Dead to Rights

by Jack Patterson

  “You know who that is?” Cal asked.

  Sloan didn’t move. “Got no idea, but whoever they are, they’re going to have a lot to answer for after tearing up my driveway like that.”

  The car skidded to a stop just behind Cal and Kelly’s vehicle. When the dust settled, Cal identified the car as a white Ford Mustang but still couldn’t make out who the driver was. When the door swung open, Cal noticed the gun in the man’s hand before he recognized the man’s face.

  Isaiah Drake.

  Sloan didn’t appear intimidated by Drake’s gun, walking toward the uninvited guest as opposed to cowering away from him.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here?” Sloan demanded.

  Cal stepped to the side, unsure if he should get involved or not.

  Drake kept his gun trained on Sloan. “I’ll answer your questions after you answer mine, starting with why did you kill her, Sheriff Sloan? Why did you kill your only daughter? Why did you murder Susannah?”

  Sloan glared at Drake. “How dare you come on to my property and accuse me of such a thing. It wasn’t you who had to bury his own daughter. I’m givin’ you ten seconds to get back in your car and get outta here before I have you arrested and thrown right back where you came from.”

  “I’m not here to negotiate,” Drake said. “I’ve dreamed of this moment for a long time—and there’s only one of us who’ll be leaving your property alive tonight … and I’m the one holding a weapon.”

  Sloan slipped his right hand into his pocket.

  “No, no, no,” Drake said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Sloan pulled his right hand out of his pocket and returned it to the handle of his sledge hammer. “Well, nobody ever accused you of bein’ smart,” Sloan said. “If it wasn’t for me convincin’ Mrs. Danford to change your History grade, you would’ve ended up at some junior college in a Kansas prairie somewhere instead of playin’ college football at a top-tier program.”

  “Susannah deserved better.”

  Sloan laughed nervously. “She sure did. And she was tryin’ to get it with a respectable lawyer from Jacksonville before you took that—and her very life—away from her just like that,” Sloan said, snapping for emphasis.

  “You were always the best at coming up with a way to avoid responsibility … or maybe you forgot that one of your deputies ended up in prison. He told me the whole story about your wife’s death. Suicide, my ass.”

  “You watch yourself, Isaiah,” Sloan said, wagging a finger at him.

  Drake glanced at Cal before turning his attention back toward Sloan.

  “What? You don’t want this reporter here to know the truth, though I’m not even sure I believe the version your deputy told me.”

  “Don’t even think about goin’ there, Isaiah. I swear to God—”

  “You swear you’ll do to me what you did to her?” Drake asked. “It was an accident, right? Your gun discharged while you were cleaning it. You weren’t being careful. You killed your wife. Or maybe you did it on purpose. She committed suicide? And poor Susannah went to her grave at your hands, believing her mother couldn’t handle this life anymore.”

  “You watch it, Isaiah. I swear—”

  “Stop swearing and make me stop, if you’re man enough. I know what you did that night. I know you killed her.”

  Cal recognized the situation was near a boiling point. In a matter of seconds, Drake was going to pull the trigger and kill Sloan. And then Cal had no idea what would happen after that, but he was sure it wouldn’t be a desirable outcome for anyone involved. He scanned the area for Kelly, who had moved to the side when Drake first exited his vehicle and was capturing the entire incident on her camera.

  “Let’s not do anything we’ll regret, okay,” Cal said, placing both of his hands in the air.

  “I’ll regret not doing this,” Drake said.

  “I didn’t kill Susannah,” Sloan said. “It wasn’t me.”

  Drake’s hand shook as he started to walk slowly toward Sloan. “Enough of your lies. I heard them in my head every day for almost twelve years.”

  A tear streaked down Sloan’s face. “I miss her too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, about how she could’ve had a different life, a happy life.”

  “Put the gun down,” Cal said to Drake. “It’s not worth it. Killing Sheriff Sloan won’t bring back Susannah.”

  Drake’s gaze darted back and forth between Cal and Sloan. “No, it won’t. But it will get justice for her.”

  “What type of justice will you be gettin’ if you murder an innocent man?” Sloan asked.

  “You’re not innocent,” Drake roared before cocking his gun.

  Cal then took a drastic measure, stepping directly in front of Drake. “He may not be innocent, but I am,” Cal said. “Put the gun down.”

  In the distance, sirens wailed.

  Cal looked past Drake to see a pair of deputy cars flying down Sloan’s driveway.

  “It’s over,” Cal said. “Any justice you think you’ll be exacting will be negated by the narrative my peers will write about you. Do the right thing and throw your gun to the side before it gets worse for you.”

  Drake dropped his gun and staggered to the ground. Tears began to roll down his face.

  “But I miss her so much,” Drake said. “I can’t help but think about Susannah every single day.”

  “Me, too, Isaiah,” Sloan said, kneeling down next to Drake. “I miss her, too.”

  The deputy cars came to a halt behind Drake’s Mustang. The doors opened and then slammed as a pair of deputies rushed toward the scene.

  Sloan held up his hand, gesturing toward the deputies to stand down. He proceeded to put his arm around Drake in a comforting move. “And if you missed her so much, maybe you shouldn’t have killed her,” Sloan said, before kicking Drake in the ribs. “Arrest him.”

  Sloan stepped back as his deputies rushed in and wrestled a resistant Drake to the ground before handcuffing him.

  Cal watched in somewhat disbelief over the scene that unfolded. He wasn’t sure which was more unfathomable—Drake threatening Sheriff Sloan with a gun or Sloan feigning empathy before kicking Drake and having him arrested. Deputy Tillman helped Drake to his feet before glancing at Cal, who read the look of a deputy feeling conflicted.

  Sloan sauntered over to Cal. The sheriff slipped a toothpick in his mouth and crossed his arms.

  “Any doubt that man’s not stable?” Sloan asked. “He threatened me with a gun for God’s sake. It was nice theater, but he’s guilty, and I can’t wait to watch him get another guilty verdict.” He worked his toothpick over and waited a moment before continuing. “I don’t think I need to answer another single question of yours.”

  Cal cocked his head to one side and eyed the sheriff closely. “Actually, you do,” Cal said as he held up his iPad for Sloan to view. “Care to explain this to me?”

  Sloan inspected the photo of himself handing Boone a bag of cash. “No, I don’t,” Sloan roared. “Now get off my property and outta my town before I make your life a livin’ hell.”

  Cal glanced at Kelly, who was already walking back toward their car. He joined her, satisfied that she had captured a telling moment in the investigation; yet it was a moment that was no closer to leading them to the truth about what happened to Susannah Sloan.

  CHAPTER 33

  AFTER SPENDING THE REMAINDER of Saturday working on an article about Isaiah Drake’s release and subsequent arrest for The Seattle Times, Cal and Kelly decided to attend Pickett AME Church on Sunday morning. Cal thought it would help give him more depth to the feature story he was writing on Drake.

  They slipped into the church five minutes after the service began, snagging the last two empty slots along the back pew. Bishop Jermaine Arnold started preaching after a lengthy session of singing hymns with the lively congregation. He paced back and forth across the stage for the first fifteen minutes before venturing down into the aisles. His sermon on the
children of Israel escaping the Egyptians into the desert brought some moans and a smattering of “come on now” exclamations from the audience.

  “There are times in our lives where we may feel like we’re the ones being persecuted, like there are a different set of rules for us based on factors beyond our control,” Bishop Arnold said. “Perhaps it has to do with the color of our skin or the hand we’ve been dealt in life. We might be poor and look at a rich person and think he has no problems. Or we might find ourselves fortunate to have money yet look at the poor person and wonder what it would be like to be so unencumbered by so much responsibility. No matter where God has placed us on this earth and what we look like and what kind of job we might or might not have, what’s important for us as God’s children is to remember that our joy is not found in how we might feel about our current situation; no, our joy is found in our obedience to the one we claim to follow.”

  Arnold continued down the aisle until he reached the back row. He stood right next to Cal and Kelly.

  “This has been an interesting week in our community. We’ve lost someone we’ve known and loved and watched grow up here in Jordan Hayward. We’ve also found Isaiah Drake, who returned to us—even if ever so briefly—after being falsely accused of murder. We must all endeavor to show love to those around us this week and remember that no matter how difficult or trying our situation might be, it’s not permanent. Nothing is forever … except God and his love for his people.”

  A rousing round of “Amens” erupted throughout the sanctuary. Bishop Arnold smiled as he returned to the stage. He said a prayer that lasted at least five minutes by Cal’s count before the choir sang another song and Bishop Arnold dismissed the congregation.

  Cal and Kelly exited the sanctuary but didn’t leave the church grounds. Cal saw Hayward’s mother, who he wanted to talk to, as well as several other people who looked like they might be willing to share their feelings about all the events that had happened over the past week.

  Cal interviewed a couple of churchgoers briefly before he saw Heloise Hayward, Jordan’s mother. He walked up to her and looked her in the eyes.

  “Sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hayward. I know your Jordan meant a lot to you,” Cal said.

  Mrs. Hayward closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

  Cal continued. “Look, I know our last conversation wasn’t exactly the best one and—”

  “No need to apologize,” Mrs. Hayward said, interrupting. “I know we all get carried away sometimes in our judgments and presuppositions. Jordan wasn’t all I hoped he would be, but he tried. Sometimes he tried hard; sometimes he didn’t. But he always wanted to do the right thing even when it didn’t look that way, that much I sincerely believe.”

  Kelly hugged Mrs. Hayward and patted her on the back. “Be strong, Mrs. Hayward.”

  Mrs. Hayward forced a smile. “That’s the state of my life, child.”

  Cal and Kelly stepped back, giving way to a short line of well-wishers wanting to speak with Mrs. Hayward. They watched as several women gave her a hug. Devontae Ray then wheeled up next to her. She leaned down to hug him. Ray was followed by Harold Jenkins, one of Drake’s former teammates from the Pickett County High School football team. Cal waited until Jenkins was clearly finished with Mrs. Hayward before approaching him.

  “Harold Jenkins?” Cal said.

  Jenkins nodded. “And you are?”

  “Cal Murphy, The Seattle Times,” Cal said, offering his hand.

  Jenkins narrowed his eyes before he leaned back, withdrawing in a way that demonstrated he held Cal suspect.

  “What do you want?” Jenkins asked.

  “I was wondering if you might be interested in talking a little bit about Isaiah Drake?”

  “What for?”

  “I’m writing an article on Drake for my paper, and I thought you might be able to provide a little bit more depth as to who he was—and maybe still is.”

  Jenkins furrowed his brow. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “No reason other than maybe you’re interested in helping let others know the truth about who Drake really is and what kind of man he was when you knew him.”

  Jenkins chuckled. “We weren’t men when I knew him. We were just kids … crazy stupid kids.”

  “Even the night that he supposedly killed Susannah Sloan?”

  Jenkins scowled. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at, Mr. …”

  “Murphy. Cal Murphy.”

  “Mr. Murphy. All I know I know is that Isaiah Drake didn’t kill the sheriff’s daughter that night. No way. He loved that girl too much.”

  “Enough that he might not want anyone else to have her if he couldn’t?” Cal asked.

  Jenkins shook his head. “Not a chance. He actually cherished her. He even confessed to me the day before she died that he’d never slept with her. Can you believe that? A man in this day and age with a woman who looks that good and they never slept together? Unreal.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Jenkins sighed. “What kind of idiot brags about that these days? Of course I believed him. Drake was a gentleman through and through.”

  “So, who else could’ve done this?” Cal asked. “Who else had the motive and desire? What is this town collectively hiding?”

  “Nobody’s hidin’ nothin’,” Jenkins said. “Not even Sheriff Sloan.”

  “Wait. What do you mean by that?” Cal asked.

  “How long you been here, Mr. Murphy? A week?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “You’ve been here a week, and nobody has brought up how corrupt the sheriff is?”

  Cal shook his head. “That’s not where I focused my concern.”

  “Well, you should have because Sheriff Sloan is about as crooked as they come. He’s so corrupt that he doesn’t even try to cover it up any more.”

  “Cover what up?” Cal asked.

  “His moonshine ring, led by none other than Jacob Boone.”

  Cal eyed Jenkins suspiciously. “Sheriff Sloan? Running moonshine?”

  Jenkins waved his hands. “No, no. Not like that. He just ensures that Jacob Boone doesn’t have any problems running it. He protects him. You know—you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

  Cal shot a glance at Kelly, who’d remained silent throughout the exchange.

  “And everybody knows about this?” he asked.

  Jenkins shrugged. “It’s pretty common knowledge. At least, that’s what I hear.”

  “How long has this been going on?” Cal asked.

  “I first heard about it around the time Susannah Sloan was murdered.”

  “Before or after?” Cal asked.

  “Before. Maybe a month or two before. It was all the gossip in Pickett.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if the sheriff was doing something illegal, who was going to prosecute him? His daughter? Nah, I don’t think so. It seemed fishy from the first time I heard it.”

  “And this moonshine ring is generally regarded as fact?”

  “Of course. It’s Pickett, man. Anything goes here. In fact, you can just about get away with anything here if you know the right people.”

  “Meaning Sheriff Sloan?”

  Jenkins glanced around before he nodded.

  “One more question for you, if that’s all right,” Cal said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I heard you were with Drake at The Pirate’s Den the night of Susannah Sloan’s murder. Is that right?”

  Jenkins nodded.

  “What do you remember about that night then?”

  Jenkins sighed and looked skyward, shaking his head.

  “I try not to think about it, but I have a pretty clear memory. I wasn’t drinking like everybody else. I was supposed to be the designated driver, if anybody needed one.”

  “Did they?” Cal asked.

  “Pretty much everybody did, but I wasn’t very good at it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “B
ecause several of the guys left in the middle of our time there before I could stop them.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Drake, Hayward, Tripp Sloan, and myself were all having a good time. I remember seeing Jacob Boone there with his crew, too. It was fun, reliving our glory days playing for Pickett County. But something happened that set Drake off. He rushed toward the door. Hayward followed him.”

  “Did you follow them?”

  “Not immediately,” Jenkins said with a sly grin. “I had two fly girls I was hittin’ on and hardly noticed they had left until it was too late. I ran out into the parking lot, but they were long gone.”

  “Anyone else leave around then, too?”

  “I saw Jacob Boone tearing out of the parking lot when I got outside. And I never found out why either. It was strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Strange in that everyone eventually came back and didn’t want to talk about what just happened even though we all asked them about it. I guess I know why now.”

  “Do you remember when everybody left?”

  “That was a long time ago, but I want to say it wasn’t long after 9:00 p.m. I can’t remember exactly when.”

  Cal shot Kelly a look.

  “Thanks, Harold,” Cal said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  CHAPTER 34

  AFTER LUNCH, CAL AND KELLY DROVE out to Sorghum Lake on the outskirts of the Pickett city limits. It was the local’s playground, full of modified boats and pontoon parties. Zipping around the center of the water were the showoffs along with a few people who’d imbibed too much. Cal had no problem distinguishing between the two groups of exhibitionists.

  Cal stopped and asked a group of sunbathers if they knew where he might be able to find Jacob Boone. One of the young women laughed and pointed toward the center of the lake.

  “If you want to talk with him, better hurry up before he breaks his neck out there,” she said.

  Cal peered across the lake at a man skiing barefoot. He lasted about six seconds before tumbling across the water and then dipping beneath the surface. When his head re-emerged, he let out a loud yell and threw his fist in the air.