Chapter Twenty-Five
A young public defender during the Lucas trial, Jackson Wright was now in his sixties with his own private practice, serving as the town lawyer, and handling all matters common. Divorces, probates, bankruptcies—you name it.
His office was a 1930s bungalow converted for commercial use. A grandmotherly woman with flaming red hair and wire-rimmed glasses paused her busy typing long enough to peer over her glasses at me and smile a greeting. After I introduced myself, she directed me to a small waiting area. They had the latest copy of News World. I smiled and began thumbing through the pages.
A few minutes later, Wright appeared, a tall, white-haired man with a round, pleasant face.
“Mr. Bannister,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Appreciate you taking the time. Hope I’m not throwing you off schedule.”
“Not at all,” he said, then led me back to his office. It was a tightly contained mess, bookshelves overflowing and document boxes scattered throughout. Somewhere in the midst, I saw a desk. Found a chair and sat. He reclined in his, a black leather high-back. With fingers locked in his lap, he said, “I figured it was only a matter of time before you got to me.”
I smiled. “Who gave you the heads up?”
He gazed toward the ceiling, eyes narrow, fingers drumming on his desk. “Let’s see. Millie at the bar, Dottie at the beauty shop, and Mary at the bank… Oh, and CJ Norris over at The Observer. But she was more trying to hook us up than gossip. As for the others, well …”
“Strange thing,” I said. “Besides CJ, I haven’t met any of them.”
“Small town,” he said with a smile and a wink. “Word travels faster than spit through a straw around here. So how can I help you?”
I got right down to it. “Do you believe Ronald Lucas was innocent?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation.
“Can you tell me why?”
“There was information that never made it into the courtroom. Things that would have made all the difference in the world.”
“The evidence that went missing…and the girlfriend’s alibi?”
He paused a beat, then nodded. “You’ve spoken to Nissie, I take it.”
“I have.”
His mouth slid toward a frown, and he let out a long sigh. “Unfortunately, I didn’t find out about Emma’s note until it was too late.”
“His intentions were noble.”
“Noble, yeah, but also pretty foolish. And the real tragedy is that he didn’t need to hide that alibi note at all. As far as the kid went, we probably could have remanded custody to Nissie and kept her away from Emma’s husband—especially since it turned out she didn’t even belong to him. Unfortunately, Ronnie was too unsophisticated about the laws and how they worked to know better. And a bit paranoid. I could hardly blame him after what he’d been through.”
“And the other evidence?”
“Well, I’m sure Nissie told you about our mailman.”
I nodded.
“But there’s even more that she didn’t tell you. Did you happen to hear about the D.A.’s dramatic performance in court? The one with the window and the much-celebrated Nathan Doll?”
“CJ told me something about that.”
“Very impressive, a real showstopper, but more smoke and mirrors than anything else, because what they failed to mention during their big production number was that a key piece of evidence went missing. Evidence that would have proven their little dog-and-pony show completely meaningless.”
“Really,” I said, leaning forward. “Tell me about it.”
“A fresh shoe print found in the dirt just below that famed windowsill.”
“Whose was it?”
“Not Ronnie’s, that’s for sure. He wore a nine and a half, and this was an eleven.”
“So who’d it belong to?”
“Don’t know. Never got the chance to figure it out since the plaster mold mysteriously got lost on its way to trial. I didn’t find out about it until years later. Believe me when I say that if I’d known sooner, I would have been all over it like white on rice.”
“How does that happen? Evidence just disappearing like that.”
“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair and gazing toward the ceiling, “the story went that someone screwed up, but I think someone covered up. That print was part of the evidence that initially went missing, only it never came back with the rest of the stuff. Odd that it was the one thing that could have cleared Ronnie.”
“How’d you find out about it?”
“At the Alibi bar, of all places. I overheard some blabbermouth talking one night. You know the type—five hundred words per minute with gusts up to a thousand. She worked for the sheriff’s department and was letting off steam, I suppose, telling everyone about it. At first I thought it was just a bunch of mumbo jumbo—you know, false bravado fueled by liquid courage. But when I looked deeper, it all checked out.”
“Any idea who lost it?”
“One of Lindsay’s flunkies at the time, guy by the name of Flint Newsome was in charge of the evidence when it went missing.”
“So where did it go during the time it was lost?”
He shrugged, lifted both hands, palms up. “Don’t know. Not sure anyone does, really.”
“Suspicious.”
“As a pink fur coat,” he said, eyeing me, nodding slowly. “Indeed.”
“And odd, too, that the shoe print was never reported missing. Don’t you think?”
“Not really. I mean, they had a … situation on their hands.” He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “So what do they do? Well, the short answer, and the easiest one, is to turn over what they have and keep their mouths shut about what they don’t. Then pray to God it all works out.”
I thought about Jerry Lindsay and his defensive posture.
He continued, “As far as I’m concerned, the whole thing stunk like someone’s rotten trash. They sent an innocent man to the electric chair. That’s murder on top of murder in my book.”
“What about the shoe?” I said. “Can you tell me anything more about it?”
“It was a boot, actually, and like I said, size eleven. Tony Lama was the brand, I believe. They knew that because of the logo on the heel. That’s what I believe Blabbermouth said.”
A cowboy boot. I thought about it, then reminded myself that this was Texas; no shortage of those here. But it seemed a lot of coincidences were beginning to stack up, all of them pointing right to the man who called himself Michael Samuels.
I said, “The guy who lost the evidence, this Flint…”
“Flint Newsome.”
“He still around? Can I find him?”
Jackson nodded. “Lives in a trailer up on Highway 72. I’m not sure there’s even a real address. You could probably stop by the Texaco station off the 24 exit, just before Springfield, talk to Judy there. She knows everyone.”
“What about tracking him down at work?”
“He got fired from the sheriff’s department after the whole mess, then became a permanent employee of the state.”
“Doing what?”
“Collecting unemployment, disability, and anything else he could get his hands on. I’ll tell ya’, that boy’s dirtier than tank water.” He shook his head. “A real ne’r-do-well, that one.”
“Ever talk to him about the evidence?”
“No reason to. By the time I got wind of all this, Ronnie had already been executed. Can’t un-ring that bell. What’s done is done, I’m afraid. Besides, the more I find out about this case, the less I like…and then I just get upset all over again.” He picked up a paperclip, bent it in half, then tossed it back onto his desk. “Ronnie’s dead, and he shouldn’t be. That’s the bottom line. It’s a hard pill to swallow, and believe me, I choke on it every single day.”
“One last thing,” I said. “Does the name Michael Samuels mean anything to you?”
He shook his head
. “Why?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Just wondering.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When I was two, I fell on the playground, hit my head, and left a twenty-foot trail of blood along the concrete. By the time I arrived at the hospital, they pronounced me dead on arrival, and it took a team of doctors to bring me back. Twice. This was what my Uncle Warren told me—it’s how they discovered I had Van Willebrand Disease, the one thing we have in common.
There’s never been much else.
Being a bleeder was my illness, but like everything else, my mother managed to make it all about her. Having a son who was vulnerable, who required medical care, was the perfect springboard for taking her plunge into the pool of self-pity. She complained to me, complained to neighbors, complained to anyone who would stand there and listen. Before I knew it, I was the kid with The Disease, the one everyone had to be careful around. After all, I could bleed to death.
That label spelled social death for me. It didn’t just set me apart from the crowd—it moved me to the other side of the map.
Gym class was out of the question, as were school field trips, and most anything else that was fun. Mr. Jones, the principal, once called my mother to discuss my lack of participation at school, wondering if it was necessary. Of course, she made him regret it.
“Is that so?” she said, her tone rapidly rising to match her indignation. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones. Come talk to me after you’ve had to mop blood off your linoleum floors, after it’s soaked into the bottoms of your shoes. Come see me when your hands are so stained from my child’s blood that all the soap in the world won’t get it out. Come see me after that. And don’t you dare tell me how much ‘more important’ his social development is. What’s more important is keeping my son alive.”
My mother never had to mop up any of my blood, and the only incident I’d ever heard of was the one on the playground. She talked about preserving my life, but really, she kept me from living it. Even worse than that was how she used it to humiliate me.
Spring, my third grade year. An announcement came over the loudspeaker: Summer Little League tryouts were coming up. I wanted to go more than anything but knew if I asked my mother, her answer would be the usual flat-out “No,” followed by, “You’ll bleed.”
But I didn’t care. I longed to be like the other kids, to be in the spotlight, wear a fresh, white uniform on opening day. To have fun and be normal.
So I snuck out of the house and walked over to the playing field. How I figured I’d be able to play the whole season without her knowing was another story. But I was a kid, and I just wanted to play.
I sat in the bleachers, anxiously awaiting my name to be called, the smell of fresh-cut grass filling the air, the sound of bats cracking and parents cheering all around me. I waited for more than an hour, and my excitement grew as each kid stepped up to the plate. Sitting there with everyone felt wonderful. For once, I was just a normal kid enjoying one of life’s typically childlike moments. I was in the moment, and I wanted it to last forever.
And then, a complete reversal.
I glanced toward outer field and saw my mother moving quickly in my direction, scanning the bleachers, with a look on her face that was impossible to misread: she was furious, and I was in big trouble.
Fear and panic struck my gut simultaneously, then twisted through me. I bent my head down quickly, hoping maybe she’d miss me. Then I heard her voice, sharp, loud, and riddled with anger. I looked up to find an expression that matched. With cold, hard eyes, a face as red as blood, she spat her words at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
I was in the spotlight all right, but for all the wrong reasons. An awkward, painful silence fell over the crowd, every head turned toward me, staring and waiting for my response. I wanted to crawl between the bleacher planks, sink into the ground, then bury myself two-thousand feet below the earth’s surface.
“Answer me!” She screamed so loud that it startled me.
I looked at the wide eyes and dropped jaws surrounding me, felt tension thick as mud. Except, that is, for the kids on the field who were laughing, amused by the show.
She circled around for another attack, screaming even louder now. “Answer me, I said! Answer me right now, damn it!”
Her sharp, angry words made me flinch. Throat as dry as field dirt, sweaty palms gripping the bleacher seat, I struggled against my humiliation, my fear, trying to get the words out. With a soft, shaky voice and tears in my eyes, I said, “I just wanted to play.”
“Have you lost your mind? Did you just want to spill your blood all over this field, too? How about that? Did you want to die?”
Actually, I did. Right then, right there.
The kids were laughing louder now, parents watching and whispering to each other as I slowly got up and followed her down the bleachers. I struggled against my tears; they would only humiliate me further, make a bigger mockery out of me.
She yanked me hard by the arm, then paraded me across the playing field. The place I had so wanted to be—the place I now never wanted to see again.
We drove back home in silence. Back to the Hell.
I didn’t sleep at all that night; I just cried.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Texaco station off Highway 72 was a slick, modern structure terribly out of place against its desolate and timeworn surroundings. A teenaged boy in a cowboy hat leaned against his truck, arms crossed, waiting for the tank to fill. A middle-aged woman came out of the convenience store lugging two small kids and three bags filled with grocery items.
I parked off to the side and entered the station.
A heavy-set girl stood behind the counter: jet black hair with streaks of pink and purple, a silver hoop in one nostril and a tinier one through the eyebrow. Her expression was the picture of indifference. She was busy taking packs of cigarettes from a carton and plugging them into the spots above. She glared at me briefly, then threw the empty carton into the trash. Pulled out another, and went right back to work.
Service with a smile.
Nametag said she was Judy. Just the person I wanted to see, although the feeling didn’t appear to be mutual.
“I need directions,” I said, skipping the cordial greeting. Something told me Judy wasn’t a cordial-greeting kind of gal.
She stopped for a moment, looked me over from head to toe, then went back to working the smokes. “Where to?”
“I’m trying to find someone who lives around here. Guy by the name of Newsome.”
At this, Judy became somewhat more animated, but not in a good way; more like how someone might react when they realize the person next to them has passed gas.
“Flint?” she said, shoving the packs with more vigor now, as if they were the cause of her annoyance. She snickered. “Why would you wanna see him?”
I wanted to tell her it was none of her damned business, but I also needed her help. “Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s a big-time loser.”
“Can you tell me where he lives?” I repeated.
“Up the road, about seven miles or so. Right side, yellow trailer. Can’t miss it. Looks like it got hit by a bus. About three times.”
“Thanks, Judy. Sure appreciate the help,” I said. As I turned to leave, I couldn’t resist adding, “Gotta love that southern charm.”
I heard the word “asshole” mumbled as the door slammed behind me.
A real people person, that Judy.
Got in my car and headed up the road in search of a beat-up trailer, Flint Newsome, and hopefully, some missing answers.
A few miles later, I spotted the thing off in the distance. For all her attitude, Judy was right: it definitely looked like a bus had hit it a few times—not only that, but dumped and then abandoned. No road leading to it, just a dirt path. Seemed driveways were optional in this town. An old Lincoln Continental sat parked outside, its condition just as deplorable. The trailer sat on cinderblocks wit
h old wooden apple crates serving as steps. I moved my gaze to the other side and spotted a lanky, rawboned dog tethered to a metal stake. He threatened me with a fierce sounding growl, low and throaty, which quickly erupted into a full-blown bark-fest. Looked like a cross between Rottweiler and Just Plain Mean.
I maneuvered my way around all the clutter. Amidst the piles of dried dog poop were rusted beer cans, empty TV dinner boxes, and various other odd pieces of debris. It appeared Flint liked to use his window as a trash can. As I neared the trailer, an increasingly ripe, rotting stench made my eyes water.
With each step I took, the dog’s barking increased in volume and intensity. He lunged toward me, dragging the rusty metal chain along with him. Then he began snarling, upper lip curled, yellow teeth exposed all the way to his gums. I stopped just a few feet beyond his reach and glanced at the trailer, hoping Newsome might look out to see what all the commotion was about.
Wasn’t going to happen—not even a hint of movement inside; in fact, no sign of him anywhere.
I weighed the risks. One bite could, in theory, cost me my life. All he had to do was break the skin, and I’d leak like a sieve. But I needed to talk to Newsome.
I thought it over some more, decided to go for it. I couldn’t let the dog come between Newsome and me. Now I just needed to figure out a plan to get past him. Alive.
Plan A: I gave Cujo a mean glare. It had zero effect. In fact, it just got him barking again.
Time for Plan B.
I moved toward the rear of the trailer in a wide, sweeping semicircle. The dog ran around his end to meet me there, but his chain twisted under one of the cinderblocks, grinding against it, then pulling him to an abrupt halt. He tried to jerk loose but couldn’t. Instead, he began to whimper.
“Nice doggie,” I said, then retraced my steps to the front of the trailer. The dog stayed behind—not out of choice, but out of necessity—and I could hear him growling and barking again, pissed off as hell, I was sure.
The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted Page 10
