Defending Innocence (Small Town Lawyer Book 1)

by Peter Kirkland

  He laughed. “My in-laws wanted to give my oldest girl one of those smart-speaker things for Christmas. I said, ‘I am not bugging my own home.’ I don’t know what folks are thinking these days.”

  We were partway through the egg rolls when he said, “So, it’s not just to help you out that I wanted to talk. If we can establish a link, connecting your murder to my drug cartel could put my guys away for that much longer. So, fire away. What’s your story?”

  I laid the whole thing out for him. What happened to Karl, what had led me to believe he’d gotten into drug dealing, and why I thought he’d found himself caught up in something bigger than he realized.

  About Pete Dupree, he said, scooping out some more kung pao chicken, “Just speaking in generalities here, doesn’t waste hauling strike you as a good way to smuggle just about anything?”

  Generalities meant he was talking about a case whose details he couldn’t share.

  “It certainly does,” I said.

  “And if you were moving drugs, would you rather do it in some vehicle that any traffic cop can pull over, or run a good part of the trip on board some high-end tourist boat?”

  “Yeah. I think he may very well have infiltrated our local yacht charter for that reason. But he stopped working for them last spring, so I don’t know where that leaves us.”

  “Infiltrated is an interesting word.” He didn’t look at me; he was getting more fried rice.

  I took that to mean, The wrong word, but I can’t tell you why.

  “Anyway,” he said, sitting back on the couch, “who’s got the waste contract now?”

  That was a good question. I hadn’t seen anything about that in Blue Seas’ files. We had what seemed like every other contract Henry had ever signed. I said, “I’ll find out.”

  We were on our third servings when I brought up Blount. I still had no information on what he’d wanted the Warton brothers to testify to, and no way of proving Blount wasn’t where he said he was on the night Karl was killed. “And above all,” I said, “if he’s lying, why?”

  “Oh,” Garrett said, “you know there’s only ever two reasons. Either the liar’s getting paid or he’s getting blackmailed.”

  “Well, his truck’s nearly ten years old,” I said. “And there’s nothing fancy about his house.”

  He broke open a fortune cookie and tossed half of it in his mouth. “Without getting into details, I can tell you that we’ve recovered dozens of hours of surveillance footage, going back years, from a business down by you. And not security stuff like watching the cashiers and the doors. They were watching their customers.”

  I was puzzled for a second, picturing customers doing the usual things in some restaurant or store. Then Dunk’s strip club came to mind. His customers might well not want folks to see what they got up to in that dark and windowless place.

  “Oh,” I said. “Jesus, blackmailing their customers?”

  He shrugged and ate the other half of the cookie.

  “So if by chance,” I said, “any of that footage showed customers breaking the law, are you guys offering immunity? I mean, if the customers know something that could help you out?”

  “That’s on the table. In cooperation with state prosecutors, for the state crimes.”

  “Witness protection, maybe? Is your cartel dangerous enough to need that?”

  He nodded. “If you can get your people to talk,” he said, “it’s all on the table.”

  I could see from his crossed arms and steady gaze that he couldn’t tell me more. But he’d said enough: there were people, plural, involved in Jackson’s case that he had reason to believe could testify against his drug cartel.

  I just had to figure out who. And get them to talk.

  33

  Tuesday, December 17, Morning

  It was time for me to cross-examine the medical examiner. The vivid pictures he’d painted the day before were still going to inflame the jury—there was no way around that—but I hoped if I could get the evidence from him that I needed, his style would help the jury remember it.

  “So, Dr. Turner,” I said, “you’ve testified that Karl died of massive blood loss, and your colleague Dr. Armstrong told us that he’d lost at least a liter of blood. That’s a lot, correct?”

  “It sure is. For a man Karl’s size, just the amount Dr. Armstrong observed on the boat could put him in hypovolemic shock. And that’s invariably fatal, unless you’re in a hospital when it happens.”

  “Okay. And I apologize for this graphic detail, but based on your medical knowledge, if a man’s jugular vein is cut, how would the blood exit the body?” He looked confused. “I mean, and again I apologize, but would you describe it as, for instance, trickling out?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. No, not at all. You have to understand, this was a living man, and his blood would’ve been under pressure, just like yours or mine.” He was gesturing with both hands, getting far too enthusiastic for the topic at hand. “So when the hacking wound I spoke of was inflicted, the blood would’ve exited the artery under pressure, at speed.”

  “Is there a plain-English word you might use to describe that? Spray, perhaps?”

  “I might use the term ‘spurt,’ myself, but your word works too.”

  Two members of the jury recoiled as if the blood he was describing had just sprayed them. I sent them a silent apology, but it couldn’t be helped. This information was a puzzle piece that I needed to put in place before presenting the defense evidence.

  “And, Dr. Turner, I believe in your report you indicated that this wound was inflicted from the front. In other words, the assailant would’ve been standing in front of Karl. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I can’t speak to whether he was directly in front or off a little to one side—”

  “But in any case, to the front?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. And wouldn’t that be the same direction the blood would, as you put it, spurt?”

  “So the laws of physics would suggest.”

  “In other words, yes? The blood would spray forward?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you would expect, wouldn’t you, that the assailant would—well, he’d get a lot of blood on him, wouldn’t he.”

  “Well, that depends how far away he was.”

  “But—remind me, Dr. Turner, how big was this boat?”

  “Oh. Yes, in this particular case, there was only so far apart that they could be.”

  “I believe, based on your colleague’s report, with the location of this bloodstain, they can’t have been more than about two or three feet apart, correct?”

  “I believe that’s accurate, yes.” My gory question seemed to have inspired him, since he came back to it without any prompting: “So, yes, I would expect the assailant to have a significant amount of blood on him.”

  “A significant amount of blood. Okay. And I understand, Dr. Turner, that you also performed tests on all the samples that the police provided you from their search of my client, Jackson Warton? Fingernail scrapings, clothing, hair and so forth?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “And can you confirm you didn’t find any of Karl Warton’s blood on him? Or anybody’s blood?”

  He paused a moment. “That’s correct, but—”

  “No blood. Thank you. And I understand you also performed drug tests on Jackson after his arrest, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The usual urine and blood tests, and even hair?”

  “All three, yes.”

  “Because some drugs last longer in the hair, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “About how long after heroin use would you be able to get a positive test on hair?”

  “It can vary. Anything from one to three months.”

  “And did Jackson’s hair test, or any of those tests, come back positive for heroin?”

  “They did not.”

  “So you found no sign that Jackson had used any heroin. Correct?” />
  “That’s correct.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  I went back to the table satisfied. The puzzle was partly assembled, and when I added my pieces—Jackson’s jacket, Mazie’s testimony about the laundry, and the question of how the heck nobody noticed a blood-covered Jackson walking all the way home the next morning—hopefully the jury would see there was reasonable doubt.

  Ruiz called Blount next. As the lead detective—and also a timeline witness, given what he was going to say about seeing Jackson—he would probably be on the stand for a good three or four hours.

  Blount was, it seemed, the best piece of evidence the prosecution had. I had one shot at weakening that evidence. And I was taking that shot today.

  I spent lunchtime with Jackson and Terri in the tiny conference room that the court left empty for criminal defense teams. Over sandwiches from the courthouse vending machine, we discussed what I’d learned from Garrett and how to work it into my cross of Blount. The plan was to establish what I could about Blount’s tendency to cut corners and go a little extrajudicial on people he thought were crooks. If that line of questioning alone didn’t make him angry, we had a few others that we thought would get him there. Once it looked like he was about to lose his composure on the witness stand, I would hit him between the eyes with, “Detective Blount, have you ever been threatened with blackmail?”

  Anger could make a man say more than he ought to, but Blount was not stupid. What I hoped was that his face would give him away, at least to the handful of jurors who were open to the possibility that cops can lie.

  If that question didn’t do the trick—if he thought I was bluffing—I was ready to ask him if it was Dunk McDonough who’d blackmailed him. And then I was ready to get strung up by Ruiz and Judge Chambliss, because I had nothing to back up those questions, no evidence I could introduce at all. This whole strategy was desperate. But so were we.

  Just before Chambliss was about to call the jury back in, his bailiff came in the main doors, walked over to Ruiz, and handed him an envelope. Ruiz ripped it open. Whatever it said seemed to surprise him.

  He stood and said, “Excuse me, Your Honor. May we approach?”

  He gestured to me, and we went to the bench. Chambliss said, “Something come up, Mr. Ruiz?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. My superior, Mr. Ludlow, is down at the county jail, and he sent this over.” He held up the envelope. “He couldn’t call, since they don’t allow cell phones at the jail, so—”

  “Please get to the point, Mr. Ruiz.”

  “We have a jailhouse informant prepared to testify that Mr. Munroe’s client confessed.”

  I looked at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Judge Chambliss sighed like someone had just told him he needed a couple of root canals. “And I suppose, Mr. Ruiz, you’re going to need a continuance?”

  “Yes. I apologize, Your Honor. This comes totally out of the blue for me, but—”

  “Mr. Ludlow presumably had a little more notice. Does his note state when this alleged confession occurred?”

  Ruiz looked at it. “Uh, well, it says they were housed together until October. The informant and—”

  “That was two months ago, Mr. Ruiz.”

  “I’m aware, Your Honor, but—”

  “You can have your continuance. It runs until tomorrow afternoon. Mr. Munroe, can I assume you’re going to want to argue we shouldn’t hear this witness, or his testimony should be limited somehow?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. We’ll do that at noon. The jury will be back here, seated and ready to go, at one p.m.”

  That was a spanking if ever I saw one. Ruiz thanked him for it.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “I think, in fairness, we’re going to want full disclosure on what all this informant may be getting from the solicitor’s office.”

  Chambliss nodded. “Mr. Ruiz, that defense request is granted.”

  “I’d also like to know,” I said, “if the informant is down at the jail awaiting trial, versus already serving out a sentence.” Ruiz knew what I meant: could Ludlow have offered him a plea deal?

  “I can’t speak to that. I was only just advised.”

  Chambliss said, “You’re going to need to find out and speak to it, pronto. You two get going. I’ll inform the jury.”

  I turned back toward the defense table, spotted Terri, and changed course to follow Ruiz. I needed everything he had on this jailhouse snitch so I could pass it on to her.

  All Ruiz had was the name, age, and what charges he was in on. He let me snap a photo of the witness statement.

  I came back, slapped my hands down on the table, and told Jackson, “Hey! We got us a short vacation. It ain’t going to be fun.” More quietly, I said, “Terri, he and I need to talk, and in the meantime I got someone for you to look up.” I handed her what I’d scribbled down from Ruiz. She started typing it in while I was still talking. I said, “Work your magic like never before. There is nothing I don’t want to know. The color of his daddy’s boxer shorts, what made his granny turn alcoholic, anything you got. This is a jailhouse snitch, and we need to take him down.”

  At the words ‘jailhouse snitch,’ Jackson just looked confused.

  I grabbed my bag and files, then whispered to Terri, “I want Ludlow too. If you got time.”

  In our little conference room, I emailed myself the witness statement so Jackson could read it on my laptop screen. When he saw the guy’s name, he said, “Oh. Oh, shit.”

  “Jackson, did you tell this guy you did it?”

  “I let him think I did,” he said. “To scare him. He—oh, God.” He sprawled against the back of his chair, head hanging over the back, and covered his face with his hands.

  I could feel the second hand ticking down. The twenty-four-hour window Chambliss had given us to figure this out was shrinking, but something in the way Jackson was sitting told me to keep my mouth shut.

  Elise used to do deep-breathing exercises to relax. I tried some. Then I realized tightly clenched teeth probably were not part of the exercise and tried again.

  When he finally sat back up, he looked haunted. He said quietly, “Can anyone hear us?”

  “No. I checked, with Terri.”

  He nodded.

  “If I tell you something,” he said, “will you keep it secret? Not say it in court?”

  “I’m trying to get you out of jail. I do that by saying things in court. But I give you my word, I won’t say any of this unless you tell me I can.”

  He set his forearms on the table, clasped his hands together, and shut his eyes. I didn’t know if I was about to witness a confession or a prayer.

  “My dad,” he said, “was dealing drugs. Serious drugs. He was making bank and tried to bring me in, but I said no. I didn’t want to go to jail.” He laughed at the irony of that. His eyes were still closed. “He stashed them on his boat and at that ice cream stand. And he had this friend we used to go see at the Broke Spoke, Pete Dupree. Pete knew Dunk real well. He seemed okay, but after a while he got scary. He said my dad was ripping him off, and he was going to—he said my mom was going to pay.” His praying hands clenched into one big fist.

  “Jackson,” I said, gently, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Pete’s still out there,” he said. “And he’s got friends in here. In jail, I mean.”

  I asked, “That how your jaw got broken?”

  He nodded. Then he looked at me and said, “Mr. Munroe, I got no evidence of this, but I think Pete killed my dad. But I would rather take the fall and stay in jail for thirty years than give him any cause to hurt my mom.”

  34

  Tuesday, December 17, Afternoon

  After they took Jackson back to jail, I drove to my office. I needed a quiet place to think. Roy was golfing, and Laura never intruded.

  Jackson had made it clear he didn’t want me to put in one word of evidence that Karl was a dealer. Even if I named no
other names and never mentioned any cartel, it still got too close to Pete. And if I had any doubt left that Jackson was a smart kid, he erased it when he said, “Anybody can come watch the trial, right? You said it’s public. If one day they hear you saying my dad was dealing heroin, how do they know that tomorrow you’re not going to start talking about Pete?”

  I went over what Garrett had told me, or allowed me to understand. If Blount was being blackmailed, that explained a lot, but there wasn’t much I could do with it. It was impossible to call up the lead detective in my current murder trial and tell him, “Hey, if it so happens you committed a crime that some cartel is blackmailing you about, I got a friend willing to offer immunity, but please call him before you testify any more against my client.” If he didn’t embrace that offer with open arms, I’d get kicked off the case for witness tampering. Jackson would be shunted off to some public defender with a hundred other clients, while I tried to convince the ethics board not to revoke my law license.

  Garrett had suggested that more than one person connected to my case might be interested in his immunity deal. And he’d paused on one word I said: infiltrated.

  I got on my computer and started searching the Blue Seas files. In twenty minutes I pulled up over a hundred contracts. Carpet cleaning, silverware, laundry. No waste contract.

  I had pictured Dupree going after that contract in order to use Blue Seas as a cover. But if I was reading Garrett’s hint right, Blue Seas wasn’t tricked. They were in on it.

  I remembered Henry at the shrimp fest, standing there and taking all the ridicule Dunk was dishing out. If Dunk was our local blackmailer, that made sense. On the other hand, Dunk’s remark about Henry’s wife—what was it? “My strip club is the least of her worries”? That sounded more like what Dunk had on him was adultery. I had no trouble seeing Henry as a cheating husband. That was far more likely than him being involved in some drug cartel.