My niece flowed up to the net, leapt, and hit the ball like a rocket. It hit a defender in the face and went straight into the air.
“In the gap!” yelled Kate.
My mom winced. My dad shrugged. “She's not wrong.”
“I'm sure she's trying as hard as she can,” said my mom.
“She can try smarter,” said Kate.
The other team returned the volley and the Carrefour team bumped, set, and hit, this time in the gap, for a point.
“That a way, Jess!” yelled Kate, clapping.
I looked at the scorer’s table and saw Sheriff Dushanbe mark the point his granddaughter had just scored.
“So, how’s your case coming, Son?” said my mom.
“Fine, Mom.”
“Terrible thing, what happened to that girl.”
“It was.”
“You must be very certain they have the wrong guy.”
For the record, there’s no future in getting into a discussion with your mother about the fact that, constitutionally, everyone deserves a legal defense and that we’re all better off if that’s the case. Instead, I said, “Hmm.”
“Good. You’re not working too hard, are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, it’s nice you came. And it was nice to see Olivia and Cade the other day too.”
“It was.”
“I miss seeing her at the book club.”
“She goes? I didn’t know that.”
“A few of the ladies take her morning class so she used to come every few months, but it’s been a while now.”
I nodded. “She is running two businesses.”
She shook her head. “You all work too hard.”
Just then, Reed hit and this time the ball shot straight to the gym floor on the other side of the net for the winning point of the first game. My father cheered and Kate gave him a high five. There was a timeout on the court as the girls went to the bench before they switched sides. As Reed took a seat, I watched Sheriff Dushane clear the scoreboard.
As the teams circled around their coaches, my dad leaned over to talk to Kate and the two of them agreed that Reed needed to move laterally more quickly when she was digging out serves. Then he said, “Are you going to see her tomorrow?”
“Olivia? Probably.”
“Tell her I’ll be by day after tomorrow to mount the TV.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She mentioned she was getting a bigger one that doesn’t fit her stand, I mentioned mounting one is easy, and your mother decided that I don’t have enough to do in retirement.”
I grinned. “I’ll tell her.”
The teams came back out and Reed spent the next game on the bench as the coach played a new group but then she played the whole third game and, if she didn’t hit every open spot, she hit more of them as the game went on and had a run of four service points in a row. The third game was the closest so far and had all sorts of extended volleys, but the Carrefour girls put it away with a spectacular dig-save from Reed and a monstrous spike from Jess Dushane that brought us all to our feet.
I really hadn’t been around volleyball much since I’d lost Sarah and I felt a pang at knowing that she would have loved to see her niece play. Although, to be honest, the combination of her and Kate at these games might have been too much for everyone else. I found myself smiling as I clapped.
We all made our way down the bleachers and congratulated Reed. I smiled as Kate and Pops talked to her about moving her feet and hitting it where they ain’t. Then I smiled, waved, and crossed the gym to Sheriff Dushane.
Sheriff Dushane was unplugging the electronic scoreboard and coiling the extension cord as I walked up. He certainly looked different without his sheriff's hat and gun belt, but he was the same blocky guy with the same smile as I approached.
“Your niece had a good game,” he said.
I smiled. “So did your granddaughter.”
“Thanks. She needs to slide more to the backside on defense, but she’ll get there.”
I smiled. “Apparently, my niece’s problem is reading the defense.”
His smile broadened. “So I heard. It’s early yet, though. They’ll improve.”
“You know, Warren–”
Sheriff Dushane raised a hand. “Nate, you and I are having a good conversation about my granddaughter and your niece. Don't go ruining it by bringing up an investigation.”
I put my hands out the side. “Would I do that?”
“A cynical law enforcement officer would mention that this is the first match that a certain lawyer has been to this season.”
“Thank goodness you’re not that cynical law enforcement officer but, if you were, a certain lawyer might say that this was the first time they’ve played after seven.”
“That would not change the cynical officer’s statement at all.”
“Fine, I won't ask you about any specifics of your investigation.”
“Good. You should be directing those questions to Prosecutor Stritch anyway.”
“Sure. You’ve known him for a while, right?”
“Years.”
“Is he as uptight as he seems?”
“Seems to me like you're jumping to conclusions there, Nate.”
“Maybe. Is he?”
Sheriff Dushane smiled. “Yes. But he's good to work with and a damn good prosecutor.”
“It seems like he can be a little closed-minded about evidence.”
Sheriff Dushane shrugged. “He hasn't lost since he replaced Judge Wesley.”
I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere on Archie’s prosecution with Sheriff Dushane either so I changed tacks. “Talk to you about a different investigation?”
“Is it pending with the prosecutor?”
“No.”
“Then sure.”
“Do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Mack making the complaint about someone sabotaging their crops?”
“A few years ago? Some.”
“You didn’t find anything?”
“No. It wasn't much of a priority though.”
“What about Hillside Oil?”
“What about it?”
“Did you ever investigate it? Or Will Wellington?”
“Their rep? For what?”
“For the sabotage. Or…anything else.”
Sheriff Dushane laughed then. “Have you ever spent any time at all with Will Wellington?”
“Not really. Talked to him on the phone once.”
“Well if you had, you’d know that what you just suggested is ridiculous. Will supports damn near every organization in our county and the next, the school, the business association, the baseball league, you name it.”
“The Sheriff’s office?”
“Watch yourself and yes. Not my campaign but our toy drive and food drive.”
“Because he has oil money.”
“Of course because he has oil money! And because he's a good guy who cares about the people in our community.” Sheriff Dushane looked around. “I have to get this equipment put away or the custodial team will have my ass.” He shook my hand. “Your niece is a good kid. I expect to see you at more of her matches. And to go to Stritch if you have any other questions.”
“Got it. Thanks, Warren.”
“You're welcome.”
I checked out the emptying gym and saw that my family had gone. I decided to do the same. But as I left, I thought about Sheriff Dushane's reaction. He seemed certain that Will Wellington wasn't involved.
But from my perspective, Hillside Oil & Gas was all over this case. I just had to find the connection. Like my niece, I just couldn’t quite find the open spot.
Yet.
26
The online revolution had destroyed small-town newspapers and the Ash County Torch (Your Beacon for News for Greater Ash County) was no exception. The paper didn’t have an office to speak of anymore so I met Ted Ringel at a coffee shop in Dellville. Ted was in his early fifties and wore the local
reporter uniform of khaki pants and a golf shirt. He had an easy smile and a soft frame and his face was red from his walk over as we sat down.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said.
Ted waved. “No problem. Curiosity alone was enough to get me over here; lawyers aren’t usually too anxious to sit down with the press about an upcoming trial.”
“Actually, I'd like to talk to you about background on a piece you did ten years ago.”
“You mean back when we actually printed it on paper? How ever did you read it?” His face looked a little bitter.
There didn’t seem to be a lot to say to that.
Ted raised a hand. “Sorry. It slips out sometimes. And I’d be happy to, if you'll comment on the Mack trial.”
“We look forward to the trial and to proving Archie Mack innocent of all charges.”
Ted stared, and I saw a hint of the hardness inside that soft frame that made him a good reporter. “How are you going to do that?”
“They have the wrong man.”
“According to my sources, the evidence is pretty damning.”
“That evidence does not include any eyewitness identification of my client as the assailant.”
“Well, to be fair, it was dark and Ms. Ackerman was having difficulty seeing.”
“She could see fine before the assault. So could the couple of thousand people at the concert with them. None of them saw my client assault Ms. Ackerman. I haven’t even heard of anyone who saw him with her.”
“How are you going to prove it wasn't him?”
I smiled. “That's not up to me. It's up to Prosecutor Stritch to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that it was my client. And we don't think the state will be able to meet that very high burden.”
I gestured with both hands. Ted smiled. “Sure, that'll be enough. Although personally, I think you're screwed.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. So what do you want to know about?”
“Back in 2008, you wrote a piece about the oil wells popping up all over the county.”
Ted nodded. “I did. It was quite a local boom time.”
“What drove it?”
“Do you know your local oil history?”
“Some. Enlighten me.”
“The first big find in this area, the really big one, was back in 1957. Just up the road at Mrs. Houseknecht’s dairy farm. Legend has it that a fortuneteller told her that there was a black river flowing underneath her property and, for the next three years, she and her uncle drilled a pipe down, section by section, until they struck oil. That became the Albion-Scipio field, the biggest oil field in the history of Michigan. The ‘Golden Gulch’ they called it.”
“So they drill all sorts of wells and, over the course of a couple of decades, they figure out the boundaries of the thing and, if landowners were lucky enough to be inside it, they had it made.”
“So what happened in 2008?”
“Technology happened. Companies started using 3D seismic imaging technology and discovering additional reservoirs.”
“Was that sort of thing new?”
“Better to say it was new to Michigan. The technology has been around for a while, but nobody was really using it here in this part of the state until 2008 or so and then all of a sudden new drilling sites started popping up again. The testing wasn't always accurate, but we had a scattering of successful wells around here that had people jumping on board.”
“Was Hillside Oil & Gas involved?”
Ted Ringel nodded. “They were the biggest player here. There were some other companies, but Hillside got probably sixty-five, seventy percent of the active wells.”
“Why is that?”
“They were pretty aggressive. If they thought there was a potentially good site, they’d go in and offer on it even if the science was shaky. They took more of a shotgun approach than a high percentage approach.”
I thought. “Were they aggressive with the landowners?”
“How do you mean?”
“If people wouldn't sell.”
Ted shook his head. “It's not like that at all. The landowners aren't selling the land. They’re leasing the right to drill. Most of the time, the landowners have a lot less problem with that than with selling their land outright. Plus, they like the money.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the standard term is that the landowner gets a monthly rental payment plus one-eighth of whatever comes from the production of the well. Most of the time they were pretty happy to get a call from the HOG.”
“The HOG?”
Ted smiled. “Hillside Oil & Gas.”
I smiled. “I guess it is. Even farmers didn’t mind drilling on their land?”
“Well, Mrs. Houseknecht didn’t mind, I can tell you that. Now? It probably depends on how much acreage they have. The drilling pads can be as little as five to ten acres. You need to leave a buffer around the area, but you can still raise plenty of crops if your land is big enough. And oil is usually a more consistent producer than corn.”
“What about Will Wellington? Was he working for Hillside Oil then?”
Ted nodded. “That's when he made his bones, so to speak. Will was the most aggressive agent out there. He acquired most of HOG’s drilling rights for them.”
“Aggressive, huh?”
Ted smiled. “By aggressive, I mean that he coaches three Little League teams, is on the board of the YMCA, has been the chair of the Ash County Business Association, volunteers at the Dellville food bank, and is a deacon at the largest nondenominational church in the area. He's at everything and he knows everyone, so when someone has a question or is interested, he's the first person they talk to.”
“Have you ever heard of him strong-arming someone into a lease?”
“No. To be honest with you, that doesn't seem like his style.” Ted's gaze sharpened. “Have you heard something?”
“I'm not sure.”
“You'll tell me if you do?”
“If I'm certain it's true. I can't be a source for anything right now.”
“Is this related to the Mack case?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound like it.” I decided I didn't want to go any farther down that road. “How's the paper doing?”
“Hanging on by a thread.” Ted shook his head. “We only print a Sunday edition now and it’s combined with three other county papers. I post stories daily and we’re getting online revenue, but it's nothing compared to what it was.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“I was working on a drain commission report. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
I bought us each coffee to go from the barista and we left.
As I drove back to the office, I couldn't help but continue to think that the timing of Will Wellington's offer was just too coincidental. The Macks had been sabotaged and Will just happens to show up with an offer for an oil lease. They had to be related and Wellington was the most logical connection.
I just had to figure out how.
27
Sometimes lawyers try to be too subtle. They skirt around the edges of a solution, trying to sneak in a clause, or find an advantage in a misplaced comma, or exert leverage from the wrong choice of conjunction. They’ll ignore the direct solution because they think it's too easy, or because they're afraid they’re missing a better angle when, in fact, the direct solution is the best solution because it’s direct. Great, now I'm doing it.
I decided to go see Will Wellington.
I had only talked to him the one time on the phone, but I still had his card from Mrs. Mack. His office was in an old schoolhouse in Dellville, which probably lent him the air of a country boy just like the people he was negotiating with rather than what he was, which was the representative of a large oil conglomerate that counted its revenues in “B’s.” I parked my Jeep and walked up the accessibility ramp, which had clearly been built about eighty years after the schoolhouse itself. I gla
nced at the bronze plaque next to the doorway commemorating the school as a historic landmark and Hillside Oil as the good corporate citizen that had rescued it. I opened the heavy glass door that was also a more recent addition and went in.
“Good morning,” said a receptionist the moment I walked through the door. “Welcome to Hillside Oil & Gas. How may I help you today?”
It's funny, in an era of computerized voices, how effective a courteous, personal greeting can be. I smiled and said, “I'm here to see Will Wellington.”
“Fantastic,” she said, as if it was the best thing she'd heard that morning. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I do not.”
“May I tell him what it's regarding?”
“Sure. It's the Mack farm.”
“Excellent. And may I tell him who's inquiring?”
It really was amazing how rare it was to run into courtesy. “Attorney Nate Shepherd.”
“Wonderful, Mr. Shepherd. Please take a seat and I’ll see if Mr. Wellington is available.”
The receptionist picked up her phone, mentioned who I was and what it was regarding, and before I could even sit down, Will Wellington walked out an office door.
Will looked just like his card, early forties, brown hair combed over to the side, and the reasonable sort of fitness at that age which showed he moved around some but didn't make a big deal about it. He smiled and extended his hand. “Mr. Shepherd?”
“Nate,” I said and shook it.
“Fantastic. Nancy said that you're here about the Mack farm?”
“I am.”
“And that you're an attorney?”
“I am.” This was usually where things broke down.
“Well, come on back.” He waved and we went back to his office.
It was an interesting place. The windows were old and large and two walls were covered entirely in maps. Some were of the entire state of Michigan and others seemed like blowups of areas within it. I had stared at enough oil and gas maps recently to recognize the diagonal slash across southern Michigan of the Albion-Scipio Trend.
Right there on Will Wellington’s wall.
“Have a seat, Nate,” Will Wellington said and began to rummage through a desk covered in papers. “Ah, here it is,” he said lifting a good-sized document. “I was just going through it this morning. You'll see everything has the standard terms in it, including the lease payment and the royalty split that we discussed. It can be a little intimidating if you haven't done one of these before but we've standardized it and I can assure you this is the same deal that we've made with the folks in the surrounding counties for years. I encourage you to ask around; you'll find that folks are quite happy with it and that we are a good partner.”
Blind Conviction (Nate Shepherd Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 14