“Yes. Mallory’s six-year sentence is up soon. He’ll be released in a couple of months. I hate him for killing my sister. The judge sympathized with me. He told me the verdict surprised him, and that the Mallory trial was one of the regrets in his career. If he had been the prosecutor, the jury would have come back with a verdict of second-degree murder. He wasn’t impressed with the assistant district attorney, a man named Miles Hanford. Hanford later left the district attorney’s office.”
“I’m sorry to hear your sister didn’t get justice,” Clay said. “But nothing can be done about Mallory now.”
She frowned. “Well, yes…and maybe no. I talked to Judge Trulock a couple of times. At first, he said there was nothing he could do. The trial was over. But the last time I was there he said possibly justice had only been delayed, not stopped. He said he was looking into a few things but couldn’t say anything more than that. But the judge said there was a chance, maybe only a slim one, but a chance that my sister Linda would get justice.”
“But he gave no details?”
“No, he said he couldn’t, not yet.”
“Still…that’s interesting,” Clay said.
“Will that help you in your investigation?” Lynette asked. There was a trace of hope in her voice.
“Yes. I don’t know what the judge meant, but it’s something I want to explore. Did the judge give any details about the case, anything at all?
Ms Shelby shook her head. “I wish I could tell you more but I can’t. But…if you’re investigating the murder, may I ask you to keep me updated?”
“We’ll be happy to," April said.
As they walked back to the car, Clay had no idea what the late judge meant by his statements. Maybe he suspected some legal problem with the trial. But unless the jurors were bribed, the state couldn’t retry a man due to double jeopardy. The state only gets one chance to put a defendant away. The only exception is civil rights charges. If a jury in North Carolina or another state returns a not guilty verdict to, say, two Klansmen accused of violent civil rights violations, the Feds can convene a federal jury and try them on basically the same charges. The courts have ruled this is legal. But you can’t retry a defendant on a routine murder charge. So Mallory had nothing to fear.
Or did he….
The murderer who killed the judge had something to fear. But Mallory was in prison. It couldn’t have been him. Possibly friends of his?
Or maybe a long-ago defendant was just nursing a murderous grudge.
4
As Clay drove back to his office, April looked over at him. Her usually sparkling eyes remained a bit dim. She chewed on her lower lip.
“Think we found a clue there?” she said.
“Possibly. It’s odd the judge would say something about delayed justice. Once a man is tried and convicted, there’s nothing more that can be done. Even if new evidence is found that proves he’s guilty, the state’s hands are tied. They can’t retry him.”
“I will recheck all the recordings and check with the local parole and probation people. See if a defendant the judge put behind bars for a long time was released recently,” April said.
“That’s a very good idea. I have a meeting with a possible client this afternoon. I scheduled it yesterday when I didn’t know I would have another case today. I need to get back to the office. When you listen to the recordings, let me know if there’s anything incriminating.”
The possible new client looked about twenty-three with blond hair rolled into a bun. She had green eyes, but the vitality of youth did not gleam from them. Twenty-three-year olds, especially those who were as attractive as this young lady, should be full of smiles and laughter. Yet there was a dullness to this woman. The eyes were dim, the face full of worry. She looked as if something was sucking the life out of her. As he sat down, she said, “Mr Augustine, I’m Carli Newman.”
“What can I do for you, Ms Newman?”
“There is a man stalking me.”
She opened her blue purse, took out a photograph, and handed it to him. “This was taken a week ago.”
The photo was a good likeness of her. But the left side of her face showed an ugly purple and black mark. “I was at a mall last week when suddenly my stalker was right beside me. I panicked and started running and was looking back at him when I bumped into a wall. Mall security came to my assistance, but the stalker simply said he was walking in the mall. There was nothing they could do. The guy’s name is Rollo Eberdine. I met him at a social gathering about a month of ago. We chatted for a few minutes but that’s all. I gave him no encouragement at all. Since then he has called for dates, and I have turned him down and told him to stop bothering me. But wherever I go, he shows up. He hasn’t really threatened me, not in so many words, so there’s nothing the police can do. This is taking a toll on me emotionally and mentally. I’m taking tranquilizers and have lost every bit of joy in my life.”
Looking at her, Clay easily believed her. Her voice was flat, but at times seemed to creep toward hysterical.
“The man even followed me here. He’s in your parking lot.”
Clay could see most of the parking lot from his window. He walked over and moved the green drapes. The drapes somewhat matched the dark green chairs. April had told him the office needed to be professionally redecorated.
“Can you see the car from here?” Clay said.
She walked beside him and pointed. “The last car in the lot.” The parking spaces brushed up against trees and brush.
“It’s nice when they come to you instead of you having to go out and find them,” Clay said.
“Mr Augustine, about three days ago I was close to a panic attack when I spotted him. I ran to my car and headed up to Titus Point. I have a friend there. Rollo followed me on the highway. I lost him when I exited at Cove Hills. He was a bit behind and had to slow down when he turned on the exit ramp due to another car. I made a swift turn. So he was still heading east as I sped past him, heading west, and I raced on to the ramp. I figured he would turn around, too, but by that time I had exited again and drove toward Highway A1A. Then I headed up to Titus Point. But he staked out my apartment and now he is following me again.” She sighed. “Mr Augustine, I can’t go on like this. This is like a huge weight around my shoulders. It’s draining me physically and mentally. I need to get rid of him, but I don’t know how. Can you help me?”
Clay nodded. “Yes. But you shouldn’t ask any questions about my methods.”
“I won’t. I don’t care how it’s done.”
“I can see you’re frightened. I don’t want to scare you anymore, but sometimes the police’s hands are tied with a stalker. He will just claim he’s walking or driving down the street. The police can do little until after a crime is committed. That makes it very difficult for the ordinary citizen. It’s always been that way.”
She wiped her eyes to stop the tears. “I don’t like guns,” she said, "but I’ve had thoughts of buying one and just shooting him…but I don’t think I could shoot anyone, not even him. Not yet.” She turned and walked back to her chair.
Clay sat behind his desk. “Sometimes, Ms Newman, the odds are against the innocent. I’m an avid reader, and I drive friends up the wall with my literary references, but John D. MacDonald wrote about this problem more than a half century ago in one of his novels. The plot centered on a man who saved a girl from a savage rape. Five years later when the would-be rapist got out of prison, he wanted revenge on the man and the man’s family. Two movies were made out of the book. As usual, Hollywood screwed up the novel, although the first film was better than the second.”
“I haven’t seen the movies. Was there a happy ending?”
“Yes, but the man basically had to defend himself and his family. The police couldn’t help him. The felon shadowed MacDonald’s protagonist but didn’t break any laws. He waited until the right time to carry out his vengeance. He knew there are times when the odds favor the thugs.”
“I want yo
u to even the odds,” she said.
“I will. I’ll have a brief discussion with Rollo today as you drive away and give him one chance to walk the straight and narrow and keep away from you.”
“I think he’s pathological. I doubt he will listen to you.”
“Then there will be another discussion with him, not as brief, and it won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
For the first time since she walked in the office, she smiled. A gray spark of hope appeared in her eyes. “I should ask you how much you charge, Mr Augustine. I may have to pay in installments.”
His smile matched hers. “You’re on my discount plan, Ms Newman. It’s free of charge. Not too long ago, a friend of mine and I did a big financial company a favor. The company was so generous I’ll be able to offer discounts for the next five years. But when this is over, if you think I’ve done a good job, you can send me a bottle of bourbon.”
She blinked, and the gray spark of hope flared brighter.
“Thank you, Mr Augustine. I was beginning to lose hope.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know where to turn. Thank you again. Thank you so much.”
“I also should tell you one more thing. I’m on a case that may be time consuming, so I may use a friend named Manatee to help with your case. He’s tough, dependable, ex-army, grizzled, but plays a lousy game of poker. Fishes a lot. Usually, you can find him near the water. Has a small house on one of the inlets. If a stalker is after you, I may need someone to stalk the stalker. My friend is…” Clay paused.
“Something of an enforcer? A thug?”
“Oh no. He’s a very intelligent and cultivated man. A very skilled linguist. He speaks six languages. Manatee will hand out justice, rough justice, to be sure, but justice. If Rollo listens to reason, we won’t have to use Manatee.”
“I’m guessing Rollo has never listened to reason in his life.”
“I hope this time he will. My question about do they have their medical insurance paid up usually wins people over. Then I ask them if their insurance covers funeral expenses,” Clay said.
She looked a bit uneasy. “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Mr Augustine?”
“Yes, but they don’t know that. It really gets their attention when I tell them I’m on a bonus plan with a local funeral home.”
She gave him a wide-eyed stare, then chuckled. “I imagine that might get Rollo’s attention.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to exit out the back door. Wait about three minutes, then go out the front.
To Clay, stalker cases were deeply disturbing, and not just because a client was in physical danger. He was, in essence, working on the side of the law even though he didn’t carry a badge. Vigilantism wasn’t the best road to justice, but he had discovered that at times the best way to protect an innocent client in a stalking case was to transgress the law. He had not yet resolved this contradiction.
Clay unlocked the back door and walked down the rear stairs. Rollo Eberdine had carefully parked, backing up into the space. The driver’s side window was open. As Clay approached from the back of the car, Eberdine’s gaze was focused on the office and at Carli when she walked out. Clay yanked his door open, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out.
“Come on, Rollo. I want to talk to you.”
Eberdine was three inches shorter but twenty pounds heavier than Clay. However, most of the extra weight lay in fleshly ripples across his stomach. He was big but not strong. His arms were not muscles, just more like clumps of waving fat.
“Stop it! Let me go!” he yelled.
He had a pug nose and fat lips. He didn’t really look dangerous, but many stalkers didn’t. Clay bent Eberdine’s right arm behind him and forced him over into the bushes. About ten feet into the woods the detective tossed him down. He yelped and groaned as he hit the hard ground.
Clay leaned against a tree and crossed his arms. “Rollo, you have been bothering
Ms Newman--bothering being a very diplomatic term. She has hired me to ask you very politely to stop annoying her. So I’m asking politely. But I’m going to ask politely just once.”
Eberdine slipped when he tried to get up and fell back on the ground. When he finally made it to his feet, his lips curled into an animal snarl. He shouted a nasty name at Clay.
“And I was being so polite with you, Rollo.”
“You don’t scare me,” he said.
“That’s because you’re very stupid. I should scare you.”
Eberdine raised his finger and pointed it. “You don’t know who I am.”
“No, I’m just assuming you’re a random punk who likes to bully ladies. The evidence of that seems rather conclusive.”
His finger stayed in the air. “You don’t know who my father is. He’s a rich and influential man in this area.”
“He’s rich?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that means he can pay all your hospital bills.”
Eberdine gave a blank stare for fifteen seconds, then went back to the sneer.
“As of today, you leave Ms Newman alone. You stay way, way away from her or you’ll be in the hospital for six months. Even your rich daddy can’t pay a six-month hospital bill without declaring bankruptcy.”
Eberdine replied with a two-word suggestion.
“I should take umbrage to that,” Clay said. “And, in fact, I do.”
He walked slowly over. Eberdine’s courage vanished and he backed away. Clay drew back his right fist. The smack could have been heard for three blocks when the tan fist hammered Eberdine’s belly button into his spine. An ugly, rotten sound came from his mouth as he fell to his knees. Arms flailed weakly as if someone was pulling the strings to a fat doll. Then he slid to the brown turf, his face in the dirt.
Clay put his knee beside the man’s nose. “This may be hard for you to believe, Rollo, but I didn’t hit you as hard as I could. The next time I hit you, it also won’t be as hard as I can because I want you awake and conscious, squealing in pain like a stuck pig.”
The man groaned and rolled over. “You…broke something…”
“No I didn’t, but I can. You are still intact, but you won’t be if we ever have this conversation again.”
A variety of guttural, wounded noises came from him. Clay showed no sympathy. You can’t be too careful, or, for that matter, too tough with stalkers. They are dangerous. If you make a mistake, a woman dies. Even a silly, pathetic-looking man can become pathological. On the surface, Rollo didn’t look menacing, but he didn’t look pathetic either. He looked like a blustering bully who may have been pushed over the legal edge by his own meanness.
Clay lifted him up. His rubbery legs didn’t support him, and he bounced down on the ground again. Clay pulled him and slapped him hard. He yelped. The detective moved over and leaned against the tree again.
“Let me tell you a little story, Rollo, which is analogous to the current situation. This is a true story but happened a long time ago. A pastor of a medium-sized church down in Texas was having trouble with a deacon who was not behaving like a Christian. He was spreading rumors and telling lies about other people in the church. Can you believe something like that?”
Rollo just moaned again. Two tears rolled down his cheeks.
“So the pastor calls the deacon up and says, “What I’m about to do to you is not Christian. In fact, it’s a sin. And I’m going to repent right after I do it. But I am going to beat the stuffing out of you.”
Clay paused and looked down at the chubby man. “I’m not a Christian, Rollo, but even so, you can see the analogy here.” He walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “I have a friend, and he will talk to you if another conversation is needed. My friend Manatee is an atheist. He ignores the ethical niceties that occasionally bother me. If you bother Ms Newman again, he will give you a professional beating. That means you will be in the hospital for a while. You will experience physical and emotional consequences from the beating, something akin to what doctors call PTSD today. After being beaten up
by a professional, you are never quite the same. But one result will be that the next time you see Ms Newman, chances are you will have a panic attack and flee away from her.”
Ebderdine choked and stuttered. If words tried to come out of his mouth, they didn’t make it past his lips.
“I’m patiently explaining this to you so Manatee and I won’t have to use any additional violence. Go home and enjoy your daddy’s money, Rollo. But leave Ms Newman alone.”
Clay left him squirming in the dust. He wondered if Eberdine was another Alden Mallory and one day would murder a woman. Perhaps the session in the woods changed that.
5
“Yes, I remember the case. Juries can surprise you, but that jury gave me a jolt. I didn’t like the verdict, and neither did the judge,” said Mark Dangler, court reporter for the Sea Oak Daily News. He opened a milk carton, poured some milk into his coffee, and stirred it with a red straw. He tapped the straw on the side of his green coffee cup. “The defendant got six years, but even so he was lucky. He should have been convicted of at least second-degree murder.”
“I understand he had a real good lawyer, Richard Brazen,” April said. She sat in front of Dangler’s desk.
“He did. Which means he must have had money. Brazen doesn’t do pro bono work.”
Dangler sipped his coffee. “The state didn’t have a great prosecutor. Miles Hanford was a fair assistant state attorney at best. He later went into private practice. Come to think of it, I don’t remember him ever winning a case. But he was a friend of the state attorney at that time. After he had quit the office, he went to work at Brazen’s law firm, which I always thought was a bit strange.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m getting off the subject. The defendant in the case you’re asking about was accused of beating his wife to death. Brazen’s defense was that the couple had a very volatile relationship that included a few slaps from time to time. They fought and often traded blows. Two witnesses came to the stand and said they had seen marks on both husband and wife. One said that at one time the wife had picked up a vase or something like that and clobbered her husband. He had a huge red bump on his noggin for days. Brazen admitted his client killed his wife but claimed it was an accident. During the fray, she slipped and fell down the stairs in their home.”
A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set Page 3