A Good Killing

by Allison Leotta

  “Leave her alone, man.” Cooper said. “She’ll talk to you after the trial.”

  “It’s okay,” Jody said. “He wasn’t hurting me.”

  Grady held his hands up in a gesture of peace. Cooper let him go. Grady straightened his shirt and looked at Jody for a long moment. Then he walked away, pushing the door below an Exit sign so forcefully, it banged against the wall. Jody flinched.

  When he was gone, Anna turned to her sister. “Why don’t you want to talk to him?” she asked softly. She knew it wasn’t because of courtroom rules.

  “I might be in jail when this baby is born,” Jody said. “I had a one-night stand with Grady. I don’t know him. The one thing I know about men is they can’t be trusted. If I go to jail, this baby goes to you, Anna. No one else.”

  • • •

  The most damning evidence was the bloody sock the police found behind Jody’s washing machine. Anna could see the jurors’ eyes narrow as the DNA analyst explained that the blood on the sock was the coach’s, to a mathematical certainty. The police had done their evidence collection well. The scientists had done their analysis well. There was no getting around the blood. There was just minimizing it.

  “Were you there when those specks of blood landed on that sock?” Anna asked the DNA analyst.

  “No, of course not.”

  “So you can’t say whether or not the coach just nicked himself cutting an apple?”

  “Right.”

  “The largest bloodstain on that sock was about a centimeter in diameter, right?”

  “Right?”

  “About the size of a pea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coach Fowler could’ve been sitting next to Jody on the couch, and he picked a hangnail and a little blood dripped down, right?”

  “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t there. All I know is that it’s his blood, on her sock, which was found in her house.”

  At the close of the government’s case, Anna made a motion for judgment of acquittal. She asked the judge to declare that the government had not met its burden of proof—that no reasonable jury could find Jody guilty based on the evidence that had been elicited so far. The judge denied the motion. It was not a surprise—such motions were rarely granted—but it was a disappointment. The case was going to the jury. And juries were unpredictable.

  For her first witness, Anna called a firefighter from a neighboring county. She had deliberately chosen someone who did not have roots in Holly Grove. The firefighter was a giant man named Tyrone Murphy. She got him qualified as an expert in the area of moving bodies, based on his years of training and experience. Then she asked him, “In your experience, sir, can a one-hundred-thirty-pound woman carry a two-hundred-thirty-pound man?”

  “No, ma’am. People don’t realize how heavy that is. I’m six foot six, two hundred and eighty pounds. I could carry that body, but only because I spend a lot of time at the gym, and as a trained firefighter I know some techniques for lifting bodies. I don’t expect a little woman who’s had no training could do that.”

  As a demonstrative aid, the firefighter had brought a life-size training mannequin. Four police officers carried it in and laid it on the courtroom floor. It was the size and shape of an adult man.

  “How big is this mannequin?” Anna asked.

  “Five ten, one hundred eighty pounds.”

  “So the coach would be fifty pounds heavier, at two hundred thirty pounds?”

  “Right.”

  “Can you show us how you’d carry this mannequin?”

  Tyrone got up from the stand, came down to the floor, and made a show of rolling the body to the side, getting his arms under it, putting it over his shoulder, and lifting with his knees. But he had to grunt and groan, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead.

  “Ideally, I’d have help if I had to carry a person this big.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said. He put it down with a thump.

  “Now, Your Honor, I’d like each juror to have a try.” She’d cleared this with the judge before.

  He nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

  One by one, the jurors were called out of the box and allowed to try to move the mannequin. Anna herself had tried moving it. She’d only been able to scoot it a couple inches. The female jurors had the same experience. A couple of the bigger men got it to move a few feet, but with a lot of grunts and groans. There was some laughing, which was good. She wanted them to think the idea of Jody moving the coach’s body was laughable.

  When the mannequin exhibit was finished, it was 4:00 P.M. The judge asked if the parties wanted to adjourn for the night.

  “I have one more witness for today,” Anna said. “She’ll be brief, I think.”

  “Then go ahead and call her.”

  “The defense calls Kathy Mack.”

  Desiree was on her feet. “Objection!”

  “Sidebar,” the judge said. He called them up to the bench and put the husher on, creating a staticy white noise so the jurors couldn’t hear what was being said at the bench.

  Jody waddled up to the judge’s bench. She could have remained at the table and listened to the sidebar on an earpiece, but Anna liked any opportunity for Jody to stand or walk in front of the jurors. It allowed them to see how very pregnant she was.

  At the bench, the women stood on their tiptoes to talk to the judge. You never felt more like a supplicant than when you were standing at someone’s feet while he sat looking down at you. But his voice was kindly.

  “What’s your objection, Ms. Williams?” the judge asked.

  “This is the mother of a girl who reported that Coach Fowler sexually assaulted her,” the prosecutor said. “You explicitly ruled that this sort of testimony would be inadmissible.”

  “Ms. Curtis?”

  “I’m not going to ask about her daughter. The witness will only talk about an event she saw in the casino where she works. The event involved Coach Fowler.”

  “I need to review this.” The judge flipped off the husher and turned to the jury. “The lawyers and I need to resolve a legal matter. The jurors are excused for the night. We will reconvene tomorrow morning at precisely nine o’clock, as usual. As always, I instruct you to talk to no one about this case, including one another, and to refrain from watching or reading any coverage of this case in the press.”

  The jurors nodded and filed out of the courtroom. Judge Upperthwaite stood and spoke to the lawyers. “We’ll hold this hearing in my chambers.” There was groaning. The rest of the audience—the press, spectators, and Anonymous protesters—would not hear it.

  The judge’s office was an enormous, beautiful space. Ten-foot ceilings had gold-painted panels; the polished parquet floor was covered in oriental rugs. The judge’s giant oak desk looked like an expensive antique, as did the rest of his polished wood furniture. A large window overlooked the courthouse square. When she was standing, Anna could see that the protesters were still there, five stories below. When she sat down, she could only see the white winter sky.

  Anna chose a chair between Jody and the prosecutor. The judge’s clerk, Donald, sat on a couch to the side, near the court reporter, who rested her fingers on her portable stenographic machine. As the judge came into chambers, Donald popped out of his seat. The judge unzipped his robe with trembling hands. Donald helped him slip out of it, then hung it in a closet. The judge sank slowly into his chair, holding on to his desk for balance. Judge Upperthwaite wore a button-down shirt, wool pants, and brown sweater vest. On the bench, he looked like a Wise Man. Here, he looked like a frail old grandfather.

  Behind him was a picture of a sweet-looking silver-haired lady. Anna guessed this was his wife, Lena Hoffmeister Upperthwaite.

  “Ms. Curtis, I’d like a proffer from you,” the judge said. “What will your witness testify to, if I do allow this testimony?”

 
The stenographer’s fingers danced over the keys of her machine.

  “Kathy Mack is a blackjack dealer at the MotorCity Casino,” Anna said. “In that capacity, she has two things to add to this trial. First, she will testify that she saw Coach Fowler at the casino, gambling a lot. This will support our theory that he was a man deeply in debt.”

  “You can establish that with financial records.” The judge waved a knotty hand. “What else can Ms. Mack shed light on?”

  “A few weeks before the coach’s death, Kathy Mack saw a man threaten Coach Fowler and then punch him in the stomach. The man she saw matches the description of the loan shark who Wendy Fowler described coming to her house.”

  “I see. Ms. Williams, what is your position on this?”

  “I don’t believe this story for a minute, Your Honor. I’ve interviewed all of these women, and I never heard about this mystery man before trial started. Moreover, Kathy Mack is the woman whose daughter, Hayley, accused the coach of sexually abusing her and then committed suicide shortly thereafter. Ms. Mack is highly biased against Coach Fowler. But I can’t effectively cross-examine her about this bias without introducing the inadmissible and prejudicial sex-abuse allegations that the defense has been trying to get in.”

  “I agree with the government. This testimony is more prejudicial than it is probative. I am excluding it. Ms. Mack will not be allowed to testify.” The judge stood with effort. “This hearing is adjourned. I will see all the parties back in court tomorrow at nine A.M. sharp. Have a pleasant evening.”

  50

  Jody was furious. She paced the empty hallway two floors up, passing Cooper and Anna, turning, and passing them again. She held her belly in her hands. Her heels resounded like gunfire against the marble floor. “This is total bullshit!” she said. “He can’t do this.”

  “He can and he did,” Anna said drily. She leaned back against the window ledge. “It gives us something to take up on appeal.”

  “I have a right to put on my defense. He is deliberately fucking with me. It’s just the same as it’s ever been in Holly Grove.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna said.

  “He’s the one who declined my case when Coach Fowler raped me.”

  Anna stared at her. “You said you wanted to have sex with the coach. You said that case was declined because you didn’t want to press charges.”

  “Annie.” Jody stopped walking. She looked down at her swollen ankles. “I haven’t been totally honest with you. But I don’t think now is the time to start.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “Start with this. The coach forced you to have sex with him when you were fifteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wanted charges brought against him then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Judge Upperthwaite refused to bring them?”

  “He was the DA then, not a judge. But—yeah.”

  “Christ, Jody.” Now Anna started pacing. “This is not the best time for me to discover this! I’ve made our opening statement. There are no take backs.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.”

  She stared at her sister, as several things suddenly became clear. “You never took the coach back to your house, did you? That’s why the police didn’t find any of his semen or blood on your sheets?”

  Cooper stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. “Let’s not talk about this here.”

  Anna looked around the empty courthouse hallway. “Right. Thanks.” She put up a hand. “Just give me a minute to get my bearings.” She turned and stared out the window. In the square below, the protesters were gathering up to leave for the day.

  Anna had come here believing in the system, its structure as a whole and its players generally. Not that it was perfect—far from it—but it aimed for justice, with well-meaning participants. She wouldn’t have spent her career working in it if she believed otherwise.

  She’d been blind. Jody had done what she’d done because the system had failed her entirely. And it was still broken. With sudden clarity, Anna understood why.

  “I have to go to see Rob.”

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, Anna strode into Detective Rob Gargaron’s office. He glanced over from his computer, saw her expression, and stood. He closed the door and they faced each other.

  Anna said, “You’re the one who left the sealed cases at Jody’s house, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you know that Coach Fowler was a serial pedophile the whole time?”

  “Not until he died. After you asked the prosecutor for the old cases, I pulled them. What I saw in there made me sick. I couldn’t do anything about it, not if I wanted to keep my job. But I knew you’d be able to do something with them. So I left them on your doorstep.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “For being the one good cop in Holly Grove.”

  “There are plenty of good cops here. Don’t let a few bad apples ruin your impression of the whole force.”

  “I still need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  She handed him a trial subpoena.

  “I sent this to the clerk’s office months ago. They said they couldn’t find an answer, that the cases were too old. But I’ll bet you could find out. Who nolle’d all those sealed cases? Who decided not to prosecute Owen Fowler, time and again?”

  “Are you prepared for what will happen if you do this?” Rob said.

  “No. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  “If you shoot at the king, you’d better kill the king. Because if you don’t, he’ll come after you.”

  “I understand.”

  “My father took the reports before he retired. I honestly think he didn’t believe the girls. Or if he did, he thought they wanted the coach, and he didn’t think the coach should be punished.”

  “But your father didn’t decline the cases,” Anna said. “Not by himself.”

  “No. A prosecutor had to do that—or a judge could refuse to sign a warrant.”

  “Who?”

  “Judge Upperthwaite. And before that, District Attorney Upperthwaite.”

  51

  I pressed the clicker, and the garage door slid up, revealing the coach’s gleaming four-car garage. I pulled in, closed the garage door, and turned off the car. The garage was cavernous, brightly lit, and empty. In days past, Coach would have parked many of his automotive toys here. Now, with all his creditors closing in, the Corvette had all four spots to itself.

  I got out, went around, and opened the passenger door. Coach crashed into me; I yelped and leaped back. But he was still unconscious. His legs were strapped in, but his arms dangled onto the concrete floor.

  I took a deep breath, tucked my hands under his armpits, and pushed his torso back into the seat. It wasn’t easy. You don’t realize how heavy a body is, or how difficult it is to move if the body itself isn’t providing momentum. There was no way I could move his whole body by myself.

  But that was okay; I didn’t have to. The door to the house opened and Wendy and Kathy came out. They moved with the efficient calm of competent women who know exactly what they’re doing. Wendy unfolded a wheelchair that was tucked into a corner of the garage. She pushed it to the passenger side of the Corvette and lifted the arm so the seat of the wheelchair was level with the seat of the car. Between the three of us, and with a lot of grunting, we were able to slide his body from the car to the wheelchair.

  Kathy brought over a gym bag that held three thick sweatshirts, three pairs of sweatpants, and two rolls of duct tape. We put all the clothes on him, over what he already wore. The sweatshirts were easy enough, but for the pants, two of us had to lift his bottom off the chair while the third slid the waistband over his hips. It took some doing.

  When he was more padded than the kid from the Cottonelle ad, we duct-taped his arms to
the armrests of the wheelchair, starting with his wrists and wrapping round and round till we got to his armpits. We did the same with his legs, from ankle to thigh, and then his torso, securing him to the back of the chair from hips to chest. When we were done, he looked like a giant silver mummy reigning in a small wheeled throne.

  By padding his skin and spreading out the restraints, we minimized pressure points and avoided making indents in his skin. We wanted his body to be perfect when we were done with it.

  Wendy went to a side wall and flicked a panel of switches, turning off the outdoor lights. She opened the garage’s side door, and Kathy pushed the unconscious coach out into the backyard. The night was warm, lovely, and black. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that the yard was landscaped beautifully. There was a flagstone patio, with a path leading to the edge of the sandy cliff side. Lake Huron was black and quiet beyond. A wooden ramp led down to the dock.

  Wendy wheeled him down to the lake. The wheelchair thumpety-­thumped on the wooden slats of the ramp. The bottom of the cove was perfectly secluded. The sandy cliff and the trees shielded us from any neighbor’s eyes. When Wendy stopped the wheelchair, the night was silent except for chirping frogs and water lapping softly on the shore. It was dark except for the stars above. There was no human sound except our breathing.

  A pontoon boat was tied to the dock. Wendy said he’d had to sell off his other boats. But this one would work for us. Kathy and I pulled the boat flush with the dock and Wendy pushed the chair on.

  The pontoon was a big flat square, surrounded by a long cushioned bench seat. The floor was covered in green AstroTurf. In one corner sat a white plastic bucket. In the middle was a captain’s wheel, which Wendy helmed. She expertly untied the boat, turned on the ignition, and steered us away from the shore. Kathy held on to the wheelchair and put on the brakes so it wouldn’t roll around with the motion.

  Lake Huron is big, more than twenty thousand square miles. But I’d say we only went a mile or so from shore. Far enough so that no one was around, and no one on land could hear anything. When the lights from land were just pinpricks, Wendy turned off the motor. The stars seemed closer than the houses. They blazed bright, with no city lights to compete with. Long ago, the Incas living in the Andes made constellations not from the stars but from the dark spaces between them. That’s what the sky looked like over Lake Huron on that June night.