by Sandra Brown
He was tugging off his boots when his cell phone chirped, alerting him to a text message. It was from Headly: There’s a clincher.
He knew he was being baited, but curiosity won out over his better judgment. He texted back. What’s the clincher?
The reply was quick in coming. J Wesson only presumed dead. Body never found.
Chapter 2
Mr. Jackson, are you ready to call your next witness?”
The assistant DA stood. “I am, Your Honor. I call Amelia Nolan.”
Like the other spectators, Dawson turned as a bailiff opened the double doors at the back of the courtroom and motioned in the former Mrs. Jeremy Wesson.
Today was the third day of the trial. The first witness this morning had been a veterinarian, a Dr. Somebody—Dawson had his name in his notes for referral if needed—who had droned on forever about the digestive processes of dogs, specifically pit bulls.
It took the better part of two hours for the prosecutor to wade through all the scientific rigmarole and get to the crucial point: bits and pieces of Darlene Strong had been found in the digestive tracts of three of Willard Strong’s pack of illegal fighting dogs, which had been put down in order to search for evidence.
The second person to testify, the county medical examiner, had confirmed that those bits and pieces corresponded with the ones missing from what had been left of the victim’s cadaver, which police had discovered locked inside the dogs’ pen.
Darlene hadn’t been killed by the dogs, but the state was asking for the death penalty, so Lemuel Jackson, a shrewd and meticulous prosecutor with a double-digit number of convictions, had wanted to impress upon the jury how heinous the crime had been. He’d wanted it on the record that her body had been fed to Willard’s dogs, and since the animals were half-starved in order to make them fiercer competitors in the fighting rings…
The implication had made many of the jurors go a little green.
Blood samples taken from the ground inside the caged area, as well as a piece of scalp with hair attached found inside one dog’s intestines, suggested that Jeremy Wesson had met the same fate.
By the time the defense attorney, Mike Gleason, had stumbled through an ineffectual cross-examination of the ME, it was almost twelve o’clock. The judge called for a lunch recess until one thirty, although Dawson thought it doubtful that anyone in the courtroom would have much of an appetite. Certainly not one that would require an hour and a half to appease.
But now they were back, and the third witness of the day had been summoned into the courtroom.
For background, Dawson had read news articles about the crime. He supposed he’d glanced at the photographs of the ex Mrs. Wesson that had accompanied some of those write-ups, but he really hadn’t paid attention.
Suddenly he was.
The woman walking up the short center aisle wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He’d seen Flora Stimel’s Wanted posters and had imagined that Jeremy Wesson’s ex-wife would be of a type similar to that of his mother. He’d expected her to be coarse, tough, and hard-looking.
But from her delicate bone structure to the pale right hand she raised to be sworn in, this woman was the polar opposite. She outclassed everyone in the courtroom, Dawson included. Dawson especially.
She was dressed in an ivory-colored form-fitting skirt, with a blouse of the same color but of softer material, topped by a sapphire-blue jacket. Her auburn hair was pulled into a low ponytail, but not so tightly as to prevent a few loose strands from framing her face. Her only visible jewelry were a pair of diamond stud earrings and a wristwatch. She struck the perfect note for a courtroom appearance, being neither too feminine and fussy nor too structured and severe.
As a journalist, he would have been interested in Jeremy Wesson’s ex no matter what. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her, if not for his own elucidation, then certainly for Headly’s.
But the woman about to testify awakened a different kind of curiosity in him, and he resented it, because he didn’t need an additional complication, the worst possible one being the loss of his professional objectivity, on which he prided himself.
He cursed Headly again for dragging him into this. He hadn’t wanted to come, but knew he had to. After receiving the taunting text from Headly, he’d packed his duffel bag. The following morning, rather than using the ticket to Idaho that had been foisted on him, he’d boarded a flight to Savannah.
While waiting in the rental-car line, he’d called Harriet.
“Are you already in Boise?”
“I took a detour.”
He envisioned her seated behind her desk, smoke coming out her ears. “I assigned you a story, Dawson.”
“I’ve got a better one.”
“What is it?”
“For now, it’s a secret.”
“Where is it?”
“I’m hot on its trail.”
“Dammit, Dawson!”
“I’ll be in touch.” And he clicked off before the people around him could hear the obscene invectives being shouted through his phone.
For the time being, he was covering his own expenses, so he’d booked a room in a midpriced downtown hotel. After taking a cold shower, he’d raided the minibar, turned on ESPN, and settled down on the bed with a room-service cheeseburger and his laptop.
He’d searched out websites that contained material pertaining to the crime for which Willard Strong was being tried. On every level, it was a disturbing case, and by the time Dawson had finished researching it, he’d developed a tightness in his chest that he wanted to attribute to the Tabasco with which he’d doused his cheeseburger. But he knew that wasn’t the cause of the constriction.
He asked himself for the hundredth time why he’d let Headly rope him into becoming involved. But when he had stripped away all the plausible explanations for his capitulation, the truth stood alone, and it had nothing to do with Headly, but everything to do with himself.
Truth be known, he’d practically dared himself to come, as a kind of therapy.
Since his return from Afghanistan, he’d been unable to shake off the effects of spending almost a year in a war zone. They clung to him like a spiderweb, so fine as to be invisible, yet as tenacious as steel and, so far, impossible to escape.
Of course he was nowhere near as gone as Jeremy Wesson had been. No doubt the captain had suffered from the real thing, PTSD. It had cost him his family and ultimately his life, making him an ideal subject for a timely and relevant article, one certain to induce strong emotions in the reader.
But it was also the subject Dawson wished most to avoid. It cut too close to home.
And then there was the other element that made this story personally involving. Had Jeremy Wesson been Carl Wingert and Flora Stimel’s son? Were they or were they not dead? Dawson didn’t care. But Headly did, and he felt an obligation to his godfather to take the investigation at least one step further.
So, he’d come. And looking at it from a strictly journalistic standpoint, Jeremy Wesson’s life was a treasure trove of material. How could he possibly pass up writing the provocative story of a man who’d entered the world as the offspring of fugitives from justice, had experienced a seemingly normal upbringing in the Midwest, had honorably served his country, had returned home from war emotionally and psychologically wrecked, and then had been violently murdered?
It was an American version of a Greek tragedy.
With that in mind on his first night in Savannah, he’d shut down his laptop, washed down a sleeping pill with a slug of Pepto-Bismol to neutralize the Tabasco, and gone to bed. Five minutes later, he got up and took another pill, swallowing it with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the minibar.
He’d had the nightmare anyway. Twice.
Consequently he was groggy and ill-tempered for the first day of Willard Strong’s trial. He’d arrived at the courthouse early—not to claim a front-row seat, but to secure one in the back row near the exit so he could make a speedy and uno
btrusive getaway if he felt the need.
As soon as court had adjourned that first day, he’d headed straight for River Street, where he spent the remainder of the evening cruising the bars. Women were available, and sex would provide at least a temporary reprieve from the morbid thoughts that haunted him, but he hadn’t acted on any of the invitations, subtle or overt, that he received.
He made friendships that lasted only for as long as a drink or two, limited conversations to impersonal topics, and stretched out the time until the bars closed and he had nothing else to do except return to the hotel room, and to the hard, unforgiving pillow where night sweats and bad dreams awaited.
Up to this moment, he’d been bored with the trial and was trying to devise a graceful way to disengage himself from everything relating to it.
The appearance of Wesson’s ex-wife changed that.
* * *
Amelia’s left palm felt damp against the Bible on which she swore to tell the whole truth. Then she stepped up into the witness box and took her seat.
Jackson approached her. “Ms. Nolan, thank you for appearing today. Will you please state your name for the court?”
“Amelia Nolan.”
“That’s your maiden name?”
“Yes. Following my divorce from Jeremy, I reverted to using it.”
He smiled. “Nolan is an honorable name in this state.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the defense table. “Ms. Nolan, do you recognize the defendant?”
For the first time since entering the courtroom, she looked toward Willard Strong. He sat with his shoulders hunched, his eyes peering at her from beneath the ledge of his prominent brow. His hair had been neatly combed. He was dressed in a suit that appeared to be two sizes too small. If she had to use a single word to describe him, it would be brutish.
She acknowledged recognition. “Jeremy introduced us.”
“When did this initial meeting take place?”
“February twenty-second of 2011.”
“You recall the exact date?”
“It was my older son, Hunter’s, fourth birthday.”
“Can you please tell the court the circumstances of this meeting?”
“Jeremy and I were separated. I had temporary custody of our two sons while our divorce was pending, but I had agreed to let Jeremy attend Hunter’s party. When he arrived, Willard and Darlene Strong were with him.”
“You hadn’t met them before then?”
“No, but I knew their names. Jeremy had talked about them.”
“How would you describe them that morning?”
“You mean—”
“The condition of the three when they arrived at your home.”
“They were intoxicated.”
The defense counsel stood. “Objection.”
“I’ll rephrase,” Jackson said before the judge could rule. “Ms. Nolan, did you get the impression that the three of them had been drinking excessively?”
Gleason was about to object again, when the judge held up her hand. “Ms. Nolan may answer.”
Jackson motioned for her to proceed.
“I’d seen Jeremy intoxicated before,” she said. “Many times. He wasn’t a pleasant and happy drunk. On the contrary. So I’d started watching for the signs. When he arrived for the party, I saw right away that his eyes were bloodshot. His smile was more like a sneer. His attitude was aggressive. The three of them laughed…” She paused, but could think of no other words that would adequately describe them. “They laughed drunkenly and inappropriately.”
“What time of day was this?”
“The party was scheduled for noon. They got there shortly before that.”
“Did you confront Mr. Wesson about these visible signs of intoxication?”
“Yes.”
“Did he offer an explanation?”
“He said they’d come straight from a party of their own, that they’d been celebrating all night.”
“‘They?’ He, Mr. Strong, and Mr. Strong’s wife?”
“Objection. Leading the witness.”
Jackson acknowledged the judge’s ruling in favor of Gleason’s objection, but he’d got his point across to the jury. The party referred to had been among the three of them exclusively.
Out the corner of her eye, Amelia saw Willard Strong mutter something to his lawyer. Gleason sternly shook his head as though admonishing him to keep quiet. It made her shudder to surmise what he might have said, but she seriously doubted that it could have been flattering to her.
Jackson continued. “I think the jury will agree that we’ve established that the defendant, his wife, and your estranged husband showed up drunk to your son’s birthday party. Could you please tell the court what happened next?”
She put herself back into that scene, seeing again Jeremy’s insolent grin. “I asked Jeremy to leave. Other guests had already arrived. They were in the courtyard at the side of the house. I was embarrassed for Jeremy, for myself.”
“How did he respond to your request that he leave?”
“He became belligerent. He said that he had a right to see his son on his birthday, and that I wasn’t going to stop him from doing so.”
Gleason came to his feet. “Your Honor, I object. Why is this testimony relevant to this trial?”
“I’m getting to the relevance,” Jackson calmly replied.
“Objection overruled,” the judge said, but she asked Jackson to move it along.
He nodded and turned back to Amelia. “For the sake of time and defense counsel’s limited patience, can you tell us how this confrontation was resolved?”
“I told Jeremy that he wasn’t fit to be around children. Or anyone for that matter. I ordered him to leave. He refused. So I threatened to call the police. I also threatened to get a restraining order, preventing him from coming near our sons.”
“What was his reaction to the threat?”
“He cursed at me. Called me names. He said that our sons were his flesh and blood and that nothing would or could keep him from being with them. He caused a terrible scene.”
Friends of Hunter’s from preschool, their parents, Hunter himself had heard Jeremy’s profane shouting and had come inside to see what it was about. She would never forget the fear in her son’s eyes as he watched his ranting father. Grant, her younger, was only a year and a half old at the time. He began to cry.
Amelia looked down at her cold, damp hands, which she’d subconsciously clasped tightly in her lap. She forced herself to relax them, reminding herself that her sons would never have to fear Jeremy again.
“Ms. Nolan?”
She raised her head and squared her shoulders.
“Ms. Nolan,” Jackson repeated, “what were Willard and Darlene Strong doing while this scene was unfolding?”
She darted a look toward the defense table and felt the full brunt of Strong’s animosity. “Mr. Strong was egging Jeremy on.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“He was saying things like ‘Darlene would never get away with talking to me like that.’”
“Did he indicate that she would suffer physically if she—”
“Your Honor, objection,” Gleason whined. “Prosecution is leading the witness again.”
“Sustained.”
Jackson apologized, rather insincerely Amelia thought. Then he turned back to her. “Do you recall a specific threat made by Mr. Strong toward his wife?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them, she looked directly toward the jury box. “Jeremy had taken a grip on my arm. Here.” She placed her hand around her biceps. “He was shaking me. Mr. Strong said, ‘You’re letting her off light. If Darlene threatened me like that, it would be the last thing she ever did.’”
* * *
The statement created a vacuum in the courtroom. It was several moments before the spectators began to breathe again. Feet shifted, clothing rustled as people readjusted themselves
in their seats, someone coughed.
Dawson noticed the same was so with the jurors. They had seemed transfixed by Amelia Nolan, or at least by her story. Lem Jackson was no fool. He milked the tension by looking each of them in the eye before he walked back to the state’s table and picked up a legal pad, flipping through several pages as though searching for a note. Dawson doubted he needed the reference. It was a plausible way to kill time while his witness’s pertinent statement took root in the minds of the jurors.
Before he could pose another question, Amelia Nolan asked for a glass of water. While she was taking the short break, the judge invited everyone to stand up and stretch. Dawson used the time to send two texts. The first went to Headly.
Wesson’s ex testifying. Very effective. Used the Viagra yet? I want salacious details.
The second text was sent to a researcher and fact checker who’d been at NewsFront since the magazine’s first issue was published thirty years ago. She was scrawny, cranky, and always smelled of the cigarettes she claimed she no longer smoked, but Dawson trusted her speed, accuracy, and most of all her discretion. Every Christmas he corrupted her with a five-pound box of chocolate-covered cherries and a case of equally sweet wine.
Glenda, sweetheart: Amelia of the GA Nolans? Why “honorable”? Facts desired asap, please.
He used an app to tack on hearts and flowers at the end of the text.
No sooner had he pressed Send than the judge tapped her gavel and instructed everyone who’d stood to be seated. When everyone had resettled, she instructed Jackson to continue with his witness.
The prosecutor was ready. He set his legal tablet on the table and approached the witness box. When he addressed her, his tone was somber. “Ms. Nolan, how did this scene that you described eventually pan out?”
“One of the other parents called nine-one-one.”
“The police responded?”
“Two officers arrived in a matter of minutes. But Jeremy and the Strongs had left before they got there.”