Blood of Angels

by Reed Arvin

  Stillman leans forward slightly. “It’s important you answer the question, Jason.”

  “A little weed. Coke, when she could afford it. Big fuckin’ deal.”

  “Did she owe anyone any money over drugs?”

  Very good, Stillman. You’re thinking like the defense, staying ahead. Hodges looks annoyed. “What’s this have to do with anything? She’s dead.”

  “We have a good case against Bol,” Stillman says. “That means the defense will be grasping at straws. They’ll try to create reasonable doubt. They’ll want to find alternative reasons how she might have died.”

  “Bol killed her.”

  “If she owed money, the defense will say those people might be the ones who killed her, not Bol.”

  “She didn’t owe no money.”

  Stillman nods. “Good. That’s good, Jason.”

  “OK, then.”

  “I’m going to ask you another question now, Jason. You aren’t going to like it.”

  “What?”

  “Did you ever hit Tamra?”

  “Anybody says that, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”

  “Hang on, people,” I say, quietly. “Let’s just stay calm.”

  “But why’s he got to say that? You got to hang that shit on me?”

  “I think Mr. Stillman here was just giving you a little test.”

  “He can shove that test up his ass, too.”

  “He’s just pointing out that you have to stay calm. No matter what. If you show anger, that sticks in the minds of the jury.”

  “That’s a bunch of shit, too,” Hodges says. “I never hit no girlfriend.”

  “The defense is fighting for Bol’s life, Jason. In their minds, everything’s fair. If they lose, Bol dies.”

  “He wins, I’ll kill him myself.”

  I exhale. “It’s very important you don’t say anything like that on the stand, Jason. Do you understand what’s happening here? If you let yourself look dangerous, you plant doubt in the minds of the jury.”

  Hodges stares. “Yeah. OK.”

  “Fine.” We sit quietly a few seconds, but the air is malignant with Hodges’s outburst. “There are witnesses that say they saw Tamra and Bol arguing in the week before the murder,” I say. “Do you know what that was about?”

  “For him to keep his damn distance,” Hodges says. “Not to mack up on her.”

  “Was he macking up on her, Jason?”

  “All the time,” he says. “Made me sick. I told him to back the fuck off.”

  Stillman looks at me. “OK, then,” he says. “It fits, too. Gives him motive.” He turns back to Jason. “Did you confront him?”

  “Damn right.”

  “What happened?”

  “He backed off, but I couldn’t be there all the time. And when I wasn’t, he did his thing on her.”

  Stillman looks over at me. “You have anything?”

  “No.”

  “OK,” Stillman says. “I know this is all difficult for you. If there’s any question you have about the process, now would be a good time to ask.” The father shifts in his seat, like he wants to ask something. “Go ahead,” Stillman says.

  “I was just wonderin’ if we can watch.”

  “Of course,” I say. “There are seats saved for you every day.”

  The father shakes his head. “No. I mean when they kill him.”

  STILLMAN USHERS HARTLETT’S family out of the room and comes back in, smiling. “Damn, Mr. Trent’s pretty fucking gung-ho.” “Yeah.”

  “Of course, he’s got a right to his anger.”

  “He hasn’t seen his daughter in months, and all the sudden he wants to watch Bol fry?”

  Stillman’s quiet for a while. “So we ready to go on this thing? Ready to put the bad guy away?”

  “Yeah, Stillman. We got what we needed. Bol and Hartlett were arguing because Bol wanted what she did not want to give. It’s airtight.”

  “So we’re gold.”

  “One problem. Jason Hodges has a hair-trigger temper.”

  “So?”

  “So before I put that walking hand grenade on the stand, I’m going to find out everything I can about him.”

  Stillman stares at me. “This thing is on a silver platter, Thomas. We don’t have time to go on a lot of snipe hunts.”

  “Rita West is a good lawyer, Stillman. It’s going to take her about ten seconds to figure out that Jason Hodges is a nice, juicy alternative to her client. And she doesn’t have to prove a thing. All she has to do is put a question in one juror’s mind.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not to mention the fact that you’re one of four people in this office who knows that Kwame Jamal Hale is a few days away from possibly reopening every death-penalty case in this state. So there is no way that we are going to fuck this up.”

  THERE’S A LIGHT DRIZZLE on I-65, making traffic a bitch. I sit in the cocoon of the Ford, crawling home at twenty miles an hour, watching the wipers sweep warm rain off the glass before me. It’s been a hell of a day, bookended on one side by Hale’s confession and a victim’s family on the other. There it is, I think. The yin and yang of the job. Professor Buchanan trying to make Wilson Owens a martyr, and a father so bent on revenge he wants to watch Bol fry. In between these two forces, I’m going to try to practice a little law.

  I drive into the garage and park. Indy greets me with his swishing tail and mewing hunger, and halfway through feeding him I realize that it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve done all day. Feed the hungry cat. Now that’s a simple, entirely positive thing to do. If I don’t sell BMWs, I’ll become a professional cat feeder. I’ll just find hungry cats far and wide, and make their days wonderful with fucking Fancy Feast.

  Dinner is something overly salted and previously frozen. A cook, I’m not. Bec could cook. She made fabulous chorizo, and she hand-rubbed her roasted pollo with garlic and stuffed it with oranges. My daughter, I miss 24-7. Bec, I miss mornings and dinner. Dinner for the food, and mornings for her sweet, funky smell and the sight of her breathing peacefully beside me. A woman comfortable in a nightgown—it doesn’t have to be something from Victoria’s Secret, it can just be a big T-shirt—has always had power in my book. Tonight, I push a fork into some kind of brown mystery that Swanson’s has the arrogance to call meatloaf.

  The rain stops in a half hour, and I walk out to get my mail. I open the front door and practically trip over something as I walk out. A wreath of white flowers is at my feet. I reach down and pull off a note. There’s a message: Sorry for your loss. I look around; there’s nobody in sight. What damn loss? I haven’t lost anything. I turn over the card, and see my name and address, and the name of the florist. I check my watch; it’s nearly 7:00 p.m., probably too late to call the florist. I take the wreath inside and set it on the dining table. White flowers and a note. This is a funeral wreath. I stare at it awhile, thinking I’ve been pulled into some cheesy made-for-TV movie. You gotta be kidding me. Are the fucking Nationites trying to send me a message? I pick up the phone and call Paul Landmeyer, and his wife, Jenny, answers. Jenny puts Paul on the phone. “Hey. It’s Thomas. You busy?”

  “Nope. I’m watching Millionaire with my kid. Maybe he’ll learn something, since he can’t be bothered with school.”

  “Something weird happened tonight. I wanted to run it by you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “There was a funeral wreath left on my door.”

  A silent pause. “Hang on. I’m taking you into the study.” He carries the phone away from his family. “OK. Talk to me.”

  “Not much else to tell. It’s a local florist, with a note attached. Sorry about your loss.”

  “Who do you think sent it?”

  “Offhand, I’d say it’s the same guy who left the note on my car.”

  “What note?”

  “The freaky one about the death penalty.”

  “You keep it?”

  “Yeah. I don’t give a shit about the card, but I don’t like thi
s guy hanging around my house. That’s a little too close.”

  “Or woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said guy. It could be a woman.”

  “Yeah. Theoretically.”

  “You tell David?”

  “He’s got enough on his plate already. Look, I’m pretty sure it’s just some idiot from the Nation warning me not to fuck up.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “All the same, I was wondering if this thing was worth bringing in. It wouldn’t break my heart to figure out who this moron is.”

  A pause. “You mean forensically? Since it comes from a florist, whoever sent it wouldn’t have touched it. They’d call it in or, better yet, order it online.”

  “Right.”

  He pauses. “Your number’s unlisted, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I’d watch your back for the next few days, buddy. Looks like somebody knows where you live.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  DR. TINA GESSMAN, staff psychologist for the Metro Davidson County Justice Department, is smart and insightful. In the looks department, she has a Kathy Bates thing going on—minus the movie money and Hollywood sophistication—which obviates any potential for sexual tension. I’ve been seeing her once a month for what the DA calls “tune-ups,” and which I call “a total bullshit experience that wastes both my and the good doctor’s time.” Except this time, I’ve seen Kwame Jamal Hale. His confession might actually have the psychic weight to tip me over on my side.

  Tina’s office is in a nine-story office building on West End Avenue, across from a Burger King and a Catholic bookstore. You park in the back—she doesn’t validate—and ride up a small elevator to the fifth floor. Tina opens the door from her inner office, and I walk in. The box of Kleenex discreetly placed near the patient chair testifies to the kind of work she does. Another clue is the back door, which lets people escape with their crying jags without going through the reception area. The Justice Department is a tight little world, where everybody knows everybody, and walking out of the department psych’s office in tatters wouldn’t be well received.

  “Come in, Thomas,” she says. Her voice is soft, every time, no matter what. It’s like her volume knob got locked on 3. “Have a seat.”

  I fall into one of the two patient chairs and stretch out my legs. “It’s a million degrees out there.”

  She pulls out her notebook and flips to an empty page. I look around the office; same soothing pictures, same gentle hum out of the air-conditioning, same acrid smell of confession in the air. “So how are you?”

  “Great.”

  “Glad to hear it. The Zoloft still working OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “No sexual side effects?”

  “You makin’ a pass at me, Tina? I’m gonna have to report you to the authorities.”

  She smiles. “What’s on your mind today, Thomas?”

  “How do you know there’s something on my mind?”

  “You’re on time.”

  I look at my watch; it’s nine sharp. “You’re right.”

  “Your habitual lateness is a way of communicating your disregard for our sessions,” she says. “You’ve been on time exactly twice. The first session and today. So this is a special occasion.”

  “I went to Brushy Mountain yesterday,” I say. “It wasn’t a good trip.”

  “What happened?”

  “I met a guy who claims I prosecuted the wrong guy in a death-penalty trial.”

  Her expression clouds. “I see.”

  “It was my first big case with Carl. We got the death penalty, and the guy was executed a few months ago. Everything seemed OK, until this guy from Brushy shows up. Carl, David, and I went out to see him.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says we killed the wrong guy. He says he’s the one who committed the crime. He says we fucked up.”

  “Does he seem credible?”

  I look out the window. “Yeah. Maybe. He’s a crook, so it’s hard to tell.”

  “What do Carl and David say?”

  “Carl stays above it, somehow. Don’t ask me how. David can’t let the possibility enter his mind, so he’s already decided the guy’s lying.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  The towers at Vanderbilt University are visible about five blocks away. Just beyond is the law school, where a fresh group of lawyers is being minted. “I think he’s telling the truth. I think we got the wrong guy.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “We’ve got some evidence to check. It might turn out OK. We might be able to prove the guy’s full of shit.”

  “Then maybe it’s not a good idea to carry that load until you have to.”

  “I’ve got a new murder trial in the meantime. We’re going for the maximum.”

  Her expression darkens further. “Could you ask David to assign somebody else?”

  I shake my head. “He feels like if I back out, it’s a capitulation on the other thing. He’s worried about a domino effect.” I watch my leg, making sure it’s obediently still. “There’s a woman,” I say, much to my surprise.

  She looks up. “You’re dating?”

  I laugh. “No. In the case.”

  She gives me a curious look. “Oh. The case.”

  “Preacher over at Downtown Presbyterian. Her name’s Fiona Towns.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s going to give testimony that she was with the accused at the time of the murder. She’s his alibi.”

  “Good for the kid.”

  I give a small smile. “She’s lying. I mean, I’m pretty sure she is. Lately things are a little vague.”

  She watches me quietly for a while. “Do you hope she’s not lying?”

  A long pause. “Yeah.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “She’s this anti-death-penalty activist. I think she’s lying as a protest over that.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “I’m going to have to destroy her on the stand.”

  “Then maybe it’s better if it’s a no.”

  Silence, as I twist in her psychological wind. “She seems principled and not entirely out of her mind,” I say after a while. “I can’t put my finger on it. But she’s decent.”

  Tina smiles. “So are you.” She writes for a couple of minutes in her book. “Tell me more about the guy at Brushy Mountain.”

  I exhale. “The thing is, I had a little doubt at the time. The jury was wavering, and I had the feeling that I should let it be. Let them figure it out on their own.”

  “So what happened?”

  I shrug. “It was a high-profile case. The community wanted it. It was there, and I knew I could get it.” I rustle in my seat, wanting to change the subject. “Carl’s retiring this week, you know.”

  “Is he? That’s great.”

  “Yeah. I’m damned if I’m going to put a cloud on that. I don’t want him thinking over what might have been for the next thirty years.” She nods. “Anyway, you’ve met Carl. He’s a rock.”

  She smiles. “I prefer you, actually.”

  “I’m half the lawyer he is.”

  “I doubt that.” She leans forward. “It’s not wrong to have doubts, Thomas. It’s human. We’ve gone over this before.”

  “Yeah.”

  “My goal here isn’t to make you a better lawyer. It’s to let you be the lawyer you are and keep your humanity alive.”

  “How am I doing?”

  “You’re my star patient.” She pulls out a card and writes a number on it. “This is my home telephone, Thomas. Let’s keep track of where you are on this, OK?”

  “Home number. I swear, Tina, I’m gonna slap you with sexual harassment.”

  We stand, and she puts her hand on my arm. “You’re in a serious situation, Thomas. The jokes are fine. I understand that. But things are probably going to get a little hairy before this is over.”
/>
  I push the card into my pocket. “Probably.”

  JOSH RITCHIE, the investigator I have working on Bol and Towns, is waiting for me in the small conference room when I show up at work. He’s wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a Daytona Beach ball cap. He radiates the kind of mellow calm that enables him to sit for hours on end in his van without going out of his mind. “Yo,” he says. “I got news.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Bol’s closest friends are a couple of guys named Luol Chol and Matek Deng. Don’t ask me where they get these names.”

  “Africa, Josh.”

  “Right. Anyway, the three of them are like brothers. They lived in the same village and escaped together. It’s the hell-and-back thing, like brothers in arms. If anybody knows why Bol was arguing with Hartlett, it’s them.”

  “Her boyfriend says Bol was hitting on her and she didn’t like it.”

  He laughs. “Then he was the only one she didn’t like it from. The lady got around, dude. Seriously.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I sounded out the manager where she waitressed. He said she was taking home three hundred bucks a night in…um, ‘tips,’ if you know what I mean.”

  I nod. Wherever the money went, it wasn’t her apartment. It was typical squalid, badly furnished Nation, right down to the pressed-board coffee table. “Have you managed to talk to Chol or Deng?” I ask.

  Josh nods. “I shot the shit with Deng for a while out over at Tennessee Village.” He pulls out a photograph. “I took this from the van. Deng’s on the right; Chol’s on the left. They’re pretty much inseparable. They work the same shift at Wal-Mart.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Nice guys, very talkative. Right up until I mentioned Bol, I mean. Then it was instant stonewall.”

  I nod. “You find out anything on the preacher?”

  He smiles. “Florence Nightingale, dude. A real angel of mercy.”

  “How so?”

  “When she’s not feeding the homeless, she’s holding computer classes for the Africans. She uses one of their apartments.”

  “They’ve got computers?”

  Josh nods. “A couple of tired-out laptops. The door was open, and I walked in and acted like I was in the wrong apartment.”