Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  “That’s quite a feat.”

  Drake nodded. “On paper it was, but we should’ve won four. Our little school had ten guys from those teams go on to play college football; six of us made it to the NFL.”

  “But you were the only superstar.”

  Drake shrugged. “I was in the limelight more than the other guys, but they were all very good. You don’t make it into the league by being a slouch. Everyone who gets there is a superstar. And even then, you gotta fight like hell to keep your slot on the roster.”

  “So, back to May 7th. What happened next?”

  “After a few drinks, I had to go to the restroom when some guy bumped into me. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but when I reached into my pocket to pull out my phone, I realized the dude had put something in there: It was a picture.”

  “Like a four-by-six photograph?”

  “No, it was a picture printed out on paper that had been folded up several times until it was about half that size. I opened up the picture and couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “What did you see?”

  Drake took a deep breath and waited a moment before continuing. “It was a picture of her, of Susannah. And she was in the arms of another man. It wasn’t innocent either. There’s no other way anyone could’ve interpreted the picture. She was gazing romantically at him.”

  “So, what’d you do next?”

  “I remember storming out of The Pirate’s Den and heading toward my car. I jumped behind the steering wheel and sped toward her house.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “I’d only had a couple of drinks, so I was very much aware of what was going on. But once I got there, it all became a blur.”

  “How so?”

  “I saw her and then I heard some voices, but I still can’t remember whose they were. Parts of that night are still so hazy to me. I remember that I rolled over and looked up at her and she had a frightened look on her face. Then everything went black.”

  “Everything?”

  Drake nodded. “I don’t remember anything until the next morning when I woke up with a gun in my hand, lying on my back in a johnboat in the Okefenokee. I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s how I felt, like, what am I doing here? Whose gun is this? And whose finger is this? I was really freaked out by everything.”

  “So, before you had a chance to investigate on your own what was going on, you were arrested?”

  “Arrested, incarcerated, and now headed for death row. Even all my money couldn’t buy the kind of criminal defense I needed to beat a murder rap of the sheriff’s daughter. I never had a chance.”

  “Do you think someone set you up?”

  “I believe I was framed. I don’t care how drunk I was or doped up by whatever those punks put in my system, there’s no way I would’ve harmed Susannah. She was my world.”

  “Who would frame you?”

  Drake shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that for over a decade, and I can’t figure out who had it out for me that much.”

  “Maybe it was someone who had it out for Susannah, instead, and they just saw you as a convenient person to accuse.”

  “You could be right, but I can’t even think of anyone who hated Susannah. Everyone in Pickett County loved her.”

  “If she was the prosecutor, I doubt everyone did.”

  “That’d be the only logical explanation when it comes to why anyone would target her. For all I know, they could’ve been planning on killing her that night no matter what and I just happened to come to the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Cal took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. “It could’ve been a crime of convenience, but I’m guessing it was more a crime of passion based on everything I’ve read about the case.”

  “That’s possible, but it wasn’t my passion—at least, I don’t remember a thing about it, if it was. I can’t help but think . . .”

  “Think what?” Cal asked.

  “Who got to that kid who supposedly said he saw me kill her.”

  “What kid?”

  “His name was Keith Hurley. He was about twelve years old and was a water boy for the football team when I played. The defense convinced the jury that he’d never forget what I looked like. His testimony is what sunk me. Well, that and waking up in a boat with the murder weapon and Susannah’s finger in my hand.”

  “Sullivan didn’t try to discredit this Hurley kid?”

  “He did, but it didn’t turn out like we hoped. It actually made the kid look more credible.”

  Cal scratched down a few more notes and looked at his voice recorder. “I hate to be blunt like this, but if you didn’t kill Susannah, who do you think did?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say it was Sheriff Sloan. He’s the only one who could’ve covered everything up so neatly.”

  “He’d kill his own daughter? I’ve got a daughter, and I couldn’t imagine doing something like that, no matter how mad I was at her.”

  “They had a strained relationship to say the least, but I’d be willing to bet she found out something about what he was doing.”

  “So, you’re saying he’s dirty?”

  “I’m saying go check it out and find out what you can—and do it fast. I don’t have much time left before I exhaust all my appeals.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Cal said as he stood up.

  Drake grabbed Cal’s wrist before he could turn away.

  “Be careful, Mr. Murphy. Pickett County has a lot of people with a lot of secrets. If you go poking around down there, you might end up like me—or worse.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A TIN BELL CLANKED against the glass door of The Searchlight, Pickett County’s weekly newspaper, after Cal and Kelly slipped inside early Tuesday morning. Though tidy and well organized, the cramped reception area was unattended. Cal doubted anyone was permanently assigned to manage the trickling foot traffic a weekly newspaper was likely to receive. When he’d worked at a small paper, such duties were doled out based on seniority.

  “Remind you of Statenville?” Kelly asked, referencing the small town paper where they’d first met.

  “If I hadn’t seen the sign when I walked in, I might have thought I’d been magically transported there.”

  Before their conversation continued, a young man who looked not a day older than twenty walked toward them.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” Cal said, offering his hand to the man. “Cal Murphy, Seattle Times.”

  The man eyed Cal cautiously before glancing over at Kelly and giving her the once over.

  “What can I do for you and this pretty little lady here?” he asked, shooting a wink at Kelly.

  “Well, my wife and I are wondering if we can speak with your editor,” Cal said.

  “About what, exactly? He’s kinda busy at the moment.”

  Cal tilted his head to the side, peering around the man. A buxom lady was vacuuming the floor behind him, while the only other person in the office was a man seated comfortably at his desk, nursing a cup of coffee and reading a magazine.

  “That guy?” Cal asked, pointing at the man in the back.

  The young man didn’t turn around.

  “If you wanna place an ad, I can take the information for you right now. Otherwise, I’m afraid Mr. Arant doesn’t have much time for chit chat.”

  “He doesn’t look busy,” Cal said as he watched the cleaning lady stop her vacuum cleaner and begin to wrap up the cord.

  The young man stood upright and scowled. “Just because we’re not a big city newspaper doesn’t mean we don’t work hard around here and—”

  “I’m sorry,” Cal said, holding up his hands in a posture of surrender. “I wasn’t trying to imply that you don’t work hard. I just thought your editor might want to answer some questions for me about the murder of Susannah Sloan.”

  “Susannah Sloan?” Mr. Arant asked. He stood up and lumbered toward the front of the office.
“Did you say Susannah Sloan?”

  “I sure did,” Cal said.

  “Tommy, go finish scanning in those pictures I gave you earlier,” Arant said, nudging aside his young employee.

  Cal smiled and offered his hand. “Cal Murphy, The Seattle Times, and this is my wife, Kelly.”

  Arant shook Cal’s hand and then Kelly’s.

  “Larry Arant, editor of this here fish wrapper,” he said as he glanced around the room. “She’s not much, but she’s what keeps Pickett County honest, for the most part.”

  Cal nodded. “I understand. We both worked at a small town weekly before.”

  “Good. So you know I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin’ contest, right?”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” Kelly said. “Those were some of our most formative years in journalism.”

  Arant chuckled. “I’m glad you made it out. You either have to own the paper or have a vindictive wife who divorces you to marry the judge overseeing family court and threatens to eliminate visitation to your two kids in order to stick around one of these places.”

  “Which one are you?” Cal asked.

  “Let’s just say I wish I owned the paper and leave it at that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So, what do you want to know about the Susannah Sloan murder case? It was decided a long time ago in court what happened.”

  Cal pulled out his notepad containing a few questions he’d jotted down.

  “Can we sit down? This might take some time.”

  “Why not? I’ve got Tommy doin’ all the dirty work today before we put out this week’s paper.”

  Arant motioned for Cal and Kelly to follow him into the interior of the building and gestured for them to sit down around a small round table with four chairs. After he sat down, Arant finger combed his thinning gray hair and loosened his tie.

  “So, what’s this all about?” he asked.

  “I’m working on a feature story about Isaiah Drake, and I’m trying to get a better picture of what happened with the trial.”

  Arant leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table. “I hope you don’t think that maggot was innocent, because he was guilty as sin.”

  Cal glanced at his notes. “How so?”

  “Isaiah Drake was always a problem around here. I won’t even begin to guess how many times Sheriff Sloan let that kid off the hook—and all because the sheriff wanted Drake to play for Auburn.”

  “Really?”

  Arant nodded imperceptibly. “That’s all Sheriff Sloan ever talks about, unless of course there’s a robbery in town or Mrs. Rollins’ cat gets stuck in a tree for the umpteenth time. It’s Auburn football this and Auburn football that.”

  “And Drake was that good?”

  Arant laughed. “Good is an understatement. The kid was one of the best talents ever to come out of Georgia. It’s sacrilegious to suggest such things in these parts, but I dare say he was as good as, if not better than, Herschel Walker.”

  Kelly gasped, drawing a sharp glance from Arant.

  “A woman who knows football? I like that,” he said.

  “You don’t want her in your fantasy football league, believe me. I know that from firsthand experience,” Cal quipped.

  “Hasn’t this state been waiting for the next Herschel for decades?” Kelly chimed in.

  “They’ve been waiting for another national title, too, but I doubt it’s going to happen. It’s why I root for a winner like Alabama.”

  “Okay,” Cal said. “Let’s stay focused on Isaiah Drake’s case. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “Well, as I was saying, Sheriff Sloan was always mighty partial to Drake, right up to the day he signed a letter of intent to play at Auburn. After Drake graduated, Sheriff Sloan dropped the act.”

  “The act?” Kelly asked.

  “Yeah, Sloan didn’t care too much for Drake, mostly because he was secretly dating his daughter.”

  “Nobody knew about this?” Cal asked.

  “A few people did, but it wasn’t common knowledge—at least among the Pickett rumor mills. I heard that Sloan almost shot Drake one night when he was sneaking into Susannah’s bedroom. Almost blew his ear off with a pistol.”

  “I was told that a portion of his right ear was bitten off while he was wrestling pig,” Cal said.

  “That makes a far better story than the truth, doesn’t it?” Arant said with a laugh. “We have a way of embellishing our tales down here in the swamp.”

  “Like The Marsh Monster?” Kelly asked with a laugh.

  Arant cut his eyes toward her and glared. “No, the Marsh Monster is real—and I’ll go to my grave believin’ that.”

  “Give us your take on the trial. What were the highlights?” Cal asked, redirecting the conversation back toward the point of their visit.

  Arant took another sip of his coffee. “This town was a zoo with all the national media descending on Pickett like flies on stink. You couldn’t go anywhere without getting a camera shoved in your face and some moron from Chicago or New York or L.A. holding a microphone to your lips while they asked you a question. But I guess I can’t blame them since the courtroom wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than a hundred people, and the judge wasn’t about to let it all be overrun with reporters. They still had to get their stories.”

  “What was the scene like inside the courtroom?” Cal asked as he scratched out a few more notes.

  “It’s what you might expect in a case like this. A prosecutor seizing the moment and viewing it as his big opportunity to get noticed. A pompous big city lawyer who was confident he’d get his client off. It was intense, to say the least. Both teams of lawyers were always sniping at one another. It was a game of one-upmanship. And it didn’t matter if it was about a point of law or whose lunch had just been delivered to the courtroom during recess. Everyone in town grew sick of the incessant bickering and fighting. We were all just ready for it to be over.”

  “It seems like they got their wish.”

  “Yeah, the trial didn’t last more than two weeks, and the jury came back with their verdict after deliberating less than an hour.”

  “How did the prosecution win the case?” Kelly asked.

  “I’m convinced I could’ve argued and won that case. Hell, there are tree stumps in the Okefenokee that could’ve prosecuted Isaiah Drake and got the same result. Isaiah was engaged to Susannah. Susannah started cattin’ around on him with some big shot lawyer from Jacksonville. Isaiah came back to Pickett and had been drinkin’ heavily when someone gave him a picture of Susannah and her new beau canoodlin’. Isaiah went over to her house and shot her.”

  “It was really that simple?” Cal asked.

  “Look, Isaiah shot her eight times and cut off her ring finger. The prosecution alleged that he chopped it off because she wouldn’t give him back the ring. Now, I don’t know about that part, but the murder scene photos were certainly gruesome enough to turn everyone angrily against him. Susannah had always been such a sweet girl, and to see her like that, it was just too much.”

  “Do you think the racial makeup of the jury had somethin’ to do with it?”

  Arant rubbed his face with both hands and then glared at Cal.

  “Pickett’s no different than any other town. The people here ain’t perfect, but we all get along for the most part. And people are fair minded. There were five black folks on the jury and seven white folks. And the verdict was obviously unanimous. They all still live around here if you wanna go ask them yourself, but they were all convinced that Isaiah did it. This town wasn’t divided in the least bit, especially along racial lines.”

  “No protests or riots?”

  Arant chuckled. “God, I hate social media, and I pity reporters like you who have to work in a big city environment. People in Pickett think Twitter is a word meaning stupid girl. Celebrity sightings here consist of the few football players who go on to play college ball somewhere or Dan Davis, the best
farmer in these here parts who could get a yield of two cotton bushels plantin’ in cement. All that to say, the two were united when the verdict was read as well as the sentencing a few days later.”

  Cal flipped through his notepad and sighed.

  “The one thing that’s bugged me about what I read is that there was never another suspect, even though most of the evidence was circumstantial.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. You’d have to be pretty sympathetic to Isaiah to think he didn’t do this. Everything was there: motive, the murder weapon, the opportunity. The only oddity to the whole ordeal was how Isaiah was found. He claimed he passed out in a boat, still holding the murder weapon and Susannah’s finger. Who does that?”

  “That strange behavior is the very reason I can’t believe there were never any other suspects.”

  “Why look for anyone else when the man who’s the guiltiest is right there in front of you. While I’m not some big city reporter like you, I’ve covered my fair share of trials living in this town, and there’s one constant: In ninety-nine out of one hundred cases, the most guilty-lookin’ person with the biggest motive is your man.”

  “But what about the other one?”

  “There are always exceptions.”

  Cal nodded. “And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

  “Don’t look too hard, Mr. Murphy,” Arant said as he stood up. “Flippin’ over rocks in this town to dig up somethin’ that’s probably not there is a good way to get on everyone’s bad side. Susannah’s death was painful for the people of Pickett, almost as much as it was to watch the greatest football player this area has ever seen get sentenced to death. Scabs are there to help us heal. But if you start pickin’ at ‘em . . .”

  “I might just find the real killer?” Cal asked as he stood up and tersely shook Arant’s hand.

  “You be careful, Mr. Murphy, and you, too, Mrs. Murphy. We’re a friendly little town, but we don’t take too kindly to strangers stirrin’ up trouble.”

  Cal scooped up his notebook off the table. “If you find the truth to be troubling, this town has bigger problems than us working on a story about a man who claims to be falsely condemned to death.”