"Is Mom there?"
"She's on her way in from the office. Listen, I dropped Suzy off at the house on the way to the hospital. Can you stay there tonight? I hate to leave the Judge and Betty to the mercies of a three-year-old."
"No sweat. I can handle Suzy-Q."
Dave didn't even bother to respond to that gross misstatement of fact. Suzanne Patricia Samuels had wrapped her aunt around her little finger the first time she'd scrunched up her wrinkled pink face and grinned a toothless grin.
"Betty said the Judge is pretty bad today," Dave warned.
The familiar pain clutched at Carly's heart. "He's bad every night now."
She replaced the phone just as another blast of air-conditioned air shot out of the vents. A shiver started at the base of her neck and worked its way down to her knees. Hunching her shoulders, she glanced at her watch. Almost three-thirty. The late lunch and long drive back to the base had eaten up most of the afternoon. She'd take her work with her and get what she could done at her mother's house... after she dried off.
She reached for the Smith transcript and had just wedged it into her briefcase along with the other case files when a young legal tech stuck her head inside the conference room.
"Major Samuels?"
"Yes?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Dominguez would like to see you, ma'am."
"Now?"
"Yes, ma'am."
With a rueful glance at her still soaked uniform, Carly slicked back her wet bangs. "Okay thanks."
Luckily, the offices of the 42nd Air Base Wing's Staff Judge Advocate were only a corridor away. Carly's wet heels made a little squeaking noise as she followed the legal tech through the halls of the sprawling headquarters. When she reached the offices of the base JAG, his secretary indicated that he was on the phone.
Carly's impatience mounted as the wait lengthened from five minutes to ten, from ten to fifteen. Finally, the little red light on the telephone console blinked off. After buzzing her boss, the secretary invited the major to go inside.
"Ah, Carly. Come in. Come in."
Short and pudgy, Dominguez sported a luxuriant black mustache that nudged the limits of air force allowances. He came around his desk and waved her to the leather chairs grouped around a low, mahogany table.
"Looks like you got caught in the storm."
"Yes, sir."
"And we've got more coming," the JAG commented with a grimace. "Would you like some coffee? Or a diet Pepsi? My wife got me started drinking the stuff and now I'm hooked."
"No, thank you. I was just heading over to my mother's house to dry off and stay with the Judge while she's at the hospital with Dave and Alison."
"The baby's on the way?"
Smiling, Carly nodded. As the governor's legislative assistant for environmental matters, Alison Samuels was well known to the Maxwell legal community.
"Well, I won't keep you long. I just wanted to hear how the Article 32 is going."
"It's going. I've interviewed the key witnesses and several of Smith's friends and neighbors."
"And?"
"And I still have a few questions that need answering."
"What's your gut feel? Do the preliminary findings support the charges and specifications?"
An odd reticence nipped at her. She wasn't ready to state her conclusions yet, particularly since Dominguez had a vested interest in their outcome. His office supported the Air War College commander, who'd preferred the charges against Smith. The Base
JAG and his staff wouldn't look good if Carly came back with a report that criticized their reading of the evidence.
"So far," she said slowly, cautiously.
"Good. When can I expect your report?"
"Right now, I'd say the end of next week."
The colonel's brow creased. "Why so long?"
"As I said, I still have some questions that need answering."
"Like what, Carly?"
She wasn't ready to voice her suspicions that McMann was holding something back. Nor did it occur to her to tell Dominguez about her surprising encounter with the odd young inmate in the woods this morning. She wanted to play with the pieces of the puzzle a little longer, see how they fit. When she didn't answer right away, a frown sliced down between the colonel's dark brows.
"Is there a problem?"
The edge to his voice surprised her. She tapped her fingertips on the leather-covered chair arm, eyeing him thoughtfully.
"You tell me, sir."
A flush rose above the collar of his uniform shirt. "You guessed it. I got a call from General Dawson's chief JAG. He wants to know what's happening."
"Just tell him that the investigation into the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Smith is still in progress. I plan to review the transcripts this weekend and start formulating my report early next week."
"That's all you can give me?"
"At this point... yes, sir."
"All right." He pushed himself out of his chair. The interview was clearly over. "I'll be expecting your report next week."
Diplomatically, Carly didn't reply that he could expect it all he wanted, but he'd get it when she was satisfied that she'd fully executed her responsibilities as investigating officer.
Still, she felt the pressure as she lugged her overflowing briefcase along with her to her mother's house. If the Judge broke down and resorted to the pain pills that always knocked him out, she'd have some long, quiet hours to work tonight.
Long after midnight, silence had wrapped its arms around Carly like an old friend. Suzy, thankfully, had depleted her seemingly inexhaustible store of energy after two long games of hide and seek, one Barney movie, and another reading of her favorite bedtime tale featuring Taffy the golden retriever. Betty had gone to bed hours ago, almost as soon as the Judge had drifted into a fitful sleep. The nurse needed rest as much as her pain-racked patient.
Now Carly's back rested comfortably against the arm of the sofa in her grandfather's bed/sitting room. Her bottom angled into the cushions. Files spilled from her briefcase and formed an island of paper on the sofa and thick mauve carpet. Absorbed in McMann's trial transcript propped on her up-drawn knees, she registered only peripherally the tick of the mantel clock and the raspy snores coming from the bed across the room.
They crucified the girl! The media, McMann's team of defense attorneys, even the prosecutor. The judge should have suppressed her juvenile convictions for possession and distribution. The prosecution should have objected more strenuously to the parade of "friends" who testified to her promiscuity and growing obsession with McMann. The victim's past record and reputation didn't obviate the facts in the case, yet the defense presented them as evidence of complicity in her own seduction... and the judge allowed it!
Carly's lips curled in disgust. If her grandfather had presided over this circus, he would've yanked both the prosecution and the defense up by the short hairs. The Honorable Harry Walters must have been senile.
No wonder the ABA regularly debated the independence guaranteed to federal judges by the Constitution. They were appointed, not elected, and held their seat for life unless impeached for and convicted of "Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors." Thus insulated from outside influence, they were free to render impartial decisions based solely on their interpretation of the law. The same provision that guaranteed them their independence, however, also raised the ugly specter of incompetency upon occasion. This, Carly decided as she turned page after page, was one of those occasions.
The phone's shrill broke the quiet at just past two a.m. She dived for the receiver, trying to catch it before the second ring.
"Samuels residence."
"David Lee Samuels the Third finally made his appearance," her brother announced exuberantly. "The kid's got a set of lungs on him that won't quit. Can you hear him?"
He must have stuck the phone right in the baby's face. Carly winced at the screech that jumped over the line.
"I hear him, I hear him." With o
ne hand over her mouth to keep from disturbing her grandfather, she demanded details. "Does he look like you or his mother?"
"He's got my hair and her nose."
"Thank God for small blessings. How's Allie?"
"Recovering, and profoundly grateful to Mom for standing in for me. Now she only has to nurse one baby instead of two."
"Is she up to talking?"
"Hang on a sec."
Alison came on a moment later, sounding tired and elated. "Hey, Carly."
"Hey, girl. Congratulations. David Lee the Third sounds like he's already staking a claim to his piece of the world."
The new mother laughed. "He's something, all right. Did Suzy wear you out?"
"She tried."
"Well, give her a kiss and no water if she wakes up in the middle of the night."
"Uh-oh. Too late."
Adele took the phone at that point and assured her daughter that Suzy's bedding already included a rubber mat under the mattress pad. Smiling, Carly hung up a few moments later and wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to visualize her new nephew, wondering when... if she'd give birth to a child of her own. She wanted kids. Lots of them. And a husband, if the right one happened along.
She'd come close to marriage once, just once. Sweet heaven, the plans they'd made, the dreams they'd shared. Then Steve had pulled a short tour in Korea and the magic hadn't rekindled when he shipped home fifteen months later.
Now Parker kept trying to edge her into different plans, different dreams. Children didn't excite him as much as the idea of taking over his boss's job... or running for her mother's seat when the congress-woman decided to stand down. He often said what a great team he and Carly would make.
Politics and the law. The law and politics. They were all she'd ever known. All she would know if she slipped into the relationship Parker wanted.
"What's puttin' that wrinkle between your eyes, missy?"
The raspy croak brought her head around. The Judge peered at her from his bed, the bones in his face almost skeletal in the gloom. Carly pasted on a smile and pushed off the sofa.
"I was just trying to get a mental picture of your great-grandson."
Her grandfather struggled to sit up. "He's here, is he?"
"Mmmm. Dave says he looks like Allie."
"Thank the Good Lord for small blessings!"
Grinning, Carly plumped the pillows behind him. "Exactly what I said."
"Allie okay?"
"I talked to her a bit. She sounded tired, relieved, and happy."
He nodded, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. Blue-veined lids hooded his eyes as he took in the sofa lamp angled to beam its light away from the bed and the papers scattered across the floor.
"You don't have to sit up and watch over me all night, missy."
"I didn't plan to. I was just waiting on the news from the hospital and catching up on some work."
"That Smith murder?" he murmured.
"Mmmm."
She perched on the side of his bed, aching to curl her hand in his, as she had so many times before. She knew better than to touch him, however. The slightest pressure on his swollen joints caused an agony that whitened his lips. The mantel clock ticked a few moments of companionable silence.
"What would you think of a judge who allowed four men who'd previously slept with a girl to take the stand as witnesses for the man accused of raping her?"
"I'd say McMann lucked out in the draw, or his defense team called in some mighty big chits to get the case assigned to that particular judge."
"I had the same thoughts myself."
"I'm surprised the prosecutors won a conviction with that kind of bias coming down from the bench."
"They didn't. McMann changed his plea to guilty midway through the trial. He convicted himself."
"His attorneys didn't appeal the sentence? "
"He wouldn't let them, or so he told me today at lunch."
The pillow rustled as the Judge angled his head back. "You havin' lunch with your witnesses these days, missy?"
"I thought I might get a better sense of his credibility if I talked to him on neutral turf."
"Did you?"
"No."
And yes.
In a very disturbing way, she'd gotten far more than she'd anticipated. The back of her neck tingled, as though the wind whispering through the towering magnolia outside the window had touched it.
"Sounds to me like you've boiled the corn down to the starch," the Judge observed. "The key witness in one heinous crime admits his moral turpitude and guilt in another. You have to decide whether you believe McMann, my girl, or Smith."
"I know," Carly sighed. "I know."
The decision didn't come easy. By Sunday night, Carly finished reviewing her notes and the transcripts. On Monday morning, she decided on one last interview. It was a long shot, but maybe Billy Hopewell could give her some insights into his friend Ryan McMann.
She drove the short distance to the prison just after ten. For once, a hazy sun beat down. The muggy spring felt more like high summer, heavy with a humidity that curled Carly's hair at the temples.
The sunshine held a false promise, however. The radio announced that a low pressure system was sweeping up from the gulf. Residents of Florida's coastal resort towns had already started bracing for high tides and the violent tornadoes these storms all too often spawned.
The forecast for Alabama didn't look any brighter. Weathermen were predicting the storms would track north within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. The governor had called a news conference for later today to announce his decision to activate selected units of the State Guard to coordinate sand-bagging efforts. Montgomery's mayor hadn't waited for the governor. Bagging crews were already hard at work along River Front Park.
It looked as though the base had pressed inmates into duty, as well. When Carly pulled into the prison parking lot, she saw air force dump trucks mounded with sand spitting black clouds of exhaust into the air while crews in prison greens piled into passenger buses.
Carly angled around the trucks to find a parking space and walked the few short yards to the entry gate. Whistles and catcalls from the buses' occupants followed her until one of the guards rapped out an order to shut up. A few minutes la-ter, she was shown into the office of the assistant warden.
A tall, striking brunette in a summer suit of dark gray, Fayrene Preston greeted Carly with a smile and a no-nonsense handshake.
"What can I do for you, Major Samuels?"
"I'm conducting the pretrial investigation into the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Elaine Dawson-Smith. I'd like to speak to one of the inmates about it. I understand I need your authorization to conduct an official inquiry."
The prison official frowned. "Agents from your Office of Special Investigations interviewed all the crews working that part of the base on the day of the murder. Do you have reason to believe one of our inmates knows more than he told the air force investigators?"
"No. I'm simply following up on a conversation I had with a prisoner on Friday morning, near the site of the murder."
"Which prisoner?"
"Mr. Hopewell."
The brunette looked up sharply. "Billy Hopewell?"
"Yes. Is there a problem?"
"I'm afraid so."
When she hesitated, Carly leaned forward. "I understand he has a speech impediment, which worsens when he's forced to talk to strangers. I'll try to keep my questions—"
"That's not the problem, Major. Billy Hopewell is dead."
"Dead!"
"He was killed Friday afternoon. His mower overturned on a steep slope and crushed him. We found his body an hour after he failed to return from his work detail."
Chapter Eight
Billy Hopewell was buried in a southside cemetery on a gray, weepy Wednesday afternoon. A wrought-iron fence separated the tree-shaded burying ground from the suburb that had grown up around it. Cars whizzed by on the busy street beyond the fence
, their passing shielded by a screen of ancient crepe myrtles.
With no known relatives to claim the body or personal effects, the Federal Bureau of Prisons would have quietly and efficiently arranged to have Billy's remains cremated and his ashes properly disposed of. No one in the vast prison bureaucracy cared if a former inmate wanted to shell out the necessary bucks for alternate arrangements.
With Ryan McMann's check in hand, the funeral director he'd contacted took care of every detail, from choosing the casket and outfitting the remains to ordering a dignified funeral flower arrangement and inserting the two-line notice of interment in the Birmingham News and the Montgomery Advertiser. Not that he really expected anyone to show for the simple graveside ceremony, the funeral director informed Ryan solicitously. But the deceased had been born in Birmingham and perhaps some friends might choose to make the trip.
None did. Ryan stood alone beside the fresh, gaping wound in the earth while the hearse driver who doubled as a deacon read the twenty-third psalm.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I will not be in want. He leads me to quiet waters and bids me lie down in green pastures."
The phrasing was just modern enough to jar the solitary mourner. Ryan didn't consider himself a particularly religious man, certainly not a righteous one, but he'd grown up grounded in hard-headed Yankee principles and High Episcopalian faith. At the darkest moments he still reached back to that core. Shutting out the hearse driver, he recited silently the phrases of his youth.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Regret, sharp and stinging, seared him. Billy hadn't wanted much. Hadn't asked for anything except the few careless crumbs of kindness thrown his way. Ryan should have spent more time with the kid, tried harder to instill some confidence in him, listened more closely when he tried to force out words that wouldn't come.
Yea though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil.
The kid didn't have to fear his evil demons any more. He wouldn't shrink into himself when the other inmates jeered him, or look out at the world through frightened eyes, or cry at night for his momma.
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