A New Prospect

by Wayne Zurl

  “What evidence did they have to base the arrest on?” she asked.

  “I don’t think they had any hard evidence. Sometimes cops get too hung up on that old motive, means and opportunity crap equaling guilty. I like to win when I get into court. You don’t build up a world-class conviction rate when you arrest people based on weak or sketchy evidence. I never saw them having anything close to a strong case against Morgan—circumstantial at best.”

  She listened patiently, occasionally sipping her chardonnay.

  “It was my obligation to give the defense that exculpatory evidence, the photos of the nude women. Bypassing the TBI and the district attorney was a judgment call on my part. That won’t make me too popular with either of those factions, but too bad.” I gave a little shrug.

  “Why did they arrest him then? Why not wait?”

  “Who knows? Political pressure maybe? Some other motive I’d rather not speculate on? Maybe times have changed and ‘probable cause to believe’ has taken on a new meaning?”

  She raised her eyebrows. Her dark hair framed her face nicely. Someone knew the style suited her well.

  “Are you going to continue the investigation?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re not? Why?” She tilted her head, gave me a skeptical look and sipped more wine.

  “It’s no longer my case.” I thought I sounded a little miffed.

  “Sam, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’d let that stop him. And you don’t seem so thin-skinned that having your case given to the TBI would hurt your feelings to the point of sulking.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Am I sulking?”

  She dismissed my question with a shake of her head. “Who do you think killed Lovejoy?”

  “I have an idea who did it.”

  “Who? Are you going to arrest them?”

  “I’m not sure I could put together enough evidence to make a good arrest. And now we get into the stuff that has to stay off the record.”

  I explained things in general terms, not naming Juanita. I never lied to Rachel. I just limited my explanation to about ninety-eight-percent of the truth. It would be okay I told myself as I crossed my fingers.

  “I have two basic thoughts on this subject,” I said. “One is based on not having any physical evidence directly linking this woman to the murder. What I believe to be true is based on my own reasonable suspicion. Remember what I said about probable cause to believe? That’s what you need to make a legal arrest. Reasonable suspicion is close, but no cigar.”

  She played with her glass a little, turning it around on the coaster. Her actions looked very feminine and could get distracting.

  “All the ideas I came up with are based on things I believe to be true. Lovejoy sexually abused this woman as a child. He took explicit photos of her as a teenager. Recently, I think he tried to extort sex from her. These things are all bits of circumstantial evidence. Interesting to a cop, but not necessarily damning to the suspect. Certainly better than what the state cops had on George Morgan, but not good enough for me to arrest her.”

  She nodded. I took a long pull on my schooner of beer.

  “The second thought involves some inevitable courtroom mumbo-jumbo. With a good defense attorney, she could get a jury to believe she acted with justification or under duress. Both are popular defenses under these circumstances.”

  I shrugged and continued. “I’m not so sure I’d controvert either one. So why waste time arresting her, only to see her go free later? I already know what would happen. Even if no one on the jury wanted to let her go free—that’s unlikely but possible—she could certainly establish that she acted with extreme emotional distress. Wouldn’t the threat of exposing a secret unless you engaged in sex get you distressed?”

  Rachel agreed, sipped a little more wine, and looked at me with her intense brown eyes. If nothing else, I held her interest with my law theory lecture.

  “Once you establish that, you’re no longer guilty of intentional murder. Someone in her situation found guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter might get off with only probation, or at least she should.”

  I got another tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed. She looked skeptical. I took another long drink of my beer.

  “Come on,” I said, “take a look at our victim—the guy’s despicable. Child pornography. Child molestation. Rape by coercion—you name it. And I never got that deep into his past.”

  Rachel nodded thoughtfully.

  “So, who was the real victim? That same good attorney should be able to convince a sympathetic jury the defendant suffered more. Maybe I’m getting soft, but I don’t plan on taking this woman into custody and sweating a confession out of her to seal up my case. I’d rather remind her of that constitutional right to remain silent and urge her to exercise it.”

  “This police business is more complicated than one may think,” she said, “especially if the cop has a conscience. I really don’t know what to say. How about the TBI? What do you think they’ll do?”

  She gave me an inquisitive look and seemed interested in the possibility of an arrest. But if asked to guess, I’d say she felt concern for my suspect and not the victim.

  “I can only assume what they might do,” I said. “I don’t think they’ll pursue another suspect. That would only make them look foolish for arresting George Morgan prematurely. The last I heard, the FBI said thirty-six percent of the reported homicides in this country go unsolved. What’s one more or less?”

  “Then I guess it’s time for us to decide what I should say, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Why not throw the ball into TBI’s court? If they choose to remain silent on the subject…let them. I think you should respect the privacy of four women who would agree they committed terrible errors in judgment getting involved with a guy like Cecil Lovejoy. And I think we both should consider the fifth woman as most likely guilty, perhaps with legitimate, mitigating circumstances. But like a judge with discretionary powers, we should let her off with already having served time—figuratively speaking.”

  “Are you always this protective of the women you run across?” she asked, with another smile that lightened up the conversation and did a lot to put my mind at ease.

  “I read about King Arthur once. Chivalry seemed like a good thing.”

  “I see.”

  The smile accentuated her high cheekbones.

  She said, “When we started this conversation we made a deal. As I told you before, I keep my promises. I’ll say something like, ‘The investigation continues,’ and leave it at that. If you change your mind and make an arrest, I hope you’ll call me first.”

  She placed her hand on top of mine. That did a lot to make me feel more confident I’d placed my trust in the right person.

  I nodded and drank the remainder of my beer. I had a feeling I’d be calling her first with all kinds of police business.

  “Maybe someday I’ll need the services of a chivalrous knight,” she said. “I wouldn’t want him disappointed in me.”

  I tilted my head forward slightly, in what I perceived as a courtly gesture. “Your actions are most appreciated, milady. Would you care for another chalice of wine?” I used my most knightly British accent.

  “Oh, I’ve had two already, sir. Would you have me go on television drunk?”

  “That’s nothing new. Don’t you remember the old Dean Martin Show?”

  “Dean Martin had a TV show?”

  “You see what I mean about you young people?”

  She laughed.

  After spending time with Rachel, I felt like a high school kid again. I only hoped my new girlfriend didn’t do something that would have me sitting in the principal’s office.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I arrived at the Mashburn house a few minutes early. The garage door had been left open. Juanita’s white Acura sat on the left side, and Randy’s Honda was missing.

  I didn’t feel good about what I pla
nned to do that morning. I told Rachel I had no intention of sweating a confession out of Juanita. But a confession was exactly why I came. I didn’t want loose ends surrounding Cecil’s murder, and my hunch wouldn’t resolve anything. What I’d do with that confession was anybody’s guess.

  After a little obligatory chitchat about Randy, she offered me a cold drink that I declined. We sat quietly looking at each other for a moment. I felt embarrassed having seen pictures of her nude without her knowing. Anxiety began showing on her face. I thought I’d wait a few more seconds and then try a little trick from Interrogations 101.

  “Juanita, before I came to Tennessee, I worked as a policeman in New York for twenty years. That’s a very busy place for a cop. I spent most of my time there as a detective. During those years I cleared more felony crimes—serious stuff—and arrested more people than your mother has on her Christmas card list, and I assume that to be considerable.”

  She gave me a nervous little smile while she squeezed her hands together, Lady Macbeth fashion.

  “I became very good at piecing together all the things I learned during an investigation.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t believe I ever arrested an innocent person. If I convinced myself beyond a doubt they were guilty, no one else ever questioned my results.”

  She offered another nervous smile and a nod. Nice people who commit crimes usually fall for my subtle scare tactics. Hard core dirtbags require additional work.

  “The other day in Knoxville, I met with agents of the FBI. Has your mother told you about the Federal officers who seized your father’s computer in connection with a child pornography case?”

  She shook her head and mouthed an unspoken ‘no’.

  “Among pictures of some very young girls and boys that he had gotten from a porn dealer in Maynardville, there were older photographs. Photographs I think he took himself. I believe those were pictures of you as a teenager.”

  “Oh, God, no.” She covered her face and repeated, “No, no, no,” until the last word became barely audible. A single tear ran down her right cheek.

  After wiping her eye with a tissue from her pocket, she sniffed and began twisting her hands again. Juanita didn’t look as sinister as Shakespeare’s description of Lady Macbeth.

  “I looked at those pictures, and I recognized you. I’m sorry. I really am. I apologize for looking at them.”

  She didn’t comment, but she nodded slowly as she looked at the floor.

  That was a tough patch for the woman, but I had to trample all of her defenses. Tears began streaming down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook slightly as she sobbed. She reached for a tissue box on the lamp table next to the sofa where she sat.

  “Besides photographing you,” I said, “I believe your father molested you—often. I need you to tell me about that.”

  She hung her head, still not looking at me, and began to nod again, twisting her hands together silently, either deciding whether to speak or not, or just composing in her mind what she wanted to say. I waited.

  “Yes, sir.” She spoke very quietly and slowly.

  Looking off to her right, she dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues.

  “He began forcin’ me to have sex with him when I was twelve. We lived in an older house closer to Maryville then.”

  She shuddered slightly and crossed her arms over her breasts protectively.

  “He made pictures of me, too. Those snapshots must be somewhere in the new house. I don’t know. It stopped when I was eighteen…when I went away to college. Then I got married and…”

  She didn’t need to finish the sentence. I understood.

  “Tell me again what happened when your father learned Randy was gay,” I said. “Besides harassing your son, he didn’t only threaten to expose Randy, did he? Didn’t he demand something from you to insure he’d keep quiet?”

  I wanted to make it seem like the worst was out in the open, and everything else would be anticlimactic and easy to explain. In court that would be called leading a witness, but I wasn’t in court.

  She took a second bunch of tissues from the box and dabbed at her wet eyes. She looked up at me, blinked a couple of times through her tears, and forced a smile. She wore shorts and sandals again and sat with her feet turned inward—pigeon-toed, like a pathetic, little girl who just lost her kitten.

  I felt genuinely sorry for her. I wanted to give her a hug and tell her everything would be all right. But I wasn’t sure she’d ever be right again. And I learned long ago no matter how kind and appropriate a gesture of comfort may be, cops can’t risk being that human in today’s litigious society.

  “He told me,” she said, “that if I wanted him to keep Randy’s secret, he and I would need to start havin’ sex again. Lord have mercy, he said we had to make love.”

  She shook her head and almost laughed at the irony.

  “Can you believe it, love? He didn’t know what love was. He was awful and disgustin’. I’ve hated him since I was a little girl.”

  Juanita paused, took a couple of exaggerated breaths, rocked gently a few times and picked up her explanation.

  “I only went back to the car show to help him get home. I just hate when people see him that drunk. It makes Momma feel so bad, and I hate that, too.”

  She stopped for another break. Her hands still wrestled with each other. There were enough balled up tissues on the floor to stuff a small pillow.

  She continued by saying, “When he started wakin’ up at the show, he got to be his old self again. He started actin’ mean and hateful, remindin’ me of what I had to do for him to keep quiet. I argued, and he grabbed me and hurt my arm. I just couldn’t go through that again. I couldn’t. Can’t you understand? I had to put a stop to it.”

  She reached over to the end table on her right and took a third bunch of tissues from the box. She wiped her eyes and her runny nose. Any eye makeup she applied earlier had long ago disappeared.

  “Did you hurt your leg on his car bumper after you stabbed him?”

  “How could you ever know that?”

  Her question, spoken so softly, made it sound like she just woke up.

  I tapped my left knee. “I have a bruise there, too. Same bumper, almost the same place. I got it when I stepped away from your father’s body.”

  She forced another half smile. “This is just like the police shows on TV. You’ve found me, and I confessed. Are y’all goin’ to arrest me now?”

  I only returned her stare. I hadn’t made up my mind yet and didn’t answer.

  “It’s okay. I don’t much care. Just please help me take care of my Randy.” She spoke with a soft, sleepy voice. It seemed as though she no longer worried about her future.

  Genghis Khan would have felt sorry for Juanita at that moment. If I didn’t get things over quickly, I’d need a few tissues myself.

  I thought for a few seconds, cleared my throat and tried to pull off my next move with some grace. “Juanita, it’s always been difficult for me to view someone like your father as a victim. He was murdered, yes, but the circumstances around that act confuse me.”

  My statement must have confused her as well. Juanita’s face showed an expression of absolutely no comprehension.

  “The older I get, the more trouble I have deciding how justice can be served in a case like this. To me, you, and Randy to some extent, are victims who can never be compensated for your losses.”

  Juanita paid no attention to the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She glued her glassy eyes on mine as I spoke.

  “The law provides defenses for people like you—things called justification and duress are only two that I’m thinking about and making myself consider. That may best be left to the lawyers and the court, and it may not be any of my business as a cop to think about, but I do it anyway. I know how the system works.”

  She sat so still, I couldn’t even see her breathing.

  “Did you know that your mother and her political friends forced me to give this case to the
TBI?” I asked. “Your grandfather, the Judge, helped her arrange that. Their actions were unethical.”

  “No,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head from side to side. “She never told me any of that.”

  “I think your mother knew what happened, and she wanted to steer me away from you.”

  I didn’t think that, but if she believed her mother cared, it might make her feel less alone. I can be a heartless bastard, but even I couldn’t tell her Pearl’s only interest was avoiding public disclosure of Cecil’s failings.

  “Or at least she had a good idea of what your father was doing and the probable result. I don’t particularly like your mother. I don’t like how she interfered with my business. She injured my pride and caused me problems. But I don’t want to do something to spite your mother and end up causing more damage to you than your family has already done.”

  I knew I’d confused her. I offered a lot of information, and she anticipated a punch line, but didn’t have a clue what I might say next.

  “I can’t guarantee that state investigators won’t come to question you, but I doubt they will. I’ve been told this is their case—not mine, so I’m not going to arrest you. I think you’ve already been punished enough.”

  She looked up at me and said nothing. Her eyes widened; they looked watery and bloodshot. I had nothing more to add. I got up, patted her shoulder and saw myself out.

  I hadn’t studied Tennessee law enough to pinpoint what offense I just committed, but it probably wasn’t more than a Class A misdemeanor or low-grade felony.

  Allowing the Lovejoys to keep a low profile in this affair looked like everyone’s general idea all along. But I stepped on a few toes and made a few enemies along the road to where I then stood. I hoped like hell no one found out about my shenanigans before they swept everything under the rug.

  I learned who killed my victim, but I still had things to do before I could say my portion of the case was closed.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  This time a female voice answered my page from the gates in front of Villa Lovejoy.

  “Chief Jenkins to see Mrs. Lovejoy,” I said.

  “Yes, sir, she’s expectin’ you.”