I emerged beside a rolling green golf course with a clubhouse that could’ve passed for one of Queen Elizabeth’s country getaways. Beyond it, the ocean glittered. As I followed my GPS, the houses got larger and the yards got deeper. All of it was lush and beautiful in the way a place can only be if you hire a team of landscapers to curate every blade of grass.
Mr. Porter’s home was one of the biggest yet, set on a low hill, its rising half-circle drive lined with palmettos. I didn’t see a single dead frond on any of them. I pictured his squad of gardeners sending guys scooting up the trunks like ninjas to remove anything unsightly. I parked my piece of junk at the bottom of the drive, where I hoped no one in the house would see it, and started the hike to his massive front door.
As I got closer, I heard shouting coming from inside. It sounded bad. I couldn’t see anyone through the sparkling glass on either side of the door, but somewhere in there, two men were snarling at each other. I touched the doorbell, figuring they’d stop when I rang. Then I would pretend not to have heard.
They didn’t stop. The door swung open, revealing a smiling fortysomething man in a tux. “Ah,” he said. “Leland? Collin Porter. Pleasure to meet you.” He reached out and gave me a firm alpha-dog handshake. He was a sturdy guy with a weathered face. As we crossed the marble entryway, I saw what the shouting had been. In a room off to the side, Scarface was playing on a TV screen the size of my car. I didn’t see anyone watching it.
I followed him into a kitchen. The ceiling looked about fourteen feet high. On the other side of the kitchen island and its vast expanse of some fancy stone, a plate glass window showcased the ocean view. French doors led to a deck big enough to host a wedding on.
Something moved at the corner of my eye.
“Oh, Anthony,” Porter said. “Get Leland a drink.”
The other guy, walking toward a built-in bar, was also wearing a tux.
I said, “Thanks for making the time, Mr. Porter. I can see you folks have plans this evening.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. Thanks for driving up. I’m always glad to get a deal closed.” He reached for the envelope, and I handed it over. “What do you take? Something light, since you’re driving? Gin and tonic?”
“Thank you much. Yes.” Roy had schooled me on the rule that barring medical orders, drinks offered by clients couldn’t be refused. I figured I could get away with just a couple of sips.
Anthony had turned his head to make sure he got the order right. My gut sank at the sight of his face. We’d worked together in Charleston. He had to know the circumstances of my departure. Everyone there did. I hoped he wouldn’t mention it to Porter.
I said, “Hey, Tony! How you been? Still with the solicitor’s office?”
“Oh, yeah. Same old, same old.” He looked at me for about half a second too long. Then he crossed the room with my drink, almost tripping on a rug that appeared to be the hide of an animal about the size of an elk.
I would not have pegged Tony as a pink-cummerbund man, but that’s what he had on. The color reminded me that his last name was Rosa. I asked, “You two gentlemen going to a wedding or something this evening?”
Porter looked up from the papers he was initialing and cocked his head. “Oh, no,” he said. He seemed surprised at my ignorance. “Tonight’s the joint fundraiser for Henry Carrell and Sheriff Gaillard’s campaigns. Don’t tell me you’re not attending?”
“Well, unfortunately,” I said, “I won’t be back to Basking Rock in time tonight.” Of the various lies and truths at my disposal, I thought that one would make the best impression. Being too broke for a ticket was pathetic, and he’d think I was a fool if I said I’d calendared it wrong.
“Too bad,” Porter said. “Well, it’s a foregone conclusion they’ll both get reelected, but it’s a nice event. Much too nice to be dealing with legal papers while I’m there, and I’ve only got a narrow window to get down there and back tonight, so thanks for helping me get this off my desk.” He pulled the last sticky arrow off the last of many pages and signed with a flourish. Gold light flashed off the nib of his fountain pen. I wondered if there was a place all wealthy professional men went to get their accessories: fountain pen, chunky gold watch, understated $200 haircut.
I asked my former colleague, “What’s your interest in the election, Tony?”
“My sister lives in Basking Rock.”
“Oh?” I started flipping through the documents, checking that Porter had signed and dated everywhere he should. “Anyone I know?”
“Her husband’s the mayor.”
“Huh,” I said. The mayor was old enough to be Tony’s dad. “Well, that must be nice.”
Porter chuckled. “And this must be nice for you,” he said. “More pleasant than investigating that sad little murder case I heard you’re on.”
I gave him the required smile. Apparently every damn fool was a rubbernecker now. “Well,” I said, picking up my glass for a sip, “I tell you what, the liquor on your case is definitely better.”
They laughed and clinked their tumblers together. I tucked the papers back into their envelope and raised my glass to theirs. When we’d taken our sips, I said, “Well, Mr. Porter, it all looks good. I’ll get this to Roy tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks much. Now, just so I have a scoop for everyone at the fundraiser, tell me, will you?” He threw a glance over his shoulder, a theatrical gesture to show he was making fun of all those other rubberneckers, then asked in a stage whisper, “Did Jackson murder his father?”
I chuckled politely. Tony laughed so hard I could see his molars. I wondered why a local prosecutor would be sucking up to some yacht investor. How’d they even know each other?
As the laughter subsided, Porter suggested we head for the door. We hadn’t gone two steps when his phone rang.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said, turning to shake my hand goodbye. “Thanks again. Anthony, would you see Leland out?”
Porter stepped through the French doors and closed them. Tony and I headed the other way. As his dress shoes clacked across the stone tiles of the entryway, he asked, “So, how’s life after the solicitor’s office?”
“Oh, different,” I said. “But good.”
“Putting everything else aside,” he said, “I do want you to know we were all real sorry to hear about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
“Glad to hear your boy’s doing better,” he added.
I wondered by what route that information had reached him. “Well, thank you again,” I said. “It’s a relief, that’s for sure.”
He came out the front door with me, to my chagrin. I glanced down the driveway and was relieved to see that a row of yucca plants blocked the view of my Chevy.
He stopped on the porch, reached into his chest pocket, and said, “Porter doesn’t like me to smoke indoors.”
“Huh,” I said. “Well, I guess that’s understandable.” I was getting very curious about why these two were friends. “Anyway, got a lot on my plate this evening, so I’ll be seeing you. Let’s stay in touch.”
He nodded, lit his cigarette, and raised one hand to say goodbye.
As I drove past the Swiss chalet and through the overgrown woods, I realized I was stuck. I’d said I wouldn’t be back in time to attend the fundraiser, so I couldn’t very well risk being spotted in town. Just before the forest road crossed the highway, I pulled over to check my email for the invitation. I needed to see what time it started.
Turned out I’d have to wait about an hour.
As I sat there wondering where the hell to go in the meantime, something light blue caught my eye out the passenger window. It was a clump of Stokes’ aster, Elise’s favorite flower. Each one looked like a three-or-four-inch firework the color of the flame on a stove.
Elise was never big on bouquets, or boxes of chocolates or other traditional things. She’d made our front yard and part of the back look like a meadow, with these asters and a hundred other wildflowers whose names
I’d never know.
I remembered a night in our living room. No lights on, just the streetlamp casting shadows inside. Noah was upstairs. Elise was wearing a dress in some dark color and holding a wine bottle, which I was trying gently to get away from her. I’d come home to find her drinking. To cajole her, I’d put on Sinatra, something slow from the Capitol years. There was hardly any music written in the last hundred years that she liked, but his was an exception.
I’d gotten her up off the couch. I was tugging on the bottle, making some kind of joke, trying to surprise her or relax her so she’d let go easily. Through the front window I could see a clump of these blue flowers in the yard. When I heard Noah’s feet on the stairs, I pulled Elise close and started swaying with the music. I didn’t want Noah to see that his mother was drunk.
He was staring at his phone. When he looked up and saw us, the look on his face, lit up by whatever web page he’d been on, was a flash of surprise and then pure contempt. Of course he knew what was happening. He was sixteen years old; he’d gotten home long before I did. He’d seen her drunk a hundred times.
13
Friday, July 26, Afternoon
I met Terri at the dog park for an update. It was a good place to talk, with just a few benches eight or ten yards apart, overlooking a green slope down to the lawn where folks tossed balls or Frisbees for their pets. She was standing by a bench holding a ball for her new puppy to jump at. When we got close enough, Squatter got excited at the sight of his friend, so I stooped to set him down. Her puppy ran over and did happy circles around him.
I asked, “He’s not going to get to the size of a purebred rottweiler, is he? What’s he mixed with?”
“No, that would definitely be too big for me to control. His mom was a black Lab.”
“Still a full-sized dog, though.”
“Well, no offense,” she said, looking at Squatter, “but I wanted a dog that could scare people.”
“That’s understandable, in your line of work.”
“Mm-hmm.” She sounded like it wasn’t just work she was thinking about.
She didn’t continue. I didn’t want to intrude, but I said, “Some folks think lawyers are scary too, so if you need more help than that puppy can provide, you let me know.”
She laughed it off. “I’m good,” she said. “But, speaking of work, I got some information.”
“Oh, yeah?” We sat on the bench.
“So, first off, Jackson’s alibi. There’s about zero chance he spent the night on the beach.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I had my doubts.”
“Remember the ice cream stand that burned? Same night? The beach was crawling with cops and firefighters and all the tourists, plus the local gawkers. The cops swept the beach for witnesses, because it looked like arson right off the bat.”
“I take it nobody saw Jackson sleeping rough. Or otherwise.”
“Not a soul. I also checked with the shops near the marina, to see if anybody’d spotted him after Blount did. Or before, for that matter. No luck, although one cashier said Karl had bought a case of beer around 7:45.”
“What time did the ice cream stand burn?”
“The 9-1-1 call came in at 10:09 p.m.”
“Huh,” I said. “Mazie said she drove down to the marina looking for Jackson, but she didn’t mention seeing the fire.”
“Hmm.” She tossed the ball, and her puppy flung itself downhill. Then she pulled some papers out of her tote bag. “I also got some intel on that Mustang. It’s in Karl’s name, but there’s no car loan on his credit report. I checked all three bureaus.”
“You did?” I looked at the papers. “How? Is that legal now because he’s dead?”
She hesitated. Then she gave me a look and said, “Let me rephrase. Some intern of mine went crazy and pulled his credit reports.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “Yeah, interns. Sometimes they just go rogue.” I added her credit-report maneuver to the list of secrets I planned to take to the grave. Then I realized what she meant about the lack of a car loan. “Wait,” I said. “You saying he paid cash for it?”
“Or someone just gave him a Mustang convertible.” We both laughed. She said, “Maybe if Karl was a cute young woman, but…”
“Yeah,” I said. “Karl definitely had a more limited appeal. What’s this address here?” The car was registered someplace a few towns down the coast.
“That’s his girlfriend, Kitty Ives, the Broke Spoke waitress. He registered it at her place.”
“Huh. I want to talk to her, but I thought barging into the strip club wasn’t the best approach.”
She laughed. “Yeah, you’d better be real discreet. I’ve had run-ins with the guy who owns that place, Dunk McDonough. He’s a control freak, doesn’t like anybody messing with his business. If he knows you’re asking questions, he’ll make trouble for her. He tried to get the Jumpstart halfway house shut down. It’s a block from the Broke Spoke, and he said it made the neighborhood look bad.”
“Worse than a strip club?”
“I know! It’s just women trying to get their lives together. But he was always calling the cops on fake noise complaints. I’ve got a feeling he’s why one of my ladies there got arrested the other week.”
“So Kitty’d probably be scared of him,” I said. “Okay. I’ll reach out to her someplace else.” Squatter, tired of playing, limped over and curled up in the sunlight. I scratched his ears and said, “I need to talk to Jackson too. Whatever he was doing that night, I need to know.”
“Yeah. It’s too bad he doesn’t understand that.” Her pup brought her the slobbery ball, and she hurled it back downhill. “Or does he? I know you can’t answer that. I’m just thinking out loud. Is he scared of something? What’s he trying to hide? Anyway. That’s what I’d be wondering.”
I was shaking my head, but not because I disagreed. “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t even remember how long ago it was that I lost my faith in… in reason, basically.”
“How do you mean?”
“Folks don’t decide anything based on reason. They decide what they want to, or jurors believe what they want to, and then they come up with an excuse for it after the fact.”
She sighed. Even the wriggling puppy dropping his ball at her feet didn’t get a smile.
“Not to be depressing,” I said, leaning over to get the ball. “Although if you want inspiration and uplift,” I said, tossing it downhill, “you probably need friends who’ve never been prosecutors. Or criminal defense lawyers.”
That made her laugh. “Or cops,” she added. “I don’t think we realized, when we were in high school, that the careers we wanted came with a side of losing faith in humanity.”
“They never tell you that, do they. Speaking of cops, you find anything on Blount?”
“Not much. Nobody I talked to saw him at the marina that night. For background, I already knew he’s married, three sons in their teens, been a cop for twenty years. He started around the same time I did. And I don’t know if this matters, but some of us called him the Enforcer. In a good way. Sometimes, in child abuse cases, he’d take it on himself to warn the perps that whether the law got them or not, he would, if they didn’t knock it off.”
“Damn,” I said. “I hope the jury doesn’t get wind of that. They’d come to whatever verdict he wanted them to.”
“Yeah,” she said with a smile. “Most folks love that kind of thing. I mean, somebody’s got to stand up for those kids.”
“Wonder why he didn’t stand up for Jackson.”
She shook her head like she wondered that too. “He didn’t do it in every case. And he could’ve scared off just about anybody, you know? He’s like six foot four. I don’t know how he picked which perps to go after.”
“Great. So the main witness against us is a superhero. That helps.”
She laughed. Her dog was back again, and she got a treat out, holding it just out of reach: “Sit! Sit!”
The puppy sat.
“Good boy!” He licked the treat until it fell off her hand. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t know if you remember this—you’d been gone for years when it happened—but his sister-in-law was murdered fifteen or twenty years ago.”
“Oh, yeah. God, that was an awful case. They ever catch the guy?”
“Nope. So there’s your uplifting story of the day.”
I said, “I imagine he’s not a fan of folks getting away with murder. Little ax to grind, maybe.” I wanted to ask what she thought of Jackson’s theory that Blount had it in for him ever since his high-school marijuana arrest, but I never wanted to put attorney-client privilege at risk. Instead, I said, “I checked Jackson’s arrest reports to see if he’d had any run-ins with Blount before, but he wasn’t the arresting officer on any of them.”
“Well, it could’ve been his partner. Or if Jackson was brought to the station, they could’ve had some interaction there.” She put a dog bowl on the ground and poured water into it. “I didn’t work that closely with him when I was on the force, but he seemed like the angry type. Joins the police for the power, you know? Even when he used it for good, I could see what a charge he got out of it.”
“Huh,” I said. “Doesn’t sound promising for getting him to agree to an interview.” As Jackson’s lawyer, I had the right to ask prosecution witnesses for an interview, but they didn’t have to agree.
“Yeah,” she said. “I do remember that he hated defense lawyers. Thought they got in his way.”
Before I could answer, my phone rang. I showed her Aaron Ruiz’s name on my screen.
I said, “Hello, Aaron. How you been?”
“Afternoon, Leland. Glad I caught you before close of business. I thought you’d want to know, I just got the coroner’s report on Karl Warton. Got a copy here waiting for you.”
I parked down the street from the courthouse and ran. It was about two minutes before five, and if the solicitor’s office here was anything like in Charleston, by this time on a Friday there’d be tumbleweeds blowing through it. Ruiz had done more than he had to by phoning me and waiting, and I didn’t want to make him regret his courtesy.
Defending Innocence (Small Town Lawyer Book 1) Page 9