What was the nature of this . . . altercation?” the woman across from the sheriff asked. Jed had watched her taking in the exchange among the men. Tracy Simms gave the impression of a student absorbing everything and filing it away. The curtness in the way she asked her question, however, suggested she wasn’t nearly as acquiescent as she appeared.
“Mr. Louis asked her to sign a form so he could travel to New York to attend the Juilliard School of Music. Mrs. Granger refused, and Mr. Louis, in understandable disappointment, accused her of ruining his life. Contrary, however, to the hearsay information that has been given to the press, he did not threaten her in any way.”
“Where did he go that day?” she persisted.
Thorny continued in his formal manner. “For the record, we also stipulate that on that particular day Mr. Louis did not attend school. He went fishing on Caddo Lake.”
“By himself?”
“Yes.” Thorny bequeathed her a wide grin. “And that’s all the fishing you’re going to be able to do, as well. Unless you have questions you have not asked before, this meeting is over.” He pushed back his chair. Taking his lead, Jed did the same.
Thorndyke didn’t immediately stand up, however. As he returned his unused pen to an inside pocket of his suit jacket, he looked across the table to the district attorney. “Dan, unless you have information you’re not sharing with me, all you’ve got against my client is circumstantial. Clearly you don’t have an indictable case. Otherwise you would have a warrant for Mr. Louis’s arrest.”
He clutched the arms of the stiff wooden chair. “It might be a good idea for you to review with Sheriff Fielder the elements that constitute police harassment and intimidation.” He retrieved his attaché case and slipped the yellow pad back inside. “And don’t forget to cover the penalties associated with those crimes.”
Fielder’s eyes widened, and he nearly came out of his seat.
Philpott reached over and pressed down on the hand splayed on the table closest to him. “Mind telling me what are you’re getting at?” he asked Thorny.
“Your sheriff has been stalking my client.”
The D.A. looked over at Fielder. “Is that true?”
“No,” Fielder snapped.
“Isn’t it? My client informs me you called on him several days ago and accused him of intimidating Ms. Joleen Berber.”
“All I did was ask him why he went to see her.”
Thorny’s dark eyebrows went up in a simulation of surprise. What the expression more convincingly said was “Gotcha.”
“I have a witness who says you told him to stay away from her.” Thorny clicked the attaché case closed. “By the way, did Ms. Berber contact you about Mr. Louis’s visit and register a complaint?”
Plainly, Fielder knew he’d just been tricked. In a low and angry undertone, he said, “One of my deputies happened to be passing by and saw his car parked in front of her house. Louis has the only Jag in town,” he added, as if that explained everything.
“My understanding is that Ms. Berber lives in a remote part of town, one well off the beaten track. The coincidence of a deputy just happening to patrol that road at the same time my client made his one and only visit to her residence strains credibility, Sheriff. I’m quite certain a judge would find it highly suspect, as well.”
Jed studied the body language of the people at the table. They weren’t happy.
Thorny finally rose and moved toward the door. Jed followed and muttered something in his ear. The attorney nodded and turned back to the D.A.
“When can Mrs. Granger’s remains be released, Dan? The true victim in this case deserves the dignity of a decent burial.”
Philpott looked blank for a moment. “I’ll check and get back to you.”
Thorny nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” He started for the door but again stopped short. “One other thing, Dan. Since the sheriff here has obviously not been completely forthcoming with you, I feel it’s my duty to inform you he’s apparently made no good-faith effort to explore other possible leads in this tragic case. He’s done nothing, for example, to find Hank Belmonte, who had means, motive and opportunity. Locate him and you may well find the real killer.” He motioned to Jed for them to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .”
Jed preceded Thorny though the door. The last thing they heard was Philpott asking Fielder, “Who the hell is Hank Belmonte?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
WHEN JED EMERGED through the doorway, Gwyn jumped to her feet, then worried that her legs wouldn’t hold her. Heart tripping, she ran to him and threw her arms around his waist. The warmth of his body as he hugged her to his chest reassured her and gave her strength.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk.” Thorny moved past them to the hallway door, his tone amused and encouraging.
Outside the building, he glanced up at the pearl-gray sky. “Have to drive to Dallas this afternoon and haven’t eaten a thing all day, so let’s go to the family restaurant I saw a couple of blocks from here.”
Gwyn left her Rover parked in the street and climbed into Jed’s truck a few spaces away. They followed the lawyer’s shiny black Mercedes. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the restaurant wasn’t crowded. Nevertheless, they chose a booth in the rear, where they could be reasonably sure of privacy.
Jed ignored the menu the hostess placed in front of him. “Thanks for your help back there.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” Thorny gave him a toothy grin. “Actually, it went very well.”
Gwyn wrinkled up her nose. “You sound almost pleased it happened.” Jed had given her a quick rundown of the meeting on the drive over.
“Oh, I am.” He scanned the menu quickly.
The waitress came by with pad and pencil in hand. “What can I get y’all?”
Jed ordered coffee, Gwyn iced tea and Thorny a Reuben and a Coke.
“Would you care to elaborate?” Jed prompted after the waitress left.
Thorny repositioned the paper napkin and flatware in front of him. “Okay, let’s consider what just happened. The sheriff obviously told the district attorney you were being uncooperative. Philpott knew they didn’t have enough for an arrest, but the sheriff must have convinced him that inviting you in for an informal discussion would yield some benefits.”
“But Fielder knew you’d been retained,” Gwyn objected. “Jed told him often enough that he wouldn’t talk except in your presence.”
The lawyer shrugged. “Maybe Fielder didn’t tell Philpott that. There’s a tendency among some cops to hold back on prosecutors, to tell them only what they think will help their case.”
“It’d be damn stupid of him not to let the D.A. know about you, wouldn’t it?”
Thorny cocked an eyebrow. “People do stupid things.”
The waitress delivered their drinks, momentarily interrupting the discussion.
“Maybe Fielder or Philpott thought I was unavailable,” Thorny speculated, “and this would be a good time to scare Jed. Calling someone in for a voluntary interview is a not-so-subtle form of intimidation that’s often successful. Even if Jed had stood mute, they could have regaled him with the consequences of his failure to cooperate. They’d also remind him he wasn’t under arrest and therefore the Miranda warning didn’t apply. Theoretically anything he said couldn’t be used against him.”
“But it would have been,” Gwyn concluded.
“It would have given them leads they could exploit.”
“I refused to discuss even the weather with them,” Jed reminded both of them.
“Which was exactly the right thing to do.”
Jed chuckled for the first time and grinned at the man across the table from him. “I don’t think Fielder did tell him you were my lawyer. Philpott seemed surprised when I announced that you wer
e.”
The waitress brought their orders. Thorny slathered mustard inside the grilled corned beef, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut sandwich and took a big bite of it, using his napkin to wipe his mouth as he chewed.
“So why was this business good for us?” Gwyn asked.
Thorny swallowed. “First, it showed the D.A. and his people that the usual tactics aren’t going to work.” He finished off the first half of his sandwich.
“Second, it drove a wedge between Fielder and the D.A. Philpott will think twice now when the sheriff comes to him with information about this case. He’ll want to make damn sure it’s accurate and indisputable before he’s willing to go out on a limb.”
He bit into the second half, chewed and swallowed. “Third, it allowed me to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. He’s more likely now to push Fielder to find Belmonte.” He wiped the corner of his mouth.
“Fourth, it gave me the opportunity to put them on notice that police harassment won’t fly and will not be tolerated.” He turned to Jed. “I want you to keep me informed of everything that goes on or that you think might be going on—cars following you, unexplained phone calls, letters or threats—”
“God, you don’t think he’s in danger!” Gwyn exclaimed.
Thorny finished his sandwich and crunched the dill pickle that had been served with it. Gwyn watched him wash it down with the soft drink. The sour-sweet combination made her stomach lurch.
“I’m not trying to frighten you, but let’s face facts.” The lawyer wiped his hands on his nearly shredded ball of paper napkin. “Somebody murdered Frannie Granger. That person may be miles away from here now—or dead.”
“Like Hank Belmonte.”
He nodded. “Or he could be someone who still lives around here and who is now in danger of being revealed. Desperate people do desperate things.”
Gwyn tightened the grip she had on Jed’s hand under the table.
“I’ve got to be honest with you,” the man across from them said seriously. “This homicide may never be solved. If this Hank Belmonte, for example, killed Granger, hightailed it out of here and is now dead, we’ll probably never get enough evidence to prove he did it.”