A Shattered Lens

by Layton Green

  Footsteps crunched on gravel behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed nothing. She still had time to act. Left with little choice, Blue pushed deeper into the thicket, wondering if she could squat where she was and stay hidden.

  No. She had to take this all the way. With a shudder, she squeezed into the hole, alarmed to find that the freezing water at the bottom was more than a foot deep. With a shudder, she squatted and wrapped her knees with her hands, recoiling as the plastic baggies and urban scum floating in the water brushed against her. She tried not to think about the gross things that might live at the bottom.

  As the footsteps drew closer, Blue huddled alone in the hole, terrified of being discovered, her shoes and jeans already soaked through, so cold she had to bite down to keep her teeth from chattering. She tried to think of a movie to help her deal with the situation, but no fictional world she summoned gave her any comfort.

  Even the movies, she supposed, had their limits.

  24

  Carroll Street Homes.

  It seemed that everywhere Preach turned, the trailer park had a way of popping up during the investigation.

  Maybe it was coincidence that David was killed on the trail to Wild Oaks. Maybe it was a coincidence that the crime rate in the trailer park had skyrocketed in recent months. Maybe it was a coincidence that Nate Wilkinson and a number of Los Viburos gang members lived there.

  Or maybe there was something to it.

  It was Sunday, and Preach decided to take the day off. Not because he wanted a break, but because his head was too cluttered. Sometimes a little time away aided the creative process. Allowed him to gain a fresh perspective and connect some dots on a tough case.

  The day had started well. After a late breakfast, he took a slow jog over to his gym, a tiny sweatbox filled with rusting weights and rubber mats covered in chalk from the power lifters. No mirrors. No fancy locker rooms. Not even a front desk. The place was owned by Ray Logan, Preach’s old wrestling coach, and Ray only gave the key out to people he trusted. Preach had the gym to himself that morning.

  After his workout, he stopped at Jimmy’s during the church hour. These days, a good cup of coffee and quiet contemplation brought him closer to the divine than sixty minutes of manufactured calm. It was a little hard to be a cop and wade through the muck of the world, then sing 500-year-old hymns and pretend everything was all right, even for an hour. That life, brief and visceral, was in his rearview.

  He still cared deeply about life’s questions. He still talked to God and wondered if He was listening.

  He just couldn’t do church.

  Try as he might, he failed to spend the whole day away from the case. As he munched on an afternoon panini, still at Jimmy’s, his thoughts turned to how to attack the trailer park angle. Should he interview the residents and see if he learned anything new? Shake down the members of Los Viburos, bring them in for questioning? Do the same with any members of Nate’s gang he could find?

  Those were all possibilities. But first, he decided to follow the money.

  Everyone knew a property development war was being waged in Creekville. It was all over the news. With the explosive growth of the Research Triangle and the cities it served, developers were chomping at the bit to exploit the quirky little gem within spitting distance of Chapel Hill. No matter that fashioning that uncut gem into a garish piece ofjewelry would ruin the charm. The money would switch hands, enrich the fat cats, and everyone else be damned.

  Except Creekville was different. Over the years, its residents had fought tooth and nail to keep the charm and local businesses in place, and Carroll Street Homes had become ground zero in the war. Developers wanted bland, mixed-use condominiums within walking distance of downtown. The progressives in charge of the city council trumpeted the impoverished trailer park as a bastion of low-income housing.

  Preach knew better. Carroll Street Homes was not a historic neighborhood with deep community ties. It was a crime-ridden blight that no child should grow up in. While he hardly sympathized with the real estate developers, he had no illusions about the proletariat sanctity of the trailer park.

  In the news, an attorney named Brink Dickenson kept showing up. An African American with a prominent Raleigh firm, Brink represented a variety of high-end commercial builders. He was the one lobbying the Creekville City Council for a zoning change for Carroll Street Homes. The current restrictions greatly limited the commercial value of the property.

  Preach drove to the office, logged in, and did some more research. He learned the Rathbun family owned a ton of property in Creekville.Half the town, it seemed. This was no surprise. They had been petitioning the council for a zoning change for years.

  But the Rathbuns did not own Carroll Street Homes. After failing to reach Brink Dickenson, Preach made a few calls to local real estate agents who always worked on Sunday. He learned that Carroll Street Homes had been a coveted piece of real estate for some time. The previous owner, a crotchety old farmer named Homer Atkins, had owned the land for decades, always refusing to sell. Eight months ago, when he started to develop dementia, he finally entertained offers. A bidding war ensued. In the end, Homer sold the property for three million dollars to Edmund Pettis Properties.

  On the one hand, three million dollars seemed like a huge sum of money for a dilapidated trailer park. On the other hand, the park comprised nearly five acres in the shadow of downtown.

  But what did Preach know about such things ? Almost nothing, so he asked the agents and learned the price was a premium. Speculation based on future profit in the case of a zoning reassignment. He also learned that Edmund Pettis Properties had outbid a “prominent local family” the detective assumed was the Rathbuns.

  Preach assumed Edmund Pettis Properties was a rich local developer and was surprised to find that no one by that name lived in the area. In fact, a Google search revealed that Edmund Pettis was the name of the infamous bridge in Selma, Alabama, that Martin Luther King had marched across in 1965.

  Odd.

  Preach dug deeper.

  Using a legal research tool to which the station had limited access, he learned that Edmund Pettis Properties was a subsidiary of New Hawk Holdings Inc. One of many subsidiaries, in fact. The name struck a chord. Preach thought he had heard it before. It took him a moment, but it came to him just as he finished typing the name in the search engine, and the results confirmed it: New Hawk Holdings Inc. was owned by Bentley Montgomery.

  The witness in Ari’s murder case.

  The same man who gave her the shivers at night.

  Preach let out a deep breath. What in the world?

  The connection between his case and Ari’s caused a wave of emotion to flood through him. He knew he had to reach out to her but wasn’t sure how. What should he say? Did she even want to hear from him? Should he give her more time?

  He debated calling her, then decided the next conversation should be in person. After running a hand through his hair, going back and forth as to what to do, he texted to ask if she would meet him for dinner the next day at a cozy little French bistro in downtown Creekville. Their favorite place for a nice evening out.

  By the time he fell asleep that night, aimlessly flipping through channels as his stomach churned with worry, he had yet to receive a reply.

  25

  On Monday morning, as Ari waited in her office for Bentley to arrive with his mysterious witness, she had a hard time concentrating on the case.

  I need you, Claire’s text had said.

  I need you.

  I need you.

  Ari couldn’t stop saying it in her head.

  It was such an intimate turn of phrase.

  Had something physical happened between Preach and Claire? She honestly wasn’t sure, and that scared her. She thought she had known him. She really did. But how could things have progressed to the point where Claire felt comfortable sending that text ?

  The one thing Ari did know for sure was that this woman ha
d designs on her man.

  Claire had just lost a son. Ari truly felt sorry for her.

  But that didn’t make the words disappear.

  The door opened and Ari forced her feelings away, still not sure how to reply to Preach’s text from the night before. She thought it would be hard to change gears, but once Bentley entered the room and Ari reminded herself that she was pursuing justice for a girl with no voice, her own problems fell away, and she let herself sink into the case.

  A young African American woman dressed in high heels and a tight green sweater dress followed Bentley into the room. The woman had straight hair with obvious extensions, nervous eyes, and a svelte figure marred by a pouch of loose flesh around her stomach.

  “Morning, counselor” Bentley said.

  “Good morning.”

  He held out a palm toward the woman. “Ari Hale, Desiree Brown.” “Hi, Desiree,” Ari said, with a warm smile. “Thank you for coming. Would you like some coffee ? Water?”

  “Nope. I mean, no thank you.” Desiree took a seat next to Bentley, her hands fidgeting atop the table.

  “Just relax,” Ari said warmly. “We’re on the same side here.”

  “I’m not so used to law firms.”

  “That’s okay, because this is the prosecutor’s office, not a private firm. We serve the people and make way less money.”

  “Go on,” Bentley said. “Tell Ms. Hale what you saw.”

  Ari didn’t like the way Bentley addressed Desiree as if she were beneath him. The dynamic felt less like a pair of lovers and more like an employer-employee relationship, or master and servant.

  Following gentle prodding by Ari, Desiree proceeded to relate the same story that Bentley had told about the night of the murders. Throughout, she would glance at him for support or approval. A few times, when she hesitated, he put words in her mouth that she repeated verbatim.

  “You have to let her talk,” Ari said. “I’ve heard your story. I need to hear hers.”

  He put his hands up. “Just trying to help.”

  Once Desiree finished, Ari asked a few background questions. Normally she did this first, and she wished she had taken better control of the interview. “Where are you from, Desiree ?”

  “East Durham.” She pronounced it Durm.

  “You still live there?”

  “My whole life.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  Desiree lowered her eyes and mumbled something.

  “Sorry?”

  “She said customer service,” Bentley said. “She works in customer service.”

  “For who ?” Ari said, looking straight at Desiree.

  “For me,” Bentley said.

  Ari leveled her stare at Bentley. “I need Desiree to answer the questions. Ms. Brown, do you work for Mr. Montgomery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  Desiree’s eyes slunk to her left. “A while.”

  “Two days, two months, two years ?”

  “About two years, I s’pose. That about right.”

  “What exactly do you do for Mr. Montgomery?”

  When Desiree didn’t respond, Bentley said, “She’s a secretary.” “Desiree,” Ari said, “would you mind stepping out of the room for a minute ? There’s a bench in the hallway.”

  Desiree looked relieved beyond measure to be excused. Once she left, Ari said, “Is she a prostitute or a drug mule ?”

  Bentley chuckled. “A fine young black woman walks in, doesn’t speak so well, a little nervous, and y’all think she’s hooking?”

  “Is she?”

  “Why don’t you ask her ?”

  “I don’t want to embarrass her.”

  “She has a legitimate role in my company. It’s all on the books.”

  Ari sighed and put her palms on the table. “Bentley, do you understand that I’m on your side ? I want your testimony to work, and I want Desiree to be a reliable witness. But these stunts you’re pulling . . . opposing counsel will eat you alive”

  Bentley was unfazed. “We’ll see about that in court, won’t we?” “You’re not hearing me. We won’t get to court.”

  “Desiree’s a secretary. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Unfortunately, the legal system doesn’t work that way. You’ve heard of cross-examination?”

  “Even if Desiree is what you think she is, that doesn’t mean she isn’t a secretary too. You think she doesn’t have two eyes and a mouth? That she can’t see things like any other citizen? We have a word for that on the street, counselor.”

  “It’s about her reliability as a witness. It’s about her testimony that sounds like you fed it to her a few minutes before you walked in here.” Bentley’s large head wove back and forth, chiding. “What’s the line on plea bargains these days ? Ninety-five percent ? Ninety-seven?” “Sorry?”

  “You know why so many black people take the plea, counselor ? Plenty of them could go free at trial, with a fair shake. No one in the hood goes to trial because black people don’t beat juries.”

  Ari held her palms up. “What does this have to do with Desiree?” He pointed a finger at her. “Because you’re part of the problem, whether you admit it to yourself or not. You think you’re all hip, with your tattoos and your social justice blurbs, but you’re a prosecutor. The criminal justice system in this country, the whole prison-industrial complex, is a goddamn human rights violation. Prison is hell on earth, and your office sends black men to jail like they’re going off to boarding school. They’re treated worse than dogs, worse than lab rats, and sent back out to fail. And a branded felon? There’s a name for that in this country. It’s called Jim Crow. Can’t vote. Can’t get a job. What are they supposed to do, counselor? Go back and bring what they learned inside to the ghetto, that’s what. You think Desiree is uncomfortable in this room and won’t look good in front of a jury? You ever stop to wonder why? Desiree has never left East Durham. A trip to Chapel Hill would be like Disneyland for her. She vacations to Walmart and the 7-Eleven.” Ari leaned forward. “Why do you care so much about this case? About putting Ronald Jackson away?”

  “Because he’s part of the problem. He corrupts our youth. He needs to be in prison.”

  “And you don’t ?” she said, unable to help herself.

  “This case isn’t about me,” he said quietly. “Desiree’s telling the truth, she just doesn’t say it very well.”

  He moved for the door, and Ari followed him out, wanting to speak with Desiree alone this time. But when she opened the door and peered down the hallway, there was no sign of her. Ari thought she might have gone to the restroom, but she never appeared, and when Bentley tried to reach her on her phone, she wouldn’t pick up.

  “I have to talk to her again,” Ari said.

  “I’ll find her.”

  “We may not have time. Ronald’s attorney wants him released yesterday.”

  “What do you mean? You have two witnesses.”

  Ari leveled her stare at him. “Neither you nor Desiree saw the actual crime. And I haven’t decided whether I can use either of you.” “Ronald’s a monster,” Bentley said, unusually somber. “I’ll get Desiree back here, I promise.”

  Bentley gave Desiree’s phone number to Ari. She tried to reach her at lunchtime, and then during the afternoon, but Desiree never answered her calls. Just after five, while Ari was reading through police reports on a few other cases, a call came in from Meredith Verela, Ronald’s defense attorney.

  “Why hasn’t your office dropped the case?” she asked Ari, after a curt greeting. Ari sensed Meredith viewed her as an untested adversary, not worthy of her time.

  “There’s another witness involved who just came to our attention.” “What? Who?”

  “A friend of Bentley’s who was with him that night. I’d prefer to keep her name private until we talk to her further.”

  “I thought Bentley was alone that night.”

  “So did we. It’s a wo
man who, as he puts it, is not his girlfriend.” Whether true or not, talking about a betrayal caused the wound in her own life to open wider. Where was Preach today, she wondered? Was he with Claire ?

  “So you’re supplementing your drug-dealing witness with a lover he’s already lied about seeing ? Your witness is a joke.”

  “We need to talk to her before we decide anything,” Ari said, thinking Meredith was right, but that Ronald Jackson was guilty as hell. She just couldn’t let the case go.

  Also, she didn’t want to let the older woman steamroll her. She had to talk all this through with Fenton, and he would ultimately make the decision, but Ari had to learn to stand her ground.

  “I’ll give you until Friday, and then I’m filing a motion to dismiss. With costs.”

  “What’s your defense theory?” Ari asked, changing gears. She didn’t want to pin herself down with a response. “About what happened that night?

  Meredith hesitated, no doubt weighing what to tell her. Anything she said, Ari knew, would serve her own purposes. “It’s very simple. Ronald said he arrived after the two victims were already dead. He has no idea who killed them. Off the record, he thinks Bentley is setting him up.”

  “I see. And you believe that?”

  “Friday, Ari. Final deadline.”

  26

  On Monday, Ari still hadn’t responded to Preach’s text. There was nothing he could do to force her, so he threw himself into the case to occupy his mind. He wanted to talk to Chief Higgins, but she was at a conference in Raleigh for the day.

  Deciding to tie up some loose ends, Preach paid house visits to two of David’s closest friends on the football team, Elliot Jacobson and Fisher Star. It was an in-service day for the public schools, and he found them both at home without their parents. He decided to go ahead and speak to them, though when they opened the door, he asked his questions from the porch. Both lived in the same neighborhood, a wooded enclave of renovated bungalows just south of downtown.