Blind Conviction (Nate Shepherd Legal Thriller Series Book 3)

by Michael Stagg

  As I pulled in, the electric sign out front announced the month’s concert schedule, showing that Big Luke had played a couple of weekends before. A crowd of people was waiting by the gate. I checked the time and saw that it was a little after ten, which was normally when the Quarry opened. I parked my Jeep and walked over, making my way through a crowd filled with swimsuits and coolers and all manner of folding chairs and inflatable fun. Since I was wearing a tie, people assumed I wasn't cutting in line and let me pass. A college kid who—judging from the tan, the bleached hair, and the red tank top—was a late-season lifeguard, stood at the closed gate. As I neared the front of the line, I heard him announce, “It'll be just a little longer. We’ll probably open about a half-hour late.”

  There was a collective moan. The lifeguard looked at me. Kirby wasn’t expecting me, but I thought I’d give it a whirl.

  “Nate Shepherd here to see Kirby Granger.”

  The kid looked at me with caution and a distinct lack of curiosity. “Kirby said no reporters allowed.”

  “Good. I'm not one.”

  Which was true.

  “I'm not supposed to let anyone in.”

  “I'm a friend of Kirby’s.”

  Which was also true.

  That was as much of a security check as the lifeguard was interested in performing. He nodded his head, unlocked the gate, and waved me in. There was a brief surge from the back of the crowd, which was quickly cut short by the clang of metal and a click.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “They’re on the north side,” the lifeguard said. I didn’t know who “they” were but decided it included Kirby and headed that way.

  On the other side of the gate was a large, central courtyard. I walked to the right, past the concession stands that were just opening for the day and two buildings that were combination locker rooms/bathrooms. I followed the path around the upper edge, looking down at the water below. After a couple hundred yards, I came to a hard metal stairway that led down about sixty feet to “the Beach,” a huge area of sand about the size of a football field that gave swimmers access to the water. I skipped this stairway and kept walking around the top of the quarry to the far end.

  Eventually, I came all the way around to the other side of the water, directly opposite the courtyard entrance, to another stairway. Like the one that led to the Beach, these stairs went all the way from the top of the Quarry down to the water. Here, though, rather than sand at the bottom, there was a square cement pad with large rocks on either side. As I arrived, I saw the reason that the front gates were still closed. Four sheriff’s deputies were working at different spots on the stairs. A bald man wearing a bright yellow shirt was watching them. Kirby Granger.

  Kirby was a few years older than me and had worked at the Quarry all of his adult life. He was a little shorter than me and a little wider and his broad shoulders now offset a prominent belly. He was tan, as always, and his bald head, which had been that way for fifteen years, made it impossible to tell whether he was thirty or fifty. He looked worried as he stood, hands on hips, watching the deputies.

  “Hey, Kirby,” I said.

  He jumped, then smiled when he saw it was me. A moment later, the smile vanished as he said, “Jesus, is Abby suing us already?”

  I stared at him for a moment before I realized what he meant. “No, no, Kirby. I'm not here to sue the Quarry.”

  Kirby looked unconvinced. “You're not?”

  “I'm not.”

  “Well, that’s something, I guess.” He went back to watching the deputies. “I have enough problems today.”

  I watched the gears click on Kirby’s face. 3-2-1…

  “So why are you here then?”

  “Investigating.”

  “For who?”

  “For the man accused of doing it.”

  “Attacking her?”

  “Yes.”

  Kirby’s face twisted. “Scumbag.”

  “I don’t think he did it.”

  “Don’t you have to say that?”

  “The family doesn’t either.”

  “You haven’t talked to Hamish then.”

  “You have?”

  “He’s right pissed.” Kirby shook his head. “His own brother—”

  Kirby’s attention was pulled back to the deputies. He seemed distracted.

  I tried to pull him back. “Is this where she fell?”

  “Where she was pushed? Yes.” He pointed to where the second deputy was working on the stairway. “They said she tumbled about halfway down before she went off the stairway into the scrub over there. I think that saved her life.”

  “How so?”

  “If she'd stayed on the stairs, she would've kept hitting her head on the metal and then the cement pad.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. A non-committal grunt seemed like the best way keep him going.

  Kirby shook his head. “I passed right by here to go to the back parking lot when I closed up. I didn’t see a thing.”

  We both looked down the stairs. The Quarry’s top ridge was lower here, so we were only about forty feet above the water. The quarry wall was different too; rather than a straight cliff, it was more of a gradual slope with a sandy surface that allowed vegetation and even small saplings to grow. I could see a line of broken stalks on the right that started about halfway down the stairs. I followed the flattened weeds down to a collection of dark, mossy rocks that lined the water’s edge. One of the deputies was there now, crouching down carefully.

  I pointed. “Is that where she ended up?”

  Kirby nodded.

  I looked at the water. I'd swum here since I was a kid. “It’s sixty feet deep at this end, isn’t it?”

  Kirby nodded again. “They never would have found her if she’d gone in.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  One of the deputies climbed the stairs, not touching the railing that ran down the center of it. He glanced at me, then said, “We’re about done here, Mr. Granger. You can let your swimmers in now.”

  “Great,” said Kirby. “Do you remember how to get out? The back entrance is that way.”

  “We know. Thank you. Do you have the rest of the video for Deputy Phillips?”

  “Oh, right, right. No, I still have to download that, Officer. How should I send it to you?”

  “I can arrange for a pick-up.”

  “Sure. Tomorrow?”

  “End of day today would be better, Mr. Granger.”

  It looked like the deputy had just put the second to last straw on Kirby’s back, but the manager smiled and said, “Okay. I’ll call.”

  The deputy nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Kirby started hustling back toward the front. I went with him.

  “There’s video?” I said.

  Kirby nodded. “We’ve put in a camera system since you worked here.”

  “Did it have a view of the old stairs?”

  Kirby shook his head. “No. It’s not a high traffic area.” He winced. “It didn’t seem important.”

  “Can’t predict everything. Can I get a copy too?”

  Kirby stopped. “It’s good to see you, Nate. But Abby’s my friend.”

  “I understand. But I get anything the Sheriff does. This just lets me get it sooner.”

  A steel Kirby didn’t often show entered his shoulders. “Then you can get it from him.”

  That was as far as this was going to go. “Okay.” I pointed at the front gate. “Been busy?”

  “Always,” Kirby said, nodding, but he was barely hearing me now as we re-entered the central courtyard area. He focused on the crowd and went straight over. He raised his hands and said, “Thank you for your patience. We had an inspection this morning. We’ll let you in in just a moment.”

  “You better not be charging us full price for a day pass, Kirby,” said a woman.

  Kirby shook his head. “You are just shameless, Macy. It's barely even ten-thirty and you know we don't charge half price until after t
hree.”

  “Well, when are you going to open up?”

  “As soon as the lifeguards are in position. Go ahead, Tyler,” Kirby said to the lifeguard. “You and the others can set up now.”

  Tyler sauntered off.

  The woman, Macy, did not look remotely satisfied due in part to the fact that she was juggling a cooler, a chair in a bag, and a pink plastic inflatable inner tube with princesses on it, all while maintaining a grip on an eight-year-old girl who did not seem at all interested in being contained.

  Macy’s gaze fell on me. Her eyes lit up and she said, “Are you done, Inspector?”

  I'd left my jacket in the car, but I was probably the only person in a half-mile radius wearing a tie, so she wasn’t totally off base. I smiled at Kirby and said, “Well, Mr. Granger, my inspection is done so I see no reason to keep these good people waiting any longer.”

  Kirby looked like he wanted to strangle me, but then a whistle blew three short blasts.

  “There we go,” he said. “The lifeguards are all set. Welcome to Century Quarry.”

  Kirby opened the gates and we both stood aside as the crowd rolled in. I waited until the main rush was through, felt a twinge of jealousy for a day spent entirely on that beach and in that water, then climbed into my hot car to drive to the office.

  5

  If you haven't been there before, my office is in Carrefour, on the Ohio side of the line. It's not one of those romantic old buildings or modern high-rises, it's just part of a suburban office complex made mostly of glass and stainless steel that houses small groups of lawyers and doctors and accountants. I had a small suite on the third floor that had one office for me, one for my associate, Daniel Reddy, and a third one where we kept our optimism. Besides the conference room, that was it. I didn't have a secretary because there was less need for one now in these days of automated voice answering and electronic filing, and, more importantly, because when we had started out a year and a half ago, I really couldn't afford it. I probably could now, but I was still reluctant since we were getting by without one.

  “We really need a secretary,” Danny said as I entered the office.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I'm spending way too much time answering the phone and filing.”

  I nodded. “I’ll take it up with the management committee.”

  “I'm serious,” said Danny.

  “Me too.”

  He sighed. “I have the police report. I put a request in for the file materials with the prosecutor's office.”

  “I haven't been up to Ash County on a criminal case since we started here. Who is it?”

  “A guy named T. Marvin Stritch.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “He might be a perfectly wonderful guy, Nate.”

  “Your optimism is infectious. Keep after them for the disclosures. I have Olivia doing background on everybody.”

  “Good.”

  I took the police report and started toward my office, then stopped. “Did you tell Jenny we have a new case?”

  Danny nodded. “I told her we'd be busy.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She said we should have stayed in Petoskey longer.”

  “A good move for anyone.”

  “And she wondered if we were always going to be defending murderers.”

  “No. We’re defending attempted murderers too.”

  Danny’s smile was strained.

  I’d deflected him, but this really wasn't what we’d planned to do when we broke off from our old firm. “You know how litigation is. The types of cases can ebb and flow and we can’t always be choosy. You okay?”

  Danny nodded. “Oh, don't worry, Nate, I'm fine. She was just asking and I thought it was a valid question.”

  “It is. We’ll try to use these cases as a jumping off point to broaden our horizons.”

  “Sounds good.”

  In fairness to Danny, investigating a crime scene and having an existential conversation about the nature of work wasn’t how I’d seen my morning going either, but there you go.

  I sat down and reviewed the police report from the responding officers:

  Call received at 7:06 a.m. from Century Quarry indicating an injured woman found. First responders arrive followed by deputies and additional rescue personnel. Victim appears to have fallen down stairs to rocks at water’s edge. Injured woman identified as Abby Ackerman from ID and wallet. No purse or cell phone found. Scene secured while rescue personnel extricate victim. Victim alive for transport but unconscious. Severe hip and head injury. Bleeding significant. Blunt force trauma suspected but no weapon found. Rescue efforts supported.

  The report went on.

  Quarry personnel, including manager interviewed. Investigating officer determined that Quarry has security video. Portion of video of previous evening briefly reviewed to determine that recording for time frame at issue exists. Copies of video requested and Sheriff Dushane notified of need for potential criminal investigation.

  The original responding officers had obtained brief statements from Kirby and from the lifeguards who had found Abby Ackerman. They basically said just that—that they’d come in to work and found her that morning. Kirby had seen her before the concert when she picked up her tickets, but no workers had any recollection of seeing her after the concert the night before.

  An addendum had been added a week later:

  Suspect in custody. Responding officer’s involvement concluded. Investigation taken over by Sheriff and prosecutor’s office.

  There was nothing in the report that connected the dots to Archie.

  My office line rang and showed a number I didn't recognize.

  “This is Nate Shepherd,” I answered.

  “Mr. Shepherd, this is Abby Ackerman.”

  I straightened. “Ms. Ackerman, I don't think we should speak right now. I represent Archie Mack and his interests are different than yours.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to tell you that he didn't do it if we don't speak?”

  “Ms. Ackerman, my client is accused of attacking you and—”

  “I know, Bonnie told me all about it. That's how I got your number. There is no way that Archie did—”

  “Ms. Ackerman, let me stop you for just a second. Do you want to talk to me about Archie?”

  “I called you, didn't I?”

  “So here's what you need to do. I’m going to give you the name of a lawyer who specializes in victim’s rights—”

  “I am not a victim.”

  “I understand. But she can protect your interests in any conversations with me.”

  “My interest is in telling you that I don’t think for a minute that Archie would hurt me, no matter what Hamish says.”

  A red flag flew up. “Ms. Ackerman, you really need to contact this lawyer. You can tell her what you want to tell me and then we can all get together.”

  “We need two lawyers to have a conversation?”

  “You need someone to protect your interests. That's not me. Once you have somebody, you can tell me whatever you want.

  I heard a sigh. “Fine,” she said.

  “Great. Do you have a pen?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  I felt a surge of embarrassment at the automatic question. “I'm sorry. Is your vision still affected?”

  “My vision? No, I’m leaning on crutches and balancing a phone between my cheek and a shoulder. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “I'm sorry, Abby. That was thoughtless of me.”

  “You didn’t push me down the stairs, Shepherd. And neither did Archie. Hang on.”

  A moment later, another voice came on. “Nate? This is Bonnie Price.”

  I blinked. “Archie’s fian—I mean, you’re there?”

  “I’m helping her get settled back at her house.”

  “Isn’t that awkward?”

  “Not for us. Do you have a name?”

  I gave her the information for Ronnie Hawkins, a lawye
r who’d been recommended to me before that did this type of work in northern Ash County. There was a pause from Bonnie as she wrote it down, then said, “We’ll call him right away.”

  “Her.”

  “Really? Well, that would have been embarrassing. Thank you. Do you want me to put Abby back on?”

  “Please don’t. Just have her call Ronnie and then she can get in touch with me so that we can meet.”

  “Is all this really necessary?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “When is Archie getting out?”

  “Bonnie, I can’t discuss this with you while you’re sitting right next to the victim of Archie’s alleged attack.”

  “But—”

  “Bonnie. Have Abby call Ronnie. Then Ronnie can call me.”

  Bonnie seemed to understand and we hung up.

  It was no more than half an hour before the phone rang again. I answered.

  “Mr. Shepherd, this is Ronnie Hawkins.”

  I chuckled. “That was fast.”

  Ronnie chuckled back. “Ms. Ackerman is persuasive and she insists on speaking with you right away. I can't do it today, but do you have time tomorrow?”

  “I do.”

  “Great. I'll meet with her first and then the three of us can have a chat.”

  “Excellent.”

  “My office okay? I'm in Dellville, but that's also a little closer for Abby.”

  “That's just fine.”

  “I appreciate you making sure she has representation. There can be a lot of conflicting interests in these family situations.”

  “No problem. Seems standard enough.”

  “You'd be surprised. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon. Two o'clock?”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Ronnie.”

  I hung up and thought. There was nothing in the police report linking the attack to Archie and the victim had just called me to say Archie didn’t do it. I was obviously missing key evidence, maybe a lot of it.

  I decided to tack a second meeting onto the one with Abby Ackerman tomorrow. I made a call and arranged it.

  6

  The next day I drove to Ronnie Hawkins’ office up in Dellville. It was in a small, squat Tudor-like building of brick, stucco, and stained wood that screamed, “1970!” Inside, a small sign informed me that Ronnie shared space with an insurance agency and a surveyor. I walked down the hall, found the door to Suite C, and went in.