by Scott Pratt
“Where were you Saturday night, Mr. Lipscomb?”
“I was banging your wife. Didn’t she mention it? I have to admit it wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, though. All that nastiness around the breast. Quite distracting. Not sexy at all.”
My mouth went dry immediately and I could feel myself beginning to tremble with rage. No one had ever spoken of Caroline in such a manner, and I didn’t intend to let him get away with it or do it again. I took a step toward him and felt Bates’ hand wrap around my forearm.
“Easy, brother Dillard,” he said. “He’s just baiting you.” His voice was distant, as though he was speaking from another room.
“Mention my wife again and I’ll rip your tongue out,” I said to Lipscomb. I took another step, trying to get away from Bates. He stepped between us, pressing his chest against me, talking in a clam voice.
“You don’t want to go to jail in Nashville,” Bates said. “Just breathe easy.”
“My, my, aren’t we excitable?” Lipscomb said. His expression had changed, however, and I noticed he was backing away slightly. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of fear. He must have been accustomed to saying whatever came into his mind without fear of repercussion.
“You have no idea how excitable I can be,” I said, my voice quivering with anger.
I was peripherally aware of the door opening and a man walking in. Lipscomb saw him, too, and walked around to the other side of his desk. He moved quickly behind the man.
“This is my lawyer,” Lipscomb said. “Anything you have to say to me goes through him.” He turned and waddled out of the room.
The lawyer was a tall, impressive-looking man wearing a black suit and tie over a wine colored shirt. He had a full, black, impeccably trimmed beard that covered his angular face, black hair that fell to his shoulders, olive-colored skin and eyes as dark as a moonless night. He carried himself confidently, shoulders back, chin up, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He walked straight to me and offered his hand.
“I’m Andres Pinzon, general counsel for Equicorp.”
I shook his hand robotically, still staring after Lipscomb.
“Have I missed something?” Pinzon said to Bates.
“I’m afraid your client insulted Mr. Dillard’s wife. He’s none too happy about it.”
“I apologize on Mr. Lipscomb’s behalf,” he said. “He sometimes speaks before he thinks.”
Pinzon spoke with a bit of an accent, most likely Spanish, but his tone wasn’t confrontational or sarcastic like Lipscomb’s. He looked me directly in the eye. “Perhaps Mr. Dillard and I should speak alone. Lawyer to lawyer. No police, no target.”
“Who said he was a target?” Bates said.
“We know you arrested Mr. Lipscomb’s brother, and we know the general nature of the questions you asked him. So please, if you would kindly wait outside, Mr. Dillard and I can talk here.”
“Brother Dillard?” Bates said. By this time, he’d let go of me and my breathing was beginning to slow.
“Sure,” I said. “Fine.”
“I’ll just walk on back outside and see if I can patch things up with Miss Monica,” Bates said. He sauntered out the door, and Pinzon motioned to a chair in front of Lipscomb’s desk.
“Let’s sit.”
The few short moments inside Lipscomb’s office had been so intense that I’d failed to notice my surroundings. Two of the walls were windows from floor to ceiling, offering expansive views to the south and east. The other two walls, both cedar trimmed in brass, were covered with oil paintings and tapestries. The floor was a gleaming, dark hardwood, the furnishings modern and expensive.
“I take it your foul-mouthed client likes cedar,” I said as I sat down in an overstuffed chair that probably cost as much as I made in a month.
“It’s Lebanese,” Pinzon said. “Very rare. Very expensive.”
“I didn’t think we did much business with the Lebanese.”
“People are always willing to do business if the price is right, but surely you didn’t travel all this way to discuss cedar. What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Dillard?”
“You can tell me where you and Mr. Lipscomb were on Saturday night.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because I already know where you were. I just want to see whether you’re going to lie.”
“How could you possibly know where I was on Saturday?”
“We have three dead women in my district, Mr. Pinzon.”
“Yes, I heard. Such a tragedy.”
“The women were seen boarding a boat owned by Mr. Lipscomb’s corporation just before dark. They were in the company of Mr. Lipscomb’s brother. I have information that leads me to believe that you and Mr. Lipscomb boarded the same boat a short time later. The women wound up floating in the lake. You and Mr. Lipscomb left in a hurry and the boat has disappeared. Given those facts, what conclusion would you draw?”
“What kind of information would lead you to believe that Mr. Lipscomb and I were on the boat?”
“The kind that comes from a reliable source. Stop playing games with me. Where were you and Mr. Lipscomb on Saturday night?”
“Mr. Dillard,” Pinzon said, rising from his chair. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, but I’m afraid this conversation is over.”
“Short and sweet,” I said. I stood and faced him, looking into his eyes. “This is your last chance to tell me what happened on that boat, Mr. Pinzon. If you tell me now, we can try to make the best of a bad situation. If you don’t—”
“I don’t know any more about what happened on the boat than you do,” he interrupted. “What I do know is that you’re playing a very dangerous game. It would be best for all concerned if you would turn your attention away from Mr. Lipscomb and focus on what you can prove.”
“We’ll be back,” I said, turning toward the door, “with arrest warrants and handcuffs.”
“That would be an extremely bad idea,” I heard him say behind me. The tone of his voice had changed; the pitch was slightly higher and the words came out much more quickly. Could it have been desperation? “Please,” he said as I started to pull the door closed behind me, “just let it go.”
Chapter Fifteen
Over the course of the investigation, I would come to know a great deal about John J. Lipscomb and his lawyer, Andres Pinzon. Initially, most of the information came from people Bates and his deputies spoke with – family, friends, enemies, business associates, former employees. Later, I learned much from Pinzon himself. This is what he told me about how he and John Lipscomb met:
Andres Pinzon was thirteen years old, standing at a middle-school urinal when he heard the door open behind him and the sound of laughter.
“Clear out,” a voice said, and the other students began to scramble.
Andres finished his business, zipped his fly, and turned toward the door. Standing in front of him were three boys, all larger than him. Andres recognized the boy in the middle as John Lipscomb. He lived directly across the street from Andres.
“That’s the new kid,” Lipscomb said. He was an inch or two taller than Andres, with dark hair and a ruddy complexion. His eyes were intense as he stared at Andres disdainfully. The other two boys, both blond-headed and green-eyed, looked to be twin brothers. Both of them were a good five inches taller than Andres, and both were built like athletes with wide shoulders and narrow waists.
“He looks like a monkey,” the blond to Andres’s left said.
Andres felt the fear in his stomach. It was his first day in an American school. Andres’s father, a pediatric endocrinologist who had received his medical training in the United States, had moved his family to Tennessee earlier that summer, fearing the escalating violence in his native Colombia. He also feared the influence that the Nadaistas, or “nothingists,” as they called themselves, might have on his children. Nadaismo, a philosophy espoused by a Colombian intellectual named Fernando Gonzalez, mirrored the hippie movement in the United State
s and was sweeping Colombia. Its central theme was “the right to disobey,” and the youth of Colombia were expressing their disdain for the ruling class in much the same way their American predecessors had done: they grew their hair long, they dressed and acted outrageously, they lampooned their elders in their music, and they smoked dope – lots of dope.
Andres had spent much time listening to his father trumpet the virtues of America: the democratic principles, the educational and economic opportunities, the rule of law. He had not, however, been prepared to deal with bigotry on his first day in school.
“You’re right,” Lipscomb said. “He looks like a monkey. Where you from, boy? The jungle?”
“My name is Andres Luis Pinzon,” Andres said as steadily as he could. “I am from Envigado, Colombia.”
“That’s some accent you got there, monkey boy. You know what we do to monkey boys who talk like you?”
Lipscomb took a step closer and began to unzip his fly. Before Andres realized what was happening, Lipscomb was urinating on Andres’s pants leg.
Andres reacted instinctively. He heard himself mutter something in Spanish and launched himself at his aggressors. For the next thirty seconds, it was as though he had fallen into a dream. Everything was in slow-motion. He didn’t feel his fist connect with Lipscomb’s nose, didn’t feel himself being grabbed from behind, thrown to the ground, and kicked repeatedly in the ribs. He didn’t hear the teachers, who, after being summoned by the students that had been ordered to leave the bathroom, had rushed in to break up the fight.
Ten minutes later, after the adrenaline rush had subsided, Andres found himself sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office. Across from him was Lipscomb and one of the blond boys who had attacked him. Both boys wore smirks on their faces. The second blond was on the other side of the door. They could hear the principal yelling.
“You got balls, monkey boy, I’ll give you that,” Lipscomb said, holding a wad of toilet paper to his nose.
Andres looked at him fiercely. “If you keep calling me monkey boy, I’m going to punch you in the face again.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I said if you call me monkey boy again, I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“No, back in the bathroom, before you went all crazy, you said something about punta. Isn’t punta some kind of Spanish cuss word?”
“It means whore,” Andres said.
“You called me a whore?”
“No. I called you a son of a whore.”
Lipscomb smiled and looked at his friend, then turned back to Andres.
“You know something, Colombia?” he said. “I think you and me are gonna get along just fine.”
Chapter Sixteen
The day after Bates and I returned from Nashville, I stopped at a grocery on the west side of town on my way home. Caroline had asked me to pick up some fresh vegetables and some dog food, and as I walked around the corner of one of the aisles, I saw a familiar figure leaning over in the beer section. I froze momentarily, shocked to see her in that particular section of the store. She was wearing khaki shorts, a black T-shirt with “AAA Bail Bonds” emblazoned in white letters across the back, and a pair of flip flops. She picked up a case of beer and loaded it into a shopping cart. Sitting atop the cart was my niece, Gracie, who was only eighteen months old. Sarah staggered momentarily, and my heart sank.
She was drunk. I turned around and walked back through the store and out into the parking lot, feeling a mixture of anger and sadness, hoping I’d find someone sitting behind the wheel of her car. I hadn’t talked to her since Sunday morning – I just hadn’t had time – and a familiar pang of guilt ran through me, the kind of guilt I knew I shouldn’t be heaping on myself. Short of tying her up, there wasn’t anything I could do when she decided to binge.
I knew I had to confront her, but I didn’t want to make a scene in the store. Sarah was belligerent when she was drunk, and I knew I was in for a fight. But I couldn’t let her drive away. I located her Mustang in the parking lot and stood several feet away, waiting for her to emerge from the store. She did so a few minutes later and began, with a great deal of difficulty, loading the beer and the baby into the back seat.
“Hey there,” I said, walking up behind her.
She jerked, startled, and banged the back of her head against the roof.
“Dammit!” She rubbed the spot and looked at me angrily. “What’re you doing here?”
“Just stopped by for some dog food. I saw you coming out and thought I’d say hello.”
“Well, you said it. Goodbye.” Her words were slurred and her eyes reddened.
“Why the rush?” I stepped closer to her and the smell of beer assaulted me.
“Gotta go. . . cookin’ supper.”
She slid in behind the steering wheel and started fumbling with her keys, trying to get them in the ignition.
“Hold up there, Sarah. Can’t I at least say hi to Gracie?”
“She needsa eat. Gotta go.”
I reached into the car, snatched the keys from Sarah’s hand, and backed up toward the rear bumper.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled. “Gimme my keys!”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“What are you? A cop?”
“I can smell it all over you.”
“Gimme the keys.”
“Sarah, there’s no way I’m going to let you drive this car drunk, especially with Gracie in the back.”
“Gracie’s fine. I’m fine. Lemme alone.”
“C’mon, I’ll drive you home. We’ll pick up the car in the morning.”
“I’m not leaving my car here! Now gimme the damn keys!”
At that moment, I noticed a Johnson City police cruiser coming slowly toward us. He pulled up behind Sarah’s car, stopped, and rolled down the window. He was a young guy, typical of the police officers today, with a thick neck and a shaved head. He peered at me with dark, steady eyes as I walked to his car.
“Evening, officer,” I said.
“Evening. Everything alright here?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Gimme back my keys!”
I turned to see Sarah climbing out of the Mustang. The officer put his car in park and got out. He was about my size, roughly six-three and two hundred pounds. He put his hat on and pointed at Sarah.
“Miss, I’m going to need you to stop right there,” he said. She was leaning against the car with one hand, using it to balance herself. She ignored his command and grabbed me by the arm.
“My keys! Now!”
“You two know each other?” the cop said.
“She’s my sister.”
I saw a young woman approaching from my left. She was wearing a smock and a baseball cap with the store’s insignia.
“That’s her, officer,” she called, pointing at Sarah. “She’s the one. She has a baby in the car.”
Sarah turned and glared at the girl, suddenly even more enraged.
“Shut your mouth, you fat pig!” she bellowed. “Go back inside and mind your own business!”
She still had ahold of my arm with her right hand, and she continued to use her other hand to steady herself against the roof of the car. The situation was quickly deteriorating. The police officer keyed his microphone and spoke quietly into it as I tugged on Sarah, trying to get her attention off of the store employee. A small crowd was beginning to gather, and thirty seconds later, two more cruisers pulled into the parking lot.
“This is great, Sarah,” I said. “This is just great. Now you’re going to wind up in jail.”
“Get your hands offa me.”
She was tugging and twisting, trying to break loose. She even tried to kick me in the shin. I looked over at the newly-arrived cops and was relieved to see that I recognized one of them, a stocky, mid-thirties shift supervisor named Bob Dempsey. He and the other two officers formed a semi-circle and moved toward Sarah and me.
“Dillard?
” Dempsey said. “What are you doing in the middle of this?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” Sarah was still fighting and cursing. I’d seen her go into alcoholic rages before, and I knew there wasn’t much hope of calming her down anytime soon, at least not without the aid of some kind of sedative.
“So this is your sister,” Dempsey said, “I’ve heard a lot about her.”
“Yeah. Could you guys help me out here? My niece is in the back seat of the Mustang.”
“You want me to cuff her?” Dempsey asked.
Before I could answer, Sarah managed to get herself into position to knee me in the groin, and she did so with all the force she could muster. I felt the sensation of pain and nausea rise into my stomach and staggered away as the officers closed in on her. My mind clouded with the pain, causing Sarah’s screams to sound as though they were coming from inside a metal dumpster. I bent over and wretched while the officers grabbed Sarah, lifted her off the ground, and carried her to one of the cruisers.
By the time the nausea passed, Sarah was in the back seat of a police car, beating against the windows and screaming. Had she been anyone else, she would most certainly have been pepper-sprayed, maybe even tasered. I walked over to her Mustang. The door was still open, and I looked into the back seat. Gracie was in the car seat, calmly looking out the window in the other direction.
“Hi sweetie,” I said.
She recognized me immediately and grinned. “Unka Joe!”
I flipped the driver’s seat forward, reached across her, picked up a blanket, and tucked it snugly around her.
“I’ll be right back, sugar. You’re going to come spend the night with me and Aunt Caroline.”
“You gonna live?” a voice behind me asked. It was Dempsey.
I winked at Gracie and turned to face him. “I think so.”
“We have ourselves quite the little situation here.”
“Looks like it’s under control now.”
“I called the paramedics,” he said. “They’re on the way. What I’m worrying about is what I’m going to do with her after they get her to the hospital and she calms down.”