by Layton Green
“Not what you thought you’d hear?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that. What’s the name of your company?”
“I have a few. The parent is New Hawk Holdings. The software company focused on business analytics for real estate companies. Mostly geared toward property developers, foreclosure sharks, and the like.”
“Where did you learn those skills ?”
“I’m a self-taught man. Self-made and self-paid.”
She took a sip of coffee. “That’s very impressive.”
“Never mistake education for intelligence, and especially not for drive. I think too much education hampers a man, personally. Gives him something to fall back on. Especially with the knowledge at our fingertips in today’s world. You know what you can learn from books, from the Internet?” His gaze pulled her in like a car crash in slow motion. “Everything.”
She made another note, mostly to break away from his stare. His story could be double-checked later. After asking a few more background questions, she pressed forward. “Let’s talk about the 911 call.” “That’s why we’re here,” he said.
“Can you take me through the day of September 21?”
“The whole day? Grits and bacon on up?”
“Just describe for me where you were that night and what you were doing.”
“Taking my evening walk.”
Ari looked down at the address he had provided, on Angier Street. “My house is about a mile away,” he continued.
“A mile from the location you called in? 1620 Prosperity?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you alone ?”
“That’s right.”
“I was.”
She doubted anyone would walk a mile on the streets of East Durham alone at night, especially if he was a drug dealer. Maybe he hadn’t witnessed anything at all and had made the call from his house. According to the police report, he had used his cell phone.
“East Durham isn’t Iraq,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “Despite what y’all might think.”
“Do you take a walk every night ?”
“Almost.” He patted his ample belly. “Doc says it’s a must. Especially since 1 believe gluten free is the greatest heresy since socialism.” “Did anyone see you out ? Opposing counsel will want verification.” He gave a thin smile that sent a chill inching through her. “A few people can be rounded up, 1’m sure.”
“Okay.” She studied her notes again. “Why don’t you take me through the rest of the night?”
“There’s not much to it. Prosperity Street is near the middle of my walk. Right when 1 passed the house—”
“1620?”
“That’s right. 1 heard the gunshots right there.”
“The police report said a silencer was used.”
He cocked his head. “You’re new to this, aren’t you? Suppressor is the correct term, and they ain’t silent. Still easy to hear from nearby. 1 was close enough there was no debate. Right across the street, in fact.” “What happened next ?”
“I took out my phone and called 911. What any concerned citizen would do, I hope.”
“In the middle of the street? After hearing gunfire ?”
“You’re right,” he said, with a tip of his head and a flicker ofapproval in his eyes. “I was armed—like I said, East Durham isn’t a war zone, but it isn’t Chapel Hill, either—but I hustled off behind a tree as I made the call. Once the cops came, I walked home and saw what happened on the news.”
“Did you see anyone leave or enter the house before the cops arrived?”
“Not a soul. I saw his car in the driveway too.”
This was the crux of his testimony, she knew. If Bentley was telling the truth, then that was strong evidence that Ronald had murdered two people inside the stash house. Or at least watched it happen.
“You know his car ?”
“It says Ronald on the plate. With dollar signs on either side.” “Oh.” Ari pursed her lips and considered his story. “Why do you think he didn’t run away after he shot them?”
He shrugged. “Cleaning up the mess, I guess. Why expose yourself? No one in that hood’s coming inside.”
“Except the cops, when they’re called.”
He smirked. “That’s right.”
“Do you know Ronald Jackson?”
“I know of him. Everybody does.” He leaned forward. “Do you know him, Ms. Hale ?”
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of a man he is? Or maybe a better question: Do you know who that girl he killed was ?”
“According to the police report, it was his niece.”
He chuckled. “His niece. Yeah, he called her that ‘round the way. That girl was eleven when her momma loaned her out to Ronald to pay for her junk habit.”
Ari’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
“Why do you think she was dumb enough to hit the stash house ?
She wasn’t dumb; she was desperate. She knew the consequences but didn’t care anymore.”
“How did she know about the stash house?” Ari said quietly. “Or do drug dealers make a habit of telling their prostitutes where their money is?”
His chuckle turned low and dangerous. “Well I wouldn’t know much about that, Ms. Hale. I suppose you’ll have to get Gallup to take a poll.”
After Bentley left, Fenton signaled for Ari on his way out of the door. “Walk with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just around the block. My mid-morning constitutional.”
The older attorney grabbed his walking cane, along with an expensive wool peacoat with extensions on either side that looked like wings. Ari thought the custom-made, billowy coat made him look like a wraith, a revenant of justice, drifting down the streets of Durham.
Once outside, they turned right on Mangum, a busy street sandwiched between the county jail and a gleaming performing arts center. A microcosm of Durham.
“We can’t use him,” she said, still unnerved by the interview. “I don’t trust anything he said, and I think he might have set the whole thing up.”
“What do you mean?”
“The raid on the stash house, the murder, the call.”
“That bad?”
She gave a little shudder. “He’s highly intelligent. And I think he might be evil.”
“You think he’s trying to take out a rival?”
“Probably.”
Fenton walked in silence for a moment. “So far, Ronald’s defense is that he was nearby and heard shots, then drove over to the house. He had two bodyguards with him, and they’re spinning the same story. There’s nothing tying Ronald to the stash house, no eyewitnesses, and no murder weapon so far. We won’t be able to hold him for long.”
“So what do we do?
He glanced over at her. “Unless we think of a novel legal theory or the police do a better job with the evidence, we watch him walk. Maybe your tech mogul isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.”
Ari couldn’t stop thinking about an eleven-year-old girl pimped out by her own mother to a monster. “Ronald can’t walk. That’s an abomination.”
“We win some, we lose some,” Fenton said calmly. “Hopefully the ratio is favorable. The real question you’ll ask yourself in this career is how many abominations you can handle.”
“Maybe I don’t want to handle any of them.”
A soft smile creased the wrinkles around his mouth. “I was young once too.”
“Why don’t we get both of them?” she said. “Ronald for murder, and Bentley for lying to the police ?”
When they stopped at an intersection, he turned to face her. “Dig a little bit. Just remember you’re an attorney and not the police.” He tilted his head down, peering at her beneath his bushy eyebrows. “And never make a case personal.”
An eleven-year-old girl, sold like chattel to a drug dealer and then murdered by his own hand.
Ari shuddered again.
It was
already personal.
8
After spending the morning handing off most of his caseload to junior officers, Preach walked a few blocks to a Korean food truck for lunch. Over the years he had found that he never really got to know a town until he walked the streets. There was something primal about having to go from one place to another on foot, watching life unfold at a slower pace, truly observing instead of relying on fleeting glimpses from a car.
It was also a window into another world. In modern America, those with means bought the most expensive vehicles they could afford and zoomed down wide, paved streets, pulling into office parks with landscaped grounds and gurgling fountains.
The other half went unnoticed. Not those stretching their legs like Preach, out for a stroll, but people who had no choice but to use the streets. The brown-skinned woman hugging her infant to her chest as she waited for the bus, the homeless man with the vacant smile pushing a shopping cart, the white teen in Goodwill clothes and a Hornets cap walking hunched under a canvas backpack, alone during school hours, forced to write his own story.
Preach observed it all.
The food truck was parked across the street from a converted brick cotton mill that housed the local co-op as well as a slew of restaurants and specialty shops. The spacious grounds in front of the co-op served as the beating heart of downtown, where people from all walks of life ordered takeout from the organic grocery, relaxing on picnic tables on the wood-chip covered lawn as they enjoyed the dappled sunlight streaming through the bower of oak trees.
A portion of spicy beef bulkogi set Preach’s mouth on fire. Soy and garlic and sesame oil dripped from his fingers and lingered in his nose. After washing it down with a ginger beer, he walked a bit further to the high school on the south side of town. The journey made him ache with memories, drawing closer to the lost horizon of his youth.
A few students on lunch break watched him climb the steps of the mammoth brick building and push through the double doors of the main entrance. The linoleum hallway and the scuffed glass cabinets filled with trophies, some of which he helped win, sent him careening back in time.
Leaning against a locker on his forearm, cocky grin in place.
Girl after girl brushing against his letterman jacket, their hair perfumed with beauty and vitality.
Everything easy, everything right, everything his.
Until his cousin Ricky had died, and then it wasn’t. Young Joe Everson’s worldview, his entire gilded childhood, had been exposed for the sham it was. Life was no longer his personal playground, this endlessly optimistic, carefree voyage that was supposed to end in some distant but equally perfect future.
Life was suffering and senseless death and a mockery of his juvenile confidence.
It had taken Preach a long time to learn that life, real life, was all of those things and infinitely more. The hardest lesson of all, the lesson of adulthood, was that he might never come to grips with what it all meant.
“Sir, can I help you?”
A red-haired older woman had opened the door to the administrative office, eying his musty overcoat with unease.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Everson with the Creekville Police. I was wondering if Principal Marcy might be able to spare a few moments ?”
Her eyes lowered. “This is about David?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come with me.”
The staff in the white-walled front office was somber, hushed. The red-haired woman knocked on the principal’s door and slipped inside. She returned in a moment and waved Preach in.
“Thank you,” he said, then walked into the office and found himself standing in front of a Creekville High principal for the first time in nearly twenty years.
Principal Marcy was a stern, birdlike woman with clipped gray hair and hazel eyes that burned with authority. “Good afternoon, Detective. I understand you’re an alum.”
After the publicity associated with the literary murders, Preach had grown accustomed to the recognition. He tipped his head. “I survived my four years, yes.”
“We made a formal announcement this morning. I’m sure the students saw the news on television, but we wanted to soften the blow.” “Not much to soften about murder.”
“An unspeakable tragedy,” she agreed, then paused for a moment, somber. “But we must do our best to appreciate David for the time in which we had him.”
With a glance, Preach took in the office: a mélange of warm paneling, framed certificates on the walls, and forest-green carpet. He put a hand on the back of a chair. “Do you mind?”
“Of course. How can I be of help?”
He took off his coat and sat. “I’d like to speak with David’s teachers and coaches.”
“Which ones?”
“All of them.”
She folded her hands on the desk. “I believe they’re in today. If you want to talk to his friends, that would be better with the parents present.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll set you up in a conference room, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Thank you.” As she ran her finger down a calendar, he asked, “How well did you know David ?”
“As well as I knew most of the students, except for the disciplinary cases. Which David wasn’t. If I recall correctly, I’ve only seen him in relation to one incident.”
“What was that ?”
Her lips compressed. “About a month ago, he wrote the word slut in capital letters on the Facebook page of Lisa Waverly, his AP English teacher.”
Preach’s eyebrows rose.
“We talked to them both at length,” she said, “and found no evidence of an inappropriate relationship.”
“What did you find?”
“Ms. Waverly claimed she had no idea what it was about. David took the post down and apologized to her in person, in this office. He swore it had nothing to do with the two of them but wouldn’t discuss it further, even under threat of suspension. In the end, we talked to his mother and decided not to take that step. He served detention for a week.”
Detention? If he hadn’t been the star quarterback, he might have been suspended or expelled. “Was there further trouble between the two ?”
“None. He stayed in her class, and she reported that he was well behaved.”
After a moment, he said, “What do you think that was about?”
“Ms. Waverly is . . . an attractive young woman. I’m not privy to her personal life, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had plenty of suitors. I believe David might have been expressing,” she lifted a palm, “teen frustration? Trying to impress his peers ?”
Simple teen frustration, Preach thought, doesn’t cause a kid to publicly shame a teacher. Maybe another student, but not a teacher. The whole incident lowered his opinion of the principal. “You’re sure that was the only violation?”
“I’ll check, but I believe so. David was an excellent student. Popular and conscientiousness. I just can’t believe . . . do you have any suspects ? A possible motive ?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss the investigation.”
“Of course.”
“Unless there’s something on your mind?”
She drew back in her seat. “No, no. To be honest, I’m just overwhelmed by all this.”
“It’s a hard thing to wrap your mind around.”
After a hard swallow she said, “How would you like to proceed?” “Why don’t you call in Lisa Waverly? I’d like to talk to her first.”
Five minutes later, a young woman in high heels and a baby blue blouse, her auburn hair piled high into a bun, swayed into the conference room in which Preach was waiting. Lithe and of medium height, her gray pants hugged her hips when she walked, and a pair of designer glasses with red temples rested primly atop a thin nose. Her blouse sat low enough to straddle the line between suggestive and professional.
Consider that line crossed, Preach thought, as she leaned in to shake his hand, exposing a
glimpse of a lacy black bra.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“Of course,” she murmured.
After the pleasantries, she looked him up and down as if he were a window full of designer shoes on sale and then settled into the chair across from him. A tear formed as she pressed a hand to her temple. “God. Poor David.”
Her voice was throaty, almost raspy. The detective noted a pair of tiny wings tattooed on her left ankle, as well as a silver bracelet with two pendants: a butterfly and a rainbow-colored peace symbol.
A free spirit, then.
Though attractive at first glance, Lisa was not beautiful. Her jawline was slightly askew, her eyes set too close together. He found the confident sexuality she exuded, while not affected, to be a small portion of the truth. Despite her flirtatious entrance, he found her sadness genuine, and she struck him in those first few moments as someone who felt very deeply, very quickly.
Most people, he guessed, probably mistook her chimeric emotions for insincerity.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m talking to his teachers to get a better picture of who he was.”
She gave a small, miserable nod. “He was a wonderful person. Smart, thoughtful, aware.”
“Aware?”
She waved a hand, causing the pendants to tinkle. “He felt the things he read, noticed who was around him. Not just what they looked like or their outward emotions, but what they were thinking and feeling on the inside. I can see you looking at me, asking how does she know all of this ? I’m sure Principal Marcy told you about the Facebook post.”
“She did.”
He waited for her to elaborate or become flustered, but the air of detached melancholy never wavered.
“I’m an English teacher,” she said. “I observed him in class, read his essays and journal entries. It was quite obvious he was special, though he suffered from the effects of his appearance.”
“What do you mean?”
“People, even teachers, often assume that bookish and unpopular kids are deep—and their counterparts shallow. But no one chooses their looks or their level of popularity, do they? Does it really say anything about a person?”